Peter Robinson: Sleeping in the Ground

Ray turned as she entered, and she noticed a bottle of champagne on the table, the familiar yellow label of Veuve Clicquot. ‘I know the timing’s awful,’ he said, ‘but I was planning a little celebration. I found the perfect cottage today. Made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. It was too good to get gazumped over.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ Gerry said. ‘Where is it?’

‘Not so far from here, just over the other side of the hill, a little village called Beckerby.’

Gerry remembered it from one of her walks. ‘I know it,’ she said. ‘It’s lovely. Congratulations.’

‘You’ll have to come and visit me there.’ Ray’s expression darkened. ‘I’m sorry. I know you’ve had a terrible experience tonight. Do you think a little champagne might help?’

Gerry managed a crooked smile. ‘There’s nothing in the world that a little champagne won’t help.’

Ray poured a glass for them all, and the four of them ate at the breakfast nook in the kitchen, mopping up the lamb korma with naans. Champagne and curry had never tasted so good.

The mood was subdued, but Gerry did her best to convince them all she was fine and that they didn’t need to tread softly around her. When they had finished, Banks phoned the hospital. Gerry could hear only his side of the conversation, but when he sat down again he told them that Maureen Tindall was suffering from two broken ribs, shock and exposure. She would recover eventually, they said, but they were going to keep her in hospital for a while longer. Her husband was up and about and already sitting at her bedside holding her hand.

It might be a long haul for her, Gerry thought, given the shock she had also suffered in the graveyard after the wedding shooting. Maureen Tindall had taken a hell of an emotional beating lately. Gerry also felt that there might be a hard road ahead for Maureen in legal terms, as the law doesn’t take well to people getting killed, even in self-defence. She doubted, however, that there would be any form of prosecution. The CPS wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole. She thought that she might have consequences to face, herself, too, but all that could wait. In her heart, she was certain that there was nothing else they could have done. She was only glad that Maureen had seized the time and delivered the coup de grâce , otherwise they might both be dead and Mark Vincent would be languishing in a cell having achieved his goal.

Gerry started to feel a little tired after eating, but Ray had other ideas. He ushered them all into the entertainment room and once there presented Gerry with a large sheet of paper. When she turned it over, she saw it was a sketch. Of her.

‘I did it from memory,’ Ray said.

Gerry was so overcome, so lost for words that all she could do was cry, and that made her feel like an idiot after all that had happened that evening. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘I don’t mean me, I mean, the work, you know, the way... the lines...’

‘We know what you mean,’ said Annie. ‘He was going to do a full size nude but I talked him out of it.’

‘I was not,’ said Ray.

Gerry blushed, then laughed. ‘Well he wouldn’t have been able to do it from memory, I can assure you of that. But this is perfect. Lovely. Thank you.’ She gave Ray a peck on the cheek and sank back gratefully into an armchair. It seemed to enfold her as she did so, and she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to get up again. She could hear Gratly Beck roaring outside the house, and the noise reminded her of the Swain earlier tonight at Swainsford Bridge. She gave a little shudder. But that was over now. She’d done it.

She suddenly noticed that Banks wasn’t in the room. Ray had put a CD on and he and Annie were chatting away about his new-found home, oblivious. Gerry put her empty glass down on the little table beside her and managed to drag herself up. Nobody noticed her as she headed out of the room.

She found Banks in the conservatory, just standing there, looking out of the window at the rain. She could see his reflection distorted in the dark glass, and she thought his expression was incredibly sad. He didn’t even notice she was there until she spoke.

‘Sir?’

Banks turned. Gerry thought he still seemed sad, then his expression brightened. ‘By all rights, I should give you a serious bollocking for disobeying my orders,’ he said, walking towards her. ‘Maybe put you on report. But you and I both know that would only be for form’s sake, and neither of us is that kind of copper. Well done, DC Masterson. You saved a life tonight, young lady. I’m only glad you’re safe. Don’t pull anything like that again. Are you sure you’re all right?’

Gerry felt herself blush. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘That’s David Bowie singing, isn’t it?’

‘Indeed it is,’ said Banks. ‘ “Blackstar”. Do you know it?’

Gerry shook her head. ‘Vaguely, perhaps. From the radio. Mostly I just recognise the voice. My dad likes David Bowie. I never really had much time for music.’

‘You should make some,’ Banks said. ‘It helps keep you sane and human in a crazy world, especially after a night like tonight.’

‘Will you come back through, sir? Join the group?’

Banks smiled. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘That’s a nice drawing Ray did of you. You should be honoured. He’s a bit of a pain in the arse, but he’s got quite a reputation, you know.’

‘I know, sir,’ said Gerry. ‘And I am.’

Banks followed her back into the entertainment room, and Gerry wondered why he had been so sad, though she knew she would never dare ask.

Ray clapped his hands and said, ‘Ah, here they are. Drinks all round? No more champers, I’m afraid, but there’s a nice Macallan here waiting to be finished. Or there’s beer in the fridge.’

For once, Gerry didn’t refuse. She wasn’t driving anywhere tonight. ‘I’ll have a large whisky, if that’s all right.’

She noticed Banks raise his eyebrows. ‘Hidden depths,’ he said approvingly, reaching for the bottle and a glass.

Gerry took the drink Banks handed her and peered at the sketch again. It was a simple head and shoulders, the head slightly tilted, but Ray had caught her all right, and it had only taken him a few strokes. After his previous comment, she had checked out some Pre-Raphaelite paintings and decided she didn’t resemble Jane Morris at all. Or Lizzie Siddal.

‘We should all watch a movie,’ Ray said. ‘Something funny. Something silly.’ He pointed towards Banks. ‘You might not believe it, but this man has a complete box set of Carry On films. Which one shall we start with?’

They watched Carry On Cleo and laughed themselves silly. Just after Kenneth Williams uttered his immortal line, ‘Infamy, infamy. They’ve all got it in for me’, Gerry put her empty glass down. Much as she was having a good time drinking whisky and watching a daft movie with Banks and Annie and Ray, she found the sounds and sights of the world were slipping away from her for the second time tonight, and this time she welcomed oblivion, welcomed it with open arms.

Many thanks to Carolyn Mays, my editor at Hodder & Stoughton, for her insightful and helpful comments on the manuscript. Also thanks to Abby Parsons and Thorne Ryan for all their assistance, and to Justine Taylor for her clear, thorough and reliable copy-editing. At McClelland & Stewart, I would like to thank Jared Bland and Kelly Joseph, and at William Morrow my editor Daniel Mallory and assistant editor Margaux Weisman. I would also like to thank my wife Sheila Halladay, who read the manuscript when I thought it was ready to submit and convinced me that it could be much improved.

Thanks to my agents Dominick Abel and David Grossman for their continuing encouragement and efforts. Also thanks to the invaluable publicists — Kerry Hood and Rosie Stephen at Hodder, Ashley Dunn at McClelland & Stewart and Julie Paulauski at William Morrow.