Unti Peter Robinson #22 (27 page)

“Why don't you want us to talk to Ollie, Denise?” Annie asked.

“Has he hurt you?” said Banks. “Does he hurt you?”

Denise's eyes opened wide. “Oh, no. It's nothing like that at all. Ollie wouldn't do anything to harm me. We love each other. You're getting me all wrong.”

“Then why are you so on edge?” Banks asked.

“On edge? I'm not on edge. What makes you think that?”

“You're fidgeting, you can't sit still, your eyes are all over the place. Need I go on?”

Denise Lane looked even more self-­conscious. Her complexion turned red and her upper lip quivered. Banks thought she was going to cry. “It's not fair to talk to a person like that,” she said. “You come here, into my house and you . . . you bully me, insult me.”

“How are we insulting you, Denise?” Annie asked, passing her a tissue. The waterworks had started now.

Denise sniffed. “By saying horrible things.”

Banks leaned forward in his chair and clasped his hands on his thighs. “Can we start again, Denise?” he said. “Nobody meant to upset you. Far from it. DI Cabbot and I are concerned about you. We sense there's something wrong, but you won't tell us what it is. Now, wouldn't it be better all around if you told us? We can probably help, you know. I understand you want all this to go away, whatever it is. You have a lovely house, a partner you love and you want to get on with your lives. But Morgan Spencer can't get on with his life. He's dead. Murdered.”

“Morgan Spencer.” She spat out the name. “He's a creep. A pervert.”

“Maybe so, but he didn't deserve what happened to him. DI Cabbot told me you had a problem with him. But that was a long time ago, wasn't it?”

“I still feel scared and angry when I think about it.”

“I'm sure you do,” said Annie. “Things like that don't go away.” She paused. “Believe me, I know.”

Denise looked at her, and for the first time the recognition of a kindred soul, or at least an empathetic one, came into her eyes. “You do? Really?”

Annie nodded. “But you're lucky. You fought him off. You made him leave.”

“Yes.”

“It's really Michael we're interested in,” said Banks. “We found his car abandoned in Scarborough. We're worried about him. Scarborough's not far. We were wondering if you'd seen anything of him.”

“Scarborough? Is that where . . . ?”

“Is that where what, Mrs. Lane?”

“Nothing. I . . . I meant is that where you found it?”

“You're not a very good liar, Mrs. Lane.”

Denise Lane glared at him again, then burst into tears once more. Annie handed her another tissue and put a comforting arm over her shoulder. “Ollie will be back soon,” Denise said between sobs. “Then you'll have to go.”

Banks didn't want to get into the Ollie business again, and his patience was wearing thin. “What do you know, Denise? What is it you're not telling us? Have you seen Michael? Has he been here?”

“I'm not a bad mother. Really, I'm not.”

“Was he here?”

Denise quivered and quavered a bit, then said in a barely audible voice, “Yes. Yes, he was here.” She was tearing the tissue into shreds with her stubby fingers.

“That's better,” said Banks. “See how it feels much better to get it off your chest?”

Denise gave him a weak smile. “I don't know about that.”

“Tell us what happened,” Annie said. “As much detail as you can.” She took out her notebook.

“It was on Tuesday, lunchtime.”

Before he phoned Alex from the pay phone, Annie thought, and shortly before he'd parked the car in Scarborough. “The day after my colleague and I visited you at Tesco?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn't you call us?”

“I . . . I . . .” Denise Lane just shook her head.

“Was it because he's your son?” Banks said. “And no matter what he might have done, you'll take care of him?”

Denise looked heartbroken at that. “Yes,” she said. “But I didn't. I mean, I don't think he's done anything. He's a good boy. I really believe that. But he was scared and cold. I think he'd been sleeping rough, maybe in the car on the moors. It gets cold out there. And he hadn't eaten. He said he didn't have much money with him, and he couldn't use his credit or debit cards because you'd be able to trace him. His mobile, too. He was just keeping it switched off.”

“So what happened?”

“He asked if he could stay for a while.”

“Did you tell him about my visit?” Annie asked.

“Yes. Well, I had to, didn't I? He deserved to know you lot were after him.”

“How did he react?”

“He wasn't surprised. It didn't seem to bother him. I mean, he didn't run off or anything.”

“How did he appear? Was he upset, frightened, worried?” Banks asked.

“Of course he was. All of those.”

“Did you notice . . . I mean, did he have any blood on him anywhere?”

Denise's eyes widened again. “Blood? Good Lord, no. Why would Michael have blood on him?”

“Never mind,” said Banks. “What did you do?”

“I gave him a cup of hot sweet tea and something to eat, some cake. He wouldn't say anything else—­said it was better if I didn't know—­but I could see he was in trouble. I said he should just go and see you, the police, like, and explain that he hadn't done whatever you think he has, and you'd sort it all out, but he wouldn't.”

“We don't know that he has done anything,” said Banks. “It's for his own safety, and that of his partner and her child, that we want to find him as soon as possible.”

“Alex? And Ian?”

“You know them?”

“He mentioned them, that's all. I mean, I knew about them, but he'd never really talked before. This time I could see he was head over heels. He said he would bring them to see me one day Ollie was out, then . . . all this . . .”

“Well, as long as Michael's missing, they're in danger, too. Did you let him stay? Is he here now?”

Denise stiffened. “No. I couldn't possibly do that.”

“Why not?”

“Ollie was home. He often comes home for his lunch. It's not far away and it . . . well, it saves a bit of money. You have to understand, Ollie doesn't
know
Michael. That's a part of my other life, and Ollie doesn't like to talk about that. That's why he had to be out if they were going to visit.”

Banks was getting the picture. He glanced at Annie, and by her expression he knew that she was getting it, too. “Your other life?” he said.

“Yes. At the farm. We've drawn a line under that, Ollie said.”

“And that includes Michael? Alex and Ian?”

Her eyes teared up, and she nodded. “It's not me. Honest. I would have taken him in in a second, but Ollie wouldn't have it. Said he wasn't having no outlaws on the run staying in his house, and Michael should think himself lucky we didn't just call the police right there and then and turn him in. Michael pleaded with him. I pleaded with him. But it did no good. In the end, Michael got mad and left. Just drove away.” She wrung her hands. “I hope nothing's happened to him. I'd never forgive myself.”

“We don't think so, Mrs. Lane,” said Banks. “Not yet. But it's vital that we find him as soon as possible.”

“Did he say anything about where he might be going next?” Annie asked.

“No. I'm sorry.”

“He didn't get in touch again? Phone, or anything?”

“No.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us, however insignificant?”

Denise thought for a moment. “When he was going, when we were alone at the front door, I managed to slip him some money we'd been putting by in the hall sideboard.”

“How much money?”

“It was only a hundred pounds, but it was all we had. Our ‘mad' money. When Ollie found out he went spare.”

I'll bet he did, thought Banks. A hundred pounds wasn't very much these days. It might get you mediocre lodgings for three, perhaps four nights, if you didn't eat, or a ­couple of tanks of petrol. Lane abandoned his car even though he had the money to buy petrol. He had paid for parking because he wasn't thinking and had simply done what he would normally do. Had the car broken down? Everyone said it was on its last legs. The forensics mechanics would be able to tell him about that. Or was Lane planning to come back for the car later but something had happened to prevent him? He had phoned Alex that evening from York, so he had still been free then.

If he were to hazard a guess, Banks would have said that Lane left the car just to confuse everyone, took a train to York, wandered about there for a while plucking up the courage to phone Alex, then headed for London.

And Montague Havers lived in London.

THE DINNER
was delightful, the ser­vice impeccable without being obtrusive, the crispy duck breast cooked just the way Winsome loved it, and Terry said his entrecÔte and frites were spot-­on. For starters, they shared chicken liver pâté, and instead of a sweet, they went for the cheese plate, which was served, as it should be, at room temperature. They drank a simple inexpensive Rioja, nothing outrageous or ostentatious, and Terry had only one glass because he had to drive. The small glass of ruby port he ordered for Winsome later went exceptionally well with the cheese. Their conversation flowed with an ease Winsome hadn't realized existed. Terry didn't talk about his experiences in Afghanistan, and Winsome largely avoided talking about her job. As they laughed a lot and told each other stories about their potholing experiences and areas they had explored, they found so many topics in common that they could have carried on talking all night. Terry had even been to Montego Bay on a ­couple of occasions, and had visited the area around Spring Mount and Maroon Town, where Winsome had spent her childhood as the daughter of a local police corporal. His own childhood, he confessed, had been that of an army brat, never staying anywhere long and finding it very difficult to make friends.

The only disagreement arose when it was time to pay the bill, and even that was minor. Terry insisted on paying for the two of them, whereas Winsome insisted on going dutch. In the end, Winsome won, and Terry was gracious in defeat. Winsome noticed that he wasn't carrying his stick, just an umbrella.

They walked out onto Castle Hill, and Winsome immediately felt the wind and rain bring a chill to her bones. In her mind there flashed a vision of the country they had been talking about, where she had been brought up. Banana leaves clacking in the wind, the long walk to and from church in her Sunday best in the searing heat, out-­of-­season days walking the deserted beaches around Montego Bay, looking for driftwood with her father. She felt herself shiver. For better or for worse, England was her home now.

Terry moved closer with his umbrella and gently put a tentative arm around her, sheltering the two of them under its broad black circle. She felt herself stiffen a little at his touch, but she didn't shake him off. She could hear the umbrella whipping about in the wind, straining at the metal spokes, and feared it would snap inside out or simply fly off into the sky. Maybe they'd go with it, like Mary Poppins. But Terry managed to keep a grip on it as they headed around the corner and down the cobbled road toward the lights of the town square, the castle behind them tastefully floodlit against the sky. The shops were all closed, but the pubs and restaurants were open and the sounds of conversation and laughter drifted up on the night air along with the sounds of high heels clicking across the cobbles.

“Can I give you a lift?” Terry asked.

“It's all right,” Winsome said. “I don't live far.”

“But it's cold. You're cold.”

Winsome laughed. “I'm used to that. Thanks,” she said. “It really was a lovely evening.”

“My pleasure.”

They stopped as they entered the top of the square. “Well, I'm parked over there, behind the shopping center,” Terry said.

Winsome pointed the other way. “I'm up York Road a bit.”

“Well, if you won't let me drive you home, then . . .”

Winsome felt rather than saw him moving toward her, his lips aiming for hers. She felt a surge of panic, of claustrophobia almost, and found herself turning aside, so that his lips grazed against her cheek, then she heard herself saying a curt “Good night” and hurried off toward home, heart palpitating.

She pulled her jacket collar around her throat to keep out the icy needles of wind and hurried along, head down, past the lit-­up shop signs and window displays until she got to her street, on the fringe of the student area. There she turned left, walked up the slight rise for fifty yards and turned into the imposing detached house, with its gables, bay windows and large chimneys, where she had the top-­floor flat.

Once she was inside, she leaned back on the closed door and took stock. What on earth was she thinking of? It was only a good-­night kiss. Was that something to be so frightened of? But she had been. She remembered the tension that ran through her body when she saw him moving toward her, the tightness in her chest.

She made herself a cup of chamomile tea in the kitchenette and thought about what a pleasant evening it had been, how easily their conversation had flowed. When she curled up in her favorite armchair, with only the shaded lamp lighting the room, she realized that she had very little experience of talking to anyone outside her job. Most of the time she talked to other cops, criminals, forensic scientists or lawyers. She had been a shy child and had never found it easy to socialize, and that carried over into her adult life. Was this what her life had come to? But wasn't she too young to start wondering what had happened to all the promise, the dreams, the young woman who had walked down the jetway at Gatwick, excited as a little child at the life ahead of her in the new country she was about to discover? Marveling at the cars, the huge buildings, the fast motorways and even the unrelenting rain and a sky the color of dirty dishwater.