‘You said you last saw him about two weeks ago?’
‘A little over. Two weeks last Friday. He was doing some work at a farm over the dale, and he dropped by for a cup of tea.’
‘So you’re on speaking terms at the moment?’
Lane’s expression hardened. ‘We have our disagreements, but I’ve never shunned him. He’s my son.’
‘Alex Preston said Michael told her that he might drop in on you last Sunday.’
‘Well, he didn’t. And who might she be when she’s at home?’
‘Alex is your son’s partner.’
‘Partner.’ Lane spat the word. ‘Scarlet woman, more like.’
‘Have it your way. I’m not interested in your petty family squabbles. I want to find your son, and I want to find out what happened to your neighbour’s tractor.’ Banks didn’t want to mention the blood just yet, the more serious reason for his questions, not until they knew a lot more about what had happened in the old hangar.
‘You think he’s here, don’t you? Our Michael. That’s what yon woodentops are looking for, isn’t it?’
‘We’re interested in finding your son, Mr Lane. It would hardly look good on us if we overlooked the obvious, would it?’
‘I told you. I don’t know where he is.’
‘Do you think he could be in trouble?’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘Any sort. He’s been in trouble with the law before, hasn’t he?’
‘That was when . . .’ Lane stopped himself and subsided in his chair, reaching for a cigarette.
‘When what, Mr Lane?’
‘When he was upset. His mother left. It was just a phase he went through, that’s all.’
‘Do you know Morgan Spencer?’
‘Aye. And I know Denise always blamed him for Michael’s problems. Bad influence. She wouldn’t have him in the house.’
‘He seems to be missing, too. Any idea what might have happened to him?’
‘None at all. Why would I? I haven’t seen him in nigh on three years.’
There was a knock at the door, and the leader of the search team said they’d finished outside and would like to search the interior now. Lane had all three of them take off their muddy wellington boots before letting them in the house, but they had come prepared with indoor slip-ons.
‘Mind if I have a look around with them?’ Banks asked.
‘Please yourself. You will, anyway. You’ve got the warrant.’
Banks followed the officers around the inside rooms. It wasn’t a thorough search, the kind they would make if looking for drugs, for example; at the moment, they were just looking for any signs of someone else living on the premises. There were none that Banks could see. Only one of the three bedrooms was in use, with clothes strewn here and there over an unmade bed. One room was completely empty, even down to the bare floorboards, and the other, the smallest, had a single bed and a small pile of boxes in one corner. That would be where Michael slept if he stopped over, Banks guessed. The boxes held a few childhood toys and books. There was nothing to indicate that the room had been used or the bed slept in at all recently. The house was clean, including the bathroom and toilets. There was only one shaving brush, one twin-blade razor, one toothbrush and one tube of toothpaste. Banks watched the uniformed officer check the cabinets, too, where he found nothing but common pain relievers, cold remedies, indigestion tablets, a prescription for blood pressure medication, plasters and Germolene.
When they had finished, they returned to the living room. Lane looked up and said, ‘Told you there was nobody here.’ Then he lit a cigarette and turned on the TV with the remote control. An old episode of Midsomer Murders, the ones with John Nettles, came on. Some sort of village fête interrupted by a pagan ritual. It must have been ITV3, Banks thought, they showed mysteries all day. He looked at the back of Lane’s head for a while, then gestured to the three search officers to put their wellies on again and headed back to the police Range Rover. Michael Lane wasn’t at his father’s farm.
Denise Lane’s parents, Henry and Ilva Prince, lived in a retirement bungalow on the coast between Whitby and Sandsend. As Annie and Doug Wilson crossed the North Yorkshire Moors, through patches of thick fog and deep puddles, they chatted every now and then, but they were also comfortable in silence, just watching the landscape go by, when they could see it. Annie reflected on how nice it was not to have to listen to Banks’s music, which could be dreadful sometimes. At the coast, the weather did another about-face and the sky was clear out to sea. The sun blazed down from a deep blue sky, but there was a sharp icy wind off the water.
The slight, grey-haired lady who answered the door with a suspicious and alarmed expression on her face examined their warrant cards and let them into her sparsely furnished living room, explaining how you couldn’t be too careful these days, especially as her husband was out. A picture window faced the North Sea across the slope of a well-trimmed lawn. The waves rolled in, bright white streaks against the blue of the sea, finally crashing in a haze of foam on the beach below. Several tankers or merchant ships edged slowly across the horizon. Sunlight sparkled on the whitecaps.
‘Lovely view,’ said Annie.
‘Henry always wanted to retire to the seaside, so here we are,’ said Ilva Prince. Her voice sounded like a sigh. Another woman disappointed with her lot in life.
Annie and Doug Wilson continued to enjoy the view as Mrs Prince made a pot of tea, then they sat down on the burgundy velour three-piece suite, complete with wing arms, gold-braided cushions and white lace antimacassars.
Annie had already explained that they hadn’t come bearing bad news, and Mrs Prince seemed more at ease. At least, her hand didn’t shake as she poured the tea. ‘What we were wondering,’ Annie began, ‘was whether you’ve seen your grandson Michael lately.’
‘Michael? Not for a few months now,’ said Mrs Prince. ‘The last I heard, he was shacked up with some floozie on a council estate in Eastvale.’
‘That’s right,’ Annie said. ‘Alex Preston. But you must have got that from your son-in-law, Frank. Those were his very words. I’ve met Alex, and she’s not a floozie at all. As far as I can gather, she and Michael are very much in love. Alex is worried about Michael. She hasn’t seen him since Sunday morning. She says it’s not like him to go off without saying. She thought he might have been visiting his dad. I’m just wondering if maybe he was visiting his mother?’
‘Our Denise? Well, he isn’t. Maybe he’s come to his senses and left this woman?’
‘I’m being serious about this, Mrs Prince.’
‘So am I. Besides, our Denise doesn’t live here any more, and Michael certainly hasn’t been here visiting us. He’s just like his father, never had much time for Henry and me. Not that we haven’t tried. Oh, he’d drop by now and again when his mum was here at first, like, but—’
‘Do you know if your daughter has seen him in the past few days?’
‘She would have said.’
‘So you do still see her?’
‘Yes, of course. It’s just that . . . well, she met a fellow, you see. Lives in Whitby. And she . . . they . . . well, she’s moved in with him. He’s a nice chap, mind you, is Ollie. It’s short for Oliver, you know. I always thought Oliver was a lovely name. Very distinguished. Like Oliver Cromwell. Not that he’s got any airs and graces, mind you. But he’s a decent lad. He’s got a university degree. Got a good job, too. He works in the council offices. They were here for tea just this last Sunday.’
‘And she didn’t mention Michael?’
‘No. Why should she?’
‘We’d really like to talk to her about him,’ said Annie.
Mrs Prince looked at her watch. ‘Well, she won’t be home now. She’ll be at work. That big Tesco’s down by the railway station.’
Doug Wilson stood up. ‘Mind if I use your toilet, Mrs P?’ he said. ‘Long car ride from Eastvale.’
Mrs Prince pointed across the room. ‘It’s through
there, on the right. And leave it as you find it.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Denise and her husband have been separated for two years now. Is that correct?’
‘About that long, yes.’
‘Do you have any insight into what happened?’
Mrs Prince pursed her lips. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you never really know with marriages, do you? People don’t open up to you about private matters like that, do they? All they ever talk about is being incompatible, or things not working out. Only they really do know why if they’re honest. I mean, Henry and I were against the marriage right from the start. She should never have married a farmer, I told her. She was throwing herself away on him. She could have made a good career for herself in business or something, married a nice accountant, or even a lawyer. You should have seen her then. She was a lovely girl. Clever, too. She did really well at school, got three A levels and all. She could have gone to any university she wanted, but no, she had to get a job straight away and start earning money so she could enjoy her freedom. That’s how she put it. “I want to enjoy my freedom while I’m young.” Money for clothes and make-up and CDs and nights out clubbing in Leeds.’ Mrs Prince snorted. ‘A long time that lasted. Her freedom.’
‘She married young?’
‘Young enough. She was nineteen. Worked at the NatWest down on Eastvale market square back then. Henry and I were living in Middlesbrough for his work, like. It wasn’t all that far away. And she’d learned to drive, had a little car of her own. Then Frank Lane had to walk in and apply for a loan. I ask you, what woman in her right mind would fall for a man who goes into a bank to apply for a loan?’
Wilson came back into the room and sat down again.
‘How long were they married?’ Annie asked.
‘Twenty years. She’s still a young woman. Takes good care of herself, too. Always down at that gym, working out.’
‘And she has a job at Tesco’s?’
Mrs Prince paused. ‘Well, it’s just temporary, like, until she gets on her feet. She’ll be back in banking before long, just you wait and see. Manager, I wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘So she’s not working in the Tesco office now, in management?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘When she split up with Frank, did she come straight here to live with you and your husband?’
‘Yes. I told her right from the start she shouldn’t have married him, that life as a farmer’s wife would never agree with her. She was like a beautiful bird in a cage. She liked nice things and parties and going to restaurants, holidays in Spain, trips to London and Paris. She was a virtual prisoner up at that farm. I don’t know how she stuck it for so long. It must have been for the sake of the boy.’
‘You think that’s what did it in the end? The farm, her life up there, the isolation?’
‘Course it was. And there was never enough money. They were always scrimping and saving to make ends meet. I’m not saying her Frank was tight-fisted or owt, not really, but there were times when she could hardly afford to put a meal on the table. I ask you. And he was working all hours God sent. They had no life, never went anywhere. Not even London. No, it’s a wonder it didn’t happen sooner.’ Mrs Prince folded her arms.
‘You mentioned the sake of the boy. Do you think she waited until Michael grew up before leaving?’
‘I suppose that was partly it. I mean, she does care for the lad, give her her due. She was a good mother. But I’m sure it had been on the cards for some time. Michael was seventeen when our Denise finally left. I reckon she thought he was old enough to take care of himself by then. Not that he had a clue, like. Another one who didn’t want to stop in school and go to university. Didn’t know what he wanted to do, if you ask me. Still doesn’t.’
Annie didn’t think she knew what she wanted to do when she was seventeen. Mostly just get drunk on Bacardi Breezers and hang out with the boys. Doug Wilson probably didn’t know, either, she thought, glancing sideways at him. She thought Winsome knew, though, that she always wanted to be a police officer, just like her dad back in Jamaica. He was her hero, or so she had once confessed after a vodka and tonic too many. But Annie had had no idea. Even now she sometimes wondered whether she had made the right decision.
Doug Wilson tapped his pen on his notebook and looked over at Annie. It was the kind of look that said what are we doing wasting our time here, and Annie realised he was right. They had found out as much as she wanted to know about the Lane family, and they would get nothing but more bile out of old Mrs Prince. Christ, what a miserable bloody family, Annie thought. At least the two members she’d met so far were hardly bundles of joy. Maybe Michael and Denise had a better attitude. Well, she’d soon find out.
Just as they were leaving, she turned and asked Mrs Prince, ‘Do you know any of Michael’s friends?’
‘I can’t say as I do.’
‘A lad called Morgan Spencer?’
‘Can’t say as I’ve heard of him.’
‘Is there anything else you can help us with?’
‘I don’t see how. As I said, I don’t have anything much to do with the Lanes, not since our Denise moved out.’
Annie nodded to Wilson, and they left. They stood by the car for a moment and looked out to sea. The ships were mere dots on the horizon. The wind was chill but the water was blue, the sun bright.
‘There was no one else in the house,’ Wilson said. ‘I had a good look around. Clean as a whistle.’
‘Not surprising,’ said Annie. ‘So what do you think?’
‘She doesn’t know anything.’
‘I’ve a feeling you’re right. Fancy a bit of lunch before we tackle the ex-wife? I mean, one can hardly come to Whitby and not have fish and chips, can one?’
Chapter 5
Banks thought he might as well check in with Beddoes while he was out that way, and while he did so, the three search team officers could have a good rummage around the outbuildings. He didn’t think Michael Lane would be hiding out there, but you never knew. Besides, he hadn’t met John Beddoes yet and wanted to get the measure of the man.
Annie had told Banks that Beddoes looked more like a business executive than a farmer, and it was true. He was suave and distinguished-looking, a man used to being in charge. Either way, Banks certainly couldn’t see him mucking out the stables or cleaning out the pigsty or whatever farmers did. Maybe he employed someone else to do that for him. Gerry had also dug up a bit of background and found out that he had been one of the City boys in the mid-eighties, making huge amounts of money on the stock market when they threw out the rule book. Banks had been working in London then, but he had been fighting a losing battle with Soho gangs rather than making money hand over fist. Everyone was at it, though, and he knew that more than a few of his colleagues were on the take. Heady times.
The Bang & Olufsen sound system was top of the line, Banks noticed, and a quick glance at the stack of CDs on his way to sit down indicated a taste for Bach, Mozart and Handel.
‘So you’re the famous DCI Banks. I’ve heard all about you. The wife is in a book club with your boss, you know.’
‘I know,’ said Banks, who found it hard to imagine Area Commander Gervaise talking about him at her book club. ‘I hope what you’ve heard is all good.’
Beddoes smiled. ‘That would be telling. Sorry. Pardon my manners. Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee, something stronger, perhaps?’
Banks held up his hand, palm out. ‘Nothing thanks. This is just a quick call. That’s a nice sound system you’ve got there.’
‘An indulgence of mine. Would you like to hear it in action?’
‘Please.’
Beddoes got up, flipped through the discs and put on a Bach cantata. Every instrument, every nuance of voice, came through loud and clear, yet the music was low enough that they could easily talk over it.
Beddoes gestured towards the window. ‘I notice you’ve brought the troops.’
‘Oh, them. I hope you
don’t mind. I asked them to have a good look at the scene, see if they could find any more trace evidence. We have so little to go on.’
‘I sympathise,’ said Beddoes. ‘And I don’t mind at all. They’d better not get too close to the pigs, though. They’re in a bit of a bad mood today.’
‘I’m sure they won’t disturb your pigs.’
Beddoes crossed his legs. ‘So what can I help you with? I must say, everyone I’ve talked to so far has been very thorough. Most commendable. I don’t imagine I’ll be able to add anything to what I’ve already told your officers.’
‘I just wanted a look at the place, really,’ said Banks, ‘and as I was over talking to Mr Lane I thought I’d drop by and introduce myself.’
‘Checking out the scene of the crime, eh? Have you seen anything of Frank’s son yet? I understand the lad’s gone walkabout.’
‘Nothing yet,’ said Banks. ‘You didn’t have much time for Michael Lane, did you?’
‘I can’t say I did. He was a juvenile delinquent just waiting to happen, as far I was concerned,’ said Beddoes. ‘Or is that a politically incorrect term these days?’
‘More dated, I’d say. Was there anything specific that caused your falling-out?’
‘We didn’t fall out, per se. We were never close to begin with. No, the boy was a pest, that’s all. But that doesn’t mean I’m hoping something’s happened to him. I know Frank loves his son, despite their differences. He’s just a man who finds it hard to talk about his feelings.’
‘Like most men, according to most of the women I know. Are you sure it wasn’t just youthful high spirits with Michael Lane?’
‘Perhaps it was. He was mouthy, mischievous. I don’t suppose that makes him a criminal. Come to think of it, I was probably a bit that way myself.’
‘Did he ever steal from you, commit any acts of vandalism?’
‘No, nothing like that. You’ve heard about the joyriding, I suppose?’
‘Yes. Do you think that makes him a suspect in the theft of your tractor?’
‘Michael Lane?’
Abattoir Blues: The 22nd DCI Banks Mystery (Inspector Banks 22) Page 11