Unti Peter Robinson #22

by Peter Robinson

  “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 realm 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 realized. 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 and 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 realize 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?”

  “Why 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 she was, probably only in his mid forties, Banks guessed, though the years of hard physical labor 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.”

  “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 neighbor’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 a 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 fete interrupted by a pagan ritual. It must have been ITV-3, 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, gray-­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 anymore, 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.”