Peter Robinson: Sleeping in the Ground

By the time Banks arrived in Fortford, the whole village was swarming with police, and the curious inhabitants had been strongly advised to stay in their homes. Naturally, they didn’t, and the police community support officers had a job on their hands keeping everyone behind the police tape at the southern edge of the village green.

According to Annie, on receiving Terry Gilchrist’s phone call at 1.03 p.m., the dispatcher had consulted with her control room inspector, who had ordered that no unarmed officers or emergency services personnel should attend the scene until given the all clear by Firearms Support Command, even though Terry Gilchrist had claimed that he had seen the shooter leave the hill.

Firearms support had sent their three closest armed response vehicles, and the officers had just finished securing the area around the church, about a quarter of a mile south of the village itself. Uniformed officers had then contained the scene and constructed designated pathways and meeting points so that the investigators could do their jobs and the paramedics could move in and out and take care of the injured. There were still no accurate reports on exactly what had happened in the churchyard, or how many people had been hurt.

Banks showed his identification at the second checkpoint, about a hundred yards from the church itself, signed the officer’s log, then sprinted briefly to catch up with Annie Cabbot and DCs Doug Wilson and Geraldine Masterson, who were slightly ahead of him. Chief Superintendent Gervaise was Gold Commander, coordinating things back at Eastvale HQ along with representatives from the emergency services and firearms support.

A line of authorised firearms officers, resembling an invading army in their full personal protective equipment, stood outside the churchyard, facing the hill opposite. Banks could see a number of other armed officers moving about on the hillside itself. Each AFO carried a PR-24 baton, rigid handcuffs and CS spray, along with the Glock side arm and Tasers. Because of the seriousness of the incident, they were also carrying Heckler & Koch MP5 carbines, which they usually kept locked in the boots of their vehicles. They made a chilling sight.

‘Any news?’ Banks asked as he caught up with the others.

‘Nothing yet,’ Annie answered. ‘How was the funeral?’

‘As you’d expect. Winsome?’

‘I’ve talked to Terry on his mobile. Winsome’s been hit, but he couldn’t say how serious it is. The AFOs have searched the hill area, which is where Terry said the shots were fired from, and they confirm the shooter’s definitely gone. They think they’ve found the spot he fired from and secured it for forensic examination. Gold Command has instructed that everyone unharmed inside the church should remain there until the ambulances have cleared the dead and wounded. We’ve arranged coaches for the uninjured. Eastvale General’s been advised to expect the casualties. So have James Cook Hospital and Leeds Infirmary. As far as anyone knows, there were about sixty guests in all. It was a bit of a local celebrity wedding. In the papers and all that.’ She swallowed. ‘It’s a bloodbath, Alan, like nothing we’ve had before.’

‘Media? You said it was a celebrity wedding.’

‘We’re not talking Madonna or royalty or anything. There were a few reporters and photographers, but they either ran away or took refuge in the church.’

‘Pity for once the place wasn’t swarming with them,’ Banks said. ‘It might have made the killer think twice, or one of them might have got some footage of him. What about the wedding photographer?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Annie said. ‘He caught a splinter of stone in one eye. But we’ll be checking out all photos and videos taken at the scene. Terry said he’s done what he can for the injured,’ Annie went on. ‘He managed to tie some tourniquets and staunch the blood flow on a couple of victims. He said it took ages for the AFOs to get here. It’s been well over an hour since the shooting.’

Banks glanced at his watch. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I was just getting off the train when I got your messages. I drove as fast as I could from Northallerton. I’m sorry my mobile was turned off earlier.’

‘It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing you could have done on the train except fret. We’ve only just been permitted to approach, ourselves. Before that, it was armed personnel only. We couldn’t get near the place. The first armed response vehicle didn’t arrive until 1.41 p.m., and they had to search the area and make sure the shooter wasn’t still around. Some of the paramedics and doctors are really pissed off. They say people could have been dying up here while they were tied up in red tape.’

The four detectives walked through the lychgate into the old country churchyard. Banks saw the wounded sprawled here and there, sobbing and clutching torn bits of shirt or dresses to staunch their bleeding. He could hear more ambulance sirens in the distance, and already paramedics were making their way around the churchyard along the common approach path designated by bright yellow plastic squares, like garish stepping stones, marked out to avoid people contaminating the scene. Peter Darby, the crime-scene photographer, was already hard at work amid the carnage. These were the ‘golden hours’, the period closest to when the crime had taken place, and evidence would never be as fresh or as plentiful as now. Dr Burns, the police surgeon, glanced up as Banks passed. Banks had never seen him so pale.

One beautiful young woman in a coral-coloured dress sat propped up against a gravestone shaking and whimpering, ‘Help me. Please.’ Her lap was soaked in blood and her hands were clutched around her stomach, as if she were trying to hold her insides in. With her long blond hair and her pale heart-shaped face, she reminded Banks a little of Emily Hargreaves. A doctor hurried past him towards her. Another girl lay on the grass with half her head missing. She resembled an actor from that zombie TV programme wearing a realistic prosthetic.

‘How many victims?’ Banks asked.

‘Seven or eight, according to Terry. It’s not official yet.’

‘Adrian Moss here?’ Moss was their media liaison officer, and he would soon be much in demand.

‘Not yet.’

Banks noticed that Gerry Masterson, the newest and youngest team member, had turned white. She was slowing to a halt, as if marooned on one of the yellow pads, staring at the girl holding her stomach by the gravestone. Banks thought he could see Gerry start to shake. Quickly he went over to her and grasped her arm. ‘Come on, you’ll be OK,’ he said. ‘Look at me. Deep breaths. One. Two. Three.’

Gerry turned towards him, her nostrils flared, eyes wild, then she gave a slight nod. Her shoulders stiffened, and he could see the effort she made, slowing her breathing, staring fixedly straight ahead at the church doors. ‘I’ll be all right, sir,’ she said through gritted teeth.

Banks could hear children crying the moment he stepped through the doors, but it took a while for his eyes to adjust to the gloom inside the church. There were people everywhere, some silent, some crying, some just talking. Banks saw a flower girl, with her hair in ringlets, holding her bouquet and sobbing. She had blood on her dress and her face, but he didn’t think it was hers. A little boy in a smart suit had his arm around her and was trying awkwardly to get her to be quiet. Next he saw the vicar sitting on the worn stone step by the altar, hunched over, head lowered, hands clasped in prayer, mumbling to God. Then he spotted Terry Gilchrist holding someone in his arms, leaning against a stone column.

Banks hurried over to Terry and saw, as he had expected, that it was Winsome he was holding. Her arms were wrapped around her raised knees, clutching them tightly to her chest. There was blood all over the front of Terry’s shirt as well as on his suit and face. Winsome’s peach satin dress — the one she had been so thrilled to find on sale — was smeared and stained with blood, too, and he noticed a bloody streak running across the top of her bare left shoulder. Something had made a furrow in her skin. The cut wasn’t bleeding much, a superficial flesh wound at best, but she had come that close. Winsome was trembling; her tear-filled eyes seemed unfocused, directed inwards, unaware of her surroundings.