‘Oh, why’s that?’
‘Just not in his nature.’
‘But we know he had a short temper, and you said yourself he was a bad loser,’ said Annie.
‘Don’t try to twist my words,’ George said. ‘I’m not saying he was perfect. There’s plenty of people like that, and they don’t go around killing strangers.’
‘There was nothing on his mind, nothing erratic in his behaviour lately?’ Annie asked.
‘No,’ said Margie. ‘We saw him just last week, and he was the same as normal.’
‘When was this?’
‘Tuesday.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘Nothing much. Just an upcoming competition, the prices in the new gun catalogue, membership fees going up. Nothing important. Club gossip.’
‘Was that the last time either of you saw him?’
‘Yes,’ said George.
‘Do you shoot, Mrs Sykes?’ Annie asked.
‘Me? Good lord, no,’ said Margie. ‘I just come along for the company. It’s a bit empty here today, but it’s usually more lively. Quite a few of the wives come along, and we have some fine female shooters as members. But me? I don’t think I could hit a barn door at ten paces.’
‘It’s probably a good thing you don’t shoot, then,’ said Annie with a smile.
‘Yes.’
‘Was Martin any good?’ she asked George.
‘He was. Yes. Beat me nearly every time.’
‘Do you know where or when he became interested in shooting? He didn’t have any military training or background, did he?’
‘Martin? Military? Heavens, no. Though he did go up to their range now and then. It’s the only place you can fire the full-bore rifles, you see. Under strict military supervision, of course. Quite a few of our members enjoy the hospitality there from time to time.’
‘Did you go, too?’
‘Me? No. I’m happy enough with small-bore.’
‘It was a small-bore gun Mr Edgeworth used at St Mary’s.’
‘Well, it would have to be, wouldn’t it, unless he’d acquired something else illegally?’ George leaned forwards. ‘Now listen here, young lady, I respect that you have a serious job to do and all.’ He glanced at Banks. ‘Both of you. But if you’re expecting me to imagine my friend, my best friend, getting up one day, heading out with his gun and shooting into a crowd of people from the top of a hill, then driving back home and blowing his own head off, then you’re in for a disappointment. Because I can’t. I can’t relate to it. Don’t you see. I just can’t...’ There were tears in his eyes.
Margie gripped his hand more tightly and patted it. ‘Now, now, George,’ she said gently. ‘There, there.’
‘I’m sorry if it’s hard to take in,’ Annie said, ‘but we’re just trying to understand why it happened ourselves.’
‘I know. And I’m telling you I can’t help you. I don’t know. I don’t even believe it. Martin was just an ordinary bloke. Sure, he had a bit of a temper. Yes, he didn’t like to lose. I think he might have cheated on his income tax, too, if truth be told. But none of that makes him a killer. He was neither so quiet and polite you might be worried what was really going through his mind, or loud and violent and abusive. He was just Martin. And don’t give me any of that guff the reporters tried on, like your neighbours not being what they seem. With Martin, what you saw was what you got, and it was him.’
‘We’re not just making it up, you know,’ said Banks. ‘There’s often more to people than we think. We do have evidence that Martin Edgeworth shot those people, Mr Sykes. And himself.’
‘I’m sure you do. All I’m saying is that I can’t believe it. No more than you would if I told you...’ He paused, then pointed at Annie. ‘If I told you that she had done it.’
‘So what do you think happened?’ Banks asked.
‘I don’t know. All I know is it can’t have been Martin Edgeworth. It must have been someone else.’
Banks pulled up outside Jenny’s front gate at seven o’clock that evening and tooted his horn. The rain was coming down in buckets again. He thought perhaps he should dash to the door and hold his umbrella for her — it would be very gallant — but the door opened almost immediately, and out she came with an umbrella of her own. A large, striped one.
‘Sometimes I wish I’d stayed in Sydney,’ she complained as she slid into the passenger seat. ‘Not that it never rains there. Mm, nice car. When did you get this? And how did you afford it? Been taking backhanders from drug dealers?’
‘My, my,’ said Banks, ‘we do have a lot to catch up on, don’t we? And I believe you’ve developed an accent.’ He turned down the volume a notch on Van Morrison’s ‘Warm Love’ and set off. Though not quite a match for the opulence and grandeur of the Heights, the Green was a pleasant and relatively wealthy enclave of Eastvale just south-east of the River Swain, where it curved through the town, opposite the terraced gardens and falls. Those fortunate enough to live in one of the detached Georgian houses by the water had a magnificent view of the castle towering above them on the opposite bank.
Jenny now lived only a street away from the house she had sold when she left Eastvale. Her semi overlooked the green itself, a swathe of parkland, dotted with poplars and plane trees, wooden benches, marked pathways and notices about cleaning up after your dog. Though the area attracted its fair share of tourists in season, especially with a famous ice-cream shop and a bakery nearby, it was far enough from the town centre to be quiet for the most part of the year. Professionals and some of the better-off academics lived around there, along with a fair number of retired couples and even a few successful artists and writers. It wasn’t the sort of area that would suit Ray, though, Banks thought. Far too bourgeois for him, and perhaps too claustrophobic.
Luigi’s wasn’t far, just over the bridge and up the road past the formal gardens to Castle Hill, but on a night like this, it wasn’t a walk anyone would care to make. The rain bounced in puddles on the road and pavement and ran like rills down the gutters, warping the reflections of the street lamps and the occasional green or red neon shop sign. Banks could hardly hear Van Morrison for the noise it made.
Even though it was a wet Tuesday evening, it wasn’t long until Christmas, the shops were open late, and Banks was lucky to find a parking spot almost right outside the small restaurant. They shared Jenny’s umbrella briefly on the way in and Banks smelled her familiar scent. He could swear it was the same she used all those years ago, and he still couldn’t put a name to it. Whatever it was, it smelled fresh and natural as a perfume carried on a light summer breeze, and it reminded him of childhood trips to Beales with his mother. It seemed they always had to walk through the perfume and make-up department to get to the toys or children’s clothing.
The maître d’ fussed over them, took their wet things and led them to a corner table for two beneath a romantic oil painting of Venetian canals in a scratched old gilt frame. The white tablecloth was spotless, with two red candles at its centre casting shadows on the walls. It was still early, and there were only six other diners, one table of four and another of two, but it was a small and very popular restaurant, and it would soon fill up. The ambience was dim and muted, and Banks thought he could hear Elvis Presley singing ‘Santa Lucia’ in the background.
‘Have you caught up on your sleep yet?’ Banks asked.
‘I don’t think so. I don’t seem to be sleeping regular hours, or for very long periods.’
‘I imagine it takes a while.’
The menus were printed in italics. Jenny pulled her tortoiseshell reading glasses from her voluminous handbag, and Banks put on his own Specsavers specials. They both laughed and studied the menus in silence. The waiter came and asked about drinks, and after consulting with Jenny, Banks ordered a bottle of Amarone. Pushing the boat out, perhaps, but then, he reminded himself, it was a special occasion: dinner with a lovely woman he hadn’t seen in over twenty years.