Peter Robinson: Sleeping in the Ground

‘But I’m worried about her.’

‘Of course you are. It’s only natural. But we’re doing everything in our powers to find her and bring her back home safe and sound.’

‘Thank God. Are you sure she’s not hiding in the house?’

‘I’m afraid not. We searched the whole place and she’s not there.’

‘Where is she?’

‘We don’t know yet.’ Banks took the West Yorkshire photo of Vincent out of his briefcase. It had been taken recently enough that it could definitely be matched to the man in Ray Cabbot’s drawing, but it was far easier for people to make identification from an actual photograph rather than a drawing, Banks had found. Somehow, art makes us expect distortion and exaggeration, yet we take photographs as representations of the real.

‘Do you recognise this man?’ Banks asked.

Tindall fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table. He had a hard time getting them on with the bandages over his ears, but he managed it well enough to study the photograph and say almost immediately, ‘Yes. That’s the man. That’s the man who hit me and grabbed Maureen.’

‘Thank you,’ Banks said. ‘Do you know who he is?’

‘No. He was a stranger. It was...’ he paused and frowned, as if trying to think clearly. ‘It was odd. As if Maureen seemed to recognise him just a split second before he grabbed her. Who is he?’

‘His name is Mark Vincent.’

‘Vincent? Vincent? Isn’t that the name of that girl who was murdered? Maureen’s friend. She made me watch the programme on TV, the fiftieth anniversary.’

‘That’s right,’ said Banks. ‘He’s her brother.’

‘But what’s he... I mean, why would he...?’

‘It’s a long and complicated story,’ said Banks, ‘and I think your wife would be the best person to tell it to you. For now, though, it’s enough for us to know this was the man.’

‘Do you know where he lives?’

Banks had to admit that he didn’t, and Tindall’s face fell at that. ‘Oh,’ he said. It was little more than a sigh.

‘But we’ve got men out all over the dale searching for her. Don’t worry, Mr Tindall. We’re closing in. We’ll find her.’

Tindall seemed to listen to the rain. ‘On a night like this?’

‘Even on a night like this. Is there anything else you can remember that might help us? Did Vincent say anything?’

‘No. He just kicked the door, broke the chain and rushed. He pushed me aside and headed straight for the kitchen. The light was on, so I suppose he must have realised Maureen was in there. It’s right at the end of the hall. I ran after him as quickly as I could. I was a bit winded. But when I got there he picked up that heavy chopping block, whirled around and hit me. I felt this terrible pain on the side of my head and everything flashed and then went dark. Just before I lost consciousness, I saw him grab Maureen and start to drag her away, out towards the front door. That’s when I thought she recognised him. I tried to shout, but I couldn’t move, not even my vocal cords. I must have lost consciousness, but it was only for a short while. I used my mobile to call 999, then... Well, you know the rest.’

Banks hadn’t expected that Vincent had told Tindall where he was taking Maureen, but he still felt disappointed at the lack of information. Most of what Robert Tindall had told him he had already surmised. Maureen was probably still alive, and Vincent had most likely tied her up and stashed her somewhere. If so, where? And what was he going to do to her? Stab her, like his sister was stabbed? Or did he have a better idea? One thing was for certain, if Vincent had carried out the shootings at the wedding, which it appeared he had, and had not killed Maureen then, it was perhaps only because he had a worse fate in mind for her now.

It was time to leave Robert Tindall to the ministrations of his doctors and get back to the station.

Gerry could have kicked herself for not thinking of caravan sites before. If she had, she could simply have googled ‘caravan parks in Swainsdale’ and saved herself some time. But she hadn’t. She had insisted on using maps, the old technology. Well, that would teach her. It wasn’t as if the sites weren’t marked clearly enough by little blue symbols on the OS maps, but she had overlooked them. A caravan was the ideal type of anonymous, easily transportable home that would suit Vincent. And his wallet, if money were indeed a problem. It was possible that he had picked up a used car and caravan somewhere cheap, no questions asked, cash in hand.

Even though Gerry had drawn a blank at the first two sites, she still felt optimistic as she pulled into the gates of the Riverview Caravan Park around half past four. It wasn’t the first time Gerry had visited Riverview, about half a mile west of Eastvale across the river from Hindswell Woods. Only a couple of years ago she had been there with Banks around dawn on a miserable March morning watching the smouldering remains of a caravan.

The site stood on the north side of the River Swale, and when Gerry got there, the place was like a fairground packing up and leaving town. Car headlights and high-beam torches lanced through the darkness like searchlights as the cars crawled to the narrow gates, some of them pulling caravans behind them. Dark shapes stood in the rain waving their arms about and shouting instructions. It was an exodus in the wake of flood warnings, Gerry realised, and she was driving against the flow. She could hardly get through the entrance to park outside the main office building no matter how much she leaned on her horn.

Some good Samaritans were directing the traffic towards higher ground, and helping to get out the cars that got stuck in the churning mud. Several caravans had also got bogged down, one of them almost on its side. When Gerry finally managed to squeeze through and park outside the office, she grabbed her umbrella and put on the wellington boots she had kept in the boot of the car in the event of just such a situation. You didn’t go far without a pair of wellies in the Yorkshire Dales, no matter what the time of year.

The scene inside the office wasn’t any less chaotic, with the poor manager inundated by worried residents asking him where the hell they should go. As there was a fair slope down to the river, then a steep bank leading down to the water itself, Gerry wasn’t convinced that the site would be flooded, but perhaps it was better to be safe than sorry.

The manager seemed almost relieved to see Gerry and excused himself to come over and talk to her, leaving his poor receptionist to deal with the anxious crowd.

‘I remember you from before,’ he said. ‘Harry’s my name. Harry Bell. What’s up?’

Gerry slipped the photo of Vincent out of her pocket and showed it to Bell. ‘Have you seen this man?’

Bell studied the photo for a few seconds, then said, ‘That’s him. Mr Newton. Gordon Newton. Can you tell me what it’s all about?’

Gord , Gerry thought. At last. ‘How long has he been here?’

‘Over two months. Since last November, I think. Quiet as a mouse. I must admit I had my concerns at first. He’s hardly Mr Sartorial Elegance, if you catch my drift. His car’s a right old banger, too, a clapped-out Renault, and the caravan’s an eyesore. Mind you, he keeps it clean and tidy. So what’s he done?’

‘We don’t know that he’s done anything yet. I just need to talk to him.’

Bell gestured towards the outside. ‘Must be serious if you’ve come out here in this weather.’

Gerry smiled. ‘I’m only a detective constable,’ she said. ‘I’m out in all weathers. Now if it was my DI or the super, you might have a bit more cause for concern.’