Glendenning made a throaty, gurgling sort of sound Banks took for laughter.
Banks finished his pint. ‘So the question is, I suppose, what are we going to do about it?’
‘I’m not going to do anything,’ said Glendenning. ‘I’m simply trying to bring a few anomalies and alternative interpretations to your attention. I think the rest is up to you.’
‘But you’ll back me up if necessary?’
‘Naturally. To the extent of my professional opinion.’
‘What a waste,’ said Banks. ‘And you seem so promising at speculation.’
Glendenning polished off his whisky. ‘Aye, well, I’ll leave that to you. I would certainly be comfortable to go as far as mentioning the indentation, for example, and should you provide me with a possible weapon I would be happy to check it for fit. Now I’ve had my say. I’ll be off.’
When Glendenning had left, Banks sat staring into his empty glass. Was there anything in what Glendenning had told him? Was Edgeworth really innocent, as most of his friends and acquaintances seemed to believe? He might have been involved tangentially, of course, then hoodwinked or double-crossed by an accomplice at the final hurdle, but he might also have been used, knowing nothing about the real killer’s motives or intentions. The only bright spot in all this was that the two of them must have crossed paths at some point. The killer must have known about Edgeworth’s membership of the Upper Swainsdale District Rifle and Pistol Club, about his guns. And that gave Banks a few places he could start searching for the connections he needed.
Banks hadn’t given Annie and Gerry any specific instructions for interviewing Robert and Maureen Tindall again other than to play it by ear, go over some of the questions they had already been asked and note their reactions. Robert and Maureen were the only immediate members of the wedding party who hadn’t been killed or wounded, which was interesting in itself to a suspicious detective’s mind. If the killer had been aiming at specific targets, then why had they been spared? Why had he killed the groom’s father, but not the bride’s? Not that Annie thought the Tindalls had anything to do with the shooting, but it was odd, all the same. They had been standing with the main group but had escaped injury. Their witness statements had been taken as soon as they had recovered from the immediate shock, but neither had anything new to add. Had the shootings really been random?
The Tindalls’ house came complete with double garage, gables, spacious gardens at front and back, and a bay window. It sat in one of the quiet streets a stone’s throw from the Heights, Eastvale’s Millionaire’s Row, but lacked the panoramic view the large detached houses commanded, and wouldn’t fetch anywhere near the same price. Even so, Annie would have given up her cottage in Harkside for such a home had she been able to afford it. Banking had clearly been as good to Robert Tindall as it had been bad to most customers.
They parked out front and walked up the path. Annie had phoned ahead, so they were expected, and Robert Tindall opened the door almost immediately she rang the bell.
‘Come in, come in,’ he said, taking their umbrellas and depositing them in an elephant’s foot stand by the door. Annie hadn’t seen such a thing in ages, if ever. She thought elephants were a protected species. Certainly, it was illegal to hunt them for ivory. Perhaps it wasn’t a real elephant’s foot. ‘If you wouldn’t mind removing your footwear,’ Robert Tindall went on, ‘you can put it on that mat there.’
Annie took off her red boots, not without some awkwardness over the zips, and Gerry slipped off her pumps without even bending down. Annie felt decidedly underdressed in jeans and a plain grey sweatshirt under her raincoat, but Gerry appeared elegant enough in a dark green trouser suit over a russet top that matched her flowing waves of red hair. Tall and elegant, Annie thought, with a rush of irrational envy that occasionally rose in her chest when she worked with Gerry. It passed quickly enough. They had got off to a bad start, but Annie had now actually come to appreciate the many qualities of her occasionally difficult oppo over the past couple of years, even if they hadn’t exactly warmed to one another on a personal level yet. It was her own fault. Women like Gerry Masterson and Jenny Fuller, always elegant, beautiful, well turned out, posh accents, walking around as if they had a stick up their arse, had always irritated her. It was a problem that probably had something to do with her unconventional and Bohemian upbringing, but knowing that didn’t solve it.
Robert Tindall led them into a high-ceilinged living room where a fire burned in the grate and a baby grand occupied one corner.
‘Maureen’s,’ he said, as Annie stared at it. ‘She’s the musical one. Not me, I’m afraid. Tone deaf.’
‘You couldn’t fit one of those in my entire cottage,’ said Annie, realising immediately that she had made Tindall uncomfortable. ‘Bijou, they call it.’
‘Ah, yes, the vagaries of today’s language. Do sit down.’ He gestured to a sofa upholstered in rough cream cloth printed with French wine labels. ‘Maureen is resting. She hopes to be with us shortly.’
Annie hoped so, too. She had come to talk to both of them, preferably together. There was a whiff of camphor about the room, she thought, which gave it something of an old-fashioned atmosphere.
Robert cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid she’s not been herself since Laura’s death. It shook her to the core. I’m upset, too, naturally, we all are. But Maureen was always more fragile. Laura was our only child. You know.’
‘Yes,’ said Annie. ‘I can hardly imagine how terrible it must be. Fragile? You say your wife is fragile?’
‘Yes. Sensitive. Highly strung, as they say. But she’s a wonderful wife, and she was a good mother to Laura. Strict but good: attentive, loving, supportive. Maureen helped her so much with her modelling career. Maybe she was over-protective, but there are some wily predators in that business, you know.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Can I perhaps get you a cup of tea, coffee, or something while you’re waiting?’
‘Tea would be great, thanks,’ said Annie.
‘Any kind in particular?’
‘Have you got any chamomile?’ Gerry asked.
‘Afraid not. It’s Yorkshire Gold or Earl Grey.’
They agreed on the Yorkshire Gold and Robert Tindall went off to the kitchen.
‘Bloody chamomile, indeed,’ said Annie.
Gerry blushed. ‘Well, he asked. And you’re a one to talk. It was you got me into herbal teas in the first place.’
Before she could reply, Annie heard a soft rustling behind her and turned to see a woman walk into the room. In contrast to her husband, Maureen Tindall was painfully thin and pale, like an invalid, clutching a cashmere cardigan at her throat as if she were freezing despite the fire. Robert Tindall was tall, slightly stooped, silver-haired and distinguished, but his wife looked as if a puff of wind would blow her away.
‘Good afternoon. I’m Maureen Tindall.’ Her voice was a shaky whisper. She sat in the armchair closest to the fire and rubbed her hands together. ‘This weather,’ she said. ‘When will it ever end?’
‘Not until we’ve all been washed away,’ Annie replied.
Maureen Tindall managed a thin smile. She was in her early sixties, Annie guessed, with short steel-grey hair plastered to her scalp. Her face was bony, blotchy in places, eyes sunken, dull with the numbing glaze of tranquillisers, and anywhere except on Annie or Gerry. Still, Annie thought, the poor woman had just lost her only daughter in the most horrendous circumstances one could possibly imagine. Who in her position wouldn’t reach for the Valium? Maureen smoothed her skirts over her lap and leaned back. ‘I can’t imagine what you want with us now,’ she said. ‘Not now that it’s all over.’