Careless Love Read online

  Dedication

  To Sheila

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Peter Robinson

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  BROAD RIBBONS OF FOG LINGERED IN THE VALLEY BOTTOM as Detective Superintendent Alan Banks drove the unmarked police car slowly along Belderfell Pass, cursing the fact that his beloved Porsche was in the garage for its MOT. Fortunately, visibility was good on the winding road, about halfway up the steep fell side. Though it was only three o’clock in the afternoon, it was already starting to get dark as the sun sank below the hills to the west.

  “Here they are,” said DS Winsome Jackman as they came around a bend and saw a patrol car stopped by a metallic blue Megane, reducing the two lanes to one.

  Banks brought the car to a halt by the tapes, and he and Winsome got out, flashing their warrant cards. One of the uniformed officers was talking to a woman beside the Megane, while his partner kept an eye on the road in order to warn any oncoming traffic to slow down.

  All three looked twice at Winsome. Not only because she was beautiful, which she was, but because it wasn’t often you saw a six-foot-tall black woman on Belderfell Pass. Or anywhere else in the Eastvale area, for that matter. As usual, Winsome took it in her stride, edging to the sideline and taking out her notebook and pen.

  Tucked away in a lay-by cut into the hillside, half hidden by shrubbery, was a damaged Ford Focus, the result of a minor crash. Nobody had been seriously injured, but the car was a write-off, its radiator grille crushed, bonnet buckled and the engine hanging half out of one side. Given the remote location and the weather conditions over the previous week, the attending officer must have known it would take some time to get the wreck towed to a garage, so he had placed a yellow POLICE AWARE sign in the front windscreen. That made it clear to passers-by that the police already knew about the accident and would get around to dealing with it in their own time.

  “What have we got?” asked Banks, eyeing the Focus.

  “She’s in there,” said the patrol officer, pointing. The woman beside him was leaning back against the Megane’s bonnet. Her arms were folded tight and she looked upset.

  The Focus stood in the lay-by facing in the wrong direction. Banks edged around to the driver’s seat and glanced through the window. A young woman was behind the wheel, eyes wide open, staring straight ahead. It didn’t take a police doctor to tell him that she was dead.

  Banks slipped on his latex gloves and opened the car door. The metal squealed. He bent to examine the body. Blond hair trailed over her shoulders and a ragged fringe and hoop earrings framed a heart-shaped face that must have been quite beautiful in life. She was wearing muted pink lipstick, blue eyeshadow and a fashionable black, strapless dress, the kind of item a young woman might wear for a special night out, a dinner at a fine restaurant, say, or an evening at the theater. She also wore strappy sandals, high-heeled, but not to the point that would cause problems of balance, and some costume jewelery. Her hands were folded on her lap, a charm bracelet on her right wrist and a watch on the other. The seat belt wasn’t fastened, and there was no handbag or coat anywhere to be seen inside the car. Her skin was pale and smooth. As far as Banks could tell, there was no physical evidence of any mistreatment of the body. No bruises, cuts or traces of blood. Also nothing to offer any clues as to her identity. He checked the glove compartment and found some petrol receipts, nicotine gum and a screwdriver.

  Banks turned back to the constable. “Any idea of the circumstances of the accident, PC . . . ?”

  “Knowles, sir. Barry Knowles.”

  “Well, Barry, what can you tell us?”

  Knowles gestured to his partner. “What do you want to know? Ted and me were at the original scene.”

  “You’d better start at the beginning. All I know so far is that this Focus was involved in an accident here last weekend.”

  “That’s right.” Knowles checked his notes. “Friday night, it was. Incident called in from Trevor Vernon’s mobile at ten thirty-seven p.m. That’s the owner, sir. There was a bit of patchy fog and Mr. Vernon ran into a white van on a tight bend. They were lucky to get away with only cuts and bruises. If one of them had gone over the edge . . . well . . .” He gestured down at the valley bottom and swallowed.

  Banks remembered arriving at a scene not far from here by helicopter when a van full of dead farm animals had gone over the side. Being close to the spot again brought back the horrific images of that day, not least of which was the sight of an improbable combination of man, steering wheel and engine block that more resembled a horror-film scene imagined by H.R. Giger than it did a human being. “Go on,” he said.

  “It was all aboveboard,” PC Knowles went on. “Neither of the drivers had been drinking. The bloke in the van, John Kelly, was a builder going home late from a job. He admitted he was in a bit of a hurry but denied exceeding the speed limit. The other two, Mr. and Mrs. Vernon, were on their way back from a play at the Georgian Theatre in Richmond. Mr. Vernon said they’d each consumed a glass of wine during the interval, and our tests showed the driver was not over the legal limit.”

  “A builder? Working until after ten thirty on a Friday night? I suppose miracles might happen, but . . .”

  PC Knowles shrugged. “It’s what he told us, sir. He gave us the address of the property he was working on, too.”

  “OK,” said Banks. “What happened to them all?”

  “Eastvale General. Just cuts and bruises. Shock, of course. Treated and released. Kelly’s van was still roadworthy, so he drove himself home afterwards, but the Focus . . . well, you can see for yourself. It can take a few days to make the arrangements with the garage. Vernon made a bit of fuss, going on about it being Kelly’s fault and all for driving too fast, but we put it down to shock.”

  “How long were you here?”

  “It was after twelve when we put the sign in the window of the Focus and left,” said Knowles. He checked his notebook again. “Twelve-o-nine a.m.”

  “And what about the girl?”

  PC Knowles paled. “Don’t know, sir. Our dispatcher got a call this morning. The lady here, Mrs. Brody. She talked about an abandoned car, and Sergeant Harris was just about to tell her that we already knew about it, that’s why we had the POLICE AWARE sign in the window, but she said there was a dead girl in the car. There was certainly no girl here when we attended the scene of the accident on Friday night. Dead or alive.”

  Banks smiled. “I should imagine not, PC Knowles, or you would have made a note of it, I’m sure.”

  Knowles reddened and shuffled his feet. “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you examine the boot?”

  “No, sir. I mean, we . . .”

  “It’s all right. Was the car left unlocked?”

  “Yes, sir. I tried to lock it, but the key wouldn’t work. Too much damage to the doors.”

  “Do either of you recognize the girl?”

  “No,” said PC Knowles. “Never seen her before.”

  Banks turned to Mrs. Brody, who was as tall as Winsome and just as statuesque, with short curly brown hair. Handsome rather than beautiful, Banks thought, in her early forties, casually dressed in bl
ack slacks, buttoned blouse and a padded zip-up jacket, wedding band on the third finger of her left hand. “Mrs. Brody?”

  “Kirsten, please.” She leaned forward and stretched out her hand. Banks shook it. Winsome came back from examining the car to stand beside them, notebook and pen in her hand.

  “You found the body?” Banks asked Kirsten Brody.

  Kirsten Brody touched her throat. “Yes. It was a terrible shock. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a dead person outside of a funeral home. I was just so glad I managed to get a signal for the mobile up here.” She had a lilting Scottish accent. Edinburgh, Banks guessed. Morningside, most likely.

  “It can be a bit hit and miss around these parts,” Banks allowed. “Did you recognize her from anywhere?”

  “No. I’ve never seen her before.”

  “Did you touch the body?”

  “Lord, no.”

  “How did you know she was dead?”

  “Well, I don’t suppose I did, really. Not technically. But she wasn’t moving. Her eyes were open. And she was so pale. I don’t, I just . . . There was nothing I could have done. I didn’t open the door. I tapped gently on the window, but you can see . . .”

  “Yes.” Banks paused for a moment to let Kirsten Brody collect herself, then asked, “What made you stop in the first place? I mean, I assume you saw the POLICE AWARE sign?”

  “Yes. I see them often enough on out-of-the-way roads like this. I work for the National Parks, so I do quite a lot of country driving. I don’t know what it was, really. It was more like a feeling. Perhaps a shadow that shouldn’t have been there, maybe a draft blowing a lock of her hair, some sort of movement? I really don’t know what it was that made me stop. I can’t explain it. I just felt there was something wrong about it.”

  “And what did you do then?”

  “Well, I pulled in as close to the side of the road as I could and went to have a look. There was no other traffic around. I remember the stillness when I got out of the car. The silence. Then, when I saw her, I got scared. I thought how foolish I was being. I mean, what if someone had done something to her? What if that someone was still around?”

  “Did you see any other cars?”

  “None. No one passed me while I was waiting, and I hadn’t seen one single car on my whole drive along the pass.”

  “Did you see anyone around or notice anything odd? A sound? Movement? A smell?”

  “No. Nobody. Nothing. I know it sounds silly, but I didn’t feel right leaving her. I knew she was dead, or I thought she was, but . . . I don’t know . . . It just wouldn’t have seemed right. I calmed myself down and called the police. They said they’d send a car up immediately and to stay where I was.”

  “What did you do in the meantime?”

  “I sat in the car and waited. I called my husband. He was expecting me back.”

  “OK,” said Banks. “I think that’s all for now. We’ll get you away from here. You can make a statement at the police station in Eastvale, if that’s all right? Maybe with a nice cup of sweet strong tea? Just follow the patrol car.” Banks gestured to Knowles, who got back into their car, leaving his partner to keep the scene secure.

  Kirsten Brody nodded and smiled briefly.

  After he had watched them drive away, Banks had another look at the body then turned to Winsome. “We’d better get Dr. Burns up here,” he said. “Make that the full CSI team. Peter Darby, too. We’ll need photos and video. And I’ll need Peter to prepare a suitable image of her in time for the TV’s local evening news. We’ll get prints, DNA and dental records, but they can all take time, and I doubt she’s in the system. We need to know who she is. God knows what we’ve got on our hands here. We don’t know whether she died in the car or was dead before she got there, but one thing I am pretty sure of is that she didn’t get here under her own steam.”

  TREVOR AND Nancy Vernon lived in a Georgian-style semi-detached house just off Market Street, in the same part of Eastvale where Banks used to live with Sandra, Tracy and Brian, years ago when he first moved up north. The area hadn’t changed much since he had moved to Newhope Cottage after the divorce. Still the same bay windows, doors panelled with frosted glass, net curtains, well-tended gardens with trim lawns. And across Market Street were the same shops: the newsagent’s where Banks had picked up his morning Guardian on his way to work, a reliable butcher and greengrocer, a hairdresser Sandra had never liked, a bakery that made wonderful baguettes, and a betting shop Banks had used only on those rare occasions when he had a flutter, such as the Grand National and the Derby. There was also the dentist’s surgery on the corner, which had featured in his previous major case, and a pub called The Nag’s Head a bit further along. Banks had only been in there once during the time he had lived in the neighborhood, and he found he would rather walk into town to somewhere with better beer, quieter music and a more convivial atmosphere.

  Banks rang the doorbell and soon saw a blurred figure moving beyond the frosted glass. The man who answered had a puzzled and slightly annoyed expression on his face. He was about forty, wearing a grey V-neck jumper over a white shirt and muted tie. His hair was thinning at the front, and he was running to fat around the middle.

  “Mr. Vernon?” Banks asked.

  “Yes, that’s me. I’m afraid whatever it is, it’s not convenient at the moment. I don’t negotiate financial transactions of any kind on the doorstep.”

  “Very wise, sir, if I may say so. And I can’t say I blame you.” Banks showed his warrant card. Winsome did likewise.

  “Police? What’s all this— Oh, it must be about the car. Of course. You’ve got it sorted? Sorry, do come in.”

  They followed him into the hallway. A number of coats hung on pegs, and Vernon added Banks’s and Winsome’s to the row.

  “What is it, Daddy?” asked a girl of about twelve, poking her head around the dining-room door.

  “Never you mind,” said Vernon. “You finish your homework or your mummy will be angry with you.”

  The head disappeared.

  “Come through here.” Vernon led them into a comfortable but sterile living room. “I’ll just pop back in to tell Nancy what’s going on.”

  “You might ask your wife to come in here, too,” Banks said. “We’d like to speak to her as well.”

  “Oh, all right. Very well. Please sit down.”

  Banks and Winsome looked at one another. Winsome rolled her eyes. Banks glanced at the generic Constable-style landscape over the electric fireplace, then looked outside. It felt so strange sitting here looking at the street through the gauze curtains and remembering that he had a similar view for so many years—certainly, the houses were mirror images—and probably a similar life. The child, or children, he guessed as he heard the voices from the kitchen, the regularity of mealtimes, the domestic routine. But his life had never been exactly regular or routine. The very nature of his job prevented that, and that was one of the reasons for his expulsion from this Eden to the one where he lived now. Alone.

  Vernon came back with Nancy in tow. She was wearing an apron and carrying a tea towel. She was a harried-looking woman, her hair in a mess, but she obviously kept herself in good shape, and her manner proved to be far less grating than that of her husband.

  Trevor Vernon rubbed his hands together. “Right, where were we? Oh, yes. The car. Any progress?”

  “Progress?” asked Winsome.

  “Yes. That idiot came tearing round the bend like a bloody maniac. And the road conditions were appalling.”

  “Well, it is Yorkshire, sir,” said Winsome. “You have to make allowances for the weather.”

  Vernon started at her, disbelieving. “Allowances? Is that all you can say? My wife and I were involved in a serious collision. Through no fault of our own, I might add. We could have died. Nancy here is a witness. And you go on about allowances. I want to know whether you’ve charged him yet. And what are the possibilities of compensation? Above and beyond the cost of a new car, that is.”<
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  “If you want to bring charges against Mr. Kelly, sir, that’s your prerogative,” Winsome went on. “But it’s not our department.”

  Vernon glanced from one to the other. “Who’s the organ grinder and who’s the monkey here?” Then he put his hand to his mouth. “Good God, that’s not what I meant. I mean to . . . I didn’t mean any offense. I—”

  Banks looked towards Winsome, who simply raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps if you would just stop blathering for a minute and listen to us,” he went on, “then you wouldn’t put your foot any further down your throat.”

  Vernon bridled. “Yes, of course. I assume you’re at least going to have the car moved to my garage for repairs? I can’t seem to get anyone there to commit to a pick-up time. That’s unless you need to take it in for forensic examination first.”

  “Forensic examination?” Winsome echoed. “Why would we need to do that?”

  “To find proof. Evidence. Do you need me to tell you your job?”

  “Evidence of what?”

  “That it wasn’t my fault, of course. There must be something you can find, some scratch or dent that will prove his culpability.”

  “I don’t think we’ll be checking for anything along those lines,” Winsome said. “But we will be taking the car in for forensic examination.”

  “But you just said . . . I don’t understand. Why? When will I get my car back. When can I get it fixed?”

  “We’re not a garage,” Winsome said, “and we’re not in the tow-truck business.”

  “And from what I’ve seen,” Banks added, “the only place that car is headed is the scrapyard.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “We’ll be in touch when our forensic experts have finished with it,” Winsome said. “Then you can call your garage and make arrangements.”

  “You’re telling me now that I have to pay to get my own car back after you’ve taken it away?”

  “That’s usually how it works, sir,” Winsome said. “Besides, I think you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick here. There’s no evidence of dangerous driving in this case and, as I tried to tell you earlier, we’re not Traffic. We’re Homicide and Major Crimes.”