Unti Peter Robinson #22 (11 page)

“I don't know what you mean.” Alex ran her hand through her hair. “Can't you see I'm at my wits' end here?”

“Just give me what I ask for,” Annie said. “Please. And believe me, it will help.”

When Alex came back from the bathroom carrying a toothbrush and a hairbrush, she looked even worse. “You might want to tell your doctor you're run-­down when you go and see him this morning,” Annie said. “He may be able to give you a tonic or something. Are you due at work?”

“Not today, thank God.”

Annie stood up and took two bags from her briefcase, placed the toothbrush in one and the hairbrush in the other and wrote neatly on the labels to identify the contents, asking Alex to sign as a witness. Still looking stunned, Alex did as she was asked.

Annie stopped at the door. “Just one more thing,” she said. “Do you remember if John Beddoes booked his trip to Mexico through GoThereNow?”

“Yes. Yes, he did. I took the details myself. But what—­”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“Why would I?”

“I don't know. Just in passing, you know, in general conversation. After all, Michael knows him. It might have come up.”

“I suppose I might have. But I don't understand. Surely you're not suggesting that Michael had anything to do with that tractor, are you? I told you, he was here all night Saturday.”

“Until Sunday morning?”

“Yes.”

“When he got a text, probably from Morgan Spencer, and said he had to go out and do a job and might call in on his father?”

“Yes.”

Annie grasped the door handle. “I'm sure everything's fine, Alex. Don't worry. And be sure to keep your doctor's appointment.”

“You'll stay in touch?”

“As soon as we find anything out, you'll be the first to know.”

“WHERE'S THAT
bonny young lass and wee Harry Potter,” said Lane, when Banks showed him his ID and a warrant to search the premises.

“DI Cabbot's on other business, and Harry couldn't come today,” Banks answered. “He has an important Quidditch match.” He thought Annie would be pleased to hear that she had been called a bonny young lass, though she might not be so thrilled when she heard the source. Lane wasn't that much older than she was, probably only in his mid forties, Banks guessed, though the years of hard physical labor had taken their toll on him: his shoulders sloped, his skin was leathery and weather-­beaten, his complexion rough and raw.

Lane snorted. “I suppose you'd better come in.” He glanced over Banks's shoulder at the uniformed officers, who were already setting about their search of the outbuildings. “What about them?”

“They won't be long, Mr. Lane. And they'll be careful. Don't worry.”

“I'm not worried. Let 'em look to their hearts' content. I can't imagine what they expect to find.”

Banks followed Lane into the living room. “We won't take up much of your time,” he said, “only we've been around asking a few questions about your son, and the thing is, we still can't seem to find Michael.”

“Oh.”

“You're not worried about him?”

“Our Michael can take care of himself.”

“You said you last saw him about two weeks ago?”

“A little over. Two weeks last Friday. He was doing some work at a farm over the dale, and he dropped by for a cup of tea.”

“So you're on speaking terms at the moment?”

Lane's expression hardened. “We have our disagreements, but I've never shunned him. He's my son.”

“Alex Preston said Michael told her that he might drop in on you last Sunday.”

“Well, he didn't. And who might she be when she's at home?”

“Alex is your son's partner.”

“Partner.”
Lane spat the word. “Scarlet woman, more like.”

“Have it your way. I'm not interested in your petty family squabbles. I want to find your son, and I want to find out what happened to your neighbor's tractor.” Banks didn't want to mention the blood just yet, the more serious reason for his questions, not until they knew a lot more about what had happened in the old hangar.

“You think he's here, don't you? Our Michael. That's what yon woodentops are looking for, isn't it?”

“We're interested in finding your son, Mr. Lane. It would hardly look good on us if we overlooked the obvious, would it?”

“I told you. I don't know where he is.”

“Do you think he could be in trouble?”

“What sort of trouble?”

“Any sort. He's been in trouble with the law before, hasn't he?”

“That was when . . .” Lane stopped himself and subsided in his chair, reaching for a cigarette.

“When what, Mr. Lane?”

“When he was upset. His mother left. It was just a phase he went through, that's all.”

“Do you know Morgan Spencer?”

“Aye. And I know Denise always blamed him for Michael's problems. Bad influence. She wouldn't have him in the house.”

“He seems to be missing, too. Any idea what might have happened to him?”

“None at all. Why would I? I haven't seen him in nigh on three years.”

There was a knock at the door, and the leader of the search team said they'd finished outside and would like to search the interior now. Lane had all three of them take off their muddy Wellington boots before letting them in the house, but they had come prepared with indoor slip-­ons.

“Mind if I have a look around with them?” Banks asked.

“Please yourself. You will, anyway. You've got the warrant.”

Banks followed the officers around the inside rooms. It wasn't a thorough search, the kind they would make if looking for drugs, for example; at the moment, they were just looking for any signs of someone else living on the premises. There were none that Banks could see. Only one of the three bedrooms was in use, with clothes strewn here and there over an unmade bed. One room was completely empty, even down to the bare floorboards, and the other, the smallest, had a single bed and a small pile of boxes in one corner. That would be where Michael slept if he stopped over, Banks guessed. The boxes held a few childhood toys and books. There was nothing to indicate that the room had been used or the bed slept in at all recently. The house was clean, including the bathroom and toilets. There was only one shaving brush, one twin-­blade razor, one toothbrush and one tube of toothpaste. Banks watched a uniformed officer check the cabinets, too, where he found nothing but common pain relievers, cold remedies, indigestion tablets, a prescription for blood pressure medication, plasters and Germolene.

When they had finished, they returned to the living room. Lane looked up and said, “Told you there was nobody here.” Then he lit a cigarette and turned on the TV with the remote control. An old episode of
Midsomer Murders,
the ones with John Nettles, came on. Some sort of village fete interrupted by a pagan ritual. It must have been ITV-3, Banks thought; they showed mysteries all day. He looked at the back of Lane's head for a while, then gestured to the three search officers to put their wellies on again and headed back to the police Range Rover. Michael Lane wasn't at his father's farm.

DENISE LANE'S
parents, Henry and Ilva Prince, lived in a retirement bungalow on the coast between Whitby and Sandsend. As Annie and Doug Wilson crossed the North Yorkshire moors, through patches of thick fog and deep puddles, they chatted every now and then, but they were also comfortable in silence, just watching the landscape go by, when they could see it. Annie reflected on how nice it was not to have to listen to Banks's music, which could be dreadful sometimes. At the coast, the weather did another about-­face and the sky was clear out to sea. The sun blazed down from a deep blue sky, but there was a sharp icy wind off the water.

The slight, gray-­haired lady, who answered the door with a suspicious and alarmed expression on her face, examined their warrant cards and let them into her sparsely furnished living room, explaining how you couldn't be too careful these days, especially as her husband was out. A picture window faced the North Sea across the slope of a well-­trimmed lawn. The waves rolled in, bright white streaks against the blue of the sea, finally crashing in a haze of foam on the beach below. Several tankers or merchant ships edged slowly across the horizon. Sunlight sparkled on the whitecaps.

“Lovely view,” said Annie.

“Henry always wanted to retire to the seaside, so here we are,” said Ilva Prince. Her voice sounded like a sigh. Another woman disappointed with her lot in life.

Annie and Doug Wilson continued to enjoy the view as Mrs. Prince made a pot of tea, then they sat down on the burgundy velour three-­piece suite, complete with wing arms, gold-­braided cushions and white lace antimacassars.

Annie had already explained that they hadn't come bearing bad news, and Mrs. Prince seemed more at ease. At least, her hand didn't shake as she poured the tea. “What we were wondering,” Annie began, “was whether you've seen your grandson Michael lately.”

“Michael? Not for a few months now,” said Mrs. Prince. “The last I heard, he was shacked up with some floozie on a council estate in Eastvale.”

“That's right,” Annie said. “Alex Preston. But you must have got that from your son-­in-­law, Frank. Those were his very words. I've met Alex, and she's not a floozie at all. As far as I can gather, she and Michael are very much in love. Alex is worried about Michael. She hasn't seen him since Sunday morning. She says it's not like him to go off without saying. She thought he might have been visiting his dad. I'm just wondering if maybe he was visiting his mother?”

“Our Denise? Well, he isn't. Maybe he's come to his senses and left this woman?”

“I'm being serious about this, Mrs. Prince.”

“So am I. Besides, our Denise doesn't live here anymore, and Michael certainly hasn't been here visiting us. He's just like his father, never had much time for Henry and me. Not that we haven't tried. Oh, he'd drop by now and again when his mum was here at first, like, but—­”

“Do you know if your daughter has seen him in the past few days?”

“She would have said.”

“So you do still see her?”

“Yes, of course. It's just that . . . well, she met a fellow, you see. Lives in Whitby. And she . . . they . . . well, she's moved in with him. He's a nice chap, mind you, is Ollie. It's short for Oliver, you know. I always thought Oliver was a lovely name. Very distinguished. Like Oliver Cromwell. Not that he's got any airs and graces, mind you. But he's a decent lad. He's got a university degree. Got a good job, too. He works in the council offices. They were here for tea just this last Sunday.”

“And she didn't mention Michael?”

“No. Why should she?”

“We'd really like to talk to her about him,” said Annie.

Mrs. Prince looked at her watch. “Well, she won't be home now. She'll be at work. That big Tesco's down by the railway station.”

Doug Wilson stood up. “Mind if I use your toilet, Mrs. P.?” he said. “Long car ride from Eastvale.”

Mrs. Prince pointed across the room. “It's through there, on the right. And leave it as you find it.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Denise and her husband have been separated for two years now. Is that correct?”

“About that long, yes.”

“Do you have any insight into what happened?”

Mrs. Prince pursed her lips. “Well,” she said, “you never really know with marriages, do you? ­People don't open up to you about private matters like that, do they? All they ever talk about is being incompatible, or things not working out. Only they really do know
why,
if they're honest. I mean, Henry and me were against the marriage right from the start. She should never have married a farmer, I told her. She was throwing herself away on him. She could have made a good career for herself in business or something, married a nice accountant, or even a lawyer. You should have seen her then. She was a lovely girl. Clever, too. She did really well at school, got three A levels and all. She could have gone to any university she wanted, but no, she had to get a job straightaway and start earning money so she could enjoy her freedom. That's how she put it. ‘I want to enjoy my freedom while I'm young.' Money for clothes and makeup and CDs and nights out clubbing in Leeds.” Mrs. Prince snorted. “A long time
that
lasted. Her freedom.”

“She married young?”

“Young enough. She was nineteen. Worked at the NatWest down on Eastvale market square back then. Henry and I were living in Middlesbrough for his work, like. It wasn't all that far away. And she'd learned to drive, had a little car of her own. Then Frank Lane had to walk in and apply for a loan. I ask you, what woman in her right mind would fall for a man who goes into a bank to apply for a
loan
?”

Wilson came back into the room and sat down again.

“How long were they married?” Annie asked.

“Twenty years. She's still a young woman. Takes good care of herself, too. Always down at that gym, working out.”

“And she has a job at Tesco's?”

Mrs. Prince paused. “Well, it's just temporary, like, until she gets on her feet. She'll be back in banking before long, just you wait and see. Manager, I wouldn't be surprised.”

“So she's not working in the Tesco office now, in management?”

“Not exactly.”

“When she split up with Frank, did she come straight here to live with you and your husband?”

“Yes. She was in a terrible state. He kicked her out and chucked her clothes after her. I told her right from the start she shouldn't have married him, that life as a farmer's wife would never agree with her. She was like a beautiful bird in a cage. She liked nice things and parties and going to restaurants, holidays in Spain, trips to London and Paris. She was a virtual prisoner up at that farm. I don't know how she stuck it out for so long. It must have been for the sake of the boy.”