THE TEAM GATHERED IN THE BOARDROOM AT THE END of the day, as the last rays of sunlight struggled in vain to blaze a trail of glory through the thickening clouds. Gervaise, Banks, Annie, Gerry Masterson, Stefan, Jazz Singh and Winsome were present. Only Doug Wilson among the major team members was missing, and as soon as he had organized his replacements to keep watch over Alex and Ian Preston, his job would be done for the day. He had already reported no progress with the train companies. Banks had guessed it might lead to nothing, but it was an avenue that had to be explored. Someone had sent to the canteen for a pot of coffee and a plate of digestive biscuits. Banks was thinking a bottle of wine or a barrel of beer would not have gone amiss. His mouth watered when he remembered the old Maigret stories his father had introduced him to: Maigret was always sending out to the local bar for beer and sandwiches from the Brasserie Dauphine. No such luck here.
The overhead fluorescent lights were turned off and a couple of tasteful shaded lamps provided a soft ambient glow that everyone seemed to need after the long and frustrating day they’d had. Banks knew they needed a break in the case soon, and the meeting was being held to try to determine from which direction that lead might come. Tacked to the whiteboard next to a sketch of Morgan Spencer and a picture of Beddoes’s bright green Deutz-Fahr Agrotron were images of the penetrating bolt gun and the man Alex had described to the police sketch artist. There was no news from Vic Manson on the fingerprints yet, but Banks knew that Vic was a patient man, and sometimes these things took time to get right. He’d come up with something, even if they had to wait until tomorrow.
Jazz Singh was a bit faster with DNA, and she spoke first. “I won’t bore you with the technical details,” she said. “Not that you’d understand them. First, and perhaps most important, we have a match between the DNA extracted from the blood at the hangar near Drewick and that taken from the body discovered in the Vaughn’s van crash. And to be clear, I don’t mean the driver, but the other body, the one that was cut up and put in bin bags.”
“So it was Morgan Spencer who was killed at the hangar,” said Banks.
“Hold your horses,” said Jazz. “I didn’t say that. I simply said they were the same. We don’t have a sample of anything we know to be Morgan Spencer’s DNA, so I can’t say for certain it’s him. Everything he owned was destroyed when his caravan burned down, and he’s not on any of our databases.”
“OK,” said Banks. “We recognized Morgan Spencer from the crash site, especially after the searchers found his head.” He pointed toward the sketch on the board. “That’s how everyone we know who’s seen him says he looks. Especially Alex Preston.”
“What about his parents?” asked Winsome.
“His father is proving difficult to contact,” said Banks. “We understand he’s somewhere in Barbados, but other than that . . . His mother lives in Sunderland. She’s an ex-junkie and her mental health is precarious. She lives in a halfway house and has very few personal possessions, none of which include a photograph of her son. Apparently, she lost touch with Morgan some years ago, when she lost touch with the rest of the world.”
“We’ve had a look around Spencer’s lockup,” said Stefan Nowak, “but I don’t know if there’s anything that can help you in there, Jazz. You’re welcome to have a look. You might find a hair or something. No sign of his removal lorry or his motorbike, but we found traces of oil, petrol and red diesel.”
“Thanks,” said Jazz. “Maybe I’ll have a look tomorrow. I have to go back to the lab now. Backlog. The Harrogate rape case. Is that OK?”
“Of course,” said Banks. “And thanks for all your efforts.”
Jazz skipped briskly from the room.
“And let’s not forget,” Banks said to the room at large in the silence after Jazz’s departure. “Even though we think we’ve found and identified Morgan Spencer, we still have to find Michael Lane. Hopefully alive and well. He may well be our only chance of a witness to what happened. And we aren’t the only ones who want him.”
“I managed to trace the number he called Alex Preston from last night,” Annie said. “It’s a public telephone on Coppergate in York.”
“We’ll alert the York police,” said Banks, “but I imagine he’ll be far away by now.”
After that, everyone submitted a brief summary of the day’s activities, questions and responses, what they had learned and what they suspected. It didn’t add up to a lot. The old wool barons on the walls looked sinister in the shadows, as if they were watching over the team, or sitting in judgment. A bloodred lance of dying sunlight managed to stab through a crack in the clouds and illuminate a particularly grim-looking specimen.
“Do you think Keith Norrington at Venture had anything to do with it?” AC Gervaise asked.
Banks glanced at Annie. “No,” she said. “He’s just a creepy businessman covering his arse, ma’am. It won’t do any harm to check him out, though. Bound to be something dodgy in the company books.”
Gervaise managed a thin smile. “Well, don’t go too far,” she said. “We don’t want to be accused of harassing creepy businessmen.”
“No, ma’am.”
“What about Neil Vaughn?” Banks asked.
“I don’t think so,” said Winsome. “He seemed genuinely distressed about what had happened to Caleb Ross. He’d given his employees the day off. I know that doesn’t mean much, and he could be merely trying to manipulate what we think, but I didn’t notice any false steps. Gerry?”
“The one thing that struck me,” said Gerry Masterson, “was how easy he made it seem to get around the rules. I mean, a business like his is highly regulated. Has to be, doesn’t it? Stands to reason with all those animal carcasses and risks of disease and contagion. Vaughn himself might not be involved in anything, but he certainly gave the impression that it wouldn’t be too difficult for someone who did want to bend the rules.”
“I agree,” said Winsome. “And something he said gave us cause for concern about his brother, Charlie Vaughn. Apparently he’s not interested in the family business, which is nothing of itself, but he is interested in horses of the live kind. Live and running races.”
“So he’s a gambler?” said Banks.
“Yes. Winner or loser, I don’t know, but that’s the impression I got.”
“I’ve never known a gambler who was a winner,” said Banks. “They all win sometimes, even win big, but they lose it in the end. It’s the nature of the business. And when they lose big, things can get tough for everyone around them. It’s like a junkie in need of a fix. Know anything more?”
“Apparently, he’s got an alibi,” said Gerry. “He’s been out of the country the past two weeks. Spain.”
“Solid.”
“I think so,” said Gerry. “Want me to dig deeper?”
“No, not yet. We’ve got plenty to be going on with. Let’s keep him in our thoughts, though.”
“By the way, sir,” Gerry added. “Caleb Ross didn’t have muttonchops.”
Banks raised his eyebrows. “So he’s not our Sunday driver? I must say, I never really thought he was. Good work, though, Gerry.”
Gerry Masterson beamed.
AC Gervaise turned toward Stefan. “I understand you have something of interest to report, Mr. Nowak?”
“Yes,” said Stefan, with a gentlemanly nod toward Gervaise. “One of our search team found some marijuana in a tin at the crash site. It was actually in the van, more a part of the carburetor when we found it, and we’ll need to send it for analysis and do a number of tests to make certain. But the CSI who found it seems sure about what it was. He . . . er . . . he seems to know what he’s talking about.”
They all laughed.
Stefan smiled. “I believe him.”
“Could it have been a contributing factor to the accident?”
“It could have been,” said Stefan. “If he’d been smoking it at the time of the crash, it could certainly have interfered with his motor functions and his reaction times. All it would have taken in the conditions at that time would have been a momentary distraction. But we have no way of knowing whether he smoked it in the cab. Of course, Dr. Glendenning will order a tox screen on the remains and that might show up something, though I doubt it.”
“But in a way, that doesn’t matter, does it?” said Banks. “I mean whether he was sober or stoned when he crashed. Maybe to the insurance companies, perhaps even to the other driver and to Caleb’s friends and acquaintances. But it doesn’t matter to us.”
“What do you mean, Alan?” said Gervaise.
“It’s no great sin that Caleb Ross smoked a bit of marijuana now and then. In fact I’d be surprised to hear that he didn’t. Apparently he was a big prog rock fan, and prog rock and marijuana use go together like fish and chips. I even remember seeing a few people smoking and listening to Tales from Topographic Oceans when I was a student. Of course, I never touched the stuff myself.”
“Of course not,” said Gervaise. The thin smile drew her Cupid’s bow lips tight. “Or at least, if you did, you didn’t inhale.”
“I mean prog rock,” said Banks, deadpan.
They all laughed again. Gerry played mother and refilled everyone’s coffee cups. The biscuits were all gone.
“What I mean,” Banks went on, “is that what might be interesting is where he got his dope, and whether his dealer had some kind of hold over him. Perhaps there were even other, more serious, drugs involved.”
“We had a couple of local DCs search his house,” said Winsome. “They didn’t find anything. No drugs, no stash of money. Nothing of interest.”
“I suppose it’s still possible that Ross was somehow blackmailed into helping the gang,” said Banks. “Or even willingly paid in marijuana. Maybe that was their way to make him do their bidding. If nothing else, he would certainly have lost his job had it come out that he was a habitual pot smoker.”
“So we try to find his source?” said Winsome.
“We’ll keep a lookout. And we might as well have a good look at Caleb Ross again. Winsome?”
“As far as I could gather from all his coworkers I talked to, no one had a bad word to say about him. Salt of the earth. Honest as the day is long. All the usual clichés. None of his colleagues could believe that he could possibly have been up to no good. ‘Caleb? No way’ was the general response.”
“Maybe they just didn’t want to be heard speaking ill of the dead?” Annie suggested.
“I’m sure there was a bit of that involved. I mean, even with this new information, we still can’t say he was connected with the theft or the murder, can we? As the DCI says, it’s hardly a major crime to smoke marijuana. Maybe he was a minor player? It’s amazing how easily people can avert their eyes from what they just see as a harmless little fiddle, like nicking pens and writing pads from the office stationery, like it’s something you’re entitled to.”
“Good point,” said Banks. “But I still can’t shake the feeling that Ross and Lane are involved at some level. Ross might not have known what was in the extra packages he accepted, and he might well have balked if he had, but if he knowingly accepted them, he knew that what he was doing was against regulations, and that it probably involved forging official documents. And finding the marijuana does cast a slightly different light on him. It seems he wasn’t quite as honest and law-abiding as everyone makes out. Look a bit deeper, Winsome. Maybe talk to some of the farmers he regularly picked up from, see what you can find out there.”
“Will do, sir. I’ll draw up a list from the one Vaughn’s gave us and make a few visits.”
Banks turned to Stefan Nowak again. “Thanks, Stefan,” he said. “Anything else?”
“Nothing to report, really. The accident lads will be there all night again, by the looks of it. They’ve found no traces of tampering and don’t expect to at this point, but they still have a lot of other ground to cover. My lads are about done and should be able to get away tomorrow. It’s bloody freezing out there.”
“Anything more from the hangar?”
“Some partial prints. We might be able to come up with some matches, but nothing that would stand up in court.”
Banks turned to Gerry Masterson. “Anything more on Beddoes’s finances?”
“Nothing dodgy at all as far as I can make out, sir. All in order. He’s not rich, but he gets by. He’s got plenty of investments, mostly low-risk—he’s no gambler—and the farm makes a small profit on paper. You ought to see the prices for some of those oils and pork chops!”
Banks laughed. “Maybe when this is all over, Beddoes can take us all out for dinner.”
“Only if we find his tractor, sir. I can do a more thorough check, if you like.”
“We’ll see how things go. You’re going to be busy tomorrow, Gerry. We need workups on Venture Properties, for a start. I’ve got a couple of lists to get you going there.”
“Yes, sir. By the way, I did manage a brief glance at Terry Gilchrist’s military record and it’s without blemish. Quite the opposite, really. Most distinguished.”
“Thanks, Gerry,” said Banks. He looked at Winsome, who had her head down and her pen in her hand.
“Perhaps most important of all is this,” Banks went on. He turned to the whiteboard and pointed to the image of the bolt gun. “I know it looks like one of those ray guns aliens use in old science-fiction movies, but it’s not. It’s what’s called a captive bolt pistol, or gun, and it’s used for stunning animals in abattoirs. There are essentially three versions. The first is nonpenetrating, in which a retractable bolt is fired either by compressed air or by a blank round. This bolt hits the animal’s skull but doesn’t penetrate it, causing unconsciousness. The second type is a penetrating bolt gun, in which the bolt is pointed and penetrates the skull, destroying brain tissue. There’s also a noncaptive free bolt type, in which the bolt is actually fired like a bullet. In this case, we’re dealing with the penetrating bolt gun. If it had been free bolt there would have been much deeper internal damage, and we would have found the bolt somewhere, unless the killers took it with them. Dr. Glendenning assures me that was not the case, and the wound indicates a typical penetrating bolt gun.”
“Would the blow have been enough to kill Spencer?” asked Gervaise.
“Probably,” said Banks. “We can’t be a hundred percent certain, but such a blow is usually fatal to humans. The only thing that makes the bolt pistol a rather awkward weapon, and perhaps why it isn’t used so often, is that you have to be close up to the victim to use it. You can’t shoot from a distance because the bolt never actually leaves the gun. Which explains why someone had to hold Spencer’s arms. He’d hardly be likely to just stand still and take it.”
“How do you get hold of one?”
“Like many such things,” said Banks, “you order it over the Internet.”
“Don’t you need a license?” Annie asked.
“No,” said Gerry. “I checked. At least you don’t need a firearms license. You’d need a slaughterman’s license, though.”
“And how do you get that?” Annie asked.
“Pass the course. The slaughterman course.”
“Sick,” said Annie.
“Penetrating bolt pistols are very much discouraged these days,” Gerry went on. “Not because they’re inhumane, but because by initiating contact with the animal’s brain, they could become a conduit for disease. Mad cow, that is, for the most part. Free bolts are rare, only used in an emergency if you can’t restrain the animal.”
“I suppose the top and bottom of it is,” said Banks, “that while they’re not easy to get, and they can be expensive, they’re a hell of a lot easier to get your hands on than a regular handgun.” He looked at Gerry. “Again, it looks as if you’re going to have to do a bit of tracking down here. Purchases. Thefts. The usual suspects. And I think first of all you should see if you can find out whether there have been any crimes with a similar MO in the last couple of years. Start locally, then move out to the rest of the country.”
Gerry nodded.
“And we need to have a close look at the abattoir business in these parts,” Banks said. “Everyone knows illegal and unregulated abattoirs exist, along with legitimate establishments, and they can take many shapes and sizes. It’s true that the prime season for stealing lambs is August, when they’re nice and plump and ready to eat, but someone has been picking off the odd field of sheep or cows around the dale for a while now, and I doubt they’ve all been shipped to Romania or Bulgaria, no matter what the Daily Mail would have us believe. Cattle are especially difficult to sell, as they have electronic ID tags and passports, whereas sheep only have easily removable ear tags. But if your intention is to get the animal cut up as soon as possible and sell it locally, off the back of a lorry, none of that matters too much. There’s a big enough market at home for a bit of cheap meat, no questions asked.” Banks turned to Annie: “Maybe you and Doug can start checking out the local abattoirs tomorrow? We want any hints of illegal operations, any objects stolen, especially bolt pistols, any disgruntled employees recently fired and maybe setting up on their own, that sort of thing.”
“But I’m a vegetarian,” protested Annie. “Yuck.”
“I know,” said Banks. “It’s a dirty job, but . . .”
Annie pulled a face, and the others laughed, then there was a tap at the door followed by Vic Manson, a buff folder in his hand. “Thought you’d like to know,” he said. “We’ve got a result.”
WHEN TERRY Gilchrist opened the door, he looked surprised to see Winsome again. “DS Jackman,” he said. “What a pleasant surprise. Come in. Please. Take your coat off.” She hung up her coat on a hook in the hall and followed him through to the living room. He was walking without his stick, but he seemed able to manage all right unaided, though she noticed that he rested his hand on the back of the sofa to hold himself up for a moment when he got to the living room, and she thought she saw a grimace of pain flash across his features.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Fine. Just the occasional twinge. The doc said I’d get them for a while.”
“I’m sorry to call so late. It’s been one of those days.”
“Then sit down. Take the weight off.”
Winsome sat and smoothed her skirt. It was a chilly evening, with a brisk cold wind gusting outside, and Gilchrist had a wood fire burning in the fireplace. Peaches lay stretched out asleep in front of it. Winsome felt the warmth permeate and envelop her. “That’s nice,” she said, reaching out her hands to feel the heat.
“One of life’s little luxuries. And you can see Peaches loves it. Drink?”
“Not for me, thanks. I’m driving.”
“Tea, then? Or I can offer you a cappuccino.”
“That’d be lovely, if it’s no trouble.”
“No trouble at all.”
The room seemed different after dark. Perhaps it was the wood fire. Winsome absorbed the warmth and the sound of crackling logs as she listened to the hissing and grinding of what sounded like an espresso machine. Peaches was still breathing slowly and peacefully in front of the fire. She stirred and growled once, as if disturbed by a dream, then stuck out her tongue and settled back down again. Soon Gilchrist was back with two cappuccinos. He handed one to Winsome.
“Another of life’s little luxuries?”
“The espresso machine? Rather a large luxury, I’d say. Actually,” he went on, “you’re lucky to catch me in. It’s trivia night at the Coach and Horses tonight. Highlight of my week, usually.”
“Don’t be so cynical.”
“Sorry. I really do enjoy it, though. The trivia, I mean, not the cynicism. We used to play it on the base.”
“I almost signed up once,” Winsome said after a pause.
“For trivia? You?”
“No. The armed forces. Why not? I’m fit. And it’s in the family, like policing. My grandfather fought in the Second World War. I was a bit more mercenary. I thought I might at least get an education out of it later, if I survived. Maybe IT, or office administration, something like that.”
“Dream on,” said Gilchrist. “They were going to send me to university after my spell. Middle Eastern languages. I showed a bit of aptitude in the field, and they can always use someone who speaks the lingo.”
“What happened?”
“Canceled. Decided to send me out there again instead.” He tapped his leg. “Hence this. I suppose they thought I was a better soldier than a linguist.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know. I’m out for good. I might actually go to university. I’m still considering my options, as they say.”
Winsome had read Gerry’s report after the meeting, and she knew how Gilchrist had been injured while getting his comrades and some children out of a booby-trapped school before a second bomb went off. The Military Cross and an honorable discharge. There was no reason to mention it now and embarrass him. One thing she did know was that soldiers didn’t like to talk about their wars.
“I don’t suppose you came here to talk about my war wounds,” he said.
“No. I was just wondering if you remembered anything more about Monday morning.”
Gilchrist rubbed his forehead. “I’ve been thinking about it since the last time we talked, and I’ve been keeping up with the news. Did the victim really end up at the bottom of Belderfell Pass in pieces, or am I reading too much into the reports?”
“Yes, he did. But he was in pieces before that. How did you know it was him?”
“Is this where you do your detective thing? Tell me I couldn’t have known unless I’d done it?”
Winsome laughed. “Good Lord, no. I don’t think you did it. At least I hope you didn’t.”
“Well I’m grateful for that. Actually, it’s elementary, my dear Jackman. It’s just the odds. I’ve lived around these parts long enough to know that you don’t get a pool of blood in a disused hangar and human body parts in a fallen stock lorry without some sort of connection. Stands to reason.” Gilchrist shook his head slowly. “Just when you think you’ve got as far away as you possibly can from all that sort of thing. The only other thing I remember is the car.”
“What car?”
“It was on Sunday morning, the day before I found the blood. I was just coming back from the newsagent’s in the village with the papers, about a quarter to ten or so, and I heard a car pass by on that road just beyond the trees, heading toward the Thirsk road. I noticed because it seemed to be going unusually fast and you almost never see cars on that road. It’s not very easy on the shock absorbers.”
“You’re sure it was a car, not a lorry or a van?”
“Yes, it was a car. I’m afraid I can’t tell you what make, though. I’m not that good. And I didn’t see it, really, just a flash of dull gray through the trees.”
“Gray?”
“Yes. But not silvery. More a sort of dirty gray. It didn’t sound too healthy, either, not at the speed it was going. I could tell that much at least.”
Michael Lane, Winsome thought. Or whoever was driving his car if he had taken Spencer’s lorry. But she didn’t think he had. Fullerton had seemed pretty sure about the muttonchops and flat hat, and unless Lane was wearing a disguise, which Winsome doubted, then it probably wasn’t him. The timing was right. He wouldn’t have been worried about his shock absorbers if he thought he was fleeing for his life. Or if he had just shot someone. “Which way was it going?” she asked.
“Drewick direction. If it kept going straight on, it would have ended up on the moors. But there’s the Thirsk road. It might have turned on there and joined up with the A1.”
“Was anyone following it? Another car? A lorry, motorcycle?”
“No, nobody. At least not for as long as it took me to get back to the house and open the door.”
It was something, at any rate, Winsome thought. They could get some patrol cars out to the moors villages and ask if anyone remembered seeing a dirty gray Peugeot last Sunday morning. A car like that might stand out in areas where there wasn’t much poor weather traffic. Nobody in Drewick had mentioned it when first questioned by the patrol officers, but it might be a good idea to recanvass the village. Also, Winsome remembered that Lane’s mother and grandparents lived over the moors, in Whitby. If Lane had continued across the Thirsk road, he’d have hit the A19 eventually. A little jog either way on there would have had him heading into the North York Moors. Or up to Teesside or down to York, she reminded herself glumly.
She made some notes, aware of Gilchrist watching her writing with a curious eye. “What?” she said, glancing up.
“Nothing. You’re very meticulous, that’s all.”
“It pays to be, in my job.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Do you know what a bolt pistol is?”
Gilchrist frowned. “Isn’t it one of those things they use in abattoirs?”
“That’s right. Have you seen one lately, heard anything about one?”
“No. Not just recently, but never. The only reason I know about them is the firearms course I took in my basic training. Not that we’d use them, but the instructor was thorough. He even covered air pistols and cap guns.” Gilchrist stood up slowly. “Look, I’ve got to go now, but I’ve just had a great idea. Why don’t you come to trivia night with me? I promise you’ll enjoy it. The Coach and Horses is just on the village high street.”
“I’m not much of a trivia person, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t worry about it, I’m good enough for the two of us.”
Winsome laughed. “No, I still don’t think so. Sorry. It’s been a very long day, and tomorrow doesn’t promise to be any easier. I’m tired.”
Gilchrist looked disappointed. “If you say so. Is that all?”
“For now. Yes.”
“OK, then. Let me help you with your coat.”
Ever the gentleman, Gilchrist led her, again without his stick, into the hall, and helped her on with her coat. Winsome’s Polo was next to Gilchrist’s Ford Focus.
“Can I offer you a lift or anything?” Winsome asked. “Save you taking the car out.”
Gilchrist tapped his leg. “No, thanks. The walk will do me good. The doc says I need as much exercise as I can get if I hope to return to my former Adonis-like physical glory.”
“I’m sure if anyone makes it, you will. Good night. And thanks.”
They stood there a little awkwardly, and Winsome felt confused by the waves of tension between them. Just when she thought Gilchrist was leaning forward to kiss her cheek, or her lips, she turned quickly and left. Back in the car, her heart was beating fast, and she had to tell herself to get a grip and calm down. Why had she refused his invitation? She wasn’t that tired. And the potholing he had mentioned on her previous visit? What harm could that do? Was it because she still thought of him as a suspect, or at least as a witness involved in a case she was working on? Partly, she thought. But it was more than that. She didn’t like the idea of sitting in an estate pub in what was little more than a modern country village. She would be the only black person in there, and she would stand out. She was used to that in her job, of course, but people knew her in Eastvale, and at least there was a college there. It attracted all colors and all kinds. In the pub, she would be an object of curiosity, and that would make her uncomfortable.
Oh, why, she told herself, after running through the list of reasons for turning down Gilchrist’s offer, didn’t she just admit the truth: that she was attracted to him, and that the feeling frightened her. Then she heard her mother’s voice in her mind, as she so often did. “Get a grip on yourself, you foolish girl.” It wasn’t easy, but she made herself stop thinking of Gilchrist and concentrated on the road.
IT HAD been a useful meeting, Banks thought, as he tossed his briefcase on his computer desk, picked up the post and hung his coat up on the rack behind the door, but he still felt that he lacked a coherent picture of recent events. No defining pattern had emerged from the vast collection of data and pooling of ideas.
Vic Manson’s contribution had probably been the most valuable: the identification of the man who had threatened Alex Preston. He would see the complete file in the morning, but he already knew the man’s name was Ronald Tanner, and he had a string of arrests for breaking and entering, and one for GBH. He had served two prison sentences, one for six months and the second for eighteen. What his connection was with the rural crime gang and Morgan Spencer’s murder remained to be seen, but they would certainly be a step closer to finding out when they got Tanner in custody. The local police had agreed to pick him up before dawn and deliver him to Eastvale. It was the most likely time to find him at home, and they would certainly have the element of surprise on their side, which could make all the difference if he were in possession of a weapon.
Banks walked through the hall passage to the kitchen. There was a small dining-table-cum-breakfast-nook that could seat four, in a pinch, and a TV on one of the shelves on the wall beside it, where he usually watched the news or listened to the radio as he drank his breakfast coffee. He flicked on the remote, found nothing of interest and switched it off again, then he poured himself a glass of wine and sat at the table in silence.
The post was uninteresting, apart from the latest issue of Gramophone, which he flipped through idly as he drank. Then he realized he was hungry again. The only thing he had to eat in the fridge was some leftover pizza with pork, apple and crackling saved from the quick lunch he and Annie had grabbed at Pizza Express at the back of the Corn Exchange in Leeds. He put it in the convection oven, where it would hopefully crisp up a bit, and went back to his magazine. When the bell dinged, he took his wine, pizza and Gramophone into the conservatory. Dense clots of black cloud fringed the top of Tetchley Fell on the horizon, but above them, the starry night was a clear dark blue, with a thin silvery crescent of moon. Banks sat in the wicker chair and watched its slow-moving arc as he ate his pizza. The crust was dry, and still a bit too cold. He decided he wasn’t hungry anymore and put it aside. When he had finished, the moon had disappeared behind the fell.
The headache that Banks had first felt during the meeting began to get worse when he concentrated on thinking about the case. He left his wine for a moment and went into the entertainment room to pick some music, finally settling on Agnes Obel’s Aventine. The gentle, repetitive piano figures and cello and violin accompanying her soaring voice would soothe him better than paracetamol.
But even with the music playing, he felt restless; random thoughts continued to swirl around his mind, and his head throbbed steadily. He thought of breaking the pledge and ringing Oriana to ask if she wanted to meet up for a quick drink, but soon changed his mind. They had a great relationship, he felt, as long as neither of them tried to push it too far. Right now, even if her body was still in Eastvale, her mind would already be in Australia.
He could always wander down to the Dog and Gun, he supposed. There was bound to be someone he knew in there, maybe even Penny Cartwright. But he didn’t particularly feel like company, he realized—other than Oriana’s, of course. Ever since Sandra had left him and the kids moved out, he had become more and more attuned to his solitude—to the point where he actually enjoyed being alone. Maybe he didn’t eat healthily enough or work out at the gym, and perhaps he drank and brooded too much, but on the whole, he enjoyed his life. It wasn’t necessarily a psychologically healthy state of affairs, he thought, but there was a lot to be said for solitude. Some people even climbed distant mountains to be alone. The world was often far too much with him, the hustle-bustle always just around the corner. In the end, he decided to pour himself another glass of wine and go watch a DVD in the entertainment room. The latest James Bond movie had been lying around for a while unopened, mostly because Oriana didn’t like James Bond.
Banks had just started attempting to remove the cellophane wrapping when his phone rang. It was Joanna MacDonald.
“Alan, I think I might have something for you.”
Banks put the DVD aside, picked up his wine and sat down. “Fire away. Every little bit helps right now.”
“I can’t be specific about visits to the hangar, or anything like that, but basically we have someone on our radar who’s come off or on the A1 at Scotch Corner or Darlington.”
“It’s a start.”
“He made a visit to the area on the Sunday in question. We’ve had our eye on him for a while—Operation Hawk, that is. He’s involved in international investments, but he’s often seen visiting rural areas. He also has a lot of overseas contacts, Eastern European in particular. Some of them are not entirely wholesome. Frequent traveler to the Balkans and Baltic states. Knows all the palms to grease. He calls himself Montague Havers, but his real name’s Malcolm Hackett.”
“Maybe he’s expecting a knighthood for services to crime?” Banks suggested. “I think the ‘sir’ would go better with Montague, don’t you?”
Joanna laughed. “Much better.”
“What time did he leave the A1 on Sunday?”
There was a pause as Joanna consulted her notes. “He came off at Scotch Corner and took the Richmond road at 2:35 Sunday afternoon. He drives a silver BMW 3 Series. Nice car, but not too ostentatious. Doesn’t attract too much attention. And to be fair, he does have relatives in Richmond.”
“That’s not far north of Eastvale or Drewick, but it’s a bit late for what we’re looking at,” Banks said. “Still, he wouldn’t be the trigger puller. If he’s southern based, the odds are he’s one of the top brass and would want to keep himself as far away as possible from the rough stuff. And if for some reason he had to get there from London in a hurry, maybe he was there for the mopping up. Do you know when he set off back?”
“He entered via the Catterick junction at 3:05 on Tuesday afternoon.”
“Tuesday? That’s just after Caleb Ross’s van went over the pass. Anything definite on Mr. Havers?”
“No. That’s the problem. The NCA are working with us on this, too.”
“Can I talk to him?”
Joanna paused. “Normally we’d say no, in case you scare him off. But Monty doesn’t scare easily. We’ve questioned him on a few occasions, as have agents of the NCA, and he’s always ended up as cocky and squeaky clean as ever. Maybe a fresh face would be a good thing. I doubt he’ll give anything away, though. He’s too canny. And don’t beat him up. He knows his rights.”
Banks laughed. “As if I would. Thanks, Joanna. Can you give me his details?”
“He works out of an office building just off the Euston Road. That dodgy part to the north between St. Pancras and Regent’s Park.” She gave Banks an address. “Apparently he used to be something in the City back when the Conservatives took away all the trading restrictions in the eighties.”
“What a coincidence. Just like John Beddoes. How does rural crime come into it?”
“Through his contacts. They run the routes. But we haven’t been able to pin anything on him. It’s mostly guilt by association. He’s the man standing over the road with his hands in his pockets, whistling when the building on the other side blows up. He’s the one who visits Norfolk or North Yorkshire before or after a big job. It may mean nothing, but you asked, and he’s all we’ve been able to come up with. We don’t have time or the resources to scroll through the list of all the cars that left the A1 at the exit for your airfield, and nothing else has come up that sets off our radar. Sorry.”
“That’s OK,” said Banks. “It was a long shot. But I like the sound of this guy.”
“You’re welcome. Only too glad to help. I’m thinking maybe I should have waited until tomorrow morning to tell you, and I might have got a free lunch out of it.”
Banks laughed. “Maybe I’ll take you to dinner when it’s all over.”
“And pigs will fly.”
When Banks hung up the phone, he realized that he still felt some sort of connection with Joanna. The loneliness she talked about over lunch the other day was in some ways at odds with his own previous contemplation of the joys of solitude, but she made him consider that he really had no friends outside the job, either, and that he neglected the ones he had. He hadn’t been to see ex-Superintendent Gristhorpe in ages, for example; Jim Hatchley had also retired and wasn’t interested in anything but his garden, his kids, darts and Newcastle United; he saw Ken Blackstone only on sporadic visits to Leeds; and even Dirty Dick Burgess only turned up when the shit hit the fan, as a rule. As for his ex-wife, Sandra, she had her new family and her new life. His job had lost her to him. These days, it seemed, it was the job or nothing. He didn’t even see his own grown-up children, Brian and Tracy, all that often.
Why did he seem to be letting everyone go? Why didn’t he make more of an effort to keep in touch with his friends? Sometimes he felt he had nothing to say, nothing to add to the lively company of a boozy evening in the pub. It wasn’t true, though; he always enjoyed himself when he made the effort; it had just got harder to make that effort.
Maybe he should have suggested that Joanna meet him for a drink tonight, he thought. Maybe he should ring her back and ask her. Then he thought of Oriana. They had spoken nothing of fidelity, commitment, or any of those big, difficult subjects. They had made each other no promises, but he knew that if he asked Joanna out and didn’t tell Oriana, he would be cheating in a way, and she would be hurt. Even though she would be off to Australia, fighting away all those virile young journalists who wanted to interview Lady Veronica Chalmers. He also knew that if he rang Joanna back and asked her out for a drink, it wouldn’t end there. The attraction had been obvious even when they had been at odds in Tallinn, and it was still there. With Oriana away for three weeks, there would be too many opportunities for mischief. The last thing he needed at his age was to be a two-timing bastard.
Besides, he needed his sleep if he was to be sharp for an early interview tomorrow.
He finished stripping the cellophane off the Bond movie and slipped it in the player. Easier just to give himself over to a fantasy world. While the preliminaries were showing, he went back into the kitchen and fetched the rest of the bottle of wine.