Unti Peter Robinson #22

by Peter Robinson

  “Not a police officer. And we’re not in America.”

  “That just means you ain’t got no gun,” he drawled, in an imitation American accent.

  He started to move toward her, but not before shutting the door and slipping a bolt home. He pulled a chain, which Winsome had missed, to switch on the lights. They revealed the abattoir in all its gruesome glory, the floor and channel coated in congealed blood and slippery bits of innards, what might have been a kidney or a piece of liver, bloodstains on the walls. She took it all in at a glance, then her eyes fixed on the man.

  He looked like one of those wholesome blond farm boys from Minnesota or Wisconsin she had seen in American movies, wearing jeans and a checked shirt, a shock of blond hair almost covering his left eye. Almost. He ought to be chewing on a blade of straw, but he wasn’t. The smile on his lips and the menace in the eyes didn’t match, and as far as Winsome was concerned, he might as well have been wearing a leather face mask and carrying a chain saw. He was large, broad-­shouldered, muscular, and about the same height as Winsome, which was a bit over six foot.

  He headed slowly toward a padlocked metal box, fixed to one of the side walls, not taking his eyes off her as he walked, like one of those trompe d’oeil paintings that looked at you wherever you stood. Winsome took the opportunity to edge farther away from him. He got to the box and unlocked it. Winsome now stood across the channel from him, a little closer to the door. She knew that she couldn’t simply make a dash for it, so she didn’t even bother trying. She could see only one slim chance. He opened the box and took out what she guessed to be the bolt gun.

  “It can be quick,” he said. “But it doesn’t have to be. It all depends on the animal.”

  “WHAT DID that mean to you at the time?” Banks asked Michael Lane. “That Morgan had stolen the boss’s tractor?”

  “Mean?”

  “Yes. Why did it frighten you? It obviously did.”

  “Well, it was the way he said it, menacingly like, and they knew I’d heard them, so I thought they’d be after me.”

  “But how did you know who the boss was? They didn’t name him, did they?”

  “I . . . no . . . I don’t think they did. It was all a bit of a blur, to be honest. I was running for my life.”

  “But you were quite clear earlier,” Annie said. “Why should they care what you heard if you didn’t know who the boss was, or who they were?”

  “I was scared. I wasn’t thinking. For crying out loud, I thought they’d just shot Morgan and I was a witness. Do you seriously think I stood around to talk it over or think it out?”

  “Calm down, Michael,” said Annie. “Who is the boss? Do you know?”

  “How could I?”

  “Indeed,” said Banks. “That’s just what we’re wondering. Maybe it’s time to come clean and tell us everything you know. It’ll turn out better in the long run, believe me.”

  “I’ve told you. I was hiding behind the car. One of them said, ‘You stole the boss’s fucking tractor.’ There was a silence. Then the sound of a shot. I legged it. End of story.”

  Banks shook his head. “You disappoint me, Michael, you really do. For a moment, you know, you almost had me believing that you cared about that girl of yours and the bairn. That you really loved them.”

  “I do love them!”

  “Then we want names,” Banks shouted back.

  Lane appeared to consider his options and perhaps, Banks thought, to try to come up with a way to make his story sound acceptable without implicating himself. He licked his lips and his eyes flitted from one to the other and back. “OK,” he said finally. “Look, maybe Morgan did talk a bit more about some of the things he was up to. After he’d had a ­couple of drinks, like. But you have to understand, I thought it was all just stories, tall tales, bullshit, and I never had anything to do with any of it.”

  “That’s better, Michael,” said Banks. “What sort of things did Morgan tell you? What names did he mention?”

  “I know who the boss is,” Lane said. “Morgan bragged about the tractor, that he was going to steal it while the miserable bastard was on his holiday.”

  “We know that, too,” Annie said. “He’s John Beddoes. The point is that if Morgan knew he was the boss, why did he steal his tractor and set up an exchange meet with the others in the gang? It doesn’t make sense. Were they all in on it?”

  “I don’t think Morgan knew who the boss was,” said Lane. “I mean, that’s the way it sounded in the hangar. When the other bloke mentioned it, he said something like, ‘What the fuck? Beddoes?’ It was muffled, so I’m not really sure, but he sounded surprised.”

  That made sense, Banks thought. Spencer is so low level he doesn’t even know who the top men are, and he steals one’s tractor by mistake. He reports to Tanner and only Tanner deals directly with Beddoes. The typical sad story of a loser’s life. But was a tractor really worth killing for? Was it a viable motive for his murder? Why couldn’t they just give the tractor back to Beddoes and give Spencer a good hiding?

  Then Banks realized why. Beddoes was due back early Sunday morning. They couldn’t know that his flight had been delayed. As far as they were concerned, he’d come home, found his tractor gone and done the only thing he could do under the circumstances: call the police to report it stolen. Any other course of action would have looked odd. Even if they had tried to phone him to check and he didn’t answer, they would most likely assume that he was down at the police station describing the tractor. Spencer’s theft had caused them a lot of trouble and put them all in a difficult position. The gang had had to continue behaving as if they had stolen the tractor even after they knew who it belonged to. The best they could do was have someone—­the driver Utley, most likely—­dump it down south somewhere and hope it was found and returned in good condition before too long.

  Still, Banks wondered, was it worth the hue and cry of a murder investigation? On the other hand, perhaps the killer enjoyed his work. Perhaps he also had a grudge against Spencer. After all, Spencer’s body wasn’t supposed to turn up in a car crash at the bottom of Belderfell Pass. It was supposed to be incinerated in Vaughn’s yard with the fallen stock. Someone, probably Tanner, had searched Spencer’s caravan for anything that might incriminate the gang and then burned it down just to make sure. ­People would assume that Spencer had simply moved on after his caravan had burned down. But the gang hadn’t reckoned on Lane overhearing the murder and going on the run. That set everything in motion, with Beddoes, who had no doubt been quickly informed about Spencer’s mistake, calmly playing the injured party, the victim, knowing it would make him appear blameless, invulnerable.

  “Beddoes was an arsehole,” said Lane. “He had it in for me right from the start.”

  “So I’ve heard,” said Annie. “He called you a tearaway and a juvenile delinquent. What sort of things was Morgan up to?”

  “He was never very clear about it, but obviously stealing tractors was a part of it. He had the removal van, see, and he knew what was going around the dale.”

  “Who else was involved in this?”

  “I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t know. Morgan didn’t know the ­people in charge. I never heard him mention Beddoes. He did mention a bloke called Ron once, a club bouncer or something who liked to beat ­people up. Morgan liked to show off about being around dangerous guys. He was a hothead. He talked big. Said he was going to show them. But he didn’t know any of the real bosses.”

  “Ronald Tanner was the one who broke Alex’s finger and frightened her half to death,” said Annie.

  Lane turned pale. “Oh, God,” he said, and put his head in his hands.

  “We haven’t finished yet,” said Banks. “Time for tears and recriminations later.”

  Lane wiped his eyes and gave Banks a truculent glare. “You’re a hard bastard, you are.”

  “You say Morgan
Spencer mentioned wanting to steal Beddoes’s tractor while its owner was on holiday, and that he knew a thug called Ron. Did he ever mention Caleb Ross?”

  “Not to me.”

  “Ross smoked pot. Do you know where he got it from?”

  “No way. I’m not into that sort of thing. Alex wouldn’t have it in the house even if I was, not with Ian around. A few drinks when we can afford them. The occasional bottle of cheap wine in front of the telly. That’s all the drugs we do.”

  “Very domestic,” said Banks. “Did Spencer mention any of his other partners in crime to you?”

  “There was one other bloke. Morgan didn’t like him much. Even sounded a bit frightened when he talked about him. Like, he was a psycho or something. Lived way out on the moors all by himself. Come to think of it, he might have been growing some pot out there. He had his own private abattoir. Used to be a slaughterman, only he got fired for some reason or other.” Lane gave a shudder. “Like I said, I thought he was just bullshitting me.”

  “Did he give this person a name?”

  Lane frowned, then said, “Let’s see . . . Ken . . . Ken Atherton, or something like that. All I know is he sounded really scary.”

  AS ATHERTON advanced toward her, Winsome calculated the distance she would have to go and the estimated time she would have to do it. She thought she could probably outrun him, but she didn’t think she could take him on in a fight. Even outrunning him depended on the weather out there. There was certainly no chance of getting to her car and driving off, even if it started, even if drifts weren’t blocking the drive already. If she ran, she had to run somewhere, had to have a plan. There was only one possibility that came to her mind, and it was a desperate one. But first she had to get out.

  “It’ll be easier if you just relax,” Atherton said. “Sometimes the animals got overexcited, and I had to kick them or stub a cigarette out in their eye to show them who was boss. I can do that with you.”

  He looked down to fiddle with the gun and Winsome seized her chance. She grabbed the hook and hurled it toward Atherton. It swung fast, but he was faster and moved his head out of the way in time. He was disoriented enough to forget about the return, though, which came quicker than expected. The hook hit one of the low rafters and bounced back unexpectedly fast, and this time it connected directly with the back of Atherton’s head. He dropped the gun, which skittered far away down the channel, and fell face forward onto the filth.

  Winsome wasn’t sure how stunned he was but she had no desire to hang around. He was stronger than her, and he could easily turn the tables in a fight. She decided that running was still the best option.

  She slid back the bolt, hauled the door open and ran outside. It was hard to see far beyond the cottage, but the rock face of Woadly Edge stood out dramatically, dark against the whiteness of the snow. Winsome could hear Atherton moving inside the abattoir. She headed for the rock face as fast as her legs could carry her. She had been an award-­winning sprinter at school, and she hadn’t done badly over distances, either, so she thought she had an advantage. It was a gamble. She couldn’t run forever, and she didn’t intend to. Much of what happened to her in the next while would depend on whether Atherton knew the caves as well as she did. And on the cavalry coming, of course. Where was the cavalry?

  BANKS AND Annie sat in the former’s office after the Lane interview to draw up a plan of attack. Lane hadn’t been able to tell them anything more about Ken Atherton except that he lived on the remote moorland. First they needed to find out where. They had put Lane back in his cell for the time being, but neither of them thought they could make anything stick against him. Banks also had the feeling that Annie’s heart wasn’t in putting Lane behind bars.

  “Look, he’s been a bloody idiot,” she said, “and I’ve no doubt he was a bit more involved in Spencer’s doings than he led us to believe, but for the most part I’d say his story holds true, and I’ll bet you he’s learned his lesson.”

  “If he hasn’t,” said Banks, “I have no doubt that Alex will make sure it’s drilled into him.”

  “And what would the CPS make of it?” Annie added. “They’d laugh us out of the office.”

  “Ronald Tanner might implicate him, if he talks,” Banks said. “Or Carl Utley, or this Atherton character, when we find him.”

  “But that’s not proof,” Annie said. “Anyone could argue they’d be doing it to save their own skins. When it comes right down to it, do I believe Lane made a bit of extra money from helping Morgan Spencer with his dirty deeds, maybe fingering likely victims, helping with the heavy lifting? Maybe. But do I think he was really involved? No, I don’t. And did he hurt or kill anyone? No.”

  “It’s just possible he was the one who egged Spencer on to steal Beddoes’s tractor in the first place. There was bad blood between them. He knew through Alex that Beddoes was going away, and he did admit he might have mentioned it to Spencer on Friday. That explains why the tractor was stolen so close to the time of Beddoes’s return. It was a brief window of opportunity.”

  “Maybe,” Annie admitted. “But that’s still just speculation. And he wasn’t trying to get Spencer killed. Anything we could charge him with would be vague at this point.”

  “Let him stew for a while,” said Banks. “We’ll see what else we can dig up.”

  “I think Alex really needs him.”

  Banks studied her for a moment. “Why, Annie,” he said, “I do believe you’re becoming a bit more like your old self.”

  “You mean you thought I was soft?”

  “Compassionate. You’ve been a lot harder lately.”

  “Getting shot will do that to you.”

  “And now?”

  Annie smiled. It reminded Banks of her old smile, though it wasn’t quite there yet. “Getting there,” she said. “But don’t push it. You’re the hard bastard now, according to Michael Lane.”

  “Someone has to be. Cut him loose. Police bail. But tell him not to go wandering off. And you can bring Gerry back in.”

  “Aren’t Alex and Ian still in danger?”

  “Keep the surveillance going. I don’t think they are, though. I think it’s all unraveling, and it’s every man for himself. Rats deserting a sinking ship. It’s just a matter of who talks first.”

  Annie left for the custody suite to set Lane’s release on police bail in motion. Alone in his office, Banks picked up the phone and dialed Burgess’s number. Dirty Dick answered after the fourth ring. “What were you doing?” Banks said. “Shagging your secretary?”

  “That only requires three rings,” Burgess retorted. “What can I do for you?”

  “I think you should close in on Havers. The whole kit and caboodle’s falling apart.”

  “The center cannot hold,” said Burgess, after Banks had told him the story. “We’ll move in the heavy artillery. I’ve got something for you, too. You know those blokes you were looking for: Kieran Welles and Carl Utley?”

  “Yes. We haven’t been able to catch up with them yet.”

  “Carl Utley caught a ferry from Dover to Calais last Sunday evening. You can get Interpol on him, but I’d guess you’ll have a hard time finding him now. As for the other one, a mate of mine in intelligence has been keeping tabs on him as best he can. Seems he changed his name to Kenneth Atherton and moved to North Yorkshire. Remote place called High Point Farm.”

  Banks had never heard of the place, but that didn’t matter. He would find it. He felt the excitement he always felt when he was closing in. He thanked Burgess and went to the squad room to see if Winsome was back.

  The room was empty, the desks littered with pieces of paper, some ringed with coffee cup stains. On Gerry Masterson’s desk he saw a note in what looked like Winsome’s writing. It said: “Got a lead to a place called High Point Farm. Owner: Kenneth Atherton. Gone out for a look around. Can you send a squad car for backup, just i
n case. Thanks, Winsome.”

  Being Winsome, she had even noted the time at the top: 11:35 a.m. Banks looked at his watch and saw it was now after three. His heart began to race. She must have left the note after he had sent Gerry to babysit Alex Preston, and Doug Wilson was out keeping an eye on the Beddoes farm. Christ, she should have been back by now.

  Just as he was leaving, the phone on Winsome’s desk rang. Banks picked it up. “Winsome?” the voice said.

  “No, it’s DCI Banks here. Who am I speaking to?”

  “Oh, DCI Banks It’s me, Terry Gilchrist. Can I talk to Winsome? Unless she’s really busy of course. I’m afraid it’s a personal call.”

  “She’s not here.”

  “It’s just that she said she’d meet me for lunch and . . . well, Winsome’s a woman of her word. She didn’t turn up. She hasn’t even phoned.”

  “That’s not like her,” Banks agreed.

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t, Mr. Gilchrist.” On impulse, Banks asked, “By the way. Do you know of a place called High Point Farm?”

  “No,” said Gilchrist. “Never heard of it. Why?”

  “I’m afraid we’re in the midst of a bit of a crisis here right now, so I’m going to have to hang up on you, sir.”

  “Is it Winsome? What’s happened? I—­”

  Banks had no time to worry about Winsome’s boyfriend now. The first thing to do was get as many squad cars out to High Point Farm as he could, if it was possible in the snowstorm, then head out there himself immediately. He dialed dispatch and gave the orders. Then, just for a moment, he turned and looked out of the window, and his heart sank. The snow was coming down thick and fast, almost obscuring the market square. He could only imagine what it would be like out on the high moorland. He dialed Winsome’s mobile number, though he already had a sneaking feeling that she was in a no-­reception zone. He was right.

  He needed to get out to High Point Farm himself, but he realized he still had no idea where it was, and satnav was never any use out on the moors. It might as well be on Mars. Then he remembered that one of the custody officers was a walking map of the Dales and hoped he was on duty as he took the stairs two at a time. He nearly stumbled when his mobile chimed. When he answered it, Doug Wilson said, “They’re doing a bunk, guv. The Beddoeses. They’re doing a bunk.”