Unti Peter Robinson #22

by Peter Robinson

  Banks laughed. “Maybe when this is all over, Beddoes can take us all out for dinner.”

  “Only if we find his tractor, sir. I can do a more thorough check, if you like.”

  “We’ll see how things go. You’re going to be busy tomorrow, Gerry. We need workups on Venture Properties, for a start. I’ve got a ­couple of lists to get you going there.”

  “Yes, sir. By the way, I did manage a brief glance at Terry Gilchrist’s military record and it’s without blemish. Quite the opposite, really. Most distinguished.”

  “Thanks, Gerry,” said Banks. He looked at Winsome, who had her head down and her pen in her hand.

  “Perhaps most important of all is this,” Banks went on. He turned to the whiteboard and pointed to the image of the bolt gun. “I know it looks like one of those ray guns aliens use in old science-­fiction movies, but it’s not. It’s what’s called a captive bolt pistol, or gun, and it’s used for stunning animals in abattoirs. There are essentially three versions. The first is nonpenetrating, in which a retractable bolt is fired either by compressed air or by a blank round. This bolt hits the animal’s skull but doesn’t penetrate it, causing unconsciousness. The second type is a penetrating bolt gun, in which the bolt is pointed and penetrates the skull, destroying brain tissue. There’s also a noncaptive free bolt type, in which the bolt is actually fired like a bullet. In this case, we’re dealing with the penetrating bolt gun. If it had been free bolt there would have been much deeper internal damage, and we would have found the bolt somewhere, unless the killers took it with them. Dr. Glendenning assures me that was not the case, and the wound indicates a typical penetrating bolt gun.”

  “Would the blow have been enough to kill Spencer?” asked Gervaise.

  “Probably,” said Banks. “We can’t be a hundred percent certain, but such a blow is usually fatal to humans. The only thing that makes the bolt pistol a rather awkward weapon, and perhaps why it isn’t used so often, is that you have to be close up to the victim to use it. You can’t shoot from a distance because the bolt never actually leaves the gun. Which explains why someone had to hold Spencer’s arms. He’d hardly be likely to just stand still and take it.”

  “How do you get hold of one?”

  “Like many such things,” said Banks, “you order it over the Internet.”

  “Don’t you need a license?” Annie asked.

  “No,” said Gerry. “I checked. At least you don’t need a firearms license. You’d need a slaughterman’s license, though.”

  “And how do you get that?” Annie asked.

  “Pass the course. The slaughterman course.”

  “Sick,” said Annie.

  “Penetrating bolt pistols are very much discouraged these days,” Gerry went on. “Not because they’re inhumane, but because by initiating contact with the animal’s brain, they could become a conduit for disease. Mad cow, that is, for the most part. Free bolts are rare, only used in an emergency if you can’t restrain the animal.”

  “I suppose the top and bottom of it is,” said Banks, “that while they’re not easy to get, and they can be expensive, they’re a hell of a lot easier to get your hands on than a regular handgun.” He looked at Gerry. “Again, it looks as if you’re going to have to do a bit of tracking down here. Purchases. Thefts. The usual suspects. And I think first of all you should see if you can find out whether there have been any crimes with a similar MO in the last ­couple of years. Start locally, then move out to the rest of the country.”

  Gerry nodded.

  “And we need to have a close look at the abattoir business in these parts,” Banks said. “Everyone knows illegal and unregulated abattoirs exist, along with legitimate establishments, and they can take many shapes and sizes. It’s true that the prime season for stealing lambs is August, when they’re nice and plump and ready to eat, but someone has been picking off the odd field of sheep or cows around the dale for a while now, and I doubt they’ve all been shipped to Romania or Bulgaria, no matter what the Daily Mail would have us believe. Cattle are especially difficult to sell, as they have electronic ID tags and passports, whereas sheep only have easily removable ear tags. But if your intention is to get the animal cut up as soon as possible and sell it locally, off the back of a lorry, none of that matters too much. There’s a big enough market at home for a bit of cheap meat, no questions asked.” Banks turned to Annie: “Maybe you and Doug can start checking out the local abattoirs tomorrow? We want any hints of illegal operations, any objects stolen, especially bolt pistols, any disgruntled employees recently fired and maybe setting up on their own, that sort of thing.”

  “But I’m a vegetarian,” protested Annie. “Yuck.”

  “I know,” said Banks. “It’s a dirty job, but . . .”

  Annie pulled a face, and the others laughed, then there was a tap at the door followed by Vic Manson, a buff folder in his hand. “Thought you’d like to know,” he said. “We’ve got a result.”

  WHEN TERRY Gilchrist opened the door, he looked surprised to see Winsome again. “DS Jackman,” he said. “What a pleasant surprise. Come in. Please. Take your coat off.” She hung up her coat on a hook in the hall and followed him through to the living room. He was walking without his stick, but he seemed able to manage all right unaided, though she noticed that he rested his hand on the back of the sofa to hold himself up for a moment when he got to the living room, and she thought she saw a grimace of pain flash across his features.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Fine. Just the occasional twinge. The doc said I’d get them for a while.”

  “I’m sorry to call so late. It’s been one of those days.”

  “Then sit down. Take the weight off.”

  Winsome sat and smoothed her skirt. It was a chilly evening, with a brisk cold wind gusting outside, and Gilchrist had a wood fire burning in the fireplace. Peaches lay stretched out asleep in front of it. Winsome felt the warmth permeate and envelop her. “That’s nice,” she said, reaching out her hands to feel the heat.

  “One of life’s little luxuries. And you can see Peaches loves it. Drink?”

  “Not for me, thanks. I’m driving.”

  “Tea, then? Or I can offer you a cappuccino.”

  “That’d be lovely, if it’s no trouble.”

  “No trouble at all.”

  The room seemed different after dark. Perhaps it was the wood fire. Winsome absorbed the warmth and the sound of crackling logs as she listened to the hissing and grinding of what sounded like an espresso machine. Peaches was still breathing slowly and peacefully in front of the fire. She stirred and growled once, as if disturbed by a dream, then stuck out her tongue and settled back down again. Soon Gilchrist was back with two cappuccinos. He handed one to Winsome.

  “Another of life’s little luxuries?”

  “The espresso machine? Rather a large luxury, I’d say. Actually,” he went on, “you’re lucky to catch me in. It’s trivia night at the Coach and Horses tonight. Highlight of my week, usually.”

  “Don’t be so cynical.”

  “Sorry. I really do enjoy it, though. The trivia, I mean, not the cynicism. We used to play it on the base.”

  “I almost signed up once,” Winsome said after a pause.

  “For trivia? You?”

  “No. The armed forces. Why not? I’m fit. And it’s in the family, like policing. My grandfather fought in the Second World War. I was a bit more mercenary. I thought I might at least get an education out of it later, if I survived. Maybe IT, or office administration, something like that.”

  “Dream on,” said Gilchrist. “They were going to send me to university after my spell. Middle Eastern languages. I showed a bit of aptitude in the field, and they can always use someone who speaks the lingo.”

  “What happened?”

  “Canceled. Decided to send me out there again i
nstead.” He tapped his leg. “Hence this. I suppose they thought I was a better soldier than a linguist.”

  “And now?”

  “I don’t know. I’m out for good. I might actually go to university. I’m still considering my options, as they say.”

  Winsome had read Gerry’s report after the meeting, and she knew how Gilchrist had been injured while getting his comrades and some children out of a booby-­trapped school before a second bomb went off. The Military Cross and an honorable discharge. There was no reason to mention it now and embarrass him. One thing she did know was that soldiers didn’t like to talk about their wars.

  “I don’t suppose you came here to talk about my war wounds,” he said.

  “No. I was just wondering if you remembered anything more about Monday morning.”

  Gilchrist rubbed his forehead. “I’ve been thinking about it since the last time we talked, and I’ve been keeping up with the news. Did the victim really end up at the bottom of Belderfell Pass in pieces, or am I reading too much into the reports?”

  “Yes, he did. But he was in pieces before that. How did you know it was him?”

  “Is this where you do your detective thing? Tell me I couldn’t have known unless I’d done it?”

  Winsome laughed. “Good Lord, no. I don’t think you did it. At least I hope you didn’t.”

  “Well I’m grateful for that. Actually, it’s elementary, my dear Jackman. It’s just the odds. I’ve lived around these parts long enough to know that you don’t get a pool of blood in a disused hangar and human body parts in a fallen stock lorry without some sort of connection. Stands to reason.” Gilchrist shook his head slowly. “Just when you think you’ve got as far away as you possibly can from all that sort of thing. The only other thing I remember is the car.”

  “What car?”

  “It was on Sunday morning, the day before I found the blood. I was just coming back from the newsagent’s in the village with the papers, about a quarter to ten or so, and I heard a car pass by on that road just beyond the trees, heading toward the Thirsk road. I noticed because it seemed to be going unusually fast and you almost never see cars on that road. It’s not very easy on the shock absorbers.”

  “You’re sure it was a car, not a lorry or a van?”

  “Yes, it was a car. I’m afraid I can’t tell you what make, though. I’m not that good. And I didn’t see it, really, just a flash of dull gray through the trees.”

  “Gray?”

  “Yes. But not silvery. More a sort of dirty gray. It didn’t sound too healthy, either, not at the speed it was going. I could tell that much at least.”

  Michael Lane, Winsome thought. Or whoever was driving his car if he had taken Spencer’s lorry. But she didn’t think he had. Fullerton had seemed pretty sure about the muttonchops and flat hat, and unless Lane was wearing a disguise, which Winsome doubted, then it probably wasn’t him. The timing was right. He wouldn’t have been worried about his shock absorbers if he thought he was fleeing for his life. Or if he had just shot someone. “Which way was it going?” she asked.

  “Drewick direction. If it kept going straight on, it would have ended up on the moors. But there’s the Thirsk road. It might have turned on there and joined up with the A1.”

  “Was anyone following it? Another car? A lorry, motorcycle?”

  “No, nobody. At least not for as long as it took me to get back to the house and open the door.”

  It was something, at any rate, Winsome thought. They could get some patrol cars out to the moors villages and ask if anyone remembered seeing a dirty gray Peugeot last Sunday morning. A car like that might stand out in areas where there wasn’t much poor weather traffic. Nobody in Drewick had mentioned it when first questioned by the patrol officers, but it might be a good idea to recanvass the village. Also, Winsome remembered that Lane’s mother and grandparents lived over the moors, in Whitby. If Lane had continued across the Thirsk road, he’d have hit the A19 eventually. A little jog either way on there would have had him heading into the North York Moors. Or up to Teesside or down to York, she reminded herself glumly.

  She made some notes, aware of Gilchrist watching her writing with a curious eye. “What?” she said, glancing up.

  “Nothing. You’re very meticulous, that’s all.”

  “It pays to be, in my job.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Do you know what a bolt pistol is?”

  Gilchrist frowned. “Isn’t it one of those things they use in abattoirs?”

  “That’s right. Have you seen one lately, heard anything about one?”

  “No. Not just recently, but never. The only reason I know about them is the firearms course I took in my basic training. Not that we’d use them, but the instructor was thorough. He even covered air pistols and cap guns.” Gilchrist stood up slowly. “Look, I’ve got to go now, but I’ve just had a great idea. Why don’t you come to trivia night with me? I promise you’ll enjoy it. The Coach and Horses is just on the village high street.”

  “I’m not much of a trivia person, I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t worry about it, I’m good enough for the two of us.”

  Winsome laughed. “No, I still don’t think so. Sorry. It’s been a very long day, and tomorrow doesn’t promise to be any easier. I’m tired.”

  Gilchrist looked disappointed. “If you say so. Is that all?”

  “For now. Yes.”

  “OK, then. Let me help you with your coat.”

  Ever the gentleman, Gilchrist led her, again without his stick, into the hall, and helped her on with her coat. Winsome’s Polo was next to Gilchrist’s Ford Focus.

  “Can I offer you a lift or anything?” Winsome asked. “Save you taking the car out.”

  Gilchrist tapped his leg. “No, thanks. The walk will do me good. The doc says I need as much exercise as I can get if I hope to return to my former Adonis-­like physical glory.”

  “I’m sure if anyone makes it, you will. Good night. And thanks.”

  They stood there a little awkwardly, and Winsome felt confused by the waves of tension between them. Just when she thought Gilchrist was leaning forward to kiss her cheek, or her lips, she turned quickly and left. Back in the car, her heart was beating fast, and she had to tell herself to get a grip and calm down. Why had she refused his invitation? She wasn’t that tired. And the potholing he had mentioned on her previous visit? What harm could that do? Was it because she still thought of him as a suspect, or at least as a witness involved in a case she was working on? Partly, she thought. But it was more than that. She didn’t like the idea of sitting in an estate pub in what was little more than a modern country village. She would be the only black person in there, and she would stand out. She was used to that in her job, of course, but ­people knew her in Eastvale, and at least there was a college there. It attracted all colors and all kinds. In the pub, she would be an object of curiosity, and that would make her uncomfortable.

  Oh, why, she told herself, after running through the list of reasons for turning down Gilchrist’s offer, didn’t she just admit the truth: that she was attracted to him, and that the feeling frightened her. Then she heard her mother’s voice in her mind, as she so often did. “Get a grip on yourself, you foolish girl.” It wasn’t easy, but she made herself stop thinking of Gilchrist and concentrated on the road.

  IT HAD been a useful meeting, Banks thought, as he tossed his briefcase on his computer desk, picked up the post and hung his coat up on the rack behind the door, but he still felt that he lacked a coherent picture of recent events. No defining pattern had emerged from the vast collection of data and pooling of ideas.

  Vic Manson’s contribution had probably been the most valuable: the identification of the man who had threatened Alex Preston. He would see the complete file in the morning, but he already knew the man’s name was Ronald Tanner, and he had a str
ing of arrests for breaking and entering, and one for GBH. He had served two prison sentences, one for six months and the second for eighteen. What his connection was with the rural crime gang and Morgan Spencer’s murder remained to be seen, but they would certainly be a step closer to finding out when they got Tanner in custody. The local police had agreed to pick him up before dawn and deliver him to Eastvale. It was the most likely time to find him at home, and they would certainly have the element of surprise on their side, which could make all the difference if he were in possession of a weapon.

  Banks walked through the hall passage to the kitchen. There was a small dining-­table-­cum-­breakfast-­nook that could seat four, in a pinch, and a TV on one of the shelves on the wall beside it, where he usually watched the news or listened to the radio as he drank his breakfast coffee. He flicked on the remote, found nothing of interest and switched it off again, then he poured himself a glass of wine and sat at the table in silence.

  The post was uninteresting, apart from the latest issue of Gramophone, which he flipped through idly as he drank. Then he realized he was hungry again. The only thing he had to eat in the fridge was some leftover pizza with pork, apple and crackling saved from the quick lunch he and Annie had grabbed at Pizza Express at the back of the Corn Exchange in Leeds. He put it in the convection oven, where it would hopefully crisp up a bit, and went back to his magazine. When the bell dinged, he took his wine, pizza and Gramophone into the conservatory. Dense clots of black cloud fringed the top of Tetchley Fell on the horizon, but above them, the starry night was a clear dark blue, with a thin silvery crescent of moon. Banks sat in the wicker chair and watched its slow-­moving arc as he ate his pizza. The crust was dry, and still a bit too cold. He decided he wasn’t hungry anymore and put it aside. When he had finished, the moon had disappeared behind the fell.

  The headache that Banks had first felt during the meeting began to get worse when he concentrated on thinking about the case. He left his wine for a moment and went into the entertainment room to pick some music, finally settling on Agnes Obel’s Aventine. The gentle, repetitive piano figures and cello and violin accompanying her soaring voice would soothe him better than paracetamol.