‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘I’d like to see Mr Havers.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
Banks showed her his warrant card.
She picked up the telephone. ‘If you’d care to—’
But Banks walked straight past her and through the next door, where he found Montague Havers sitting behind a flat-box Staples desk tapping away at a laptop computer. As soon as Havers saw Banks, he closed the lid on the computer and got to his feet. ‘What is this? You can’t just come barging in like that.’
Banks showed his warrant card again. Havers sat down and smoothed his hair. A funny smile crossed his features. ‘Well, why didn’t you say? Sit down, sit down. Always happy to help the police in any way I can.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ said Banks, sitting down on a very uncomfortable hard-backed chair. ‘It makes my job a lot easier.’ The view, he noticed, was of the railway lines at the back of the main line stations. A trainspotter’s wet dream.
Havers wore his wavy brown hair just a trifle too long for a man of his age, Banks thought. Along with the white shirt and garish bow tie he was wearing, it gave him the air of someone who was desperately trying to look young. Banks wondered, as he peered more closely, if his hair was dyed. Or a rug, even. It looked somehow fake. Maybe that was what he spent his money on: expensive rugs. The rusty moustache on his lip didn’t do much for the youthful effect.
‘So what exactly can I do for you, D— is it DI Banks?’
‘DCI, actually. Am I to call you Malcolm Hackett or Montague Havers?’
‘I changed my name legally six years ago to Montague Havers.’
Banks tilted his head. ‘May I ask why?’
‘Let’s just say that in the business I’m in, it helps if you have an educated-sounding name. Malcolm Hackett was just too . . . too comprehensive school.’
‘And Montague Havers is more Eton?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but that’s the general idea. Yes.’
Banks looked around the small office, at the crooked blinds, the stained, plasterboard walls, the scratched filing cabinets. ‘And the office?’
‘This? Nobody comes here. You’re lucky to find me in. This is just a place to keep records and make phone calls. All my business appointments take place in fine restaurants around Fitzrovia or Marylebone High Street, or at my club. The Athenaeum. Perhaps you know it?’
Banks shook his head. ‘I never was very clubbable. What exactly is your business?’
‘What it says on the door.’
‘That sounds like some sort of dodgy tax avoidance scheme to me. Offshore banking. International Investment Solutions.’
‘It’s a complicated world out there, and taxation is only a part of it.’
‘What other services do you offer?’
Havers glanced at his watch. ‘I don’t mean to rush you, but are you interested in becoming a client or are you just making polite small talk?’
‘I’d like to know.’
‘Very well. I’m part of a larger network of companies, and we offer just about any financial service – legal financial service, mostly investment opportunities – you can imagine.’
‘All international?’
‘Not all.’
‘Is property development investment one of your specialities?’
‘We don’t mind investing in property development occasionally, as long as it seems sound. But you have to remember that I’m in the business of investing British money abroad, not in domestic markets, and it’s often difficult to get a clear perspective on overseas properties. The laws can be so complicated. That doesn’t apply to my personal investments, of course.’
‘The Drewick airfield shopping centre? Does that ring a bell?’
‘Yes. I have a middling amount of my own money invested in the project, through a subsidiary.’
‘Retail Perfection?’
‘That’s the one. You have done your research. Anyway, I have a number of small investments in shopping centres. Can’t go wrong with them in a consumer society like this one.’
‘As long as people have the money to spend.’
‘Oh come, come. That’s hardly an issue. People will spend whether they have any money or not. That’s the nature of capitalism.’
‘Maybe so. But I’m still interested in Drewick. Do you keep up to date on what’s happening there?’
‘I trust Venture Properties to keep me informed. As far as I know, there’s been no movement for some time. Some minor problem with zoning laws. We expect it to be settled soon.’
‘But Venture would let you know as soon as any impediments to progress were removed?’
‘Of course. I should think so.’
‘I see.’ That meant Havers would be in a good position to switch operations from Drewick to some other location if he did happen to be involved in rural crime. ‘I understand you visited North Yorkshire recently.’
‘My, my. Am I under surveillance?’
‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know.’
‘Well, I very much doubt you’d be here if they didn’t know I know, if you see what I mean.’
‘Exactly. So who were you visiting up there?’
‘My wife’s brother and his wife live in Richmond.’
‘And you stayed with them?’
‘Of course.’
‘All the time? Sunday to Tuesday?’
‘Why wouldn’t I? I happen to get on well with them, and I like the Dales.’
‘Did your wife accompany you?’
Havers looked down at his desk. ‘My wife is dead, Mr Banks.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘It’s been some years now. But Gordon, Cathy and I have always been close. We still maintain strong family ties. Is there anything else?’
‘Were you with them all the time?’
‘Of course not. I did a bit of touring around by myself. The weather was bad, though, so that dampened my spirits. Still, it’s a fine part of the world.’
‘Did you visit Belderfell Pass?’
‘No. I know it, of course, but I’d avoid it in such poor conditions.’
‘Visit any farms in Swainsdale?’
‘No. I didn’t visit Swainsdale at all. What is it you’re after? I just drove around a bit, went for a pub lunch here and there, looked in a few antique shops – I collect antiques – and I spent some time with my family. We had a trip to Castle Bolton. It’s always been one of my favourite historical spots. Very manageable. What’s your problem with that?’
‘I have no problem with Castle Bolton, Mr Havers. It’s just the timing. Did you meet with a Ronald Tanner, Carl Utley, Michael Lane or Morgan Spencer?’
‘I can’t say I’ve ever heard any of those names.’
‘What about John Beddoes?’
‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘Are you sure the name John Beddoes doesn’t ring any bells?’
‘I’m afraid not. Should it?’
‘Indeed it should. You worked with him in the stockbroking business in the mid-eighties. You were friends. You socialised together. Snorted coke. Drank champagne from the bottle. Painted the town red.’
‘Now hang on a . . . just a minute.’ Havers snapped his fingers. ‘Of course! Bedder Beddoes. How could I forget? Yes, I knew him, back in the day. It was a long time ago, though.’
‘Bedder Beddoes?’
‘Use your imagination, Mr Banks. We were young and free.’
‘A lot of coke gone up the nasal passages since then?’
‘That was one mistake. I don’t do that sort of thing any more. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t.’ He patted his chest. ‘Heart.’
‘Are you telling me you have one, or that there’s something wrong with it?’
‘Ha ha. Very funny. I’m saying I’ve had two heart attacks. Cocaine would kill me. I’m allowed two units of wine a day. Do you know how hard that is?’
Banks could only imagine. ‘So we�
��ve established that you do know John Beddoes, and you did work with him some years ago, but you didn’t visit him in Yorkshire last week? Did you know he now owns a farm there?’
‘Bedder? No. I didn’t even know he lived there. We were good mates once, it’s true. But you know how it goes. You drift apart over time. And those times, well, they were heady indeed. Fuelled by coke and champagne, as you say. The memory tends to fade quickly, if indeed it registers at all. It went by in a whirl, I’m afraid. I’m only lucky I still had my wits left when the bubble burst. I was able to get into international banking. That’s where I learned most of what I know about overseas investments.’
‘So if we were to dig into your financial affairs, the financial affairs of your company and your movements over the past while, we wouldn’t find any sort of intersection with John Beddoes and his interests?’
‘I couldn’t guarantee that, but they would be none that I’m aware of. He’s not a client, if that’s what you mean.’
Havers sounded nervous at the prospect. It was obvious that he was lying, but Banks didn’t think he was going to get any further with him. By denying that he knew Beddoes, though, Havers had unintentionally told Banks a lot. Why deny it unless Beddoes was involved? Or unless Havers, himself, was involved? Havers had pulled himself out of the hole quickly, but not quickly enough to convince Banks that he had forgotten ‘Bedder’ Beddoes’ existence. No doubt he had lied about other things, too. He wasn’t going to admit to knowing any of the others, thugs like Tanner and Spencer, or to using the hangar at the airfield as a loading bay for stolen farm equipment. But by talking to him, and by letting him know that he knew, Banks thought he might just have ruffled things up enough that Havers, or someone in the organisation, would make a mistake. He still didn’t know how deeply Beddoes was involved – after all, it was his expensive tractor that had been reported stolen – but these two old friends certainly had the knowledge between them to run a sideline in stolen farm equipment. Beddoes knew something about farming, and he lived in a large rural area; he had also been a merchant banker, so he knew about financing. All they needed were connections to the illegal trade routes, and Havers’ international contacts might easily have supplied those, according to what Joanna MacDonald had said. Banks decided to lay his cards on the table before leaving.
‘Mr Havers, I believe you’re part of a group, or call it a gang, a criminal organisation, involved in rural crime in a big way, and a part of your operation made a nasty mess on my patch. I believe you’ve been using the abandoned airfield and hangar at Drewick because it’s a convenient transfer point for stolen goods from the north, and because you knew it was in limbo for the time being. Your men wouldn’t be disturbed. Last Sunday, one of your underlings, Morgan Spencer, was murdered there, killed by a penetrating bolt pistol to the head. Either you wanted rid of him for some reason, or some rival gang was muscling in. We don’t know yet why he was killed. Either way, I believe you know something about it.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ protested Havers. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I wasn’t even—’
‘In the area at the time? How do you know what time it took place? I didn’t tell you.’
‘Oh, very clever. The old “how could you have known” trick. Now you’re putting words in my mouth.’
‘Well, how could you?’
‘Because it was on the news on Monday, while I was still at my brother-in-law’s. Ask him. They said it took place on Sunday morning. I didn’t get to Richmond until Sunday afternoon, as you well know.’
As far as Banks was aware, the media didn’t know on Monday that the murder had taken place in the hangar on Sunday morning, but he decided he would keep that point in reserve until he had done a thorough check on Havers, including a visit to his brother-in-law. ‘Exactly,’ said Banks. ‘So where were you before then? How do I know you didn’t find a way to foil Operation Hawk and the ANPR cameras and sneak up to the airfield earlier, for example?’
‘This is absurd,’ said Havers. ‘I have nothing more to say to you. If you plan on continuing this charade I want my lawyer present.’
Banks stood up to leave. ‘You’d hardly need a lawyer if it were a charade, Monty,’ he said. Then he paused at the door. ‘You know,’ he went, ‘if I were you, I’d take this as an omen, a bad omen. If I were you, I’d back off for a while, lie low and take stock. Disappear from the radar. No matter what you think, things aren’t going to get any easier for you from now on.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘It’s reality, Monty. The threats come later.’
Banks closed the door gently behind him. The secretary scowled at him as he left.
Chapter 13
‘So you didn’t notice anything unusual about Mr Ross when he came to pick up here on Tuesday?’ Winsome asked. She was at the last farm on her list, the last place Caleb Ross had visited before heading for the Belderfell Pass and his death, and she had found out nothing new. He had arrived at a quarter to one and left just after one, so Mr Wythers said. Some of the farmers thought Caleb was a bit distracted, in a hurry, whereas others thought his behaviour just the same as usual.
Mr Wythers, owner of Garsley Farm, had invited her in for a cup of tea, and Winsome was grateful for it. She felt as if it had been a long day, though it was still only mid-afternoon, and she had not stopped for lunch. The slice of Battenberg cake Mr Wythers gave her with her tea reminded her how hungry she was. It would be back to the station, a quick report, then home for an early dinner followed by an early night.
‘Caleb never said much,’ Mr Wythers was saying. ‘I don’t mean he was rude or anything, but we weren’t mates, if you know what I mean. He was just a man doing his job, and I was the one who paid him for it. It was just like that. Businesslike, but polite, friendly, you know. I even asked him in for a cup of tea and a piece of cake, just like I did you, but he said he’d just had his lunch. We didn’t chat or gossip or owt, so I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything about him.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Winsome. ‘I’m just collecting whatever bits and pieces I can to try to build up a picture of his last day.’
‘It’s a terrible thing, what happened,’ said Wythers. ‘That pass has claimed more than one victim in my time here, that’s for certain. And you couldn’t see it coming. When he left here it was clear as anything. Clouds, aye, but there’s nowt odd about that. Came like a bolt from the blue, it did. Weather’s like that in these parts and it can be awful bleak out here. It pays to be careful, lass.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ said Winsome. ‘But I think I’m just about done now.’ She ate the last small piece of cake, one of the pink bits with a marzipan border, washed it down with the last of her tea and stood up.
‘Sorry I couldn’t be more help, lass,’ said Wythers, walking her to the door. ‘Stay, boy,’ he said to the excited young collie who had started to accompany them. The dog sat down by the hearth. ‘Stay. There’s a good lad.’
Winsome said goodbye and stepped into the farmyard. She had seen, and smelled, enough farmyards over the past couple of days to last her a lifetime, she thought, but at least she hadn’t drawn Annie’s unenviable task of checking out the abattoirs. Still, Annie had come up with a viable lead in the stolen bolt gun and dismissed workers, and Winsome had come up with nothing except the possibility that Caleb Ross might have had something on his mind the day he died. Whatever it was, she guessed that it had lain at the other side of Belderfell Pass, and he had never reached it.
She started the car and headed back up the long drive to the B road. Instead of turning right to get back to the Swainshead and Helmthorpe road to Eastvale, she turned left towards the high moorland. She remembered this part of the dale well because the potholing club had visited it often. The hills that loomed ahead of her were riddled by one of the largest cave systems in Europe, with miles of underground passages linking huge chambers, some as large as the inside of a cathedral.
Thinking abo
ut her potholing days took her mind back to Terry Gilchrist. She still felt embarrassed about the previous evening. He had rung her that morning, before work, and asked her if she would see him, just to talk. Reluctantly – mostly because of her embarrassment, not lack of interest – she had agreed to have lunch with him on Saturday. How long could she go on behaving like a flirtatious virgin around him? Not that she would jump into bed with him – it was only lunch, after all – but she would make good on that kiss she had promised herself last night. It had been a long time since she’d been romantically and physically involved with a man, that was all. It would take a little practice.
Beyond Wythers’ farm, which was right on the edge of the High Pennines, the land wasn’t much use for farming and was practically uninhabited. Sheep grazed there, of course, but that was about all. The road turned sharp left towards Belderfell Pass and Winsome could see it snaking up the hillside ahead. She pulled over in a passing place and got out to admire the distant view. She probably wasn’t that far from the Lancashire border, she thought, or perhaps she was even far enough north to be neighbouring on Cumbria, where the wild fells and moorlands of the Yorkshire Dales would slowly morph into the older, more rounded hills of the Lake District. It was a panoramic but desolate view before her, that was for certain, two or three large hills like long, flat anvils, a disused quarry, stretches of moor and marsh. She got her binoculars from the boot and scanned the distance. There were one or two isolated hunters’ lodges, owned by private clubs and used during the grouse season, but that was about all. She was already beyond the source of the River Swain, above Swainshead, and though becks and small waterfalls cascaded from the steep hillsides and meandered through the moorland, there were no rivers or tarns to be seen.
Shivering in the sudden chill breeze, she got back in her car and decided to take the long way back to Eastvale, over Belderfell Pass. Remembering Wythers’ warnings about the weather, she scanned the sky as she made her way up the winding, unfenced road. Before long, she could feel her ears blocking and ringing, the way they did in aeroplanes at take-off and landing. She yawned and felt them crack and clear. The pass wound its way high above the valley bottom over to the next dale. She’d got about halfway when she encountered the first signs of the accident, the dots of the investigators still working at the scene way below. She could see scatterings of black plastic bags. She slowed down as she rounded a promontory and stopped for a moment to watch the men below, but the perspective gave her vertigo. She never usually had a problem with heights, but even the hardiest of souls had been known to tremble at Belderfell Pass. Going the other way was a lot easier, of course. Then you hugged the hillside all the way. But in the direction she was going, the direction Caleb Ross had taken, there was nothing between her and the sheer drop.
Abattoir Blues: The 22nd DCI Banks Mystery (Inspector Banks 22) Page 28
