‘I don’t suppose you’ll be needing me any more, now you’ve got your man,’ Jenny said after a while.
‘That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘Well, I must say, this is a nice way of giving someone the push. Do thank your boss for using the velvet-glove approach.’
Banks laughed. He had almost forgotten how much he laughed when he was with Jenny. ‘You’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Yes, we’ve got our man — or he got himself — but there’s so much we still don’t know. I’d like you to keep working on the profile, if you’d be willing.’
Jenny’s expression brightened. ‘Of course. If nothing else, it might prove useful as research. One of the problems with this type of killer is that we don’t have any useful profiles to work from. They’re so few and far between, and most of them kill themselves before we get a chance to talk to them.’
‘Well, this one’s no exception to that rule.’
‘In a strange way, not talking to them doesn’t matter that much. I’ve always thought that talking to serial killers and mass murderers was overrated. All they do is whine and lie and blame society or their parents for their crimes. You don’t learn very much. It’s their behaviour and the way they present themselves in the world that I find more interesting. And the cracks, of course. What builds up to such a point that it bursts the dam, so to speak, sets them on an unalterable course with only one possible outcome. That’s far more interesting.’
‘I’m glad you think so.’
‘So tell me everything you know about him.’
They finished their main courses, and Banks told her what he had discovered and heard so far about Martin Edgeworth, most of it that very day from Ollie Metcalfe and George and Margie Sykes at the shooting club. Annie and Gerry Masterson would be trying to dig up a lot more background, but that was all he had for now. While he spoke, Jenny rested her chin on her fists, elbows planted on the table. When he had finished, she seemed thoughtful, moved one hand to pick up her glass and drank some more wine. Her glass was nearly empty.
‘Do we want another?’ Banks asked. ‘I can’t. I’m driving. But...’
‘I don’t think I could manage it,’ said Jenny. ‘This tiredness just washes over me.’
‘Want to go?’
Jenny waved her glass. ‘Not just yet. There’s still a mouthful or two left. So, basically,’ she went on, ‘everyone you talked to told you that Martin Edgeworth was sociable, generous, clubbable, uncomplaining, caring and successful?’
‘Basically, yes,’ said Banks. ‘Apart from the broken marriage, the quick temper and bad-loser bit.’
‘Well, we all know about broken marriages, don’t we? If a difficult divorce were a trigger for mass murder, there’d be a lot more dead people in the streets. Same with a bad temper and being a poor loser.’
‘Too true. We haven’t interviewed his wife or children yet. The children — grown-ups now, actually — should be here tomorrow. The wife didn’t mention coming over from Carlisle when Gerry spoke to her on the phone, so who knows? We may have to go there to talk to her.’
‘Your man certainly doesn’t fit any profile that I’m aware of,’ said Jenny. ‘Usually mass murderers tend to be profoundly alienated and embittered. They want revenge against the world, and they want to show everyone they’re not failures, that they can’t be used as doormats. There’s no evidence that Martin Edgeworth was a failure, or even felt he was. Sometimes the revenge is specific, and sometimes it’s just a sort of random rage against society in general. That doesn’t seem to fit, either, unless Edgeworth was very, very good at hiding his true self. He wasn’t a loner, and he wasn’t a failure. True, he was divorced and probably felt angry with his wife for humiliating him, but that’s hardly an indication of psychopathy. Some killers are good at hiding their true selves. I’m sure you’ve seen it often enough on the news, how the serial killer next door wouldn’t harm a fly, according to his neighbours. Was just a quiet lad, never any trouble, and he’s got five dismembered corpses buried in his back garden. Sure, it happens. But not that often. Most people demonstrate some clues as to what they are. I mean, there’s been plenty of meek little men finally snapping and killing their wives and families and then themselves. But going out with an assault rifle and mowing down a wedding party? That’s something else. We need to dig a lot deeper.’
‘I think Raymond Chandler wrote something about meek little wives holding a carving knife and studying their husbands’ necks, didn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ said Jenny. ‘But that was in Southern California during the Santa Ana. The hot wind makes people crazy.’
‘Not only is the woman beautiful, but she knows her Raymond Chandler,’ said Banks, before he realised exactly what he was saying.
Jenny didn’t miss a beat. She fluttered her eyelashes and said, ‘Of course, I’m not just a pretty face. You ought to know that by now.’
But Banks could see her blushing beneath the bravado. Yes, he thought, people do demonstrate clues as to what they are, or feel, or think. Most of us can only hide so much from the rest of the world. We have tells, giveaways. Body language. ‘So what do you think?’ he said. ‘About Edgeworth.’
Jenny knocked back the rest of her wine. ‘I’m not sure what to think,’ she said. ‘But from what you’ve told me, if I were you there’s one question I would most certainly be asking myself.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Despite all the evidence to support my position, am I sure, am I absolutely sure, that I’ve got the right man?’
‘You’re not the first person to say that to me today,’ Banks grumbled. ‘Shall we go?’
When he stopped outside Jenny’s house to drop her off, the rain was still teeming down. They sat in silence for a while, then Jenny said, ‘I’m not going to ask you to come in for a nightcap tonight, Alan. Partly I’m just too damn tired, and partly... I don’t know... I’m still not quite sure where I am in the world yet. I’m out of sync. I don’t know if it’s day or night.’
Banks leaned over and kissed Jenny on the cheek. She smiled and touched his arm with her fingertips before moving away, grabbing her umbrella and dashing out into the rain. He waited until she had got her front door open. She turned, silhouetted by the light, waved to him and closed the door behind her. Van Morrison was singing ‘Wild Children’ as Banks drove back over the bridge, across the market square, where the cobbles glistened with rain under the coloured lights, and headed for home.
Chapter 8
Christmas fell upon Eastvale like a knife-wielding mugger desperate for a fix, and with the St Mary’s killer no longer representing a threat to the community, the investigation slowed down over the holiday period, and the town was able to get into the spirit of the season without that undercurrent of fear that a gunman on the loose inspires. The retailers loved it because people got out and went shopping rather than cloistering themselves indoors.
It might not have been a white Christmas — for the most part it was the colour of a puddle in a cow pat — but chains of festive lights lit up the market square, wound around the ancient cross and strung up over the numerous cobbled streets and ginnels nearby. The castle battlements and keep were floodlit, too, and many of the shopkeepers hung strings of lights over their signs, put up decorated Christmas trees or stuck red-and-white Santas to the insides of their windows. A huge Christmas tree arrived from the unpronounceable town in Norway with which Eastvale was twinned, and was duly set up and decorated beside the market cross. In the square, seasonal music overflowed from the pubs and filled the air. Even Cyril at the Queen’s Arms entered into the spirit of things with his Christmas playlist which, Banks was pleased to hear, included a whole range of songs and carols from Nick Lowe and The Ronettes to Bing Crosby and Renée Fleming.