Unti Peter Robinson #22

by Peter Robinson

  Winsome cleared her throat and spoke without referring to her notes. “The landlord of the George and Dragon in Hallerby saw a racing green removal van large enough to carry a tractor come down the lane that leads from the airfield at just after ten o’clock on Sunday morning,” she said. “Headed in the direction of the A1. He got a brief look at the driver and said he was wearing a flat cap and had muttonchop sideburns. The lorry had no markings. He didn’t see the number plate.”

  “What sort of car does Michael Lane drive, again?” Banks asked Annie.

  “A clapped-­out gray Peugeot.”

  “Has it been seen?”

  “Not since he went out on Sunday morning. And nothing from the airlines or credit card company. He’s off our radar.”

  Banks thought he might need another chat with Joanna MacDonald. She was his key to the magic world of ANPR. Cars could be tracked anywhere in the country. “And do we know what Morgan Spencer drives?” he asked the room at large.

  “A motorcycle,” said Doug Wilson. “According to his neighbor, he’s got a Yamaha. He usually keeps it parked beside his caravan, but it wasn’t there when DI Cabbot and I visited yesterday, and we don’t know where it is now.”

  “Maybe he rode it to his lorry and put it in the back?” said Banks. “It wasn’t outside his caravan after the fire, either, perhaps because he was already dead. Which reminds me,” he said, glancing at Annie. “Could you have a word with someone at Vaughn’s ABP, where Caleb Ross worked? They must have a schedule of pickups or some such thing. There has to be some way of finding out how and where his body parts got mixed up with the fallen stock.”

  Annie jotted on her pad. “And where it got chopped up like that,” she added.

  “Let’s see what Dr. Glendenning has to say about that at the p.m.”

  “Do you think Caleb Ross had anything to do with it all?” asked Gervaise.

  “It’s a definite possibility,” said Banks. “The accident may have been beyond Ross’s control, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t know that he was carrying Morgan Spencer’s body. Or at least something not quite kosher. We’ll be looking for a link.”

  “If it was an accident,” Annie Cabbot said.

  “You think the van might have been sabotaged?” said Gervaise.

  “I’m just saying it’s a possibility, ma’am. Maybe the crash site investigators will be able to tell us what happened.”

  “Maybe,” said Banks. “But they don’t have an awful lot left to go on. If someone did sabotage the van, there may well be no evidence of that left.”

  “Morgan Spencer had an oversize lockup on the Bewlay Industrial Estate,” said Gerry Masterson. “Apparently his van is sometimes filled with the contents of someone’s house overnight, and he’s required for insurance purposes to keep it somewhere safe, not just on the street, so the estate rents him the garage. It’s empty at the moment. We’re waiting for some free CSIs to send over there, but . . .”

  “I know,” said Banks. “They’re all busy at Belderfell Pass, or the hangar.”

  “Yes, sir. DS Nowak says he hopes he can get some experts over there by the morning. Until then, we’ve put a guard on the place.”

  “We’ll put out a bulletin on the van and motorcycle.” Banks glanced at Winsome. “And the gray Peugeot. The landlord of the George and Dragon only reported one lorry coming out of the woods that Sunday morning, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir. One racing green lorry.”

  “Nothing going in?”

  “He didn’t see anything. But if they were using the route for criminal activities, it would make sense to vary it sometimes.”

  “I suppose it could have been Spencer’s lorry the landlord saw,” said Banks. “Gerry, do you think you could attempt to tie reported rural thefts in the region to traffic observed at the hangar or passing through Hallerby from Kirkway Lane?”

  “We’d need a lot more data to go on, sir,” said Gerry. “I mean, it’s easy to collate the incidents of thefts from our crime figures, but that’s no use unless we have definite recollections from ­people who lived in Hallerby. Who’s going to remember when a lorry came down the lane?”

  “The pub landlord might if you push him a bit,” Winsome said.

  “If he does, see if you can make any connections,” said Banks.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you know who owns the airfield property yet?”

  “Venture Property Developments, sir,” said Gerry. “I spoke briefly to one of their executives on the phone. I must say I couldn’t get much out of him. He seemed rather abrupt. They’re based in Leeds. Apparently they’re still involved in legal arguments over zoning it for commercial use—­a shopping center. There’s some local opposition from the villagers in Drewick and Hallerby. They say it’ll ruin their peaceful natural environment.”

  “Indeed it will,” said Banks. “Unless they can find some particularly rare species of bird or a few bedraggled badgers to get it a protection order.”

  “The company doesn’t expect it to drag on for too long,” Gerry went on. “In the meantime, they haven’t been paying much attention to it. Other fish to fry. I asked them if it was locked up securely, and they said it had to be to comply with Health and Safety. But nobody from Venture has actually been there in ages, so they have no idea whether anyone has been using it for their own purposes.”

  “According to Terry Gilchrist, the kids get in anyway,” said Winsome. “He says while walking his dog he’s seen them playing football and cricket inside the grounds there.”

  Banks remembered his childhood, when he used to love playing in condemned houses. Did Health and Safety exist then? He didn’t remember ever hearing about them. If they had, he thought, there would probably have been no bonfire night and the old houses would have been more secure. But children are resilient and malleable. They can survive the occasional fall through the staircase of a condemned slum. “Talk to Terry Gilchrist again, Winsome. He’s the one who lives the closest. See if he knows anything else about the place. Anything. It might be worth finding out who some of these kids are, too, if he knows. They might be able to tell us more. Kids can be surprisingly observant. And find out what kind of car Gilchrist drives, just in case it comes up.”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Winsome, “Mr. Gilchrist showed a ­couple of patrol officers where some of the children live this morning. None of them reported seeing anything. And he drives a dark blue Ford Focus.”

  “Well done, Winsome. I’ll visit Venture tomorrow, myself,” Banks went on. “See what sort of outfit they are. Find out what they know about the properties they own. Rattle their cage a bit. There’s money and brains behind this rural crime business. It’s not just the Morgan Spencers and Michael Lanes of this world nicking tractors while the owner’s sunning himself in Mexico. It goes deeper than that. It wouldn’t surprise me if Venture’s cut in for some of the action. After all, they own the land and they know the hangar’s out there, empty. Anything else?”

  Nobody had anything to add, so AC Gervaise closed the meeting.

  “We’ve all got plenty to do,” Banks said as they filed out of the room, “so I suggest we get to it. Annie, would you meet me in the office in half an hour.”

  AFTER ALEX had put Ian to bed—­the poor lad was tired out—­she went back into the living room and turned on the television, just for the company. She had kept the front door deadlocked and bolted, with the chain on, all the time she had been at home, and now she sat with her new mobile on her lap, fingers ready to key in 999 if anyone came to the door. Luckily, the SIM card hadn’t been damaged, and the man in the shop had set up a new phone with the same number and same account as the damaged one. She couldn’t risk not having the phone—­and the number—­in case Michael called.

  Her broken finger was throbbing, but she decided against taking the painkillers the doctor had given her u
ntil bedtime. She needed to be vigilant. Meadows, the phony policeman, might come again if he didn’t hear from her, and she didn’t know how long her nerves could stand the stress of knowing there would be another visit, more threats, perhaps even more serious violence this time, or—­God forbid—­violence toward Ian, because she really had nothing to tell him. And if she did find out where Michael was, she could hardly give that information away to someone who wanted to harm him.

  When the mobile jangled like the old black telephones used to do, she nearly jumped out of her skin. It was the first time it had rung, and she had had no idea what ringtone was set. She didn’t recognize the number and was in two minds about answering it. It could be Meadows. Then she decided she would. It was only a mobile phone; what harm could it do her?

  After she spoke her name, there was a silence punctuated by some crackling in the background. Finally, his voice came through: “Alex. It’s me, love. Michael.”

  Alex almost dropped the phone with the surge of relief that flooded through her. “Michael! You’re all right.”

  “Yeah. I’m just peachy.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Trouble with the police?”

  “They’re the least of my worries.”

  “What is it? Tell me, Michael. I’ve been frantic with worry here.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. I couldn’t . . . I didn’t want . . . Oh, shit, it’s hopeless.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think they’re after me, Alex. Some very bad ­people.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything. I just saw them, that’s all. I witnessed something I shouldn’t have.”

  “When you went out on Sunday?”

  “Yes. I went to meet Morgan. He said he had a job. He didn’t say what it was, just that he needed my help. I drove out to that old deserted airfield out Hallerby way.”

  “What happened?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just can’t, that’s all. Except it was awful.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I can’t tell you that, either.”

  “Why not? You mean you don’t know?”

  “I mean it wouldn’t be safe for you to know. If you don’t know where I am, then you can’t tell anyone, can you?”

  Alex bit her lip. She wasn’t so foolish as not to realize that if Meadows decided to torture her, she would have nothing to give up, nothing with which to save herself. ­People usually broke in the end, when they were tortured, and Alex didn’t think she could stand much pain—­physical or emotional. But if you really didn’t have the information the torturer wanted, what happened then? Not that she would ever betray Michael, but such were the chaotic thoughts that spun around in her mind. She was on the verge of telling him about last night’s visit and her broken finger, but she held off. What good would it do? It would only add to his burden of worries, and he didn’t sound as if he needed that right now. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I just wanted you to know that I’m all right. At least, I’m not hurt or anything.”

  “Why didn’t you call sooner?”

  “I couldn’t. I didn’t dare use my mobile. ­People can trace those things. They leave records of calls and stuff. And I’ve been lying low. I couldn’t get to a pay phone.”

  He sounded far from all right to Alex. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I have to keep out of the way until it all blows over. I just wanted you to know I’m all right, that’s all. I saw the news this evening for the first time since it happened. I was in a pub and they had a big screen. I know they’re looking for me and Morgan, and I know that something happened at Belderfell Pass. A car crash. Animal parts. Perhaps a human body. It was all very vague, but I’m sure it’s all connected, Alex. I just wanted you to know that I’m OK. I thought you might be worried, that’s all.”

  “Of course I’m worried, you idiot. The police have been around. How could I not be worried? What do you think this is doing to us?”

  “Don’t be angry with me, love. I couldn’t stand that. Not now. I’m sorry. What did you tell them?”

  “Nothing. I don’t know anything. And I’m not angry. I’m upset. I just wish you’d tell me what’s going on.”

  “I can’t, love. Not yet. It doesn’t matter what you tell the police. Tell them what you want.”

  “When are you coming back?”

  “I don’t know. When it’s all over. They’ll have to get to the bottom of it without me, then it’ll be safe to come home. How’s Ian?”

  “He’s fine. We’re both fine.”

  “Give him my love. And be careful, Alex.”

  “Why?”

  “Just be careful, that’s all. I’ve got to go now.”

  “Michael, don’t! Please. Tell me where you are. Let me come to you.”

  “No. Stay there. Stay with Ian.”

  “But when will I see you?”

  “When it’s over. Remember I love you, Alex. Good-­bye.”

  “Will you ring again?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Alex held on to the phone, tears in her eyes, but the other end went dead. She sat still for a while holding the phone, staring at but not seeing the meaningless images moving around on the TV screen, her heart pounding in her chest, stomach churning, head aching. This was worse than when Lenny had hit her. There was no end in sight. Just when she thought she had found something worthwhile, something she could hold on to, it had been snatched from her.

  Alex threw the phone onto the sofa, where it bounced to the floor, downed the rest of her wine and poured another full glass. She knew that alcohol wouldn’t help, but she could think of nothing else to dull the edges of her pain except perhaps a ­couple of those pills the doctor had prescribed. Maybe even the whole bottle. What the hell was Michael playing at, gambling with their future like this? She knew he must be in serious trouble or he wouldn’t have left her and Ian the way he had. He loved them. She had to cling to that. It was all she had.

  Finally, she could think of nothing else to do, and she could no longer stand doing nothing, or feeling so alone, so she picked up the phone, took out the policewoman’s card and called the number DI Cabbot had written on the back.

  “THE OFFICE” meant the Queen’s Arms. If Banks had meant his office at the station, he would have said “my office.” It was going on for eight o’clock, and the pub was starting to fill up, which no doubt brought cheer to the heart of Cyril the landlord. The usual oldies selection was a bit loud, so they had to raise their voices to talk. Still, Banks thought it was pleasant enough to hear occasional fragments of “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” or “She’s Not You” in the background. A lot of pubs used themed satellite radio feeds, but not the Queen’s Arms. Cyril was an intrepid pop fan, still stuck in the late fifties and early sixties, and he played his iPod through the pub’s music system. If anyone didn’t like it, they were welcome to drink elsewhere.

  Banks noticed that Lisa Gray was working that night. She had short hair now, and most of the facial metal was gone. He knew that Winsome had developed a close relationship with Lisa during their previous case, and that they kept in touch. She smiled from behind the bar and he gave her a quick wave. Annie came back with the drinks.

  Annie sipped some of her beer. “I still can’t see Michael Lane as the villain,” she said. “All he ever did before was take a joyride because he was mixed up and upset after his mother left. Since then, he’s found a serious relationship. He has a kid to think about, too.”

  “Maybe all that was too much for him?” Banks argued. “Maybe he felt stifled and had
to get out? Or maybe he just cracked under the responsibility? You said they don’t have much money, that they’re struggling.”

  “Yeah, but at least they’re trying. They weren’t doing so badly. And if that was the case, if Michael suddenly couldn’t take the pressure anymore, then Alex Preston wasn’t aware of it.”

  “I never expected Sandra to walk out on me for another bloke,” said Banks. “But she did. These things happen, Annie.”

  In the silence that followed that remark, Lisa Gray approached the table with two plates. “Who wanted the salad and who wanted burger and chips?”

  Banks and Annie exchanged a few moments’ small talk with Lisa until she returned to her position behind the bar. Once they had settled down to their food, Banks went on. “I know you’re emotionally involved and you don’t want to think ill of Alex Preston or Michael Lane,” he said, “and I’m sure they are trying their best to make a go of it, but we’re not in the business of rehabilitation.” He nodded toward Lisa. “Sure, Winsome took a damaged young woman under her wing and worked miracles, but let’s not get carried away with the social work. Don’t you think Alex might be just a little naive, especially when it comes to Michael Lane? Don’t they say love is blind? Let’s not allow it to blinker your judgment.”

  “I’m not.”

  “All I’m saying, Annie, is that we can’t always save their souls, and we shouldn’t expect to. Half the time we can’t even save their bodies. Believe me, I’ve met plenty of deserving cases in my time, and sometimes I’ve even helped them, but sometimes I haven’t. Sometimes it even worked. Often it didn’t, and they went on to commit more serious crimes. We’re not psychologists or miracle workers.”

  “I’m not blinkered,” said Annie. “I fully accept that Michael Lane might have made a mistake, that he was probably involved at some level. I realize that being perpetually short of cash might have pushed him into doing something illegal, no doubt with Morgan Spencer’s encouragement. He may even have seen the tractor as just a one-­off to get him back on his feet, and to thumb his nose at John Beddoes. I’m not dismissing those possibilities. But I’d also like to point out that right now he’s a missing person, possibly in danger, or already come to harm, not a suspect.”