He looked out of the window through the ‘silken strings’ of rain to the jaundiced streetlight in front of the Unicorn across the road. That would be an improvement, he thought. The decor was just as bad, but the beer was decent enough. He found himself wondering what Emily’s hospital had been like, her last days, whether she’d been aware enough to notice or care. As he remembered, she was always very fussy about furniture and paint colours. Julie Drake said Emily spent as long as she could at home, but when the pain got too much, and a visiting nurse could no longer provide the level of care she needed, they took her to hospital. He thought about the other hospital, too, where she had had the abortion all those years ago. What had she felt like after that? Empty, he supposed. Wasn’t that the cliché they always used in movies? Perhaps she had felt free, elated. But he doubted it. Empty was more like it. And he hadn’t even known. Hadn’t even been able to hold her hand or offer her any comfort, let alone suggest having the baby, getting married. Julie was most likely right. He would have tried, and he might have succeeded, and it would probably have been a big mistake. Let go with both hands. Smile and forget.
Banks became aware of the doctor talking. He hadn’t noticed him walk in. ‘It’s not as serious as we thought,’ he went on. ‘He’s lost some blood, and he’s weak, but there’s no skull fracture and no brain damage as far as we can make out. Mild concussion. We’ll keep him in and monitor him overnight, carry out some tests. What was he hit with, by the way?’
‘We think it was a chopping block,’ said Banks. He had placed it in an evidence bag and passed it on to one of the uniformed officers before leaving for the hospital. ‘Can we talk to him?’
‘I don’t see why not. But just for a few minutes. He’s very tired.’ He glanced at Annie. ‘Just one of you, though, I’m afraid.’
‘I’ll wait here,’ said Annie.
The doctor led Banks down the corridor and up in the lift to the private room where Robert Tindall lay on a plumped-up pillow with bandages around his head and various tubes and monitors attached to him. They seemed to subject you to that indignity even if all you came in with was a cut finger. ‘And don’t overexcite him,’ the doctor admonished Banks as he walked off.
‘God forbid,’ Banks muttered under his breath.
The light was dim and the curtains closed. Banks could hear the wind-blown rain lashing against the windowpane, along with an annoying beep inside the room itself every two or three seconds. That was another thing he had noticed; there was always an annoying beep in hospital rooms.
Tindall’s eyes were open, and Banks noticed signs of recognition. It was a good start. Tindall tried to sit up but couldn’t make it. He reached out and grabbed Banks’s wrist. His grasp was surprisingly strong. ‘Mr Banks,’ he said. His voice was soft but the words were formed clearly enough, and the anxiety and urgency in his tone were obvious. ‘Can you tell me anything about Maureen? Please. What’s happened to her? Where is she? Did he hurt her?’
‘We don’t know much yet,’ said Banks, ‘but there are no signs that he hurt her. Now calm down. The doctor says you need rest and shouldn’t become too excited.’
‘But I’m worried about her.’
‘Of course you are. It’s only natural. But we’re doing everything in our powers to find her and bring her back home safe and sound.’
‘Thank God. Are you sure she’s not hiding in the house?’
‘I’m afraid not. We searched the whole place and she’s not there.’
‘Where is she?’
‘We don’t know yet.’ Banks took the West Yorkshire photo of Vincent out of his briefcase. It had been taken recently enough that it could definitely be matched to the man in Ray Cabbot’s drawing, but it was far easier for people to make identification from an actual photograph rather than a drawing, Banks had found. Somehow, art makes us expect distortion and exaggeration, yet we take photographs as representations of the real.
‘Do you recognise this man?’ Banks asked.
Tindall fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table. He had a hard time getting them on with the bandages over his ears, but he managed it well enough to study the photograph and say almost immediately, ‘Yes. That’s the man. That’s the man who hit me and grabbed Maureen.’
‘Thank you,’ Banks said. ‘Do you know who he is?’
‘No. He was a stranger. It was...’ he paused and frowned, as if trying to think clearly. ‘It was odd. As if Maureen seemed to recognise him just a split second before he grabbed her. Who is he?’
‘His name is Mark Vincent.’
‘Vincent? Vincent? Isn’t that the name of that girl who was murdered? Maureen’s friend. She made me watch the programme on TV, the fiftieth anniversary.’
‘That’s right,’ said Banks. ‘He’s her brother.’
‘But what’s he... I mean, why would he...?’
‘It’s a long and complicated story,’ said Banks, ‘and I think your wife would be the best person to tell it to you. For now, though, it’s enough for us to know this was the man.’
‘Do you know where he lives?’
Banks had to admit that he didn’t, and Tindall’s face fell at that. ‘Oh,’ he said. It was little more than a sigh.
‘But we’ve got men out all over the dale searching for her. Don’t worry, Mr Tindall. We’re closing in. We’ll find her.’
Tindall seemed to listen to the rain. ‘On a night like this?’
‘Even on a night like this. Is there anything else you can remember that might help us? Did Vincent say anything?’
‘No. He just kicked the door, broke the chain and rushed. He pushed me aside and headed straight for the kitchen. The light was on, so I suppose he must have realised Maureen was in there. It’s right at the end of the hall. I ran after him as quickly as I could. I was a bit winded. But when I got there he picked up that heavy chopping block, whirled around and hit me. I felt this terrible pain on the side of my head and everything flashed and then went dark. Just before I lost consciousness, I saw him grab Maureen and start to drag her away, out towards the front door. That’s when I thought she recognised him. I tried to shout, but I couldn’t move, not even my vocal cords. I must have lost consciousness, but it was only for a short while. I used my mobile to call 999, then... Well, you know the rest.’
Banks hadn’t expected that Vincent had told Tindall where he was taking Maureen, but he still felt disappointed at the lack of information. Most of what Robert Tindall had told him he had already surmised. Maureen was probably still alive, and Vincent had most likely tied her up and stashed her somewhere. If so, where? And what was he going to do to her? Stab her, like his sister was stabbed? Or did he have a better idea? One thing was for certain, if Vincent had carried out the shootings at the wedding, which it appeared he had, and had not killed Maureen then, it was perhaps only because he had a worse fate in mind for her now.
It was time to leave Robert Tindall to the ministrations of his doctors and get back to the station.
Chapter 16
Gerry could have kicked herself for not thinking of caravan sites before. If she had, she could simply have googled ‘caravan parks in Swainsdale’ and saved herself some time. But she hadn’t. She had insisted on using maps, the old technology. Well, that would teach her. It wasn’t as if the sites weren’t marked clearly enough by little blue symbols on the OS maps, but she had overlooked them. A caravan was the ideal type of anonymous, easily transportable home that would suit Vincent. And his wallet, if money were indeed a problem. It was possible that he had picked up a used car and caravan somewhere cheap, no questions asked, cash in hand.