Also by Peter Robinson
Caedmon’s Song
No Cure for Love
Before the Poison
INSPECTOR BANKS NOVELS
Gallows View
A Dedicated Man
A Necessary End
The Hanging Valley
Past Reason Hated
Wednesday’s Child
Dry Bones that Dream
Innocent Graves
Dead Right
In a Dry Season
Cold is the Grave
Aftermath
The Summer that Never Was
Playing with Fire
Strange Affair
Piece of my Heart
Friend of the Devil
All the Colours of Darkness
Bad Boy
Watching the Dark
Children of the Revolution
Abattoir Blues
When the Music’s Over
Sleeping in the Ground
SHORT STORIES
Not Safe After Dark
The Price of Love
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Peter Robinson 2018
The right of Peter Robinson to be identified as the Author of the
Work has been asserted by him in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
eBook ISBN 9781444786972
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
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www.hodder.co.uk
To Sheila
‘‘Come all you fair and tender maids
That flourish in your prime.
Beware, beware, keep your garden fair.
Let no man steal your thyme.
Let no man steal your thyme.’’
‘‘The Sprig of Thyme’’ (traditional)
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Acknowledgements
1
Broad ribbons of fog lingered in the valley bottom as Detective Superintendent Alan Banks drove the unmarked police car slowly along Belderfell Pass, cursing the fact that his beloved Porsche was in the garage for its MOT. Fortunately, visibility was good on the winding road, about halfway up the steep fell side. Though it was only three o’clock in the afternoon, it was already starting to get dark as the sun sank below the hills to the west.
‘Here they are,’ said DS Winsome Jackman as they came around a bend and saw a patrol car stopped by a metallic blue Megane, reducing the two lanes to one.
Banks brought the car to a halt by the tapes, and he and Winsome got out, flashing their warrant cards. One of the uniformed officers was talking to a woman beside the Megane, while his partner kept an eye on the road in order to warn any oncoming traffic to slow down.
All three looked twice at Winsome. Not only because she was beautiful, which she was, but because it wasn’t often you saw a six-foot-tall black woman on Belderfell Pass. Or anywhere else in the Eastvale area, for that matter. As usual, Winsome took it in her stride, edging to the sideline and taking out her notebook and pen.
Tucked away in a lay-by cut into the hillside, half hidden by shrubbery, was a damaged Ford Focus, the result of a minor crash. Nobody had been seriously injured, but the car was a write-off, its radiator grille crushed, bonnet buckled and the engine hanging half out of one side. Given the remote location and the weather conditions over the previous week, the attending officer must have known it would take some time to get the wreck towed to a garage, so he had placed a yellow POLICE AWARE sign in the front windscreen. That made it clear to passers-by that the police already knew about the accident and would get around to dealing with it in their own time.
‘What have we got?’ asked Banks, eyeing the Focus.
‘She’s in there,’ said the patrol officer, pointing. The woman beside him was leaning back against the Megane’s bonnet. Her arms were folded tight and she looked upset.
The Focus stood in the lay-by facing in the wrong direction. Banks edged around to the driver’s seat and glanced through the window. A young woman was behind the wheel, eyes wide open, staring straight ahead. It didn’t take a police doctor to tell him that she was dead.
Banks slipped on his latex gloves and opened the car door. The metal squealed. He bent to examine the body. Blond hair trailed over her shoulders and a ragged fringe and hoop earrings framed a heart-shaped face that must have been quite beautiful in life. She was wearing muted pink lipstick, blue eyeshadow and a fashionable black, strapless dress, the kind of item a young woman might wear for a special night out, a dinner at a fine restaurant, say, or an evening at the theatre. She also wore strappy sandals, high-heeled, but not to the point that would cause problems of balance, and some costume jewellery. Her hands were folded on her lap, a charm bracelet on her right wrist and a watch on the other. The seat belt wasn’t fastened, and there was no handbag or coat anywhere to be seen inside the car. Her skin was pale and smooth. As far as Banks could tell, there was no physical evidence of any mistreatment of the body. No bruises, cuts or traces of blood. Also nothing to offer any clues as to her identity. He checked the glove compartment and found some petrol receipts, nicotine gum and a screwdriver.
Banks turned back to the constable. ‘Any idea of the circumstances of the accident, PC . . .?’
‘Knowles, sir. Barry Knowles.’
‘Well, Barry, what can you tell us?’
Knowles gestured to his partner. ‘What do you want to know? Ted and me were at the original scene.’
‘You’d better start at the beginning. All I know so far is that this Focus was involved in an accident here last weekend.’
‘That’s right.’ Knowles checked his notes. ‘Friday night, it was. Incident called in from Trevor Vernon’s mobile at ten thirty-seven p.m. That’s the owner, sir. There was a bit of patchy fog and Mr Vernon ran into a white van on a tight bend. They were lucky to get away with only cuts and bruises. If one of them had gone over the edge . . . well . . .’ He gestured down at the valley bottom and swallowed.
Banks remembered arriving at a scene not far from here by helicopter when a van full of dead farm animals had gone over the side. Being close to the spot again brought back the horrific images of that day, not least of which was the sight of an improbable combination of man, steering wheel and engine block that more resembled a horror-film scene imagined by H.R. Giger than it did a human being. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘It was all above board,’ PC Knowles went on. ‘Neither of the drivers had been drinking. The bloke in the van, John Kelly, was a builder going h
ome late from a job. He admitted he was in a bit of a hurry but denied exceeding the speed limit. The other two, Mr and Mrs Vernon, were on their way back from a play at the Georgian Theatre in Richmond. Mr Vernon said they’d each consumed a glass of wine during the interval, and our tests showed the driver was not over the legal limit.’
‘A builder? Working until after ten thirty on a Friday night? I suppose miracles might happen, but . . .’
PC Knowles shrugged. ‘It’s what he told us, sir. He gave us the address of the property he was working on, too.’
‘OK,’ said Banks. ‘What happened to them all?’
‘Eastvale General. Just cuts and bruises. Shock, of course. Treated and released. Kelly’s van was still roadworthy, so he drove himself home afterwards, but the Focus . . . well, you can see for yourself. It can take a few days to make the arrangements with the garage. Vernon made a bit of fuss, going on about it being Kelly’s fault and all for driving too fast, but we put it down to shock.’
‘How long were you here?’
‘It was after twelve when we put the sign in the window of the Focus and left,’ said Knowles. He checked his notebook again. ‘Twelve-o-nine a.m.’
‘And what about the girl?’
PC Knowles paled. ‘Don’t know, sir. Our dispatcher got a call this morning. The lady here, Mrs Brody. She talked about an abandoned car, and Sergeant Harris was just about to tell her that we already knew about it, that’s why we had the POLICE AWARE sign in the window, but she said there was a dead girl in the car. There was certainly no girl here when we attended the scene of the accident on Friday night. Dead or alive.’
Banks smiled. ‘I should imagine not, PC Knowles, or you would have made a note of it, I’m sure.’
Knowles reddened and shuffled his feet. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did you examine the boot?’
‘No, sir. I mean, we . . .’
‘It’s all right. Was the car left unlocked?’
‘Yes, sir. I tried to lock it, but the key wouldn’t work. Too much damage to the doors.’
‘Do either of you recognise the girl?’
‘No,’ said PC Knowles. ‘Never seen her before.’
Banks turned to Mrs Brody, who was as tall as Winsome and just as statuesque, with short curly brown hair. Handsome rather than beautiful, Banks thought, in her early forties, casually dressed in black slacks, buttoned blouse and a padded zip-up jacket, wedding band on the third finger of her left hand. ‘Mrs Brody?’
‘Kirsten, please.’ She leaned forward and stretched out her hand. Banks shook it. Winsome came back from examining the car to stand beside them, notebook and pen in her hand.
‘You found the body?’ Banks asked Kirsten Brody.
Kirsten Brody touched her throat. ‘Yes. It was a terrible shock. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a dead person outside of a funeral home. I was just so glad I managed to get a signal for the mobile up here.’ She had a lilting Scottish accent. Edinburgh, Banks guessed. Morningside, most likely.
‘It can be a bit hit and miss around these parts,’ Banks allowed. ‘Did you recognise her from anywhere?’
‘No. I’ve never seen her before.’
‘Did you touch the body?’
‘Lord, no.’
‘How did you know she was dead?’
‘Well, I don’t suppose I did, really. Not technically. But she wasn’t moving. Her eyes were open. And she was so pale. I don’t, I just . . . There was nothing I could have done. I didn’t open the door. I tapped gently on the window, but you can see . . .’
‘Yes.’ Banks paused for a moment to let Kirsten Brody collect herself, then asked, ‘What made you stop in the first place? I mean, I assume you saw the POLICE AWARE sign?’
‘Yes. I see them often enough on out-of-the-way roads like this. I work for the National Parks, so I do quite a lot of country driving. I don’t know what it was, really. It was more like a feeling. Perhaps a shadow that shouldn’t have been there, maybe a draught blowing a lock of her hair, some sort of movement? I really don’t know what it was that made me stop. I can’t explain it. I just felt there was something wrong about it.’
‘And what did you do then?’
‘Well, I pulled in as close to the side of the road as I could and went to have a look. There was no other traffic around. I remember the stillness when I got out of the car. The silence. Then, when I saw her, I got scared. I thought how foolish I was being. I mean, what if someone had done something to her? What if that someone was still around?’
‘Did you see any other cars?’
‘None. No one passed me while I was waiting, and I hadn’t seen one single car on my whole drive along the pass.’
‘Did you see anyone around or notice anything odd? A sound? Movement? A smell?’
‘No. Nobody. Nothing. I know it sounds silly, but I didn’t feel right leaving her. I knew she was dead, or I thought she was, but . . . I don’t know . . . It just wouldn’t have seemed right. I calmed myself down and called the police. They said they’d send a car up immediately and to stay where I was.’
‘What did you do in the meantime?’
‘I sat in the car and waited. I called my husband. He was expecting me back.’
‘OK,’ said Banks. ‘I think that’s all for now. We’ll get you away from here. You can make a statement at the police station in Eastvale, if that’s all right? Maybe with a nice cup of sweet strong tea? Just follow the patrol car.’ Banks gestured to Knowles, who got back into their car, leaving his partner to keep the scene secure.
Kirsten Brody nodded and smiled briefly.
After he had watched them drive away, Banks had another look at the body then turned to Winsome. ‘We’d better get Dr Burns up here,’ he said. ‘Make that the full CSI team. Peter Darby, too. We’ll need photos and video. And I’ll need Peter to prepare a suitable image of her in time for the TV’s local evening news. We’ll get prints, DNA and dental records, but they can all take time, and I doubt she’s in the system. We need to know who she is. God knows what we’ve got on our hands here. We don’t know whether she died in the car or was dead before she got there, but one thing I am pretty sure of is that she didn’t get here under her own steam.’
Trevor and Nancy Vernon lived in a Georgian-style semi-detached house just off Market Street, in the same part of Eastvale where Banks used to live with Sandra, Tracy and Brian, years ago when he first moved up north. The area hadn’t changed much since he had moved to Newhope Cottage after the divorce. Still the same bay windows, doors panelled with frosted glass, net curtains, well-tended gardens with trim lawns. And across Market Street were the same shops: the newsagent’s where Banks had picked up his morning Guardian on his way to work, a reliable butcher and greengrocer, a hairdresser Sandra had never liked, a bakery that made wonderful baguettes, and a betting shop Banks had used only on those rare occasions when he had a flutter, such as the Grand National and the Derby. There was also the dentist’s surgery on the corner, which had featured in his previous major case, and a pub called The Nag’s Head a bit further along. Banks had only been in there once during the time he had lived in the neighbourhood, and he found he would rather walk into town to somewhere with better beer, quieter music and a more convivial atmosphere.
Banks rang the doorbell and soon saw a blurred figure moving beyond the frosted glass. The man who answered had a puzzled and slightly annoyed expression on his face. He was about forty, wearing a grey V-neck jumper over a white shirt and muted tie. His hair was thinning at the front, and he was running to fat around the middle.
‘Mr Vernon?’ Banks asked.
‘Yes, that’s me. I’m afraid whatever it is, it’s not convenient at the moment. I don’t negotiate financial transactions of any kind on the doorstep.’
‘Very wise, sir, if I may say so. And I can’t say I blame you.’ Banks showed his warrant card. Winsome did likewise.
‘Police? What’s all this— Oh, it must be about the car. Of course. You’ve
got it sorted? Sorry, do come in.’
They followed him into the hallway. A number of coats hung on pegs, and Vernon added Banks’s and Winsome’s to the row.
‘What is it, Daddy?’ asked a girl of about twelve, poking her head around the dining-room door.
‘Never you mind,’ said Vernon. ‘You finish your homework or your mummy will be angry with you.’
The head disappeared.
‘Come through here.’ Vernon led them into a comfortable but sterile living room. ‘I’ll just pop back in to tell Nancy what’s going on.’
‘You might ask your wife to come in here, too,’ Banks said. ‘We’d like to speak to her as well.’
‘Oh, all right. Very well. Please sit down.’
Banks and Winsome looked at one another. Winsome rolled her eyes. Banks glanced at the generic Constable-style landscape over the electric fireplace, then looked outside. It felt so strange sitting here looking at the street through the gauze curtains and remembering that he had a similar view for so many years – certainly, the houses were mirror images – and probably a similar life. The child, or children, he guessed as he heard the voices from the kitchen, the regularity of mealtimes, the domestic routine. But his life had never been exactly regular or routine. The very nature of his job prevented that, and that was one of the reasons for his expulsion from this Eden to the one where he lived now. Alone.
Vernon came back with Nancy in tow. She was wearing an apron and carrying a tea towel. She was a harried-looking woman, her hair in a mess, but she obviously kept herself in good shape, and her manner proved to be far less grating than that of her husband.
Trevor Vernon rubbed his hands together. ‘Right, where were we? Oh, yes. The car. Any progress?’
‘Progress?’ asked Winsome.
‘Yes. That idiot came tearing round the bend like a bloody maniac. And the road conditions were appalling.’
‘Well, it is Yorkshire, sir,’ said Winsome. ‘You have to make allowances for the weather.’
Careless Love Page 1