Abattoir Blues: The 22nd DCI Banks Mystery (Inspector Banks 22) Read online

  ‘I suppose the top and bottom of it is,’ said Banks, ‘that while they’re not easy to get, and they can be expensive, they’re a hell of a lot easier to get your hands on than a regular handgun.’ He looked at Gerry. ‘Again, it looks as if you’re going to have to do a bit of tracking down here. Purchases. Thefts. The usual suspects. And I think first of all you should see if you can find out whether there have been any crimes with a similar MO in the last couple of years. Start locally, then move out to the rest of the country.’

  Gerry nodded.

  ‘And we need to have a close look at the abattoir business in these parts,’ Banks said. ‘Everyone knows illegal and unregulated abattoirs exist, along with legitimate establishments, and they can take many shapes and sizes. It’s true that the prime season for stealing lambs is August, when they’re nice and plump and ready to eat, but someone has been picking off the odd field of sheep or cows around the dale for a while now, and I doubt they’ve all been shipped to Romania or Bulgaria, no matter what the Daily Mail would have us believe. Cattle are especially difficult to sell on, as they have electronic ID tags and passports, whereas sheep only have easily removable ear tags. But if your intention is to get the animal cut up as soon as possible and sell it locally off the back of a lorry, none of that matters too much. There’s a big enough market at home for a bit of cheap meat, no questions asked.’ Banks turned to Annie. ‘Maybe you and Doug can start checking out the local abattoirs tomorrow? We want any hints of illegal operations, any objects stolen, especially bolt pistols, any disgruntled employees recently fired and maybe setting up on their own, that sort of thing.’

  ‘But I’m a vegetarian,’ protested Annie. ‘Yuk.’

  ‘I know,’ said Banks. ‘It’s a dirty job, but . . .’

  Annie pulled a face, and the others laughed, then there was a tap at the door followed by Vic Manson, a buff folder in his hand. ‘Thought you’d like to know,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a result.’

  When Terry Gilchrist opened the door, he looked surprised to see Winsome again. ‘DS Jackman,’ he said. ‘What a pleasant surprise. Come in. Please. Take your coat off.’

  She hung up her coat on a hook in the hall and followed him through to the living room. He was walking without his stick, but he seemed able to manage all right unaided, though she noticed that he rested his hand on the back of the sofa to hold himself up for a moment when he got to the living room, and she thought she saw a grimace of pain flash across his features.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine. Just the occasional twinge. The doc said I’d get them for a while.’

  ‘I’m sorry to call so late. It’s been one of those days.’

  ‘Then sit down. Take the weight off.’

  Winsome sat and smoothed her skirt. It was a chilly evening, with a brisk cold wind gusting outside, and Gilchrist had a wood fire burning in the fireplace. Peaches lay stretched out asleep in front of it. Winsome felt the warmth permeate and envelop her. ‘That’s nice,’ she said, reaching out her hands to feel the heat.

  ‘One of life’s little luxuries. And you can see Peaches loves it. Drink?’

  ‘Not for me, thanks. I’m driving.’

  ‘Tea, then? Or I can offer you a cappuccino.’

  ‘That’d be lovely, if it’s no trouble.’

  ‘No trouble at all.’

  The room seemed different after dark. Perhaps it was the wood fire. Winsome absorbed the warmth and the sound of crackling logs as she listened to the hissing and grinding of what sounded like an espresso machine. Peaches was still breathing slowly and peacefully in front of the fire. She stirred and growled once, as if disturbed by a dream, then stuck out her tongue and settled back down again. Soon Gilchrist was back with two cappuccinos. He handed one to Winsome.

  ‘Another of life’s little luxuries?’

  ‘The espresso machine? Rather a large luxury, I’d say. Actually,’ he went on, ‘you’re lucky to catch me in. It’s trivia night at the Coach and Horses tonight. Highlight of my week, usually.’

  ‘Don’t be so cynical.’

  ‘Sorry. I really do enjoy it, though. The trivia, I mean, not the cynicism. We used to play it on the base.’

  ‘I almost signed up once,’ Winsome said after a pause.

  ‘For trivia? You?’

  ‘No. The armed forces. Why not? I’m fit. And it’s in the family, like policing. My grandfather fought in the Second World War. I was a bit more mercenary. I thought I might at least get an education out of it later, if I survived. Maybe IT or office administration, something like that.’

  ‘Dream on,’ said Gilchrist. ‘They were going to send me to university after my spell. Middle Eastern languages. I showed a bit of aptitude in the field, and they can always use someone who speaks the lingo.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Cancelled. Decided to send me out there again instead.’ He tapped his leg. ‘Hence this. I suppose they thought I was a better soldier than a linguist.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m out for good. I might actually go to university. I’m still considering my options, as they say.’

  Winsome had read Gerry’s report after the meeting, and she knew how Gilchrist had been injured while getting his comrades and some children out of a booby-trapped school before a second bomb went off. The Military Cross and an honourable discharge. There was no reason to mention it now and embarrass him. One thing she did know was that soldiers didn’t like to talk about their wars.

  ‘I don’t suppose you came here to talk about my war wounds,’ he said.

  ‘No. I was just wondering if you remembered anything more about Monday morning.’

  Gilchrist rubbed his forehead. ‘I’ve been thinking about it since the last time we talked, and I’ve been keeping up with the news. Did the victim really end up at the bottom of Belderfell Pass in pieces, or am I reading too much into the reports?’

  ‘Yes, he did. But he was in pieces before that. How did you know it was him?’

  ‘Is this where you do your detective thing? Tell me I couldn’t have known unless I’d done it?’

  Winsome laughed. ‘Good Lord, no. I don’t think you did it. At least I hope you didn’t.’

  ‘Well, I’m grateful for that. Actually, it’s elementary, my dear Jackman. It’s just the odds. I’ve lived around these parts long enough to know that you don’t get a pool of blood in a disused hangar and human body parts in a fallen stock lorry without some sort of connection. Stands to reason.’ Gilchrist shook his head slowly. ‘Just when you think you’ve got as far away as you possibly can from all that sort of thing. The only other thing I remember is the car.’

  ‘What car?’

  ‘It was on Sunday morning, the day before I found the blood. I was just coming back from the newsagent’s in the village with the papers, about a quarter to ten or so, and I heard a car pass by on that road just beyond the trees, heading towards the Thirsk Road. I noticed because it seemed to be going unusually fast and you almost never see cars on that road. It’s not very easy on the shock absorbers.’

  ‘You’re sure it was a car, not a lorry or a van?’

  ‘Yes, it was a car. I’m afraid I can’t tell you what make, though. I’m not that good. And I didn’t see it, really, just a flash of dull grey through the trees.’

  ‘Grey?’

  ‘Yes. But not silvery. More a sort of dirty grey. It didn’t sound too healthy, either, not at the speed it was going. I could tell that much at least.’

  Michael Lane, Winsome thought. Or whoever was driving his car if he had taken Spencer’s lorry. But she didn’t think he had. Fullerton had seemed pretty sure about the mutton chops and flat cap, and unless Lane was wearing a disguise, which Winsome doubted, then it probably wasn’t him. The timing was right. He wouldn’t have been worried about his shock absorbers if he thought he was fleeing for his life. Or if he had just shot someone.

  ‘Which way was it going?’ she aske
d.

  ‘Drewick direction. If it kept going straight on, it would have ended up on the moors. But there’s the Thirsk Road. It might have turned on there and joined up with the A1.’

  ‘Was anyone following it? Another car? A lorry, motorcycle?’

  ‘No, nobody. At least not for as long as it took me to get back to the house and open the door.’

  It was something, at any rate, Winsome thought. They could get some patrol cars out to the moors villages and ask if anyone remembered seeing a dirty grey Peugeot last Sunday morning. A car like that might stand out in areas where there wasn’t much poor weather traffic. Nobody in Drewick had mentioned it when first questioned by the patrol officers, but it might be a good idea to recanvass the village. Also, Winsome remembered that Lane’s mother and grandparents lived over the moors, in Whitby. If Lane had continued across the Thirsk Road, he’d have hit the A19 eventually. A little jog either way on there would have had him heading into the North Yorkshire Moors. Or up to Teesside or down to York, she reminded herself glumly.

  She made some notes, aware of Gilchrist watching her writing with a curious eye. ‘What?’ she said, glancing up.

  ‘Nothing. You’re very meticulous, that’s all.’

  ‘It pays to be, in my job.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  ‘Do you know what a bolt pistol is?’

  Gilchrist frowned. ‘Isn’t it one of those things they use in abattoirs?’

  ‘That’s right. Have you seen one lately, heard anything about one?’

  ‘No. Not just recently, but never. The only reason I know about them is the firearms course I took in my basic training. Not that we’d use them, but the instructor was thorough. He even covered air pistols and cap guns.’ Gilchrist stood up slowly. ‘Look, I’ve got to go now, but I’ve just had a great idea. Why don’t you come to trivia night with me? I promise you’ll enjoy it. The Coach and Horses is just on the village high street.’

  ‘I’m not much of a trivia person, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, I’m good enough for the two of us.’

  Winsome laughed. ‘No, I still don’t think so. Sorry. It’s been a very long day, and tomorrow doesn’t promise to be any easier. I’m tired.’

  Gilchrist looked disappointed. ‘If you say so. Is that all?’

  ‘For now. Yes.’

  ‘OK, then. Let me help you with your coat.’

  Ever the gentleman, Gilchrist led her, again without his stick, into the hall, and helped her on with her coat. Winsome’s Polo was next to Gilchrist’s Ford Focus.

  ‘Can I offer you a lift or anything?’ Winsome asked. ‘Save you taking the car out.’

  Gilchrist tapped his leg. ‘No, thanks. The walk will do me good. The doc says I need as much exercise as I can get if I hope to return to my former Adonis-like physical glory.’

  ‘I’m sure if anyone makes it, you will. Goodnight. And thanks.’

  They stood there a little awkwardly, and Winsome felt confused by the waves of tension between them. Just when she thought Gilchrist was leaning forward to kiss her cheek or her lips, she turned quickly and left. Back in the car, her heart was beating fast, and she had to tell herself to get a grip and calm down. Why had she refused his invitation? She wasn’t that tired. And the potholing he had mentioned on her previous visit? What harm could that do? Was it because she still thought of him as a suspect, or at least as a witness involved in a case she was working on? Partly, she thought. But it was more than that. She didn’t like the idea of sitting in an estate pub in what was little more than a modern country village. She would be the only black person in there, and she would stand out. She was used to that in her job, of course, but people knew her in Eastvale, and at least there was a college there. It attracted all colours and all kinds. In the pub, she would be an object of curiosity, and that would make her uncomfortable.

  Oh, why, she told herself, after running through the list of reasons for turning down Gilchrist’s offer, didn’t she just admit the truth: that she was attracted to him, and that the feeling frightened her. Then she heard her mother’s voice in her mind, as she so often did. ‘Get a grip on yourself, you foolish girl.’ It wasn’t easy, but she made herself stop thinking of Gilchrist and concentrated on the road.

  It had been a useful meeting, Banks thought, as he tossed his briefcase on his computer desk, picked up the post and hung his coat up on the rack behind the door, but he still felt that he lacked a coherent picture of recent events. No defining pattern had emerged from the vast collection of data and pooling of ideas.

  Vic Manson’s contribution had probably been the most valuable: the identification of the man who had threatened Alex Preston. He would see the complete file in the morning, but he already knew the man’s name was Ronald Tanner, and he had a string of arrests for breaking and entering, and one for GBH. He had served two prison sentences, one for six months and the second for eighteen. What his connection was with the rural crime gang and Morgan Spencer’s murder remained to be seen, but they would certainly be a step closer to finding out when they got Tanner in custody. The local police had agreed to pick him up before dawn and deliver him to Eastvale. It was the most likely time to find him at home, and they would certainly have the element of surprise on their side, which could make all the difference if he were in possession of a weapon.

  Banks walked through the hall passage to the kitchen. There was a small dining-table-cum-breakfast-nook that could seat four, at a pinch, and a TV on one of the shelves on the wall beside it, where he usually watched the news or listened to the radio as he drank his breakfast coffee. He flicked on the TV with the remote, found nothing of interest and switched it off again, then he poured himself a glass of wine and sat at the table in silence.

  The post was uninteresting, apart from the latest issue of Gramophone, which he flipped through idly as he drank. Then he realised he was hungry again. The only thing he had to eat in the fridge was some leftover pizza with pork, apple and crackling saved from the quick lunch he and Annie had grabbed at Pizza Express at the back of the Corn Exchange in Leeds. He put it in the convection oven, where it would hopefully crisp up a bit, and went back to his magazine. When the bell dinged, he took his wine, pizza and Gramophone into the conservatory. Dense clots of black cloud fringed the top of Tetchley Fell on the horizon, but above them, the starry night was a clear dark blue, with a thin silvery crescent of moon. Banks sat in the wicker chair and watched its slow-moving arc as he ate his pizza. The crust was dry, and still a bit too cold. He decided he wasn’t hungry any more and put it aside. When he had finished, the moon had disappeared behind the fell.

  Banks left his wine for a moment and went into the entertainment room to pick some music, finally settling on Agnes Obel’s Aventine. The gentle, repetitive piano figures and cello and violin accompanying her soaring voice should soothe him.

  But even with the music playing, he felt restless; the random thoughts continued to swirl around his mind. He thought of breaking the pledge and ringing Oriana to ask if she wanted to meet up for a quick drink, but soon changed his mind. They had a great relationship, he felt, as long as neither of them tried to push it too far. Right now, even if her body was still in Eastvale, her mind would already be in Australia.

  He could always wander down to the Dog and Gun, he supposed. There was bound to be someone he knew in there, maybe even Penny Cartwright. But he didn’t particularly feel like company, he realised – other than Oriana’s, of course. Ever since Sandra had left him and the kids moved out, he had become more and more attuned to his solitude – to the point where he actually enjoyed being alone. Maybe he didn’t eat healthily enough or work out at the gym, and perhaps he drank and brooded too much, but on the whole, he enjoyed his life. It wasn’t necessarily a psychologically healthy state of affairs, he thought, but there was a lot to be said for solitude. Some people even climbed distant mountains to be alone. The world was often far too much with him, the hustle and bustle always jus
t round the corner. In the end, he decided to pour himself another glass of wine and go watch a DVD in the entertainment room. The latest James Bond movie had been lying around for a while unopened, mostly because Oriana didn’t like James Bond.

  Banks had just started attempting to remove the cellophane wrapping when his phone rang. It was Joanna MacDonald.

  ‘Alan, I think I might have something for you.’

  Banks put the DVD aside, picked up his wine and sat down. ‘Fire away. Every little bit helps right now.’

  ‘I can’t be specific about visits to the hangar, or anything like that, but basically we have someone on our radar who’s come off or on the A1 at Scotch Corner or Darlington.’

  ‘It’s a start.’

  ‘He made a visit to the area on the Sunday in question. We’ve had our eye on him for a while – Operation Hawk, that is. He’s involved in international investments, but he’s often seen visiting rural areas. He also has a lot of overseas contacts, east European in particular. Some of them are not entirely wholesome. Frequent traveller to the Balkans and Baltic states. Knows all the palms to grease. He calls himself Montague Havers, but his real name’s Malcolm Hackett.’

  ‘Maybe he’s expecting a knighthood for services to crime?’ Banks suggested. ‘I think the “sir” would go better with Montague, don’t you?’

  Joanna laughed. ‘Much better.’

  ‘What time did he leave the A1 on Sunday?’

  There was a pause as Joanna consulted her notes. ‘He came off at Scotch Corner and took the Richmond road at 2.35 Sunday afternoon. He drives a silver BMW 3 Series. Nice car, but not too ostentatious. Doesn’t attract too much attention. And to be fair, he does have relatives in Richmond.’

  ‘That’s not far north of Eastvale or Drewick, but it’s a bit late for what we’re looking at,’ Banks said. ‘Still, he wouldn’t be the trigger-puller. If he’s southern-based, the odds are he’s one of the top brass and would want to keep himself as far away as possible from the rough stuff. And if for some reason he had to get there from London in a hurry, maybe he was there for the mopping up. Do you know when he set off back?’