‘I’ve thought about that a lot,’ said Banks. ‘It was one of my first objections against Gerry’s theory. But people do nurse grudges. Feelings do fester. All they need is the right trigger, or triggers, and there were plenty of those.’
‘The trial?’
‘Among other things.’ Banks told him about his chat with Michael Charlton and Wendy waiting for Maureen at the bus stop. ‘And after him,’ he went on, ‘I tracked down a second old “gang” member. A bloke called Ricky Bramble. Quite happily retired, and devoted to his allotment.’
‘Was he any use?’
‘Well, he confirmed what Charlton told me about his sister talking to Wendy Vincent at the bus stop, and about Mark Vincent’s reaction. He also confirmed that Mark Vincent doted on his big sister.’
‘Nobody dotes on their big sisters,’ said Blackstone. ‘Believe me. I know. I have two.’
Banks laughed. ‘Well,’ he went on, ‘everyone knew that Wendy did sort of take care of her little brother, look out for him. Their parents weren’t always a lot of use, especially when they’d been drinking, which was most of the time, and Wendy took Mark under her wing. Protected him. But it seems that it was the memory of Wendy that haunted Mark. According to Bramble, after the murder, and years later, when they met up again only a year or so ago, Mark used to talk about places he and Wendy had been when they were kids, hiding places from their parents, the little kindnesses she’d done for him, how she made him laugh and how angelic she was. He carried a photograph of her in his wallet. He even tried to describe what he thought she would look like today if she were still alive. It’s pretty weird stuff. And Ricky Bramble also verified that the sketch looked a lot like the Vincent he met last year.’
‘So her brother idolised her after her death?’
‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘Like Thomas Hardy did with his first wife Emma. They hardly talked for years, but when she died, he wrote some beautiful poems about their early days, being in love, travelling around the Cornish coast.’ As he spoke, Banks thought about Emily Hargreaves. Was he doing the same with her, despite what Julie Drake had told him? Perhaps. He certainly found it impossible to blame her for the action she had taken, hurtful though it was to him. And when he pictured her, it was the youthful, beautiful ‘first girl I ever loved’ that he saw. Life can push people in unexpected directions, but he thought he would probably always feel that way about Emily. She was one of those rare girls that you just felt you wanted to be always happy, even if you weren’t going to be the source of that happiness.
‘And then Ricky Bramble comes out with a story about Wendy and Maureen that Mark never knew before,’ Banks went on, ‘and it knocks him for six.’
Suddenly, Banks thought, Maureen was a slag who was snogging some kid in an old house instead of meeting her friend to go shopping, and that cost her friend her life. Mark had made a paragon of Wendy and a pariah of Maureen. The angel and the whore. And as much as Wendy had become a symbol of purity to him over the years, enshrined in loving memory, the more easily Maureen now became the harlot, the betrayer, the destroyer. At least that was how Banks saw it. And the last straw: the wedding announcement. Maureen Tindall, mother of the happy, affluent, successful bride, marrying not just an ex-soldier, but a successful one, a true hero. All the things Mark Vincent had never had or had never been. That must have hurt.
Banks picked up his briefcase. ‘Gerry found out that Vincent has picked up a criminal record since he left the Paras.’ He told Blackstone about Mark Vincent’s prison terms for burglary and arson and suspicion of being involved in the traffic of young girls from Eastern Europe. ‘It happened on your patch, so I’m hoping you’ve got something on him in records. Particularly a good photograph.’
Blackstone flipped through the file. ‘I’m sure we do,’ he said. ‘We photograph everyone we charge, and it should all be on the national database, along with DNA and fingerprints. But you already know that.’
‘I was just hoping you might be able to dig out something a bit better than the mugshot from the archive.’
‘I suppose we could try. We might have something. It’s not as if you’re asking about a fifty-year-old case this time, the way you usually do. Our recent records are actually in pretty good shape. And I even know where to get my hands on them.’
Banks scooped up a mouthful of korma with his naan. ‘I’m sure you do,’ he said, when he had eaten it. It burned all the way down, even though the waiter had assured him it was mild. Banks glugged some chilled lager.
‘When would you like this information?’
‘Tomorrow morning will do.’
Blackstone made a mock salute. ‘No problemo, sir. I’ll have one of my lads get right on it. Would you be requiring a scan, JPEG or courier job?’
‘What a bewildering array of choices. What’s fastest?’
‘JPEG, probably. I can email it to you.’
‘That’ll do nicely, then.’
‘Your wish, my command.’
Banks grinned. ‘Thanks, Ken. I owe you.’
‘I’ll add it to the list.’
They ate and drank in silence for a while, then Blackstone ordered a couple more pints of lager. Banks could use another one by then; his gut was burning. The nachos had had the same effect the other day. He wondered if there was something seriously wrong with him. Cancer, or something. Or a heart attack. Didn’t they sometimes start with what felt like indigestion? Maybe he should get checked out. On the other hand, it could just be a simple case of indigestion. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he felt it easing off, fading into the distance. He’d take another antacid later.
‘So tell me about your love life,’ Blackstone said.
‘What love life?’
‘A little bird tells me that your profiler is back in town. Jenny Fuller.’
‘Are there no secrets?’
‘Word travels fast, old son. So? Is it true?’
‘That she’s back? Yes. She’s been gone a long time, Ken. A lot of water under the bridge.’
‘Oh, don’t try to fob me off with clichés.’
‘I’m not. There’s nothing to tell.’
‘You must know whether you’re in with a chance.’
‘I don’t, Ken. Really, I don’t. I don’t even know if I want to be.’
‘But you’ve talked about it, haven’t you? I can tell. That’s how it starts, you know.’
‘She’s still finding her feet. She thinks our moment may have passed.’
‘Bollocks. I doubt it’s her feet you’re interested in, though who knows? It takes all sorts. But I’d hurry up if I were you, mate, or believe me, someone will get there before you. From what I heard she’s still a bit of all right.’
‘A bit of all right? Christ, Ken, I haven’t heard that expression in years. Not since I was a teenager, at any rate. A bit of all right?’
‘OK, sorry. Getting carried away. But you’d be a fool not to go for it, you mark my words. Unless you’re too busy dallying with that poet of yours.’
‘She’s not mine, and I’m not dallying with her.’
‘ “Had we but world enough, and time...” ’
Banks laughed. ‘Who’s the poetry fan now?’ He realised that he sometimes got too lost in morose thoughts and memories when he was alone for too long, and someone like Ken brought him out of himself. Banks was a man who took his life and his job very seriously indeed, but he was able to laugh at himself, too. He was tempted to tell Blackstone about Emily, and what Julie Drake had revealed to him on Saturday night, but that still felt too close to home, too private, too raw. He didn’t think he could bear to tell anyone. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
‘It’s one of the few I know,’ said Blackstone. ‘I’ve even tried it out a couple of times on dates but it’s never worked.’