Unti Peter Robinson #22

by Peter Robinson

  Annie glanced at the photos on the mantelpiece again. Alex was right. They made a handsome ­couple, seemed natural together, and no casual viewer would notice an age difference. “Where’s Lenny now?” she asked.

  “God knows. Or cares. Last I heard of him he was working on the ferries from Immingham to Rotterdam. Up to something, no doubt, some scam or other. Lenny was a loser, but it took me a long time to realize it.”

  “I presume that if Michael does a lot of digital photography, he’s got a computer, right?”

  “We share mine. I’ve had it for ages, since before we met. He’s just about computer illiterate. I pretty much had to teach him everything he knows. He hadn’t used a computer before we got together.”

  “Not even at school?”

  Alex shrugged. “Maybe. He never spoke much about school. He certainly didn’t know his way around a computer, anyway.”

  “We might need to examine it later.” It was a delicate situation. Annie knew the rules on computers. No one but a qualified techie was supposed to touch one, and only then after it had been photographed from every angle, including what was showing on the screen and where the various devices were plugged in at the back, front or sides. Although this wasn’t a crime scene, if any information gleaned from Michael Lane’s computer indicated that a crime, or crimes, had been committed, then its value in court would be greatly diminished if Annie and Doug Wilson had been interfering with it first. On the other hand, she wasn’t at a point in her investigation where she had any reason to bring in the CSIs and have it removed. If there was incriminating information on it, there was nothing to stop Alex from erasing everything after Annie left. She decided to have a quick look before then, with Doug Wilson and Alex Preston present as witnesses. She asked Alex if that was all right.

  “It’s fine with me,” said Alex. “Now?”

  “Later will do. We have a few more questions first. Does Michael have a steady job at the moment, or has he managed to get into a photography course?”

  “He’s doing his A levels at night school, so he has a better chance of getting in college next year, if he does well, but he’s still unemployed. And it gets him down sometimes. He does odd jobs to help make ends meet.”

  “What sort of odd jobs?”

  “Farming stuff, mostly. That’s all he knows, apart from drawing and photography. But there’s plenty of it about, depending on the time of year. A lot of it’s unskilled, of course. Casual manual labor. Harvesting and such like. But he’s got a real knack for sheep shearing, and that makes good money sometimes. But it’s all so seasonal. Why are you asking me all these questions? Has something happened to him? Has he had an accident? Or done something stupid?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  Alex studied the backs of her hands. Annie noticed how long and tapered her fingers were, how nicely manicured and clean the nails. “He can be a bit hotheaded sometimes, that’s all. When he gets frustrated. I don’t mean with me or Ian. He’d never lay a finger on us, and I’d never stand for it. Not after Lenny. So what is this all about?”

  “It’s nothing to worry about, really,” said Annie. “His father’s neighbor’s farm was broken into on Saturday night. A valuable tractor was stolen.”

  “Beddoes?”

  “That’s right. Do you know him?”

  “I’ve never met him, but Michael mentioned him sometimes.”

  “In what way?”

  “He said Mr. Beddoes never liked him. Used to chase him off his land. Called him a layabout and a retard. Michael said Beddoes seems all right on the surface, but he can be a nasty piece of work when he’s got a mind to be.”

  “Like?”

  “He told me Beddoes hit him once.”

  “John Beddoes hit Michael?”

  “That’s right. Clipped him around the ear, was how Michael described it. Said it didn’t hurt. He didn’t even bother telling his dad. And once Beddoes thought Michael had been upsetting his precious pigs, chucking stones at them or something. Beddoes threatened to drop him in the sty and said they’d eat him. Michael was just thirteen or fourteen. He was terrified.”

  “I see,” said Annie. “But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it?”

  “Not to them, I don’t think. Long memories. They bear grudges.” Her eyes widened. “Maybe he’s done something to Michael? Beddoes. Maybe he blamed him for stealing his tractor?”

  “It’s unlikely,” Annie said. “Mr. and Mrs. Beddoes didn’t get back from holiday until late last night. The first thing they did when they noticed the tractor missing was call the police.”

  “Well, maybe you should talk to them again? Search the premises, or whatever you do.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Annie, “we’ll be thorough. Has Michael ever threatened Beddoes? You said John Beddoes terrified him when he was younger. Do you think he might have wanted revenge?”

  “You think—­”

  Annie held her hand up. “I don’t think anything yet, Alex. I’m only asking. Michael’s father was tending to the farm while the owners were away. I talked to John Beddoes, and he mentioned a ‘tearaway’ son. His words, not mine. Frank Lane didn’t speak so highly of his own son, either. Or of you. He said he’d never met you, that Michael had never brought you home for tea to meet him.”

  “Ha!” said Alex. “As if we were ever invited. He knows nothing about me. To him I’m just the scarlet woman. A tart.”

  Annie let a few seconds go by. “I just want to talk to Michael,” she said. “That’s all.”

  Alex gave Annie a disappointed glance, and for some reason, it hurt. “You’re all the same, you lot. Just because someone’s made a mistake once, you think they can never put things right, don’t you? Well, me and Michael are doing just fine. OK? And he was here with me on Saturday night, all evening and all night, but I don’t suppose you believe that, do you?”

  “Why wouldn’t I believe you?” said Annie. “You say you last saw him on Sunday morning?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you think he might have another girlfriend, and that’s where he is?”

  Alex reddened, and her lower lip trembled. “No,” she said, squeezing her fists together and putting them to her temples. “What are you saying? Why are you saying horrible things like that? What are you trying to do to me? I’m already going out of my mind with worry. Stop this.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Annie, “but we have to know what’s going on.”

  “Why don’t you just do your job and go out and find Michael? He might be lying hurt somewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Just somewhere.”

  “OK, I’m sorry. Calm down, Alex. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  “You’re more interested in a missing tractor than in what’s happened to my Michael. Admit it.”

  “That’s not true.”

  Alex leaned forward and clasped her hands together. “Then help me,” she said. “Please help me find Michael.”

  THE FRONT gates stood wide open and a young uniformed constable waved down Banks and Gerry Masterson as they approached the airfield. Gerry came to a halt, and the officer asked for their identification. Banks didn’t blame him. The young PC wasn’t from Eastvale HQ, and there was no reason he should know who they were. The officer noted their names down carefully on his clipboard and waved them through. Three patrol cars and Winsome’s Polo were parked willy-­nilly on the cracked concrete outside the hangar, five officers leaning against them chatting, two of the men smoking. When Banks and Gerry flashed their warrant cards, the officers all straightened up, and the smokers trod out their cigarettes. Banks glanced down at the smudges on the wet concrete, then back at the culprits, who looked at him sheepishly.

  “Sorry, sir,” one of them mumbled.

  “That’s all right, son,” said Banks. “You c
an explain the contamination of the scene to the CSIs when they get here.”

  The officer turned beet red.

  “In the meantime,” Banks went on, “don’t you think you could be doing something useful, like organizing a house-­to-­house of the immediate area?”

  “What for, sir?” asked one of the female officers.

  “What for? To find out if anybody heard or saw anything. What do you think?”

  “But we don’t know what happened yet,” said one of the others.

  “That’s right, sir,” the woman said. “It’s probably just a dead dog or a badger or something.”

  Banks sighed. “Well, how do you think you’ll find out? Standing around the car smoking, contaminating the scene?”

  “Besides,” added the female officer, clearly a bit miffed at being bossed about, “I can’t see any houses around here. How are we supposed to organize a house-­to—­”

  “Just bloody get cracking and find some,” snapped Banks, then he and Gerry turned away toward the hangar. Banks shook his head slowly. “Where do they get them from these days, Gerry?”

  Gerry smiled. “Don’t forget, sir, you were young once.”

  Banks flashed her a surprised glance, then shoved his hands in the pockets of his raincoat. She was coming along nicely, he thought; she wouldn’t have dared talk to him like that six months ago.

  They found Winsome inside the hangar, to their right, taking photos with her mobile. The crime scene photographer, if one were to be required, would cover every inch of the place soon, but many detectives liked to take their own set of pictures before the experts arrived, to capture the scene as freshly as they could. The photos sometimes came in useful. Banks took in the vast hangar, sniffing the air. Nothing specific registered with him. The wind sounded like a bassoon.

  Winsome turned at their arrival, and her eyes widened when she saw Banks. “Sir?”

  “I know, I know, I’m supposed to be on holiday. I just couldn’t resist the lure of a bloody crime scene. Tell me all about it.”

  Banks listened closely as Winsome told him the story of her morning. “Where’s this Gilchrist now?” he asked, when she had finished.

  “I drove him home, sir.”

  “You didn’t—­”

  “As if I would. I left two patrol officers guarding the scene. Gilchrist’s ex-­army. Seems to know what he’s about, has his head screwed on right.”

  “Not an alarmist, then?”

  “I wouldn’t say so.”

  Banks looked at the stains on the ground. “Soldiers make good killers,” he said. “It’s what they’re trained to do.”

  “He was wounded,” Winsome said. “In Afghanistan. Walks with a stick.”

  “Did he have anything interesting to tell us?”

  “Not really, sir. Just that he grew up around here and the airfield’s always been like this as far as he remembers. Kids play there. He’s also noticed a few lorries coming or going over the past year or so.”

  Banks knelt by the stains on the ground, hearing his knees crack as he did so. “It certainly looks like blood and brains to me. Let’s say it is human. What happened? Someone shoots him, and he falls and bleeds out on the ground?”

  “Possibly,” said Winsome. “Or stabs him. Then leaves the mess but takes the body away. If it were just an animal, I couldn’t really see anyone having a reason to do that.”

  Banks glanced at the stain. “There’s not really all that much blood, is there? Have you—­”

  “I thought I’d better leave it to the CSIs.”

  Banks frowned at her. “Winsome, you’re developing an annoying habit of answering my questions before I’ve asked them.”

  “Yes, sir. You were going to ask if I’d searched for a bullet or shell casing. I must be getting to know the way your mind works.”

  Banks stood up. “Do you know how frightening that thought is?”

  “My dad always said I was a bit of a mind reader. Could have had a career on the stage.”

  Banks smiled. They heard another car pull up in the yard, and moments after the door slammed, Jasminder Singh hurried in with her bag of tricks. “All right, where is it?” she asked.

  “Nice to see you again, too, Jazz,” said Banks.

  Jazz made a face. “DCI Banks. What a pleasure! And DS Jackman, how are you? Well, I hope? Will that do? Now can you show me where it is? No, don’t bother, I can see it for myself.”

  The new forensics bloodstain analyst and DNA technician was a petite attractive brunette in her early thirties. She didn’t usually attend crime scenes with the CSIs unless her specific ser­vices were required, and the squad always had a hard time finding protective clothing that fit her. She looked lost inside the baggy overalls as she squatted by the stain on the concrete. She quickly mixed a small sample of the congealed blood with a delivery agent and added it drop by drop to the collection tube. She looked up at Banks as he watched her work. “You’ve seen this trick before?”

  “Uh-­huh. It’s still voodoo to me, but I understand it works.”

  Jazz showed her white teeth in a broad grin. “Pretty much,” she said, getting to her feet. “We just wait for two or three minutes and—­Jap’s your uncle—­we get an answer.”

  “Jap?”

  “I didn’t have an Uncle Bob, but I did have an Uncle Japjot.”

  Banks just stared at her.

  “It was a family joke,” Jazz muttered. “You had to be there.”

  They both turned to the tube, and a minute or so later two pinkish-­red lines appeared.

  “Human blood,” said Banks.

  “Don’t jump to conclusions. It might be from a gorilla, or maybe a weasel or a badger. Nothing’s perfect, is it? But I’d say there’s a very good chance it’s human, yes.”

  “Any chance of a quick result on the DNA?”

  Jazz gave him a look. “Always in a hurry.”

  “Pretty please?”

  “You want to jump the queue, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes. I mean, what’s the point of having a forensics lab attached to the police station if we can’t get a rush job on something? Besides, we need to know if this is something we need to call the team in for.”

  “Well, at least you admit it. I’ll see what I can do. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

  “You’re a treasure.”

  “Do you think we should call in the rest of the team, guv?” said Winsome.

  Banks looked at her, at the blood on the ground, then back at Jazz.

  “It’s your decision,” Jazz said. “But you know as well as I do that a positive in this test usually means human blood.”

  “Yes,” Banks said, after a brief pause. “Yes, I really think we should.” He felt the tremor of excitement start to dislodge the lazy, relaxed feeling he had been enjoying over the past few days. He wasn’t sure that he didn’t like this frisson more.

  “WE’LL DO our best to help you,” Annie said, “but you have to remember that Michael isn’t officially listed as a missing person yet, so we can hardly pull out all the stops. He’s nineteen, and he’s only been away from home for one night.”

  “You’d pull out all the stops if it was Ian.”

  Both Annie and Doug Wilson gave her puzzled looks. “Well, yes, of course we would,” Annie said.

  Alex paused, seeming to understand the implications of what Annie had said, and of her own faux pas. “Of course you would. A child. Forgive me. It’s just me opening my mouth before my brain’s engaged. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m beside myself with worry.”

  “That’s all right,” said Annie. “I can understand your distress, especially if you say he hasn’t done anything like this before. I’m not saying we won’t look for him. We will. After all, we’d like to talk to him ourselves, so that’s a bit of extr
a motivation, if you like. A touch of self-­interest never goes amiss.”

  Alex nodded. “All right.”

  “Let’s get back to Sunday morning,” said Annie. “What time did Michael leave the flat?”

  “He went out at about half past nine. Ian and I were just getting ready for church—­well, Ian’s in Sunday school.”

  “Michael doesn’t usually go with you?”

  “Michael’s not religious. I can’t really say I am myself, but I do find a bit of comfort in it sometimes. And it’s tradition, a habit, isn’t it? I mean, my mum and dad used to take me to Sunday school when I was little. Those are good memories. I loved the Bible stories and illustrations. Ian seems to like them, too.”

  “Did Michael receive or make any texts or phone calls that Sunday morning?”

  “He got a text just before he went out. I was getting Ian ready, but I heard it, you know, that tinkling sound the phone makes when a text comes in.”

  “Did he tell you who it was from?”

  “No. He just said that there might be a job on.”

  “On a Sunday morning? Doing what?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Did he say who with?”

  “No.”

  “But he said he might drop in on his father later?”

  “Yes. His dad’s been unwell lately. And Michael’s a good son, despite their differences. There was a cancer scare, but it turned out to be his gallbladder. He still had to have an operation. His health’s been a bit fragile lately, and he’s been a bit depressed. And he frets so about the farm. I mean, they have their problems, right, but they get on OK most of the time, as long as they avoid certain subjects—­like me, and what Michael thinks he’s doing with his life.”

  “Sounds like most of us,” said Annie. “Then what?”