Peter Robinson - Sleeping in the Ground

‘So her brother idolised her after her death?’

‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘Like Thomas Hardy did with his first wife Emma. They hardly talked for years, but when she died, he wrote some beautiful poems about their early days, being in love, travelling around the Cornish coast.’ As he spoke, Banks thought about Emily Hargreaves. Was he doing the same with her, despite what Julie Drake had told him? Perhaps. He certainly found it impossible to blame her for the action she had taken, hurtful though it was to him. And when he pictured her, it was the youthful, beautiful ‘first girl I ever loved’ that he saw. Life can push people in unexpected directions, but he thought he would probably always feel that way about Emily. She was one of those rare girls that you just felt you wanted to be always happy, even if you weren’t going to be the source of that happiness.

‘And then Ricky Bramble comes out with a story about Wendy and Maureen that Mark never knew before,’ Banks went on, ‘and it knocks him for six.’

Suddenly, Banks thought, Maureen was a slag who was snogging some kid in an old house instead of meeting her friend to go shopping, and that cost her friend her life. Mark had made a paragon of Wendy and a pariah of Maureen. The angel and the whore. And as much as Wendy had become a symbol of purity to him over the years, enshrined in loving memory, the more easily Maureen now became the harlot, the betrayer, the destroyer. At least that was how Banks saw it. And the last straw: the wedding announcement. Maureen Tindall, mother of the happy, affluent, successful bride, marrying not just an ex-soldier, but a successful one, a true hero. All the things Mark Vincent had never had or had never been. That must have hurt.

Banks picked up his briefcase. ‘Gerry found out that Vincent has picked up a criminal record since he left the Paras.’ He told Blackstone about Mark Vincent’s prison terms for burglary and arson and suspicion of being involved in the traffic of young girls from Eastern Europe. ‘It happened on your patch, so I’m hoping you’ve got something on him in records. Particularly a good photograph.’

Blackstone flipped through the file. ‘I’m sure we do,’ he said. ‘We photograph everyone we charge, and it should all be on the national database, along with DNA and fingerprints. But you already know that.’

‘I was just hoping you might be able to dig out something a bit better than the mugshot from the archive.’

‘I suppose we could try. We might have something. It’s not as if you’re asking about a fifty-year-old case this time, the way you usually do. Our recent records are actually in pretty good shape. And I even know where to get my hands on them.’

Banks scooped up a mouthful of korma with his naan. ‘I’m sure you do,’ he said, when he had eaten it. It burned all the way down, even though the waiter had assured him it was mild. Banks glugged some chilled lager.

‘When would you like this information?’

‘Tomorrow morning will do.’

Blackstone made a mock salute. ‘No problemo, sir. I’ll have one of my lads get right on it. Would you be requiring a scan, JPEG or courier job?’

‘What a bewildering array of choices. What’s fastest?’

‘JPEG, probably. I can email it to you.’

‘That’ll do nicely, then.’

‘Your wish, my command.’

Banks grinned. ‘Thanks, Ken. I owe you.’

‘I’ll add it to the list.’

They ate and drank in silence for a while, then Blackstone ordered a couple more pints of lager. Banks could use another one by then; his gut was burning. The nachos had had the same effect the other day. He wondered if there was something seriously wrong with him. Cancer, or something. Or a heart attack. Didn’t they sometimes start with what felt like indigestion? Maybe he should get checked out. On the other hand, it could just be a simple case of indigestion. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he felt it easing off, fading into the distance. He’d take another antacid later.

‘So tell me about your love life,’ Blackstone said.

‘What love life?’

‘A little bird tells me that your profiler is back in town. Jenny Fuller.’

‘Are there no secrets?’

‘Word travels fast, old son. So? Is it true?’

‘That she’s back? Yes. She’s been gone a long time, Ken. A lot of water under the bridge.’

‘Oh, don’t try to fob me off with clichés.’

‘I’m not. There’s nothing to tell.’

‘You must know whether you’re in with a chance.’

‘I don’t, Ken. Really, I don’t. I don’t even know if I want to be.’

‘But you’ve talked about it, haven’t you? I can tell. That’s how it starts, you know.’

‘She’s still finding her feet. She thinks our moment may have passed.’

‘Bollocks. I doubt it’s her feet you’re interested in, though who knows? It takes all sorts. But I’d hurry up if I were you, mate, or believe me, someone will get there before you. From what I heard she’s still a bit of all right.’

‘A bit of all right? Christ, Ken, I haven’t heard that expression in years. Not since I was a teenager, at any rate. A bit of all right ?’

‘OK, sorry. Getting carried away. But you’d be a fool not to go for it, you mark my words. Unless you’re too busy dallying with that poet of yours.’

‘She’s not mine, and I’m not dallying with her.’

‘ “Had we but world enough, and time...” ’

Banks laughed. ‘Who’s the poetry fan now?’ He realised that he sometimes got too lost in morose thoughts and memories when he was alone for too long, and someone like Ken brought him out of himself. Banks was a man who took his life and his job very seriously indeed, but he was able to laugh at himself, too. He was tempted to tell Blackstone about Emily, and what Julie Drake had revealed to him on Saturday night, but that still felt too close to home, too private, too raw. He didn’t think he could bear to tell anyone. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

‘It’s one of the few I know,’ said Blackstone. ‘I’ve even tried it out a couple of times on dates but it’s never worked.’

They finished their food, paid the bill and lingered over their drinks for a while longer. Eventually Blackstone said, ‘You’re obviously not driving home tonight. Let’s get a cab, go back to mine and have a nightcap. I just picked up a jazz CD that might interest you. Maria Schneider, The Thomson Fields . Heard it?’

‘No.’

‘You’ll like it. But let’s go, before it gets too late. I don’t know about you, but I’m not the night owl I used to be any more. You can come to the station with me in the morning before you set off home, and we’ll see what we can find on your Mark Vincent.’

Banks finished his pint. ‘Sounds like a plan to me,’ he said.

Gerry made her way up the A1 for her meeting with Aunt Jane that evening. It was full dark already, and the road was busy with the last of the rush-hour traffic. Her windshield wipers were whipping back and forth at top speed to clear the filthy spray thrown up by the lorries ahead of her. The A167 through Northallerton would probably have been a more pleasant drive, Gerry thought as she slowed down for the roadworks north of Scotch Corner. Though the rain had stopped for now, for which Gerry was grateful, when she looked out from side to side, she saw lights gleaming on lakes where there should be fields. This was the danger point. The ground was so waterlogged that it couldn’t absorb any more moisture. One more heavy shower and banks would be broken and barriers breached. Low-lying neighbourhoods would be flooded, streets evacuated, and perhaps even people would be killed.

She pulled into the village of Hurworth-on-Tees and parked outside the church opposite the Bay Horse, where she had arranged to meet Aunt Jane for dinner. It was an expensive restaurant, she knew. She had been once before with a potential boyfriend who had been trying to impress her. The meal had impressed her very much, but unfortunately the suitor hadn’t. Her girlfriends had always said she was too fussy when it came to boyfriends, that she never gave anyone long enough to get to know them, but from Gerry’s point of view, she wasn’t so desperate for a man that she was willing to take the second rate. And in her experience the second rate didn’t take long to spot, and was second rate for good reason.