‘I . . . don’t . . . know,’ Alex gasped.
Meadows stood up and scratched his temple. ‘Know what?’ he said. ‘I believe you. But I’m also sure that if he hasn’t been in touch already, he will be very soon, and when he is, I want to know. Understand?’
Alex nodded.
Meadows walked towards the front door.
Alex held her breath. ‘How do I get in touch?’ she asked.
He turned. ‘That’s more like it.’ He handed her a card. On it was a printed number. ‘And there’s no use handing it over to the police,’ he said. ‘They won’t get anywhere with it, and it’ll only make things worse for you. And your son.’ He glanced at Alex’s hand. ‘Don’t forget. You’ve still got seven fingers and two thumbs left. Not to mention the boy.’ Then he took his raincoat off the hook and left.
Chapter 4
About the last thing Banks wanted to be doing so soon in the mucky grey light just after dawn on a mizzling March morning was stand around the Riverview Caravan Site looking at the smouldering remains of Morgan Spencer’s caravan. His days ended late, but they didn’t usually start so early. If there were any justice in the world, he’d be lying in bed listening to Today, waiting for ‘Thought for the Day’ to shift him into the shower. Or better still, he’d be cuddling up to Oriana’s warm naked body beside him with the alarm clock set on snooze. He shivered. No sense making things worse for himself.
DC Gerry Masterson stood beside him. She had been first in the squad room that morning, keen newcomer that she was, and, as usual, first to read through the nightlies, which detailed all the police-involved incidents that had occurred in the region overnight. Usually it was a matter of drink-drivers, the occasional domestic or late-night pub brawl that got out of hand, but this time, she told him, she had noticed one interesting item: a fire at Riverview Caravan Park. That rang a bell, and when she enquired further of the desk sergeant, she was able to discover that the caravan belonged to one Morgan Spencer. Now Banks stood beside her at the scene while the fire investigation officer Geoff Hamilton and his team sifted through the wreckage. Annie Cabbot was on her way. Winsome and Doug Wilson could be safely left to take care of everything else for the time being.
The air smelled of wet ash and burnt rubber, in its own way almost as bad as the smell of human innards at a post-mortem. The area was roped off, but people stood outside their caravans or crowded around the edges of the prohibited area. Some were wearing only dressing gowns, having been woken by the blaze; others were already dressed and ready for the day. A number of uniformed officers made their way through the crowd taking statements. So far, nobody had seen or heard anything. More like they didn’t want to get involved, Banks thought.
Banks spotted Annie arriving and waved her over.
‘Bloody hell,’ she said, when she saw the devastation.
Of the neighbouring caravans, fortunately, only one had been damaged by the flames, which was a small miracle in itself. Still, Annie told Banks, ex-police sergeant Rick Campbell would be mightily pissed off about his siding.
‘Do people insure these things?’ Banks asked her.
‘I doubt it. The ones who live here year-round probably can’t afford it, and the rest can’t be arsed.’
Hamilton conferred with his team and ambled over. He was never a man to be hurried, Banks remembered from the time they had worked together on a narrowboat fire. He greeted Banks, Annie and Gerry with his usual courtesy and pointed towards the ruins of the caravan. ‘Not much left, I’m afraid. Firetraps, most of these things, no matter how much folks try to fireproof them.’
‘Anyone inside?’ Banks asked.
Hamilton shook his head.
‘Cause?’
‘Well, we can’t be certain yet, but the sniffer dogs have found no trace of accelerant, and the burn patterns would seem to indicate the calor gas burner.’
‘You mean someone left it on?’ Annie said.
‘Mebbe,’ said Hamilton.
‘But you doubt it?’ Banks prompted him.
‘You know me, Alan, I’m not one for wild speculation in the absence of any real concrete evidence.’
‘But . . . ?’
‘Well, all I can tell you is that the rubber pipe had come out at the burner end. It’s very much the same principle as a barbecue, if you know how that works.’
‘I know,’ said Banks. ‘I’ve got one.’ He had even managed to use it once or twice, between rain showers.
‘I’d be careful, then.’
‘Don’t worry, Geoff. I keep it in the garden.’
‘Even so . . . as I said, it looks as if the rubber hose had come free at the burner end, but was still attached to the calor gas supply.’
‘Which turned it into a flame-thrower?’
‘Aye, more or less.’
‘And this happened how?’ Banks pressed on.
‘Well, these things do happen by themselves sometimes,’ said Hamilton. ‘Say, if the connection gets blocked by spiders’ webs, or something else gets stuck inside and the rubber burns through. But from the remains I’ve seen here, it looks very much as if someone set a little pile of paper on fire on the floor of the caravan, near the burner, ripped out the end of the hose, turned on the calor gas and got out fast.’
‘Arson, then?’
‘A near certainty.’
‘Professional?’
Hamilton pulled a face as he appeared to think it over. ‘Doubtful. A pro would probably just have lit a fire underneath the caravan itself. Easy to do. And it would have had the same effect eventually.’
‘But someone was inside?’
‘I’d say so. The lock area was splintered, the latch broken off. Fire doesn’t do that. Someone had put his shoulder to the door and pushed. It wouldn’t have taken much strength.’
‘Any signs of a search?’ Annie asked.
Hamilton glanced back at the damage. ‘As you can see, nothing much has been spared. I must say, though, that while the cupboards and drawers might have come open and spilled their contents because of the fire, one thing a fire can’t do is cut open a mattress and pillows.’
‘So someone went through the place thoroughly before starting the fire?’ Annie said.
‘Looks that way. And then pulled out the connecting hose and did as I said.’
‘Damn,’ said Annie. ‘If we’d searched the caravan last night . . .’
‘You can’t blame yourself,’ Banks said. ‘You followed correct procedure. How were we to know someone else had the same ideas as we did? We still don’t know whether it’s connected to anything else we’re looking into. Besides, no one was hurt.’
‘Morgan Spencer was certainly connected to Michael Lane,’ Annie said. ‘And Michael Lane was the son of Frank Lane, John Beddoes’ closest neighbour and the man who was keeping an eye on his farm while he was in Mexico. Michael Lane lived with Alex Preston, who works in a travel agent’s. Those are the only connections we know about for sure.’
‘I know,’ said Banks. ‘And I don’t like coincidences any more than you do. But what on earth could they have been looking for? Something he had of theirs? Or something that connected them to him? And who are they?’
‘We won’t find out standing here,’ said Annie. She looked at Hamilton. ‘Thanks, Geoff. If anything else comes up . . .’
‘I’ll let you know.’
‘Where are you going?’ Banks asked.
‘To see Alex Preston again, pick up Michael Lane’s toothbrush or hairbrush for a DNA sample. After that, I think young Dougal and I will have a trip to the seaside.’
Banks gave her a quizzical look.
‘Denise Lane, Frank’s ex, Michael’s mother. She might know something.’
Banks nodded. ‘Keep an eye out for any signs of Lane while you’re out there. And keep in touch. I may see you at the station later today. Jazz might have something for us by then. Otherwise, report in when you get back from the coast.’
Annie hurried back to her car, head dow
n.
‘Know anything about Morgan Spencer, Gerry?’ Banks asked.
‘I did a quick background check when I saw whose caravan it was,’ said Gerry Masterson. ‘His mother lives in Sunderland, and no one knows where his dad is. Back in Barbados, most likely. And he does have form. GBH and breaking and entering. I’m still working on this removals van Morgan might have owned, but rumour has it he had a lock-up somewhere. I’ll be tracking it down when I get back.’
‘Soon as possible, if you can, Gerry,’ Banks said.
‘Will do.’
Banks turned back to the ruins of Morgan Spencer’s caravan. The fire would have burned up any traces of DNA. If Michael Lane’s DNA wasn’t a match for that in the hangar, it could mean that Morgan Spencer was the victim, though there seemed to be no easy way to verify that. The only evidence was circumstantial. According to Alex Preston, Morgan often called or texted Michael Lane about jobs, and Lane had received a text on the Sunday morning he went missing. If both Lane and Spencer were involved in the tractor theft, which wasn’t outside the realms of possibility, and if they had both turned up at the airfield that morning, were they both dead? Only Jazz Singh could solve that one when she came back with the DNA analysis. If not, had one killed the other and done a bunk? Alex Preston had told Annie that Michael Lane was home all Saturday night, but then she would, wouldn’t she?
Too many questions, Banks realised. They could give a man a headache. He was reading too much into too little. It was time to get back to the station and start trying to gather his thoughts down on paper, put a few ideas together before heading out to the Lane farm.
Annie wanted to find out if Alex Preston knew Michael Lane’s blood type. She knew she could probably ask her over the phone, but that might prove tricky, taking into account the questions it raised and Alex’s anxiety, so she decided to go in person, even if it meant climbing up to the bloody eighth floor again. Besides, she needed something that would yield a sample of Michael’s DNA to take to Jazz.
By some miracle, the lift was working again, and Annie was spared the climb to the eighth floor. The smell was just as bad as last time, and she was glad when the doors finally opened. After a deep breath, she made her way along the balcony to Alex’s flat. It was still early – she’d come straight from the caravan site – and she was hoping to catch Alex before she went to work. As it turned out, Alex had just got back from taking Ian to school, and she was making a cup of tea when Annie called.
‘What happened to your finger?’ Annie asked, noticing the bandages. She also noticed that Alex was looking tired, with bags under her eyes.
‘I think I broke it,’ Alex said. ‘Trapped it in the door.’
‘You should see a doctor.’
‘I’ve got an appointment for later this morning. I don’t think it’s so bad I need to go to A & E.’
‘You never know.’ Annie accepted a cup of tea and settled down in an armchair. ‘Is everything else all right? Ian?’
‘Yes, of course. Why shouldn’t it be?’
‘Nothing. You just seem a bit jumpy this morning, that’s all.’
‘Well, wouldn’t you be a bit jumpy if your partner had disappeared off the face of the earth?’
‘He hasn’t disappeared off the face of the earth, Alex. There’s a simple explanation for all this. We’ll find him. Have you seen or heard anything of him?’
Alex looked away. ‘No.’
Annie wasn’t certain whether she was lying. But why would she? ‘What about Morgan Spencer?’
‘No.’
‘His caravan was burned down during the night.’
Alex’s eyes widened. ‘Burned down . . . you mean it caught fire?’
‘Was burned down. As in, it was deliberately set on fire.’
‘And Morgan?’
‘He wasn’t home. There was nobody inside. The place was ransacked first. Any idea why?’
‘Me? Why should I have any idea?’
Annie leaned forward, put down her mug and rested her elbows on her legs. ‘Because I don’t believe you’re telling me everything.’
‘Of course I am. What on earth do you mean?’
‘Michael and Morgan were up to something, weren’t they? Maybe they were mixed up with some seriously dangerous people. We don’t know yet. But perhaps you do?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know anything. Surely you don’t believe Michael could have had anything to do with this fire?’
Annie could see the fear in her eyes, hear it in her tremulous voice, smell it like a particularly heavy perfume in the air. ‘I’m not sure I believe you,’ she said. ‘Are you afraid of someone, Alex? Who is it? Morgan? Someone else? Michael? Has someone threatened you?’
‘No,’ said Alex, just a fraction too quickly. ‘Don’t be silly.’
Annie glanced down at her finger again. ‘What was that? A down payment?’
‘I told you, I trapped it in the door.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘I don’t care if you don’t believe me. You can’t prove otherwise.’
‘You’re right.’ Annie settled back and picked up her mug again. ‘You don’t have to tell me anything. And why should I care? But I was hoping you’d realise I’m trying to help you.’
‘I . . . I . . . there’s nothing you can do.’
‘You’re wrong about that. There’s a lot I can do. I’m on your side, Alex, but I need something to go on. Anything. I’m in the dark here. What’s Michael mixed up in?’
‘Nothing. I told you.’
Annie sighed. ‘OK. If that’s the way you want to play it. Do you happen to know Michael’s blood type?’
‘Blood type? Why do you—’
‘Can you just answer the question, please, Alex.’
‘Well . . . not offhand. I have it . . . I think . . .’ She excused herself and went over to the sideboard, where she rummaged through a drawer and brought out a small ring-bound notebook. ‘This is where I keep all the important information like that, passport numbers and so on,’ she said, flipping through the pages. ‘Here it is. A positive. Why do you want to know?’
Annie tried to show no reaction to the news. ‘It might help us find him.’
‘You mean you think he’s been bleeding? Someone’s hurt him? Is he badly hurt?’
‘Alex, do you have anything here that I might be able to get a sample of Michael’s DNA from? A toothbrush, hairbrush, perhaps?’
‘Yes. He didn’t take either of those things with him. But why? Why do you need his DNA?’ She grasped the collar of her blouse and held it as if she were cold. ‘You have a body or something, don’t you? You think it’s Michael.’
Annie walked over and rested her hands on Alex’s shoulders. ‘Alex, calm down. You’re letting your imagination run away with you. It’s routine. It’s not only dead people who leave traces of DNA, you know, or bodily fluids that can give us their blood group.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Alex ran her hand through her hair. ‘Can’t you see I’m at my wits’ end here?’
‘Just give me what I ask for,’ Annie said. ‘Please. And believe me, it will help.’
When Alex came back from the bathroom carrying a toothbrush and a hairbrush, she looked even worse. ‘You might want to tell your doctor you’re run-down when you go and see him this morning,’ Annie said. ‘He may be able to give you a tonic or something. Are you due at work?’
‘Not today, thank God.’
Annie stood up and took two bags from her briefcase, placed the toothbrush in one and the hairbrush in the other and wrote neatly on the labels to identify the contents, asking Alex to sign as a witness. Still looking stunned, Alex did as she was asked.
Annie stopped at the door. ‘Just one more thing,’ she said. ‘Do you remember if John Beddoes booked his trip to Mexico through GoThereNow?’
‘Yes. Yes, he did. I took the details myself. But what—’
‘Did you tell anyone?’
‘W
hy would I?’
‘I don’t know. Just in passing, you know, in general conversation. After all, Michael knows him. It might have come up.’
‘I suppose I might have. But I don’t understand. Surely you’re not suggesting that Michael had anything to do with that tractor, are you? I told you, he was here all night Saturday.’
‘Until Sunday morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘When he got a text, probably from Morgan Spencer, and said he had to go out and do a job and might call in on his father?’
‘Yes.’
Annie grasped the door handle. ‘I’m sure everything’s fine, Alex. Don’t worry. And be sure to keep your doctor’s appointment.’
‘You’ll stay in touch?’
‘As soon as we find anything out, you’ll be the first to know.’
‘Where’s that bonny young lass and wee Harry Potter?’ said Lane, when Banks showed him his ID and a warrant to search the premises.
‘DI Cabbot’s on other business, and Harry couldn’t come today,’ Banks answered. ‘He has an important quidditch match.’ He thought Annie would be pleased to hear that she had been called a bonny young lass, though she might not be so thrilled when she heard the source. Lane wasn’t that much older than her, probably only in his mid-forties, Banks guessed, though the years of hard physical labour had taken their toll on him: his shoulders sloped, his skin was leathery and weather-beaten, his complexion rough and raw.
Lane snorted. ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’ He glanced over Banks’s shoulder at the uniformed officers, who were already setting about their search of the outbuildings. ‘What about them?’
‘They won’t be long, Mr Lane. And they’ll be careful. Don’t worry.’
‘I’m not worried. Let ’em look to their hearts’ content. I can’t imagine what they expect to find.’
Banks followed Lane into the living room. ‘We won’t take up much of your time,’ he said, ‘only we’ve been around asking a few questions about your son, and the thing is, we still can’t seem to find Michael.’
‘Oh.’
‘You’re not worried about him?’
‘Our Michael can take care of himself.’
Abattoir Blues: The 22nd DCI Banks Mystery (Inspector Banks 22) Page 10