Unti Peter Robinson #22

by Peter Robinson

  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 me 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 straightaway 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 makeup 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. She was in a terrible state. He kicked her out and chucked her clothes after her. 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 out 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 tightfisted 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 in 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 stay 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 Breezes 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 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 realized 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?”

  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-­1980s, 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 his hand up, 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 i
t 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 toward 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 sympathize,” 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 the other way. “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 Patrick’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 as 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?”

  “Why not?”

  “I never really considered that. I don’t think he’d be capable of the level of organization needed to pull off such a job. There must have been more than one of them, wouldn’t you think?”

  “Possibly. Though I heard the key was readily available.”

  Beddoes reddened. “Yes, well, I’ve learned my lesson from that.”

  Something about bolting stable doors came into Banks’s mind, but he didn’t give voice to it. “Could Lane have known you were going to be away?”

  “I suppose so. His father knew, naturally.”

  “Did you know that Lane’s girlfriend works in the GoThereNow in the Swainsdale Centre?”

  Beddoes frowned. “No, I didn’t. I know nothing about his private life.”

  “Isn’t that where you booked your trip?”

  “Yes. Are you suggesting that she told Lane, and that he and some pals made off with the tractor?”

  “It’s just a possibility, that’s all. I can’t say it’s one I take very seriously, though. As you say, there’s a level of organization to all this. Of course Lane might be a cog in a much larger wheel. But it wasn’t just something a mischievous kid does on the spur of the moment. Steal an expensive tractor. How would he get rid of it, for a start, assuming he could have made away with it?”

  “That’s exactly what I said.”

  “Do you know a friend of Lane’s called Morgan Spencer?”

  “I can’t say as I do.”

  “The two of them do odd jobs on farms around the dale.”

  “Not here they don’t. I wouldn’t trust Lane anywhere near my property. Do you think this Spencer character was involved?”

  “I don’t know anything yet,” said Banks. “Only that there are too many loose ends and too many coincidences.” He slapped his thighs. “No doubt it’ll all become clear before long. I’ve taken up too much of your time already. Thanks for the music, Mr. Beddoes.”

  “John, please,” said Beddoes, holding out his hand to shake when they reached the door. “My pleasure.”

  “John, then,” said Banks. “And don’t worry, we’ll do our best to find your tractor.”

  He headed back to the Range Rover, where the three uniformed officers were waiting for him. The looks on their faces told him they had found nothing of interest.

  AFTER A hearty lunch of fish and chips and mushy peas in the Magpie, Annie and Wilson made their way to Tesco and found Denise Lane working at one of the checkout counters. Annie persuaded her to take an early break and accompany them to the little coffee shop near the supermarket entrance. They found an empty table by the plate-­glass window that looked out on the car park and the inner harbor beyond. Wilson went to fetch a latte for Denise. Neither Annie nor Wilson wanted anything after their lunch. Besides, Annie thought, there was something obscene about drinking latte straight after fish and chips. A ­couple of unruly children were running around unattended, but other than that the coffee shop was quiet, and their table was far enough away from the others for privacy. Annie glanced out of the window and saw flocks of seagulls circling above an old wooden sailing ship moored in the harbor. It was something historic, she thought, something she should know about but didn’t. Hornblower, Nelson or Captain Cook or someone.

  Denise Lane had a heart-­shaped face under a tidy cap of streaked blond hair, a smooth complexion and attractive features, all in the right proportions. She was also long-­legged and looked slim and shapely under her uniform. Mrs. Prince had been right about the fitness center. Denise Lane would hardly be forty, Annie reminded herself, not much more than ten years older than Alex Preston, and maybe five or six years younger than her ex-­husband. If those hard years on the farm had taken their toll on her, she had certainly worked at regaining her good looks and youthful glow. Perhaps her weakest feature, Annie noticed, was her fingers, which were short and stubby, with bitten and broken nails.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked Annie, before Doug Wilson had even returned with the coffee. “Has something happened to Michael?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “It’s not every day I get a visit from the police. I haven’t done anything wrong, so I assume it must be bad news.”

  “Just routine inquiries,” said Annie, kicking herself immediately for coming out with the most obvious police cliché. “I mean, we’re just here to ask you a few questions, that’s all. As far as I know, nobody’s come to any harm, and nobody’s done anything wrong.”

  “You must have some reason for seeking me out.”

  Wilson came back, handed her the latte and took out his notebook.

  “When did you last see Michael?” Annie asked.

  “Not for a while.”

  “How long ago?”

  “A few months.”

  “You’re not close?”

  “I suppose not. At least, not since . . .”

  “The separation?”

  “Yes. It’s been difficult for everyone. I mean, Michael stayed at the farm with his dad. What could he do, really? He was only seventeen. Oh, he used to come and see me at Mum and Dad’s sometimes, at first, but we argued. I think he blamed me for what happened. And Mum can be so . . . judgmental. I suppose I felt betrayed, abandoned. Then when I met Ollie things changed. I saw less and less of Michael. He and Ollie didn’t get on at all. Maybe in time . . . ? I don’t know.”
>
  “So you don’t know much about his recent life, what he’s doing, how he’s living?”

  “I know he moved out about a year ago and he has a girlfriend who’s older than him, but that’s about all.”

  “Your mother calls her the ‘floozie.’ Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “What? That Mum calls her a floozie? That she’s older than him? Why should it? Men take up with younger women all the time. As long as they’re happy, I don’t care. Look, I wish you’d get to the point. My break’s not long enough to waste on idle chat about Michael.”

  Annie wished she knew what the point was. “We’re trying to find him, that’s all,” she said. “A neighbor’s tractor was stolen while he was away on holiday, and Michael’s father was supposed to be looking after the man’s farm. Mr. Beddoes mentioned Michael, that’s all.”

  “And you think he did it? On John Beddoes’s say-­so?”

  “We don’t think that at all, but we do want to talk to him. It seems there was some bad blood between your son and Mr. Beddoes, and Michael does have a conviction to his name.”

  “You never let go, you lot, do you? Oh, I know all about the stolen car. The joyride. One silly mistake and he’s in your sights forever.”

  “It’s not like that,” Annie protested, though perhaps without too much conviction. “Michael’s disappeared. Alex is worried about him. We want to find him, that’s all.”

  “Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. It’s not a disappearance. That’s so melodramatic. Is that what this floozie told you? Alex. That he’d disappeared?”

  “Do you know a friend of his called Morgan Spencer?”

  Denise looked toward the harbor through the window. “Morgan? Why do you mention Morgan?”

  “Your mother said you don’t think very highly of him. He’s made himself scarce, too.”

  “Well, there’s someone you should keep in your sights. I always thought he was a bad influence on our Michael. He’s older, for a start. They’ve known each other for a few years, since before I left. I suspect Morgan was behind the joyriding business, for a start. It was only Michael who took the blame, but I’ll bet you anything Morgan was behind it. He was older. He’d probably have got a harsher sentence. I also blamed him for putting ideas into Michael’s head.”