Unti Peter Robinson #22 (6 page)

“Sorry, sir,” one of them mumbled.

“That's all right, son,” said Banks. “You can explain the contamination of the scene to the CSIs when they get here.”

The officer turned beet red.

“In the meantime,” Banks went on, “don't you think you could be doing something useful, like organizing a house-­to-­house of the immediate area?”

“What for, sir?” asked one of the female officers.

“What for? To find out if anybody heard or saw anything. What do you think?”

“But we don't know what happened yet,” said one of the others.

“That's right, sir,” the woman said. “It's probably just a dead dog or a badger or something.”

Banks sighed. “Well, how do you think you'll find out? Standing around the car smoking, contaminating the scene?”

“Besides,” added the female officer, clearly a bit miffed at being bossed about, “I can't see any houses around here. How are we supposed to organize a house-­to—­”

“Just bloody get cracking and find some,” snapped Banks, then he and Gerry turned away toward the hangar. Banks shook his head slowly. “Where do they get them from these days, Gerry?”

Gerry smiled. “Don't forget, sir, you were young once.”

Banks flashed her a surprised glance, then shoved his hands in the pockets of his raincoat. She was coming along nicely, he thought; she wouldn't have dared talk to him like that six months ago.

They found Winsome inside the hangar, to their right, taking photos with her mobile. The crime scene photographer, if one were to be required, would cover every inch of the place soon, but many detectives liked to take their own set of pictures before the experts arrived, to capture the scene as freshly as they could. The photos sometimes came in useful. Banks took in the vast hangar, sniffing the air. Nothing specific registered with him. The wind sounded like a bassoon.

Winsome turned at their arrival, and her eyes widened when she saw Banks. “Sir?”

“I know, I know, I'm supposed to be on holiday. I just couldn't resist the lure of a bloody crime scene. Tell me all about it.”

Banks listened closely as Winsome told him the story of her morning. “Where's this Gilchrist now?” he asked, when she had finished.

“I drove him home, sir.”

“You didn't—­”

“As if I would. I left two patrol officers guarding the scene. Gilchrist's ex-­army. Seems to know what he's about, has his head screwed on right.”

“Not an alarmist, then?”

“I wouldn't say so.”

Banks looked at the stains on the ground. “Soldiers make good killers,” he said. “It's what they're trained to do.”

“He was wounded,” Winsome said. “In Afghanistan. Walks with a stick.”

“Did he have anything interesting to tell us?”

“Not really, sir. Just that he grew up around here and the airfield's always been like this as far as he remembers. Kids play there. He's also noticed a few lorries coming or going over the past year or so.”

Banks knelt by the stains on the ground, hearing his knees crack as he did so. “It certainly looks like blood and brains to me. Let's say it is human. What happened? Someone shoots him, and he falls and bleeds out on the ground?”

“Possibly,” said Winsome. “Or stabs him. Then leaves the mess but takes the body away. If it were just an animal, I couldn't really see anyone having a reason to do that.”

Banks glanced at the stain. “There's not really all that much blood, is there? Have you—­”

“I thought I'd better leave it to the CSIs.”

Banks frowned at her. “Winsome, you're developing an annoying habit of answering my questions before I've asked them.”

“Yes, sir. You were going to ask if I'd searched for a bullet or shell casing. I must be getting to know the way your mind works.”

Banks stood up. “Do you know how frightening that thought is?”

“My dad always said I was a bit of a mind reader. Could have had a career on the stage.”

Banks smiled. They heard another car pull up in the yard, and moments after the door slammed, Jasminder Singh hurried in with her bag of tricks. “All right, where is it?” she asked.

“Nice to see you again, too, Jazz,” said Banks.

Jazz made a face. “DCI Banks. What a pleasure! And DS Jackman, how are you? Well, I hope? Will that do? Now can you show me where it is? No, don't bother, I can see it for myself.”

The new forensics bloodstain analyst and DNA technician was a petite attractive brunette in her early thirties. She didn't usually attend crime scenes with the CSIs unless her specific ser­vices were required, and the squad always had a hard time finding protective clothing that fit her. She looked lost inside the baggy overalls as she squatted by the stain on the concrete. She quickly mixed a small sample of the congealed blood with a delivery agent and added it drop by drop to the collection tube. She looked up at Banks as he watched her work. “You've seen this trick before?”

“Uh-­huh. It's still voodoo to me, but I understand it works.”

Jazz showed her white teeth in a broad grin. “Pretty much,” she said, getting to her feet. “We just wait for two or three minutes and—­Jap's your uncle—­we get an answer.”

“Jap?”

“I didn't have an Uncle Bob, but I did have an Uncle Japjot.”

Banks just stared at her.

“It was a family joke,” Jazz muttered. “You had to be there.”

They both turned to the tube, and a minute or so later two pinkish-­red lines appeared.

“Human blood,” said Banks.

“Don't jump to conclusions. It might be from a gorilla, or maybe a weasel or a badger. Nothing's perfect, is it? But I'd say there's a very good chance it's human, yes.”

“Any chance of a quick result on the DNA?”

Jazz gave him a look. “Always in a hurry.”

“Pretty please?”

“You want to jump the queue, is that what you're saying?”

“Yes. I mean, what's the point of having a forensics lab attached to the police station if we can't get a rush job on something? Besides, we need to know if this is something we need to call the team in for.”

“Well, at least you admit it. I'll see what I can do. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

“You're a treasure.”

“Do you think we should call in the rest of the team, guv?” said Winsome.

Banks looked at her, at the blood on the ground, then back at Jazz.

“It's your decision,” Jazz said. “But you know as well as I do that a positive in this test usually means human blood.”

“Yes,” Banks said, after a brief pause. “Yes, I really think we should.” He felt the tremor of excitement start to dislodge the lazy, relaxed feeling he had been enjoying over the past few days. He wasn't sure that he didn't like this frisson more.

“WE'LL DO
our best to help you,” Annie said, “but you have to remember that Michael isn't officially listed as a missing person yet, so we can hardly pull out all the stops. He's nineteen, and he's only been away from home for one night.”

“You'd pull out all the stops if it was Ian.”

Both Annie and Doug Wilson gave her puzzled looks. “Well, yes, of course we would,” Annie said.

Alex paused, seeming to understand the implications of what Annie had said, and of her own faux pas. “Of course you would. A child. Forgive me. It's just me opening my mouth before my brain's engaged. I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm talking about. I'm beside myself with worry.”

“That's all right,” said Annie. “I can understand your distress, especially if you say he hasn't done anything like this before. I'm not saying we won't look for him. We will. After all, we'd like to talk to him ourselves, so that's a bit of extra motivation, if you like. A touch of self-­interest never goes amiss.”

Alex nodded. “All right.”

“Let's get back to Sunday morning,” said Annie. “What time did Michael leave the flat?”

“He went out at about half past nine. Ian and I were just getting ready for church—­well, Ian's in Sunday school.”

“Michael doesn't usually go with you?”

“Michael's not religious. I can't really say I am myself, but I do find a bit of comfort in it sometimes. And it's tradition, a habit, isn't it? I mean, my mum and dad used to take me to Sunday school when I was little. Those are good memories. I loved the Bible stories and illustrations. Ian seems to like them, too.”

“Did Michael receive or make any texts or phone calls that Sunday morning?”

“He got a text just before he went out. I was getting Ian ready, but I heard it, you know, that tinkling sound the phone makes when a text comes in.”

“Did he tell you who it was from?”

“No. He just said that there might be a job on.”

“On a Sunday morning? Doing what?”

“He didn't say.”

“Did he say who with?”

“No.”

“But he said he might drop in on his father later?”

“Yes. His dad's been unwell lately. And Michael's a good son, despite their differences. There was a cancer scare, but it turned out to be his gallbladder. He still had to have an operation. His health's been a bit fragile lately, and he's been a bit depressed. And he frets so about the farm. I mean, they have their problems, right, but they get on OK most of the time, as long as they avoid certain subjects—­like me, and what Michael thinks he's doing with his life.”

“Sounds like most of us,” said Annie. “Then what?”

“He kissed me and Ian, like he usually does, then he left.”

“Did he have any money with him?”

“He usually carries a bit of cash, but he's very careful with the credit and debit cards. We both hate the idea of being in debt and paying interest.”

It didn't matter how careful he was, Annie thought. If he used them, they'd be able to find out where, should it come to that. “Does he have a passport?”

Alex walked over to the sideboard drawer and rummaged through it for a few moments, then returned bearing a passport. Annie opened it and saw the photo. It was the same person as in the picture on the mantelpiece. There were no stamps in the passport, which was only two years old. That meant he hadn't been outside the EU.

“Has anything out of the ordinary happened in your lives recently?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“Did you have an argument or anything like that?”

“No.”

“Did he seem worried, frightened, nervous, anxious? Different in any way?”

“No, he was the same as normal. But you're frightening me, asking all these questions.”

“Sorry, it's just routine,” said Annie. “We have to ask if we're to try and find him. Did he take the car?”

“Yes, of course. We can walk to church, but you need the car to drive up into the dale. Maybe that's it! I wouldn't be surprised if that old banger broke down somewhere. Maybe that's where he is? Up on the moors in the middle of nowhere with a dead mobile and a clapped-­out car, hoping the AA might just happen to pass by.”

“Can you tell me the number plate?”

Alex told her and Doug Wilson noted it down. “It's an old Peugeot. Dirty gray.”

Alex was clutching at straws, Annie thought. Even if Michael Lane had been at home on Saturday night, there was still a better chance that he was now in a lorry helping ship a stolen tractor over to Albania than stranded on the moors in a clapped-­out Peugeot hoping for the AA to turn up. But Alex didn't need to be told that. To Annie, Michael Lane was still a prime suspect, but to Alex he was a missing loved one. Somehow or other, Annie would have to sort all that out as gently as she could, or she risked losing any valuable cooperation she might need from Alex. It was a tricky balancing act.

“Could Michael be with a friend?” Annie asked. “And I don't mean a girlfriend. Do you know any of his mates?”

“He doesn't really have very many. His life was pretty isolated when he lived up at the farm, you see, and since then, well, most of the friends he did have have moved away, and we've sort of spent most of our time together. We don't socialize a lot. Going out can be expensive.”

“You never go out for a drink or anything? Or to a party?”

“Sometimes we go to the local for an evening out, if we can afford a sitter for Ian, but not very often. Neither of us is a big drinker, and we just enjoy our own company. It's cheaper to get a few cans or a bottle of wine in and watch telly than it is to go out for the night. It sounds boring, I suppose, but we're happy.”

“Can you think of anyone else at all Michael might have communicated with?”

“There's Keith, I suppose. He's still here. They went to school together, and they meet up for a game of darts once in a while. But Keith hasn't seen him. I phoned. Graham, too. He's married to Angie, who's my best friend, really. But Graham's a photography nut, and he and Michael get along well. They go off taking photos at various scenic spots around the Dales every now and then. Graham's been teaching Michael his way around a camera. As I said, Michael's a natural in some ways, but he doesn't know much about theory and techniques, or the history. I can't say I do, either, but Graham does. There's Morgan, too, I suppose. Michael works with him up on the farms sometimes. But I don't like him. He's too flash and full of himself. Wears a gold chain and has a spider tattoo on the side of his neck. Head shaved like one of those BNP types, though he isn't. He's half black. His dad's from Barbados. And he's always flirting with me.”

“Does Michael like him?”

“They work together, and they go for a pint together, too, sometimes, after a day's work. They get along all right. Talk about any work that might be coming up. Morgan's managed to get Michael in on a ­couple of decent-­paying jobs, and vice versa, so I don't suppose I should be so down on him.” She gave a little shudder and pulled a face. “You know, it's just like, if you're a woman, he makes you feel like a piece of meat.”