Unti Peter Robinson #22 (26 page)

 

11

I
T WAS A DAMP GRAY AFTERNOON WHEN WINSOME SET out from Eastvale west into the dale to make a few inquiries at the farms on Caleb Ross's route.

She stopped in a lay-­by just outside Helmthorpe and consulted her Ordnance Survey map. Through her potholing and walking experience, she already knew the area. She had also become adept at reading maps, and could visualize the landscape as it was laid out on paper, in contours, broken lines and arcane symbols. As she had suspected, the next call, near the hamlet of Mortsett, was halfway up the daleside to her left, then the farms grew fewer and farther between as she moved on past Helmthorpe and Swainshead into the high Pennines.

Thus far, she had heard nothing but praise for Caleb Ross and the job he did, and the fallen stock on the farmers' copies was just as it was described on Neil Vaughn's master document. On the surface, this was the sort of job Banks could have sent a DC or even a ­couple of PCs in a patrol car to do, but on the other hand, he had told Winsome he needed the instinct of a seasoned detective, someone who could read the nuances, give voice to the unspoken. Winsome was trying to dig, or see, under the surface, look for the unconscious signs and signals others might miss. There hadn't been any so far, and she didn't expect it to be any different this time as she pulled into yet another farmyard. Her boots were already caked with mud and worse, and she feared she would never be able to wash the farmyard smell out of her hair and her clothes, or scrub it from her skin. The farmer, Reg Padgett, according to Winsome's list, was working in the yard in his donkey jacket, flat hat and wellies, and he came striding over to Winsome as she pulled up.

“I know who you are,” he said, beaming as she got out of the car and held out her warrant card.

Winsome smiled shyly. “So my fame precedes me?”

“I'll say it does. Rugby tackles and dropkicks. We could do with you on the England side.”

“I don't think I'm quite up for that. And it wasn't strictly a dropkick.” Winsome was referring to the rolling push with which she had sent a three-­hundred-­pound drug dealer flying over a third-­floor balcony on the East Side Estate a year or two ago. “The papers got it all wrong.”

“Never mind, lass,” said Padgett. “Whatever it was, it got the job done.”

Indeed it had. Winsome's action had put the person in question in the hospital for nearly a month with numerous fractures and abrasions, and earned her a reprimand for excessive force, which she thought was excessive in itself.

“I've come about Caleb Ross,” she said. “He had a pickup here last Tuesday morning, didn't he?”

“Indeed he did,” said Padgett, lifting up his flat hat and scratching his head. “Poor Caleb. I heard about what happened. A real tragedy. Treacherous, that place, even on the best of days. But surely you don't think there's anything suspicious about the accident?”

“No, it's nothing like that,” said Winsome, taking out her copy of Vaughn's list. “It says here that you were his fourth call of the day.”

“I wouldn't know about that, but he did seem in a bit of a hurry.”

“A hurry?”

“Yes. Usually he stands around and chats for a while, you know, just passes the time of day.”

“But not on Tuesday?”

“No. He seemed to just want to get the job done and go. Two stillborn lambs. Too many of those at this time of year. Keeping him busy, I suppose.”

“Did he act as if there was anything bothering him?”

Padgett chewed on his lower lip for a moment, then said, “No-­o-­o, I wouldn't say that. He just seemed distracted. In another world, like.”

“As if he was thinking about something else?”

“That's right. As if his mind wasn't on the job. He seemed cheerful, though. I mean, I wouldn't say he seemed anxious or depressed or anything like that. You don't think . . . ?”

“We're almost certain it was an accident, Mr. Padgett.” But another thing that had occurred to Winsome since she started the job was that someone might have been following Ross, trailing him, chasing him between farms even, and that might have contributed to the accident. Palmer, the driver coming the other way, hadn't noticed any cars approaching from the same direction as Caleb after the crash, but he was probably in a state of shock for a while, and he had pulled over to the far side of the road, away from the drop. He could easily have missed something. “Did you notice any other cars around when Mr. Ross arrived?”

“No. But I wouldn't. You can see for yourself, this is a well-­hidden track. We can't see what's happening down on the Mortsett Road from here, so I wouldn't have noticed even if there had been. We had no other callers here, I can tell you that.”

“Could anyone have gained access to Mr. Ross's van while he was here?”

“No. We were standing out here, just like you and me are now, and the van was where your car is. I remember he had the window open and that blooming music he likes blaring out. Fair scared the wits out of my chickens. Put them off their laying, nearly.”

“Could anyone have tampered with your fallen stock before it was picked up?”

“I don't see how,” said Padgett. “I follow all the correct storage regulations. They were bagged, tagged and locked in the barn until Caleb came for them.”

“No signs of illegal entry?”

“None at all. Where are you going with this, lass?”

“You'll have heard rumors that he was carrying more than he should have been. That's really all I can say for the moment.”

“The human body parts, you mean?”

“You've been watching the TV news, then?”

“Well, you'll know the truth, I suppose.”

“That I do, Mr. Padgett.”

“Whatever it was, it didn't come from here. Mrs. Padgett's still very much alive and well.”

“I'm sure she is. We're interested in Caleb's state of mind. Could he have been drinking, or anything like that?”

“Not Caleb. I happen to know he's a teetotaler, and he certainly didn't behave as if he was drunk. No, as I said, he was just a bit keen to get going, as if his mind was running ahead of him.”

“What about drugs? We know that Caleb smoked marijuana from time to time. Did you see any signs of that in his behavior?”

“I wouldn't know what to look for. But he seemed normal to me. And if he did smoke that stuff, like you say, he kept it well to himself.”

“What about a woman?” Winsome ventured. Some of the farms were isolated, and if Caleb had taken up a dalliance with one of the farmers' wives, or a milkmaid, if such creatures still existed, it might both distract him and cause him to hurry.

Padgett just laughed. “Caleb? If you'd have known him, lass, you wouldn't have said that. Devoted to Maggie, he was, for a start. And for another thing, he wasn't exactly your Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise, if you know what I mean.”

Winsome laughed. “He wasn't really close to the end of his rounds,” she said. “So it's unlikely he was in a hurry to get home. In fact he had a few hours to go. Was he late when he arrived here?”

“Not so far as I'm aware. It's not an exact science, his business, though you could usually depend on him to arrive close to when Vaughn's said he would. Dependable firm.”

“Do you know if he ever made any unscheduled stops?”

“I wouldn't know about that. Shouldn't think so, mind you. Caleb was an honest man. He took his work seriously. I can't see him taking jobs on the side and trying to put one over on his employers.”

Neither could Winsome. For a start, it wasn't the kind of job on which you could really take anything on the side, though she supposed he could accept untested animals over the age limit for a few quid and have some sort of out-­of-­the-­way burial spot he used for them. And for the human remains he was carrying. The idea seemed a bit far-­fetched to her, though. It must have been something else that made it appear as if his thoughts were elsewhere and he was in more of a hurry than usual. She didn't even know yet whether he had Morgan Spencer's body parts in with the load at that point, let alone whether he knew about them. Perhaps he was looking forward to picking up his marijuana later on the route?

Winsome thanked Padgett for his time and got back in her car. Only another six farms to go before Belderfell Pass. Just before she got to the next stop, her mobile rang.

“Winsome. Hello, it's Terry. Terry Gilchrist.”

Winsome pulled over. “Terry. Have you remembered something?”

“No. It's nothing like that.” He sounded disappointed. “Is work all you ever think of?”

“No, of course not. I'm just very busy right now. What is it? How was the trivia?”

“The trivia was fine. We won. ‘In which country would you find the Simpson Desert?' ”

“I don't know. America?”

“Australia. I got it.”

“Congratulations. What is it, then? Is something wrong?”

“Not at all. At least I hope not. Why must something be wrong for me to just want to talk to you?” He paused. “Look, I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner with me tonight. There's a nice bistro on Castle Hill, or there's that Italian place, if you like. I can book us a table.”

“What?”

“Don't make it so hard, Winsome. It must be obvious I like you. It took me long enough to pluck up courage to ask you out. I know I'm a bit of a gimp, but—­”

“No, no. I'm just a bit stunned, Terry, that's all. Dinner?” Winsome didn't get many dinner invitations, and the whole thing had knocked her sideways. She wasn't at all used to being asked out. In fact the last time she had been out for dinner it was with Lisa Gray. But she couldn't think of an excuse to say no on the spot. And she didn't really want to say no. In the end, she said, “Well, yes. I mean, if you like. Yes, that would be nice.”

“Seven-­thirty OK?”

“That's fine.”

“Bistro or Italian?”

“Bistro, please,” said Winsome.

When she had ended the call and got back on the road, she felt apprehensive. Had she agreed too easily? Wasn't Terry still a witness? Could it affect their investigation? Then she put all the silly questions out of her mind and got on with the task at hand. She looked at her watch and realized she could manage at least another two or three farms until she had to go home and try to scrub the farmyard smell off her before her date. She could do the rest tomorrow.

BANKS'S PORSCHE
rode the wind along the edge of the moors to Whitby. On the way he played some Nick Drake, and Annie didn't seem to object. She even said she thought “Northern Sky” was not bad at all. They remained silent for most of the journey, having run out of ideas on where Michael Lane might have gone after he had paid to park his car in Scarborough and disappeared.

They drove into the town, picturesque in its little harbor, the Esk estuary dividing it into two distinct halves. One consisted of old streets of cottages and gift shops specializing in Whitby jet, and 199 steps led up the hill to the ruined seventh-­century abbey and St. Mary's church and graveyard, where Mina saw the long black figure bending over Lucy in Bram Stoker's
Dracula
. The other side of the bridge was a bit more commercial, with more bed-­and-­breakfasts, fish-­and-­chips shops, amusement arcades and a “Dracula Experience” on the front by the fish market, where the fishermen landed their catches. The tide was in and small fishing boats were bobbing up and down in the harbor. The sea didn't seem as wild as at Scarborough. Whitby had suffered dreadfully in the previous year's floods, when the water breached the seawalls and flooded the lower town, but it was quickly getting back on its feet.

It was Denise Lane's day off, they discovered at Tesco, and they found her on her own in a small house not far from the hospital.

“Do you remember me?” Annie said, when Denise opened the door. “Annie Cabbot? This is DCI Banks. Can we come in?”

Denise hadn't fully opened the door, and she was still hesitating nervously. “It might be important, Mrs. Lane,” Banks said. “It's about your son.”

“I guessed as much.” She opened the door a few inches more. “You've found Michael?”

“Not exactly, no,” said Annie. “But we've found his car. Can we come in?”

Denise stood back, looked up and down the street, and gestured to them to enter, then she led them through the hall to the living room. A mirror hung over the tiled fireplace, reflecting the candy-­striped wallpaper and the gilt-­framed painting of a little waif standing by the seashore on the opposite wall.

“I suppose you'll be wanting a cup of tea,” Denise Lane said over her shoulder.

“No, that's all right,” said Banks, sitting on one of the armchairs. “Just a quick chat. That's all.”

Denise eased herself into a chair slowly, as if her bones were aching, and immediately started rolling and unrolling the hem of her unbuttoned cardigan. “Ollie's out,” she said, “but he'll be back soon. You'd better be quick.”

“Why?” said Banks, frowning. “Is there something you want to keep from him?”

“No. He just wouldn't like me talking to you, that's all.”

“Why? Not a fan of the police?”

“You're twisting my words. He hasn't done anything wrong, if that's what you're getting at. He doesn't have a record or anything. He's just . . . well, private. We're both very private. We just want to get on with our lives.”

“I can appreciate that,” said Banks. “We're all entitled to a little privacy to get on with our lives. But this is a murder investigation, and I'm afraid that does call for more special circumstances.” Banks could see why Annie had described Denise Lane as attractive after their first meeting. She was long-­legged and shapely, looked good in the tight jeans she was wearing. She clearly visited the gym regularly, kept her blond hair neatly trimmed and layered and had a naturally pale, unblemished complexion. Her blue eyes radiated suspicion and, if Banks wasn't mistaken, more than a trace of guilt. Though guilt about what, he had no idea. There was also a lack of confidence evident in her posture and body language. She slumped, slouched; her fingernails were bitten to the quick. Had life with Lane sapped all the energy from her, or was it life with the “private” Ollie? She certainly seemed nervous because he wasn't present, but Banks got the impression that she would be even more so if he were in the room.