Abattoir Blues: The 22nd DCI Banks Mystery (Inspector Banks 22)

by Peter Robinson

  For a while after they turned off the main road, which branches towards Belderfell Pass to the left and the High Pennine moorland beyond the source of the River Swain to the right, Banks thought they might have to stop and continue on foot. But the drifting was patchy and for every deep and difficult stretch to plough through they would get a few hundred yards of relatively easy driving.

  Eventually, taking much longer than he would have liked, Banks pulled up in the yard of High Point Farm, happy to see that two squad cars had somehow managed to beat him there. Even better, one of the officers said he had used his police radio to send out for a snowplough from Crowborough, the nearest village, about seven miles north. There were telegraph wires leading to the farmhouse, Banks noticed, so Welles/Atherton clearly had a landline.

  Winsome’s Polo stood in the yard, half covered by snow. Without touching it, Banks glanced through the windows. No Winsome. No keys in the ignition, no signs of a struggle. The snow had covered up any tracks that might have been in the yard, except their own. There were no indications of where Winsome and Atherton might have gone.

  One of the uniformed officers told him there was also a red pickup truck in one of the outbuildings. Its engine was cold, which meant Atherton had probably been at home when Winsome arrived. Banks pulled up the collar of his three-quarter-length overcoat and surveyed the scene. Snow had drifted up against the front door of the low-roofed farmhouse and one side of the barn. He thought there was something odd about the place when he looked closely. ‘What are those?’ he asked Annie. ‘Those pens on the side.’

  ‘That’s not a barn,’ said Annie. ‘At least, it probably was once, but it isn’t now. They’re called lairage. They’re used to keep the animals waiting for slaughter. It’s an abattoir, Alan, a private bloody abattoir.’

  Banks hurried over to the building, with Annie not far behind. The front door stood open, and the long fluorescent lights shone on the inner workings of the small abattoir, the motorised rail running lengthways along the ceiling, the dangling hook with its bloody curve, the central trough, boilers and spray hoses for skinning. They stood just inside the doorway, wary of contaminating what might be a crime scene. Not to mention frightened of catching something. Whoever owned the place certainly had no interest in cleanliness and hygiene. It stank to high heaven and the floor was caked in shit and blood and worse. Banks almost gagged; Annie held her nose and breathed through her mouth. She pointed, and Banks saw an object on the floor, a bolt gun. They would leave it for the CSIs. At least Winsome wasn’t here, though she might have been, Banks thought. There could have been a struggle, and Atherton had dropped the bolt gun. But where were they now?

  Banks and Annie left the abattoir as it was when they found it and walked back to the farmhouse. The front door was locked, but one of the officers soon got it open with his mini battering ram, the ‘red doorknocker’ as it was affectionately called. Nobody gave any thought to a warrant. A police officer’s life was in danger, and they had every reason to suspect the person who lived there of serious crimes.

  The inside of the farmhouse was almost as unsavoury as the abattoir. Cups, pans, plates, knives and forks stood piled in the stained sink, unwashed for days, or weeks. A plate on the small table with mould growing out of what had once been food on it, mouse droppings everywhere, signs of rats, too. On the wall was a rack of knives, and not Henkel cookware, either. These were nasty blades, clearly designed for the skinning and gutting of animals, or people. They were the only clean objects in the place, sharp blades so lovingly polished you could see your face in them.

  Though Banks and Annie wore latex gloves, they were careful not to touch anything as they went methodically through the place, the bedroom, with its unruly mess of sheets, like the apparition from MR James’s ‘Whistle and I’ll Come To You’ Banks had seen on television at Christmas. The toilet was a pigsty, the rest of the upstairs drab, bare and dusty. And nowhere were there any signs of Winsome or Atherton.

  Banks supposed that was a good thing. At least they hadn’t found her tied to a bed with a bolt pistol wound between her eyes. That meant there was a good chance she had escaped, or was at least on the run. If she had headed for the moors with Atherton in pursuit, Banks would put his money on Winsome. He had seen her in chases, and she was fast and strong. Whether either had the stamina to get very far under these conditions, however, remained doubtful.

  It was down in the cellar where they found the hydroponic set-up. Marijuana plants, lots of them, along with about a kilo of hash and a similar amount of cocaine, clearly from elsewhere. Drugs were another of Atherton’s little sidelines. He had no doubt supplied Caleb Ross with the wacky baccy he had smoked.

  ‘We’ll seal the cellar off for now,’ Banks said. ‘It’s more important to get search parties organised for Winsome. They can’t have got far. Have a word with the patrol officers. They might know the area a bit better than we do. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of getting a helicopter out in this weather, but it’s worth asking, too.’

  Annie walked over to the nearest patrol car, leaning down to speak through the window. Banks looked around. The snow showed no signs of abating. He imagined Winsome caught in a drift, slowly freezing to death. He put away such disturbing thoughts when he heard a car approaching. It turned out to be a dark blue Focus, and it appeared round the bend in the drive and pulled to a halt behind the police four by four.

  Though he had never met Terry Gilchrist before, Banks recognised him from the car he drove, his limp and Winsome’s description. ‘Oh, bloody hell,’ he said as Gilchrist advanced through the snow. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I thought you might need some help.’

  ‘It’s a police operation,’ said Banks. ‘We don’t normally involve civilians, not even ex-military.’

  ‘So that’s all the thanks I get for fighting for my country? Not to mention driving all this way in a bloody Ford Focus?’

  Banks shrugged.

  ‘What exactly are you doing that you don’t want my help on?’

  ‘Why don’t you just get back in your car and head for home, Mr Gilchrist. Leave it to us.’

  ‘It’s Winsome, isn’t it? I knew something was wrong when she didn’t call.’

  ‘Yes, it’s Winsome,’ said Banks, losing his temper. ‘She’s a friend and a colleague and I’d like you to clear out of here and let us do our job.’

  Gilchrist stood his ground and looked around the farmyard. ‘It doesn’t look to me as if you’re actually doing very much.’

  ‘That’s your opinion.’

  Gilchrist sighed. ‘Look, Chief Inspector, you may not like me, or you may simply not like the idea of someone telling you your business, but if you’re looking for Winsome, I might be able to help. And if I think what’s happened is true, the sooner the better.’

  Banks was suddenly interested. ‘Oh? And what do you think happened?’

  ‘Do you know where you are?’

  ‘High Point Farm. You said you’d never heard of it. I blame myself for letting it slip.’

  ‘I hadn’t, but it was easy to look up. You’re within a quarter of a mile of Woadly Edge, though you can’t see it from here in this weather. It’s up that hill and across the moors a couple of hundred yards or so.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Winsome and I have had a few conversations. I wouldn’t say I know her well, but I do know one or two things about her that I think you ought to consider.’

  ‘Those being?’

  ‘First off, Woadly Edge is one of the main access points for the Swainsdale cave system. And second, Winsome used to be a keen potholer. She’d know the caves like the back of her hand.’

  ‘So you’re saying . . .’

  ‘You’re catching on. If she was in trouble out here, the odds are she’d run for the caves. It would give her an advantage.’

  ‘And her chances once she’d got there?’

  ‘Depends on whether someone was after her, and whether that someon
e also knows the system. It’s not for novices, though, so he’d have to be an experienced potholer. The odds are good. There aren’t that many.’

  ‘From what I know of him, I doubt he goes potholing in his spare time. More like pulls the legs off flies. What would you advise us to do, assuming this is true?’

  ‘Get up there right away and find out if I’m right.’

  Banks said nothing.

  As if sensing and understanding his indecision, Gilchrist said, ‘Look, I know you don’t want people like me interfering, but I assure you I also have experience of the caves. I have military training, too. I can handle myself, despite the injury.’ He held his arms out. ‘Look, no stick.’

  ‘You don’t need it?’

  ‘Actually, it’s in the car, and I could certainly use it to get to Woadly Edge. But once I’m inside, no. As long as I don’t have to run.’

  ‘This is against my better judgement,’ said Banks.

  ‘Come on, we should get going. Bring the others. We might need some help clearing the entrance.’

  Banks spoke to Annie and two of the patrol officers while Gilchrist got his walking stick and torch, along with two spades they found in the yard, then the four of them set off up the rise towards Woadly Edge. It didn’t take long to get there, and the drifts had not covered the entrance. A gaping dark hole showed in stark contrast against the white surroundings. The snow was light enough that they could walk straight through it.

  ‘That’s her jacket,’ said Banks, pointing his torch towards the middle of three cave entrances. ‘That’s Winsome’s jacket.’

  His voice echoed. They were standing at a sort of stone hallway or foyer with a high ceiling, or so it seemed to Banks, and Winsome’s quilted jacket lay on the ground in front of the central of three openings. There was no trace or sign of Atherton.

  ‘That’s a dead end,’ said Gilchrist. ‘She was trying to misdirect him.’

  ‘Which means she knew he was after her, and he wasn’t far behind,’ said Banks. ‘She must be bloody freezing.’

  Gilchrist bent forward and went into the right-hand tunnel.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Gilchrist looked back. ‘If she went anywhere,’ he said, ‘it was down here. She’d know as well as I do about the left-hand entrance.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It gets too narrow. This one’s narrow in parts, too, but it’s the only way in from here.’

  ‘Into where?’’ Annie asked.

  ‘I don’t have time to explain,’ said Gilchrist, edging forward even as he spoke, ‘but it’s a large system of passages and caverns, one of the biggest in Europe. There are miles and miles of connected caves in there, but it’s a bit like a maze.’

  ‘Can you get through?’ Banks said, bending in the entrance after him.

  ‘Yes,’ Gilchrist said, then vanished into the darkness.

  Banks caught up with him and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Be careful,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget, Atherton might be in there, and we believe he’s a killer.’

  ‘I’ve encountered killers before,’ said Gilchrist. ‘I’ll make sure I see him before he sees me.’

  Banks went back outside to Annie. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I don’t like this at all.’

  ‘Well, do you want to go in after him?’

  Banks looked at the dark tunnel. Even when he shone his torch on the walls they looked slimy and uninviting. He felt a sense of claustrophobia envelop him. ‘No way. But if it’s for Winsome I will.’

  He started to move forward.

  Annie grabbed his sleeve. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Leave it to Gilchrist. He might be a civilian, but he’s a trained soldier and potholer. He knows what he’s doing. You don’t. You could get stuck in there or something.’

  ‘I hate just waiting around.’

  ‘You and me both. But like you said, it’s Winsome. He’s her best chance.’

  ‘What if Atherton is in there?’

  ‘At least he doesn’t have his bolt gun. And if he is, I’d say it’s already game over, one way or another, wouldn’t you? You can’t turn back the clock.’

  ‘You’re a real comfort.’

  She was back at Spring Hill walking home from Sunday school and a man in a battered hat and a dark moth-eaten coat was following her. Only it was snowing and she remembered thinking, in the dream, that it never snows in Maroon Town. But it did, and all the flame trees were covered in it, all green and white and red like Christmas trees. But she was frightened. The man was following her. She thought he was probably the ‘Skinner’ people were talking about. He skinned his victims after he’d had his way with them. But there was another man on the scene, her father in his best Sunday suit, not his uniform, and they were fighting. The Skinner was going to kill her father and skin him. She had to get back to them and help but she couldn’t get through, she was slipping and sliding and getting stuck up to her knees and she knew she just couldn’t make it in time, a knife flashing . . .

  Winsome gave an involuntary twitch and her eyes opened wide with fear. She realised that she had fallen asleep. She was waking from a dream. Moving carefully, she curled up into a ball against the cold. It wouldn’t do to fall off the ledge after all she had been through. She had no idea how long she had been there. Using her mobile light, she checked her watch and saw it was going on for five o’clock. About four hours, then. Had she waited long enough? Would the cavalry have arrived at High Point Farm? Of course, they would have no idea where she was. Maybe Banks and Annie vaguely remembered her mentioning potholing, but they probably didn’t know about the cave system here, or its access points. They’d be searching for her around the farm and the open moorland, hindered by the snow.

  Where was Atherton? She wasn’t certain whether the shouts and screams she had heard earlier were human or just a trick of the wind, but she hadn’t heard anything for some time now. He certainly hadn’t got through to her in two hours, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t waiting at the exit. He could even have gone back to the abattoir and picked up his bolt gun. Or perhaps he imagined there were other exits, that she must be long gone, and had given up the ghost and scarpered. She just didn’t know. Was it worth the risk of going back to find out?

  Despite the insulation of the rock, she was freezing. She wished she hadn’t left her jacket behind to try to fool Atherton. She rubbed her hands together and held her knees tighter to her chest. There wasn’t much she could do about her feet. They were like blocks of ice.

  She would give it an hour longer, she decided. If no help had come by then, she would make her way back out as slowly and quietly as she could. Even if Gerry and the backup had no idea that she was in the cave, they would surely have got as far as High Point Farm, and she could outrun Atherton back down there.

  Just when she had made herself as comfortable as she could again on the ledge, she thought she heard a slithering sound from the tunnel.

  Atherton.

  She strained, but heard nothing for a few moments, then she heard it again, a light scraping, like someone crawling on his stomach.

  As quietly as she could, she stood up and pressed her back against the wall by the entrance. When he came out, he would be bent forward. Just one quick tug on his arm was all it would take, and his own momentum would take him over the edge. She had rehearsed the possibility time after time in her mind during her first anxious minutes in the cavern.

  He was getting closer, up on his feet now. She could hear muffled footsteps, though there was something odd about them. If he had a torch, he must have turned it off, because the opening was still pitch black. Winsome tensed. It wouldn’t be long now. Just one quick pull, she told herself, then let go, or she’d be following him over the edge and end up impaled on a stalagmite. The shuffling got nearer and she was just about to reach out when she realised why it sounded so strange. He was limping. She relaxed just as she heard a familiar voice say, ‘Winsome? Are you there? Are you alone?’

  Terry. She let he
rself fall back against the wall and slide down so she was sitting on the ledge again.

  She had tears in her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said, laughing or crying as she spoke. ‘Yes, I’m here. And yes, I’m alone. Very bloody alone.’ She never swore, and when the word came out it shocked her. She put her hand to her mouth, but she couldn’t stop laughing. ‘I swore,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe it. I swore.’

  Then he was standing there, his torch on again, illuminating part of the cathedral vastness before them. ‘Wash your mouth out,’ he said.

  ‘Help me.’

  He reached down to help her to her feet, and as soon as she was standing she leaned forward and kissed him full on the lips, for far longer than she had even planned on doing.

  ‘Sorry we’re so late getting round to you, Mr Beddoes,’ said Banks. ‘We had a bit of a crisis to take care of first.’ It was nine o’clock and the Beddoes had been in a holding cell at the station since four, complaining all the time. Patricia Beddoes had been demanding to see Cathy Gervaise, but even when one of the custody officers thought he should at least inform the AC what was happening, ‘Cathy’ Gervaise made it clear that she wasn’t available.

  Cassandra Wakefield had turned up half an hour ago, and while her associate represented Patricia Beddoes in another interview room with Annie and Doug Wilson, she stuck with John Beddoes, sitting opposite Banks and Gerry.

  ‘I can’t believe this,’ Beddoes complained. ‘My wife and I are quietly going about our business and some hooligan of a police officer blocks our way and drags us all the way down here.’

  ‘Where were you going?’ Banks asked.

  ‘It’s none of your fucking business.’