Sleeping in the Ground

Chapter 8

Christmas fell upon Eastvale like a knife-wielding mugger desperate for a fix, and with the St Mary’s killer no longer representing a threat to the community, the investigation slowed down over the holiday period, and the town was able to get into the spirit of the season without that undercurrent of fear that a gunman on the loose inspires. The retailers loved it because people got out and went shopping rather than cloistering themselves indoors.

It might not have been a white Christmas — for the most part it was the colour of a puddle in a cow pat — but chains of festive lights lit up the market square, wound around the ancient cross and strung up over the numerous cobbled streets and ginnels nearby. The castle battlements and keep were floodlit, too, and many of the shopkeepers hung strings of lights over their signs, put up decorated Christmas trees or stuck red-and-white Santas to the insides of their windows. A huge Christmas tree arrived from the unpronounceable town in Norway with which Eastvale was twinned, and was duly set up and decorated beside the market cross. In the square, seasonal music overflowed from the pubs and filled the air. Even Cyril at the Queen’s Arms entered into the spirit of things with his Christmas playlist which, Banks was pleased to hear, included a whole range of songs and carols from Nick Lowe and The Ronettes to Bing Crosby and Renée Fleming.

On working days, detectives returned to the Upper Swainsdale District Rifle and Pistol Club and interviewed more members who had known Martin Edgeworth. They also talked to just about everyone in the village of Swainshead. But they learned very little. He came from a normal middle-class background in Spalding, Lincolnshire. His parents, both deceased, were decent, law-abiding members of the community who did the best they could for their only child. Edgeworth was well behaved at school, the local comprehensive, and always came in the top five at the end-of-term exams. He showed some skill at cricket, a bit less at rugby. He came second in his graduating class at dental college. After a few years on his own, he started a successful partnership with Jonathan Martell, then retired three years ago. He gave generously to charities such as Save the Children and the British Heart Foundation, and his hobbies included military history, shooting, rambling, golf and photography.

All efforts to forge a connection between Edgeworth and any of the dead or wounded members of the wedding party came to nothing. The counter-terrorist officers and spooks packed up shop and went back home to London. They said they wouldn’t be back unless something new came up to connect the St Mary’s shooting with terrorism, though they doubted it would.

Edgeworth’s son and daughter came to Eastvale to identify the body and kick up a fuss. Their father couldn’t possibly have done such a terrible thing, they argued. The police must have got something wrong. They refused to talk to the media. Connie, the ex-wife, never showed up at all. Banks and Annie visited her in Carlisle and came away feeling they had wasted their time. She could shed no light on why Edgeworth might have done what he did, though she was quick to point out his deficiencies as a husband: ‘selfish, pompous and lousy in bed’. Most of all, she was terrified of being publicly connected with Edgeworth in any way. She had quickly forged a new life for herself with Norman Lavalle, a New Age chiropractor, who had a lucrative practice among a wealthy clientele of the north-west. She didn’t want anyone to know about her previous existence as the wife of a dentist turned mass murderer. Unfortunately, less than a week after their visit, Banks spotted a well-illustrated feature on her in one of the less discriminating Sunday newspapers.

To the media, Edgeworth remained a fascinating mystery: an enigma, the mass murderer who defied all definition. To some of the more sensational reporters, he became the killer who made a mockery of criminal profiling, which hardly thrilled Jenny Fuller. Adrian Moss turned out to be right. As the bloodshed receded in people’s minds, the media did their best to keep the story alive by asking questions about police actions on the day of the murders and by examining Edgeworth’s life in detail for anything that might help to explain the grotesque act he had committed. They were no more successful than Gerry had been, though some of them were far more willing to play fast and loose with the truth when the occasion demanded it.

While Banks was as perplexed as the next person about Edgeworth’s motives, certain aspects of the case nagged away at him — a small but insistent voice almost, but not quite, drowned out the louder cries. He didn’t know what it was, but there was something fishy about the whole business.

On Christmas Eve, Banks attended the midnight service at St Agnes, in Helmthorpe. He wasn’t especially religious — and nor was Ray, who went with him — but he enjoyed the sense of community in the crowded church, the fine organ playing, the choir and all the old familiar songs from his childhood — ‘Once in Royal David’s City’, ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’, ‘Silent Night’ — rekindling his childhood memories of the tiny fake Christmas tree with its tinsel and lights, Uncle Ted having too much port and lemonade to drink, and Aunt Ellen’s raucous laughter as they played charades.

Penny Cartwright and Linda Palmer were at the service, too, and afterwards Banks and Ray were invited back to Penny’s for mulled wine, Christmas cake and a bit of a wassail. Some of Penny’s folk-community friends turned up and sang traditional Yorkshire Christmas songs, one of them a favourite of Banks’s from a Kate Rusby album, called ‘Serving Girl’s Holiday’. They continued singing and drinking well into the night, and Banks and Ray wandered home though the churchyard, both slightly tipsy, singing the schoolboy version of ‘Good King Wenceslas’. When they got back, they rather foolishly poured another drink and put A Christmas Carol on the DVD player. Banks was asleep before the Spirit of Christmas Present appeared.

As a consequence, on Christmas morning Banks and Ray were both hung-over, but Ray still managed to cook an excellent Christmas dinner, turkey and all the trimmings, and Annie drove out to Gratly to join them. They pulled crackers, wore silly hats and read out bad jokes, and again they drank and ate too much. Annie spent the night in the spare room. On Boxing Day, Banks made time to visit his parents in Durham, feeling guilty as usual because he didn’t go to see them often enough.

Whenever the commercial onslaught of the season sagged, and whenever Banks’s thoughts about the St Mary’s Massacre ebbed, Emily was waiting right there in the wings. Most of his memories of her were warm with summer sunshine and sweet air, lazy afternoons on the grass in Regent’s Park or Hyde Park with her head on his lap and all well with the world, but they had also been together through two winters. He remembered in particular one magical bone-chilling night when they were both home for the holidays and escaped from their respective family Christmases to go for a walk over the rec. Despite the amber glow of the street lamps surrounding the field, the black velvet sky was scattered with bright stars and the frozen puddles crackled under their feet. They kissed for a while in the old bandstand, warming each other, smoked a cigarette or two, then went back to re-join their families. Whenever Banks heard the sound of ice cracking underfoot, and whenever he heard Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her’, he thought of that cold amber night all those years ago, and the memory warmed his heart rather than chilled it.

Things didn’t start moving again at the station until a few days later. Naturally, there had been a number of incidents over the holiday period — domestics, a pub fight or two — but none of them had required the expertise of Homicide and Major Crimes.

Then, just a few days into the new year, Banks received a phone call from Dr Glendenning that brought the St Mary’s case back to the forefront of his thoughts again.

The Unicorn, across the road from Eastvale General Infirmary, was a run-down street-corner Victorian pub clad in dull green tiles, with wobbly chairs and cigarette-scarred wooden tables inside. Most of its clientele consisted of hospital workers, including nurses and doctors, especially after a late shift at A & E. It was hardly the sort of place to impress a date, but the landlord kept a decent pint, and there was no loud music or video games to make conversation difficult.

On a Thursday lunchtime early in January, when Banks went there in response to the phone call from Dr Glendenning, the only other customers were a couple of orderlies and a table of pupils from the comprehensive school playing truant. They probably weren’t old enough to be drinking, but it was hard to tell these days. He didn’t care if they were underage; he had managed to get served in pubs and get in to X-certificate films when he was sixteen. Good luck to them.

Dr Glendenning was already waiting in the corner with a tumbler of whisky in front of him. Banks went to the bar and bought a pint of Timothy Taylor’s Landlord Bitter and joined him.

‘This bloody weather,’ Glendenning grumbled. ‘Chill gets in your bones. I’d rather have a bit of snow and ice and get it over and done with it.’

It was true that the rain seemed to have been falling non-stop for weeks now, and every day there was a new story in the papers about somewhere or other being flooded, or on the verge of flooding, from the Lake District to the far end of Cornwall. If you were to believe everything you read or saw on TV, you might be forgiven for thinking that the whole country was under water, and that it was just a matter of time before some present-day Noah would appear with his ark and start shepherding people and animals on board.

‘What’s on your mind, doc?’ Banks asked. Dr Glendenning didn’t usually request lunchtime meetings in quiet pubs; in fact, this was the first time Banks could remember having a drink with him in all his years in Eastvale. This seemed to be a case of firsts. He realised how little he knew the man behind the white coat, what his life was like, his family, even though they had worked together for close to thirty years. Glendenning must certainly be approaching retirement. Banks contemplated the craggy, lined face with its bristly grey moustache, brick-red complexion and head of neat thin grey hair. He could have been a leftover colonel from the Raj in some long-forgotten Saturday afternoon film on TV. The moustache was stained yellow close to his upper lip, and it didn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to figure out that the good doctor was still sneaking a cigarette whenever the opportunity offered itself.

‘Good holiday?’ Glendenning asked.

‘You know. The usual. Turkey, green paper hats, crackers that don’t crack and too much to drink.’

‘Aye. Only had two suicides this year, mind you. Usually a bumper time for suicides is Christmas.’

‘So you say every year.’

Glendenning sipped some whisky and grimaced as it burned on the way down. ‘That’s what I want to talk to you about,’ he said. ‘In a way.’

‘The Christmas suicides?’

‘One suicide in particular. Martin Edgeworth.’

‘I see.’ Banks leaned back in his chair. It wobbled dangerously so he sat up straight again. It was uncomfortable no matter how he arranged himself. ‘Go on, then.’

‘It’s a bit awkward,’ Glendenning went on. ‘Not that I missed anything, you understand. Not as such. Natalie, one of my most capable assistants, carried out the post-mortem. Under my supervision, of course. Definitely not her fault. It’s more a matter of interpretation than anything else.’

‘I understand.’

‘Unfortunately, even we scientists have to connect the dots on occasion without any clear idea of the order they’re in.’ Glendenning seemed a little embarrassed, and Banks was careful not to tease or push him. After a few moments’ thought, the doctor seemed to make up his mind to carry on. ‘Well, the truth is that I had one or two niggling doubts when I read Natalie’s report after post-mortem. Things I couldn’t quite put my finger on. So I decided to go back and have a look myself, reconstructing the sequence of events in my mind. I even revisited the scene, then I re-examined the body. Fortunately, the coroner hasn’t released it for burial yet. Not a full second post-mortem, you understand, but just another look at one or two features that puzzled me. I had Natalie show me what she had done and what she had found, and she agreed.’

‘And?’

‘Well, perhaps our glee at believing we’d found a mass murderer might have put blinkers on us as regards considering any alternatives.’

‘Such as?’

‘That somebody else did it. Or killed Edgeworth. Or both.’ Glendenning held his hand up. ‘Now, I’m not saying that’s what happened. First of all, I had a hard time trying to visualise how and why the man sort of flopped down backwards against the wall to shoot himself. There’s a bruise on his left shoulder consistent with its bumping against the wall. Usually suicides are... well, more careful, more fastidious, even, in an odd sort of way. I mean, it’s your last act, so you might as well make it as neat and tidy as possible. According to all the crime-scene photographs I looked at, his outer clothing was folded neatly beside him. The anorak, the waterproof trousers, the black woolly hat on top.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying that on the one hand you have the signs of a careful, neat man, even on the verge of suicide, but slumping against the wall doesn’t fit. It’s sloppy. You’d expect him to position himself carefully, perhaps even on a chair rather than on a dirty cellar floor. Don’t forget, this is a man who neatly folds an anorak. But he was sitting on the floor with his legs stretched out and his back against the wall when the shot was fired.’

‘But what does it matter?’ Banks argued. ‘He was going to shoot himself. I mean, he’d just killed a number of people, and he was about to end his own life. He was no doubt agitated.’

‘Why did he even remove his outer clothing in the first place, then?’ asked Glendenning.

‘Any number of reasons. He was too warm, too uncomfortable...’

‘It was chilly in that cellar.’

‘Perhaps he had been home for a while. The house upstairs would have been warm enough, with that big Aga. Perhaps he took his outer clothing off when he first came in?’

‘In that case, why was it folded neatly beside him in the cellar?’

‘I see your point. But none of that necessarily means anything. I should imagine he was in an unusual state of mind, perhaps not thinking clearly. Certainly not acting normally. He did take his boots off upstairs. We found them.’

‘Balance of his mind disturbed? Yes. Even so... if it were only that...’

‘What else?’

‘I was curious, so I went and had a chat with the forensic chappies who examined the clothes and had them go over their findings with me.’

‘We got their original report,’ said Banks. ‘No unexplained hairs or fibres.’

‘Yes,’ said Glendenning. ‘Doesn’t that strike you as odd? If he wore those clothes over the clothes he was wearing — and we’ve no reason to think he didn’t — then surely there would have been traces of his sweat, fibres from the shirt itself, and perhaps other things? You can’t tell me he climbed that hill and shot all those people without a shedding a single drop of sweat. Or hair. He wasn’t bald, so you would expect hairs inside the woolly hat, wouldn’t you, and perhaps on the shoulders of the anorak, but there are none.’

‘OK,’ said Banks, frowning.

‘It was as if the outer clothes were new, as if they hadn’t been worn. Fair enough, they were damp, there were a couple of grass stains and a streak of mud here and there, but again, anyone could have rubbed them on the ground. One of the CSIs suggested that if someone had worn those clothes to commit the murders, the stains were in the wrong places. Especially the knees, as they must have made contact with the earth when he got to his feet or lay down.’

‘I get your point,’ said Banks. ‘There were no prints on the shell casings or the other bullets, either,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Mike Trethowan didn’t think it odd, but it bothered me. What are you suggesting?’

‘Perhaps the clothes the killer wore were different altogether? The same kind, of course, and same colour, but not the ones found at the house. If anyone saw him from a distance, all they would see was dark outer clothing and a black cap of some sort. All he’d have to do was dampen the other set of clothes and rub them in the grass and mud. But there are no hairs inside the shoulders of the anorak, as there were on the shirt Edgeworth was wearing underneath, or in the woolen cap. You can’t tell me that if he wore something on top it wouldn’t pick up some hairs inside either piece of clothing.’

‘So you’re suggesting two sets of clothing? One set folded neatly by Edgeworth, unworn, and another worn by someone else? The real killer? If you’re right, what happened to the outfit the real killer wore?’

‘No idea,’ said Glendenning. ‘You’re the detective. He probably destroyed it if he had any sense. Evidence. Damn. I swore I wouldn’t, but I’m going to have another.’ He glanced towards Banks’s glass. ‘You? And before you say anything, it’s my day off, and I’m not going to be staggering over to the hospital to commit medical atrocities on an unfortunate corpse.’

This was a first, and Banks was certain he wasn’t going to miss the opportunity of having the doctor buy him a drink. ‘Things are pretty quiet for me, too,’ he said. ‘Same again, please. Landlord Bitter.’

Glendenning grunted and went to the bar, leaving Banks to think unwelcome and chaotic thoughts.

When the doctor came back, he plonked down the drinks and said, ‘And there’s another thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘It was impossible to tell at the scene or at the post-mortem, because the shot blew off the back of his head. Natalie is certainly blameless in all this. But when I managed to gather the skull fragments together — it was a bit like doing a jigsaw puzzle — I found something odd. Odd and very disturbing.’

‘What?’

‘A slight indentation in the area of the exit wound.’

‘Indentation?’

‘Yes. It was very difficult to see because of the fragmentation of the skull, not to mention the general mess the bullet made. Even then I might have thought nothing more of it, assuming he just banged his head on the wall as he flopped down, or when he pulled the trigger. Those old cellar walls are rarely smooth. They’re full of bumps and pits.’

‘Why couldn’t it have happened that way?’

‘When I revisited the scene, I concentrated on the spot where his head hit the wall. It was smooth as a baby’s bottom. Hitting his head against it couldn’t have caused the depth of indentation I found over the skull fragments.’ He picked up his glass and took a long pull. ‘I rest my case.’

‘Are you trying to say what I think you are?’

‘Don’t try to stump me with riddles, laddie. What do you think I’m trying to say?’

‘That someone hit Edgeworth on the back of the head and fired the gun into his mouth. Murdered him.’

Glendenning sat silently for a while, swirling the liquid in the bottom of his glass. ‘Well, it’s certainly a possibility, isn’t it?’ he said finally. ‘But there could be other explanations. And I could be wrong. I’m a scientist. I’m uncomfortable enough speculating as much as I have done.’

‘I understand that,’ said Banks. ‘But see it from my point of view. Imagination and speculation are almost as much use to a policeman as reason and scientific evidence. Often more so.’ He took a swallow of beer. ‘Besides, it fits with one or two things that have been bothering me.’

‘All I’m saying,’ Glendenning explained, ‘is that it’s possible — only possible, mind you — that someone hit Edgeworth on the back of the head before any shot was fired.’

‘Hit with what?’

‘I don’t know. Some kind of hammer with a rounded head. A ballpeen, or machinist’s hammer, for example. Did you find anything like that at the scene?’

‘We’ve got everything from Edgeworth’s cellar locked up in evidence. There was a work bench, and we can certainly check all the tools for traces of blood and try to match them with the wound.’

‘The weapon would probably be among them,’ said Glendenning. ‘Or whoever used it might have brought it with him and taken it away.’

‘We’ll check,’ said Banks. ‘And then this person shot him?’

‘Well, he could hardly have done it himself. But it might not have been the same person.’

‘Possibly,’ said Banks. ‘But it makes for an odd sequence of events however you look at it. Someone hits him on the back of the head and leaves, then someone else comes and fakes his suicide. Or maybe Edgeworth came round from the blow and then decided to shoot himself?’

‘When you put it like that, it does sound rather far-fetched. But there’s more. The angle was off.’

‘What do you mean? What angle?’

‘It’s a small thing in itself, but taking into account all the evidence of the possible trajectory of the bullet, the angle at which the weapon was held, it would have been... well, perhaps uncomfortable is the best word, for Edgeworth to have held it the way it would inflict such a wound. He got it right. A lot of suicides don’t realise you need to hold the gun at an angle, pointing up, not straight at the back of your mouth. That likely wouldn’t bring about the desired result. I’m just saying that it would have been a bit of a twist for Edgeworth to hold it at the right angle from the way he was slouching against the wall. Not impossible, you understand, perhaps not even improbable, but uncomfortable.’

‘I understand,’ said Banks. ‘What about time of death?’

Glendenning sighed. ‘You know as well as I do that there’s usually plenty of leeway there, especially in a body that’s been dead as long as Edgeworth’s had when we found him.’

‘So he could have been killed earlier on Saturday morning, before the wedding?’

‘He could indeed. That was apparent from the start. The chill slows things down a bit.’

‘I’m just trying to get this all clear. The timing is such that the killer could have killed Edgeworth first and left the pile of clothes beside him, then used Edgeworth’s gun and RAV4 to carry out the shootings at St Mary’s, returned them to the house and left.’

‘Indeed. What are these other things that have been bothering you?’

‘First,’ said Banks, ‘there’s the scrapbook we found with the pictures and stories about Benjamin Kemp and Laura Tindall’s forthcoming wedding. I can understand why the killer might have kept such a record — it fits with his obsession — but why would he tape it to the underside of a drawer, where any police search was pretty certain to find it, if he was going to commit suicide after the murders?’

‘So in your speculative policeman’s way,’ Glendenning said, ‘you’re suggesting that someone else might have planted the scrapbook there, the real killer perhaps, to incriminate Edgeworth further, or to misdirect you?’

‘Well, someone might have realised that it would help to convince us we’d got the right man if we had some evidence to link him with the people at the wedding, and not just physical evidence, ballistics and so forth. The thing is that other than the scrapbook we’ve got nothing, no links at all between Martin Edgeworth and anyone in the wedding party, the church itself, the vicar, verger, curate, you name them.’

‘Maybe he’d just kept the scrapbook hidden so that no casual visitor would see it, and he forgot to move it before his suicide, or couldn’t be bothered to. After all, he had other things on his mind. I mean, he’d hardly take it out of his hiding place and put it on the kitchen table, would he?’

‘Well speculated, Watson. And we found no identifiable prints on the scrapbook, only smudges. But such things are notoriously difficult to get prints from, anyway. Edgeworth didn’t leave a suicide note, either.’

‘That happens so often, in my experience,’ said Glendenning, ‘as to be meaningless.’

‘True. And perhaps even more often with mass murderers. But on the other hand, there’s often a need to explain, or to demonstrate how clever he’s been. None of these little things add up to anything until you start collecting them all together. And there’s another thing. Nobody I talked to who knew Edgeworth believed him to be capable of committing such a crime. Oh, some people didn’t like him much, especially his ex-wife, and some admitted he had a short fuse and he didn’t like losing, but that’s about as far as it goes. Now, I know in itself that means very little. If I had a penny for the number of times I’ve heard friends, family and neighbours describe a sadistic killer as a decent, normal, sociable chap with a few flaws, I’d be a rich man today. But still...’

Glendenning made a throaty, gurgling sort of sound Banks took for laughter.

Banks finished his pint. ‘So the question is, I suppose, what are we going to do about it?’

‘I’m not going to do anything,’ said Glendenning. ‘I’m simply trying to bring a few anomalies and alternative interpretations to your attention. I think the rest is up to you.’

‘But you’ll back me up if necessary?’

‘Naturally. To the extent of my professional opinion.’

‘What a waste,’ said Banks. ‘And you seem so promising at speculation.’

Glendenning polished off his whisky. ‘Aye, well, I’ll leave that to you. I would certainly be comfortable to go as far as mentioning the indentation, for example, and should you provide me with a possible weapon I would be happy to check it for fit. Now I’ve had my say. I’ll be off.’

When Glendenning had left, Banks sat staring into his empty glass. Was there anything in what Glendenning had told him? Was Edgeworth really innocent, as most of his friends and acquaintances seemed to believe? He might have been involved tangentially, of course, then hoodwinked or double-crossed by an accomplice at the final hurdle, but he might also have been used, knowing nothing about the real killer’s motives or intentions. The only bright spot in all this was that the two of them must have crossed paths at some point. The killer must have known about Edgeworth’s membership of the Upper Swainsdale District Rifle and Pistol Club, about his guns. And that gave Banks a few places he could start searching for the connections he needed.

Banks hadn’t given Annie and Gerry any specific instructions for interviewing Robert and Maureen Tindall again other than to play it by ear, go over some of the questions they had already been asked and note their reactions. Robert and Maureen were the only immediate members of the wedding party who hadn’t been killed or wounded, which was interesting in itself to a suspicious detective’s mind. If the killer had been aiming at specific targets, then why had they been spared? Why had he killed the groom’s father, but not the bride’s? Not that Annie thought the Tindalls had anything to do with the shooting, but it was odd, all the same. They had been standing with the main group but had escaped injury. Their witness statements had been taken as soon as they had recovered from the immediate shock, but neither had anything new to add. Had the shootings really been random?

The Tindalls’ house came complete with double garage, gables, spacious gardens at front and back, and a bay window. It sat in one of the quiet streets a stone’s throw from the Heights, Eastvale’s Millionaire’s Row, but lacked the panoramic view the large detached houses commanded, and wouldn’t fetch anywhere near the same price. Even so, Annie would have given up her cottage in Harkside for such a home had she been able to afford it. Banking had clearly been as good to Robert Tindall as it had been bad to most customers.

They parked out front and walked up the path. Annie had phoned ahead, so they were expected, and Robert Tindall opened the door almost immediately she rang the bell.

‘Come in, come in,’ he said, taking their umbrellas and depositing them in an elephant’s foot stand by the door. Annie hadn’t seen such a thing in ages, if ever. She thought elephants were a protected species. Certainly, it was illegal to hunt them for ivory. Perhaps it wasn’t a real elephant’s foot. ‘If you wouldn’t mind removing your footwear,’ Robert Tindall went on, ‘you can put it on that mat there.’

Annie took off her red boots, not without some awkwardness over the zips, and Gerry slipped off her pumps without even bending down. Annie felt decidedly underdressed in jeans and a plain grey sweatshirt under her raincoat, but Gerry appeared elegant enough in a dark green trouser suit over a russet top that matched her flowing waves of red hair. Tall and elegant, Annie thought, with a rush of irrational envy that occasionally rose in her chest when she worked with Gerry. It passed quickly enough. They had got off to a bad start, but Annie had now actually come to appreciate the many qualities of her occasionally difficult oppo over the past couple of years, even if they hadn’t exactly warmed to one another on a personal level yet. It was her own fault. Women like Gerry Masterson and Jenny Fuller, always elegant, beautiful, well turned out, posh accents, walking around as if they had a stick up their arse, had always irritated her. It was a problem that probably had something to do with her unconventional and Bohemian upbringing, but knowing that didn’t solve it.

Robert Tindall led them into a high-ceilinged living room where a fire burned in the grate and a baby grand occupied one corner.

‘Maureen’s,’ he said, as Annie stared at it. ‘She’s the musical one. Not me, I’m afraid. Tone deaf.’

‘You couldn’t fit one of those in my entire cottage,’ said Annie, realising immediately that she had made Tindall uncomfortable. ‘Bijou, they call it.’

‘Ah, yes, the vagaries of today’s language. Do sit down.’ He gestured to a sofa upholstered in rough cream cloth printed with French wine labels. ‘Maureen is resting. She hopes to be with us shortly.’

Annie hoped so, too. She had come to talk to both of them, preferably together. There was a whiff of camphor about the room, she thought, which gave it something of an old-fashioned atmosphere.

Robert cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid she’s not been herself since Laura’s death. It shook her to the core. I’m upset, too, naturally, we all are. But Maureen was always more fragile. Laura was our only child. You know.’

‘Yes,’ said Annie. ‘I can hardly imagine how terrible it must be. Fragile? You say your wife is fragile?’

‘Yes. Sensitive. Highly strung, as they say. But she’s a wonderful wife, and she was a good mother to Laura. Strict but good: attentive, loving, supportive. Maureen helped her so much with her modelling career. Maybe she was over-protective, but there are some wily predators in that business, you know.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Can I perhaps get you a cup of tea, coffee, or something while you’re waiting?’

‘Tea would be great, thanks,’ said Annie.

‘Any kind in particular?’

‘Have you got any chamomile?’ Gerry asked.

‘Afraid not. It’s Yorkshire Gold or Earl Grey.’

They agreed on the Yorkshire Gold and Robert Tindall went off to the kitchen.

‘Bloody chamomile, indeed,’ said Annie.

Gerry blushed. ‘Well, he asked. And you’re a one to talk. It was you got me into herbal teas in the first place.’

Before she could reply, Annie heard a soft rustling behind her and turned to see a woman walk into the room. In contrast to her husband, Maureen Tindall was painfully thin and pale, like an invalid, clutching a cashmere cardigan at her throat as if she were freezing despite the fire. Robert Tindall was tall, slightly stooped, silver-haired and distinguished, but his wife looked as if a puff of wind would blow her away.

‘Good afternoon. I’m Maureen Tindall.’ Her voice was a shaky whisper. She sat in the armchair closest to the fire and rubbed her hands together. ‘This weather,’ she said. ‘When will it ever end?’

‘Not until we’ve all been washed away,’ Annie replied.

Maureen Tindall managed a thin smile. She was in her early sixties, Annie guessed, with short steel-grey hair plastered to her scalp. Her face was bony, blotchy in places, eyes sunken, dull with the numbing glaze of tranquillisers, and anywhere except on Annie or Gerry. Still, Annie thought, the poor woman had just lost her only daughter in the most horrendous circumstances one could possibly imagine. Who in her position wouldn’t reach for the Valium? Maureen smoothed her skirts over her lap and leaned back. ‘I can’t imagine what you want with us now,’ she said. ‘Not now that it’s all over.’

‘We just want to make sure we’ve got everything right,’ said Annie. ‘The boss is a real stickler about reports and that sort of thing.’

Robert Tindall came back in with a tray bearing a teapot, cups and saucers, milk and sugar. ‘Ah, darling, here you are,’ he said. ‘Feeling all right?’

‘A little better,’ said Maureen. ‘I think my rest helped.’

Her husband put down the tray and patted her arm. ‘Good. Good.’ He glanced at Annie. ‘I don’t suppose this will take long?’

‘Shouldn’t think so,’ Annie said. Gerry took out her notebook and pen.

Maureen Tindall peered at her wristwatch. ‘What time is our appointment with Dr Graveney, darling?’ she asked.

‘Not until half past four. We’ve got plenty of time.’

‘Only we mustn’t be late. We’ll have to set off in good time.’

‘We will, darling, we will.’

‘Dr Graveney?’ Annie said.

‘Outpatient care,’ said Robert Tindall. ‘Maureen is still rather very much in shock, as you may have noticed.’

‘A psychiatrist, then?’

‘Yes,’ said Tindall, through gritted teeth. ‘A specialist.’

He clearly didn’t appreciate Annie’s encroaching on their private affairs. Still, plenty of people were embarrassed about seeing shrinks. Annie had felt that way herself after her rape some years ago. In retrospect, though, she thought the visits had done her some good. They had at least speeded her reintegration back into some approximation of normal life. Had she been left to her own devices, she would probably still be wallowing in guilt, anger, anxiety, shame, alcohol and God only knows what else.

‘I’m afraid I still find it very difficult to accept the reality of what happened,’ Maureen said. ‘I find myself constantly dwelling on those moments in the churchyard, reliving them. My dearest Laura. I don’t sleep well. It always seems to be on my mind like those tunes you can’t get rid of sometimes, only much worse. Dr Graveney is trying to help me overcome all that. To make the pictures go away.’

Good luck with that, Annie thought. ‘Then I wish both of you every success. I can’t imagine how terrible it must be reliving events like that over and over.’

‘It’s not even so much the images,’ Maureen said, ‘but the feelings that go with them.’

‘I understand,’ said Annie. And she did. ‘I’m sorry if our visit causes you any more pain. There’s a just a few small things we’d like to go over. Not the event itself, you understand. Just background.’

‘But you’ve got the man, haven’t you?’ said Robert Tindall. ‘The one who did it. He shot himself, didn’t he?’

Annie noticed Maureen flinch at the word ‘shot’. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s all pretty well cut and dried. What we don’t have is any kind of motive. From all we’ve been told, Martin Edgeworth just wasn’t the kind of man to do what he did.’

‘Something must have pushed him over the edge,’ said Robert Tindall.

‘Exactly. That’s what we’re trying to find out. If he had some connection with anyone in the wedding party, for example. And if there was anyone else involved.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘Yes. There are one or two anomalies, and there’s a remote possibility that he had an accomplice.’

‘You must understand, we didn’t actually see anyone,’ said Robert.

‘Everything was too confusing,’ Maureen added. ‘We didn’t know what was happening.’

‘Of course,’ said Annie. ‘I’m just trying to find out whether you had any sense at all of there being more than one person up there.’

‘Well, the shots seemed to come rather fast,’ said Robert. ‘I can’t say I’ve ever been under fire in a battle situation, but I rather imagine that’s what it would feel like. So I suppose there could have been more than one. But surely your forensics people could tell you all about that?’

‘What about the other matter, his connection with the wedding party?’ Gerry asked. ‘What might have pushed him over the edge?’

Robert looked at her askance. ‘How could we possibly speculate on something like that?’

‘What DC Masterson means,’ Annie went on, ‘is whether there’s anything you can think of, anything at all, that might have given someone like Martin Edgeworth a reason to do what he did.’

‘But we knew nothing about this Martin Edgeworth,’ Robert protested. ‘And it seems to me there was no reason any sane person could grasp what he did.’

‘You mentioned predators earlier,’ Annie said. ‘Were you aware of anyone like that causing Laura problems?’

‘No. At least she never said anything. Anyway, she’d left that part of the business behind, the modelling.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Annie. ‘Is there anyone from Laura’s past who you think might wish to do her harm, even after a very long time?’

‘Revenge being a dish best eaten cold?’ said Robert.

‘Something like that.’ Annie noticed that Maureen Tindall seemed distracted. It could have been the Valium, or the general state of her nerves.

‘Mrs Tindall?’ Annie said. ‘Can you think of anything? Anyone?’

Maureen seemed to snap back from a long distance. ‘Who, me? No, no, of course not. No one.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ she snapped. ‘Laura was not the kind of person to go about making enemies.’

‘That’s not what I mean,’ Annie said. ‘And if I gave you the wrong impression, I apologise. I’m not saying she did anything wrong to attract the attention of someone like Martin Edgeworth. We don’t even profess to understand his motivation. But it could have been a simple thing that set him off. Someone who did what he did doesn’t exactly see the world in quite the same way as the rest of us.’

‘We’ve never heard of the man before,’ said Robert Tindall. ‘And Laura certainly never mentioned him.’

‘Would she have?’

‘We like to think she would have confided in us if something, or someone, was bothering her, yes.’

‘We do know that he seemed interested in the wedding,’ said Gerry. ‘He had newspaper clippings of the announcements. He put them in a scrapbook.’

Maureen took a handkerchief from her sleeve and put it to her mouth. ‘Why would he do something like that? That’s just sick.’

‘Good lord,’ said Robert. ‘So he was stalking Laura?’

‘Not necessarily. But he knew the details. It wasn’t a spontaneous assault. That’s what makes us think there could have been someone in particular in the wedding party he wanted to hurt, and hurt very badly, and he killed the others as a sort of smokescreen, to distract us from what he really intended. Naturally, we thought first of Laura and Ben, though Ben wasn’t killed immediately.’

Maureen shook her head. ‘It can’t be,’ she whispered. ‘It can’t be.’

Annie and Gerry exchanged glances. ‘Can’t be what?’ Gerry asked.

‘Wh — what you say it is. Something Laura did, or one of us did, or something he thinks we did. Obviously, I can’t speak for everyone else, but as far as Robert and I are concerned, that just sounds ridiculous.’

‘There are still so many things about all this we don’t understand,’ Annie said, ‘but that’s probably because we don’t have all the facts yet.’

‘Can’t you just let it be, now it’s over and he’s dead?’ said Maureen. ‘Let us be? We just want to get on with our lives. To heal.’

‘But someone may have put Martin Edgeworth up to it,’ Annie said. ‘Used him.’

‘I don’t see how that could have happened,’ said Maureen. ‘Surely people are not that manipulable?’

‘You’d be surprised. With that type of killer, it could have been a minor slight, a build-up of pressure, even over years. Some insult or rejection he perceived or misread. Some past transgression, real or imagined.’

Maureen lowered her head and sniffled.

‘Do you remember Wendy Vincent?’ Gerry asked.

Maureen looked up sharply. ‘Wendy?’ she repeated. ‘Yes, of course I do. How could I forget? But what’s that got to do with anything? That all happened fifty years ago.’

‘You were her best friend, weren’t you?’

‘I like to think so.’

‘It must have been terrible for you. And so young.’

‘Yes. I was fifteen.’

‘Her killer was only brought to justice recently, a cold case solved by modern methods. DNA.’

‘I read about it.’

‘Did you know him? Frank Dowson?’

‘I knew who he was. He was Billy Dowson’s weird older brother.’

‘Weird?’

‘There was something wrong with him. He wasn’t all there. We stayed away from him. But I still don’t see what this has to do with anything.’

‘We’re just looking for connections,’ Gerry said. ‘However vague or distant.’

‘Might Laura have unwittingly drawn attention from the wrong sort of person?’ Annie cut in. ‘Perhaps she declined someone’s advances, something like that? Can you think of anyone?’

‘We’ve been through all that,’ said Robert. ‘Racked our brains. I think someone already told your colleagues about that cyber-stalker a few years back. But he’s in New Zealand.’

‘We’ve checked him out thoroughly,’ said Gerry. ‘It wasn’t him, or anything to do with him.’

‘Something could have happened in London, I suppose, either recently or during Laura’s modelling career, but if there was, it wasn’t something she told us. And she usually told us most things.’

Annie doubted that very much. ‘She may not have even known about it,’ she said. ‘The person might never even have approached her. Perhaps a perceived slight at a party, or something like that, was enough. A colleague. A waiter.’

‘If she didn’t even know about it herself,’ said Robert Tindall, ‘then she could hardly tell anyone else about it, could she? I’m sorry, but we can’t help you any further. You can see my wife is upset. Perhaps if you talked to some of Laura’s friends and colleagues down in London...?’

‘We’ve already done that, Mr Tindall, but rest assured we’ll stick at it.’ Annie gave Gerry the nod and they stood to leave. ‘I’m sorry for probing at painful memories, Mrs Tindall, but you’ve been most helpful. I shouldn’t think we’ll have to bother you any more.’

Maureen Tindall remained with her face buried in her handkerchief. Just as Robert Tindall was leading them to the door, his wife checked the time again and reminded him of the forthcoming doctor’s appointment.

‘Don’t worry, darling,’ he said. ‘We’ve got ages yet.’

The market square outside was dark and deserted. As Banks glanced out after having recounted his earlier discussion with Dr Glendenning, he could see the reflections of the others gathered in AC Gervaise’s office: Jenny Fuller, DCs Doug Wilson and Gerry Masterson and DI Annie Cabbot. The only significant person missing was Winsome, who had spent Christmas in Montego Bay with her parents, and would be there for another two weeks. Terry Gilchrist had gone to visit her over there, and Banks hoped the sun, sand and sea and long cool drinks with umbrellas were helping them get over the terrible ordeal they had endured at their friends’ wedding.

After a brief pause, Gervaise said, ‘As far as I’m concerned, Alan, I think we’ve got enough already to get started investigating possibilities beyond Edgeworth. But you’ll have to proceed carefully. Don’t tread on any toes or upset any of the bereaved. Most of all, we don’t want the newspapers getting hold of our speculations until you get somewhere with the investigation. If there’s anywhere to get. You know as well as I do how much they’d love the opportunity to tell the world how we got it wrong, or accuse us of harassing grief-stricken survivors.’ She drank some coffee. ‘On the other hand, they’re all still hungry for a motive, for some sort of explanation, and we haven’t been able to show them yet that Edgeworth was the monster they’d like to paint him as. Anyway, let’s carry on. There must be more. Dr Fuller?’

Jenny Fuller cast her eyes over the group. ‘I’ve been over and over my notes, back to the textbooks, reread all your statements and reports, read up on just about every spree killing and mass murder I can find, and I still can’t make him fit. Naturally, there are so many variables. You can always get away by saying he was an exception to the rule, or that we’ve missed some vital piece of information, but in the light of what Alan’s just told us, I don’t think we have. I think it’s a strong case for at least considering other possibilities. Edgeworth doesn’t have a dysfunctional background, for a start. And if what you’re telling me about his cleaning up after things is true, that doesn’t fit the profile, either. Mass murderers don’t usually bother to get rid of all the forensic evidence they possibly can. Admittedly, they rarely have the time, but it’s certainly not part of the profile. Nor do potential suicides. Frankly, I’m stumped. Besides, you need more than a dysfunctional background to make a mass murderer. Plenty of people come from backgrounds of violence and abuse, for example, and never stray off the straight and narrow. You also need a series of triggers, or maybe something more like the series of numbers in a combination lock. Click. Click. Click. Until the tumblers align and it’s all systems go. I’ve got no idea what that combination might be in Edgeworth’s case. I’m not saying he didn’t do it, just that he didn’t do it as a textbook mass murderer, if you understand what I mean. With all the care he took to misdirect us, he could have had a more complicated reason than the need to kill a lot of people. But then why did he kill himself after taking so much care to cover his tracks? And why was it so easy to trace him through the firearms certificate? That kind of basic mistake doesn’t fit with the other stuff, the extra set of clothing and so on.’

‘So,’ said Banks, ‘the question is, if we’re giving him the benefit of the doubt when it comes to psychology, and admitting the inconsistencies of forensic evidence, are we going to take the leap of faith and assume that the man who was up on the hill shooting at the wedding group outside St Mary’s was not the same man we found slumped against the wall in Martin Edgeworth’s cellar?’

‘I can’t see any other conclusion,’ said AC Gervaise. ‘If Dr Fuller and Dr Glendenning are right.’

The others nodded.

‘If we’re going to work on the assumption that someone else shot the wedding party and also killed Martin Edgeworth,’ Gervaise went on, ‘then it should open up new lines of inquiry. Now we have a second crime and all the fresh thinking and evidence that brings to the investigation. Where do you suggest we direct our attention next, Alan?’

‘I’d like someone to have a word with his old partner, Jonathan Martell,’ Banks said. ‘After all, it’s only a few years since they wound down the practice, and according to Ollie Metcalfe at the White Rose, Martell and Edgeworth often met up for a jar or two. They were still pals. Martell might know something, say if Edgeworth was in some kind of trouble or someone was trying to blackmail him, for example.’

‘You think this Martell could be a suspect, sir?’ DC Wilson asked.

‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Banks. ‘But keep an open mind. If it comes to it, if we think he merits it, we’ll do a full work up on him. If there’s any hint of a motive, then we’ll have him in. After all, he was Edgeworth’s partner for quite a few years. Edgeworth would have trusted him. Who’s to say it wasn’t Martell who came knocking on his door that Saturday morning, got him down in the cellar with the guns on some pretext or other, then bashed him on the back of the head with a ballpeen hammer and set up a phony suicide?’

‘And then?’ Wilson asked.

‘Then he put the second set of outer clothes he’d bought beside the body, rumpled up a bit but not enough, went out in Edgeworth’s RAV4 with Edgeworth’s AR15 and shot up the wedding party, returned the people-mover, guns and all, and hurried off home.’

‘So it was well planned?’ Annie said.

‘At a guess. If it happened that way. Whoever did it.’

‘It’s a possibility,’ said Gervaise.

‘It’s still speculation, ma’am,’ said Banks. ‘But it’s a place to start. What we need to do is find a link between the killer and Edgeworth, and some connection between one of the victims and the killer.’

‘As I said in our previous meeting,’ Jenny cut in. ‘It could be that a war hero, a wedding, a model or some other ingredient of the event could have acted as a symbol of something to the killer, a trigger that set him off, so it doesn’t even have to be a specific deed by a specific person he’s avenging. I know that sounds vague, but...’

‘OK,’ said Banks. ‘So maybe we’re after someone who hated models, weddings or war heroes. Or bridesmaids. Even so, we do the best we can with what limited resources we’ve got. Remember the scrapbook at Edgeworth’s house? It was filled with cuttings and pictures of the Tindall family, more than anyone else. Not the Kemps, the bridesmaids, the maid of honour, but the Tindalls. Annie, you and Gerry talked to them this afternoon. What were your impressions?’

‘On the whole, I’d say Robert Tindall is trying to put a brave face on things and having a tough time of it,’ said Annie. ‘Still, it’s hardly surprising, given what they’ve been through. Are still going through.’

‘And Maureen?’

Annie glanced at Jenny Fuller. ‘Without being any kind of an expert in the field, I’d say she’s still severely traumatised by what happened and still grieving for her daughter.’

‘Isn’t that only natural?’ Banks said. ‘Jenny?’

‘Sure it is,’ Jenny Fuller agreed. ‘I don’t quite get what point you’re making, DI Cabbot.’

‘It isn’t easy to explain,’ Annie went on. ‘You’re absolutely right, of course. There’s every reason she should still be grieving, taking tranquillisers, spending half the day in bed “resting”.’

‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh on the woman?’ Jenny said. ‘Given what she’s just experienced?’

‘If you’d let me explain.’

‘Go ahead, Annie,’ said Banks. Jenny leaned back in her chair and folded her arms.

‘Naturally, I was sympathetic. Gerry and I both were. I kept telling myself this woman has been through a severe trauma. She lost her only child. What could be worse?’

‘But?’ said Banks.

‘According to her husband, Maureen Tindall was always a bit fragile, fraught with anxiety.’

‘That business with the time,’ said Gerry.

‘Yes,’ Annie went on. ‘She seemed obsessed with punctuality. They had a doctor’s appointment later in the afternoon. Dr Graveney. A psychiatrist —’ she glanced at Jenny ‘— and she seemed obsessed with getting there in plenty of time. She was always looking at her watch. The appointment was at least a couple of hours away.’

‘Punctuality isn’t a bad thing,’ said Jenny. ‘Especially if you’re going to see a doctor. But you’re bandying about words like “anxiety” and “obsession” with probably very little understanding of their true technical meaning.’

‘I’m just trying to give you my experience of the interview,’ Annie said. ‘I’m using the words as any layperson would. I mean, maybe you don’t, but most of us know what it’s like to be anxious, perhaps even obsessed, or consumed by grief. I’m not pretending to be a psychologist or anything. I’ll leave that to you.’

‘The pretending?’

‘You know what I mean.’ Annie sniffed. ‘So that’s the impression we got, and I think Gerry would agree that Maureen Tindall was edgy, nervous, always worried about the time, and maybe that wasn’t all caused by the recent trauma. That’s all. Not that it matters so much. And we checked with Dr Graveney. The appointment was genuine, and she kept it.’

‘There was also that business about repeating “It can’t be” when we were talking about the killer maybe having a reason to hurt someone in the wedding party,’ said Gerry.

‘Disbelief sounds pretty reasonable to me, under the circumstances,’ said Gervaise.

‘But it wasn’t just that, ma’am.’ Gerry glanced at Annie, who gave her the go ahead. ‘It was the way she said it. It seemed to us that the mention of Wendy Vincent made her think of something, or make some sort of connection which she then refused to tell us about. She quickly became very eager for us to move on, to leave, even, and not come back. I don’t know. Maybe I’m being fanciful.’

‘You think there could be something in that?’ said Banks.

‘I don’t know. I haven’t been able to find any connection with Martin Edgeworth. He was a few years younger than Maureen Tindall, and he grew up in Lincolnshire, so I doubt there is any. And Laura wasn’t even born then. But the direction of the whole inquiry seems to be changing now.’

‘Indeed it does.’ Banks finished his coffee, though it was a little too bitter for his taste. ‘What do you think about Maureen Tindall?’ he asked Jenny Fuller.

‘I couldn’t possibly say without talking to her, but people do get hung up on punctuality and such, for example, which is a little bit different from simply being on time. It’s not especially abnormal. It may be a sign of general anxiety. As for the other thing, who knows? I imagine what Gerry here is trying to say is that she thinks there was something about Maureen Tindall’s past, or her daughter’s or husband’s past, that she didn’t want to touch upon, was maybe worried you would uncover, so she changed the subject.’

‘That’s what it felt like,’ said Gerry.

‘Well, we can’t always trust our feelings on these matters,’ said Jenny. ‘It bears further examination, though, I’d say.’

‘OK,’ said Banks. ‘Well done, the two of you. Gerry, do you think you can work your magic and get us some more background on that old murder, dig even deeper than you dug before?’

‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

‘Doug, you can also keep working on the old dental practice for now, ex-patients and so on. Who knows, something could have happened there. Perhaps Edgeworth made a mistake and ruined someone’s smile, or sexually assaulted a female patient under anaesthetic. It happens. I might wander back up to the club tomorrow and talk to Geoff McLaren the manager. According to Ollie Metcalfe at the White Rose, he was a drinking buddy of Edgeworth’s. I keep thinking that if Edgeworth didn’t do it but his guns did, then the club’s a good place to start looking.’

‘Another thing,’ said AC Gervaise. ‘You mentioned the extra clothes and the use of a hammer, Alan.’

‘Yes. I was just about to get to that.’

‘Well, let me pip you to the post. Show you I’ve still got what it takes.’ Gervaise smiled. ‘What brand were they? The clothes.’

‘They’re from Walkers’ Wearhouse. Their own brand.’

‘Then we need to check with all branches of Walkers’ Wearhouse. I know it’s a very large and popular chain, but we should be able to manage it. And someone needs to go down to the evidence locker first thing tomorrow and find out if Edgeworth had a ballpeen hammer in his tool chest, and if so, could it have been used to cause the blow on his head. DI Cabbot, can you supervise that? There may still be minute traces of blood.’

‘Certainly,’ said Annie.

‘Let’s call it a night, then,’ Gervaise said. ‘We’ve all got more than enough to keep us busy from tomorrow on.’

There was a letter waiting for Banks when he got home after the meeting, along with the circulars, bills and the latest copy of Gramophone magazine. It was handwritten, postmarked Scarborough, and there was an almost illegible address in the top left-hand corner that he could just about make out was in Filey. He didn’t get many real letters these days. He put the junk on the table by the door and took Gramophone and the letter with him into the kitchen. Ray was stopping over with friends in the Lake District tonight, Banks remembered, and he was glad to have the cottage to himself for an evening. Not that he minded Ray staying there while he found a suitable home of his own, and the cooking was a definite plus, but it was good to have the conservatory to himself again, the chance to relax and listen to whatever music he wanted to hear. Ray wasn’t much of a classical fan. He loved sixties’ rock and jazz, mostly, which was fine, but Banks still missed his Schubert, Shostakovich and Beethoven. When he had tried to play a Borodin string quartet or some Chopin nocturnes, Ray hadn’t grumbled or made any comment, he had simply talked all the way through it as if it were mere background music.

Luckily, there was some of Ray’s excellent lasagne left over from the other night, and Banks stuck it in the microwave, then he poured himself a glass of Primitivo and walked through to the entertainment room. He hadn’t bothered tidying up since Ray had been around, and there were books, CD jewel cases and DVD boxes scattered around on just about every available surface. He had recently bought a disc of Alice Coote singing French mélodies, so he put that on, making sure it was routed through the speakers in the conservatory. He couldn’t understand sung French very well, except for a few lines of Françoise Hardy and Jacques Brel, but he enjoyed the music of the language. And the sweetness of the singer’s voice, of course.

After the team meeting, he was more convinced than ever that there was something fishy about the whole St Mary’s business. Even AC Gervaise seemed to agree, and he had expected more resistance from her. True, profiles aren’t always accurate, and Jenny had quite reasonably complained that she didn’t have enough to go on, but the comparison between what they knew of spree killers or mass murderers and what they had been able to discover about Martin Edgeworth’s character, life and actions just didn’t match up. Then there were the forensic and pathology details. It might be a long haul ahead, but there had to be a way of getting to the bottom of it.

In the meantime, Banks was curious about the letter, which lay on top of Gramophone on the table beside him. He turned on the reading lamp, which reflected in the windows, effectively blotting out the dark mass of the hills outside.

Banks held the letter in one hand and tapped its sharp edge on the palm of his other, stretching the anticipation. He didn’t recognise the handwriting. Right now, it could be anything — good news, bad news, a death, a birth, a favour asked, an offer, a piece of news that could change his life — but as soon as he opened it, its promise would evaporate and it would simply be what it was. There would be no further room for speculation. It could be from one of his few surviving school friends, for example. Or maybe it was from someone he had come across on a case he had worked. Or a distant uncle leaving him a fortune. The longer he held it unopened, the longer the tension would last. Eventually, though, he gave up teasing himself and opened it as carefully as he could, in case he needed to decipher the address in the top left corner for a reply.

In the light of the lamp, he read the surprisingly clear script:

She added her email, address and phone number in a postscript. Filey wasn’t that far, and Banks was sure he could manage a quick visit. He remembered Julie Drake quite well. As best girlfriends often were, she and Emily were different as chalk and cheese. Julie was — or had been back then — a vivacious, flirtatious brunette who often seemed quite manic in proximity to Emily’s cool blond presence. Julie had an attractive full figure: large breasts, a pert nose and big eyes. She favoured low-cut tops to reveal a tempting glimpse of cleavage. She also had a reputation for chasing the boys that Banks had often felt was undeserved. He had once seen her crying alone at a party when she thought no one was watching, while the boy she had come with was chatting up a prettier and more sophisticated girl, and more often than not, she went home alone. Banks felt that she probably tried too hard and set her sights on the wrong men. He could recognise the signs. After all, he had set his sights on the wrong woman often enough.

Banks felt his eyes prickle as he put the letter aside. Schubert’s string quintet, the very same piece of music Mahler had asked to hear on his deathbed, or so Linda Palmer had told him. He wondered whether Emily had known that.

Reading Julie’s words transported him back over forty years. Romantic and sentimental, indeed. He remembered the last time he had seen Emily. They had met in Hyde Park on a glorious summer’s day in 1973. Everyone was out enjoying the sunshine. Lovers embraced on the grass, children kicked plastic footballs around, businessmen sat with their jackets off and shirtsleeves rolled up, reading newspapers, and shorthand typists adjusted their office clothing as tastefully as possible to get lunchtime tans.

Banks was propped up against a tree not far from the Serpentine reading a second-hand paperback edition of The Exorcist. When he saw Emily walking towards him, he felt an immediate sense of foreboding. She had been distant and moody of late, and there was something in her expression, in the way she smiled at him, that made him feel apprehensive. It wasn’t long before she was telling him that she didn’t think they should see each other any more, that things had run their course and they were going in different directions and neither of them would be truly happy if they carried on together. He didn’t understand any of what she was saying. They hadn’t had a fight — they rarely fought, in fact — and in his mind things had been going well, except for the moodiness. He guessed that perhaps there was someone else, but Emily swore blind there was no one. She just needed a break, some distance between them.

In the end, it didn’t matter what Banks said, whether he understood it or not. The result was the same. It was over. Back to drunken nights at someone’s party, half-hearted fumblings on a pile of lumpy coats in the spare bedroom. Hangovers and guilt in the morning. Then came the lonely nights of Leonard Cohen albums and cheap wine by candlelight. That went on pretty much until he decided to drop out of his business studies course and join the police. He wasn’t even sure why he did that to this day. Maybe it started as an act of rebellion and a cure for heartbreak, like joining the Foreign Legion. His father hated him for it, and his mother only managed a fair job of pretending to approve until the first time he got his name in the papers years later. But it had turned out to be a good life for him; he couldn’t imagine having taken any other course. He certainly wasn’t cut out for business, and he’d made a mess of most of his relationships. Emily had no doubt been better off without him. He was convinced he had an emotional blind spot somewhere. He remembered that he had even thought all was well years later between him and his wife Sandra, up to the point when she left him for another man. He didn’t know why that had happened, either. It wasn’t that he had failed to lead an unexamined life, just that his life had failed the examination.

He put the letter aside and guzzled some wine. Alice Coote was singing ‘Le spectre de la rose’, one of his favourite songs from Les nuits d’été to the sound of rain running down the window outside. Banks drank and listened, mulling over the letter as he did so. Did he really want to talk to Julie Drake? He decided that he did. He had to admit that he was curious as to what Emily might have said about him as she lay dying some forty years after they had been in love for a while.

When Alice Coote finished, he went back into the entertainment room to dig out his copy of the string quintet, one of the last pieces of music Schubert had written in his short life.