Unti Peter Robinson #22

by Peter Robinson

  “Trafficking? What do you mean? What trafficking?”

  “Stolen farm equipment and livestock. Maybe other things. ­People. Drugs. We don’t know the full extent of the operation yet. It’s an ideal location, though. Isolated, unguarded, close to the A1.”

  “I have no knowledge of any such activity.” Norrington seemed shaken. He stood up, took his jacket from the back of his chair and put it on. “Look, I think I’m going to have to ask our legal representatives to come in if our conversation continues in this vein.”

  “Why?” asked Banks.

  “These insinuations you’re making.”

  “I’m not making any insinuations. Do you have something to hide?”

  “No, of course I don’t. It’s just . . . well, I don’t know what you’re after.”

  Banks scratched his scar. “You know, I’m not always too sure, myself, Mr. Norrington. I often feel as if I’m just digging around until my shovel hits something. I tell you what. Why don’t you just take your jacket off, again, nice and informal like, then sit down, and we’ll carry on. OK?”

  Norrington hesitated, then seemed to relax and did as Banks suggested, though the suspicious expression remained on his face. “All right,” he said, spreading his hands. “I’ve nothing to hide.”

  “Good. Can you give us a list of the investors who’ve signed up for Drewick already?”

  “I’m afraid that’s privileged information. I can’t just go around giving out names. Some of these individuals might wish to remain anonymous. Surely you understand that?”

  Banks leaned forward. “Mr. Norrington, perhaps it’s us who ought to bring our legal representatives. In our case, it’s called the Crown Prosecution Ser­vice, and they’re very busy, but I’m sure we could persuade someone it’s for a good cause. Next to the Internal Revenue, bankers, town planners and lawyers themselves, property developers are pretty low down in the popularity stakes, you know.”

  “We do an important and necessary job.”

  “Just as we do,” said Banks. “So let’s all do it. Accepting that you are an honest businessman, it doesn’t have to follow that all of your investors are. One of them might have had an idea for putting the property to good use while he waited for a return on his investment.”

  Norrington ummed and aahed for a while longer, then rang through to his secretary and asked her to make a photocopy of the Drewick Shopping Centre investor list. “Just to show we’ve nothing to hide,” he added. “Though I would appreciate your discretion in the matter.”

  “We’ll prove the very souls of discretion, don’t you worry.” It would probably come to nothing, Banks knew, as anyone who was using the hangar for criminal purposes was hardly likely to be connected to the place on paper. But it all had to be checked; criminals get too clever and slip up, or they’re just plain stupid to start with. The secretary knocked and entered with the photocopy, which Norrington directed her to give to Banks.

  “Is there anything else?” Norrington asked.

  “Have you ever visited the site yourself?”

  “Once. Years ago, when we first acquired the property.”

  “2009?”

  “Around then, yes.”

  “Do you always check out your firm’s acquisitions?”

  “I usually try to.”

  “Perhaps you could have your secretary make us a copy of the list of other properties your company is preparing for development before we leave, too?”

  “Wait a minute. I’ve already given you the list of investors, against my better judgment. I really don’t see why we should be expected to give you a list of our properties.”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Again, it’s private information, privileged.”

  “Mr. Norrington, your company owns a property on which a brutal murder has been committed, and which we believe to be a transfer point for stolen-­goods shipments. How do we know you aren’t using other properties you own for the same purposes? Absentee landlords or not, Venture Property Developments can’t shirk responsibility entirely. Or the publicity that could come with it.” Banks glanced at Annie. “I’m sure you can get a court order in an hour or less, DI Cabbot. I’ll wait here with Mr. Norrington until you get back.”

  Annie stood up. Banks held his breath as she walked to the door. There was no way she could return with a court order within a ­couple of hours, so he could only hope his bluff worked.

  “Wait. Wait,” said Norrington, waving his hand as Annie grasped the door handle. “If it’ll get rid of you once and for all, fine. I’ve got work to do.” Slowly he picked up the phone and gave the instructions. After he had done so, he went on: “I would like to inform you, however, that I don’t appreciate threats, and I will be talking to the company’s legal department immediately after you leave. Any further intrusions into our time and our business records will be a lot more difficult to carry out and will be done in the presence of legal representation. And remember the names on that list are private property.”

  Banks and Annie got up to leave. “Thanks, Mr. Norrington, you’ve been a great help,” Banks said over his shoulder. “You certainly sound as if you know the drill. No, don’t bother to see us out. We’ll pick up the list of properties from your secretary on our way.”

  9

  THE TEAM GATHERED IN THE BOARDROOM AT THE END of the day, as the last rays of sunlight struggled in vain to blaze a trail of glory through the thickening clouds. Gervaise, Banks, Annie, Gerry Masterson, Stefan, Jazz Singh and Winsome were present. Only Doug Wilson among the major team members was missing, and as soon as he had organized his replacements to keep watch over Alex and Ian Preston, his job would be done for the day. He had already reported no progress with the train companies. Banks had guessed it might lead to nothing, but it was an avenue that had to be explored. Someone had sent to the canteen for a pot of coffee and a plate of digestive biscuits. Banks was thinking a bottle of wine or a barrel of beer would not have gone amiss. His mouth watered when he remembered the old Maigret stories his father had introduced him to: Maigret was always sending out to the local bar for beer and sandwiches from the Brasserie Dauphine. No such luck here.

  The overhead fluorescent lights were turned off and a ­couple of tasteful shaded lamps provided a soft ambient glow that everyone seemed to need after the long and frustrating day they’d had. Banks knew they needed a break in the case soon, and the meeting was being held to try to determine from which direction that lead might come. Tacked to the whiteboard next to a sketch of Morgan Spencer and a picture of Beddoes’s bright green Deutz-­Fahr Agrotron were images of the penetrating bolt gun and the man Alex had described to the police sketch artist. There was no news from Vic Manson on the fingerprints yet, but Banks knew that Vic was a patient man, and sometimes these things took time to get right. He’d come up with something, even if they had to wait until tomorrow.

  Jazz Singh was a bit faster with DNA, and she spoke first. “I won’t bore you with the technical details,” she said. “Not that you’d understand them. First, and perhaps most important, we have a match between the DNA extracted from the blood at the hangar near Drewick and that taken from the body discovered in the Vaughn’s van crash. And to be clear, I don’t mean the driver, but the other body, the one that was cut up and put in bin bags.”

  “So it was Morgan Spencer who was killed at the hangar,” said Banks.

  “Hold your horses,” said Jazz. “I didn’t say that. I simply said they were the same. We don’t have a sample of anything we know to be Morgan Spencer’s DNA, so I can’t say for certain it’s him. Everything he owned was destroyed when his caravan burned down, and he’s not on any of our databases.”

  “OK,” said Banks. “We recognized Morgan Spencer from the crash site, especially after the searchers found his head.” He pointed toward the sketch on the board. “That’s how everyone we know who’s s
een him says he looks. Especially Alex Preston.”

  “What about his parents?” asked Winsome.

  “His father is proving difficult to contact,” said Banks. “We understand he’s somewhere in Barbados, but other than that . . . His mother lives in Sunderland. She’s an ex-­junkie and her mental health is precarious. She lives in a halfway house and has very few personal possessions, none of which include a photograph of her son. Apparently, she lost touch with Morgan some years ago, when she lost touch with the rest of the world.”

  “We’ve had a look around Spencer’s lockup,” said Stefan Nowak, “but I don’t know if there’s anything that can help you in there, Jazz. You’re welcome to have a look. You might find a hair or something. No sign of his removal lorry or his motorbike, but we found traces of oil, petrol and red diesel.”

  “Thanks,” said Jazz. “Maybe I’ll have a look tomorrow. I have to go back to the lab now. Backlog. The Harrogate rape case. Is that OK?”

  “Of course,” said Banks. “And thanks for all your efforts.”

  Jazz skipped briskly from the room.

  “And let’s not forget,” Banks said to the room at large in the silence after Jazz’s departure. “Even though we think we’ve found and identified Morgan Spencer, we still have to find Michael Lane. Hopefully alive and well. He may well be our only chance of a witness to what happened. And we aren’t the only ones who want him.”

  “I managed to trace the number he called Alex Preston from last night,” Annie said. “It’s a public telephone on Coppergate in York.”

  “We’ll alert the York police,” said Banks, “but I imagine he’ll be far away by now.”

  After that, everyone submitted a brief summary of the day’s activities, questions and responses, what they had learned and what they suspected. It didn’t add up to a lot. The old wool barons on the walls looked sinister in the shadows, as if they were watching over the team, or sitting in judgment. A bloodred lance of dying sunlight managed to stab through a crack in the clouds and illuminate a particularly grim-­looking specimen.

  “Do you think Keith Norrington at Venture had anything to do with it?” AC Gervaise asked.

  Banks glanced at Annie. “No,” she said. “He’s just a creepy businessman covering his arse, ma’am. It won’t do any harm to check him out, though. Bound to be something dodgy in the company books.”

  Gervaise managed a thin smile. “Well, don’t go too far,” she said. “We don’t want to be accused of harassing creepy businessmen.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “What about Neil Vaughn?” Banks asked.

  “I don’t think so,” said Winsome. “He seemed genuinely distressed about what had happened to Caleb Ross. He’d given his employees the day off. I know that doesn’t mean much, and he could be merely trying to manipulate what we think, but I didn’t notice any false steps. Gerry?”

  “The one thing that struck me,” said Gerry Masterson, “was how easy he made it seem to get around the rules. I mean, a business like his is highly regulated. Has to be, doesn’t it? Stands to reason with all those animal carcasses and risks of disease and contagion. Vaughn himself might not be involved in anything, but he certainly gave the impression that it wouldn’t be too difficult for someone who did want to bend the rules.”

  “I agree,” said Winsome. “And something he said gave us cause for concern about his brother, Charlie Vaughn. Apparently he’s not interested in the family business, which is nothing of itself, but he is interested in horses of the live kind. Live and running races.”

  “So he’s a gambler?” said Banks.

  “Yes. Winner or loser, I don’t know, but that’s the impression I got.”

  “I’ve never known a gambler who was a winner,” said Banks. “They all win sometimes, even win big, but they lose it in the end. It’s the nature of the business. And when they lose big, things can get tough for everyone around them. It’s like a junkie in need of a fix. Know anything more?”

  “Apparently, he’s got an alibi,” said Gerry. “He’s been out of the country the past two weeks. Spain.”

  “Solid.”

  “I think so,” said Gerry. “Want me to dig deeper?”

  “No, not yet. We’ve got plenty to be going on with. Let’s keep him in our thoughts, though.”

  “By the way, sir,” Gerry added. “Caleb Ross didn’t have muttonchops.”

  Banks raised his eyebrows. “So he’s not our Sunday driver? I must say, I never really thought he was. Good work, though, Gerry.”

  Gerry Masterson beamed.

  AC Gervaise turned toward Stefan. “I understand you have something of interest to report, Mr. Nowak?”

  “Yes,” said Stefan, with a gentlemanly nod toward Gervaise. “One of our search team found some marijuana in a tin at the crash site. It was actually in the van, more a part of the carburetor when we found it, and we’ll need to send it for analysis and do a number of tests to make certain. But the CSI who found it seems sure about what it was. He . . . er . . . he seems to know what he’s talking about.”

  They all laughed.

  Stefan smiled. “I believe him.”

  “Could it have been a contributing factor to the accident?”

  “It could have been,” said Stefan. “If he’d been smoking it at the time of the crash, it could certainly have interfered with his motor functions and his reaction times. All it would have taken in the conditions at that time would have been a momentary distraction. But we have no way of knowing whether he smoked it in the cab. Of course, Dr. Glendenning will order a tox screen on the remains and that might show up something, though I doubt it.”

  “But in a way, that doesn’t matter, does it?” said Banks. “I mean whether he was sober or stoned when he crashed. Maybe to the insurance companies, perhaps even to the other driver and to Caleb’s friends and acquaintances. But it doesn’t matter to us.”

  “What do you mean, Alan?” said Gervaise.

  “It’s no great sin that Caleb Ross smoked a bit of marijuana now and then. In fact I’d be surprised to hear that he didn’t. Apparently he was a big prog rock fan, and prog rock and marijuana use go together like fish and chips. I even remember seeing a few ­people smoking and listening to Tales from Topographic Oceans when I was a student. Of course, I never touched the stuff myself.”

  “Of course not,” said Gervaise. The thin smile drew her Cupid’s bow lips tight. “Or at least, if you did, you didn’t inhale.”

  “I mean prog rock,” said Banks, deadpan.

  They all laughed again. Gerry played mother and refilled everyone’s coffee cups. The biscuits were all gone.

  “What I mean,” Banks went on, “is that what might be interesting is where he got his dope, and whether his dealer had some kind of hold over him. Perhaps there were even other, more serious, drugs involved.”

  “We had a ­couple of local DCs search his house,” said Winsome. “They didn’t find anything. No drugs, no stash of money. Nothing of interest.”

  “I suppose it’s still possible that Ross was somehow blackmailed into helping the gang,” said Banks. “Or even willingly paid in marijuana. Maybe that was their way to make him do their bidding. If nothing else, he would certainly have lost his job had it come out that he was a habitual pot smoker.”

  “So we try to find his source?” said Winsome.

  “We’ll keep a lookout. And we might as well have a good look at Caleb Ross again. Winsome?”

  “As far as I could gather from all his coworkers I talked to, no one had a bad word to say about him. Salt of the earth. Honest as the day is long. All the usual clichés. None of his colleagues could believe that he could possibly have been up to no good. ‘Caleb? No way’ was the general response.”

  “Maybe they just didn’t want to be heard speaking ill of the dead?” Annie suggested.

  “I�
��m sure there was a bit of that involved. I mean, even with this new information, we still can’t say he was connected with the theft or the murder, can we? As the DCI says, it’s hardly a major crime to smoke marijuana. Maybe he was a minor player? It’s amazing how easily ­people can avert their eyes from what they just see as a harmless little fiddle, like nicking pens and writing pads from the office stationery, like it’s something you’re entitled to.”

  “Good point,” said Banks. “But I still can’t shake the feeling that Ross and Lane are involved at some level. Ross might not have known what was in the extra packages he accepted, and he might well have balked if he had, but if he knowingly accepted them, he knew that what he was doing was against regulations, and that it probably involved forging official documents. And finding the marijuana does cast a slightly different light on him. It seems he wasn’t quite as honest and law-­abiding as everyone makes out. Look a bit deeper, Winsome. Maybe talk to some of the farmers he regularly picked up from, see what you can find out there.”

  “Will do, sir. I’ll draw up a list from the one Vaughn’s gave us and make a few visits.”

  Banks turned to Stefan Nowak again. “Thanks, Stefan,” he said. “Anything else?”

  “Nothing to report, really. The accident lads will be there all night again, by the looks of it. They’ve found no traces of tampering and don’t expect to at this point, but they still have a lot of other ground to cover. My lads are about done and should be able to get away tomorrow. It’s bloody freezing out there.”

  “Anything more from the hangar?”

  “Some partial prints. We might be able to come up with some matches, but nothing that would stand up in court.”

  Banks turned to Gerry Masterson. “Anything more on Beddoes’s finances?”

  “Nothing dodgy at all as far as I can make out, sir. All in order. He’s not rich, but he gets by. He’s got plenty of investments, mostly low-­risk—­he’s no gambler—­and the farm makes a small profit on paper. You ought to see the prices for some of those oils and pork chops!”