‘I honestly don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘Ten shots. Nine people hit, including you. Five women, four men. Three dead, six wounded. We found two bullets in the church door, probably the one that nicked you and the wild shot.’
‘Whoever did it had to be pretty cool and collected,’ said Terry. ‘I’ve known snipers. They’re a strange breed.’
‘You think this shooter was a sniper?’ said Annie.
Terry glanced towards her. ‘Well, he certainly acted like one yesterday, even if it was his first time. He stayed in a concealed position and pulled off his shots then made a speedy exit.’
‘True enough,’ said Banks. ‘Special Branch and MI5 will be looking into any possible military or terrorist connections. But whatever the reasons for what happened, we still need to find out as much as we can about the victims. You two can help us with that. If someone hated one or more of them enough, someone unstable, with access to a weapon, then... who knows.’
‘No,’ said Terry. ‘No. I can’t believe it. Not Laura and Charles and Francesca and the others. I’ve known Ben since I was in Afghanistan, and I’ve known Laura, Katie and her friends for as long as Ben did. Laura and Ben had just bought a house not far from Eastvale. She was staying with her parents until after the wedding. They’re all just decent, ordinary folk. Nobody could possibly have a reason for wanting any of them dead.’
Winsome rested her hand on his arm. Terry looked at her and swallowed. ‘I’m OK,’ he said. ‘I just can’t... I mean, these people were our friends. And now they’re dead. Why?’
Banks paused to let Terry collect himself, then went on. ‘What about any previous boyfriends Laura had? She was a beautiful woman, a model. So was Diana Lofthouse. They would have attracted all sorts of men. Anyone madly jealous, a stalker, anyone who felt Ben stole Laura away. Anyone strange in Diana’s life? Any incidents from her modelling days?’
‘Not that I know of,’ said Terry. ‘Though I didn’t know her then.’
‘Any strong political connections?’
‘Laura? No way. And Ben’s family was just typical North Yorkshire conservative.’
‘What about a connection with Francesca, the maid of honour? Or one of the bridesmaids? Diana? Katie? Any trouble, any boyfriend problems lately?’
‘Nothing comes to mind,’ said Terry. ‘Besides, I should think that if someone did want to kill Laura or any of the others specifically, then it would have been a lot easier to do it some other way.’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Except that the wedding was the one place they were all together, and the person we’re dealing with doesn’t think in the same way as we do. It may make sense to him, seem logical, but not to you and me. And I’m not saying he did have a specific target. I’m just asking if you know of anything, Terry, that’s all. Then there’s the terrorist angle. Both you and Benjamin Kemp were in Afghanistan—’
‘So were some of the others. Wayne was there, too. Wayne Powell, the best man. And he was uninjured.’
‘Fair enough. But there is a military connection. You mentioned snipers earlier.’
‘Just because of the method.’
‘Yes, but the killer had a military-style weapon — even if it’s one that’s been adapted to make it legal over here — and he knows how to use it.’
‘So you’re suggesting there might be some connection with the war? With Afghanistan? Or that we were somehow symbols of oppression, to be made an example of by IS?’
‘I’m not sure what I’m saying. Only that there are plenty of military people with some sort of expertise in shooting. But could there be a connection? Maybe even someone you knew. I’m just asking you if you can think of anyone from those days. Any incident. Anyone go off the rails, have a grudge against Benjamin Kemp? Anything from your military time, from Benjamin’s military time, that could be in any way connected with yesterday? We know that war can do terrible things to a man’s mind. Maybe someone you served with just lost it for some reason. PTSD, for example. What happened was not necessarily a rational response to anything.’
Terry ran his hand over his head. ‘Yes, but people who suffer from PTSD don’t usually go around committing mass murder. I’m sorry, I can’t think of anything or anyone offhand, but I’ll give it some thought, see if anything comes up.’
‘I understand Benjamin is something of a war hero?’
Terry laughed. ‘Sorry. He always laughed about it. Said it was more of a media invention than anything else. It was, really.’
‘Even so, he did get a fair amount of publicity at the time, didn’t he? I wonder if it was enough to make him a target.’
Terry got up, put his mug down and went upstairs. Banks glanced out of the window and saw that it was getting dark. When Terry came down he was carrying a large scrapbook. He went over to Banks and Annie and opened it to a newspaper clipping. It showed a front-page picture of Benjamin Kemp standing outside a burning ruin holding an Afghani boy of about five in his arms. The boy was staring into the camera and tears were running down his dirt-streaked face. Kemp seemed merely determined, his jaw set firm.
‘That was what it was all about,’ Terry said. ‘Ben rescued a young lad from a bombed-out school, under fire, and there was a war photographer on the spot, ready to capture the event. There were about twelve of us involved in that operation. We’d all been in and done our bit. A few minutes earlier, one of our mates had come out with two boys, one under each arm, but the photographer wasn’t ready. You know what’s so funny about the whole thing? Well, not funny ha-ha, but ironic, I suppose you’d say.’
‘What?’
‘It turned out it was the Americans who bombed the school in the first place. By mistake. They killed fifty-six children and we managed to pull out seven alive. The Taliban fighters were in another building less than a hundred yards away, shooting at us. We cleared them out later. They’d booby-trapped the building they were in, and there’s where I got...’ He tapped his leg.
‘You got a medal, too, didn’t you?’
‘We all did. But there was no photographer present to capture the moment.’
‘Was there anyone involved in that day’s operations you think may have taken against Benjamin Kemp? For any reason. Envy. Feeling slighted. Side-lined. Anything that could become warped and exaggerated into an event like yesterday’s?’
‘Envious enough to shoot up his wedding? No way. We were all just doing our duty. And we were mates. We depended on one another for our lives. I’m not saying events like that happened all the time — it was a pretty intense day, as I remember — but it was wartime, and you did your duty. Everybody thought it was a bit of a laugh that Ben got his picture in the paper, all Rambo.’
‘Maybe somebody didn’t,’ said Banks.
Banks was still not used to his new office. It felt like a suit two sizes too big for him. He had tried to fill the bookcases, but even with a few ornaments, bulky poetry anthologies, forensic texts and orange-covered Penguin paperbacks from the Oxfam shop, there were still too many gaps and not enough family photographs to fill them.
The view was the same as from his old office, only one floor higher up. That Sunday evening, the rain was sweeping down the windowpanes in torrents and bouncing on the cobbles in the market square. The lamps were on in the pubs and shop windows, and Christmas lights and decorations hung all around the square, giving the scene a distinctly Dickensian aspect. Banks could see a few distorted figures shuffling about under umbrellas, and the crowd of reporters, who had set up camp outside the police station. They must be bored, as nothing new had happened during the day.