Unti Peter Robinson #22 (17 page)

“Hmm, not entirely,” said Banks. “We'll keep it on the back burner. What do
you
think happened to Alex?”

“Dunno. I suppose someone might have been warning her to keep quiet, if she knew anything, or perhaps they think she knows where Lane is and tried to get it out of her. Maybe they saw me and Doug call by her flat the other day.”

“You don't believe she does know where Lane is, do you?”

“No, Alan, I don't. The poor woman's beside herself. That much I accept as true. You can't fake that, not unless you're an exceptional actress. Tears, yes, but it's much more than that.”

“OK.” Banks held his hands up in surrender. “Let's assume she
doesn'
t
know where he is. Someone thinks she does and comes to ask her? Breaks a finger when she won't, or can't, tell?”

“Which raises another important question,” said Annie.

“Oh?”

“How did whoever did it know who she was and where she lived?”

“Through Michael Lane, I'd guess.”

“That's right. Meaning that Lane probably is involved with whatever's been going on. Involved enough that the ­people he works for know where he lives and who with.”

“There is another possibility,” said Banks.

“What's that?”

“That it's Alex they know, Alex who's working with them. And she's spinning you a line.”

“No way,” said Annie, looking down into her dish.

“The question is,” said Banks, “do we put someone on her 24/7?”

Annie looked up again. “Do you think Madame Gervaise would authorize that?”

“Hell, we got to use the new helicopter today, didn't we? It seems since we got our new home secretary and police commissioner, we only have to ask. Enjoy it while you can. It won't last. What I'm saying is that if you think Alex Preston is in danger, then we obviously need to keep an eye on her.”

“It was probably just a low-­level thug, not the boss himself.”

“Even so. And there's something in it for us. He could lead us to the boss.”

“OK,” said Annie. “I'll see what I can get organized. It's stretching things a bit thin, I know, but four officers should be able to manage a twenty-­four-­hour watch between them. I mean, we don't need anything too elaborate here. It's not exactly
Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy.
”

“OK,” Banks said. “And in the meantime, after the postmortem, why don't we go pay Alex a visit before we check out Venture in Leeds. Winsome can take Gerry or Doug and have a chat with someone at Vaughn's about Caleb Ross's pickup schedule and who might have had access to it. Ross probably drove a circuitous route. How long had he had this particular load in his van? How long did his round take him? Once we have the list, we'll have to check every farm he called at, and even then there's no guarantee anyone will know anything. I don't know, but I imagine it's easy to sneak another black bin bag or two among the pile if you know where it's kept. Ross is also bound to have left the van unattended here and there, and it wouldn't have taken long for someone to add a few bags to his load.”

“Have you ever thought that Ross himself might have done it?”

“What? The killing in the hangar?”

“Yes. Or at least prepared the body for incineration with the animals after the killing. Why not? He had the best access.”

“It's an interesting possibility. And he certainly might have known what he was carrying in the back of his van. You're heading in the right direction. He could be more involved than we think. What more perfect cover than his job for tipping off criminals where to find unguarded livestock, or when farmers will be away leaving expensive equipment in their garages and barns? And if that's the case, he might have been co-­opted to dispose of the body himself.”

“As long as we don't have to go back to that bloody valley of death and help them look for the head.”

“Not if I can help it,” said Banks. He waved his empty glass. “Another?”

“Why not?” Annie handed him her glass. “And when you get back you can tell me all about your romantic weekend in Cumbria with the lovely Oriana.”

“Umbria. It was Umbria.” Banks felt himself blushing as he walked to the bar. Behind him, he heard Annie's mobile make a sound like a demented cricket.

WHEN ALEX
finally stopped crying, Annie poured her another glass of wine and took a glass for herself. She'd been denied that second pint with Banks, leaving him alone at the table as she hurried out of the Queen's Arms after receiving Alex's phone call, so why not? He had wanted to come with her, given the subject matter of their conversation, but she had told him, no, this sounded like something she could do better on her own. Woman's work. And it was. It was more a matter of do-­gooding, of giving comfort, than real detective work. At least he had seemed relieved to avoid having to tell her about his weekend in Umbria and she left him alone listening to the Springfields' “Silver Threads and Golden Needles.”

Banks had been right about Annie's motives. She did want things to go well for Alex and Michael. They weren't exactly a project, the way Lisa Gray had been for Winsome, but she had pinned some hopes on them already, and she was damned if she was going to let them slip through the cracks. Maybe she was doing it more for herself than for them. Maybe it was even a part of her own rehabilitation, something she could enjoy vicariously, seeing as she seemed unable to find a man of her own. She didn't know, and she didn't care. The room was warm and cozy, the shaded lamplight soothing. Once in a while she heard a yell or a loud noise from outside. Kids, most likely. Then the muffled male and female voices of a burgeoning domestic sounded from above.

Alex managed a weak smile. “Don't worry about them,” she said, looking up at the ceiling. “They're always at it. You should hear them when they make up.”

Annie laughed. “The best part of breaking up . . .”

“ . . . Is when you're making up. But we're
not
breaking up. Michael and me, that is. At least I hope we're not. I'm just a bit confused at the moment. And scared.”

“I'm not surprised,” said Annie. “Why don't you tell me about it?”

Alex gave her a suspicious glance. “I don't know if I should be talking to you. You're police, after all. He said . . .”

Annie spread her hands. “You rang me. It's your decision. If you want me to go . . .”

“No. Stay. Please.” Alex sucked on her lower lip as she thought, then she said, “OK. It's not as if I've got anyone else I can talk to about it.”

“Oh, thanks a lot.”

“I didn't mean . . .” Alex patted her chest and laughed. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to come out like that.”

Annie waved the apology aside. “Doesn't matter,” she said. “I'm thick-­skinned. And you're right. I'm the only one who's here, not to mention the best one to talk to about it.” She drank some wine. It was cold and tart. Lidl's cheapest, most likely.

Alex clasped her hands together and hung her head. “I don't know where to start,” she said. “Well, I suppose I do. I mean, you already know the start, when you came to see me yesterday. I can hardly believe it was only that long ago.”

Annie herself could hardly believe it was still only Tuesday evening. So much had happened in two days. “We've checked the DNA,” Annie said, “and the blood in the hangar isn't Michael's. He shares the same blood type with the victim, but that's all.”

“That's why you asked me about Michael's blood type?”

“Yes.”

“And you knew all along it was the same, but you didn't tell me?”

“I was going to. I almost came back to tell you last night, but I knew it would only worry you, and it's not as if there was anything I could do about it. Besides, there was no need for it. It's a blood type that belongs to thirty-­five percent of the population.”

“That's all right. I suppose I should thank you. As it was, I had a sleepless night anyway.”

“If you don't mind my saying so, you don't seem surprised or overjoyed to hear that Michael is alive.”

Alex turned away, avoiding Annie's eyes. “That's because I know it wasn't him. I know it wasn't Michael.” She fell silent, and for a moment Annie was worried that she wasn't going to continue. But she did. “He rang me tonight. Just before I called you. So he's alive. He's all right.”

Annie leaned forward. “I should imagine he's far from all right, Alex. Where is he?”

“He's scared, I think. Worried about us. But he's alive.”

“Where is he?”

“I don't know. He wouldn't tell me that. He said it was for my own good.”

Annie looked Alex in the eye and decided that she believed her. She cursed under her breath. “That makes sense,” she said simply. “But it doesn't help us.”

“He was ringing from a pay phone, I think. You can probably trace it through my mobile. I don't know about those things. But it doesn't matter. He won't be there anymore.”

“Will you tell me the number, anyway?”

Alex fumbled with the mobile and showed it to Annie, who picked up her own phone and called the station. “I have to do this,” she said, putting her hand over the mouthpiece. “You do understand?”

“Of course.”

“For what it's worth, you're probably right, and he's far away from there by now. Does he still have his car?”

“I don't know. I suppose so. He can't have much money left by now, though.”

Annie left the number with Gerry Masterson, who was still in the squad room. Did that woman never stop? Had she no life? You're one to talk, Annie said to herself, sitting giving comfort to a murder suspect's girlfriend instead of drinking with Banks, wondering if that would lead anywhere. She wasn't sure whether she had given up on Banks. She couldn't compete against the likes of Oriana, but Annie guessed Oriana would last a while and then drift away, like the others. She was far too young for him, for a start, almost half his age, and from what Annie could tell, she didn't seem the type to squander her life on taking care of an old man, which was certainly what she'd be doing before too long if she and Banks remained together. She turned her attention back to Alex, who was refilling their glasses. “I know we're at odds over this,” she said. “You probably think you're protecting Michael, that it's best for him to stay on the run, to keep hidden, to avoid us, but we really need to find him. We have to talk to him. We can help him. He knows something about what happened on Sunday that could help us find Morgan Spencer's killer.”

Alex thought for a moment. “He doesn't know much,” she said. “All he told me was that Morgan texted him and asked him for help on a job at the old hangar. Morgan was probably into all sorts of dodgy things Michael didn't know about. Michael said he drove out there and saw something he shouldn't have. Since then he's been on the run. He hasn't done anything wrong. He's scared. Can't you see?”

“Maybe that's the case,” said Annie. “But we still have to talk to him. We don't know that he hasn't done anything wrong. A lot's been going on, Alex, and we need explanations. Surely you must see that?”

“But I don't know where he is! Can't you believe me?” She held out her finger. “Do you see that?”

Annie nodded.

“I didn't trap it in the door. A man came by last night. He pretended to be police. He even had an identity card, though I didn't get a good look at it. He wanted to know where Michael is. He threatened me. Me and Ian. I shouldn't even be talking to you now. He's probably watching me. He'll kill us. Both of us.”

Annie leaned forward and put her hand on Alex's shoulder. “Calm down,” she said. “Nobody's going to kill anyone. You did the right thing, phoning me. I can help.”

“But he said he'd hurt Ian. He broke my finger and he said he'd hurt Ian. I didn't tell him anything because I
don't know anything,
but he still believes I do. Why won't you believe me?”

“I do believe you,” said Annie. “And we won't let him hurt anyone. Can you at least give me a description?”

“As if I'd forget,” said Alex, and proceeded to describe her unwanted visitor to Annie.

“If I introduce you to a police sketch artist,” she said, “do you think you could help him work on a likeness?” There were computer programs far more complex and accurate than the old Identikit format now, but Annie still believed that an artist was the best chance of getting a reasonable likeness. She was willing to admit that it was a prejudice that came out of her background and her own interest in art, but it had always worked for her.

“I think so,” Alex said. “But I have to go to work tomorrow.”

Annie looked at her watch. It was too late to bring in the sketch artist tonight. “Don't worry. We'll work something out with your employers. We can be flexible. It's important.”

“He gave me a phone number.” Alex took the card out of her purse. “He said it would be untraceable, but I suppose you can try. You know about these things. Can you really find him?”

“We can do our best,” said Annie, far more interested in any fingerprints that might be on the card than tracing what was more likely than not a pay-­as-­you-­go mobile number. “Did anyone else touch this?” she asked.

Alex shook her head. “Just me. When he handed it to me. Then I put it away.”

“So he handled it?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“He wasn't wearing gloves or anything?”

“No.”

“OK. That was stupid of him. Helpful to us, though.”

“I think he believed he'd scared me so much I wouldn't dare talk to you. He was almost right, too.”