Abattoir Blues (22 page)

Things progressed slowly through tea, cornflakes and toast and marmalade, and eventually they were all ready for the off. Though she felt she was perhaps being paranoid, Annie went out of the door first and glanced up and down the landing. Nobody around. She held her breath as they went down in the lift, half expecting the doors to open at six or four and for some heavies to get in. But they had it to themselves the whole way down.

She had been a bit anxious the previous evening about leaving her car parked in the street, expecting the wheels to be gone, or worse, but Alex had told her not to worry, and it was just as she had left it. Though Ian’s school was hardly more than a couple of hundred yards away, they dropped him off there first and made sure he was through the doors before driving to the station.

If Winsome, Doug or Gerry noticed that Annie was wearing the same clothes as yesterday when she entered the squad room, they were too polite to say anything. She remembered once in her early days she had turned up at the station in yesterday’s clothes, and all the blokes had nudged one another and whispered and smirked. They wouldn’t let her forget for the rest of the day. And if she had compounded the error by turning up with an attractive female civilian in tow, their imaginations, and comments, would have known no bounds. Annie introduced Alex to her colleagues, then took her over to the annexe.

She could see Alex’s eyes wandering everywhere, the expression of intelligent curiosity on her face as they walked among the lab-coated techies and the various machines and computer stations.

‘I hadn’t thought it would be so high-tech,’ Alex said.

‘No expense spared for crime-fighting,’ said Annie as they entered the Fingerprint Development Laboratory, Vic Manson’s domain. ‘Except when it comes to our wages, of course.’

Manson was at his desk already, poring over a stack of photographed fingerprints. He covered them with a folder when he saw there was a civilian present. Annie wondered why. It wasn’t as if Alex would recognise someone’s fingerprint from a photograph. Normally, of course, no one would go to Manson’s office for fingerprinting; that would be done down at the custody suite. But Manson had all the latest technology, and instead of ink and paper, he simply scanned Alex’s prints, leaving out the broken one, into the computer after Annie had explained what they were after. ‘These will be erased as soon as we’ve finished,’ Manson assured Alex, who said she didn’t really care as she had nothing to hide.

‘Getting fingerprints from porous surfaces is much easier than it used to be a few years ago,’ Manson explained as he held the card by its edge between his thumb and forefinger. ‘But the quality still depends on how much the handler secreted. Paper and cards such as this one are absorbent, you see, so we need to use special chemicals to make them visible. It may take a little time.’

‘He was sweating, if that helps,’ Alex said.

Manson looked curiously at her.

‘The man who gave the card to me,’ Alex explained. ‘He’d just had to walk up the stairs to the eighth floor, you see. The lift’s on and off, and it was off when he came. He didn’t look very fit, either.’

‘Excellent. That should help a lot,’ said Manson. Then he waved his hand. ‘Now if you’ll give me a little time, I’ll get back to you later. I’ve still got a mass of work to get through from the hangar and the crash scene first, but I should be able to find time to fit this in some time later today.’

‘When do you think you’ll have a result?’ Annie said. ‘It’s all connected, we think. The crash. The hangar. This man.’

‘I’ll do my best to have something by the end of the day,’ said Manson.

‘Can you run it against NAFIS, see if you can come up with a name?’

‘NAFIS? You’re a bit out of date, Annie. We’re more advanced than that now. I can run it against IDENT1, Eurodac, Europol and Interpol databases, too.’

‘Well, I suppose that gives us one good reason to stay in the EU.’

Manson laughed. ‘We can even check with the FBI, if you like.’

‘You know me and technology, Vic. I’m just a silly slip of a lass. Europe wouldn’t be a bad idea, but I don’t think we need trouble the Feds just yet.’

‘Will do,’ said Manson. ‘I’ll give you a bell.’

Annie thanked him and shepherded Alex out of the lab. She looked as if she wanted to stay and watch, but Annie knew Manson wouldn’t like that. Like many a scientist, he wanted to preserve the mystique, the magic, mystery and secrets of his profession, like the conjuror who won’t reveal how he pulls a rabbit out of the hat.

‘What now?’ said Alex as they walked back down the corridor towards the squad room.

‘Work for you, after the sketch artist. Me, too. I have to go to Leeds this morning.’

‘What about—’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of before I go anywhere.’ There was no point now, she thought, in keeping the surveillance from Alex. Especially as knowing that there would be someone watching over her might ease her stress levels. Doug Wilson could take care of it for today, he said. She knew that Banks would approve as Alex had now become a priority, if not a major, witness. She was the best lead they had to Morgan Spencer’s killer and to another member of the gang. ‘Ian will be fine at school, and you’ll be fine at work, but I’ll make sure there’s someone keeping an eye out for both of you, and someone to take you to pick up Ian and go home.’

‘But how will I know he’s real?’

‘You’ve already seen him. In the squad room.’

‘The one who looks like Harry Potter?’

‘Don’t you dare say that to him,’ said Annie. ‘He’s very sensitive. He also has a black belt in karate.’

Doug had no such thing, of course, but Annie felt the lie would reassure Alex more than knowing that he had grown up on an estate like the one where she lived, and that he could handle himself.

‘Will you—’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll be around to check that everything’s all right later. We should have some results from Vic by then. And we’ll also have some other officers to keep an eye on you. I’ll make sure you’re introduced to them. If you hear anything at all from the man who came to see you, call me.’ They turned into the squad room. ‘Now wait here with Doug. I’ll go and arrange for the artist.’

Winsome took Gerry Masterson with her to Vaughn’s ABP after Banks had given them all the quick version of Morgan Spencer’s post-mortem results. She thought it could be too important an interview to carry out alone, and it would be good experience for Gerry.

They pulled up at the gate of the fenced compound and got out of the car. The place wasn’t very large, Winsome noticed, just a few metal storage structures, aluminium most likely, an area for parking the fleet of collection vans, two temporary office buildings on blocks, and a windowless structure with a tapered chimney, which Winsome took to be the incinerator. It was a fair day, weather-wise, if a bit cold and grey, but the ground was still muddy from the recent rains. Winsome and Gerry put their wellingtons on before getting out of the car and heading for the nearest office trailer. A faint smell of decay hung around the compound – an occupational hazard, Winsome imagined, no matter how well you packaged up the dead meat. She also noticed that there were no other farms or businesses for some distance.

As they climbed the steps to the office another thing Winsome noticed was a total lack of activity. There was no one in the yard, no sounds at all, only the pale smoke drifting from the chimney of the incinerator and dispersing in the chill air. She wondered if there was anybody around at all. It was Wednesday, so it should be a regular work day. She knocked on the flimsy door.

Almost immediately it was opened by a tall and slightly stooped man in jeans and a polo neck green jersey. He had a head of bristly grey hair, which matched the bristles around his jaw. Winsome put him in his mid-fifties. ‘Mr Vaughn?’ she inquired.

‘One of them. Neil. It’s a family business.’

Winsome and Gerry showed their warrant cards and Neil Vaughn invited them inside. The side of an old cardboard box served as a doormat, and they wiped their feet as best they could without reducing it to shreds. Vaughn seemed to be the only person around. After he asked them to sit down, he returned to a desk littered with papers and swivelled his chair to face them. The inside of the trailer was bleak, as such places usually are, and the pasteboard walls were hung with a girlie calendar curling at the edges, a large chart with written-in squares and an Ordnance Survey map of the immediate area. The floor didn’t feel stable and the chairs were lumpy. The office smelled of pipe tobacco, and Winsome guessed they didn’t bother much about non-smoking regulations in the workplace out here. A small electric fire stood against the far wall. Both elements were on, but the heat wasn’t reaching where they were sitting.

‘We’re all gutted by what happened to Caleb,’ said Vaughn. ‘I gave everyone the day off. I can’t imagine how anyone would have had the heart for collections today. I do most of the hands-on business now my father’s incapacitated. My brother Charlie helps out sometimes.’ Vaughn paused. ‘When he can be bothered, that is.’

Winsome didn’t miss the edge in his tone. Nor did Gerry, judging by the way she frowned.

Neil Vaughn looked from one to the other. ‘What can I say? We all follow our own paths. Charlie’s doesn’t involve fallen stock collection and disposal.’

‘What does it involve?’ Winsome asked.

‘Horses, mostly. And not dead ones.’

Winsome thought it would be a good idea to have a chat with Charlie Vaughn, and she saw Gerry writing in her notebook. Somehow, she sensed that was exactly what she was jotting down.

‘Was Caleb with you for a long time?’ she asked.

‘Thirty years. I’ve known him since I started in the business. He taught me practically all I know.’

‘But he never sought promotion? Or got it.’

Vaughn gave a harsh laugh. ‘There’s not a lot of promotion to be had around here. No, Caleb liked driving. He was his own boss, in his own world. Put him in the van with his music and his fags, and he was happy as a pig in . . . well . . . the proverbial.’

‘He worked alone?’

‘That was one concession he earned over the years. And there weren’t many as would want to ride with him and put up with the smoke and the music. That prog rock stuff, I think it’s called. Old-fashioned, at any rate. Gives me earache. And I know smoking’s not strictly legal on the job, but . . . well, it was Caleb’s cab. We usually have a team of two on collections, of course, but the local farmers were happy to help Caleb if they had to. Everyone knew him. He hadn’t a bad word to say for anyone. And he was strong. It wasn’t often he needed a hand with a load.’

Winsome was getting the picture. Caleb Ross was a saint. Well, saint or sinner, it didn’t matter that much; Ross wasn’t the victim who interested them, unless he had played a part in the events of his own demise.

‘Do you know if Mr Ross had any financial problems, any money troubles at all?’

‘Caleb? Good Lord, no. At least, he never complained. He lived a simple life. Had a little cottage in Lyndgarth, just off the green, lived there with his wife Maggie. The kids had grown up and flown the coop. Maggie . . . has anyone . . . ?’

‘She’s been informed, sir,’ said Gerry.

‘That’s a relief. I must pay her a visit. Soon as I . . . well . . .’ He waved his hands over the mess of papers. ‘I thought there was no sense in me staying at home. I couldn’t bear it, just pacing and thinking of poor Caleb. So I came to work. Thought it might take my mind off things.’

‘And has it?’ Winsome asked.

‘Not really. Something like this, it’s hard to get your mind around it. We all have to go eventually, I know that, but Caleb was fit and strong, and about the same age as me. I suppose I assumed he would always be around.’

‘From what we can gather, it was just a tragic accident,’ said Winsome. ‘The perfect storm. Though I don’t suppose that’s much consolation.’

One of the elements made a crackling sound, as if a fly had just landed on it. ‘Then why are you here?’ Vaughn asked. ‘Is it a matter of insurance?’

‘Nothing like that, sir,’ said Winsome.

‘Neil, please. Then what?’

Winsome and Gerry exchanged glances. ‘You haven’t been watching the news?’

‘A constable came to the office,’ Vaughn said. ‘All I know is that he told us Caleb had died in a crash due to severe weather conditions. I didn’t want to go home and see it replayed endlessly on the news. Is that not what happened?’

‘That’s exactly what happened,’ Winsome said. ‘A freak hailstorm, a stray sheep and an oncoming car. There’s no question of blame or anything.’

Vaughn looked puzzled. ‘Then what . . . ?’

‘It’s what Mr Ross was carrying that interests us.’

‘I don’t understand. Carrying?’

‘There was another body found at the scene.’

‘Another body? You mean a
human
body? Whose?’

‘Among the animal parts, sir.’

‘Good God! I don’t believe it. How could a human body be mistaken for a fallen animal?’

‘We don’t think it could, but all the parts were wrapped in black bin liners.’

‘Parts?’

‘The body had been cut into several pieces. I must ask you to keep this information to yourself for the moment, sir. All the press and TV have are rumours so far.’

‘Of course. My God. And you’re saying someone put it there? This human body?’

‘It looks very much that way. I can’t imagine it got there by accident.’

‘But why?’

‘We don’t know why. Right now we’re more concerned about
how
and
who
. Obviously, it was meant to be disposed of.’ Winsome glanced out of the window. ‘It would have ended up in your incinerator, most likely, and nobody would have been any the wiser.’

‘Except for the crash?’

‘That’s right. So what we need to know is what farms Caleb Ross visited yesterday morning, where he might have stopped, say for a tea break or lunch, and who might have had access to his schedule.’

‘I can certainly supply you with a copy of Caleb’s pickup schedule, but surely you can’t think anyone here had anything to do with what happened?’