Peter Robinson: Sleeping in the Ground

‘Farewell, Farewell’ was followed by ‘We Bid You Goodnight’, and most of the audience started to drift away. It was close to eleven o’clock and starting to rain by the time Banks pulled up outside his cottage at the edge of the woods, and the house was pitch dark, as he had expected. Banks used the light of his mobile phone to fit his key in the door, which opened directly into his old living room, now a small den where he kept his computer, a comfortable chair and reading lamp. He had left before the post came that morning, but all he found on the floor was a circular about boilers addressed to ‘The Homeowner’ and a postcard that read ‘Having a great time’ from his son Brian, who was recording with his band in Los Angeles. The picture on the front showed a long curving vista of Santa Monica Beach and pier. Needless to say, the water was blue and the sun was shining. Banks sighed and set it down on the little table by the door, where he piled the mail he didn’t need to answer. He dropped the circular in the recycling box.

When he walked through to the kitchen, he realised that he hadn’t eaten since his sardines on toast for breakfast, unless he counted the Penguin biscuit on the train. One disadvantage of living in such an isolated place was the lack of takeaways that stayed open late. The Dog and Gun didn’t serve food on an evening, and there was nowhere else open in Helmthorpe after eleven o’clock at night. Banks checked the fridge and found, as he had expected, nothing but a few hard heels of cheese. There was, however, a tin of baked beans in the cupboard over the sink, and as far as he could tell, the one crust of bread left in the bag hadn’t developed any green spots of mould yet. Beans on toast it was, then.

After putting the beans in the microwave and slotting the bread in the toaster, he plugged in his mobile to recharge, then went into the entertainment room to choose some music. The Dog and Gun had helped, but he still felt jittery and not in the least bit tired. The twists and turns of the St Mary’s shooting were already wearing furrows in his brain, and Emily’s funeral lay like a heavy weight on his heart. More music would help. It could be nothing overly busy or emotionally heavy tonight, no Shostakovich or John Coltrane, just cool jazz or gentle chamber music. In the end, he went for Tabea Zimmermann’s Romance Oubliée , music for viola and piano, and he knew as soon as he heard the opening melody of Hans Sitt’s ‘Albumblätter’ that he had made the right choice. He turned up the volume a notch or two.

Back in the kitchen, he examined his wine rack and settled on a bottle of Primitivo he’d bought on sale at M & S a week or so ago. He poured a large glass and took a swallow. When the microwave beeped and the toast popped up, he plated his baked beans on toast and settled back down to eat in his wicker chair in the conservatory.

He still found it hard to accept that Emily was gone for ever, even though she had been no more than a memory to him for the past forty-five years. And now that lithe, soft, youthful body had first been ravaged by pancreatic cancer, and was now burned to ash. It was a morbid way to think of Emily, he knew, but he couldn’t help it when he remembered her smile, the tilt of her head and serious expression on her face when she was listening to a song she particularly liked, the sound of her laughter, the scent of Sunsilk shampoo in her hair. How easily something you thought was safely buried in your past could suddenly come back and cut you to the quick.

He drained the glass and put it aside. It would have to be his last one for tonight, though if truth be told he felt like getting blotto. But the phone might ring at any second. He was no longer simply a detective working a case; he was SIO of a very big, high-profile case indeed, and he might not get a full night’s sleep or a proper meal until it was over. The need to turn off like this for a while was vital, but so was the ability to snap back into action quickly. Fortunately, his mobile didn’t ring, and he was able to finish listening to Romance Oubliée and lose himself in sun-dappled memories of Emily Hargreaves and the golden days of his lost youth.

It was still dark the following morning when Banks showered, shaved and dressed for work between gulps of freshly brewed black coffee. He had awoken from a bad dream in the wicker chair in the middle of the night with a crick in his neck and his heart racing fit to burst. He couldn’t remember the details of the dream, but it involved Laura Tindall in a bloody white bridal gown. Only he knew that she was really Emily Hargreaves, and she was telling Banks that she was sorry someone was dead, but that it wasn’t her fault. After that, he had somehow got himself up to bed, but he had slept only fitfully and still felt stiff and aching when he got in the shower. There was no food in the house, not even bread, sardines or baked beans, so coffee would have to do until he got to work. Then he remembered it was Sunday, and the canteen would be closed. There would be something open in the market square. Bound to be. Takeaway roast beef and Yorkshire pud, maybe.

The Porsche started as smoothly as ever, and he set off, headlights piercing the darkness of the deserted Helmthorpe Road, scaring the occasional wandering sheep back into its meadow. His mobile sat in its cradle, hooked up for hands-free communications.

His first port of call was the incident vehicle at St Mary’s, where he found a number of tired CSIs slumped over, heads on the desks. They had been working most of the night. The arc lights were still flooding the churchyard. AFOs stood here and there, Heckler & Kochs cradled in their arms, guarding the area. It was unlikely that the killer would return, but the possibility couldn’t be ruled out. Banks had a brief word with the counter-terrorist unit’s second in command but learned nothing. Still no chatter, still no claiming of credit, no evidence of terrorist activity.

When he got back in his car, Banks slipped Ziggy Stardust in the CD player and turned up the volume. ‘Starman’ had been playing over and over in his head since he woke up, so he thought he might as well use fire to fight fire and try and exorcise it. His plan worked, but ‘Starman’ had been replaced by ‘Moonage Daydream’ by the time he reached the station.

‘Alan.’ Chief Superintendent Gervaise turned to Banks from the duty sergeant at the front desk. She looked as if she had been up all night. ‘I was wondering when you’d be getting here. Follow me, there’s someone I want you to meet.’

Puzzled, Banks followed Gervaise upstairs and along the corridor to her office. She opened the door and bade him enter first. Someone was already sitting at the round conference table, cup of coffee in front of her, and when Banks entered, she smoothed her skirt, smiled and said, ‘Hello again, Alan. Long time no see.’

Banks could only stand there rooted to the spot, gobsmacked, and hope that his jaw hadn’t dropped as far as he felt it had. Gervaise managed to squeeze through the door past him and introduce her guest. ‘Detective Superintendent Banks, this is Dr Jennifer Fuller, forensic psychologist. Dr Fuller has very kindly offered to come in and help us out on the case. We’re lucky to have an expert of such sterling reputation, especially so early on a Sunday morning.’

Bloody hell, thought Banks. Jenny Fuller . Was today going to be as full of surprises as yesterday?

Once Banks had taken a couple of seconds to get over his initial shock at seeing Jenny Fuller again, he walked over to her and she tilted her head for him to kiss her cheek. Banks knew it wouldn’t take Gervaise more than a few seconds to figure out that the two of them were already acquainted. Why hadn’t Jenny told her? Banks wondered. No doubt to surprise him. She could be mischievous that way. But why hadn’t she even told him that she was back in Eastvale? He could see by the gently mocking smile on her face that his discomfort pleased her; she had always liked to catch people off guard and, as he remembered, she did it very well. Jenny Fuller was the one woman in Eastvale he had come perilously close to committing adultery with. Then she was gone. Off around the world. America. South Africa, Singapore, New Zealand, finally settling to teach in Sydney, Australia. The last he had heard, she was happily married to an Aussie economics professor.