Banks went back outside to Annie. “Shit,” he said. “I don’t like this at all.”
“Well, do you want to go in after him?”
Banks looked at the dark tunnel. Even when he shone his torch on the walls they looked slimy and uninviting. He felt a sense of claustrophobia envelop him. “No way. But if it’s for Winsome I will.”
He started to move forward.
Annie grabbed his sleeve. “Don’t,” she said. “Leave it to Gilchrist. He might be a civilian, but he’s a trained soldier and potholer. He knows what he’s doing. You don’t. You could get stuck in there or something.”
“I hate just waiting around.”
“You and me both. But like you said, it’s Winsome. He’s her best chance.”
“What if Atherton is in there?”
“At least he doesn’t have his bolt gun. And if he is, I’d say it’s already game over, one way or another, wouldn’t you? You can’t turn back the clock.”
“You’re a real comfort.”
SHE WAS back at Spring Hill walking home from Sunday school and a man in a battered hat and a dark moth-eaten coat was following her. Only it was snowing and she remembered thinking, in the dream, that it never snows in Maroon Town. But it did, and all the flame trees were covered in it, all green and white and red like Christmas trees. But she was frightened. The man was following her. She thought he was probably the “Skinner” people were talking about. He skinned his victims after he’d had his way with them. But there was another man on the scene, her father in his best Sunday suit, not his uniform, and they were fighting. The Skinner was going to kill her father and skin him. She had to get back to them and help but she couldn’t get through, she was slipping and sliding and getting stuck up to her knees and she knew she just couldn’t make it in time, a knife flashing . . .
Winsome gave an involuntary twitch and her eyes opened wide with fear. She realized that she had fallen asleep. She was waking from a dream. Moving carefully, she curled up into a ball against the cold. It wouldn’t do to fall off the ledge after all she had been through. She had no idea how long she had been there. Using her mobile light, she checked her watch and saw it was going on five o’clock. About four hours, then. Had she waited long enough? Would the cavalry have arrived at High Point Farm? Of course, they would have no idea where she was. Maybe Banks and Annie vaguely remembered her mentioning potholing, but they probably didn’t know about the cave system here, or its access points. They’d be searching for her around the farm and the open moorland, hindered by the snow.
Where was Atherton? She wasn’t certain that the shouts and screams she had heard earlier were human or just a trick of the wind, but she hadn’t heard anything for some time now. He certainly hadn’t got through to her in two hours, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t waiting at the exit. He could even have gone back to the abattoir and picked up his bolt pistol. Or perhaps he imagined there were other exits, that she must be long gone, and had given up the ghost and scarpered. She just didn’t know. Was it worth the risk of going back to find out?
Despite the insulation of the rock, she was freezing. She wished she hadn’t left her jacket behind to try to fool Atherton. She rubbed her hands together and held her knees tighter to her chest. There wasn’t much she could do about her feet. They were like blocks of ice.
She would give it an hour longer, she decided. If no help had come by then, she would make her way back out as slowly and quietly as she could. Even if Gerry and the backup had no idea that she was in the cave, they would surely have got as far as High Point Farm, and she could outrun Atherton back down there.
Just when she had made herself as comfortable as she could again on the ledge, she thought she heard a slithering sound from the tunnel.
Atherton.
She strained, but heard nothing for a few moments, then she heard it again, a light scraping, like someone crawling on his stomach.
As quietly as she could, she stood up and pressed her back against the wall by the entrance. When he came out, he would be bent forward. Just one quick tug on his arm was all it would take, and his own momentum would take him over the edge. She had rehearsed the possibility time after time in her mind during her first anxious minutes in the cavern.
He was getting closer, up on his feet now. She could hear muffled footsteps, though there was something odd about them. If he had a torch, he must have turned it off, because the opening was still pitch-black. Winsome tensed. It wouldn’t be long now. Just one quick pull, she told herself, then let go, or she’d be following him over the edge and end up impaled on a stalagmite. The shuffling got nearer and she was just about to reach out when she realized why it sounded so strange. He was limping. She relaxed just as she heard a familiar voice say, “Winsome? Are you there? Are you alone?”
Terry. She let herself fall back against the wall and slide down so she was sitting on the ledge again.
She had tears in her eyes. “Yes,” she said, laughing or crying as she spoke. “Yes, I’m here. And yes, I’m alone. Very bloody alone.” She never swore, and when the word came out it shocked her. She put her hand to her mouth, but she couldn’t stop laughing. “I swore,” she said. “I can’t believe it. I swore.”
Then he was standing there, his torch on again, illuminating part of the cathedral vastness before them. “Wash your mouth out,” he said.
“Help me.”
He reached down to help her to her feet, and as soon as she was standing she leaned forward and kissed him full on the lips, far far longer than she had even planned on doing.
“SORRY WE’RE so late getting around to you, Mr. Beddoes,” said Banks. “We had a bit of a crisis to take care of first.” It was nine o’clock and the Beddoeses had been in a holding cell at the station since four, complaining all the time. Patricia Beddoes had been demanding to see Cathy Gervaise, but even when one of the custody officers thought he should at least inform the AC about what was happening, “Cathy” Gervaise made it clear that she wasn’t available.
Cassandra Wakefield had turned up half an hour ago, and while her associate represented Patricia Beddoes in another interview room with Annie and Doug Wilson, she stuck with John Beddoes, sitting opposite Banks and Gerry.
“I can’t believe this,” Beddoes complained. “My wife and I are quietly going about our business and some hooligan of a police officer blocks our way and drags us all the way down here.”
“Where were you going?” Banks asked.
“It’s none of your fucking business.”
“Swearing won’t help, Mr. Beddoes,” said Cassandra Wakefield.
Banks looked at his notes. “According to our preliminary analysis of recent activity on your laptop computer, you had just completed a number of large financial transactions, money transfers, in fact, to offshore bank accounts in the British Virgin Islands.”
“So what? They’re legitimate accounts. I pay my taxes.”
“I’m sure you do, Mr. Beddoes, but don’t you think it’s a bit soon for another holiday? I mean, you’ve just got back from Mexico. Think of all that ultraviolet radiation.”
“What business of yours is it where and when we go for our holidays?”
“You also had a lot of luggage. How long were you planning on being away for?”
“I don’t know. A while.”
“Don’t you think it looks a bit suspicious? Just after I visit you and let you know I’ve talked to Malcolm Hackett, an old business associate of yours, and that we’ve found Michael Lane, a witness to the murder of Morgan Spencer, you and your wife make a run for it.”
“We weren’t ‘making a run for it.’ ”
“It looks like that to me,” said Banks. “Wouldn’t you agree, Gerry?”
“Certainly would, sir. I mean, it’s not everyone takes a fragile vase off the mantelpiece on holiday with them, or a pair of antique silver suga
r tongs.”
“That vase happens to be a valuable antique, too. And given what occurred last time we were away, I’d say we were more than justified in taking a few valuables with us.”
“Really, Chief Inspector,” said Cassandra Wakefield, fingering her pearls, “it does seem a remarkably thin context for detaining my client and interfering with his basic freedom of movement.”
“Morgan Spencer stole your tractor, didn’t he?” Banks said to Beddoes.
“Did he? I can’t say it surprises me.”
“You know Morgan Spencer, then? Earlier you said you had no idea who he was.”
“I didn’t know him well. Not personally. Only that he was a mate of the Lane boy. I’ve seen him around. Thick as thieves. Look, you know all this. Why am I here?”
“You’re here because we believe you’re one of the men running a lucrative international criminal activity dealing in stolen farm equipment and livestock. Your partner Malcolm Hackett, aka Montague Havers, who is currently being questioned by my colleagues in London, took care of the export side, and you supplied the raw materials from the North Yorkshire region. That is, tractors, combines, Range Rovers, lambs, whatever. You employed a number of people at various levels, including Ronald Tanner, Carl Utley, Kenneth Atherton, aka Kieran Welles, Caleb Ross and Morgan Spencer. Your wife, Patricia, may be involved. Police have also picked up Mr. Havers’s chief operators in Lincolnshire and Cumbria. More arrests are expected to follow. Plenty of people are talking.”
“Really?” said Beddoes. “Where’s your proof of all this?”
That was a thorny issue for Banks. He didn’t really have any proof. A deeper dig into Beddoes’s finances would probably turn up anomalies, but that would take time. Michael Lane’s word alone wasn’t good enough, but it was a place to start.
“We also believe,” Banks went on, “that Morgan Spencer was murdered partly because he stole your tractor, and partly because his colleagues, especially Atherton, had got fed up with him. He talked big, wanted a bigger role, more money, and he thought he was demonstrating his ability to get creative and play with the big boys by stealing an expensive tractor. Unfortunately, it turned out to be yours.”
“So someone steals my tractor and I’m the criminal?”
“Kenneth Atherton killed Morgan Spencer with a bolt pistol he stole from Stirwall’s Abattoir around the time he was fired nearly two years ago. He has also committed an earlier murder with the same weapon. We have matching prints from the weapon.”
“This is fascinating,” said Beddoes, “and nothing you can tell me about Spencer surprises me, but it has nothing to do with me, apart from the fact that the little creep stole my tractor.”
“Why did you do it, John?” Banks asked. “Why did you get into the business in the first place? Surely you had everything going for you. The life you always dreamed of. Enough money not to have to struggle like real farmers. Was it just the money? You weren’t that badly off, surely? Did Havers make you an offer you couldn’t refuse? Did he have something on you from the old days? Insider trading?”
Beddoes laughed.
Cassandra Wakefield shot Banks a puzzled glance. “Are you going to charge my client with insider trading in the eighties? I fear that may be even more difficult a case to bring than the one you’re struggling for at the moment. Go ahead, though. I’m sure the trial would be a lot of fun.”
“Someone heard Atherton say to Spencer, ‘You went too far. You stole the boss’s fucking tractor’ just before he killed him. What do you make of that?”
“Nothing,” said Beddoes. “I was probably somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean at the time.”
“But why would he say it? It’s an odd thing to say just before you kill someone, isn’t it? ‘You stole the boss’s fucking tractor.’ Now, neither Morgan Spencer nor Michael Lane, who overheard this, and whose return had you packing your bags and running for the British Virgin Islands, knew who this boss was until they heard that, of course. After all, it was your tractor Atherton was referring to, and Lane had an inkling that Spencer might try to nick it to prove himself to his masters. The problem was, Spencer didn’t know you were his master. You were too high and mighty to rub shoulders with the hoi polloi. Your orders went through Tanner.”
“Lane’s a lying little bastard, always has been,” said Beddoes. “He had every bit as much to do with . . .”
“To do with what, John? Your business enterprise? As much as Morgan Spencer?”
“Spencer was a pushy little half-caste. He—”
Cassandra Wakefield tapped her client on the shoulder and whispered in his ear.
“They’re trying to pin a murder on me,” Beddoes protested, turning red. “I’m no killer. All right, I’m no saint, either, but if Atherton killed Spencer, it was because he was getting too big for his boots. And Atherton is a fucking psycho. It was a private vendetta, nothing to do with me.”
“The boss’s tractor, John?”
“He must have misheard. Lane. He’s had it in for me ever since I moved to the farm. His father wanted the land, but I outbid him.”
“I can see that might give Frank Lane a motive for killing you, but he hasn’t. Why would Michael care? He was just a kid then.”
“I don’t know. Some kids are born evil. You can tell. All I ever did was give him a clip around the earhole.”
“If Spencer didn’t know you were the boss, then Lane probably didn’t, either. The problem was that he knew who the tractor belonged to. Spencer had told him he was going to steal it while you were away in Mexico. Lane just put two and two together. What it added up to scared him, and he made off.”
“This is nothing but speculation,” said Cassandra Wakefield.
“We’ve got a witness statement from Michael Lane.”
“Not enough.”
“They never accepted me,” said Beddoes.
Cassandra Wakefield narrowed her eyes. Banks and Gerry looked at him quizzically.
“What?” Beddoes said. “Why are you looking at me like that? You’re just the same. You’re just like the other bloody farmers. They laughed at me behind my back, called me a ‘weekend’ farmer, made fun of me. I was better than the lot of them put together. I was a Master of the Universe.”
“It was a long time ago, John,” said Banks.
“I’m saying they didn’t respect me. My own neighbors. And I’d grown up on a farm. It was in my blood.”
“Is that why you did it? Went into business with Havers.”
“I knew I’d show them somehow.”
“By stealing their livestock and equipment?”
“It’s all they bloody care about.”
Cassandra Wakefield dropped her pencil on the table. “Enough,” she said. “I think we should end this interview right now.”
“Getting a bit too close to the bone for you, is it?” Banks said.
“My client needs a break. He’s been under a lot of stress lately. PACE regulations call for—”
Banks raised his hand. “Fine. Fine,” he said. “Interview suspended at 9:27 p.m. To be continued.” He called to the uniformed constable at the door. “Take him back to his cell, Nobby.”
“Yes, sir.”
The constable took Beddoes by the arm. He stood up and went without resisting.
Cassandra Wakefield looked at her watch. “You’ve got another nineteen hours or so to come up with some real evidence, otherwise my client walks.”
“I don’t think so,” said Banks. “He’s already admitted to theft of farm equipment.”
Cassandra Wakefield snorted, then she followed Beddoes and the constable out of the room.
Gerry let out a long breath. Banks smiled. “Get used to it,” he said. “It’s the way of the world.”
One of the female PCs stuck her head around the door. “Phone call, guv,” she said.
>
“I’ll take it in my office.”
Banks told Gerry to hang on back in the squad room and walked down the hall to his office. He picked up the phone and engaged the line.
“Hello, Banksy,” said the familiar voice. “Any luck?”
“We’re getting there. Unfortunately we had Cassandra Wakefield representing Beddoes.”
“She gets around, doesn’t she? Mind you, I’d hardly call that bad luck. Have you seen the tits on her? Nipples like chapel hat pegs. What I’d—”
“Yes, yes, I can imagine what you’d do,” said Banks. “But she happens to be a bloody good solicitor.”
“Nobody’s perfect. Anyway, it’s your lucky day. I’ve got news’ll make the hairs on your arse stand on end.”
“Go on. I can hardly wait.”
“Havers coughed. The lot.”
Banks gripped the receiver tightly. His palm was sweating. “He what?”
“He cracked. Easy-peasy.”
“What did you do, bring out the rubber hosepipes?”
“Didn’t need them. He did it to save his own skin and to protect his overseas bosses. He’s more scared of them than he is of us. Basically, you could say he fell on his sword. He knew the northern operation was fucked. They knew it, too. Word came down. They were cut off. Finished. They’re falling over one another to avoid a murder charge. They’ll take tax evasion, handling stolen goods, you name it, but not the murder. Havers wasn’t going to go down by himself, so he gave us Beddoes, Ronald Tanner and Kenneth Atherton. And Carl Utley as a bonus. He was hiding out in a farmhouse in Provence. We’re sending him up to you, but he was so shaken by what he saw Atherton do in the hangar up there that we can’t shut him up. He and Tanner had to hold the poor bastard’s arms. They thought Atherton was just going to rough him up a bit, but before they knew what was happening he pulled out the bolt gun and shot the kid. At least that’s what Utley says. Apparently there was history between them, bad blood. It was all a rush job. Utley says Spencer didn’t contact Tanner about the tractor he’d nicked until early Sunday morning. They had no time to get the usual crew up from London for a transfer so they arranged to meet at the hangar to figure out what to do: Spencer, Tanner, Utley and Atherton. Then they discovered whose tractor it was and all hell broke loose.”
Unti Peter Robinson #22 Page 35