Abattoir Blues (28 page)

‘You tell a good story.’

‘She picked you out of a VIPER identification parade.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Come on, Ronald, don’t play the innocent. How long since your last arrest? Move with the times. Video Identification Parade Electronic Recording. A bit awkward when you say it all out loud, but VIPER works quite well, I think. Most apt.’

‘Can you cut out the innuendos, DCI Banks,’ said Cassandra Wakefield, rolling her eyes. ‘I mean, really.’

‘We’re not in court, you know,’ Banks shot back. ‘There’s no jury.’

‘Even so. Let’s all get along here, shall we?’

Banks turned back to Tanner. ‘How about giving me your version of events?’

‘How about I don’t?’

‘Did you visit Alex Preston and her son Ian at flat 81 Hague House on the evening of Monday the twenty-fifth of March? That’s last Monday, in case you’re confused.’

‘I’m not confused. I’ve never heard of the woman or the kid. Or Hague House, for that matter.’

‘I suppose you’ve got an alibi, then?’

Tanner just smiled. He might as well have said, ‘I can rustle one up if you want.’

Banks shuffled his papers and slid over the sketch artist’s likeness so that both Tanner and Cassandra Wakefield could see it. ‘Would you say this bears a reasonable resemblance to you?’ he asked Tanner.

‘Could be anyone. Lots of blokes shave their heads these days.’

‘I don’t think so. It’s not just the shaved head. There’s the broken nose. Quite distinctive, that. And the shifty eyes. It’s you, all right. This description was worked out between Alex Preston, the alleged victim, and a police sketch artist. I’d say, as these things go, it’s a good likeness.’

‘I don’t think you’d get very far with that in court, Mr Banks, as I’m sure you know,’ said Cassandra Wakefield. ‘These sorts of concocted identifications can be incredibly unreliable. The witness could easily have been describing someone she’d seen in the street, someone she had a grudge against. And there’s evidence that witnesses simply pick out faces they don’t like from VIPER displays. My client can’t help being . . . er . . . distinctive.’

‘It’s
because
he’s distinctive that we were able to identify him so quickly,’ said Banks. ‘And everything was done according to correct legal procedure, so I think it will be up to a court to decide, not you.’ He returned to Tanner. ‘There’s the fingerprint, too. Let’s not forget that. It was on a card Ms Preston says you handed to her.’

‘Why would I do that?’ Tanner said. ‘Give her a card? Assuming I’d ever met her, of course, which I haven’t.’

‘Are you saying you didn’t?’

‘Of course I didn’t.’

‘Can you explain the card with your fingerprints and a telephone number on it being in the possession of Alex Preston?’

‘Maybe it was something I threw away in the street and she picked up? A handout of some sort. Did the number have anything to do with me?’

‘We called the number. There was silence, then dead air. The number is untraceable. A pay-as-you-go cheapie, unregistered and disposable.’

‘Well, there you go,’ said Tanner. ‘The wonders of modern technology.’

‘Except for your fingerprints on the card.’

‘And I’m saying that maybe someone handed it to me in the street or something and I threw it away. Jehovah’s Witnesses or someone. What are you going to do, arrest me for littering?’

‘DCI Banks, do you have anything other than this remarkably circumstantial evidence for holding my client against his will?’

‘I would think that when a young woman reports the events Ms Preston reported and presents us with the evidence she has presented us, in the form of the sketch, a broken finger, the fingerprints and the VIPER identification, it’s a little more than circumstantial. It’s certainly something we all ought to take seriously.’

Ms Wakefield glanced at her watch. ‘As you will. But please hurry up. I have appointments.’

‘Don’t let me keep you.’ Banks went immediately back to Tanner. ‘Where were you on Monday evening, Ronald?’

‘Home, I suppose. I haven’t been out much all week. The weather, you know. Plays havoc with my rheumatism.’

‘Can anyone corroborate that?’

‘I’m not married, if that’s what you’re asking.’

It was no alibi, but Banks knew that most alibis were thin. If you had someone who would lie for you, it helped, of course, but Tanner could just have easily have said he went for a walk on the moors, and it would have been as hard to disprove, unless he had been seen elsewhere. The damn thing was they had only Alex Preston’s statement to go on. Not that Banks doubted her for a moment, but it might not be enough when people like Ronald Tanner and Cassandra Wakefield were involved. Officers were still asking questions round Alex Preston’s tower block, but Banks held out little hope that anything would come from that. The residents of the East Side Estate were hardly known for helping the police. ‘Are you currently employed?’ Banks asked.

‘Not at the moment.’

‘What do you do for money?’

‘Benefits. The social. I’m entitled.’

‘Did you know a lad called Morgan Spencer?’

‘Can’t say as I did. Past? Is he dead or something?’

He was lying, Banks could tell from his change in tone. Cassandra Wakefield knew it too, but she was doing her best not to react. ‘Yes, he’s dead,’ Banks continued. ‘Murdered. Were you anywhere near the Riverview Caravan Park on Monday night?’

‘Why would I go there?’

‘To burn down Morgan’s caravan after you’d had a good look for anything that might incriminate you or your mates.’

‘Incriminate how? What mates?’

‘What about Caleb Ross?’

Tanner looked just surprised enough at the question that Banks guessed he did know Caleb Ross.

‘No,’ Tanner went on. ‘Funny name, Caleb. I think I’d remember.’

‘Mr Ross used to drive for Vaughn’s ABP. He is also deceased.’

‘Murdered?’

‘We’re not sure. What kind of work did you do before you became unemployed?’

‘I’m a motor mechanic. Skilled, trained, experienced, and all that, but it doesn’t seem to matter these days when they can get someone half my age with half the experience for half the money. Last while I’ve been doing a bit of club work.’

‘Bouncer?’

‘Crowd maintenance, noise control, that sort of thing.’

‘Odd that,’ Banks said. ‘About you being a motor mechanic and all. Caleb Ross died in a motor accident.’

‘Treacherous time of year on the roads.’

‘Have you ever worked in an abattoir?’

‘You must be joking. Me? In one of those places? I couldn’t stand the stink, for a start.’

‘But killing the animals wouldn’t bother you?’

Tanner shrugged.

‘Do you own a captive bolt gun?’

‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

‘It’s a nasty little weapon. A special kind of gun used in an abattoir to stun or kill the animals. Mostly fatal on humans.’

‘Sounds cruel to me. No, I don’t own anything like that. You’ll no doubt have searched the house, so you’ll know that already.’

‘You could have hidden it somewhere. Have you got a lock-up?’

‘Why would I need a lock-up? I don’t even need a garage.’

‘Do you take drugs?’

‘Tobacco and alcohol, for my sins.’

‘Do you know anything about tractors?’

‘I’ve worked on a few in my time. Stands to reason, if you’re a motor mechanic on the edge of a large rural area.’

‘Where were you on Saturday night?’

‘All night?’

‘Yes.’

‘I went to the pub. I usually do on a Saturday night. Then I went home and fell asleep watching telly.’

Another flimsy but probably unbreakable alibi. Even if the people in the pub didn’t remember him, it wouldn’t mean much. One night was very much like another and most people, if pushed, didn’t know what they were doing last week. Tanner was being smart in not coming up with anything too elaborate. Elaborate alibis were the easiest to break.

‘What about Sunday morning?’

‘Sunday morning’s my lie-in time. Make a cuppa, read the
Sport
and the
Mail
. I don’t usually do much on a Sunday. Maybe down the pub for a jar or two and a game of darts at lunchtime. Roast beef and Yorkshires if I can afford it.’

‘Are you sure you didn’t go out last Sunday?’

‘I don’t think so. Where to?’

‘An abandoned airfield near Drewick.’

‘I’d remember that.’

‘Do you know the place?

‘I’ve seen it from the train.’

‘Did you go there last Sunday morning about nine thirty?’

‘Why would I do that?’

But Tanner was getting worried, Banks could tell. He could see his mind working furiously behind the words. Banks wanted to push him. Tanner hadn’t realised that they had already connected him to the airfield and Morgan Spencer’s murder.

‘Nothing. Only our lads found another fingerprint there that’s very much—’

‘DCI Banks,’ Cassandra Wakefield cut in. ‘I’d like to know where you’re going with this. But first of all I’d like to know about this fingerprint. There’s no mention of it in my notes. If it was indeed Mr Tanner’s why wasn’t I informed? And if it wasn’t, why bring it up?’

‘It was brought to my attention just before this interview,’ said Banks. ‘It’s only a fragment, not enough to be certain, but—’

‘In that case, DCI Banks, I think we’ll pass it by. Continue.’

‘Our men are still working at the scene.’

‘I still say you’re fishing. Move on.’

Banks paused to shuffle his papers and frame his words. ‘We believe that the hangar was used as a transfer point for stolen farm equipment on its way overseas. Possibly also for stolen livestock being shipped to illegal abattoirs around the country.’ Banks knew he was close to the edge, especially with Cassandra Wakefield present, but he needed a break.

‘Sheep rustling, eh?’ said Tanner, grinning. ‘Just like the wild west, isn’t it?’

‘Perhaps even more important,’ Banks went on, ‘a man was murdered there. The one I mentioned earlier. Morgan Spencer.’

‘Yes, and I told you then I don’t know him.
Didn’t
know him. Never known any Morgans or Calebs. And I don’t own a gun, even one of those abattoir ones you’ve been going on about.’

It was true that police searching Tanner’s Darlington home had found no trace of a captive bolt gun by the time Banks started the interview, though they had found a stash of weapons, including various knives and flick-knives, knuckledusters, a cosh and a crossbow. If Tanner had used the bolt gun on Spencer, there was a good chance that he had done the sensible thing and tossed it. On the other hand, according to ballistics, it was a formidable weapon, and would no doubt be expensive and difficult to replace.

As if reading his mind, Cassandra Wakefield said, ‘This is getting us nowhere, DCI Banks. I trust your search hasn’t turned up a gun of
any
sort on my client’s property?’

‘Not yet.’

She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘Like the fingerprint that’s not quite his but might be?’ She scooped up the papers in front of her and stood up as if to leave. ‘Then I suggest we suspend this interview for the time being and review my client’s situation. Pending the results of the house search and the fingerprint identification at this abandoned hangar, as I see it you have no evidence on which to base a charge. I also find myself confused about what it is exactly you want to charge Mr Tanner with. Threatening this poor woman, murdering Morgan Spencer and Caleb Ross, sheep rustling? What is it to be?’

‘We’ll decide that later, Ms Wakefield,’ Banks shot back. ‘With the CPS, of course. And it may include possession of illegal weapons.’

Cassandra Wakefield favoured him with a sweet smile, tender lips curled at the edges. ‘Of course. And in the meantime . . .’

‘Just a couple of final points. I’ll keep it brief.’

Tanner looked apprehensive.

‘Have you ever heard of a man called Montague Havers?’ Banks asked.

Tanner narrowed his eyes. ‘You do come up with some funny names.’

‘His real name is Malcolm Hackett.’

‘Means nothing to me.’

‘What about John Beddoes?’

‘Isn’t that the bloke whose tractor got pinched?’

‘It is. Do you know him?’

‘Only from reading about it in the paper.’

‘Why are you looking for Michael Lane?’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Who wants you to find Michael Lane?’

‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’

‘Why did you visit Alex Preston and ask her where Lane had gone?’

‘I told you, I never did that. I don’t know the woman.’

‘Is it because Lane witnessed something happen at the hangar on Sunday morning?’

‘You’ve lost me.’

‘Me, too, I’m afraid,’ said Cassandra Wakefield. ‘I think we’ll have to call it a day.’

‘Interview suspended at 10.05,’ said Banks. Tanner was rattled, he could tell. It wouldn’t be such a bad idea to let him stew for a few hours while the team tried to dig up more damning evidence.

Cassandra Wakefield walked towards the door.

Ronald Tanner, however, lingered a moment, then said. ‘Look, I’m sure this will all be sorted out soon. In the meantime, please give my regards to Ms Preston. Tell her I’m sorry she felt that she had to go to such trouble over a silly mistake and I hope her young lad’s all right.’

Cassandra Wakefield stopped in her tracks and turned, an alarmed expression on her face, then quickly shooed her client out of the interview room, where the custody officer was waiting to take him back to his cell.

Gerry Masterson looked at Banks open-mouthed and said, ‘Was that what I thought it was, sir?’

Banks smiled. ‘Yes, Gerry,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I very much think it was. We’ve got to get moving fast on this. Our twenty-four hours is running down. We’ve got to connect Ronald Tanner to Morgan Spencer and Caleb Ross. Finding Michael Lane would be a big help. And you might have a look into Tanner’s known associates.’

‘What about Alex Preston? Gerry said.

‘I’ll have a word with Annie and AC Gervaise, but I think we’re going have to increase security on Alex. She’s in far more danger now that Tanner knows she shopped him. He obviously isn’t in this alone.’