Unti Peter Robinson #22

by Peter Robinson

  “He kissed me and Ian, like he usually does, then he left.”

  “Did he have any money with him?”

  “He usually carries a bit of cash, but he’s very careful with the credit and debit cards. We both hate the idea of being in debt and paying interest.”

  It didn’t matter how careful he was, Annie thought. If he used them, they’d be able to find out where, should it come to that. “Does he have a passport?”

  Alex walked over to the sideboard drawer and rummaged through it for a few moments, then returned bearing a passport. Annie opened it and saw the photo. It was the same person as in the picture on the mantelpiece. There were no stamps in the passport, which was only two years old. That meant he hadn’t been outside the EU.

  “Has anything out of the ordinary happened in your lives recently?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  “Did you have an argument or anything like that?”

  “No.”

  “Did he seem worried, frightened, nervous, anxious? Different in any way?”

  “No, he was the same as normal. But you’re frightening me, asking all these questions.”

  “Sorry, it’s just routine,” said Annie. “We have to ask if we’re to try and find him. Did he take the car?”

  “Yes, of course. We can walk to church, but you need the car to drive up into the dale. Maybe that’s it! I wouldn’t be surprised if that old banger broke down somewhere. Maybe that’s where he is? Up on the moors in the middle of nowhere with a dead mobile and a clapped-­out car, hoping the AA might just happen to pass by.”

  “Can you tell me the number plate?”

  Alex told her and Doug Wilson noted it down. “It’s an old Peugeot. Dirty gray.”

  Alex was clutching at straws, Annie thought. Even if Michael Lane had been at home on Saturday night, there was still a better chance that he was now in a lorry helping ship a stolen tractor over to Albania than stranded on the moors in a clapped-­out Peugeot hoping for the AA to turn up. But Alex didn’t need to be told that. To Annie, Michael Lane was still a prime suspect, but to Alex he was a missing loved one. Somehow or other, Annie would have to sort all that out as gently as she could, or she risked losing any valuable cooperation she might need from Alex. It was a tricky balancing act.

  “Could Michael be with a friend?” Annie asked. “And I don’t mean a girlfriend. Do you know any of his mates?”

  “He doesn’t really have very many. His life was pretty isolated when he lived up at the farm, you see, and since then, well, most of the friends he did have have moved away, and we’ve sort of spent most of our time together. We don’t socialize a lot. Going out can be expensive.”

  “You never go out for a drink or anything? Or to a party?”

  “Sometimes we go to the local for an evening out, if we can afford a sitter for Ian, but not very often. Neither of us is a big drinker, and we just enjoy our own company. It’s cheaper to get a few cans or a bottle of wine in and watch telly than it is to go out for the night. It sounds boring, I suppose, but we’re happy.”

  “Can you think of anyone else at all Michael might have communicated with?”

  “There’s Keith, I suppose. He’s still here. They went to school together, and they meet up for a game of darts once in a while. But Keith hasn’t seen him. I phoned. Graham, too. He’s married to Angie, who’s my best friend, really. But Graham’s a photography nut, and he and Michael get along well. They go off taking photos at various scenic spots around the Dales every now and then. Graham’s been teaching Michael his way around a camera. As I said, Michael’s a natural in some ways, but he doesn’t know much about theory and techniques, or the history. I can’t say I do, either, but Graham does. There’s Morgan, too, I suppose. Michael works with him up on the farms sometimes. But I don’t like him. He’s too flash and full of himself. Wears a gold chain and has a spider tattoo on the side of his neck. Head shaved like one of those BNP types, though he isn’t. He’s half black. His dad’s from Barbados. And he’s always flirting with me.”

  “Does Michael like him?”

  “They work together, and they go for a pint together, too, sometimes, after a day’s work. They get along all right. Talk about any work that might be coming up. Morgan’s managed to get Michael in on a ­couple of decent-­paying jobs, and vice versa, so I don’t suppose I should be so down on him.” She gave a little shudder and pulled a face. “You know, it’s just like, if you’re a woman, he makes you feel like a piece of meat.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” said Annie. “I’ve met a few of those in my time. What kind of jobs do they do?”

  “Anything that comes along, really. Morgan does small removals, you know, houses and flats and stuff. He’s got a large van. Michael usually helps him out on jobs like that. They also do a lot of farmyard maintenance, like I said, roofing work, drainage ditches, helping bale hay for forage, that sort of thing. It’s really a matter of who you know, who you’ve worked for before, where you’ve got a good reputation.”

  “And this Morgan has a good reputation?”

  “I suppose he must have.”

  “Could he be the one who texted Michael about a job yesterday morning?”

  “It’s likely,” said Alex. “It’s what he usually does. Last minute, as often as not.”

  “Have you rung Morgan?”

  “No. I don’t know his number. But I know where he lives. He’s got a caravan at that site down by the river, you know, near Hindswell Woods.”

  “Riverview?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Well, it’s a start, I suppose,” said Annie, nodding toward Doug Wilson, who was busy scribbling in his notebook between stolen glances at Alex.

  “Can you give me Michael’s mobile number?” Wilson asked. “And tell me the full names and addresses of the friends you mentioned, Miss Preston, including this Morgan character? Phone numbers, too, if you have them. And do you have a recent photograph of Michael we can borrow?”

  “Please, call me Alex,” she said, smiling.

  Annie could see that Doug was hers forever. He carefully wrote down the names and addresses, mostly just a street name, occasionally a telephone number Alex retrieved from her mobile’s contacts. It was enough to be going on with. Back at the station, they could put DC Masterson on it. Nobody could track down a name, address or phone number as fast as she could. “We’ll check again with them all,” said Annie. “Just in case. One of them might remember something he said, something that might not have seemed important at the time.”

  Alex disappeared into the other room and came back with a photo of Michael posing casually on the balcony, with the view of Eastvale spread out in the background. “That was taken two weeks ago,” she said. “I took it myself. You remember, that nice weekend near the end of last month?” She handed over the photo, then put her hands to her face. “Oh, God, what can have happened to him?”

  “I know you’re worried, Alex,” Annie said, “but I’ve had a lot of experience with this sort of thing, and there’s almost always no cause for concern. I bet you we’ll have Michael back home with you in no time.”

  “It’s true,” added Doug Wilson. “Leave it to us. Is there anywhere you think he might have gone? A favorite place, a hideaway? You know, if he got upset about his father, or you had an argument or something? Somewhere he’d go to be alone, to think things over, feel safe and secure?”

  Annie thought it was a good question to ask, and she watched Alex as she worked her way through it and framed an answer.

  “I don’t really know. I mean, he always feels safe and secure here, with us. He doesn’t need an escape. We haven’t really had any fights, not serious fights where either of us has gone off alone. Michael does like long walks by himself, though. I think it’s a habit he developed in his childhood, you know, growing up on the farm.” She
laughed. “You had to walk a long way to get anywhere, where he lived.”

  “Anywhere in particular?” Wilson asked.

  “Just around the dale in general,” said Alex, “though I’m sure it’s not something he’d do in this weather.”

  “We have to cover all the possibilities, Miss—­ Alex,” said Wilson.

  Alex favored him with another smile. “I know,” she said. “If I could think of where he might be, don’t you think I’d tell you? I can’t go looking for him, myself. I don’t have the car, and there’s Ian . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” Annie assured her, standing and giving Wilson the signal to close his notebook. “It’s our job. We’ll take care of it. Can we have a look at that computer now?”

  They drew a blank on Michael’s computer. Nothing but a lot of spam and a few harmless emails from friends—­nothing from Morgan, no references to tractor-­thieving sprees, as far as Annie could gather—­and his photo collection, along with various software programs for manipulating images. The photos, mostly landscapes and ­people at work around farms, were as good as the framed ones in the living room. There was no porn, and no record of porn sites in his bookmarks or browsing history. Either he was happy with what he had or he had gone to great pains to erase his tracks. Annie guessed the former. Most of the bookmarks were for travel-­related sites and photo-­posting ser­vices such as Flickr. If this business went any further, of course, the computer would have to go to Liam in technical support for a thorough examination, and if there was anything dodgy on it, or ever had been, he would find it, but there was no reason to suspect that it was hiding deep and dirty secrets just yet.

  “You’ll ring me as soon as you find him?” Alex asked at the door.

  “We’ll ring you,” said Annie. She took out a card, scribbled on the back and handed it to Alex. “And I hope you’ll call me if you hear from Michael. My mobile number’s on the back.”

  They didn’t even bother trying the lift. On their way down the stairs, Annie heard a cry of pain as they passed the fifth-­floor gauntlet. Doug Wilson was behind her, hands in his pockets, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and behind him one of the hoodies was bent over, hands cupping his groin. The others were too shocked to move.

  “Tut-­tut, Dougal,” said Annie, smiling. “Who’s been a naughty boy, then?”

  3

  MORGAN SPENCER LIVED ON A CARAVAN SITE across the River Swain from Hindswell Woods, about half a mile west of town. The Riverview Caravan Park wasn’t anywhere near as attractive as its name suggested. There was a river view for the first row of caravans, but as the meadow they were parked in was flat, all the rest could see was other caravans blocking the view. Most were permanent fixtures, up on blocks, though there were a few spaces for temporary sojourners. Of the permanent caravans, by far the majority belonged to ­people in Leeds, Bradford, Darlington or Teesside, who used them for weekend getaways. It wasn’t far to travel, and it was the Yorkshire Dales, after all, river view or no river view. At least you could see the trees and hills on the other side and go for long bracing walks in the country. Quite a few ­people lived in the park year-­round, the site manager told them, and Morgan Spencer was one of them. Annie had already heard the rumor that many of those who lived in Riverview Caravan Park were what the Americans would call “trailer trash.” “Caravan trash” didn’t sound anywhere near as apt a description, she thought, perhaps because it lacked the alliteration. The park’s only attraction for occasional holiday visitors was that it was cheap.

  The caravans were set out in neat rows stretching back from the riverbank across the meadow, each with a parking space beside it, though none of them was big enough for a large van. Some of the homes looked well maintained, with a fresh paint job, awning over the door, a window box or hanging basket. Others looked more neglected, resting unevenly on their concrete supports, sagging at one end, windows dirty and covered on the inside with makeshift moth-­eaten curtains made of old bedding or tea towels. Because of the rain over the last few days, the field was a quagmire, and any grass there may have been before had been trampled into the mud. It reminded Annie of the time she went to Glastonbury as a teenager. It had rained the entire weekend. Even the Boomtown Rats weren’t worth getting that wet for.

  Annie and Doug Wilson left their car at the paved entrance, beside the site office, which was deserted at the moment, put on their wellies again and went the rest of the way on foot. They found Spencer’s caravan on the third row back from the riverbank. On a scale of one to ten, it was about a six, which is to say, not bad, but a little on the run-­down side. There was nothing parked beside it. Annie’s first knock produced no reaction, only an empty echo from inside. She strained to listen but heard no sound of movement. Her second knock produced an opening door, but in the neighboring caravan, not Spencer’s.

  “He’s not home, love,” said the man who stood there. “Police, you’ll be, then?”

  “Are we so obvious?” Annie said.

  The man smiled. “You are to an ex-­copper, love.”

  “You’re . . . ?”

  “I am. Rick Campbell’s the name. Come on in out of the rain, why don’t you? Have a cuppa.”

  Annie and Wilson pulled their wellies off by the front steps, which were sheltered from the rain by a striped awning. “Don’t mind if we do,” Annie said.

  “Leave the boots out there, if you could,” Campbell said, pointing to a mat outside the door.

  The caravan was cramped but cheery inside, with a bright flowered bedspread, freshly painted yellow walls, polished woodwork and a spotless cooking area. The air smelled of damp leaves. At one end of the room was the bed, which could be screened off by a curtain, and at the other a dining table with a red-­and-­white-­checked oilcloth. In between, a sofa big enough for two sat opposite a television and stereo. Some quiet music played in the background. The sort of thing Banks would know about, Annie thought. Bach or Beethoven, or someone like that. Campbell told Annie and Wilson to sit down at the dining table as he busied himself filling the kettle.

  “Do you live here alone?” Annie asked.

  “Live here? Oh, I see what you mean. No, we don’t live here. We just come here for our summer holidays, and weekends now and again. We live in Doncaster. When I retired, it was a toss-­up between the Dales and the coast. The Dales won. Ellie and I had some fine holidays around these parts in our younger days. Keen walkers, we were. We don’t do so much now, of course, especially after Ellie’s hip replacement, but we still get around a fair bit, and there’s always the memories. It’s God’s own country to us.”

  “Is your wife around?”

  “She’s visiting the son and daughter-­in-­law this weekend. Down Chesterfield way. I just came up to do a bit of fixing and patching up. The old dear—­the caravan, I mean, not Ellie—­needs more maintenance every year. That’s the trouble with these things. They don’t age well.”

  “The rain can’t help.”

  “I’ll say. Mostly, it’s just general wear and tear. And they’re not exactly built for the elements in the first place. Certainly not the kind of elements we seem to be getting these days.” He looked toward the window and grimaced. “I’ve patched the worst leaks and strengthened the floor. So what is it I can do for you?”

  “You said you’re an ex-­copper.”

  “Yes. I did my thirty and got out fast. South Yorkshire. Mostly uniform, traffic, a brief stint with Sheffield CID. Sergeant when I retired. Desk job the last four years. It was a good life, but I’m not a dedicated crime fighter like those TV coppers. Why keep working any longer than you have to, eh?”

  Annie thought of Banks. They’d have to drag him kicking and screaming out of his office soon. Or would he get a newer, bigger office and an extra five years’ grace if he got promoted to superintendent, as Gervaise had promised last November? “We’re here about your neighbor, Morgan Spencer,�
�� she said.

  “You know, that’s what I thought when I heard you knocking on his door.” He tapped the side of his nose and laughed. “I haven’t lost all my detective skills yet, you know. So what’s he been up to now?”

  “Now?”

  “Just a figure of speech, love, that’s all.”

  Campbell made the tea and set it on the table along with three mugs, a carton of long-­life milk and a bowl of sugar. “Biscuits? I can offer custard creams or chocolate digestives.”

  Both Annie and Wilson declined the offer.

  Campbell settled into a chair opposite them. “Well, I can’t say I know Morgan very well,” he began, “but I must say, as neighbors go, he’d be hard to beat. Keeps some odd hours, hardly ever home, in fact, but he’s considerate, polite, and he’s even helped me out on a ­couple of tricky jobs around the place. Held the ladder, so to speak. He’s a good hard worker.”

  Annie glanced at Wilson, who raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t what she’d expected to hear after talking to Alex Preston. Campbell didn’t miss the exchange. Once a copper always a copper. “What? Did I say something wrong?”

  “Would you describe him as honest?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that. All I can say is it wouldn’t surprise me to hear he’s got a fiddle or two on the side. Probably sails a bit close to the wind. He likes to talk big sometimes and I’d say he reckons he’s God’s gift to women, but at the bottom of it all he’s harmless enough. Why? Is there a problem?”

  “No,” said Annie. “Not at all. We just want to talk to him in connection with a missing person, that’s all.”

  “Missing person?”

  “Yes.” Annie knew she was exaggerating more than a little. Michael Lane was not yet an official missing person. As she had told Alex Preston, he was a nineteen-­year-­old lad who hadn’t been home since yesterday morning. And what nineteen-­year-­old hadn’t done exactly the same thing more than once? But what other reason could she give for wanting to talk to Morgan Spencer? That he had flirted with Michael’s girlfriend and had a spider tattoo on the side of his neck?