IT WAS A DAMP GRAY AFTERNOON WHEN WINSOME SET out from Eastvale west into the dale to make a few inquiries at the farms on Caleb Ross’s route.
She stopped in a lay-by just outside Helmthorpe and consulted her Ordnance Survey map. Through her potholing and walking experience, she already knew the area. She had also become adept at reading maps, and could visualize the landscape as it was laid out on paper, in contours, broken lines and arcane symbols. As she had suspected, the next call, near the hamlet of Mortsett, was halfway up the daleside to her left, then the farms grew fewer and farther between as she moved on past Helmthorpe and Swainshead into the high Pennines.
Thus far, she had heard nothing but praise for Caleb Ross and the job he did, and the fallen stock on the farmers’ copies was just as it was described on Neil Vaughn’s master document. On the surface, this was the sort of job Banks could have sent a DC or even a couple of PCs in a patrol car to do, but on the other hand, he had told Winsome he needed the instinct of a seasoned detective, someone who could read the nuances, give voice to the unspoken. Winsome was trying to dig, or see, under the surface, look for the unconscious signs and signals others might miss. There hadn’t been any so far, and she didn’t expect it to be any different this time as she pulled into yet another farmyard. Her boots were already caked with mud and worse, and she feared she would never be able to wash the farmyard smell out of her hair and her clothes, or scrub it from her skin. The farmer, Reg Padgett, according to Winsome’s list, was working in the yard in his donkey jacket, flat hat and wellies, and he came striding over to Winsome as she pulled up.
“I know who you are,” he said, beaming as she got out of the car and held out her warrant card.
Winsome smiled shyly. “So my fame precedes me?”
“I’ll say it does. Rugby tackles and dropkicks. We could do with you on the England side.”
“I don’t think I’m quite up for that. And it wasn’t strictly a dropkick.” Winsome was referring to the rolling push with which she had sent a three-hundred-pound drug dealer flying over a third-floor balcony on the East Side Estate a year or two ago. “The papers got it all wrong.”
“Never mind, lass,” said Padgett. “Whatever it was, it got the job done.”
Indeed it had. Winsome’s action had put the person in question in the hospital for nearly a month with numerous fractures and abrasions, and earned her a reprimand for excessive force, which she thought was excessive in itself.
“I’ve come about Caleb Ross,” she said. “He had a pickup here last Tuesday morning, didn’t he?”
“Indeed he did,” said Padgett, lifting up his flat hat and scratching his head. “Poor Caleb. I heard about what happened. A real tragedy. Treacherous, that place, even on the best of days. But surely you don’t think there’s anything suspicious about the accident?”
“No, it’s nothing like that,” said Winsome, taking out her copy of Vaughn’s list. “It says here that you were his fourth call of the day.”
“I wouldn’t know about that, but he did seem in a bit of a hurry.”
“A hurry?”
“Yes. Usually he stands around and chats for a while, you know, just passes the time of day.”
“But not on Tuesday?”
“No. He seemed to just want to get the job done and go. Two stillborn lambs. Too many of those at this time of year. Keeping him busy, I suppose.”
“Did he act as if there was anything bothering him?”
Padgett chewed on his lower lip for a moment, then said, “No-o-o, I wouldn’t say that. He just seemed distracted. In another world, like.”
“As if he was thinking about something else?”
“That’s right. As if his mind wasn’t on the job. He seemed cheerful, though. I mean, I wouldn’t say he seemed anxious or depressed or anything like that. You don’t think . . . ?”
“We’re almost certain it was an accident, Mr. Padgett.” But another thing that had occurred to Winsome since she started the job was that someone might have been following Ross, trailing him, chasing him between farms even, and that might have contributed to the accident. Palmer, the driver coming the other way, hadn’t noticed any cars approaching from the same direction as Caleb after the crash, but he was probably in a state of shock for a while, and he had pulled over to the far side of the road, away from the drop. He could easily have missed something. “Did you notice any other cars around when Mr. Ross arrived?”
“No. But I wouldn’t. You can see for yourself, this is a well-hidden track. We can’t see what’s happening down on the Mortsett Road from here, so I wouldn’t have noticed even if there had been. We had no other callers here, I can tell you that.”
“Could anyone have gained access to Mr. Ross’s van while he was here?”
“No. We were standing out here, just like you and me are now, and the van was where your car is. I remember he had the window open and that blooming music he likes blaring out. Fair scared the wits out of my chickens. Put them off their laying, nearly.”
“Could anyone have tampered with your fallen stock before it was picked up?”
“I don’t see how,” said Padgett. “I follow all the correct storage regulations. They were bagged, tagged and locked in the barn until Caleb came for them.”
“No signs of illegal entry?”
“None at all. Where are you going with this, lass?”
“You’ll have heard rumors that he was carrying more than he should have been. That’s really all I can say for the moment.”
“The human body parts, you mean?”
“You’ve been watching the TV news, then?”
“Well, you’ll know the truth, I suppose.”
“That I do, Mr. Padgett.”
“Whatever it was, it didn’t come from here. Mrs. Padgett’s still very much alive and well.”
“I’m sure she is. We’re interested in Caleb’s state of mind. Could he have been drinking, or anything like that?”
“Not Caleb. I happen to know he’s a teetotaler, and he certainly didn’t behave as if he was drunk. No, as I said, he was just a bit keen to get going, as if his mind was running ahead of him.”
“What about drugs? We know that Caleb smoked marijuana from time to time. Did you see any signs of that in his behavior?”
“I wouldn’t know what to look for. But he seemed normal to me. And if he did smoke that stuff, like you say, he kept it well to himself.”
“What about a woman?” Winsome ventured. Some of the farms were isolated, and if Caleb had taken up a dalliance with one of the farmers’ wives, or a milkmaid, if such creatures still existed, it might both distract him and cause him to hurry.
Padgett just laughed. “Caleb? If you’d have known him, lass, you wouldn’t have said that. Devoted to Maggie, he was, for a start. And for another thing, he wasn’t exactly your Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise, if you know what I mean.”
Winsome laughed. “He wasn’t really close to the end of his rounds,” she said. “So it’s unlikely he was in a hurry to get home. In fact he had a few hours to go. Was he late when he arrived here?”
“Not so far as I’m aware. It’s not an exact science, his business, though you could usually depend on him to arrive close to when Vaughn’s said he would. Dependable firm.”
“Do you know if he ever made any unscheduled stops?”
“I wouldn’t know about that. Shouldn’t think so, mind you. Caleb was an honest man. He took his work seriously. I can’t see him taking jobs on the side and trying to put one over on his employers.”
Neither could Winsome. For a start, it wasn’t the kind of job on which you could really take anything on the side, though she supposed he could accept untested animals over the age limit for a few quid and have some sort of out-of-the-way burial spot he used for them. And for the human remains he was carrying. The idea seemed a bit far-fetched to her, though. It must have been something else that made it appear as if his thoughts were elsewhere and he was in more of a hurry than usual. She didn’t even know yet whether he had Morgan Spencer’s body parts in with the load at that point, let alone whether he knew about them. Perhaps he was looking forward to picking up his marijuana later on the route?
Winsome thanked Padgett for his time and got back in her car. Only another six farms to go before Belderfell Pass. Just before she got to the next stop, her mobile rang.
“Winsome. Hello, it’s Terry. Terry Gilchrist.”
Winsome pulled over. “Terry. Have you remembered something?”
“No. It’s nothing like that.” He sounded disappointed. “Is work all you ever think of?”
“No, of course not. I’m just very busy right now. What is it? How was the trivia?”
“The trivia was fine. We won. ‘In which country would you find the Simpson Desert?’ ”
“I don’t know. America?”
“Australia. I got it.”
“Congratulations. What is it, then? Is something wrong?”
“Not at all. At least I hope not. Why must something be wrong for me to just want to talk to you?” He paused. “Look, I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me tonight. There’s a nice bistro on Castle Hill, or there’s that Italian place, if you like. I can book us a table.”
“What?”
“Don’t make it so hard, Winsome. It must be obvious I like you. It took me long enough to pluck up courage to ask you out. I know I’m a bit of a gimp, but—”
“No, no. I’m just a bit stunned, Terry, that’s all. Dinner?” Winsome didn’t get many dinner invitations, and the whole thing had knocked her sideways. She wasn’t at all used to being asked out. In fact the last time she had been out for dinner it was with Lisa Gray. But she couldn’t think of an excuse to say no on the spot. And she didn’t really want to say no. In the end, she said, “Well, yes. I mean, if you like. Yes, that would be nice.”
“Seven-thirty OK?”
“That’s fine.”
“Bistro or Italian?”
“Bistro, please,” said Winsome.
When she had ended the call and got back on the road, she felt apprehensive. Had she agreed too easily? Wasn’t Terry still a witness? Could it affect their investigation? Then she put all the silly questions out of her mind and got on with the task at hand. She looked at her watch and realized she could manage at least another two or three farms until she had to go home and try to scrub the farmyard smell off her before her date. She could do the rest tomorrow.
BANKS’S PORSCHE rode the wind along the edge of the moors to Whitby. On the way he played some Nick Drake, and Annie didn’t seem to object. She even said she thought “Northern Sky” was not bad at all. They remained silent for most of the journey, having run out of ideas on where Michael Lane might have gone after he had paid to park his car in Scarborough and disappeared.
They drove into the town, picturesque in its little harbor, the Esk estuary dividing it into two distinct halves. One consisted of old streets of cottages and gift shops specializing in Whitby jet, and 199 steps led up the hill to the ruined seventh-century abbey and St. Mary’s church and graveyard, where Mina saw the long black figure bending over Lucy in Bram Stoker’s Dracula. The other side of the bridge was a bit more commercial, with more bed-and-breakfasts, fish-and-chips shops, amusement arcades and a “Dracula Experience” on the front by the fish market, where the fishermen landed their catches. The tide was in and small fishing boats were bobbing up and down in the harbor. The sea didn’t seem as wild as at Scarborough. Whitby had suffered dreadfully in the previous year’s floods, when the water breached the seawalls and flooded the lower town, but it was quickly getting back on its feet.
It was Denise Lane’s day off, they discovered at Tesco, and they found her on her own in a small house not far from the hospital.
“Do you remember me?” Annie said, when Denise opened the door. “Annie Cabbot? This is DCI Banks. Can we come in?”
Denise hadn’t fully opened the door, and she was still hesitating nervously. “It might be important, Mrs. Lane,” Banks said. “It’s about your son.”
“I guessed as much.” She opened the door a few inches more. “You’ve found Michael?”
“Not exactly, no,” said Annie. “But we’ve found his car. Can we come in?”
Denise stood back, looked up and down the street, and gestured to them to enter, then she led them through the hall to the living room. A mirror hung over the tiled fireplace, reflecting the candy-striped wallpaper and the gilt-framed painting of a little waif standing by the seashore on the opposite wall.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting a cup of tea,” Denise Lane said over her shoulder.
“No, that’s all right,” said Banks, sitting on one of the armchairs. “Just a quick chat. That’s all.”
Denise eased herself into a chair slowly, as if her bones were aching, and immediately started rolling and unrolling the hem of her unbuttoned cardigan. “Ollie’s out,” she said, “but he’ll be back soon. You’d better be quick.”
“Why?” said Banks, frowning. “Is there something you want to keep from him?”
“No. He just wouldn’t like me talking to you, that’s all.”
“Why? Not a fan of the police?”
“You’re twisting my words. He hasn’t done anything wrong, if that’s what you’re getting at. He doesn’t have a record or anything. He’s just . . . well, private. We’re both very private. We just want to get on with our lives.”
“I can appreciate that,” said Banks. “We’re all entitled to a little privacy to get on with our lives. But this is a murder investigation, and I’m afraid that does call for more special circumstances.” Banks could see why Annie had described Denise Lane as attractive after their first meeting. She was long-legged and shapely, looked good in the tight jeans she was wearing. She clearly visited the gym regularly, kept her blond hair neatly trimmed and layered and had a naturally pale, unblemished complexion. Her blue eyes radiated suspicion and, if Banks wasn’t mistaken, more than a trace of guilt. Though guilt about what, he had no idea. There was also a lack of confidence evident in her posture and body language. She slumped, slouched; her fingernails were bitten to the quick. Had life with Lane sapped all the energy from her, or was it life with the “private” Ollie? She certainly seemed nervous because he wasn’t present, but Banks got the impression that she would be even more so if he were in the room.
“Why don’t you want us to talk to Ollie, Denise?” Annie asked.
“Has he hurt you?” said Banks. “Does he hurt you?”
Denise’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, no. It’s nothing like that at all. Ollie wouldn’t do anything to harm me. We love each other. You’re getting me all wrong.”
“Then why are you so on edge?” Banks asked.
“On edge? I’m not on edge. What makes you think that?”
“You’re fidgeting, you can’t sit still, your eyes are all over the place. Need I go on?”
Denise Lane looked even more self-conscious. Her complexion turned red and her upper lip quivered. Banks thought she was going to cry. “It’s not fair to talk to a person like that,” she said. “You come here, into my house and you . . . you bully me, insult me.”
“How are we insulting you, Denise?” Annie asked, passing her a tissue. The waterworks had started now.
Denise sniffed. “By saying horrible things.”
Banks leaned forward in his chair and clasped his hands on his thighs. “Can we start again, Denise?” he said. “Nobody meant to upset you. Far from it. DI Cabbot and I are concerned about you. We sense there’s something wrong, but you won’t tell us what it is. Now, wouldn’t it be better all around if you told us? We can probably help, you know. I understand you want all this to go away, whatever it is. You have a lovely house, a partner you love and you want to get on with your lives. But Morgan Spencer can’t get on with his life. He’s dead. Murdered.”
“Morgan Spencer.” She spat out the name. “He’s a creep. A pervert.”
“Maybe so, but he didn’t deserve what happened to him. DI Cabbot told me you had a problem with him. But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it?”
“I still feel scared and angry when I think about it.”
“I’m sure you do,” said Annie. “Things like that don’t go away.” She paused. “Believe me, I know.”
Denise looked at her, and for the first time the recognition of a kindred soul, or at least an empathetic one, came into her eyes. “You do? Really?”
Annie nodded. “But you’re lucky. You fought him off. You made him leave.”
“Yes.”
“It’s really Michael we’re interested in,” said Banks. “We found his car abandoned in Scarborough. We’re worried about him. Scarborough’s not far. We were wondering if you’d seen anything of him.”
“Scarborough? Is that where . . . ?”
“Is that where what, Mrs. Lane?”
“Nothing. I . . . I meant is that where you found it?”
“You’re not a very good liar, Mrs. Lane.”
Denise Lane glared at him again, then burst into tears once more. Annie handed her another tissue and put a comforting arm over her shoulder. “Ollie will be back soon,” Denise said between sobs. “Then you’ll have to go.”
Banks didn’t want to get into the Ollie business again, and his patience was wearing thin. “What do you know, Denise? What is it you’re not telling us? Have you seen Michael? Has he been here?”
“I’m not a bad mother. Really, I’m not.”
“Was he here?”
Denise quivered and quavered a bit, then said in a barely audible voice, “Yes. Yes, he was here.” She was tearing the tissue into shreds with her stubby fingers.
“That’s better,” said Banks. “See how it feels much better to get it off your chest?”
Denise gave him a weak smile. “I don’t know about that.”
“Tell us what happened,” Annie said. “As much detail as you can.” She took out her notebook.
“It was on Tuesday, lunchtime.”
Before he phoned Alex from the pay phone, Annie thought, and shortly before he’d parked the car in Scarborough. “The day after my colleague and I visited you at Tesco?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you call us?”
“I . . . I . . .” Denise Lane just shook her head.
“Was it because he’s your son?” Banks said. “And no matter what he might have done, you’ll take care of him?”
Denise looked heartbroken at that. “Yes,” she said. “But I didn’t. I mean, I don’t think he’s done anything. He’s a good boy. I really believe that. But he was scared and cold. I think he’d been sleeping rough, maybe in the car on the moors. It gets cold out there. And he hadn’t eaten. He said he didn’t have much money with him, and he couldn’t use his credit or debit cards because you’d be able to trace him. His mobile, too. He was just keeping it switched off.”
“So what happened?”
“He asked if he could stay for a while.”
“Did you tell him about my visit?” Annie asked.
“Yes. Well, I had to, didn’t I? He deserved to know you lot were after him.”
“How did he react?”
“He wasn’t surprised. It didn’t seem to bother him. I mean, he didn’t run off or anything.”
“How did he appear? Was he upset, frightened, worried?” Banks asked.
“Of course he was. All of those.”
“Did you notice . . . I mean, did he have any blood on him anywhere?”
Denise’s eyes widened again. “Blood? Good Lord, no. Why would Michael have blood on him?”
“Never mind,” said Banks. “What did you do?”
“I gave him a cup of hot sweet tea and something to eat, some cake. He wouldn’t say anything else—said it was better if I didn’t know—but I could see he was in trouble. I said he should just go and see you, the police, like, and explain that he hadn’t done whatever you think he has, and you’d sort it all out, but he wouldn’t.”
“We don’t know that he has done anything,” said Banks. “It’s for his own safety, and that of his partner and her child, that we want to find him as soon as possible.”
“Alex? And Ian?”
“You know them?”
“He mentioned them, that’s all. I mean, I knew about them, but he’d never really talked before. This time I could see he was head over heels. He said he would bring them to see me one day Ollie was out, then . . . all this . . .”
“Well, as long as Michael’s missing, they’re in danger, too. Did you let him stay? Is he here now?”
Denise stiffened. “No. I couldn’t possibly do that.”
“Why not?”
“Ollie was home. He often comes home for his lunch. It’s not far away and it . . . well, it saves a bit of money. You have to understand, Ollie doesn’t know Michael. That’s a part of my other life, and Ollie doesn’t like to talk about that. That’s why he had to be out if they were going to visit.”
Banks was getting the picture. He glanced at Annie, and by her expression he knew that she was getting it, too. “Your other life?” he said.
“Yes. At the farm. We’ve drawn a line under that, Ollie said.”
“And that includes Michael? Alex and Ian?”
Her eyes teared up, and she nodded. “It’s not me. Honest. I would have taken him in in a second, but Ollie wouldn’t have it. Said he wasn’t having no outlaws on the run staying in his house, and Michael should think himself lucky we didn’t just call the police right there and then and turn him in. Michael pleaded with him. I pleaded with him. But it did no good. In the end, Michael got mad and left. Just drove away.” She wrung her hands. “I hope nothing’s happened to him. I’d never forgive myself.”
“We don’t think so, Mrs. Lane,” said Banks. “Not yet. But it’s vital that we find him as soon as possible.”
“Did he say anything about where he might be going next?” Annie asked.
“No. I’m sorry.”
“He didn’t get in touch again? Phone, or anything?”
“No.”
“Is there anything else you can tell us, however insignificant?”
Denise thought for a moment. “When he was going, when we were alone at the front door, I managed to slip him some money we’d been putting by in the hall sideboard.”
“How much money?”
“It was only a hundred pounds, but it was all we had. Our ‘mad’ money. When Ollie found out he went spare.”
I’ll bet he did, thought Banks. A hundred pounds wasn’t very much these days. It might get you mediocre lodgings for three, perhaps four nights, if you didn’t eat, or a couple of tanks of petrol. Lane abandoned his car even though he had the money to buy petrol. He had paid for parking because he wasn’t thinking and had simply done what he would normally do. Had the car broken down? Everyone said it was on its last legs. The forensics mechanics would be able to tell him about that. Or was Lane planning to come back for the car later but something had happened to prevent him? He had phoned Alex that evening from York, so he had still been free then.
If he were to hazard a guess, Banks would have said that Lane left the car just to confuse everyone, took a train to York, wandered about there for a while plucking up the courage to phone Alex, then headed for London.
And Montague Havers lived in London.
THE DINNER was delightful, the service impeccable without being obtrusive, the crispy duck breast cooked just the way Winsome loved it, and Terry said his entrecÔte and frites were spot-on. For starters, they shared chicken liver pâté, and instead of a sweet, they went for the cheese plate, which was served, as it should be, at room temperature. They drank a simple inexpensive Rioja, nothing outrageous or ostentatious, and Terry had only one glass because he had to drive. The small glass of ruby port he ordered for Winsome later went exceptionally well with the cheese. Their conversation flowed with an ease Winsome hadn’t realized existed. Terry didn’t talk about his experiences in Afghanistan, and Winsome largely avoided talking about her job. As they laughed a lot and told each other stories about their potholing experiences and areas they had explored, they found so many topics in common that they could have carried on talking all night. Terry had even been to Montego Bay on a couple of occasions, and had visited the area around Spring Mount and Maroon Town, where Winsome had spent her childhood as the daughter of a local police corporal. His own childhood, he confessed, had been that of an army brat, never staying anywhere long and finding it very difficult to make friends.
The only disagreement arose when it was time to pay the bill, and even that was minor. Terry insisted on paying for the two of them, whereas Winsome insisted on going dutch. In the end, Winsome won, and Terry was gracious in defeat. Winsome noticed that he wasn’t carrying his stick, just an umbrella.
They walked out onto Castle Hill, and Winsome immediately felt the wind and rain bring a chill to her bones. In her mind there flashed a vision of the country they had been talking about, where she had been brought up. Banana leaves clacking in the wind, the long walk to and from church in her Sunday best in the searing heat, out-of-season days walking the deserted beaches around Montego Bay, looking for driftwood with her father. She felt herself shiver. For better or for worse, England was her home now.
Terry moved closer with his umbrella and gently put a tentative arm around her, sheltering the two of them under its broad black circle. She felt herself stiffen a little at his touch, but she didn’t shake him off. She could hear the umbrella whipping about in the wind, straining at the metal spokes, and feared it would snap inside out or simply fly off into the sky. Maybe they’d go with it, like Mary Poppins. But Terry managed to keep a grip on it as they headed around the corner and down the cobbled road toward the lights of the town square, the castle behind them tastefully floodlit against the sky. The shops were all closed, but the pubs and restaurants were open and the sounds of conversation and laughter drifted up on the night air along with the sounds of high heels clicking across the cobbles.
“Can I give you a lift?” Terry asked.
“It’s all right,” Winsome said. “I don’t live far.”
“But it’s cold. You’re cold.”
Winsome laughed. “I’m used to that. Thanks,” she said. “It really was a lovely evening.”
“My pleasure.”
They stopped as they entered the top of the square. “Well, I’m parked over there, behind the shopping center,” Terry said.
Winsome pointed the other way. “I’m up York Road a bit.”
“Well, if you won’t let me drive you home, then . . .”
Winsome felt rather than saw him moving toward her, his lips aiming for hers. She felt a surge of panic, of claustrophobia almost, and found herself turning aside, so that his lips grazed against her cheek, then she heard herself saying a curt “Good night” and hurried off toward home, heart palpitating.
She pulled her jacket collar around her throat to keep out the icy needles of wind and hurried along, head down, past the lit-up shop signs and window displays until she got to her street, on the fringe of the student area. There she turned left, walked up the slight rise for fifty yards and turned into the imposing detached house, with its gables, bay windows and large chimneys, where she had the top-floor flat.
Once she was inside, she leaned back on the closed door and took stock. What on earth was she thinking of? It was only a good-night kiss. Was that something to be so frightened of? But she had been. She remembered the tension that ran through her body when she saw him moving toward her, the tightness in her chest.
She made herself a cup of chamomile tea in the kitchenette and thought about what a pleasant evening it had been, how easily their conversation had flowed. When she curled up in her favorite armchair, with only the shaded lamp lighting the room, she realized that she had very little experience of talking to anyone outside her job. Most of the time she talked to other cops, criminals, forensic scientists or lawyers. She had been a shy child and had never found it easy to socialize, and that carried over into her adult life. Was this what her life had come to? But wasn’t she too young to start wondering what had happened to all the promise, the dreams, the young woman who had walked down the jetway at Gatwick, excited as a little child at the life ahead of her in the new country she was about to discover? Marveling at the cars, the huge buildings, the fast motorways and even the unrelenting rain and a sky the color of dirty dishwater.
No, she decided in the end. She hadn’t lost all that. She was still young and she had most of her life ahead of her. She was scared, she realized; that was all. Like so many people. Scared of commitment, scared of dipping a toe in the water. Scared of being hurt. It was a long time since she had had a serious boyfriend, someone there was a possibility of sharing her life with. Tonight had shown her that there could be other possibilities. That Terry liked her was obvious, and she knew she liked him. How could she get over her fear? How could she stop behaving like a silly little girl, probably making him think she was nothing but a tease? She was soon starting to feel really stupid about her behavior.
Winsome sipped her tea, brow furrowed and swore to herself that the next time she saw Terry Gilchrist, she would kiss him. On the lips. That thought made her smile.