Unti Peter Robinson #22 (35 page)

Lane turned pale. “Oh, God,” he said, and put his head in his hands.

“We haven't finished yet,” said Banks. “Time for tears and recriminations later.”

Lane wiped his eyes and gave Banks a truculent glare. “You're a hard bastard, you are.”

“You say Morgan Spencer mentioned wanting to steal Beddoes's tractor while its owner was on holiday, and that he knew a thug called Ron. Did he ever mention Caleb Ross?”

“Not to me.”

“Ross smoked pot. Do you know where he got it from?”

“No way. I'm not into that sort of thing. Alex wouldn't have it in the house even if I was, not with Ian around. A few drinks when we can afford them. The occasional bottle of cheap wine in front of the telly. That's all the drugs we do.”

“Very domestic,” said Banks. “Did Spencer mention any of his other partners in crime to you?”

“There was one other bloke. Morgan didn't like him much. Even sounded a bit frightened when he talked about him. Like, he was a psycho or something. Lived way out on the moors all by himself. Come to think of it, he might have been growing some pot out there. He had his own private abattoir. Used to be a slaughterman, only he got fired for some reason or other.” Lane gave a shudder. “Like I said, I thought he was just bullshitting me.”

“Did he give this person a name?”

Lane frowned, then said, “Let's see . . . Ken . . . Ken Atherton, or something like that. All I know is he sounded really scary.”

AS ATHERTON
advanced toward her, Winsome calculated the distance she would have to go and the estimated time she would have to do it. She thought she could probably outrun him, but she didn't think she could take him on in a fight. Even outrunning him depended on the weather out there. There was certainly no chance of getting to her car and driving off, even if it started, even if drifts weren't blocking the drive already. If she ran, she had to run somewhere, had to have a plan. There was only one possibility that came to her mind, and it was a desperate one. But first she had to get out.

“It'll be easier if you just relax,” Atherton said. “Sometimes the animals got overexcited, and I had to kick them or stub a cigarette out in their eye to show them who was boss. I can do that with you.”

He looked down to fiddle with the gun and Winsome seized her chance. She grabbed the hook and hurled it toward Atherton. It swung fast, but he was faster and moved his head out of the way in time. He was disoriented enough to forget about the return, though, which came quicker than expected. The hook hit one of the low rafters and bounced back unexpectedly fast, and this time it connected directly with the back of Atherton's head. He dropped the gun, which skittered far away down the channel, and fell face forward onto the filth.

Winsome wasn't sure how stunned he was but she had no desire to hang around. He was stronger than her, and he could easily turn the tables in a fight. She decided that running was still the best option.

She slid back the bolt, hauled the door open and ran outside. It was hard to see far beyond the cottage, but the rock face of Woadly Edge stood out dramatically, dark against the whiteness of the snow. Winsome could hear Atherton moving inside the abattoir. She headed for the rock face as fast as her legs could carry her. She had been an award-­winning sprinter at school, and she hadn't done badly over distances, either, so she thought she had an advantage. It was a gamble. She couldn't run forever, and she didn't intend to. Much of what happened to her in the next while would depend on whether Atherton knew the caves as well as she did. And on the cavalry coming, of course. Where was the cavalry?

BANKS AND
Annie sat in the former's office after the Lane interview to draw up a plan of attack. Lane hadn't been able to tell them anything more about Ken Atherton except that he lived on the remote moorland. First they needed to find out where. They had put Lane back in his cell for the time being, but neither of them thought they could make anything stick against him. Banks also had the feeling that Annie's heart wasn't in putting Lane behind bars.

“Look, he's been a bloody idiot,” she said, “and I've no doubt he was a bit more involved in Spencer's doings than he led us to believe, but for the most part I'd say his story holds true, and I'll bet you he's learned his lesson.”

“If he hasn't,” said Banks, “I have no doubt that Alex will make sure it's drilled into him.”

“And what would the CPS make of it?” Annie added. “They'd laugh us out of the office.”

“Ronald Tanner might implicate him, if he talks,” Banks said. “Or Carl Utley, or this Atherton character, when we find him.”

“But that's not proof,” Annie said. “Anyone could argue they'd be doing it to save their own skins. When it comes right down to it, do I believe Lane made a bit of extra money from helping Morgan Spencer with his dirty deeds, maybe fingering likely victims, helping with the heavy lifting? Maybe. But do I think he was really
involved
? No, I don't. And did he hurt or kill anyone? No.”

“It's just possible he was the one who egged Spencer on to steal Beddoes's tractor in the first place. There was bad blood between them. He knew through Alex that Beddoes was going away, and he did admit he might have mentioned it to Spencer on Friday. That explains why the tractor was stolen so close to the time of Beddoes's return. It was a brief window of opportunity.”

“Maybe,” Annie admitted. “But that's still just speculation. And he wasn't trying to get Spencer killed. Anything we could charge him with would be vague at this point.”

“Let him stew for a while,” said Banks. “We'll see what else we can dig up.”

“I think Alex really needs him.”

Banks studied her for a moment. “Why, Annie,” he said, “I do believe you're becoming a bit more like your old self.”

“You mean you thought I was soft?”

“Compassionate. You've been a lot harder lately.”

“Getting shot will do that to you.”

“And now?”

Annie smiled. It reminded Banks of her old smile, though it wasn't quite there yet. “Getting there,” she said. “But don't push it. You're the hard bastard now, according to Michael Lane.”

“Someone has to be. Cut him loose. Police bail. But tell him not to go wandering off. And you can bring Gerry back in.”

“Aren't Alex and Ian still in danger?”

“Keep the surveillance going. I don't think they are, though. I think it's all unraveling, and it's every man for himself. Rats deserting a sinking ship. It's just a matter of who talks first.”

Annie left for the custody suite to set Lane's release on police bail in motion. Alone in his office, Banks picked up the phone and dialed Burgess's number. Dirty Dick answered after the fourth ring. “What were you doing?” Banks said. “Shagging your secretary?”

“That only requires three rings,” Burgess retorted. “What can I do for you?”

“I think you should close in on Havers. The whole kit and caboodle's falling apart.”

“The center cannot hold,” said Burgess, after Banks had told him the story. “We'll move in the heavy artillery. I've got something for you, too. You know those blokes you were looking for: Kieran Welles and Carl Utley?”

“Yes. We haven't been able to catch up with them yet.”

“Carl Utley caught a ferry from Dover to Calais last Sunday evening. You can get Interpol on him, but I'd guess you'll have a hard time finding him now. As for the other one, a mate of mine in intelligence has been keeping tabs on him as best he can. Seems he changed his name to Kenneth Atherton and moved to North Yorkshire. Remote place called High Point Farm.”

Banks had never heard of the place, but that didn't matter. He would find it. He felt the excitement he always felt when he was closing in. He thanked Burgess and went to the squad room to see if Winsome was back.

The room was empty, the desks littered with pieces of paper, some ringed with coffee cup stains. On Gerry Masterson's desk he saw a note in what looked like Winsome's writing. It said: “Got a lead to a place called High Point Farm. Owner: Kenneth Atherton. Gone out for a look around. Can you send a squad car for backup, just in case. Thanks, Winsome.”

Being Winsome, she had even noted the time at the top: 11:35 a.m. Banks looked at his watch and saw it was now after three. His heart began to race. She must have left the note after he had sent Gerry to babysit Alex Preston, and Doug Wilson was out keeping an eye on the Beddoes farm. Christ, she should have been back by now.

Just as he was leaving, the phone on Winsome's desk rang. Banks picked it up. “Winsome?” the voice said.

“No, it's DCI Banks here. Who am I speaking to?”

“Oh, DCI Banks It's me, Terry Gilchrist. Can I talk to Winsome? Unless she's really busy of course. I'm afraid it's a personal call.”

“She's not here.”

“It's just that she said she'd meet me for lunch and . . . well, Winsome's a woman of her word. She didn't turn up. She hasn't even phoned.”

“That's not like her,” Banks agreed.

“Do you know where she is?”

“I'm afraid I don't, Mr. Gilchrist.” On impulse, Banks asked, “By the way. Do you know of a place called High Point Farm?”

“No,” said Gilchrist. “Never heard of it. Why?”

“I'm afraid we're in the midst of a bit of a crisis here right now, so I'm going to have to hang up on you, sir.”

“Is it Winsome? What's happened? I—­”

Banks had no time to worry about Winsome's boyfriend now. The first thing to do was get as many squad cars out to High Point Farm as he could, if it was possible in the snowstorm, then head out there himself immediately. He dialed dispatch and gave the orders. Then, just for a moment, he turned and looked out of the window, and his heart sank. The snow was coming down thick and fast, almost obscuring the market square. He could only imagine what it would be like out on the high moorland. He dialed Winsome's mobile number, though he already had a sneaking feeling that she was in a no-­reception zone. He was right.

He needed to get out to High Point Farm himself, but he realized he still had no idea where it was, and satnav was never any use out on the moors. It might as well be on Mars. Then he remembered that one of the custody officers was a walking map of the Dales and hoped he was on duty as he took the stairs two at a time. He nearly stumbled when his mobile chimed. When he answered it, Doug Wilson said, “They're doing a bunk, guv. The Beddoeses. They're doing a bunk.”

“Stop them.” Banks explained the situation to Wilson as quickly as he could, then he said, “Call for backup and hold them there. They're not going anywhere. Then join us at High Point Farm, if you can find it.”

Banks dashed into the custody suite in the basement, where he was relieved to see Annie chatting to the walking map of the Dales.

 

16

T
HOUGH THE SNOW WAS PILING UP AGAINST THE ROCK face, it was easy for Winsome to get through the opening into the large cavern. She risked a quick glance behind her and saw that Atherton was stumbling in pursuit, about two hundred yards down the hillside, but he didn't seem to be carrying the bolt gun.

About thirty feet inside the opening, which was high enough for even Winsome to enter without crouching, three caves ran deeper into the system, but only one led to the cathedral-­sized chamber where Winsome wanted to go. Another dead-­ended, and the third became so low at one point that hardly a mouse could squeeze through. You had to know which tunnel to choose, and Winsome did.

To throw Atherton off the scent, she made sure she had her mobile and wallet and keys, but took off her quilted jacket and lay it outside the central cave before she took the one to her right. If he didn't know the caves, it might fool him into picking the wrong entrance.

It was cold inside the cave, especially without her jacket, but while the stone acted as a natural coolant, it also insulated the place from the worst of the cold. And the snow couldn't penetrate here, no matter how hard the wind blew it. The walls were slimy, cool and moist to the touch, veined with minerals and crystals. It was getting darker with every step she took from the main entrance. Soon she was bending over to keep going, and as yet she had heard no signs of Atherton following her. He had seemed out of shape as he made his way up the hill, despite his sturdy build, and he was probably pausing to catch his breath and try to work out which way she had gone. At least, that was what she hoped.

Soon, Winsome knew, the ceiling would hang so low that it would look impossible to get under. A novice would turn around and go back. But Winsome had been through more than once, and she knew it was higher than it looked, even though you had to crawl on your belly for such a long way that it was easy to panic if you were the slightest bit claustrophobic. And if you panicked, you got stuck.

The trick, she remembered as she lay on her belly and slid forward into the clammy darkness, was to pretend that you were a snake and could squeeze through the narrowest of spaces. She cursed the few pounds she had put on since she had last been potholing and vowed to go to the gym regularly if she survived this ordeal, but even with her arse feeling much bigger than she could ever bear it to be, she managed.

She slithered along on her stomach, oblivious to the sharp bits of rock and quartz here and there that cut into her. At the worst moments, she felt as if she were being crushed by an almighty weight, the breath squeezed out of her. For a few seconds, about halfway along, she stopped. There was silence except for the wind and water dripping somewhere. Now the rock underneath her was wet. About an inch of water had accumulated in the passage, soaking through her blouse and jeans, chilling her to the bone.

When she turned a slight bend in the passage, she knew she was almost there, and soon the rock above her seemed to draw up, like a press after it had done its work. In no time she was on all fours, the jeans around her knees shredded to rags. She had grazed her elbows and they hurt like hell. But she was almost there. It was pitch black now, and she was far enough away from any possibility of the light being seen, that she finally risked taking out her mobile and using its light to show her the low entrance ahead. It was just a hole in the wall, really, but Winsome knew that it led to a ledge about forty feet from the bottom of the enormous cathedral-­like cavern so many intrepid visitors had oohed and aahed over. She bent forward and squeezed through. After about five feet, she found herself on the ledge, which was wide enough to sit comfortably on.

The light from her phone didn't have the power to illuminate the full glory of the cavern, but it was better than total darkness. If Atherton did follow her, if he chose the right path and made it under the overhang, then she would hear him coming and have time to stand in wait against the wall by the edge of the entrance and use his momentum as he came through the hole in the wall to hurl him forward over the edge. Whether the forty-­foot drop would kill him, she had no idea. It would certainly incapacitate him, and there would be no way he would be able to climb back up and get at her.

Winsome turned off the phone to conserve battery power and huddled against the wall, shivering, arms locked around her drawn-­up knees. As her eyes grew used to the darkness, she could just make out the shapes of stalactites and stalagmites and sense the cathedral vastness of the space she was in. She would stay where she was until she was certain Atherton had given up, or her backup had arrived and caught him, then she would crawl and slither back out again, hoping to God the drifting snow hadn't completely blocked the exit.

Now there was nothing to do but wait. Water dripped. The wind moaned and whistled through the interconnected passages and made a deep humming music in the chamber. She heard a loud cry followed by what she thought were curses, swearwords.
Atherton.
She couldn't tell where they were coming from, but they froze her blood. Again she heard howls and curses echoing around the vast space, as if she were being hunted by a pack of hounds, and she hugged herself tighter and tighter until she almost turned into a ball.

BANKS AND
Annie signed out one of the police four-­by-­fours from the car pool for their journey. Neither Banks's Porsche nor Annie's Astra would handle the present conditions well. It was tough going, and Banks gritted his teeth as he drove every inch of the snow-­swept roads out of town. Neither said a word. Banks didn't even put any music on. He needed all the concentration he could muster for the driving.

Out on the main dale road, through Fortford, Helmthorpe and Swainshead, the conditions were much worse, as Banks had expected. It hadn't yet got to the point where any stretches were completely impassable, but it sometimes felt close to that, and once Banks skidded on a drift and clipped the dry stone wall before regaining control of the steering. Annie held on to him. It was hard to see. The windscreen wipers couldn't keep up with the volume of snow. The only piece of good fortune was that there was hardly anyone else out on the roads.

For a while after they turned off the main road, which branches toward Belderfell Pass to the left and the high Pennine moorland beyond the source of the river Swain to the right, Banks thought they might have to stop and continue on foot. But the drifting was patchy and for every deep and difficult stretch to plow through they would get a few hundred yards of relatively easy driving.

Eventually, taking much longer than he would have liked, Banks pulled up in the yard of High Point Farm, happy to see that two squad cars had somehow managed to beat him there. Even better, one of the officers said he had used his police radio to send out for a snow plow from Crowborough, the nearest village, about seven miles north. There were telegraph wires leading to the farmhouse, Banks noticed, so Welles/Atherton clearly had a landline.

Winsome's Polo stood in the yard, half covered by snow. Without touching it, Banks glanced through the windows. No Winsome. No keys in the ignition, no signs of a struggle. The snow had covered up any tracks that might have been in the yard, except their own. There were no indications of where Winsome and Atherton might have gone.

One of the uniformed officers told him there was also a red pickup truck in one of the outbuildings. Its engine was cold, which meant Atherton had probably been at home when Winsome arrived. Banks pulled up the collar of his three-­quarter-­length overcoat and surveyed the scene. Snow had drifted up against the front door of the low-­roofed farmhouse and one side of the barn. He thought there was something odd about the place when he looked closely. “What are those?” he asked Annie. “Those pens on the side.”

“That's not a barn,” said Annie. “At least, it probably was once, but it isn't now. They're called lairage. They're used to keep the animals waiting for slaughter. It's an abattoir, Alan, a private bloody abattoir.”

Banks hurried over to the building, with Annie not far behind. The front door stood open, and the long fluorescent lights shone on the inner workings of the small abattoir, the motorized rail running lengthways along the ceiling, the dangling hook with its bloody curve, the central trough, boilers and spray hoses for skinning. They stood just inside the doorway, wary of contaminating what might be a crime scene. Not to mention frightened of catching something. Whoever owned the place certainly had no interest in cleanliness and hygiene. It stank to high heaven and the floor was caked in shit and blood and worse. Banks almost gagged; Annie held her nose and breathed through her mouth. She pointed, and Banks saw an object on the floor, a bolt gun. They would leave it for the CSIs. At least Winsome wasn't here, though she might have been, Banks thought. There could have been a struggle, and Atherton had dropped the bolt gun. But where were they now?

Banks and Annie left the abattoir as it was when they found it and walked back to the farmhouse. The front door was locked, but one of the officers soon got it open with his mini battering ram, the “red door knocker” as it was affectionately called. Nobody gave any thought to a warrant. A police officer's life was in danger, and they had every reason to suspect the person who lived there of serious crimes.

The inside of the farmhouse was almost as unsavory as the abattoir. Cups, pans, plates, knives and forks stood piled in the stained sink, unwashed for days, or weeks. A plate on the small table with mold growing out of what had once been food on it, mouse droppings everywhere, signs of rats, too. On the wall was a rack of knives, and not Henckels cookware, either. These were nasty blades, clearly designed for the skinning and gutting of animals, or ­people. They were the only clean objects in the place, sharp blades so lovingly polished you could see your face in them.

Though Banks and Annie wore latex gloves, they were careful not to touch anything as they went methodically through the place, the bedroom, with its unruly mess of sheets, like the apparition from the adaptation of M. R. James's “Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to You” Banks had seen on television at Christmas. The toilet was a pigsty, the rest of the upstairs drab, bare and dusty. And nowhere were there any signs of Winsome or Atherton.

Banks supposed that was a good thing. At least they hadn't found her tied to a bed with a bolt pistol wound between her eyes. That meant there was a good chance she had escaped, or was at least on the run. If she had headed for the moors with Atherton in pursuit, Banks would put his money on Winsome. He had seen her in chases, and she was fast and strong. Whether either had the stamina to get very far under these conditions, however, remained doubtful.

It was down in the cellar where they found the hydroponic setup. Marijuana plants, lots of them, along with about a kilo of hash and a similar amount of cocaine, clearly from elsewhere. Drugs were another of Atherton's little sidelines. He had no doubt supplied Caleb Ross with the wacky baccy he had smoked.

“We'll seal the cellar off for now,” Banks said. “It's more important to get search parties for Winsome organized. They can't have got far. Have a word with the patrol officers. They might know the area a bit better than we do. I don't suppose there's any chance of getting a helicopter out in this weather, but it's worth asking, too.”

Annie walked over to the nearest patrol car, leaning down to speak through the window. Banks looked around. The snow showed no signs of abating. He imagined Winsome caught in a drift, slowly freezing to death
.
He put away such disturbing thoughts when he heard a car approaching. It turned out to be a dark blue Focus, and it appeared around the bend in the drive and pulled to a halt behind the police four-­by-­four.

Though he had never met Terry Gilchrist before, Banks recognized him from the car he drove, his limp and Winsome's description. “Oh, bloody hell,” he said as Gilchrist advanced through the snow. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought you might need some help.”

“It's a police operation,” said Banks. “We don't normally involve civilians, not even ex-­military.”

“So that's all the thanks I get for fighting for my country? Not to mention driving all this way in a bloody Ford Focus?”

Banks shrugged.

“What exactly are you doing that you don't want my help on?”

“Why don't you just get back in your car and head for home, Mr. Gilchrist. Leave it to us.”

“It's Winsome, isn't it? I knew something was wrong when she didn't call.”

“Yes, it's Winsome,” said Banks, losing his temper. “She's a friend and a colleague and I'd like you to clear out of here and let us do our job.”

Gilchrist stood his ground and looked around the farmyard. “It doesn't look to me as if you're actually doing very much.”

“That's your opinion.”

Gilchrist sighed. “Look, Chief Inspector, you may not like me, or you may simply not like the idea of someone telling you your business, but if you're looking for Winsome, I might be able to help. And if I think what's happened is true, the sooner the better.”

Banks was suddenly interested. “Oh? And what do you think happened?”

“Do you know where you are?”

“High Point Farm. You said you'd never heard of it. I blame myself for letting it slip.”

“I hadn't, but it was easy to look up. You're within a quarter of a mile of Woadly Edge, though you can't see it from here in this weather. It's up that hill and across the moors a ­couple of hundred yards or so.”

“So?”

“Winsome and I have had a few conversations. I wouldn't say I know her well, but I do know one or two things about her that I think you ought to consider.”

“Those being?”

“First off, Woadly Edge is one of the main access points for the Swainsdale cave system. And second, Winsome used to be a keen potholer. She'd know the caves like the back of her hand.”