Abattoir Blues: The 22nd DCI Banks Mystery (Inspector Banks 22) Page 8

  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 neighbour’s son with a criminal record goes walkabout, he’s living with a woman who works in 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 towards 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. And they’d do it quickly. Rustlers aren’t in the business of grazing stolen sheep and cattle. 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 had least had official permission to be there. We could be on to something here.’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Have another word with this Terry Gilchrist, Winsome. Could he be involved? After all, he is ex-army, and he did find the bloodstains.’

  ‘His dog did,’ Winsome said. ‘I don’t really see why he’d follow it under a chain-link fence in his condition, with the weather the way it was, and then phone us if he was responsible for it in the first place. Do you, sir?’

  ‘Perhaps not, when you put it like that, but we have to consider the possibility.’

  ‘Without Gilchrist and his dog, the crime scene could have gone unobserved for days, or weeks.’

  ‘True,’ Banks agreed. ‘Unless one of the lorry drivers noticed.’

  ‘But if they had something to do with the blood,’ Winsome argued, ‘then they’d hardly report it, would they, sir?’

  ‘But Gilchrist does have a military background, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So he’s no doubt conversant with ways of killing?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘And military operations and criminal operations have several features in common, including a certain level of organisation. He also knows the area well. It shouldn’t be too hard to track down his military records. You say he was injured in action?’

  ‘Yes, sir. In Afghanistan. His legs.’

  ‘But he’s still mobile?’

  ‘I’d say he’s pretty nifty on his pins, sir, yes.’

  Banks smiled. ‘“Nifty on his pins.” I like that.’ He turned to DC Masterson. ‘Gerry, can you see about tracking down Terry Gilchrist’s military record? You know the sort of thing, any suspicions he was up to anything illegal while he was serving, black-market activities, looting, whatever. And while you’re at it, have a look into John Beddoes’ finances. As Annie said, we can’t rule out insurance fraud.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Gerry, scribbling fast on her pad.

  ‘And we’ll need to know exactly who owns the abandoned airfield.’

  ‘Consider it done, sir.’

  ‘Excellent. Stefan, do you have anything for us? Tyre tracks?’

  ‘We’re still working the scene,’ Nowak said, ‘but there’s not much chance of tyre tracks on the concrete. From the mess they trailed in, though, I’d say there could have been two or three vehicles at the scene, but I can’t say when or what they were.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’

  ‘There’s no decent surface to get fingerprints from. Not the concrete floor and not the corrugated metal walls. The lock and the wire mesh gate are clean. We’re still dusting around the general area, but don’t expect too much with all the rain we’ve had. We might get a few partials or smudges, if we’re lucky. We’re also going to do a thorough luminal search. If blood was spilled there recently, there’s always a chance that the hangar was used before as a place of execution. There might be traces of previous crimes, and they might lead to DNA.’

  ‘Good work, Stefan. Anything new on the trace evidence, Jazz?’

  ‘You’ll have your DNA analysis sometime tomorrow, as promised,’ Jazz Singh said. ‘And I want you to know it’s got me in trouble with Harrogate. They thought they had priority. In the meantime, all I can tell you is that the blood type of the sample is A positive. Not very exciting news, as it’s the same as about thirty-five per cent of the UK population. But if you look on the bright side, it rules out sixty-five per cent. I’ve sent the brain matter and bone fragments for outside analysis. We don’t have the facilities for that. I’m not sure what that’ll tell us, or how long it will take, but the odds are that it’ll be very expensive and you’ll probably have solved the case by then.’ She smiled sweetly and rested her hands on the table. Annie made a note of the blood type.

  Banks glanced towards PC Trevor. ‘Anything from the house-to-house?’

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ said a sulky PC Trevor. ‘Len and Dave are still out knocking on doors in Drewick.’

  Banks turned to Wilson. ‘Doug, I noticed the hangar’s very close to the railway lines. Do you think you can check with East Coast and any other companies who use it whether anyone saw anything there recently?’

  Wilson nodded and made a note. ‘I’ll see if I can get a request on the news as well.’

  Banks let the silence stretch for a moment, then addressed the room at large. ‘How do you get from the airfield to the A1?’ he asked. ‘Is the only way the way Gerry and I came? From what I could see, all there was around there were bumpy overgrown tracks until you got to the village.’

  ‘You’d have to get back to the Thirsk Road, a mile or so beyond Drewick,’ said Doug Wilson. ‘From there you could go north to Northallerton or south to Thirsk. Either way, it’s a few miles.’

  ‘There is another way,’ said Winsome. ‘If you continue south on that track that runs by th
e airfield gates, you go through the woods parallel to the railway lines, and when you get to a village called Hallerby, you can turn right on a B road leading to the A1. That cuts off Thirsk and saves you a bit of time. There’s also a lot less traffic and only the one village to drive through.’

  ‘Is there anything in this Hallerby?’

  ‘Usual stuff, sir,’ said Winsome. ‘Few houses, couple of shops, village hall, chapel, a pub.’

  ‘And you’d have to pass through there either way if you were taking that short cut to or from the A1?’

  Winsome nodded. ‘It’s where the bumpy lane starts and heads north. The B road from the A1 continues to Thirsk.’

  ‘Maybe you could pay a visit to this Hallerby tomorrow, Winsome, and see if anyone saw lorries, or any other traffic, heading to or from the A1 via that road this weekend. Someone must have seen or heard something coming out of the woods. It might have appeared odd or rare enough to remember.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Winsome.

  ‘Is that all?’ Banks asked, glancing around the room.

  ‘There is one more thing, sir,’ Doug Wilson said.

  ‘Doug?’

  ‘When DI Cabbot and I went to talk to Morgan Spencer, he wasn’t home, like DI Cabbot said. His neighbour hasn’t seen him all weekend. We didn’t have a search warrant, and he’s ex-job, so he wouldn’t have us taking a butcher’s. We’ll be needing a search warrant.’

  Banks looked towards AC Gervaise.

  ‘Get back there tomorrow morning and have a good look around,’ she said. ‘Talk to his other neighbours on the site, too. I’ll see to the warrant first thing. But make sure you ask the site manager first and explain your predicament. If he doesn’t have a key, then you’ll have to break in, but only if, and only after you have the warrant in your hand. OK?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Gervaise looked at her watch and stood up. ‘Why don’t you all go home now and get some rest? Tomorrow looks like a busy day. We’ve got a stolen tractor, two young men we’d like to find and talk to and the makings of a suspicious death at an abandoned airfield. For the moment these are separate cases, and I’ll see that actions are issued accordingly. But for crying out loud, keep open minds, all of you.’ She pointed towards the timeline on the whiteboard. ‘You know how I feel about coincidences. If you come across one shred of evidence you think links the cases, then report it to me immediately, and we’ll change our strategy. Clear?’

  Annie and the rest nodded, then they made their way out of the boardroom. After one or two brief conversations in the corridor, the team dispersed. At last, Annie thought, as she picked up her coat from the squad room, it was time to go home. Now she could enjoy what she had been wanting all day: that hot bath and stack of trashy magazines.

  Terry Gilchrist had just put his feet up for an hour’s reading before dinner when the doorbell rang. His leg hurt and he cursed mildly as he got to his feet and went to answer it. He could see only a blurred figure through the frosted glass, but when he opened the door he saw the beautiful black detective standing there. At least he thought she was beautiful. He hoped his mouth hadn’t dropped as far as he felt it had. Since he’d been to war then invalided back home, he seemed to have lost whatever facility he had ever possessed with the opposite sex. He had certainly had no interest in the brothels of Helmand Province, and opportunities to meet other kinds of women outside the armed forces themselves had been few and far between. Now here stood a woman who probably suspected him of murder. He had been friendly with one of the military investigators out in Helmand, who had worked on the Met as a detective, and he knew they always suspected the person who reported the crime. Still, she was smiling, and that was a good sign.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, standing aside and gesturing towards the living room.

  ‘Hope I didn’t disturb anything,’ she said. ‘I have a few more follow-up questions for you.’

  ‘Not at all. Just having a sit-down.’ She had an intriguing voice, he thought. At first he had hardly noticed it, as she appeared to speak unaccented English, but if he listened closely he could hear intermingled undertones of Jamaican and Yorkshire. It was a unique blend, and he’d challenge any actor, however skilled, to reproduce it.

  She sat down gracefully, crossing her long legs. He noticed her glancing at his leg as he walked by and used his arms to lower himself back into the armchair.

  ‘I suppose it could be worse,’ she said. ‘I mean the leg. Worse things than ending up with a slight limp.’ He got the impression from her awkward tone that he had embarrassed her by catching her looking at his disability.

  ‘Much worse. The alternatives hardly bear thinking about. Believe it or not, I’m on the mend. The doctors assure me the stick will go completely soon, but they fear the limp will persist. I don’t mean to complain, but the devil of it is that I’m used to outdoor pursuits. I used to love long-distance running, golf, tennis, even a little fishing and potholing now and then.’

  ‘Potholing?’ Winsome said. ‘I used to do that.’

  ‘Used to? What happened?’

  ‘I got lost once, and the water was rising. I’m afraid I panicked a bit. It sort of put me off.’

  ‘I suppose if you stop to think what you’re doing when you’re lost in a cold wet cave a hundred feet under the ground, it might seem like a sort of crazy thing to do.’

  Winsome laughed. He liked her laugh, and that he could make her laugh. ‘I almost came a cropper,’ she went on. ‘I was in the narrowest section, you know, worming my way through to the ledge overlooking the big cavern at Gaping Gill. When you panic, you just get yourself more stuck. They found me and got me out, of course, but I think I must have lost my nerve after that. I thought there could be a sudden shower and I’d just drown like a . . . well, drown.’

  ‘It can be very dangerous down there.’ Gilchrist sipped his coffee. ‘I’m glad you didn’t.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Drown.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Me, too.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘Perhaps we could go together?’ Gilchrist said. ‘Potholing, that is. When all this is over.’ He tapped his leg. ‘This wouldn’t be much of a hindrance. Maybe I can help you get your nerve back?’

  ‘Maybe. We’ll have to see.’ Her tone sounded clipped, as if she were cutting off the possibility. Gilchrist felt disproportionately disappointed. After all, he hardly knew her. Was it forward to ask a woman you found attractive to go potholing with you? He no longer had any idea about the propriety or etiquette of such things. Best shut up about it and get to the questions she had come to ask him, stick to the point of her visit. To do otherwise would only be to invite grief.

  ‘Do you remember anything more about those lorries you mentioned?’ she asked. ‘Any markings or anything?’

  Now they were back on familiar terrain, but even this Gilchrist found painful. He used to pride himself on his keen powers of observation and memory – he would probably have made a good detective himself, his CO had once said – but since the explosion, his memory seemed to have gone the same way as his leg. He only hoped it would recover as well in time. ‘I don’t think they had any markings,’ he said. ‘I don’t remember any.’

  ‘When you saw them, what did you think they were doing there?’

  ‘I must admit I had no idea. It’s like when you see all those juggernauts by the roadside at Scotch Corner. Drivers having a nap or something. They have their routines. I know they’re only supposed to drive a limited number of hours per day. They have to sleep somewhere, and it saves on B & B money if they sleep in the cab. These were smaller, so sleeping in the cab was probably out. In the back, maybe.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Winsome. ‘Did you ever get the impression they were delivering something, or picking something up? Ever see anyone loading or anything like that?’

  Terry shook his head. ‘I think I would remember if I had,’ he said, feeling far from certain that he would.

  ‘What about the
children you said you saw playing there? Do you know any of them?’

  ‘I’ve thrown their ball back to them once or twice, but I wouldn’t say I know them. Not by name. They’re from the village. As I said, they’re all right, really, but the older ones do tend to be antisocial, or just suspicious of strangers. Maybe rightly so.’

  ‘Do you know where any of them live?’

  ‘I’ve seen a couple of them coming or going from houses when I’ve been shopping.’

  ‘It might help if you could let me know the addresses.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t remember. The streets are all named after trees, and I get confused. I could probably point out some of the houses.’

  Winsome nodded and Terry watched her make a note in her black book. ‘We’ll send someone over when it’s convenient for you,’ she said. ‘Maybe tomorrow morning, if that’s OK? We’d like to have a word with some of them.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere. I don’t suppose they’ll be able to tell you much, though. After all, they wouldn’t have been there when the lorries were.’

  ‘No, but even so . . .’

  ‘Yes. You have to be thorough.’ Again, Terry felt disappointed that she wasn’t going to accompany him on a walk around the village to identify the children’s houses. He could point out the highlights of Drewick, such as they were. As it happened, he could only remember where one or two of the children lived, so it probably wouldn’t do her any good. They could canvass the whole village if they wanted. It wouldn’t take long. He also realised that it probably wasn’t a job for someone of her rank; she’d send a patrol car, most likely, and at most a DC to question the kids. But she had come to see him again in person. That was something to hold on to.

  Almost before he noticed, she was putting away her notebook and preparing to get up and leave. He was trying to think of a way to get her to stay when he had forgotten to offer her basic hospitality. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I forgot to ask if you wanted anything to drink. Would you like something? Tea? Coffee?’