Unti Peter Robinson #22 (36 page)

“So you're saying . . .”

“You're catching on. If she was in trouble out here, the odds are she'd run for the caves. It would give her an advantage.”

“And her chances once she'd got there?”

“Depends on whether someone was after her, and whether that someone also knows the system. It's not for novices, though, so he'd have to be an experienced potholer. The odds that he's not are good. There aren't that many.”

“From what I know of him, I doubt he goes potholing in his spare time. More like pulls the legs off flies. What would you advise us to do, assuming this is true?”

“Get up there right away and find out if I'm right.”

Banks said nothing.

As if sensing and understanding his indecision, Gilchrist said, “Look, I know you don't want ­people like me interfering, but I assure you I also have experience of the caves. I have military training, too. I can handle myself, despite the injury.” He held his arms out. “Look, no stick.”

“You don't need it?”

“Actually, it's in the car, and I could certainly use it to get to Woadly Edge. But once I'm inside, no. As long as I don't have to run.”

“This is against my better judgment,” said Banks.

“Come on, we should get going. Bring the others. We might need some help clearing the entrance.”

Banks spoke to Annie and two of the patrol officers while Gilchrist got his walking stick and torch, along with two spades they found in the yard, then the four of them set off up the rise toward Woadly Edge. It didn't take long to get there, and the drifts had not covered the entrance. A gaping dark hole showed in stark contrast against the white surroundings. The snow was light enough that they could walk straight through it.

“That's her jacket,” said Banks, pointing his torch toward the middle of three cave entrances. “That's Winsome's jacket.”

His voice echoed. They were standing in a sort of stone hallway or foyer with a high ceiling, or so it seemed to Banks, and Winsome's quilted jacket lay on the ground in front of the central of three openings. There was no trace or sign of Atherton.

“That's a dead end,” said Gilchrist. “She was trying to misdirect him.”

“Which means she knew he was after her, and he wasn't far behind,” said Banks. “She must be bloody freezing.”

Gilchrist bent forward and went into the right-­hand tunnel.

“What are you doing?”

Gilchrist looked back. “If she went anywhere,” he said, “it was down here. She'd know as well as I do about the left-­hand entrance.”

“What about it?”

“It gets too narrow. This one's narrow in parts, too, but it's the only way in from here.”

“Into where?” Annie asked.

“I don't have time to explain,” said Gilchrist, edging forward even as he spoke, “but it's a large system of passages and caverns, one of the biggest in Europe. There are miles and miles of connected caves in there, but it's a bit like a maze.”

“Can you get through?” Banks said, bending in the entrance after him.

“Yes,” Gilchrist said, then vanished into the darkness.

Banks caught up with him and tapped him on the shoulder. “Be careful,” he said. “Don't forget, Atherton might be in there, and we believe he's a killer.”

“I've encountered killers before,” said Gilchrist. “I'll make sure I see him before he sees me.”

Banks went back outside to Annie. “Shit,” he said. “I don't like this at all.”

“Well, do you want to go in after him?”

Banks looked at the dark tunnel. Even when he shone his torch on the walls they looked slimy and uninviting. He felt a sense of claustrophobia envelop him. “No way. But if it's for Winsome I will.”

He started to move forward.

Annie grabbed his sleeve. “Don't,” she said. “Leave it to Gilchrist. He might be a civilian, but he's a trained soldier and potholer. He knows what he's doing. You don't. You could get stuck in there or something.”

“I hate just waiting around.”

“You and me both. But like you said, it's Winsome. He's her best chance.”

“What if Atherton is in there?”

“At least he doesn't have his bolt gun. And if he is, I'd say it's already game over, one way or another, wouldn't you? You can't turn back the clock.”

“You're a real comfort.”

SHE WAS
back at Spring Hill walking home from Sunday school and a man in a battered hat and a dark moth-­eaten coat was following her. Only it was snowing and she remembered thinking, in the dream, that it never snows in Maroon Town. But it did, and all the flame trees were covered in it, all green and white and red like Christmas trees. But she was frightened. The man was following her. She thought he was probably the “Skinner” ­people were talking about. He skinned his victims after he'd had his way with them. But there was another man on the scene, her father in his best Sunday suit, not his uniform, and they were fighting. The Skinner was going to kill her father and skin him. She had to get back to them and help but she couldn't get through, she was slipping and sliding and getting stuck up to her knees and she knew she just couldn't make it in time, a knife flashing . . .

Winsome gave an involuntary twitch and her eyes opened wide with fear. She realized that she had fallen asleep. She was waking from a dream. Moving carefully, she curled up into a ball against the cold. It wouldn't do to fall off the ledge after all she had been through. She had no idea how long she had been there. Using her mobile light, she checked her watch and saw it was going on five o'clock. About four hours, then. Had she waited long enough? Would the cavalry have arrived at High Point Farm? Of course, they would have no idea where she was. Maybe Banks and Annie vaguely remembered her mentioning potholing, but they probably didn't know about the cave system here, or its access points. They'd be searching for her around the farm and the open moorland, hindered by the snow.

Where was Atherton? She wasn't certain that the shouts and screams she had heard earlier were human or just a trick of the wind, but she hadn't heard anything for some time now. He certainly hadn't got through to her in two hours, but that didn't mean he wasn't waiting at the exit. He could even have gone back to the abattoir and picked up his bolt pistol. Or perhaps he imagined there were other exits, that she must be long gone, and had given up the ghost and scarpered. She just didn't know. Was it worth the risk of going back to find out?

Despite the insulation of the rock, she was freezing. She wished she hadn't left her jacket behind to try to fool Atherton. She rubbed her hands together and held her knees tighter to her chest. There wasn't much she could do about her feet. They were like blocks of ice.

She would give it an hour longer, she decided. If no help had come by then, she would make her way back out as slowly and quietly as she could. Even if Gerry and the backup had no idea that she was in the cave, they would surely have got as far as High Point Farm, and she could outrun Atherton back down there.

Just when she had made herself as comfortable as she could again on the ledge, she thought she heard a slithering sound from the tunnel.

Atherton
.

She strained, but heard nothing for a few moments, then she heard it again, a light scraping, like someone crawling on his stomach.

As quietly as she could, she stood up and pressed her back against the wall by the entrance. When he came out, he would be bent forward. Just one quick tug on his arm was all it would take, and his own momentum would take him over the edge. She had rehearsed the possibility time after time in her mind during her first anxious minutes in the cavern.

He was getting closer, up on his feet now. She could hear muffled footsteps, though there was something odd about them. If he had a torch, he must have turned it off, because the opening was still pitch-­black. Winsome tensed. It wouldn't be long now. Just one quick pull, she told herself, then let go, or she'd be following him over the edge and end up impaled on a stalagmite. The shuffling got nearer and she was just about to reach out when she realized why it sounded so strange.
He was limping.
She relaxed just as she heard a familiar voice say, “Winsome? Are you there? Are you alone?”

Terry. She let herself fall back against the wall and slide down so she was sitting on the ledge again.

She had tears in her eyes. “Yes,” she said, laughing or crying as she spoke. “Yes, I'm here. And yes, I'm alone. Very bloody alone.” She never swore, and when the word came out it shocked her. She put her hand to her mouth, but she couldn't stop laughing. “I swore,” she said. “I can't believe it. I swore.”

Then he was standing there, his torch on again, illuminating part of the cathedral vastness before them. “Wash your mouth out,” he said.

“Help me.”

He reached down to help her to her feet, and as soon as she was standing she leaned forward and kissed him full on the lips, far far longer than she had even planned on doing.

“SORRY WE'RE
so late getting around to you, Mr. Beddoes,” said Banks. “We had a bit of a crisis to take care of first.” It was nine o'clock and the Beddoeses had been in a holding cell at the station since four, complaining all the time. Patricia Beddoes had been demanding to see Cathy Gervaise, but even when one of the custody officers thought he should at least inform the AC about what was happening, “Cathy” Gervaise made it clear that she wasn't available.

Cassandra Wakefield had turned up half an hour ago, and while her associate represented Patricia Beddoes in another interview room with Annie and Doug Wilson, she stuck with John Beddoes, sitting opposite Banks and Gerry.

“I can't believe this,” Beddoes complained. “My wife and I are quietly going about our business and some hooligan of a police officer blocks our way and drags us all the way down here.”

“Where were you going?” Banks asked.

“It's none of your fucking business.”

“Swearing won't help, Mr. Beddoes,” said Cassandra Wakefield.

Banks looked at his notes. “According to our preliminary analysis of recent activity on your laptop computer, you had just completed a number of large financial transactions, money transfers, in fact, to offshore bank accounts in the British Virgin Islands.”

“So what? They're legitimate accounts. I pay my taxes.”

“I'm sure you do, Mr. Beddoes, but don't you think it's a bit soon for another holiday? I mean, you've just got back from Mexico. Think of all that ultraviolet radiation.”

“What business of yours is it where and when we go for our holidays?”

“You also had a lot of luggage. How long were you planning on being away for?”

“I don't know. A while.”

“Don't you think it looks a bit suspicious? Just after I visit you and let you know I've talked to Malcolm Hackett, an old business associate of yours, and that we've found Michael Lane, a witness to the murder of Morgan Spencer, you and your wife make a run for it.”

“We weren't ‘making a run for it.' ”

“It looks like that to me,” said Banks. “Wouldn't you agree, Gerry?”

“Certainly would, sir. I mean, it's not everyone takes a fragile vase off the mantelpiece on holiday with them, or a pair of antique silver sugar tongs.”

“That vase happens to be a valuable antique, too. And given what occurred last time we were away, I'd say we were more than justified in taking a few valuables with us.”

“Really, Chief Inspector,” said Cassandra Wakefield, fingering her pearls, “it does seem a remarkably thin context for detaining my client and interfering with his basic freedom of movement.”

“Morgan Spencer stole your tractor, didn't he?” Banks said to Beddoes.

“Did he? I can't say it surprises me.”

“You know Morgan Spencer, then? Earlier you said you had no idea who he was.”

“I didn't know him well. Not personally. Only that he was a mate of the Lane boy. I've seen him around. Thick as thieves. Look, you know all this. Why am I here?”

“You're here because we believe you're one of the men running a lucrative international criminal activity dealing in stolen farm equipment and livestock. Your partner Malcolm Hackett, aka Montague Havers, who is currently being questioned by my colleagues in London, took care of the export side, and you supplied the raw materials from the North Yorkshire region. That is, tractors, combines, Range Rovers, lambs, whatever. You employed a number of ­people at various levels, including Ronald Tanner, Carl Utley, Kenneth Atherton, aka Kieran Welles, Caleb Ross and Morgan Spencer. Your wife, Patricia, may be involved. Police have also picked up Mr. Havers's chief operators in Lincolnshire and Cumbria. More arrests are expected to follow. Plenty of ­people are talking.”

“Really?” said Beddoes. “Where's your proof of all this?”

That was a thorny issue for Banks. He didn't really have any proof. A deeper dig into Beddoes's finances would probably turn up anomalies, but that would take time. Michael Lane's word alone wasn't good enough, but it was a place to start.

“We also believe,” Banks went on, “that Morgan Spencer was murdered partly because he stole your tractor, and partly because his colleagues, especially Atherton, had got fed up with him. He talked big, wanted a bigger role, more money, and he thought he was demonstrating his ability to get creative and play with the big boys by stealing an expensive tractor. Unfortunately, it turned out to be yours.”

“So someone steals my tractor and I'm the criminal?”

“Kenneth Atherton killed Morgan Spencer with a bolt pistol he stole from Stirwall's Abattoir around the time he was fired nearly two years ago. He has also committed an earlier murder with the same weapon. We have matching prints from the weapon.”