Banks thought about his own Christmas arrangements. It was coming up fast. He didn’t think he would get to see either of his children this year, as it was his ex-wife Sandra’s turn to have Tracy down in London, and Brian was still in LA with his band, the Blue Lamps. ‘But his son stuck with him?’
‘Aye, I suppose so. Nice lad. Colin, his name is. He’ll be bloody heartbroken. And his wife Mandy. Pretty lass. Thought the world of Martin. They always used to drop in here for a pint and a pub lunch whenever they were up visiting.’
Officers in Derby, Norwich and Carlisle had called on the various members of Edgeworth’s family early that morning, so they wouldn’t have to read about what happened to him first in the papers, or see it on TV. According to their brief reports, there had been the predictable outbursts of tears and disbelief, and the upshot was that both his children said they’d be up in Eastvale to sort things out as soon as possible. His ex-wife in Carlisle had been stunned by the news, too, but she hadn’t mentioned making the journey. By now, Banks calculated, the media would be camping out in their gardens and their telephones would be ringing off the hook.
‘Have you any idea what his movements were on Saturday morning?’
‘What they usually were, I suppose,’ said Metcalfe.
‘What was that?’
‘He usually went for a long walk along the tops on a Saturday and a Sunday morning, come rain or shine. It’s a bit of a bloody hike to get up there from the back of his house, like, but he did it. You certainly wouldn’t catch me trying it. But Martin kept himself fit. And he said the view’s magnificent. You can see Pen-y-Ghent on a good day.’
‘Any break-ins, or anything unusual happen in the village recently?’ Banks asked. ‘Crimes of any sort, unexplained events?’
‘Nay, wouldn’t you be the first one to know about something like that?’
‘Only if it was reported. There’s plenty goes on never reaches our ears. You must know that.’
‘Aye, well, not that I can think of.’ Metcalfe paused. ‘Why are you asking me all these questions? I mean, Martin’s dead. What does it matter?’
‘We have to cover every angle, Ollie.’
‘Well I can’t think of anything along those lines. And he wasn’t a nutter, if that’s what you’re saying.’
‘That’s not what I’m saying. We need to understand him, that’s all. Did you ever see him get drunk, get involved in any trouble, any arguments?’ Banks asked.
‘Not in here. Like I said, Martin were no saint, and he did have a bit of a short temper, but I never saw him drink to excess. Well... maybe once.’
‘Trouble?’
‘Martin? No. Except...’ He rubbed his beard.
‘Yes?’
‘Remember, I just mentioned that wife of his? Ex-wife. Constance. About two or three years ago, it were now, the split.’
‘Not long after he retired, then?’
‘Aye. Not long at all. It hardly seems to matter now, does it? I mean now that he’s dead.’ He gestured towards the group Banks thought were reporters. ‘It’s just for them vultures to pick his bones clean now, isn’t it?’
Banks glanced over. ‘I suppose they’ll do their jobs,’ he said. Then he leaned forwards slightly. ‘I’ll give you a word of warning for when you’re dealing with the press, Mr Metcalfe. Be careful what you say. Be very careful. They’re experts at twisting the simplest thing. You could tell them you make meat pies and you’ll come out sounding like Sweeney Todd. Know what I mean?’
Metcalfe laughed. ‘Thanks, but I’ve dealt with their like before. Used to be in public relations for Newcastle United. You know footballers.’
‘Well, you’ll understand, then. We have to employ a bloke specially to deal with them. Media relations officer, he’s called. I ask you. Course, we have to try and stay on their good side. It galls me to say it, but they can be useful.’
‘That’s the problem. And don’t they know it?’
Banks drank some beer and held up his glass to inspect it. ‘You keep a good pint, Ollie, I’ll say that for you.’
‘Thanks. But what use is a pub but for fine company and a decent pint of ale?’
‘If only all landlords thought that. Now, about this bit of trouble...’
‘It were summat and nowt.’
‘Usually is, in my experience. What happened?’
‘Martin was in here one evening enjoying his pint, like, keeping himself to himself, when this bloke Norman Lavalle came in.’
‘Was he a regular?’
‘No. I’d only seen him a couple of times before. And I didn’t like him much. Too smarmy by half, too full of himself.’
‘How long ago was all this?’
‘About two years.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Well, we all knew what was going on, like, that this Lavalle bloke was having it off with Connie, Martin’s wife. She were a bit flighty, like, but a nice enough lass, or so I thought. I suppose life with Martin was just too quiet and boring for her, especially after he stopped working and spent more time at home. Must’ve cramped her style. She were a good ten years younger than him. Anyway, she’d left him by then and was living down the dale a mile or two with a friend. This Lavalle bloke was panting after her. Well, Martin was none too pleased to see him. He’d been down in the dumps of late, a bit depressed, like, and who could blame him, so he makes some comment like, “What are you doing here? Can’t you just leave me in peace?” or something innocuous like that. Lavalle replies, “What’s it got to do with you? I’ll drink where I want.” At which point I’m about to come in and say not here you bloody well won’t, but Martin shoves him, and Lavalle takes a swing at him. Misses by a mile. Then Martin takes his shot. Connects, too. Lavalle staggers back a bit, with a bloody nose, but by then I’m round the bar like a shot, holding them apart. I get Lavalle out and get Martin sat down again with his drink. He’s a bit upset, so I leave him to it. He knocked back a bit more than usual that night, that’s all.’
‘Did he get angry when he was drinking?’
‘No, not at all. Only earlier. Lavalle was long gone by then. Martin usually got a bit morose when he drank too much, if truth be told. Quiet. Subdued.’
‘Did he say anything.’
‘When I asked him later if he was all right, like, he just says summat like, “If Connie runs off with that slimy bastard, I swear I’ll top myself.” ’ Metcalfe gave a nervous laugh. ‘It wasn’t like he really meant it or anything, it were just the way he felt at the time. Sort of thing we all say sometimes.’
‘So you didn’t believe he meant it?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘But he did threaten to commit suicide if his wife left him?’
‘That’s the long and the short of it. But it were just sort of something you say, like, when you’re upset. And he didn’t. Top himself, that is.’
Not two years ago, he didn’t, Banks thought. ‘He didn’t threaten to harm Lavalle or Constance?’
‘Never anything like that.’
‘Any further incidents?’
‘None. That’s just what I can’t understand, Mr Banks. Martin Edgeworth just wasn’t a violent man. Fair enough, he took a pop at the bloke who was bonking his wife, but what man wouldn’t? And then he goes and does something like this out of the blue. I can’t fathom it.’ He scratched his head.
‘What happened to Lavalle?’
Metcalfe snorted. ‘He and Connie got married. Live out Carlisle way now.’
Banks drained his pint. He had eaten what he wanted of the pie and chips a while ago. ‘Something caused Martin Edgeworth to snap,’ he said. ‘We don’t know what it was, but that’s what I’m after finding out. Maybe some people think it doesn’t matter now that he’s dead, but let’s not forget, he killed five people and ruined a lot of other lives. I like to close my books, Ollie, and I like them to be properly balanced when I do.’