“I suppose so,” said Winsome. “Did you ever get the impression they were delivering something, or picking something up? Ever see anyone loading or anything like that?”
Terry shook his head. “I think I would remember if I had,” he said, feeling far from certain that he would.
“What about the children you said you saw playing there? Do you know any of them?”
“I’ve thrown their ball back to them once or twice, but I wouldn’t say I know them. Not by name. They’re from the village. As I said, they’re all right, really, but the older ones do tend to be antisocial, or just suspicious of strangers. Maybe rightly so.”
“Do you know where any of them live?”
“I’ve seen a couple of them coming or going from houses when I’ve been shopping.”
“It might help if you could let me know the addresses.”
“I’m afraid I don’t remember. The streets are all named after trees, and I get confused. I could probably point out some of the houses.”
Winsome nodded and Terry watched her make a note in her black book. “We’ll send someone over when it’s convenient for you,” she said. “Maybe tomorrow morning, if that’s OK? We’d like to have a word with some of them.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I don’t suppose they’ll be able to tell you much, though. After all, they wouldn’t have been there when the lorries were.”
“No, but even so . . .”
“Yes. You have to be thorough.” Again, Terry felt disappointed that she wasn’t going to accompany him on a walk around the village to identify the children’s houses. He could point out the highlights of Drewick, such as they were. As it happened, he could only remember where one or two of the children lived, so it probably wouldn’t do her any good. They could canvass the whole village if they wanted. It wouldn’t take long. He also realized that it probably wasn’t a job for someone of her rank; she’d send a patrol car, most likely, and at most a DC to question the kids. But she had come to see him again in person. That was something to hold on to.
Before he hardly noticed, she was putting away her notebook and preparing to get up and leave. He was trying to think of a way to get her to stay when he had forgotten to offer her basic hospitality. “Forgive me,” he said. “I forgot to ask if you wanted anything to drink. Would you like something? Tea? Coffee?”
Winsome smiled. “No, thanks. It’s getting a bit late. I ought to be off. We’re not only in it for the perks, you know.”
He started to protest that wasn’t what he meant when he noticed the cheeky grin on her face. “Got me there,” he said.
He grasped the arms of the chair to heave himself up and follow her out, but she said, “No, that’s all right. Stay there. I can find my own way. Don’t worry about it.” Then she smiled again and the next thing he knew the door had closed behind her.
He sagged back into the chair feeling like an abject failure. He banged the chair arm with his fist, then thumped his gammy leg, too, just for good measure.
6
CALEB ROSS HAD BEEN DRIVING AROUND THE DALES farms for thirty-five years, thirty of them for Vaughn’s ABP, always the white vans with the high sides, covered and leakproof, in their various incarnations. He wouldn’t say he knew the roads the way he knew the gnarled veins on the backs of his hands, but he knew most of them well enough that he didn’t have to drive every inch; he could usually let the internal cruise control take over for a while. He was also used to people overtaking him. Everyone wanted to overtake him, no matter what speed he was traveling, so he had learned to stay at a reasonable fifty and to wave drivers on when he could see that the road ahead was clear. If anyone honked a horn at him, he never heard it because he was always playing his loud music, usually of the kind known as progressive rock, from Rick Wakeman to Genesis and Emerson, Lake & Palmer. He liked the operatic structures of the concept albums and the fantastic stories they told—The Six Wives of Henry VIII, Journey to the Centre of the Earth, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner—they kept him interested as he did what was, most of the time, an extremely dull job. And an occasional puff or two on the old wacky baccy didn’t do any harm, either.
Early that Tuesday afternoon, he was driving south over Belderfell Pass from the western end of Swainsdale, listening to Pink Floyd’s “Grantchester Meadows.” It was not as progressive as some of the music he liked, but it suited his mood. He loved the drive for its panoramic views, no human habitation but for an occasional abandoned farmhouse, a distant dot on the vast landscape. Even in March, the greens were rich on the lower pastures and contrasted sharply with the patches of sere grass higher up. Belderfell Beck ran far below, a thin silver line winding along the narrow groove of the valley bottom, and squiggly lines of rills meandered down the daleside.
But Caleb didn’t enjoy the journey so much on days like this. On days like this, only the experienced, the foolhardy and the lost ventured over Belderfell Pass. It had been clear when Caleb had made his way up the hill out of Swainsdale, but now heavy clouds massed and threatened from the north and west, and the wind was getting up, changing direction every few seconds, buffeting the high sides of the van. Caleb gripped the steering wheel tightly.
He lit a cigarette and shuffled in his seat to get more comfortable. Beside the road, which hugged the steep valley side, the land fell away on his left, a long sheer drop littered with rocky outcrops. It seemed especially dizzying when you were driving south, magnetic, too, as if the edge were calling you over, drawing you to it. Caleb tried to stick close to the center of the road. Sheep grazed and wandered on and off the pavement, which was fenced only sporadically.
Caleb was driving carefully, but he had a schedule to keep, and he was already running late, so perhaps his foot was pressed down a little harder than it should have been. Then again, the faster he got over the pass, the less likely it was that the conditions would worsen while he was up there. At least it wasn’t raining yet, and there was no ice on the road.
Then it happened, it seemed, with the change in direction of one rough blast of wind. The next thing Caleb knew, hailstones as big as marbles were pelting down on the van, almost hard enough to shatter the windscreen. He certainly heard them over the music, and he felt as he imagined a soldier might feel under fire. Instinctively, he found himself hunkering down in his seat, as if he were dodging bullets, wondering if he should pull over until it stopped. Sometimes these storms were blessedly brief. The soothing pastoral of “Grantchester Meadows” played on through the bombardment.
Before he could make his mind up, the hail pellets fell so thickly that for a moment he couldn’t see a thing, only hear the unrelenting rat-a-tat-tat on the metal and glass, and then he saw a dark shadow looming toward him, a frightened sheep running in front of the van, right into his path. He was at one of the steepest points of the pass, and he knew he was still too close to the center of the road. He felt himself hit the sheep before he jerked the steering wheel to avoid what he now saw was an oncoming car, but the combination of hail, shock, speed and lack of visibility disoriented him so much that, before he knew it, he crashed right through the flimsy fence and became airborne.
For a split second, he had the strangest sensation of being free. He had no control. There was nothing he could do. He was floating, cut loose from all that bound him to the world, and it came as a great ecstatic rush of release. But the euphoria soon gave way to panic as the van nose-dived down to the valley bottom with the gentle music still playing and hailstones tapping their staccato rhythm on the metal, Caleb screaming as he scrambled to unfasten his safety belt. Maybe if he jumped . . . ? But he didn’t have time. The van had almost reached the bottom when it hit a huge limestone outcrop square on. The engine block smashed through the dashboard, taking the steering wheel with it, and squashed Caleb in his seat as a wanton boy might squash a fly. Then the van shattered into pieces and scattered itself and its load over the va
lley bottom.
Before the last scrap of metal had stopped spinning, the hailstorm ended, and the sun lanced through the clouds.
WINSOME AND Gerry Masterson arrived in Hallerby after a morning of paperwork and phone calls, and parked outside the George and Dragon. Winsome glanced around the village. The houses lining the road were mostly modern semis or short terraces, built of redbrick, with a mix of slate and red pantile roofs, the occasional bay window and a touch of pebbledash in evidence. There was no country charm here, though one or two larger detached homes stood back from the road, closer to the riverbank, and seemed older and grander. There was no village green, as everything lay spread out along the roadside: small foursquare chapel, the George and Dragon, a row of shops including a hairdresser, general store and outdoor gear supplier, a community hall and a fish-and-chips shop. The church was behind the row of shops, reached by a narrow ginnel, and Winsome could just see the tips of the tombstones in the cemetery. That was about it for Hallerby. At least the sun was shining, even though there was a definite chill in the air, and on the eastern horizon Winsome could see the Hambleton Hills catching light.
“Where should we start?” asked Gerry.
Winsome nodded toward the pub. “Why not here?” she said. “Let’s take a leaf out of the boss’s book. These places are usually the hub of village gossip. Besides,” she added, “I hate knocking on doors. It makes me feel like a commercial traveler. And the dogs can drive you crazy.”
Gerry smiled. “I remember from my uniform days,” she said.
Winsome gave her an appraising look. Her “uniform” days weren’t far behind, but she was showing excellent promise as a detective, especially in the fields of intelligence gathering and computers. There didn’t seem to be any fact or snippet of information that was beyond the touch of her fingers on a keyboard. It was the other, more human, skills she needed to develop.
“It’s a miracle the place is still open,” said Winsome. “So many village pubs seem to be closing for good these days.”
The interior seemed dark after the bright sunlight, but their eyes soon adjusted. It was a modern pub, not one of those old-fashioned places with lots of brass and heavy varnished wood. The tables were square and made of some sort of black synthetic substance. The chairs had tubular legs. There was even a carpet on the floor. Video machines flashed and winked on the far side of the room. The lunch menu was chalked on a board on the wall and offered the usual pub grub.
“What’ll you have?” Winsome asked.
“Diet bitter lemon, please.”
“Sure you don’t want something a bit stronger?”
“You must be joking,” said Gerry. “If the boss found out we’d been drinking on the job he’d go spare.”
Winsome smiled. “I do hear he’s not averse to a tipple himself now and then.”
Gerry laughed. “Doesn’t matter.”
Winsome ordered two diet bitter lemons and turned to the barman after he had taken the small bottles from the glass-covered refrigerated area. “Are you the landlord?” she asked.
“For my sins. Gordon Fullerton. At your service.”
Winsome flashed him her identification card and introduced Gerry.
“I thought I recognized you from the papers,” Fullerton said. “Aren’t you the—”
“Mind if we ask you a few questions?” Winsome cut in. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s not a social call.”
“There’s not been any trouble, has there? I keep a quiet pub, and you won’t find any after-hours drinking here, either, whether the local bobby’s in or not.”
Winsome thought he was protesting too much, but she wasn’t interested in after-hours drinking. “No, it’s nothing like that. We’re here because of your location.”
“Location?” Fullerton scratched his head, and Winsome noticed a few flakes of dandruff float to the shoulders of his brown cardigan. His wispy grayish hair looked both uncombed and unwashed, though he was otherwise presentable. Clean-shaven, with a small nick on his chin, clear-eyed behind wire-rimmed glasses, not too much of a potbelly, as far as she could see. There were only four other customers in the place, two couples occupying separate tables and engaged in eating their lasagne and chips. If business was always as bad as this, Winsome found herself wondering if the pub could last much longer. There couldn’t be enough drinkers in the village to support it, and people were so scared of drinking and driving these days, they mostly stayed home to drink. Also, money was tight, the economy poor and people tended to buy their home supplies cheaply at Bargain Booze and drink while they watched telly in the evening, instead of going to the local anymore. It was a shame, really, she thought, though she had never been much of a pub-goer herself, a whole tradition slowly dying. But times change. Nowadays it was all city center wine bars and gastropubs, for those who could afford them, and a taxi home.
“That lane heading off the high street just outside, know where it goes?” she asked.
“Kirkway Lane? Aye. It’s centuries’ old. Roman, I think. It runs through Kirkway Woods, then across a few patches of waste ground beside an old airfield up Drewick way. I think it used to go all the way up to Northallerton years ago, but now it sort of peters out in the woods just past the airfield. Nobody uses it much these days. We just get the odd lorry now and then.”
“Lorries? How often?”
“Not that often.”
“How many times a week?” Winsome persisted.
“Certainly not every week. Far more irregular. I’ve seen them maybe three, four times in the past year or so.”
“Coming or going?”
“Both. They come off the high street from the direction of the A1 and turn left up Kirkway Lane. Then later they come back down, turn right and head back toward the A1.”
“How much later?”
“An hour, two. I don’t stand around watching and waiting, you know, but sometimes it’s devilish quiet around here. Mostly I’ve just heard them.”
“What time do they usually arrive?”
“I don’t really remember. Different times, I suppose.”
“Any particular days of the week?”
“Not so as I remember.”
“Did any of them have any markings? A company name or logo or something?”
“No, they’re just plain lorries, as a rule.”
“How big are they?”
“It varies. You can’t get anything really big up there, like those juggernauts or pantechnicons, or whatever they call them. Just lorries.”
“Big enough to hold a tractor or a combine?” asked Winsome.
“Not a combine, I shouldn’t think,” said Fullerton. “That road’s too narrow. Tractors and other heavy equipment, though. Aye. Why?”
“Livestock?”
“Well, they’re not your typical livestock transporters, but I don’t see as to why they couldn’t be used for that. What’s going on?”
“When was the last time you saw or heard one?”
“Funny you should mention that. It were this last Sunday.”
Winsome felt a surge of excitement. “What time?”
“Let’s see. I were just bringing Fred and Barney—them’s the whippets, like—back from their run, so it would have been just after ten.”
“Which way was it going?”
“Coming down, heading for the A1.”
“You didn’t notice it going up earlier?”
“No. But it could have gone up while I was walking the dogs. I wouldn’t have noticed anything.”
“Can you remember what it looked like?”
“Just like a moving van, really, like I said. Not one of those really big ones, like a furniture van or something.”
“Could you see the driver?”
“Just about. I think he was wearing a flat ca
p, and I do remember noticing something a bit odd.” He touched his cheek, just beside his ear. “He has those long sort of sideburns that come halfway around the chin. Do you know what I mean?”
“Muttonchops?” said Gerry.
“That’s right. I was close enough to see them.”
“Did you notice what color the lorry was?” Winsome asked.
“Dark green. Racing green, I think they call it.”
“Did this one have any markings, the name of a firm, phone number, anything at all distinguishing about it?”
“No, it were just a green lorry. I mean, it might have had a phone number and a name on the side, but I didn’t notice it. It certainly didn’t have any logos or anything. I’d remember that.”
“I don’t suppose you remember the number plate?” asked Winsome.
“It’s a long time since I used to stand by the roadside scribbling down car number plates.”
“Did you see anything else at all on Sunday morning?”
“No. I’m afraid that’s all.”
“Thanks a lot, Mr. Fullerton,” Winsome said. “You’ve been a great help.”
“I have?” said Fullerton, looking puzzled.
BANKS LOOKED through the window of the helicopter as the pilot took it slowly down as close to the wreckage as he could get. The moving dots soon became people, emergency services, crash investigators, even some CSIs, all of whom had laboriously made their way down the steep valley side via obscure and bone-jolting farm tracks gleaned from Ordnance Survey maps. Most of the tracks hadn’t been used for years, as the farms had died and the farmers had moved away. The location, about halfway along the pass, had very few points of access, and that was no doubt one reason for the economic failure of the farms. There was no road that ran along the valley bottom. Nobody lived there anymore.
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