Unti Peter Robinson #22 (34 page)

They had already cautioned Lane, who had refused a legal aid solicitor since his talk with Alex, and set the tape machine running. “We were offering you a courtesy by allowing you a few minutes with Alex Preston,” Banks said. “We didn't have to do that. In fact, it's against regulations. We were just being nice.”

“Sure.”

“Can we proceed with the interview, Michael?” said Annie. “The sooner we get it over with, the sooner you can be with Alex and Ian again.”

Lane studied her. “You're the one she talked about, aren't you?” he said. “Annie something?”

“DI Cabbot to you.”

“Have it your way. She said you were all right.”

“You'll have to make up your own mind about that, won't you? Why don't you start by telling us about what happened last Sunday morning at the abandoned airfield near Drewick?”

“You don't mess about, do you?”

“Michael,” said Banks. “It won't do any good stalling or making offensive comments. It won't make things go any quicker. We have a few ideas of our own, and you might not like some of them, but here we're giving you a fair chance to tell us your version. Contrary to what you said earlier, nobody's going to ‘fit you up' with anything you didn't do, and running away in itself is no crime unless you're running from a criminal act you committed.”

“It doesn't mean you'll believe me, though, does it?”

“That remains to be seen. At the moment all I know is that you were observed fleeing a crime scene, and I'm on the verge of holding you for that, lacking any reasonable explanation. Only you can talk me out of it.”

“I wasn't fleeing a crime scene!”

“What were you doing, then?”

“I was running for my life.”

“That's better,” said Banks. “Tell me what happened.”

Lane appeared to go through a brief inner struggle with himself, apparent from his changing facial expressions and nervous twisting of a silver ring. “All right,” he said finally. “Morgan Spencer was a sort of mate of mine. I mean, we weren't that close, didn't hang out or stuff like that. He was a few years older than me, and he liked to do the club scene in Leeds or Manchester or Newcastle. That's not my thing at all.”

“So what did you do together?”

“Worked, mostly. Morgan's got a removal van, and I'd help him shift stuff for ­people. We'd have the occasional jar or pub lunch together.”

“What sort of stuff did you move?”

Lane looked at Banks as if were backward. “Furniture, of course.”

“OK, go on.”

“And we did odd jobs around the dale. Bit of roofing, general fixing things up. He was good with motors, too, was Morgan.”

“What else did you do to make a living?”

“I happen to be not bad at sheep shearing. It was something my dad taught me. I just seemed to pick it up easily. But Morgan was no good with animals.”

“When did you last see Morgan before you went out to the hangar on Sunday morning?”

“Friday. We were doing some work on a barn out Lyndgarth way.”

“Did you tell him that Beddoes was in Mexico?”

“Why would I do that?”

“So he could steal Beddoes's tractor. I'm sure you knew about the holiday, either from your dad, who was looking after Beddoes's farm, or from Alex. He booked the trip at the agency where she works. Did it come up in conversation, you know, idle chatter while you were working?”

“I might have mentioned it. It was a cold day. I might have said something about some lucky bastards getting to go to Mexico. But I had nothing to do with stealing the tractor.”

If that was when Spencer had first heard about the Beddoes farm being empty, it explained why he had stolen the tractor so late in the week. If he'd known earlier and done it Monday or Tuesday, it would probably have been safe at its destination by the time Beddoes got back and missed it. As it was, it had ended up near Dover. “OK. Let's move on to Sunday morning.”

“Right. Well, Alex was just getting ready to go to church with Ian. She's not really religious, like, but she thinks it's a good idea to bring him up right, you know, and he likes the Bible stories.” Lane smiled to himself. “Probably the violent bits, like his video games. Anyway, Morgan texts me and says to meet him at the hangar, that he might need help with something.”

“What sort of help? Did he mention the tractor?”

“No. He doesn't say. It's just a text, you know, not an explanation.”

“What did you think he meant?”

“A removal job or something.”

“Go on.”

“Well, as I said, he's a sort of mate, and he's helped me out from time to time, so if he needed me in a bit of a hurry, I could hardly say no, could I?”

“Didn't you at least suspect that it might be something illegal?”

“No. Why should I?”

“Had you ever met him at the hangar before?”

“No. I knew where it was, like, but it wasn't somewhere I'd been. No reason.”

“Go on.”

“When I got there, I couldn't see his van or his bike, but there were a ­couple of cars I didn't recognize outside in the yard. I left my car just down the road, by the turnoff south of Drewick. That was the road someone must have seen me on later. It leads to the Thirsk road and the A19.”

“Why did you leave your car there?”

“I don't know. Just a gut feeling. I didn't know who was there, did I?”

“But why would you be worried if you didn't suspect anything criminal was going on?”

“Something felt not quite right. And by the way Morgan talked sometimes.”

“What way?”

“Like he was in on things, knew ­people.”

“Criminals? Gangs?”

“That sort of thing, yeah. He talked big. Liked to impress. That gangsta rap stuff. Said he met ­people in the clubs, contacts, ­people who could help him if he helped them. He wanted to be a rap singer.”

That was an oxymoron as far as Banks was concerned. “So you were nervous about who he was with, who might be in the cars, so you stopped short and made a silent approach?”

“That's right. I was being careful. Maybe he really did have gangsta friends.”

“What kind of cars were in the yard?”

“There were two. An old Corsa and a red pickup truck.”

Ronald Tanner drove a Corsa, Banks remembered. He didn't know who drove a red pickup truck. Montague Havers drove a BMW 3 Series, but they already knew he didn't arrive in the area until Sunday afternoon, after the deed had been done. The CSIs hadn't done very well with tire tracks from the crime scene, but they had got a ­couple of partial fingerprints, one of which was a close match to Ronald Tanner, but not good enough for court. Maybe the other matched whoever had driven the red pickup truck. One of them, Tanner or the mystery man, must have brought a passenger, because after Spencer's murder, three vehicles were driven away from the hangar compound. It also made sense that two of them held Spencer's arms while the third, perhaps Kieran Welles, shot him between the eyes with the bolt gun. He wondered whether they were expecting that, or did it surprise and shock them? Banks put his money on Tanner bringing Utley, the crooked ex-­lorry driver they still hadn't found, and Welles driving the red pickup truck. “What did you find when you got to the hangar?” he asked Lane.

“I didn't get there, did I? You know how open it is there, on the airfield. They were all inside. I could hear voices, so I figured it was safe enough to creep up, using the cars for cover. Then the voices got louder, ­people shouting, arguing.”

“Could you hear what they were saying?”

“Not at first. The voices got lost in the hangar.”

“But later?”

“I started backing off. I mean, it sounded really bad. I didn't know if Morgan knew he was walking into something dangerous and wanted me to fight with him, or what, but I'm no fighter. I suppose I was torn. I mean, we were sort of mates, after all. I didn't like to think I was leaving him.”

“But you were scared?”

Lane looked down at the table. “Yeah.”

“How many voices were there?”

“I can't say. Mostly it was Morgan, and he was arguing with someone, protesting about something, and occasionally someone else would chip in. Maybe three altogether.”

“So what did you do?”

“Like I said, I was backing off by then. I mean, if he was mixed up with a dangerous crowd, I thought they might have knives or something. I thought the best thing I could do was get away from there and call the police.”

“But you didn't.”

“No. I didn't get the chance.”

“What happened?”

“The shouting stopped, and there was silence for a moment. Then I heard this explosion like . . . I don't know . . . It sounded as if someone was firing a gun. I legged it fast as I could. One of them looked out of the hangar. Maybe he'd heard me, or maybe he was just checking there was no one around. He shouted something, and two of them started chasing me.”

“Did you get a look at them?”

“Are you joking? I was praying that rust heap of a car I had would start. Thank God it did. First try. Then I was away.”

“Did they chase you?”

“I don't know. They didn't shoot at me, and I didn't look back. I mean I didn't see them when I checked the rearview mirror after a ­couple of miles, so I suppose they didn't know which direction I'd gone.”

There was a pause, then Annie said, “I still don't understand, Michael. You'd got away. You thought Morgan might be hurt, or dead. You weren't involved. Yet you still didn't call the police. Why not?”

“It was what he said last, the bloke who was arguing with Morgan. Maybe the bloke who shot him, for all I know.”

“What was that?” Annie asked.

“I don't know if—­”

“Please answer DI Cabbot's question,” said Banks.

Lane looked from one to the other, the fear obvious in his eyes. “He said, ‘You've done it this time, haven't you, kid? You've gone too far. You've just gone and stolen the boss's fucking tractor.' ”

 

15

W
HEN WINSOME PULLED INTO THE LAY-­BY UNDER the shelter of bare trees just a ­couple of hundred yards above High Point Farm to get the lie of the land, it was already beginning to snow, white flakes swirling in the air, melting on the car windows, not settling on the earth yet. The forecast promised several inches by nightfall, and drifts in the high Pennines. Whatever she was going to do, Winsome realized, she had better be quick about it.

She took her binoculars from the glove compartment and leaned her elbows on the dry stone wall to steady her grip. As she brought the scene into focus, she could see that there were four buildings in the hollow, a small farmhouse, or cottage, a large barn with pens for animals attached to one side and two smaller outbuildings for storage. It was a typical Dales barn, part wood, part stone, and it seemed to be shut up tight, as did the farmhouse. There were no signs of a car in the yard or drive, though Winsome supposed one might be locked in one of the buildings. Nor was there any smoke coming from the chimney. He could have electric heating, radiators or a storage heater. Gas was unlikely in such a remote setting, but whoever lived there would surely have electricity. Though the building was registered to a Kenneth Atherton, Winsome realized that he may well have rented it out to somebody else. Was this where Caleb Ross stopped between Garsley Farm and Belderfell Pass? If so, why? Who lived there, his drug supplier or a killer?

No backup had arrived yet, so Winsome took out her mobile and tried to call the station. No signal. It was after noon, so she also had to ring Terry and postpone lunch. She thought of going back to Garsley Farm, where she had got a phone connection—­and Wythers had a landline—­but as High Point looked deserted, and help should be on the way, she thought she would take a quick look around first. She didn't expect any trouble. Most ­people were far more likely to try and lie their way out of compromising situations than use force against the police. Admit nothing and stick to your story seemed to be the code of most of the criminals Winsome had interviewed of late. Besides, she knew how to take care of herself.

She continued along the access road, turned down the drive and pulled up in the farmyard in front of the house. If anyone was at home, he would have heard her arrive.

The snow swirled around her as she walked up to the front door and knocked. Nobody answered. She waited, listening, hearing nothing but the wind howling around the buildings, snow blowing all around, her ears freezing. She knocked again. Still no answer. She tried the door, found it locked, and drew the line at breaking and entering. The wind was really gusting around the hollow now, and the snow was getting heavier. Winsome knew she would have to get out of there soon, before it started seriously drifting, or she'd never get back to Eastvale. She thought about Terry. He probably wouldn't forgive her for standing him up, and she couldn't blame him. She peered through the windows of the cottage. They were streaked and dirty. One of the curtain rods had come loose on one side and the moth-­eaten curtain hung diagonally across, so she could look over it into the room. It was sparsely furnished, with a flagstone floor and a large empty fireplace. Dark and gloomy. No light showed, no signs of recent habitation at all. Perhaps Atherton, or whoever he was, had done a bunk already?

Winsome walked over toward the barn. The outside pens were caked with animals' feces, which Winsome could smell despite the near-­zero temperature. She wasn't squeamish—­growing up in rural Jamaica, you couldn't afford to be—­but she wasn't an English farm girl, either, so the smell made her feel vaguely sick. The barn door wasn't locked, and when she opened it, the smell was even worse: feces first, but something else, something deep and rotten underlying it. She had no idea what it was. She felt for a light switch but couldn't find one.

With some light coming in from outside, her eyes became used to the semidark, and she could make out a channel running along the center of the barn, a hook dangling on a rope from an overhead rail that ran the length of the building, various pens that seemed somehow connected to the outside holding areas. It didn't take her long to figure out that she was in a small abattoir. When she turned to head back to her car, she saw a man's silhouette filling the doorway.

“Can I help you?”

He didn't completely block the doorway, but as long as he was standing there, Winsome knew she couldn't get past him. Where was Gerry? Hadn't her note been clear enough? Winsome cursed herself for a fool for not making a more serious attempt to call for backup before heading into the hollow, but she had really thought the place was deserted. Where had he been? Deliberately hiding from her? Why? How had he turned up here so silently? Now she was well and truly stuck. Brazen it out, girl, she told herself. Something her mother had never advised her to do.

She took out her warrant card and held it out. He wasn't close enough to read it, and he didn't move from the doorway. “DS Jackman, Eastvale CID,” she said. It wasn't quite true, but she didn't like the idea of using the word “homicide” just at the moment. Remember, she told herself, you brought down “The Bull.” You're famous for your dropkick that wasn't a dropkick. But the man before her didn't know about her fame, or he didn't care. Either way, it was unnerving how he just stood there, so calm, so relaxed.

“I take it you have a warrant for entering my property, then?” he said, expression not changing.

Winsome noticed a slight Irish accent. Northern, she thought, not the Republic. “Not exactly.”

“Not exactly means not at all, I guess. That's a pity.”

“Move away from the doorway and let me pass.”

He stood his ground and cocked his head to one side. “And if I don't want to?”

“I'm warning you,” she said, with more confidence than she felt. “Interfering with a police officer in the performance of her duty is a serious offense.”

He laughed. “I haven't
interfered
with you at all. Not yet. It's trespassing, you know, what you're doing. The Lord tells us to forgive others their trespasses, but I'm not exactly a religious man. In America a person can shoot someone for trespassing on his property.”

“Not a police officer. And we're not in America.”

“That just means you ain't got no gun,” he drawled, in an imitation American accent.

He started to move toward her, but not before shutting the door and slipping a bolt home. He pulled a chain, which Winsome had missed, to switch on the lights. They revealed the abattoir in all its gruesome glory, the floor and channel coated in congealed blood and slippery bits of innards, what might have been a kidney or a piece of liver, bloodstains on the walls. She took it all in at a glance, then her eyes fixed on the man.

He looked like one of those wholesome blond farm boys from Minnesota or Wisconsin she had seen in American movies, wearing jeans and a checked shirt, a shock of blond hair almost covering his left eye. Almost. He ought to be chewing on a blade of straw, but he wasn't. The smile on his lips and the menace in the eyes didn't match, and as far as Winsome was concerned, he might as well have been wearing a leather face mask and carrying a chain saw. He was large, broad-­shouldered, muscular, and about the same height as Winsome, which was a bit over six foot.

He headed slowly toward a padlocked metal box, fixed to one of the side walls, not taking his eyes off her as he walked, like one of those trompe d'oeil paintings that looked at you wherever you stood. Winsome took the opportunity to edge farther away from him. He got to the box and unlocked it. Winsome now stood across the channel from him, a little closer to the door. She knew that she couldn't simply make a dash for it, so she didn't even bother trying. She could see only one slim chance. He opened the box and took out what she guessed to be the bolt gun.

“It can be quick,” he said. “But it doesn't have to be. It all depends on the animal.”

“WHAT DID
that mean to you at the time?” Banks asked Michael Lane. “That Morgan had stolen the boss's tractor?”

“Mean?”

“Yes. Why did it frighten you? It obviously did.”

“Well, it was the way he said it, menacingly like, and they knew I'd heard them, so I thought they'd be after me.”

“But how did you know who the boss was? They didn't name him, did they?”

“I . . . no . . . I don't think they did. It was all a bit of a blur, to be honest. I was running for my life.”

“But you were quite clear earlier,” Annie said. “Why should they care what you heard if you didn't know who the boss was, or who they were?”

“I was scared. I wasn't thinking. For crying out loud, I thought they'd just shot Morgan and I was a witness. Do you seriously think I stood around to talk it over or think it out?”

“Calm down, Michael,” said Annie. “Who is the boss? Do you know?”

“How could I?”

“Indeed,” said Banks. “That's just what we're wondering. Maybe it's time to come clean and tell us
everything
you know. It'll turn out better in the long run, believe me.”

“I've told you. I was hiding behind the car. One of them said, ‘You stole the boss's fucking tractor.' There was a silence. Then the sound of a shot. I legged it. End of story.”

Banks shook his head. “You disappoint me, Michael, you really do. For a moment, you know, you almost had me believing that you cared about that girl of yours and the bairn. That you really loved them.”

“I do love them!”

“Then we want names,” Banks shouted back.

Lane appeared to consider his options and perhaps, Banks thought, to try to come up with a way to make his story sound acceptable without implicating himself. He licked his lips and his eyes flitted from one to the other and back. “OK,” he said finally. “Look, maybe Morgan did talk a bit more about some of the things he was up to. After he'd had a ­couple of drinks, like. But you have to understand, I thought it was all just stories, tall tales, bullshit, and I never had anything to do with any of it.”

“That's better, Michael,” said Banks. “What sort of things did Morgan tell you? What names did he mention?”

“I know who the boss is,” Lane said. “Morgan bragged about the tractor, that he was going to steal it while the miserable bastard was on his holiday.”

“We know that, too,” Annie said. “He's John Beddoes. The point is that if Morgan knew he was the boss, why did he steal his tractor and set up an exchange meet with the others in the gang? It doesn't make sense. Were they all in on it?”

“I don't think Morgan knew who the boss was,” said Lane. “I mean, that's the way it sounded in the hangar. When the other bloke mentioned it, he said something like, ‘What the fuck? Beddoes?' It was muffled, so I'm not really sure, but he sounded surprised.”

That made sense, Banks thought. Spencer is so low level he doesn't even know who the top men are, and he steals one's tractor by mistake. He reports to Tanner and only Tanner deals directly with Beddoes. The typical sad story of a loser's life. But was a tractor really worth killing for? Was it a viable motive for his murder? Why couldn't they just give the tractor back to Beddoes and give Spencer a good hiding?

Then Banks realized why. Beddoes was due back early Sunday morning. They couldn't know that his flight had been delayed. As far as they were concerned, he'd come home, found his tractor gone and done the only thing he could do under the circumstances: call the police to report it stolen. Any other course of action would have looked odd. Even if they had tried to phone him to check and he didn't answer, they would most likely assume that he was down at the police station describing the tractor. Spencer's theft had caused them a lot of trouble and put them all in a difficult position. The gang had had to continue behaving as if they
had
stolen the tractor even after they knew who it belonged to. The best they could do was have someone—­the driver Utley, most likely—­dump it down south somewhere and hope it was found and returned in good condition before too long.

Still, Banks wondered, was it worth the hue and cry of a murder investigation? On the other hand, perhaps the killer enjoyed his work. Perhaps he also had a grudge against Spencer. After all, Spencer's body wasn't supposed to turn up in a car crash at the bottom of Belderfell Pass. It was supposed to be incinerated in Vaughn's yard with the fallen stock. Someone, probably Tanner, had searched Spencer's caravan for anything that might incriminate the gang and then burned it down just to make sure. ­People would assume that Spencer had simply moved on after his caravan had burned down. But the gang hadn't reckoned on Lane overhearing the murder and going on the run. That set everything in motion, with Beddoes, who had no doubt been quickly informed about Spencer's mistake, calmly playing the injured party, the victim, knowing it would make him appear blameless, invulnerable.

“Beddoes was an arsehole,” said Lane. “He had it in for me right from the start.”

“So I've heard,” said Annie. “He called you a tearaway and a juvenile delinquent. What sort of things was Morgan up to?”

“He was never very clear about it, but obviously stealing tractors was a part of it. He had the removal van, see, and he knew what was going around the dale.”

“Who else was involved in this?”

“I don't know. Honestly, I don't know. Morgan didn't know the ­people in charge. I never heard him mention Beddoes. He did mention a bloke called Ron once, a club bouncer or something who liked to beat ­people up. Morgan liked to show off about being around dangerous guys. He was a hothead. He talked big. Said he was going to show them. But he didn't know any of the real bosses.”

“Ronald Tanner was the one who broke Alex's finger and frightened her half to death,” said Annie.