Unti Peter Robinson #22 (8 page)

“Do you know where he keeps his van?”

“What van?”

“I understand Morgan's in the house removal business. He has a large van.”

“I didn't know that. Sorry, but I've no idea. I do know he rides a motorbike. A Yamaha. He usually keeps it parked beside the caravan.”

Annie could think of nothing more, but when they got to the door she asked on impulse, “Do you have a key to Morgan's caravan?”

“No. Why? Do you think something's happened to him?”

“We have no idea. As I said, we're just trying to find his mate, Michael Lane.”

“Sorry I can't help.”

“Do you think we could have a look around his caravan?”

“Got a search warrant?”

“Come on, Rick. You were a copper once.”

“It might just be a shitty old caravan to you, love, but it's home to Morgan. Come back with a warrant and Ted'll probably let you in. But, I warn you, he's as much a stickler as I am. We look out for one another around these parts.”

“In adversity, solidarity,” said Annie. She didn't know where she'd heard that before, but it sounded good. “I'll bear that in mind. No problem. Thanks for your time.”

They struggled back into their wellies on the steps. “I really bollixed that up, didn't I?” Annie said to Doug Wilson as they squelched back to the car. She could feel Campbell's eyes on them as she walked.

“In what way?” Wilson asked.

“The phony camaraderie. Didn't fall for it, did he? I was hoping for a look around Spencer's caravan.”

“Not your fault, boss,” said Wilson. “If you ask me, the way things are going we'll be back with a warrant tomorrow if we want.”

ANNIE CABBOT
watched the door as Banks and AC Gervaise walked into the boardroom, deep in conversation, for the late briefing. The team was already assembled: Annie herself, Doug Wilson, Winsome Jackman, Gerry Masterson, Stefan Nowak and Jazz Singh, along with a ­couple of other CSI officers, Peter Darby, the police photographer, and PCs Kim Trevor and Derek Bowland. They all sat around the polished oval table under the gaze of the old wool magnates with red and purple bulbous noses and tight collars. Legal pads and styrofoam cups of tea, coffee or water sat on the boardroom table in front of them. A plate of biscuits stood at the center.

Banks and AC Gervaise took their positions by the two whiteboards and the glass board, which was looking to Annie more and more like something out of an American cop program. She kept expecting it to light up with pictures and charts and blowups of fingerprints whenever Banks touched it, or moving and talking images he could shift around with a simple wave of his hand. But it wasn't
that
good. Right now, there wasn't much on any of the boards, except the names of the various players and the times of significant events, along with a few of Darby's photos from the hangar, about which Annie had heard only recently, having been away most of the day. Apparently the CSIs had found some human blood, but they were still short of a body. A manned mobile crime unit had been set up on the compound just outside the hangar, and half a dozen or so CSIs were still at work out there. Shifts of uniformed officers would be guarding the scene until further notice.

Annie looked at the whiteboard while Banks and Gervaise settled down. Two hand-­sketched maps were tacked up there, one of the area around Beddoes's farm and the other of the hangar area. They identified access roads and footpaths. From what Annie could see, there weren't many in either location. Rural crime at its best.

Banks shuffled his papers, stood up and opened the briefing. “I think we'd better start off by pooling our information. As you all probably know, I just got back from leave this morning, so the only case I'm current on is an apparent killing, or serious wounding, at the old abandoned aerodrome near Drewick, though the AC has filled me in briefly on one or two other developments that may possibly be related.” He looked at Annie. “I understand you and Doug have been working on a stolen tractor and missing person?”

Annie rolled her eyes. “So it would appear,” she said. “Not officially ‘missing,' but we haven't been able to locate him yet. Or his mate.” Then she went on to explain about John Beddoes and Frank Lane, not leaving out Michael Lane and Alex Preston, or Morgan Spencer. When she had finished, she leaned back in her chair and tapped her pen on her notepad.

“Do you think this Michael Lane character could be involved in the tractor theft?” Banks asked.

Annie seemed to deliberate a few moments before answering. “It's possible,” she said. “I mean, he got probation and community ser­vice for joyriding eighteen months back, after his mum left his dad, though I don't think that means much. He was upset at the time. He also sometimes works as an odd-­job man on the local farms along with his mate Morgan Spencer. It's likely that they are in a good position to know who's at home and who isn't. Maybe Michael Lane couldn't look a gift horse in the mouth? Maybe him and Spencer are both on their way to Romania or wherever with the tractor? But Lane has an alibi, for what it's worth. His girlfriend swears he was with her all Saturday night, until about half past nine Sunday morning.”

“Any ideas?”

“Well,” said Annie, “I wouldn't overlook the possibility of insurance fraud.”

“You mean Beddoes himself?”

“Why not? He's got a City background, apparently. Knows finance. On the surface of it, he seems well off. But the farm can't be all that profitable. All he does is raise a few pigs and free-­range chickens for local restaurants and several acres of rapeseed for high-­end cooking oils. He might have got into something over his head. Or maybe he needs to supplement his income? And the idiot did leave the ignition key hanging on a hook on the wall.”

“Worth thinking about,” Banks said. He glanced toward AC Gervaise. “I understand you know Patricia Beddoes, ma'am?”

“Slightly.”

“What do you think?”

“Their finances? Insurance fraud? I couldn't really say one way or the other. She always seemed like a comfortably-­off person to me. Nice clothes. Designer labels. I think she was a bit bored with the country, missed her exotic travel. Hence the Mexico trip, I suppose. And I do believe they have a little pied-­à-­terre in Holland Park. Other than that, all I know is that she likes Kate Atkinson and Khaled Hosseini.”

That drew several chuckles from the room. “You know,” Annie said, “if we're considering a local candidate being involved, what about Frank Lane? By the look of his farm he could do with an injection of cash, and he felt resentful toward the successful incomer. It was obvious in his tone and what he said. He was also in a position to organize the theft easily enough. He had the keys to Beddoes's farm, and he probably knew that the tractor keys were hanging on the wall of the garage. Just a possibility.”

“And we'll bear it in mind,” said Banks. “Maybe father and son were in it together? Did Michael Lane know that Beddoes was on holiday?” Banks asked Annie.

“More than likely. And Frank Lane also seemed a bit contemptuous of the Mexico trip. Or maybe he was just envious.”

“You said Michael Lane's relationship with the victim, John Beddoes, was strained?”

“Yes,” said Annie. “I suppose it could have been some sort of misguided revenge, an old vendetta. Also, Frank Lane said he thought Beddoes was full of himself. He played it down, said there was no bitterness, but there could be something in it. Lane's a professional farmer, making a hard living the hard way. Beddoes is an amateur, a hobbyist. That sort of thing. If Michael had something against both of them, then he'd know that stealing the tractor would probably hurt his father, Frank Lane, too, as he'd been given the responsibility of looking after the Beddoes farm. Two birds with one stone. And Michael does have the joyriding incident in his background. Trouble is, we don't really know Michael Lane, what sort of person he is. His partner thinks he's wonderful, but she's biased. Is he the vengeful sort, the type to harbor a grudge? We don't know. We also need to have a more extensive search of the Lane farm premises, just in case he's hanging out there for some reason.”

“We'll schedule that for tomorrow morning,” Banks said. “I'd like to talk to Beddoes and Lane myself. I'm not sure about the vendetta angle, though. These tractors are worth a lot of money, and it takes a great deal of organization, not to mention expense, to steal one. Do you think Michael Lane, or even his father, was capable of organizing such a theft?”

“No,” said Annie. “I shouldn't imagine they were. I certainly don't think Michael Lane could have stolen it by himself, but he could have been involved with whoever did do it. As I said, Beddoes left the key in the garage. Michael Lane might have known about that, too. He could also have been the one who gave the tip-­off about the Beddoeses' Mexico trip, for example.” Annie became silent, as if she were realizing something for the first time.

Banks noticed the hesitation. “What is it, Annie?”

“Probably nothing, really.” Damn it, Annie thought, she hated this. Talking to Alex Preston had affected her. Like most of the Eastvale police, Annie had written off the East Side Estate, mainly because the only times she had ever been there were to the scenes of domestics, drug deals turned nasty, fights, stabbings, even murders. On such experiences were a copper's judgments based. But Alex Preston not only kept a clean house and loved her young son, she had put her mistakes behind her—­mistakes that could have set many a soul well on the way to more of the same—­and pulled herself up by the bootstraps. She had a positive, optimistic outlook that Annie admired, and she had dreams. Perhaps Annie also envied Alex a bit, she was willing to admit. Alex seemed to have got herself together and found a good man. Annie had no one to look after her and make her happy. She didn't have many dreams left, either.

It was rare that Annie felt sentimental about ­people she didn't really know, and maybe it was a sign that she was leaving behind some of the depression and cynicism that seemed to have invaded her mind since the shooting. That was a good thing; she hadn't liked the person she was becoming. Loneliness was turning her into a moody and sharp-­tongued bitch. If she got much worse, she wouldn't be able to find anyone willing to put up with her, let alone love and cherish her. She just hoped that she didn't get so soft she couldn't see the hard truth when it was staring her in the face. Any good copper needs at least an ounce or two of skepticism, even cynicism. But Annie also realized that she had not completely lost her copper's mistrust of the world, that some of what she had learned from Alex Preston had made her more suspicious of Michael Lane.

“Lane's girlfriend, Alex Preston, works part-­time at that travel agent's in the Swainsdale Centre,” she said. “GoThereNow.”

“The same one Beddoes used to book the trip?”

“Dunno.” Annie glanced at Doug Wilson. “We haven't had a chance to check it out yet. We've been splodging around in the mud most of the day.”

This drew a titter from the audience. Banks glanced at his watch. “First thing tomorrow. Then we can scrounge up a few bodies and give the Lane farm a thorough once-­over, just to make sure Michael Lane isn't there. That would be embarrassing.” He paused. “Do you think this Preston woman could be involved?”

“She's worried sick,” said Annie. “She thinks something's happened to Lane.”

“And you?”

“I'm taking her seriously.”

“Is anyone actually looking? I mean, he's not officially listed as missing yet, is he?”

“No, sir,” said Doug Wilson. “But DI Cabbot and I got a recent picture and we've circulated it within the area. We've also been in touch with the airlines and railway stations, and we've asked to be informed of any activity on his mobile phone, debit or credit card. Nothing yet, not since last Friday.”

“Makes sense if he's being careful.” Then Banks turned back to Annie. “And Morgan Spencer?”

“He wasn't in when we called.”

“Do you think there's a connection with the blood found in the hangar?” Banks asked. “It does seem a bit of a coincidence. Do you think the victim could be Lane? Or Spencer?”

“No. I . . . I mean . . . I don't know. Maybe. I was just making a point,” Annie said. “I'm taking Alex Preston seriously. But now you come to mention it, an expensive tractor is stolen while the owner's away in Mexico, a neighbor's son with a criminal record goes walkabout, he's living with a woman who works at a travel agent's and his mate owns a removal van. It all seems a bit fishy to me. And someone texted Michael on Sunday morning, just before he went out. It could have been Spencer. It's not as if we get such a collection of coincidences every day, is it?”

“Let's see if we can find out anything about Morgan Spencer's removal van and that text he sent,” said Banks. “And we'd also better look into who owns the aerodrome property. Does Morgan Spencer have a record?”

“No,” said Annie. “He's clean as far as we're concerned.”

Banks glanced toward Winsome. “Did you follow up on what Gilchrist told you about the lorries, get anything more, any confirmation?”

“Not yet, sir. We've still got officers out asking questions in the general area. Maybe someone else noticed these lorries, too. Though Mr. Gilchrist did say it was only three or four times in the past year or so.”

“If our thieves were using the hangar as part of a route for getting stolen farm equipment out of the country, or even across it, they would probably only have needed it for larger items, like tractors and combines. As far as I know, they'd slaughter any stolen livestock locally and dispose of it here through illegal channels. Dodgy butchers. Abattoirs that don't ask too many questions. Quickly. Rustlers aren't in the business of grazing stolen sheep and cattle. And the airfield and hangar were ideal for large transfers. After all, the place was padlocked and signposted private. It looked official, even though it was neglected. ­People would most likely assume that whoever ran the lorries in and out were the owners, using it for legitimate business, or at least had official permission to be there. We could be onto something here.”