Peter Robinson - Sleeping in the Ground

When the waiter had gone, Gerry told Aunt Jane about what had happened to Mark Vincent’s sister, and of Maureen Tindall’s role in it.

‘And he naturally thought that if this Maureen had turned up, his sister wouldn’t have died?’ she commented.

‘Yes. I think so.’

‘In his eyes, then, she was perhaps as responsible for the loss of his sister as the actual murderer himself?’

‘That’s about it.’

‘Well that’d certainly do it, wouldn’t it?’

‘It seems so. But don’t say anything, Aunt Jane. It’s only a suspicion. I’m not supposed to talk about it.’

Jane put her hand on Gerry’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, my dear, your secret’s safe with me. But I’m puzzled. I read about that wedding, of course, and the mother of the bride survived, didn’t she?’

‘Yes. But he did kill her only child.’

‘Good lord,’ said Jane. ‘How little we really know about people.’

Indeed, thought Gerry. The dessert arrived, along with Jane’s double Remy and Gerry’s chamomile tea. While Jane tucked into her sweet, Gerry sipped the tea and watched her with fascination. She didn’t think she had ever met anyone before who gave herself so wholeheartedly to the act of eating.

‘What are you going to do?’ Jane asked.

‘Now? First we have to find him.’

‘He knows the area. He’s spent time at Catterick on and off over the years.’

‘Right.’

‘And he’s got survival skills. Done all the courses. You know, dropped in the Scottish Highlands with only a Mars bar and a compass. That sort of thing. Passed with flying colours. He could probably live in a box at the bottom of a lake with nothing but cold gravel for breakfast if he had to.’

‘Thanks for that, Aunt Jane. He’s been in jail since his army days, though, and it’s more than likely he’s gone a bit to seed.’

‘Just letting you know what you’re up against. Never mind the killing skills we taught him. Be very careful. And I think you can ditch the “aunt” by now, don’t you?’

Gerry agreed, but she would always think of Jane as ‘Aunt Jane’.

‘My driver won’t be here for another three-quarters of an hour,’ Jane said, ‘so I might as well have another cognac while I’m waiting, and you can entertain me with stories about your life in the police force until he gets here. Are you sure I can’t tempt you to anything stronger than another herbal tea?’

‘I’ll have decaf coffee,’ said Gerry in a small voice.

‘How daring. By the way.’ Jane reached for her bag. ‘I’ve got a photo of Mark Vincent for you. It’s not a very good one, I’m afraid, and it’s a bit old, but it’s all I could come up with at such short notice.’

‘It’s him. There’s no doubt about it,’ said Banks as they studied the four images stuck to the whiteboard the following day. The whole team had gathered in the boardroom as if for the unveiling of a significant new portrait. In a way, that was exactly what it was, confirmation that Ray Cabbot’s sketch — up there with the three photographs — was of the man they were after, Mark Vincent, possibly the killer of six people, and certainly a person of interest.

It was mid-afternoon on Tuesday 12 January, and Banks had just got back from Leeds. First Gerry had filled everyone in about her meeting with Aunt Jane, keeping her identity secret, and then Banks told them all about what he had learned from Michael Charlton and Ricky Bramble.

Banks had been lucky in Leeds that morning. When he had accompanied Ken Blackstone to Elland Road after a late breakfast, they had managed to dig out a photograph of Mark Vincent from their files, a photograph taken by a CSI officer after Vincent had been arrested for assault. His injuries were insignificant compared to those of his victim, and it was his bruised and bleeding knuckles the CSI was most interested in. Nevertheless, he had managed to capture Vincent full face, in a far clearer image than the mugshot, and when all four images were tacked up together, it was clear to anyone that the mugshot, CSI photo, artist’s impression and army photo were of the same man at different ages, the earliest of which, the army photograph, was twelve years old and the most recent, Ray’s sketch, was based on a description given by someone who saw him last November, roughly a couple of months ago. Vincent had lost some weight in the interim, perhaps as a result of his term in prison, but the greying curls, the intense eyes, the beetle brows, the crookedness indicating a nose broken more than once were all giveaways.

Definitely Mark Vincent.

‘Which brings us to the question of what we do next,’ Banks went on.

‘We bring him in for questioning, surely?’ said AC Catherine Gervaise.

‘First we have to find him. Gerry?’

‘Still working on it, sir,’ said Gerry Masterson. ‘We have a list of properties within the boundaries I marked off according to Vincent’s movements. Doug and Neil have been checking these out and showing Mr Cabbot’s sketch around to landlords, neighbours, local shopkeepers and so on, but nothing yet. We can extend the boundaries if we draw a blank. Doug’s also questioned some of the regulars at the White Rose and members of the shooting club. Nobody recognises the photograph or had heard Edgeworth mention anyone called Gord or Gordon. Three other members reported noticing a beat-up car behind them on the way home from the club on occasion, though they didn’t seem especially perturbed by it. One said he thought it was an old Clio badly in need of a paint job.’

Banks laughed. ‘I’ll bet there are a few of those around. Thanks, Gerry. Keep at it.’

‘About all we’ve got so far,’ added Adrian Moss, ‘is more reporters sniffing around. They’ve got wind of something, and the rumours that we’re on to someone have already hit the early editions. Some bright sparks are even making a link with the Wendy Vincent case, so they know we’ve been investigating that somehow. We’ll have to give them something soon. Maybe a press conference.’

‘We’re not ready for that yet,’ said Banks. ‘Can’t you keep them at bay?’

‘I can only do so much. The only thing they seem to find more interesting is the weather. Apparently, we’re due for more rain tonight. Can’t we use them, perhaps?’

‘For what?’

‘To help us find him. Let them print a photo, or the sketch. Give them his name. It might speed things up.’

‘I don’t see how it would,’ Banks said.

‘Well, we’ve got to give them something,’ Moss said. ‘Once they run out of rumours they’ll simply start making things up.’

‘Most of them wouldn’t know the difference between the truth and fiction if it bit them on the arse,’ Annie muttered.

Gervaise gave her a sharp look. ‘I think we’d better find him before they make up anything close to the truth, hadn’t we?’ she said.

‘And maybe we should be asking ourselves just how they get hold of these little snippets of information they make so much of,’ Banks said.

Moss sniffed. ‘That’s easy. Most police stations have more holes than a sieve. These are experienced information gatherers, not thickies with a notebook and a pencil. They overhear things. They buy off-duty coppers a pint without revealing who they are. There are any number of ways they can get hold of information. There’s no—’

‘If I may say something,’ Jenny Fuller interrupted.

‘Go ahead, Jenny,’ said Banks. Moss shuffled sulkily in his chair.

‘In my opinion,’ Jenny said, ‘he’s not going to scarper or go to ground because he hasn’t finished yet. I think we can agree, after DC Masterson’s military information, that this Mark Vincent was an excellent shot, a sniper, in fact. That being the case, if he had wanted to kill, or even wound, Maureen Tindall at the wedding, he could have done so quite easily. But he clearly didn’t. Why? In my opinion, it’s because first he wanted to hurt Maureen Tindall, to cripple her with loss and grief, so that she could feel what he felt when his sister was killed all those years ago. But that’s not enough. If it is Mark Vincent, and if those are his motives, then it’s not enough for him. It’s not over yet. Wendy died, so Maureen Tindall has to die. He’ll go after her. And remember, we also know that he has good survival skills, however rusty, and facility with firearms, which could be very dangerous indeed if he has managed to get hold of another pistol or rifle.’