SEVENTEEN
The pine rocking chair in the corner of Warne Farm’s kitchen looked so old and worn that it might almost have been there as long as the house had. Elias lowered himself carefully into it, to make sure it would hold, then closed his eyes as he pushed himself gently back and forth, enjoying its rhythmic creaking as he contemplated what he now knew.
The vault beneath the oil tank had surely been used for the smuggling of both people and drugs. Dunstan Warne must have known about it, making him at least partially complicit. Last night’s intruders had also known about it, as well as about the likely human remains out in the fields. They’d likely lost something at one or other of the sites, and so had come looking for it last night. It was hard to imagine them taking such a risk unless it was highly incriminating. They hadn’t found it, or they’d have left before being spotted by Anna Warne. So maybe they hadn’t lost it here at all, or maybe it had been ploughed into a field and was effectively gone for good.
It was also possible, however, that Dunstan Warne had found it himself and – realising that it gave him some kind of hold over these people – had hidden it somewhere safe. Elias had already had the farmhouse searched, of course. But Warne had been killed several hundred yards away, while this place had been securely locked, so they hadn’t expected much. And maybe they’d been looking for the wrong things.
He stopped his rocking and pushed himself to his feet. Warne’s study was the obvious place to start, a long, thin room made even thinner by the two filing cabinets and the leather armchair set against the right hand wall, and by the fitted bookshelves against the left. A battered walnut desk stood in front of a sash window with its heavy floral curtains half closed. There were books on the floor all around it, while its top was covered by a mess of pamphlets, maps, old excavation reports and correspondence, presumably in preparation for his interview with Oliver Merchant.
He checked its drawers. A plain white envelope in the bottom right contained a ticket stub for a London musical along with a hotel receipt, both for the same night. With anyone else, Elias would have thought nothing of it. But Warne hadn’t been a West End kind of man. Besides, the performance had taken place only a few days after that list of names had been scratched into the vault wall.
He checked the undersides of the drawers and the cavities they left behind. He looked beneath the rugs, tested the floorboards, shook out the folders in the filing cabinets, flipped through the books on the floor and on the shelves. Finding nothing further, he went back to the kitchen and was up on a chair looking behind tins of beans and soup when WPC Quinn, the redhead with the steely eye from earlier, called him on his mobile. ‘Yes?’ he asked, jamming his phone between shoulder and ear. ‘What?’
‘Is this a bad time?’ she asked. ‘I can call back later.’
‘No,’ said Elias. ‘It’s fine. Just a bit distracted, that’s all.’ He stepped down from the chair to give her his full attention. ‘Maria, isn’t it? How can I help?’
‘There’s something I’d like you to look at, sir. But I need to explain first.’
‘Sure. Go for it.’
‘Okay. You know how I helped find Mr Warne? Well, it was easy. His van was parked right there.’
‘I am leading the investigation,’ said Elias dryly.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But I’m not sure you realise how it was parked. The way its wheels were angled, I mean, and the tracks it left on the grass. It was only ever so slight, but they made it look like Mr Warne had been heading towards the farmhouse when he pulled off the drive, not away. As if he’d been coming home from somewhere, that is, not setting off.’
Elias froze. It was absolutely true. Yet somehow he’d missed it. ‘Go on.’
‘Anyway,’ said Quinn, ‘if he’d been coming back from any distance, he’d pretty much have had to pass through Holbeach or Wisbech or Sutton Bridge, all of which have traffic cams. It was a bit quiet around here this afternoon, so I thought I’d check.’
‘And? You’ve found him?’
‘I think so, yes. Heading south on the A17 where it joins the A151.’
Elias closed his eyes, the better to visualise. That was surely the road he’d been taking himself all week. ‘That’s near Holbeach, right? Meaning he’d have been coming back from Sleaford or maybe even Lincoln?’
‘Exactly, sir. Yes.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Four minutes past three in the morning.’
‘Four minutes past three? And you’re sure it’s him?’
‘That’s not what I said,’ protested Quinn. ‘I said I think it’s him. The resolution on that camera is rubbish. You can’t see his face properly and his licence plate is spattered with mud and half hidden behind his bumper, which is falling off at one end, as you’ll remember.’
‘Can you email me the clip?’
‘Already did. It should be with you by now.’
‘Let me check.’ He opened his email and there it was. It was only a few seconds long, dark and grainy, but Quinn was surely right that it was Warne’s van, even though he couldn’t make out the front plate. It was the right model with the same empty roof rack, the same scrape down its side, and its front bumper hanging loose in the same way too, as if it had hit a wall. He gave a grunt. ‘This makes me look like a right tit, you realise?’
‘Sorry, sir. I was only trying to help.’
‘Don’t apologise. It’s a good thing. Just not too often.’
‘No, sir. And I did try to tell you earlier.’
‘Yes. Yes, you did.’ He played the clip again, wondering where Warne had been, to be coming home that late. Logic would suggest a dinner party or maybe a secret lover, except that he hadn’t eaten, drunk or had sex for at least several hours before his death. ‘Are there other cameras you could check?’ he asked. ‘Up towards Sleaford, say?’
‘To find out where he’d been?’
‘Or even narrow it down a bit. If he didn’t pass a camera, that would be helpful too. And maybe look for his outward journey, if you have time. When he set off. Whether his van was already banged up.’
‘I’m off out in a minute,’ she said. ‘Then I’ve got the boys to pick up from school. Would first thing tomorrow do?’
‘That’s fine. And, may I say, excellent work. You’d make a top detective.’
Quinn laughed. ‘Me a detective. I’d like to see that.’
‘I’m serious. You’ve shown observation, intelligence, resourcefulness and a willingness to make me look like an arse. All qualities my superiors value highly.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ She sounded stunned yet wary, so that he couldn’t help but worry that she’d read too much into his earlier glance at her ring finger. ‘But I love what I do now. My family all lives around here.’ Then she added pointedly: ‘My husband’s family too.’
‘Good to hear. Good to hear.’ He felt like shit suddenly. ‘I mean I wasn’t… All I’d be doing is having a word in an ear. No more than that.’
‘Yes, sir. I know. Thank you.’
He finished the call then stood there clutching his phone, angry with himself, at how clumsy he’d become around women. But maybe it simply meant he was finally getting his appetite back. He could only hope.
He replayed the traffic cam clip again and again, trying to make out the driver’s face or its licence plate. But the poor resolution, the dazzle of oncoming headlights and the broken bumper made it impossible. Yet surely it was Warne, which meant his jigsaw puzzle had been given a right good shaking. He returned to the rocking chair and closed his eyes once more, then began the engrossing task of fitting its pieces back to a different pattern.