Unti Peter Robinson #22 (31 page)

“I couldn't guarantee that, but they would be none that I'm aware of. He's not a client, if that's what you mean.”

Havers sounded nervous at the prospect. It was obvious that he was lying, but Banks didn't think he was going to get any further with him. By denying that he knew Beddoes, though, Havers had unintentionally told Banks a lot. Why deny it unless Beddoes was involved? Or unless Havers himself was involved? Havers had pulled himself out of the hole quickly, but not quickly enough to convince Banks that he had forgotten “Bedder” Beddoes's existence. No doubt he had lied about other things, too. He wasn't going to admit to knowing any of the others, thugs like Tanner and Spencer, or to using the hangar at the airfield as a loading bay for stolen farm equipment. But by talking to him, and by letting him know that
he
knew, Banks thought he might just have ruffled things up enough that Havers, or someone in the organization, would make a mistake. He still didn't know how deeply Beddoes was involved—­after all, it was
his
expensive tractor that had been reported stolen—­but these two old friends certainly had the knowledge between them to run a sideline in stolen farm equipment. Beddoes knew something about farming, and he lived in a large rural area; he had also been a merchant banker, so he knew about financing. All they needed were connections to the illegal trade routes, and Havers's international contacts might easily have supplied those, according to what Joanna MacDonald had said. Banks decided to lay his cards on the table before leaving.

“Mr. Havers, I believe you're part of a group, or call it a gang, a criminal organization, involved in rural crime in a big way, and a part of your operation made a nasty mess on my patch. I believe you've been using the abandoned airfield and hangar at Drewick because it's a convenient transfer point for stolen goods from the north, and because you knew it was in limbo for the time being. Your men wouldn't be disturbed. Last Sunday, one of your underlings, Morgan Spencer, was murdered there, killed by a penetrating bolt pistol to the head. Either you wanted rid of him for some reason or some rival gang was muscling in. We don't know yet why he was killed. Either way, I believe you know something about it.”

“This is ridiculous,” protested Havers. “I don't know what you're talking about. I wasn't even—­”

“In the area at the time? How do you know what time it took place? I didn't tell you.”

“Oh, very clever. The old ‘how could you have known' trick. Now you're putting words in my mouth.”

“Well, how could you?”

“Because it was on the news on Monday, while I was still at my brother-­in-­law's. Ask him. They said it took place on Sunday morning. I didn't get to Richmond until Sunday afternoon, as you well know.”

As far as Banks was aware, the media didn't know on Monday that the murder had taken place in the hangar on Sunday morning, but he decided he would keep that point in reserve until he had done a thorough check on Havers, including a visit to his brother-­in-­law. “Exactly,” said Banks. “So where were you before then? How do I know you didn't find a way to foil Operation Hawk and the ANPR cameras and sneak up to the airfield earlier, for example?”

“This is absurd,” said Havers. “I have nothing more to say to you. If you plan on continuing this charade I want my lawyer present.”

Banks stood up to leave. “You'd hardly need a lawyer if it were a charade, Monty,” he said. Then he paused at the door. “You know,” he went, “if I were you, I'd take this as an omen, a bad omen. If I were you, I'd back off for a while, lie low and take stock. Disappear from the radar. No matter what you think, things aren't going to get any easier for you from now on.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It's reality, Monty. The threats come later.”

Banks closed the door gently behind him. The secretary scowled at him as he left.

 

13

S
O YOU DIDN'T NOTICE ANYTHING UNUSUAL ABOUT Mr. Ross when he came to pick up here on Tuesday?” Winsome asked. She was at the last farm on her list, the last place Caleb Ross had visited before heading for the Belderfell Pass and his death, and she had found out nothing new. He had arrived at a quarter to one and left just after one, so Mr. Wythers said. Some of the farmers thought Caleb was a bit distracted, in a hurry, whereas others thought his behavior just the same as usual.

Mr. Wythers, owner of Garsley Farm, had invited her in for a cup of tea, and Winsome was grateful for it. She felt as if it had been a long day, though it was still only midafternoon, and she had not stopped for lunch. The slice of Battenberg cake Mr. Wythers gave her with her tea reminded her how hungry she was. It would be back to the station, a quick report, then home for an early dinner followed by an early night.

“Caleb never said much,” Mr. Wythers was saying. “I don't mean he was rude or anything, but we weren't mates, if you know what I mean. He was just a man doing his job, and I was the one who paid him for it. It was just like that. Businesslike, but polite, friendly, you know. I even asked him in for a cup of tea and a piece of cake, just like I did you, but he said he'd just had his lunch. We didn't chat or gossip or owt, so I'm afraid I can't tell you anything about him.”

“That's all right,” said Winsome. “I'm just collecting whatever bits and pieces I can to try to build up a picture of his last day.”

“It's a terrible thing, what happened,” said Wythers. “That pass has claimed more than one victim in my time here, that's for certain. And you couldn't see it coming. When he left here it was clear as anything. Clouds, aye, but there's nowt odd about that. Came like a bolt from the blue, it did. Weather's like that in these parts and it can be awful bleak out here. It pays to be careful, lass.”

“I'll remember that,” said Winsome. “But I think I'm just about done now.” She ate the last small piece of cake, one of the pink bits with a marzipan border, washed it down with the last of her tea and stood up.

“Sorry I couldn't be more help, lass,” said Wythers, walking her to the door. “Stay, boy,” he said to the excited young collie who had started to accompany them. The dog sat down by the hearth. “Stay. There's a good lad.”

Winsome said good-­bye and stepped into the farmyard. She had seen, and smelled, enough farmyards over the past few days to last her a lifetime, she thought, but at least she hadn't drawn Annie's unenviable task of checking out the abattoirs. Still, Annie had come up with a viable lead in the stolen bolt gun and dismissed workers, and Winsome had come up with nothing except the possibility that Caleb Ross might have had something on his mind the day he died. Whatever it was, she guessed that it had lain at the other side of Belderfell Pass, and he had never reached it.

She started the car and headed back up the long drive to the B road. Instead of turning right to get back to the Swainshead and Helmthorpe road to Eastvale, she turned left toward the high moorland. She remembered this part of the dale well because the potholing club had visited it often. The hills that loomed ahead of her were riddled by one of the largest cave systems in Europe, with miles of underground passages linking huge chambers, some as large as the inside of a cathedral.

Thinking about her potholing days took her mind back to Terry Gilchrist. She still felt embarrassed about the previous evening. He had rung her that morning, before work, and asked her if she would see him, just to talk. Reluctantly—­mostly because of her embarrassment, not lack of interest—­she had agreed to have lunch with him on Saturday. How long could she go on behaving like a flirtatious virgin around him? Not that she would jump into bed with him—­it was only lunch, after all—­but she would make good on that kiss she had promised herself last night. It had been a long time since she had been romantically and physically involved with a man, that was all. It would take a little practice.

Beyond Wythers's farm, which was right on the edge of the high Pennines, the land wasn't much use for farming and was practically uninhabited. Sheep grazed there, of course, but that was about all. The road turned a sharp left toward Belderfell Pass, and Winsome could see it snaking up the hillside ahead. She pulled over in a passing place and got out to admire the distant view. She probably wasn't that far from the Lancashire border, she thought, or perhaps she was even far enough north to be neighboring on Cumbria, where the wild fells and moorlands of the Yorkshire Dales would slowly morph into the older, more rounded hills of the Lake District. It was a panoramic but desolate view before her, that was for certain, two or three large hills like long flat anvils, a disused quarry, stretches of moor and marsh. She got her binoculars from the boot and scanned the distance. There were one or two isolated hunters' lodges, owned by private clubs and used during the grouse season, but that was about all. She was already beyond the source of the river Swain, above Swainshead, and though becks and small waterfalls cascaded from the steep hillsides and meandered through the moorland, there were no rivers or tarns to be seen.

Shivering in the sudden chill breeze, she got back in her car and decided to take the long way back to Eastvale, over Belderfell Pass. Remembering Wythers's warnings about the weather, she scanned the sky as she made her way up the winding, unfenced road. Before long, she could feel her ears blocking and ringing, the way they did in airplanes at takeoff and landing. She yawned and felt them crack and clear. The pass wound its way high above the valley bottom over to the next dale. She got about halfway when she encountered the first signs of the accident, the dots of the investigators still working at the scene way below. She could see scatterings of black plastic bags. She slowed down as she rounded a promontory and stopped for a moment to watch the men below, but the perspective gave her vertigo. She never usually had a problem with heights, but even the hardiest of souls had been known to tremble at Belderfell Pass. Going the other way was a lot easier, of course. Then you hugged the hillside all the way. But in the direction she was going, the direction Caleb Ross had taken, there was nothing between her and the sheer drop.

Soon she realized she had started on the slow and winding descent into the tiny village of Ramsghyll, nestled at the bottom of the hill and famous for its pub, the Coach and Horses, which boasted real ale and gourmet food. Hungry as she was, Winsome didn't stop, but carried on through the village's narrow high street, past the pub and onto the road that, beyond Helmthorpe and Fortford, would take her eventually back to Eastvale. Perhaps it had been a wasted journey, she thought as she drove along admiring the scenery in the lengthening shadows, and perhaps it had been a wasted assignment altogether, but she still couldn't shake off the nagging feeling that the answer to Caleb Ross's role in Morgan Spencer's murder lay somewhere in the landscape she had just left behind. She was too tired and confused to do anything about it today, or even to know
what
to do, but she would approach the problem afresh tomorrow morning and work out just what it was that was niggling away at the edge of her consciousness.

THE DUCK
and Drake was a popular old pub on Frith Street, in the heart of Soho, just a stone's throw from Ronnie Scott's. Banks had been there many times before, both when he worked in the West End and when he visited London or went down on business. Like this afternoon. The after-­work crowd usually started congregating early, and there were already a few ­people standing outside smoking and quaffing pints when Banks got there at four. It was a small pub, long and narrow. Banks walked past the crowded bar through to the back room, which was furnished with a few ancient wooden tables and chairs, and found the person he was looking for right at the back table, scaring prospective punters away with his churlish expression.

Detective Chief Superintendent Richard “Dirty Dick” Burgess stood up and beckoned Banks over, shaking hands vigorously. “Banksy, it's good to see you again. How's it hanging?”

Banks cringed. Burgess was the first person to call him Banksy since his school days. Not that he didn't admire the artist's work, but the nickname still rankled. Back at school there hadn't been the “other” Banksy.

Burgess had worked for just about every law enforcement agency there had been, every acronym imaginable, had been involved in counterterrorism, drugs, ­people trafficking, airport security, homicide and organized crime. Now he was high up in the new National Crime Agency, the NCA, which had been working on Operation Hawk with the local forces. Though Burgess wasn't the go-­to man for rural crime, he oversaw a variety of operations, and Banks was willing to bet he knew as much about what was going on there as the team that had been assigned to it.

“I'm fine,” said Banks, squeezing himself into the small space on a wobbly chair.

“I noticed the bar was getting busy,” said Burgess, “so I took the liberty of getting the drinks in. Lager for me, of course, and one of those fancy real ale things for you. Can't remember what it's called—­Codswallop or Cock-­a-­doodle-­doo or some such thing—­but the delightful young lady at the bar recommended it.”

“Thank you,” said Banks, and took a sip. It tasted good. Hoppy and full-­bodied.

“So you got my message?”

“I'm here, aren't I?” Banks had received a phone call from Joanna MacDonald just after he had left Havers's office, telling him that she had been speaking with the NCA about his visit. They wanted to talk to him while he was in London and see if they could share information. She had no idea it was going to be Burgess who turned up. Banks doubted that she even knew him. But Banks wasn't greatly surprised. Burgess had a habit of turning up when you least expected him—­which was, perhaps, when you should
most
expect him. He and Banks had many points of difference, but they got along well and never let a good argument get in the way of the job.

He had also received a call from Gerry Masterson to inform him that DC Cabbot and Doug had got two names of possible bolt gun thieves out of Stirwall's—­Ulf Bengtsson and Kieran Welles. Annie believed that Welles was their best bet, but the team was working on tracking both of them down.

Gerry also informed him that the Kent police had phoned to report that Morgan Spencer's removal van had been found on some waste-­land on the outskirts of Dover. Inside were a Yamaha motorcycle and a Deutz-­Fahr Agrotron tractor. Both intact. The whole lot was being shipped up to North Yorkshire as soon as the locals could get transport organized. That came as a shock to Banks, but he filed it away for later.

“Well, it's good to see you down here again,” said Burgess. “It's been too long. When was the last time? That gay spook murder, wasn't it?”

“Probably,” said Banks. “I forget the exact occasion. You're well, I take it?”

Burgess looked more gaunt than usual, the belly that had been hanging over his belt the last time they met trimmed down, and the extra flab gone from his face, making his cheeks look hollow.

“Don't let appearances deceive you, old mate. I've been working out at the gym. Given up the evil weed—­Tom Thumbs, that is—­and cut back on the demon alcohol. A little. You should try it. I had a minor health scare a while back, meant they had to shove a camera up my arse on a stick. I must say, though, with the drugs they give you if you go private, you can't feel a thing. You can imagine my surprise when I found a note stuffed in my shoe afterward saying, ‘I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.' Still, such is life.”

“It was a false alarm?”

“It wasn't the big C, if that's what you mean. A small operation soon put things right, and now it's the healthy life for me.” He knocked back some lager.

Banks felt relieved to hear that Burgess's problem wasn't serious, and he realized that the man sitting opposite him was one of his few remaining friends, one of the few ­people he cared about, though he would never admit it. “It's that stuff'll kill you,” he said, pointing to Burgess's quickly vanishing pint of lager. “All chemicals. You want something like this.” He held up his own pint. “Organic. Good for you. Or red wine.”

“Same old Banksy, it's good to see.” Burgess clapped his hands together. “Anyway, enough of this banter. Let's get down to brass tacks, as you lot say up north.”

Banks hadn't heard anyone say that for a long time, except on television satires of northern life, but he let it go by. It was best to do that with many of the things Burgess said, he usually found. “Montague Havers?” Banks said.

“Yes, good old Monty.”

“Why is he still walking around free?”

“Because he's a devious bastard,” said Burgess. “All right, I know. I'll say it before you do. I'm a devious bastard, too, and not above bending the rules when it suits my purposes. You and I, we're from the same side of the tracks. We should understand each other. Thing is, Monty is, too.”

“But he's a crook. And he changed his name because he thought it sounded more posh.”

“It was a business decision. Monty grew up in the East End, like me, when it really was the East End, if you know what I mean. Thing is, when Thatcher started putting the economy to rights and commies like you went off feeling sorry for the poor fucking miners and electricians and factory workers, some of us knew a gift horse when it kicked us in the face, and we took our opportunities where we found them. There were billion-­pound privatizations, hostile takeovers, corporate raids, asset stripping. And very few rules. Great times, and open to all. You didn't have to be from Eton and Oxbridge to make it back then. All you had to do was throw out your lefty social conscience—­something you could never do, old mate. Those City lads were practically printing money, and they came from the same place as you and me. The mean streets. Shitty council estates. Comprehensives. If I hadn't already been busy climbing the greasy pole of policing, I might have been one of them, myself.”