‘She’s in shock,’ Terry said. ‘She needs a doctor, but there are people far worse off. You’ve seen what it’s like outside.’
‘You were out there when it happened?’
Terry stood up, but he didn’t take his eyes off Winsome. Annie took his place beside her. ‘I did the best I could. I tried to get everyone inside to safety. The shooter nicked Winsome’s shoulder. She’s lucky. I think the bastard was using hollow points, judging by the damage he’s caused. I saw him leave the hill over the road, heading south. I think the waiting was the worst. People were crying everywhere, screaming in pain. We could have got the ambulances and paramedics in much sooner, they were just waiting for the word, but the firearms officers wouldn’t let anybody past, and it had taken long enough for them to get here. Christ, Alan, people were dying. Winsome could have died. The bastards just wouldn’t take my word for it that the shooter had gone.’
Banks touched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘You did the best you could, Terry. Remember, I know your military background but the others don’t. They had to follow procedure. Don’t worry, we’ll get Winsome some attention soon enough. She’ll be fine. What about you?’
‘I’m OK.’
Banks stood up and surveyed the scene. Gerry and the others were squatting on their haunches, talking to witnesses. The sirens he had heard out in the churchyard stopped suddenly, and then more paramedics and doctors rushed into the church bearing stretchers and medical supplies.
Banks stood on top of the hill opposite the scene and watched the activity in the churchyard. Tiny figures, like a Lowry painting. The hillside sloped gently down towards a field full of sheep across the road from St Mary’s. They were grazing innocently, as unaware of what had happened as the horse scratching its behind on a tree in the Auden poem about the fall of Icarus. To his left, he could see the village of Fortford, at the junction with the Helmthorpe Road, a cluster of stone cottages with flagstone roofs huddled around a village green, the familiar Roman hill fort, the whitewashed facade of the Lamb and Flag. Behind him stretched the moors, a tangle of bare heather and gorse, like coiled barbed wire among the rocky outcrops. On the other side of the road, behind the church, a similar hillside sloped up to similar moorland. It had been a perfect sniper’s day, not even a hint of a breeze nor a drop of rain, but now the wind was whipping up again and the rainclouds were gathering fast. It was close to four on a Saturday afternoon in early December, and it was already getting dark, a chill creeping into the air from the north.
Banks was joined by Stefan Nowak, crime-scene manager, and Superintendent Mike Trethowan, head of the firearms cadre. The three men stood by a section of the hilltop surrounded by police tape, inside which two CSIs were busy erecting a makeshift canvas tent over the area where the shooter had lain.
‘Find anything yet?’ Banks asked.
‘Ten shell casings,’ said Trethowan. ‘They’ve gone to ballistics.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Not yet,’ Nowak answered. ‘The grass is clearly flattened, as if someone has been lying there. No doubt there’ll be other traces when we organise a full search. Fibres, most likely. Who knows, maybe he smoked a cigarette and left us a nice DNA sample.’
Trethowan pointed to a rough path leading diagonally down the hillside to their right. ‘Mr Gilchrist said he saw the shooter head down there,’ he said. ‘We’ve already got road blocks up. Alerts have gone out all over the county. If only we knew what we were looking for. We’re still waiting for the sniffer dogs up here.’
‘Vehicle?’
‘We don’t know. I assume so. Plenty of spots to park it out of the way nearby. They’re all being checked out. It’s not a busy road. And there’s no CCTV for miles.’
Banks knew the road well enough. It was a pass that cut sharp south from the main east — west Helmthorpe Road. After climbing then winding through a long stretch of wild moorland beyond the youth hostel, it dropped slowly into the adjacent dale. From there, anyone could easily get to Harrogate, York or Leeds, and from there to the M62 or M1. The killer had a good start. He could be well on his way to London by now, and they would be none the wiser as they had no vehicle description to go on.
That was, of course, assuming the killer wanted to get away.
Banks glanced back down on the scene. It was hard to believe that such a horror could have taken place in broad daylight, on such a joyous occasion and in such a beautiful spot. The squat Norman church, originally built in 1174, had the traditional square tower with clock, and the limestone was a greenish grey colour in the dimming light. Many of the tombstones stood at precarious angles, and most were spotted with lichen or overgrown by grass. The more recent ones seemed well tended, with vases of bright flowers placed before them.
St Mary’s was one of the best known and loved churches around, and it had once been the place for all burials in the dale. Inhabitants of the more remote western villages and farms had carried, or brought on carts, the bodies of their loved ones along the ‘Corpse Way’ for Christian burial there, as there was no closer church that could accommodate them. Like St Andrew’s in Swaledale, it had become a sort of ‘Cathedral of the Dale’. Now this.
‘What about the risk factor?’ Banks asked.
‘I’d say it wasn’t very high,’ Trethowan answered. ‘It’s a clear day, yes, for once, but that’s more a matter of good fortune than weather forecasting. It was supposed to rain, and you can see that’s coming, but we got a brief stay for some reason. You wouldn’t necessarily get a lot of walkers up here at this time of year, though. Besides, the other side of the valley is more popular, more scenic. I’d say he probably worked it out in advance, chose his spot well.’
‘But if he was lying there in the grass overlooking the church, there’s a chance that someone might have spotted him, isn’t there? A dog-walker, someone like that.’
‘There’s always a chance, Alan. Always an element of risk,’ said Trethowan. ‘But if a dog-walker or a couple of ramblers had come along, he’d probably have shot them, too.’
‘Fair enough. Why did the ARVs take so long to get to the scene, Mike?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake. Not you as well.’
‘What do you mean? You know it’s going to come up. And I’m in the bloody hot seat here.’
Trethowan sighed. ‘We’re well trained, but we’re not used to firearms incidents in these out-of-the-way parts, as you know. The nearest ARV was in the Middlesbrough area. They got here as quickly as they could. Traffic was heavy. They could hardly sprout wings and fly.’
‘And in the meantime there were people wounded and dying here.’
‘I’d like to know how we can do any better with the resources we’ve got. Most of our firearms officers and support units have been targeted towards cities and towns where there’s more risk of terrorist threats. Shopping centres, sports and music stadiums, that sort of thing. We’ve got hardly anyone left in North Yorkshire.’
‘I understand that, Mike, but Terry Gilchrist told you he’d seen the shooter leave but you still wouldn’t let the medics through.’
‘There might have been more than one. Or he might not have gone very far. Or Terry Gilchrist might have been mistaken. We had no idea how reliable he is. There are any number of problems with a vague witness opinion like that. You can’t trust it. You know we’re supposed to be on the scene to protect unarmed police officers as well as emergency services personnel. Who gets the blame if a civilian or a paramedic gets shot? We do, that’s who. So nobody approaches a shooting scene until we’ve cleared it and given the OK. That’s how it works. Besides, I don’t even know why I’m bothering to defend the action. It wasn’t my call. Talk to the Gold Commander.’