‘Why? Because I see real dead bodies and you see only imaginary ones? You know as well as I do it’s not the bodies but the people who do such things. They’re in your poems as much as they’re in my life. We both spend far too much time down there in the dark. Alone.’
‘You know I have my reasons,’ said Linda softly.
‘So do I,’ said Banks. After a short pause he went on. ‘Anyway, I seem to remember you told me you went to Silver Royd girls’ school in Wortley.’
‘That’s right. Why?’
‘Does the name Wendy Vincent mean anything to you?’
‘Yes, of course. She was the girl who was murdered when I was at school. She was raped and stabbed. It was terrible.’
Banks looked away. He couldn’t help it, knowing the things that had happened to Linda, but she seemed unfazed. ‘That’s right,’ he said.
‘And there was something about her in the papers a couple of years ago. The fiftieth anniversary. Right?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘It seems a strange sort of anniversary to celebrate. A murder.’
‘Media. What can I say? It wasn’t a celebration of the murder, as such, and it did lead to the reopening of the investigation, the identity of the killer and his eventual capture. So we can’t complain. One of the triumphs of DNA evidence in cold-case work. Turns out Frank Dowson, the killer, was on leave from the merchant navy at the time of the killing, and nobody knew he was in the area. Of course, some people might have known and been lying to protect him. His family, for example.’
‘Dowson? I can’t say I remember anyone by that name.’
‘What about Wendy Vincent? And Maureen Grainger?’
‘If they’re the right ones I’m thinking of, they were ahead of me. I didn’t know either of them. I was just starting in the first form, and they’d have been in the third or fourth. Older girls like them wanted nothing to do with us younger ones back then.’
‘I don’t doubt it’s still the same. Boys, too. Except for a bit of bullying.’
‘Well, I certainly don’t remember either of them being spoken of as bullies. Wendy Vincent was famous for hockey. She was the star of the school team. I saw her play lots of times. Do you remember The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, where all the girls were “famous” for something?’
‘What was Maureen Grainger famous for?’
‘I don’t know if she was famous for anything. I didn’t know her. I only remember Wendy Vincent because she was murdered. Isn’t that a terrible thing?’
‘It’s perfectly normal.’
‘Now, do you want to talk about Hardy or don’t you?’
‘Yes, ma’am. I’ve done my homework.’ Banks glanced through the window. ‘I liked that line about the rain being like “silken strings”. Here, it’s more like rough old rope.’
Linda laughed. But even as they talked about the poems, about the mysterious ghost figure and the way Hardy revisited places where he and Emma had been happy years ago, Banks couldn’t get Maureen Grainger and Wendy Vincent out of his mind. Was Gerry right, and was that crime of over fifty years ago linked to the St Mary’s shootings in any way at all?
Banks wasn’t the only one feeling the effects of Saturday night that Sunday morning. Gerry had been reasonably abstemious back at Annie’s cottage — she could be annoying that way — leaving Annie to polish off most of the wine by herself. At least Gerry had made tea and toast in the morning before leaving, after what must have been an uncomfortable night on the living-room sofa, and she had the good sense to keep small talk and noise in general to a minimum when Annie finally lumbered downstairs. And she left as soon as she decently could after breakfast.
Annie was never much of a morning person, and on Sundays she usually hunkered down with the papers, at least with the Mail on Sunday and the Sunday Express. She missed the old News of the World — nothing like a bit of gossip and scandal with your Sunday morning hangover — but that was long gone now.
By midday, she remembered she was going to interview Maureen Tindall with Jenny Fuller, and her spirits fell. It was an important interview, too, so she needed to be at the top of her game. Maureen Tindall might hold the key, or one of the keys, to the events that had happened in Fortford last December, though as yet nobody could quite imagine how. She had certainly been nervous when the talk got around to past events in their last interview. Annie took a quick hot shower and threw on some jeans and a sweatshirt before going out to her car. She hoped Jenny Fuller would stay in the background and keep her mouth shut. The last thing she wanted was some damn uppity profiler interrupting with pointless questions whenever she felt she was getting somewhere.
Annie phoned Jenny to tell her she was on her way and picked her up outside her posh house in The Green, then drove on to the Tindalls’ posh house opposite The Heights. That was about as much posh as Annie could handle for one day. Fortunately, it was all she had signed up for. Naturally, Jenny Fuller was as well turned out as usual in closely fitting black silk trousers and loose white top and tailored jacket. Why did she always make Annie feel like such a slob? It wasn’t as if her own outfit was especially cheap, just that she dressed casually and Jenny had a way of wearing clothes as if they were made for her. Some women had it, and some didn’t. Annie felt that she didn’t. No matter what she wore — Primark or Versace, jeans or a skirt — she felt as if she’d just come out of the Oxfam shop.
Annie had wanted to catch Maureen Tindall off guard, so she hadn’t phoned ahead to say they were coming. It was a risk, she knew; people often go out to visit friends or relatives on a Sunday. But this time it paid off far better than she could have hoped. When Maureen eventually opened the door on the chain and peered nervously through the crack, it became clear that she was alone. Her husband was at a church meeting, she explained, when Annie had finally persuaded her to open up and let them in.
To Annie’s relief, Jenny Fuller settled herself at the far end of the sofa, out of Annie’s line of sight, and took out a large Moleskine notebook. She would, Annie thought, putting her regulation police notebook on the arm of the sofa beside her. She didn’t trust Jenny to make the right sort of notes, and two people in her house were almost more than Maureen Tindall could bear.
Though it was afternoon, Maureen was still wearing a pink quilted dressing gown over her nightdress and her hair was flattened on one side where she had clearly been lying down. Annie tried to dredge up some sympathy for her; after all, it wasn’t long since Laura’s murder. It was difficult, though, as she seemed so full of self-pity to start with. It was a nasty thought, and Annie immediately felt ashamed for having it, but she couldn’t help herself. Maureen didn’t offer any refreshment, even though it was a damp and chilly day. Annie thought herself lucky that there was a fire in the hearth, no doubt started by her husband, and that Maureen herself was obviously cold enough to add a couple of logs.
Maureen sat closest to the fire and leaned forwards in her armchair, hugging her knees. ‘I’ve not been very well,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure I’ll be up to this. I took one of my pills and fell asleep. What time is it?’
‘Half past two,’ Annie said.
Maureen seemed to relax a bit at that piece of news. ‘Robert will be back soon,’ she said. ‘He said he would be home by half past three, and he’s never late.’
Wouldn’t dare be, Annie bet, given Maureen’s obsession with punctuality.
‘Would you like me to make you a cup of tea or coffee or something?’ Jenny Fuller asked from the far end of the sofa. There was a note of kindness and concern in her voice that even Annie noticed.
Maureen’s face brightened. ‘Would you?’ She fingered the collar of her dressing gown. ‘I’d do it myself, you know, but...’