‘When was that?’
‘About a week or so before the... incident.’
‘You’re sure there was no one bothering him, no one new in his life? A woman, perhaps?’
‘Martin wasn’t especially in the market for a new wife. His experience of the previous one was still a bit raw, and he liked his life the way it was. No, I can’t think of anyone. I knew most of his friends and acquaintances, at least in passing.’
‘You’re sure there was no one else?’
‘The only one I can think of is that he mentioned a bloke Gord a few times. That was quite recent. And someone I never met.’
‘Gord?’ said Annie. ‘Who was that?’
‘Someone he went rambling with on the weekends sometimes. I didn’t get the impression that it was regular — I know Martin used to appreciate his walks alone — but he did mention meeting this bloke up on the moors one morning, and they got chatting. You know what it’s like when people share enthusiasms?’
Annie nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I do. Do you know anything more about this Gord? His last name, where he lived, what he looked like?’
‘I’m afraid not. It’s just someone Martin went rambling with occasionally.’
Annie made a mental note to have Banks ask about this person at Edgeworth’s local and around his shooting-club friends. The name had never come up before, though the idea of someone approaching Edgeworth on one of his walks had certainly crossed Annie’s mind.
‘There was one little thing,’ said Martell, ‘though I doubt it’s of any relevance.’
‘You never know,’ said Annie. ‘Best tell us.’
‘It was funny, but Martin once told me he thought he was being followed.’
‘When was this?’
‘Last November sometime. You know, when the days were getting shorter and the winter gloom was moving in.’
‘Did he give you any details?’
‘He laughed it off. We both did.’
‘Where did he think he was being followed from?’
‘From the club to his home.’
Annie leaned forwards and tried to put a sense of urgency in her voice. ‘This could be important, Mr Martell. Can you remember anything else, anything at all, about what he said?’
‘Just that he said he’d seen the same car on two or three occasions when he left the shooting club. It’s a quiet road up there. You don’t get much traffic.’
‘Did he say anything about the car?’
‘I never asked. I do believe he mentioned it was a bit beat up, but that’s all I can remember.’
‘Was this before he first mentioned this Gord person, or after?’
‘Before.’
‘Neither you nor Mr Edgeworth ever linked the two?’
‘Good lord, no. Why?’
‘Why would he even tell you about this if he pooh-poohed it so easily?’
‘I think he just wanted to tell me so that he could convince himself he was being silly about it, so I could help him laugh it off. I obliged. I told him it was probably nothing. Just a coincidence. It seemed to help. He said he’d thought it might have been the club keeping an eye on its members, or even the military from the base they used to shoot at. You know, some sort of cockeyed terrorist alert. But nothing came of it.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Annie. ‘Or perhaps everything came of it.’
Because it was a Saturday, and because they were hungry, Banks, Jenny, Annie and Gerry met up in the Queen’s Arms at lunchtime. There was a lot of information to share and sort, and Cyril, the landlord, opened up the old snug for them and even turned the heat on. It was a tiny room without windows, and perhaps a little chilly and musty at first due to disuse, but it was private, and they wouldn’t have to worry about being seen or overheard by the media, who were leaking hints that the ‘Red Wedding’ investigation, as they called it, was far from over, that the police had discovered new evidence revealing that Martin Edgeworth had possibly not done the shooting, or had not acted alone. There were enough ‘ifs’ and ‘possibles’ to cover a stadium of arses, but the message was clear enough: the cops had screwed up, and the real killer was still at large. Things seemed to be fast approaching conspiracy-theory level.
The radiators rattled and clanked for a while, then settled down to exude a pleasant warmth. Pat, the Australian barmaid, brought in two large platters of nachos, and while Gerry and Jenny abstained, Banks and Annie both went for pints of Black Sheep bitter.
As soon as everyone had eaten a few nachos and washed them down, Banks suggested they try to put some sort of order to the things they had found out so far.
‘OK,’ he began. ‘We don’t have a connection between Edgeworth and someone who might be the real killer yet, but we do have four important pointers. First of all, Ollie Metcalfe in the White Rose said Edgeworth was sociable and often talked with non-locals in there, which means he might have had a drink there with the killer at some point. Second, Geoff McLaren, the manager of the shooting club, told me that Edgeworth had asked him about whether it was possible for someone with a criminal record to join the club. That could mean he was asking on behalf of this new acquaintance who wanted to acquire a gun. Third and fourth, Jonathan Martell told Annie and Gerry this morning that Edgeworth confided in him that he felt he was being followed, and that he later mentioned a fellow called Gord who he sometimes went walking the moors with. They managed to laugh off the bit about being followed between them, and neither made a connection with Gord, but why would they? I don’t think we can do that too easily ourselves. It’s quite possible that if someone was after a gun — someone who either didn’t want to or couldn’t acquire one illegally, and who couldn’t get one legally because of health reasons or a criminal conviction — might wish to befriend someone who already owned one. But perhaps it’s even more likely that whoever did it wanted someone to use as a scapegoat more than he wanted the gun itself. And if he needed a scapegoat, he needed one with a gun that would be traced back to the scapegoat. There’d be no point in all the subterfuge if Edgeworth’s gun didn’t match the murder weapon.’
‘So someone stakes out a shooting club?’ Annie said. ‘Good idea.’
‘But why pick Edgeworth?’ Gerry asked. ‘By chance?’
‘Why not?’ said Annie. ‘Maybe Edgeworth was the first one out of the drive the first day the killer was there, or maybe the killer tried a few others first and they weren’t what he wanted.’
‘Which was?’
‘His location, I’d say. Edgeworth lived alone and his house was nicely isolated. And perhaps the guns, too. They were weapons that suited the purpose the killer had in mind.’
‘OK. And then? How does he find out all this?’
‘He follows Edgeworth a few times, just to make sure there is no Mrs Edgeworth, then perhaps strikes up a conversation with him in the White Rose on a busy night when no one would remember. OK so far?’
‘Go on,’ said Banks.
‘Maybe the killer finds out Edgeworth is a keen rambler. He meets him “by chance” on a walk on the moors once or twice. They become pally. At least pally enough for Edgeworth to invite him in for a coffee when he comes knocking on the morning of the wedding.’
‘Do you think it’s possible that he had a grudge against Edgeworth rather than against someone from the wedding group?’ Gerry asked. ‘Or both? Someone from his past?’
‘That might be pushing it a bit,’ Annie said, ‘but I suppose it’s not beyond the bounds of reason. He was certainly out to frame Edgeworth, once he’d killed him, but as to whether that was his primary motivation, I don’t know. We can dig a bit more into Edgeworth’s past, see if we come up with any possible candidates, but we might have to accept that he was chosen simply because he had what the killer wanted. But going back to the story, as soon as they get pally, our man is all set. He’s now got a contact who owns a Black Rifle and a Taurus automatic. I can’t say how far ahead he’s been planning things, but at least he’s thinking clearly in terms of saving his own skin. He has no desire to end up dead at the end of the day, like most mass murderers. Or in prison. So what does he do? He buys two identical sets of outdoor clothes. He visits Edgeworth, or accompanies him back from a walk for a cup of tea or something, manages to wangle a trip to the cellar to play with the guns, hits Edgeworth on the back of the head with a hammer, stuffs the gun in his mouth and shoots him, careful to emulate a suicide and careful to obliterate the traces of the hammer blow.’