Unti Peter Robinson #22

by Peter Robinson

  Burgess was jotting something down in his notebook when Banks got back with the drinks. He put it away. “I knew Havers when I was growing up,” he said. “Not very well—­I’m a bit older than him—­but I knew him. He lived in the next street over. That’s why I’m taking more of an interest than usual, I suppose.”

  “Ever heard of a John Beddoes?” Banks asked.

  “I can’t say as I have.”

  “It was his tractor got stolen, but now I’m wondering if he isn’t in it with Havers. They were close mates back in those good old days you were just talking about.”

  “It’s entirely possible,” Burgess said. “But he’d hardly steal his own tractor, or get someone to do it, would he?”

  “No. I’m working on that. It’s just been found outside Dover, so that should make him happy.”

  “That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?”

  “I agree. The thieves must have run into some sort of a snag and had to abandon it. I imagine it was due to ship from somewhere near there. But we think the whole operation was a maverick job, or at least it’s rated as one. A young lad called Morgan Spencer acting alone. It was probably what got him killed.”

  “He’s the boy who was killed with the stun gun and cut up, right? I heard about that. No, the name hasn’t come up in any of our investigations.”

  “Very low level, I should imagine,” said Banks. “You had a murder with a similar MO some time ago, if I’m not mistaken?”

  “A bolt gun? Yes. Very nasty. Polish bloke. It wasn’t a case I worked on at all closely, but I took an interest. Anything out of the ordinary like that gets my attention. As far as I know, it was never solved. Maybe I’ll have another look at the case file. Something might leap out. Didn’t they find some prints?”

  “They did. I’ve got someone working on them now, comparing them with partials we found at the hangar. But if anything does jump out at you, let me know.”

  “Will do.”

  “We’ve got a ­couple of suspects in the theft of a penetrating bolt gun from a big abattoir up north. We’re trying to track them down, of course, but any help you can offer . . .”

  Burgess took his notebook out again. “Give me their names.”

  “Ulf Bengtsson and Kieran Welles.”

  “Scandinavian is he, this Bengtsson?”

  “Swedish.”

  “Thought so. If my memory serves me well, he’s dead. I’ll check, but I’m pretty sure his name was Ulf something or other. Everyone knew him as ‘The Swede.’ ”

  “Oh?”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, Banksy. It was natural causes. He was sleeping rough, had a serious alcohol problem. One morning some tourists found him under a bridge near the Embankment. Lights out. Liver and heart failure.”

  “How do you know this? Surely there wasn’t an investigation?”

  “I try to keep up. It’s my city. As a matter of fact, hypothermia was involved. It had been a very cold night, and questions were asked in Parliament. How could our society . . . blah, blah, blah . . . You ask me, ­people want to sleep out on the streets and beg instead of getting a decent job and somewhere safe and warm to kip down, good luck to them.”

  “You haven’t changed much, have you?”

  Burgess winked. “Governments come and governments go, but basic truths remain the same.”

  “And so does Dirty Dick Burgess. And the other? Kieran Welles.”

  “Don’t know anything about him. Kieran’s an Irish name, though, isn’t it?”

  “Sounds like it to me.”

  “Hmm. I’ll see what I can find out.” He sipped his drink. “Sometimes it’s like pissing in the wind, this job. Christ, don’t you long for the old days, Banksy? You were down here then. Out on the mean streets. You had a bit of a reputation. Took no prisoners, as I remember.”

  “Different times.”

  “Too true. But let’s not get all nostalgic, hey?” He hoisted his glass and they clinked. “To old friends.”

  “You sentimental bastard.”

  “Go carefully,” Burgess said. “I mean it. ­People like Havers, and perhaps even your Beddoes, for all I know, look harmless on the surface. They’d run a mile if you raised your fist to them. But they don’t have to deal with that end of the business themselves. They use ­people like your Kieran Welles, and they don’t care what damage they do. Do you think Welles is behind the killing?”

  “Off the cuff?” said Banks. “I don’t know Kieran Welles—­don’t even know if he was the one who stole the bolt gun. All I know about him is that he was cruel to animals in an abattoir, if that doesn’t take the biscuit. There’s a ­couple of others—­Ronald Tanner, who threatened a witness, and a mate of his called Carl Utley, who we think might have driven the van with the tractor away from the scene and dumped it outside Dover. We’re looking for him. I don’t rate Tanner. He’s a bruiser. He’s never worked in an abattoir, and we’ve found no trace of a bolt gun at his house.”

  “He could have dumped the body.”

  “Oh, he’s involved somehow, but the impression he gives me is that he’s just low-­level muscle. Bruises and fractures, maybe, but not whack jobs, to use the correct parlance. I hope not, anyway. We had to cut him loose today.”

  “Why?”

  “Cassandra Wakefield.”

  “Bloody hell! Is that gloriously shaggable bitch still putting criminals back on the streets?”

  “Indeed she is.”

  “Talking about shaggable, that DI MacDonald you’ve got up north on Operation Hawk is quite tasty, isn’t she?”

  “You know her?”

  “We’ve met at a ­couple of meetings. Bit frosty at first acquaintance, but those types often turn out to be the loudest screamers. I’m not treading on your toes, am I, Banksy? She did mention your name. But I hear you’d got a bit of young Italian crumpet on the go.”

  Banks smiled. He hadn’t heard the word “crumpet” for years. Trust Burgess. “I have a girlfriend, yes, and her family’s Italian. I worked with Joanna MacDonald when she was Inspector Joanna Passero, that’s all. Before her divorce. She was in Professional Standards then.”

  “Bloody hell. Now you come to mention it, I can just see her doing that job.”

  “She didn’t like it. She’s happier now.”

  “A happy divorcée. Just friends, then?”

  “Just friends.”

  “Even after that dirty weekend in Tallinn?”

  Banks gave him a look. Burgess held up his hands and responded with the closest he could get to feigning innocence. “OK,” he said. “I’ll be in touch on the names and anything I can find out about your John Beddoes. And remember what I said. Adiós, amigo, and be careful out there.”

  Banks finished his pint and stood up. “I will.”

  IT WAS just after dark when Alex decided to nip to the mini supermarket down the street. She was out of milk for the breakfast cereal, needed bread for toast, and there was no white wine left. Ian was playing Call of Duty, legs crossed on the armchair with his game console, and he didn’t want to stop while he was ahead. As the two of them, and their flat, were being watched over by the police, Alex knew there was nothing to worry about. They had said she was free to come and go as she pleased, to carry on as normal. She wouldn’t see them, but they would be watching her. Even so, she felt a bit nervous leaving Ian alone when she put on her leather jacket and picked up her handbag. It was the first time she had been out after dark since her visit from the man they had identified as Ronald Tanner. And she had seen on the local news just an hour ago that he had been released from police custody that morning, despite the fingerprint and her identification from the VIPER screen. Alex couldn’t really get her head around that. She knew criminals were always getting off, but this Tanner had so obviously done it. She guessed that the police were looking for more evidence, and she imagine
d they would be watching him very closely. He certainly wouldn’t want to give them any reason to put him back in jail by coming to visit her flat again.

  Alex could hear hip-­hop coming from one of the flats on the floor above as she walked along the balcony toward the lifts. She had never been able to understand hip-­hop, though several friends and neighbors had tried to explain its virtues to her. She’d been to raves when she was a teenager, danced all night to pulsating, repetitive electropop, even popped Ecstasy on one or two occasions; she was open-­minded, but she had never taken to hip-­hop, even when it wasn’t grime, or using ugly words to describe women and the things men should do to them. Still, she knew the kids up there, and they were OK. It was probably just a matter of taste. She liked Beyoncé and Rihanna; they liked Tinie Tempah and Dizzee Rascal.

  The lift was working, thank God, though the smell of piss was as bad as ever. It was just as likely down to the incontinent old geezer on the tenth floor as it was to kids. He’d been told often enough but he said he couldn’t help himself. It was quiet out on the street, the lamps giving out that eerie late twilight glow, just a few ­people walking about, heads down, the smell of someone’s cigarette drifting on the damp night air, mingling with the hot grease and acrid hint of vinegar from the fish-­and-­chips shop. She glanced around but could see no signs of her police watchers. They were being very discreet. She stuck her hands deep in her jacket pockets, bag slung over her shoulder bumping against her hip. She could see the lights of the supermarket about fifty yards ahead, just across the street, could see ­people coming and going. She passed a woman who lived on the same floor as her, and they said hello. The night was still and cold. Cold enough to freeze the puddles, Alex thought, with a shiver.

  The automatic doors slid open and she was bathed in the warmth and bright fluorescent lights of the supermarket. She picked up a basket and started wandering the aisles. There were a few other customers in, a mother trying to control two unruly children, a young ­couple loading up on beer and crisps, an old man in a woolly cardigan and a flat hat browsing the magazines.

  Alex had just turned at the end of the aisle, opposite the frozen-­goods section, when a hand came from behind, covered her mouth and pulled her back around the corner.

  BANKS DROVE out to see Beddoes as soon as he got back to Swainsdale. The farmyard was frozen and rutted, and he wished he’d taken a car from the pool instead of the Porsche, though it managed the bumps well enough.

  Inside the farmhouse was as neat and nicely appointed as before: only the best furniture and antique porcelain on shelves on the wall. The Bang & Olufsen was silent, and Beddoes himself was relaxing in an armchair drinking coffee and reading a book about economics, a subject Banks had never understood, as Patricia Beddoes led him in. He hadn’t seen her before and noted that she was an attractive woman, a good decade or more younger than her husband, with a few sharp angles and a slightly hard, businesslike manner. It was hard to imagine her and AC Gervaise discussing Jonathan Franzen or Kiran Desai over a glass of wine and a plate of cheese and crackers.

  “DCI Banks,” said Beddoes, putting down his book and coffee and standing up to shake hands. “Nice to see you again. I hope you come bearing good news.”

  “We’ve found your tractor, if that’s what you mean.”

  Beddoes’s jaw dropped. His wife grabbed his arm. “John! That’s wonderful news.”

  “You have?” said Beddoes. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You might like to ask where we found it.”

  “I would have imagined it in some Eastern European country by now.”

  “Dover.”

  “You mean it never left England?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Isn’t that unusual?”

  “Very.”

  “So what do you think happened?”

  “We don’t know yet. Clearly something went wrong with their plans.”

  “Lucky for me. I never thought I’d see the blessed thing again. When can I have it back?”

  “Not for a while yet,” said Banks. “There’s a lot of tests we have to do.”

  “You mean fingerprints and stuff like that?”

  “Yes. Stuff like that. On first inspection, however, it appears to have been wiped clean.”

  “Oh? Well, wouldn’t you expect that, if the thieves had to abandon it and scarper. They wouldn’t want to risk leaving their fingerprints behind.”

  “They can’t have been in much of a hurry then, can they?”

  “I suppose not. It’s a real puzzle.”

  “Yes, but I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of it. Our fingerprints experts are very good.”

  “Do have any idea when I might get it back, how long your tests will take?”

  “Do you need it now?”

  “I am a farmer. If this damn weather clears up there’ll be a lot of field work to do.”

  “Yes, of course. I forgot.” Banks leaned forward. “Could be a while. You see, the problem is that technically it’s evidence in a murder investigation, perhaps two murder investigations, and we’re also examining it in conjunction with the lorry it was transported in and the motorcycle that accompanied it. Morgan Spencer’s lorry and motorcycle, as it happens. And Morgan Spencer was murdered last Sunday morning near Drewick, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”

  “Yes . . . I . . . I didn’t know there was any connection. I already told you I don’t know this Spencer person. Do you think he could be the one who stole it?”

  “We think he might have been part of the gang that took it, but that’s as far as it goes. There’s still an awful lot to sort out.”

  “Yes, I suppose there is. Well . . . Pat, darling, do you think you might fetch a cup of coffee for DCI Banks. I think there’s some left. It ought to be fresh.”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Beddoes went into the kitchen and brought back a tray with coffee, milk and sugar. Banks took his black, so he simply picked up the cup and thanked her. It was good coffee. Rich but not bitter, strong but not nerve-­jangling. Probably cost an arm and a leg, he thought.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?” said Beddoes.

  “Perhaps. Do you know a man called Montague Havers?”

  “I can’t say as I do, no.”

  Surely Havers had rung up Beddoes as soon as Banks had left the London office? Probably told him to admit to knowing him but to play their relationship down. “You might have known him as Malcolm Hackett.”

  “Yes, of course. Malcolm. We worked together in the City years ago. Why has he changed his name?”

  “He thought Montague Havers sounded a bit more upmarket for the kind of work he does.”

  “That’s typical Malcolm. Always was a bit of a snob. What’s he up to these days?”

  “Haven’t you spoken with him recently?”

  “We haven’t been in touch in years. Not since the late eighties.”

  “I see. He’s in investment banking. Specializing in international investment. That’s his profession, at any rate. Personally, he’s also interested in property development.”

  “But what has Malcolm got to do with my tractor?”

  Banks leaned forward in his chair. “I was coming to that,” he went on. “Leaving the various thefts, threats and murderers aside for the time being, I found out an interesting thing about Mr. Havers.”

  “You have my attention.”

  “Havers has invested in the abandoned airfield near Drewick, where Morgan Spencer was murdered. You may have heard it’s slated for redevelopment as a shopping center. Should be quite lucrative, I’d think, in the long run.”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “Well, we think—­I’d say we’re pretty much convinced, thanks to the forensics buffs—­that the hangar was used as an exchange point for stolen farm equipment on its way from North Yorkshire, and
perhaps points north, to Eastern Europe.”

  “I see. Including my tractor?”

  “We think so.”

  “That is quite a coincidence.”

  “Yes, it is. And this Montague Havers—­Malcolm Hackett, as was—­claims that he and you were best buddies in the eighties. You worked for the same firm of stockbrokers, drank in the same pubs, maybe even shared the same women, for all I know. They were heady times, and you were young lads on the way up fast.”

  “I’d hardly say we were best mates, and it was a long time ago. We did have some good times together, though.”

  “Funny, that,” said Banks. “He didn’t appear to remember you at all until I jogged his memory.”

  “Well, as I said, we weren’t that close.”

  Banks sat back in his chair and made a note in his notebook. Beddoes didn’t seem to like the look of that. “When he did remember, he said he used to call you ‘Bedder’ Beddoes. Is that right?”

  Beddoes blushed and coughed. “Please, Chief Inspector.”

  “It’s all right,” said Patricia, in a voice like tempered steel. “That was long before John and I met. I never imagined he was a monk. I’m sure he had many romantic exploits.” She paused. “I know I did.”

  “Look,” said Beddoes. “What does this have to do with anything? You come here making remarks about my personal life, raking up the past. I haven’t seen or heard from Malcolm Hackett in years.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Of course I am. Do you think I’m lying?”