‘What do you mean?’ said Moss. ‘Are you suggesting he had a sidekick? Someone who helped him? Is there evidence of this? Why didn’t you mention it before?’
‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Adrian,’ said Banks. ‘It’s merely a box to tick. We have no evidence that anyone else was involved. It’s just an avenue that needs to be thoroughly investigated and cleared.’
‘Superintendent Banks is right,’ Gervaise added. ‘And perhaps the investigation is not as high-powered now as it was when Edgeworth was on the loose and a danger to the public, but it’s not over yet. We are perfectly aware that profilers such as Dr Fuller often rely on us for access to information that may give them a deeper understanding of the killer’s psychology.’
‘Good,’ said Moss. ‘Then I think we’re on the same page at last.’
That was a rather frightening thought for Banks, but he said nothing.
‘But back to this business about the accomplice—’
‘There was no accomplice,’ said Banks, wishing to God he’d never mentioned the possibility. ‘And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t suggest that there was in any of your releases. We don’t want a panic on our hands, do we? Especially one caused by an MLO who got hold of the wrong end of the stick?’
Moss swallowed. ‘But you’ll keep me informed on anything more you find out about Edgeworth?’
‘We’ll keep you informed, Adrian.’
‘Including Dr Fuller’s profile?’
‘Including the profile.’
‘Right. OK, then.’ Moss gave them each a nervous smile and made his way crabwise out of the office.
‘So can you clarify the point of all that for me?’ Banks asked Gervaise when the door had closed. ‘Am I to do anything different than I was intending to do?’
‘No, Alan. Like it or not, we’ve been on the same page all along, as Adrian says. He just needed to vent his spleen a bit. He’s under a lot of pressure. He needs a bit of babying every now and then.’
‘Thought so.’ Banks left shaking his head.
The river was not much more than a beck swollen with the recent rains where it ran through Swainshead village from its source high in the dale. The weather seemed to be offering a brief respite that afternoon. By the looks of the iron sky, though, that wouldn’t last long.
Now that he could see them in daylight, Banks remembered the rows of limestone cottages with their flagstone roofs, facing one another across the river, the waterside benches and the stone bridge where the old men in flat caps stood talking, passing the time. Three of them were out there today, no doubt talking about the recent excitement, and Banks wouldn’t have been at all surprised if they were the same old men who had stood there almost twenty-five years ago, when he had worked on his first case in Swainshead. Two major incidents in twenty-five years wasn’t bad going for such a small village.
He ejected David Gilmour’s Rattle that Lock and parked outside the whitewashed facade of the White Rose, founded in 1615, or so the sign proclaimed. Further up the road stood the empty Collier house, a Victorian pile of stone cluttered with porticos, oriels and turrets, with most of its windows boarded up. Banks glanced across the river. The Greenock Guest House, which had played a pivotal role in the first Swainshead case, was now a pottery centre and gift shop. Banks wondered what had happened to Sam and Katie Greenock, the former proprietors. Katie had been a natural beauty, he remembered, and an innocent, but a woman confused by her attractiveness and uneasy mix of sexuality and innocence, like Hardy’s Tess. She had been in her twenties back then, so she would be fifty or more by now. He wondered where she was, what she was doing with her life. Was she still married to Sam? Or was she dead, like Emily and Katie Shea, her namesake at the wedding?
The pub was busy for a Tuesday lunchtime. Most of the customers were locals, Banks guessed by their easy manner and casual clothing, but there was a smattering of reporters, no doubt grubbing for the nitty-gritty on Martin Edgeworth. Adrian Moss had said that Edgeworth was their subject now, and Banks thought he was probably right. No doubt they were hoping to stumble across someone who had seen him pull the wings off a fly when he was five.
Banks was on his way to the Edgeworth house to meet up with Annie. The CSIs and search teams were still working there, packing anything that might be possible evidence of Edgeworth’s actions or motives into boxes. He might be dead, but the reverberations of his deed lingered on, as Banks had told Adrian Moss, and if anything could be learned from his actions to prevent such a thing happening in the future, it needed to be discovered. Profilers such as Jenny Fuller, for example, were always interested in as much data as they could get on forms of deviant behaviour in order to build up more accurate and comprehensive profiles. Jenny hadn’t had much to do this time before they found their man, but she might still be able to learn something useful from the case. Banks had phoned her on his way, and she had agreed to have dinner with him that evening. He couldn’t deny, even to himself, that he was still attracted to her after all these years, but he also knew he could hardly forge ahead on the assumption that she felt the same way.
First, though, as the sense of urgency had disappeared with Edgeworth’s suicide, Banks realised he hadn’t eaten much over the past couple of days, so he decided to eat a pub lunch while he had a casual word with the landlord. The people in the village who had known Edgeworth — including friends, neighbours, shopkeepers and publicans — would all be officially interviewed over the next few days, but Banks saw no reason not to try to get a general picture of the killer, and what better means than through the landlord of his local pub?
The White Rose had clearly undergone a face lift since Banks had last been there. The dark wood panelling was still on the walls, but above it, the pale blue paint was much brighter and fresher than the previous dun colour. Perhaps the years of accumulated tar and nicotine from cigarette smoke had been scraped off the walls and ceiling, too, since the pub smoking ban. The lounge even smelled of air freshener. A number of framed photographs of local attractions hung on the walls: waterfalls, the hanging valley nearby, a panoramic view of the village, the mouth of a cavern. The tables were more modern and less wobbly than before, square with wooden legs rather than the old cast-iron type. There was a fire burning in the hearth, and along with the Christmas lights and decorations, it gave the place a warm, cosy atmosphere.
The man behind the bar was a lot younger than old Freddie Metcalfe, who used to run the pub, though he had old Freddie’s craggy brow. It turned out his name was Ollie Metcalfe, Freddie’s nephew. He was a broad-shouldered lad with a bristly beard and weathered outdoorsman’s face, the type who would make a good second-row forward, and probably even had, as his nose seemed to have been broken more than once. Banks introduced himself, ordered a pint of Sneck Lifter and glanced over the menu, which was more gastronomically adventurous than its counterpart from twenty-five years ago. Not that he fancied anything adventurous right now. In the end, he went for a simple steak and mushroom pie and chips, introduced himself and indicated to Ollie Metcalfe that he would prefer to eat at the far end of the bar, away from the reporters, and would appreciate a quiet word when his food arrived. Metcalfe nodded and set off about his business.
Banks didn’t recognise any of the reporters, though he prided himself on guessing who they were, if not exactly what newspapers they represented. It used to be a lot easier to tell them apart, but these days it wasn’t even easy to find much difference between the newspapers themselves. He got a few suspicious glances, noticed several whispered exchanges, and assumed that he had been recognised, but nobody approached him. Now they had a bigger story, they were far less interested in any police investigation, unless it related to the now very public row between the firearms cadre and emergency services.