Peter Robinson: Sleeping in the Ground

Bell laughed.

‘Is he here now?’ Gerry asked.

‘I’m afraid he’s gone out. Drove off earlier this afternoon, before the rain was quite so bad. I try to keep an eye on the comings and goings. It passes the time.’

‘Any idea where he was heading?’

‘No. I just remember seeing his car leaving.’

‘With or without the caravan?’

‘Without.’

‘Which way did he go?’

‘Turned right at the top.’

That meant he was most likely heading for Eastvale, Gerry thought. On his way to abduct Maureen Tindall. ‘Would it be possible for me to have a look inside his caravan?’ she asked.

‘Well, I—’

‘As I said, we just want to talk to him, but it is quite urgent that we find him as soon as possible.’

‘Bad news, is it? A death in the family?’

‘Something like that,’ Gerry said. ‘There might be a clue in his caravan as to where he’s gone.’

‘Of course.’

‘Do you have a key?’

‘Er... no. Is that a problem?’

‘We’ll see,’ said Gerry. In her experience, caravan doors were pretty easy to open.

Bell accompanied her outside on to the porch, where the chaos was starting to abate, and pointed down the rutted track to his right. ‘Down there, towards the river. Second left, fourth caravan along, on the right side as you’re walking. You can’t miss it. It’s quite small and could definitely do with a paint job. You’ll see what I mean. Pardon me if I don’t accompany you but...’ He gestured back to the office. ‘Bit of a crisis. We’ll probably be fine, but people get all wound up listening to the weather forecasts.’

Gerry stood on the porch, scowled up at the sky, unfurled her umbrella and trudged off into the mud, fumbling with her mobile as she went.

Banks looked out of his office window at the blurry lights in the town square, listening to a Philip Glass string quartet on Radio 3. Gerry’s phone call had him a little worried. If Harry Bell was wrong and Vincent was home, or if he suddenly came back, it could be dangerous for her. He had told her to wait at the site office for backup, but he was pretty sure she had already set off for the caravan when she phoned, and she wouldn’t go back. There was a kind of hard-headed fearlessness about Gerry that he much admired, but it caused him concern for her safety. He called the duty sergeant and asked him to send out the nearest patrol car, just to be on the safe side. The sergeant said he’d do what he could, but the roads were a major concern. Banks stopped short of saying ‘officer in need of assistance’, the way he’d heard it on American cop shows, but raised the level of urgency in his voice and made it quite clear that Gerry’s welfare took precedence over bloody traffic problems, thank you very much.

Next, he phoned Annie in the squad room.

‘DI Cabbot,’ she answered.

‘Found out anything yet?’

‘Not much,’ Annie said. ‘I talked to Doug back on the Tindalls’ street. Neighbour across the way three doors down is the best bet. Says he saw someone leading Mrs Tindall by the elbow out of the house and shoving her into a beat-up old car about three o’clock. Thought it looked suspicious. He did phone it in, by the way, but Robert Tindall called us first.’

‘Did he get the make?’

‘He didn’t get the number plate, but he said he thought it was a Renault. An old Clio. He couldn’t see the colour because the light was poor, and the streetlights just reflected. But it was a dark colour, and there were rust patches, or lighter patches at any rate, around the wheel rims, and what looked like spray jobs elsewhere. All in all, it looked as if it had been around the block a few times too many. Seemed to know his cars.’

‘Good.’ Banks paused. ‘Gerry’s hot on the trail. She thinks she’s found him. Vincent.’

‘The little devil,’ said Annie.

‘Riverview Caravan Park.’

‘That hotbed of crime.’

‘Seems so. Anyway, the site manager says he’s not in his caravan but has no idea where he might be. Drove off earlier this afternoon.’

‘In time to nab Maureen Tindall?’

‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘According to my calculations.’

‘So what next?’

‘I think we’d better get out there as soon as possible. I’ve got a bad feeling about this. You know how impulsive Gerry can be. I’ve already dispatched a patrol car, but you can’t rely on them tonight. They’re very thin on the ground.’

‘I’ll meet you downstairs.’

Banks went back to the window, then walked over and turned off the radio. Philip Glass’s edgy repetition was doing nothing to dispel his sense of unease. He grabbed his raincoat, switched out the lights and headed down. The sooner they got out to the Riverview Caravan Park, the better.

The door proved as easy to open as Gerry had expected, and when she switched on the light she found herself inside a cramped but cosy room. The single bed was made, the top sheet tight enough to bounce a coin off, and there were no dirty socks or underpants on view. Mark Vincent certainly knew how to take care of himself. It must be his army training, Gerry thought. But the place looked lived in, nevertheless. There were dirty dishes in the sink, for a start. Not disgusting old mouldy dishes, but recently used ones, probably left out that morning after breakfast. It indicated that Vincent probably planned on coming back before too long.

Gerry started her search slowly and methodically, from the end where the bed was. There was nothing of interest on the small bedside table, only a cheap clock radio, and in the one top drawer was the usual jumble of small change, blank notepad, pens and pencil stubs, a few rubber bands and a post office savings book that showed Vincent with a balance of £52.40. The bottom drawer was reserved for socks and underwear.

Gerry could find no correspondence in the small writing desk in the living area, not even a bill or a circular. A few clothes hung in the wardrobe, but not the black anorak and waterproof trousers he had been wearing during the shooting. Gerry guessed he was wearing them again now, along with the black woolly hat. There were several shirts, jeans, a couple of pairs of worn trainers and a sports jacket.

In the recycling box beside the door were newspapers, neatly folded and piled, that morning’s on top. Gerry bent and picked it out. It was open at the crossword, which Vincent seemed to have completed in ink without corrections. Gerry was impressed. It was one of those difficult cryptic ones filled with anagrams and synonyms and the names of plants she’d never heard of.

In the tiny fridge she found milk, margarine, some cheese slices and a loaf of white bread. A box of bran flakes stood on top, along with teabags and a jar of instant coffee. The cutlery was in a drawer below the hot plate, along with a plate and a bowl. Frugal, indeed. Gerry looked in vain for any traces of Maureen Tindall, but there were no signs of a struggle.

Rain beat down on the flimsy roof as she searched, and she noticed a leak above the door. Water was trickling slowly down the inside wall. Outside, car headlights flashed by the windows now and then, and engines whined as wheels spun uselessly in the soft mud. Occasionally she could hear someone shout above the hammering of the rain.

At the opposite end to the bed was a breakfast nook, and beside it a small armchair with the stuffing leaking out, a reading light angled beside it. There was no TV, nor any kind of entertainment device, unless you counted the clock radio. A row of second-hand paperbacks stood on the single bookshelf over the desk. Old thrillers: Ken Follett, Robert Ludlum, Jack Higgins, Alistair MacLean. Well, she wouldn’t have expected Vincent to have a taste for Jane Austen or Zadie Smith.