Unti Peter Robinson #22 (10 page)

Les nuits d'été
finished and Banks didn't feel like listening to the two arias from
Les Troyens
that followed. He topped up his Macallan and went back in the entertainment room to pick something else, finally deciding on Gwylim Simcock and Yuri Goloubev:
Reverie at Schloss Elmau,
jazz piano and stand-­up bass.

Another thing about the meeting struck him as odd, he thought as he sat down again. Winsome had seemed very defensive toward Terry Gilchrist, though as a soldier with combat experience he couldn't be easily dismissed as a suspect, even though he had found the blood and called in the police. Plenty of murderers reported their own crimes in the hope that doing so would discount them from suspicion.

And Annie had seemed defensive concerning Alex Preston and Michael Lane, though she had admitted that Lane might have been involved in the theft of the Beddoeses' tractor. What was it all about? Was his team going soft on him? Or was he just getting more cynical and hard-­bitten as time went on? He didn't like to think so, and he returned to thoughts of Oriana as he worked on the Macallan. Halfway through “A Joy Forever” it started to rain outside, gently at first, then hammering on the roof and blowing against the windowpanes.

ALEX HAD
just put Ian to bed and turned on the TV to watch a repeat of
New Tricks
when she heard a knock at the door. Curious, she went over and opened it on the chain. She was greeted by an identity card quickly thrust toward her, then returned to the inside pocket of its owner, a heavyset man in a navy blue raincoat.

“DC Meadows,” he announced himself.

“You're not the one who came before,” Alex said, feeling a little nervous. “Where's DI Cabbot?”

“Her shift's over. We can't all work 24/7, you know. Besides, she's a DI and I'm a lowly DC. Can I come in, love? It's a bit parky out here.”

Alex closed the door, took off the chain and opened it for him. “Sorry,” she said. “It's just . . .”

“I understand.”

DC Meadows stepped into the living room. Alex took his raincoat and hung it on the hook behind the door. She noticed that he was sweating. “That lift still not working?”

He shook his head. “I'm not used to so much exercise.” He dabbed at his brow with a white handkerchief.

Alex had noticed that DC Meadows was a bit overweight. He was also either bald naturally or he had shaved his head, and his bare skull gleamed as red and greasy as his face from the effort of climbing the stairs.

“Sit down,” Alex said. “Catch your breath. Cup of tea? Or a glass of wine?” She turned down the volume on the television, assuming this visit wouldn't last long and she could get back to her program. TV helped her forget her problems for a while, and she felt exhausted with worry about Michael since DI Cabbot's visit. She also felt apprehensive about Meadows calling by so late. Had something happened to Michael? Had he done something wrong?

“Just some water, thanks,” Meadows said, patting his chest. “I'll be fine in a minute.”

Alex brought him some water, poured herself a small glass of white wine and perched at the edge of her chair. “What is it?” she asked. “Have you found out something?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“I don't understand.”

“We were wondering if Mr. Lane has been in touch with you at all.”

“Mr. Lane? Do you mean Frank Lane?”

“Michael Lane.”

“Michael. I see. No, he hasn't. I was hoping
you'd
be able to tell
me
something about him.”

“Well, we don't know anything yet, you see, love. That's the problem.”

“Problem?”

“Yes.” He scratched his scalp. “It's rather delicate. We'd like to talk to him—­urgently, as it happens—­and we thought that if he went anywhere, it would be to you, or if he got in touch with anyone, it would be you.”

“I've been here all day, except when I went to pick Ian up from school, and I haven't seen or heard a thing from him. I wish I had. I'm still worried sick.”

“I can understand that,” Meadows said. “But you have to see it from our point of view. I mean, ­people aren't always, they don't always come clean with the police.”

“Are you suggesting I'm lying?”

“We wouldn't blame you for protecting him, love. We understand. We get that a lot. Only natural, after all. ­People care about one another.”

“Protecting him? From what? I reported him missing. I don't understand this. I asked you lot to find him.”

“Now hang on a minute, miss—­”

“Don't you ‘miss' me. And you can knock it off with the ‘love,' too. Have you found him or haven't you?”

“Well, obviously we haven't, or I wouldn't be here asking you where he was, would I?”

“It's not obvious to me. For all I know, you could be holding him in a cell and not telling me.”

“Why would we do that?”

“I've no idea. I just wouldn't put it past you, that's all. It's the sort of thing the police do.”

“You don't have a very high opinion of us, do you?”

“What does it matter what opinion I have of you? I want you to find my Michael. What do you want? Why are you here?”

“Don't get your knickers in a twist, love—­”

Alex jumped to her feet. She spilled some wine on her T-­shirt. “What did you say? What did you say? Get out of here. Go on. Get out. If you've nothing to tell me about what's happened to Michael, get the hell out. And before you go, show me that identification card again. I want your details. I'm going to make a complaint against you.”

Meadows stood up and pushed her back down with surprising speed, then he sat down again himself, leaned back in the armchair and smiled. It was a chilling smile, Alex felt, revealing crooked, stained teeth, the incisors just a little larger than normal, like a vampire's. It was a cynical, arrogant and cruel smile, and it sent a shiver up her spine. The mask was off.

“You're not a policeman at all, are you?” she said.

“And I was hoping we could deal with this in a civilized manner,” Meadows went on. “It seems not.” He cracked his knuckles. “No matter. What I want to know from you is where Michael Lane is hiding.”

“Hiding? Why should he be hiding?”

“Never you mind. Just tell me what I want to know, and I'll be on my way.”

“I've told you, I don't know where he is.” Alex's mind was racing around, trying to think of some way of getting rid of him, or of incapacitating him while she called for help.

He clasped his hands on his lap. Their backs were covered in thick reddish hair. “It seems we're at an impasse, then.”

Alex remembered that her mobile was in her handbag on the bed. If she could just get to it, make a 999 call . . . “Look,” she said. “I need to go to the toilet. I won't be a minute.”

He scanned the room, then said, “All right. I'll wait.”

Everyone knew these flats had only one way in and out.

Alex slipped into her bedroom. If she could only dial 999 before he guessed what she was up to, she would be safe. They could probably trace the call if she just left the line open. Her hands were shaking as she took the mobile out of her handbag in the dark room, then headed toward the toilet. Then she felt his presence looming over her. She hadn't heard him, but there he was, standing in the hall, leaning against the wall, arms folded. “The toilet's over there, I think,” he said, pointing.

As she moved toward the door, he said, “What's that in your hand?”

“What do you mean?” Alex tried to shove the phone in the pocket of her jeans, hoping he wouldn't notice in the semidarkness. But her jeans were too tight; she missed the pocket, and the phone fell to the carpet.

“Oh, dear,” he said, not moving. “Keep going. I think I'd better stay with you, though. You're a tricky one, you are.”

Alex went into the toilet, and when he blocked the doorway behind her, following her inside, she realized the full extent of what he meant.

“You can stand outside,” she said.

“I don't think so. You've already shown you can't be trusted.” He shut the door and leaned back on it. “Go on, then, get your jeans down. Tinkle, tinkle. Chop chop.”

Alex reached deep for the last shreds of defiance. “No,” she said, hoping she sounded firm. “Not with you standing there, you sick bastard.”

An odd smile crossed his face, not like the other one, but just as chilling in its way, then he opened the door for her. “All right,” he said. “Piss yourself, then, if that's what you want.”

Alex edged out, careful not to brush against him. She thought they were going back into the living room but her blood froze when he opened Ian's bedroom door. She rushed toward him. “What are you—­”

He pushed her aside and blocked the open doorway, turning to look in on the sleeping child. Alex tried to get past him, to stand between him and Ian, but it was no good.

“What a sweet scene,” said Meadows. “It's all right. Calm down, love. No one's going to get hurt.”

“You dare lay—­”

“Enough melodramatics. You know every bit as well as I do that if I wanted to lay a finger on him there's nothing you could do to stop me.”

“I'll scratch your fucking eyes out.” Alex launched herself toward him, arms outstretched, but he dodged aside and pushed her back. She hit the wall with such force that it stunned her, and she slid to the floor. Even then, as she was falling, she saw the dropped mobile phone and tried to reach for it, but Meadows was too quick. Before she could get a grip on it, he trod on it with all his weight and crushed it, then he shifted his foot to the index finger that she had almost managed to hook around it and trod hard on that, too. She screamed in pain. He put a finger to his lips. “Ssshhh,” he said. “The boy's sleeping. We don't want to wake him right now, do we? No telling what might happen.”

Ian stirred in bed but he didn't wake up. Alex bit back her pain and remained silent. She didn't know what would happen if Ian woke up now and saw Meadows in his doorway, but it wasn't something she dared contemplate.

Meadows squatted, his knees cracking loudly, and put his face close to hers. His breath smelled of Polo mints. “Look, Miss Preston. We don't want any trouble. We just want Michael Lane. Your lad looks like a decent kid. It'd be a tragedy if anything happened to him, wouldn't it? An accident walking by the river or falling out of a tree. Or on the roads. Not safe, these days, the roads. Kids get up to all sorts of dangerous mischief, don't they. Know what I'm talking about?”

Alex nodded, cradling her throbbing finger.

“So let's keep it simple. Tell us where Michael Lane is, and everyone lives happily ever after.”

“I . . . don't . . . know,” Alex gasped.

Meadows stood up and scratched his temple. “Know what?” he said. “I believe you. But I'm also sure that if he hasn't been in touch already, he will be very soon, and when he is, I want to know. Understand?”

Alex nodded.

Meadows walked toward the front door.

Alex held her breath. “How do I get in touch?” she asked.

He turned. “That's more like it.” He handed her a card. On it was a printed number. “And there's no use handing it over to the police,” he said. “They won't get anywhere with it, and it'll only make things worse for you. And your son.” He glanced at Alex's hand. “Don't forget. You've still got seven fingers and two thumbs left. Not to mention the boy.” Then he took his raincoat off the hook and left.

 

4

A
BOUT THE LAST THING BANKS WANTED TO BE DOING so soon in the mucky gray light just after dawn on a mizzling March morning was stand around the Riverview Caravan Park looking at the smoldering remains of Morgan Spencer's caravan. His days ended late, but they didn't usually start so early. If there were any justice in the world, he'd be lying in bed listening to
Today,
waiting for “Thought of the Day” to shift him into the shower. Or better still, he'd be cuddling up to Oriana's warm naked body beside him with the alarm clock set on snooze. He shivered. No sense making things worse for himself.

DC Gerry Masterson stood beside him. She had been first in the squad room that morning, keen newcomer that she was, and as usual, first to read through the nightlies, which detailed all the police-­involved incidents that had occurred in the region overnight. Usually it was a matter of drunk drivers, the occasional domestic or late-­night pub brawl that got out of hand, but this time, she told him, she had noticed one interesting item: a fire at Riverview Caravan Park. That rang a bell, and when she inquired further of the desk sergeant, she was able to discover that the caravan belonged to one Morgan Spencer. Now Banks stood beside her at the scene while the fire investigation officer Geoff Hamilton and his team sifted through the wreckage. Annie Cabbot was on her way. Winsome and Doug Wilson could be safely left to take care of everything else for the time being.

The air smelled of wet ash and burned rubber, in its own way almost as bad as the smell of human innards at a postmortem. The area was roped off, but ­people stood outside their caravans or crowded around the edges of the prohibited area. Some were wearing only dressing gowns, having been woken by the blaze; others were already dressed and ready for the day. A number of uniformed officers made their way through the crowd taking statements. So far, nobody had seen or heard anything. More like they didn't want to get involved, Banks thought.

Banks spotted Annie arriving and waved her over.

“Bloody hell,” she said, when she saw the devastation.

Of the neighboring caravans, fortunately, only one had been damaged by the flames, which was a small miracle in itself. Still, Annie told Banks, ex–police sergeant Rick Campbell would be mightily pissed off about his siding.

“Do ­people insure these things?” Banks asked her.

“I doubt it. The ones who live here year-­round probably can't afford it, and the rest can't be arsed.”

Hamilton conferred with his team and ambled over. He was never a man to be hurried, Banks remembered from the time they had worked together on a narrow-­boat fire. He greeted Banks, Annie and Gerry with his usual courtesy and pointed toward the ruins of the caravan. “Not much left, I'm afraid. Firetraps, most of these things, no matter how much folks try to fireproof them.”

“Anyone inside?” Banks asked.

Hamilton shook his head.

“Cause?”

“Well, we can't be certain yet, but the sniffer dogs have found no trace of accelerant, and the burn patterns would seem to indicate the Calor gas burner.”

“You mean someone left it on?” Annie said.

“Mebbe,” said Hamilton.

“But you doubt it?” Banks prompted him.

“You know me, Alan, I'm not one for wild speculation in the absence of any real concrete evidence.”

“But . . . ?”

“Well, all I can tell you is that the rubber pipe had come out at the burner end. It's very much the same principle as a barbecue, if you know how that works.”

“I know,” said Banks. “I've got one.” He had even managed to use it once or twice, between rain showers.

“I'd be careful, then.”

“Don't worry, Geoff. I keep it in the garden.”

“Even so . . . as I said, it looks as if the rubber hose had come free at the burner end, but was still attached to the Calor gas supply.”

“Which turned it into a flamethrower?”

“Aye, more or less.”

“And this happened how?” Banks pressed on.

“Well, these things do happen by themselves sometimes,” said Hamilton. “Say, if the connection gets blocked by spiders' webs, or something else gets stuck inside and the rubber burns through. But from the remains I've seen here, it looks very much as if someone set a little pile of paper on fire on the floor of the caravan, near the burner, ripped out the end of the hose, turned on the Calor gas and got out fast.”

“Arson, then?”

“A near certainty.”

“Professional?”

Hamilton pulled a face as he appeared to think it over. “Doubtful. A pro would probably just have lit a fire underneath the caravan itself. Easy to do. And it would have had the same effect eventually.”

“But someone was inside?”

“I'd say so. The lock area was splintered, the latch broken off. Fire doesn't do that. Someone had put his shoulder to the door and pushed. It wouldn't have taken much strength.”

“Any signs of a search?” Annie asked.

Hamilton glanced back at the damage. “As you can see, nothing much has been spared. I must say, though, that while the cupboards and drawers might have come open and spilled their contents because of the fire, one thing a fire can't do is cut open a mattress and pillows.”

“So someone went through the place thoroughly before starting the fire?” Annie said.

“Looks that way. And then pulled out the connecting hose and did as I said.”

“Damn,” said Annie. “If we'd searched the caravan last night . . .”

“You can't blame yourself,” Banks said. “You followed correct procedure. How were we to know someone else had the same idea as we did? We still don't know whether it's connected to anything else we're looking into. Besides, no one was hurt.”

“Morgan Spencer was certainly connected to Michael Lane,” Annie said. “And Michael Lane was the son of Frank Lane, John Beddoes's closest neighbor and the man who was keeping an eye on his farm while he was in Mexico. Michael Lane lived with Alex Preston, who works in a travel agency. Those are the only connections we know about for sure.”

“I know,” said Banks. “And I don't like coincidences any more than you do. But what on earth could they have been looking for? Something he had of theirs? Or something that connected them to him? And who are
they
?”

“We won't find out standing here,” said Annie. She looked at Hamilton. “Thanks, Geoff. If anything else comes up . . .”

“I'll let you know.”

“Where are you going?” Banks asked.

“To see Alex Preston again, pick up Michael Lane's toothbrush or hairbrush for a DNA sample. After that, I think young Dougal and I will have a trip to the seaside.”

Banks gave her a quizzical look.

“Denise Lane, Frank's ex, Michael's mother. She might know something.”

Banks nodded. “Keep an eye out for any signs of Lane while you're out there. And keep in touch. I may see you at the station later today. Jazz might have something for us by then. Otherwise, report in when you get back from the coast.”

Annie hurried back to her car, head down.

“Know anything about Morgan Spencer, Gerry?” Banks asked.

“I did a quick background check when I saw whose caravan it was,” said Gerry Masterson. “His mother lives in Sunderland, and no one knows where his dad is. Back in Barbados, most likely. And
he
does have a record. GBH and breaking and entering. I'm still working on this removal van Morgan might have owned, but rumor has it he had a lockup somewhere. I'll be tracking it down when I get back.”

“Soon as possible, if you can, Gerry,” Banks said.

“Will do.”

Banks turned back to the ruins of Morgan Spencer's caravan. The fire would have burned up any traces of DNA. If Michael Lane's DNA wasn't a match for that in the hangar, it could mean that Morgan Spencer was the victim, though there seemed to be no easy way to verify that. The only evidence was circumstantial. According to Alex Preston, Morgan often called or texted Michael Lane about jobs, and Lane had received a text on the Sunday morning he went missing. If both Lane and Spencer were involved in the tractor theft, which wasn't outside the realm of possibility, and if they had both turned up at the airfield that morning, were they both dead? Only Jazz Singh could solve that one when she came back with the DNA analysis. If not, had one killed the other and done a bunk? Alex Preston had told Annie that Michael Lane was home all Saturday night, but then she would, wouldn't she?

Too many questions, Banks realized. They could give a man a headache. He was reading too much into too little. It was time to get back to the station and start trying to gather his thoughts down on paper, put a few ideas together before heading out to the Lane farm.

ANNIE WANTED
to find out if Alex Preston knew Michael Lane's blood type. She knew she could probably ask her over the phone, but that might prove tricky, taking into account the questions it raised and Alex's anxiety, so she decided to go in person, even if it meant climbing up to the bloody eighth floor again. Besides, she needed something that would yield a sample of Michael's DNA to take to Jazz.

By some miracle, the lift was working again, and Annie was spared the climb to the eighth floor. The smell was just as bad as last time, and she was glad when the doors finally opened. After a deep breath, she made her way along the balcony to Alex's flat. It was still early—­she'd come straight from the caravan site—­and she was hoping to catch Alex before she went to work. As it turned out, Alex had just got back from taking Ian to school, and she was making a cup of tea when Annie called.

“What happened to your finger?” Annie asked, noticing the bandages. She also noticed that Alex was looking tired, with bags under her eyes.

“I think I broke it,” Alex said. “Trapped it in the door.”

“You should see a doctor.”

“I've got an appointment for later this morning. I don't think it's so bad I need to go to A and E.”

“You never know.” Annie accepted a cup of tea and settled down in an armchair. “Is everything else all right? Ian?”

“Yes, of course. Why shouldn't it be?”

“Nothing. You just seem a bit jumpy this morning, that's all.”

“Well, wouldn't you be a bit jumpy if your partner had disappeared off the face of the earth?”

“He hasn't disappeared off the face of the earth, Alex. There's a simple explanation for all this. We'll find him. Have you seen or heard anything of him?”

Alex looked away. “No.”

Annie wasn't certain whether she was lying. But why would she? “What about Morgan Spencer?”

“No.”

“His caravan was burned down during the night.”

Alex's eyes widened. “Burned down . . . you mean it caught fire?”

“
Was
burned down. As in, it was deliberately set on fire.”

“And Morgan?”

“He wasn't home. There was nobody inside. The place was ransacked first. Any idea why?”

“Me? Why should I have any idea?”

Annie leaned forward, put down her mug and rested her elbows on her legs. “Because I don't believe you're telling me everything.”

“Of course I am. What on earth do you mean?”

“Michael and Morgan were up to something, weren't they? Maybe they were mixed up with some seriously dangerous ­people. We don't know yet. But perhaps you do?”

“I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know anything. Surely you don't believe Michael could have had anything to do with this fire?”

Annie could see the fear in her eyes, hear it in her tremulous voice, smell it like a particularly heavy perfume in the air. “I'm not sure I believe you,” she said. “Are you afraid of someone, Alex? Who is it? Morgan? Someone else? Michael? Has someone threatened you?”

“No,” said Alex, just a fraction too quickly. “Don't be silly.”

Annie glanced down at her finger again. “What was that? A down payment?”

“I told you, I trapped it in the door.”

“Oh, yes.”

“I don't care if you don't believe me. You can't prove otherwise.”

“You're right.” Annie settled back and picked up her mug again. “You don't have to tell me anything. And why should I care? But I was hoping you'd realize I'm trying to help you.”

“I . . . I . . . there's nothing you can do.”

“You're wrong about that. There's a lot I can do. I'm on your side, Alex, but I need something to go on. Anything. I'm in the dark here. What's Michael mixed up in?”

“Nothing. I told you.”

Annie sighed. “OK. If that's the way you want to play it. Do you happen to know Michael's blood type?”

“Blood type? Why do you—­”

“Can you just answer the question, please, Alex.”

“Well . . . not offhand. I have it . . . I think. . . . ” She excused herself and went over to the sideboard, where she rummaged through a drawer and brought out a small ring-­bound notebook. “This is where I keep all the important information like that, passport numbers and so on,” she said, flipping through the pages. “Here it is. A positive. Why do you want to know?”

Annie tried to show no reaction to the news. “It might help us find him.”

“You mean you think he's been bleeding? Someone's hurt him? Is he badly hurt?”

“Alex, do you have anything here that I might be able to get a sample of Michael's DNA from? A toothbrush, hairbrush, perhaps?”

“Yes. He didn't take either of those things with him. But why? Why do you need his DNA?” She grasped the collar of her blouse and held it as if she were cold. “You have a body or something, don't you? You think it's Michael.”

Annie walked over and rested her hands on Alex's shoulders. “Alex, calm down. You're letting your imagination run away with you. It's routine. It's not only dead ­people who leave traces of DNA, you know, or bodily fluids that can give us their blood group.”