Soon she realised she had started on the slow and winding descent into the tiny village of Ramsghyll, nestled at the bottom of the hill and famous for its pub, the Coach and Horses, which boasted real ale and gourmet food. Hungry as she was, Winsome didn’t stop, but carried on through the village’s narrow high street, past the pub and on to the road that, beyond Helmthorpe and Fortford, would take her eventually back to Eastvale. Perhaps it had been a wasted journey, she thought as she drove along admiring the scenery in the lengthening shadows, and perhaps it had been a wasted assignment altogether, but she still couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling that the answer to Caleb Ross’s role in Morgan Spencer’s murder lay somewhere in the landscape she had just left behind. She was too tired and confused to do anything about it today, or even to know what to do, but she would approach the problem afresh tomorrow morning and work out just what it was that was niggling away at the edge of her consciousness.
The Duck and Drake was a popular old pub on Frith Street, in the heart of Soho, just a stone’s throw from Ronnie Scott’s. Banks had been there many times before, both when he worked in the West End and when he visited London or went down on business. Like this afternoon. The after-work crowd usually started congregating early, and there were already a few people standing outside smoking and quaffing pints when Banks got there at four. It was a small pub, long and narrow. Banks walked past the crowded bar through to the back room, which was furnished with a few ancient wooden tables and chairs, and found the person he was looking for right at the back table, scaring prospective punters away with his churlish expression.
Detective Chief Superintendent Richard ‘Dirty Dick’ Burgess stood up and beckoned Banks over, shaking hands vigorously. ‘Banksy, it’s good to see you again. How’s it hanging?’
Banks cringed. Burgess was the first person to call him Banksy since his schooldays. Not that he didn’t admire the artist’s work, but the nickname still rankled. Back at school there hadn’t been the ‘other’ Banksy.
Burgess had worked for just about every law enforcement agency there had been, every acronym imaginable, had been involved in counterterrorism, drugs, people-trafficking, airport security, homicide and organised crime. Now he was high up in the new National Crime Agency, the NCA, who had been working on Operation Hawk with the local forces. Though Burgess wasn’t the go-to man for rural crime, he oversaw a variety of operations, and Banks was willing to bet he knew as much about what was going on there as the team that had been assigned to it.
‘I’m fine,’ said Banks, squeezing himself into the small space on a wobbly chair.
‘I noticed the bar was getting busy,’ said Burgess, ‘so I took the liberty of getting the drinks in. Lager for me, of course, and one of those fancy real ale things for you. Can’t remember what it’s called – Codswallop or Cockadoodledoo or some such thing – but the delightful young lady at the bar recommended it.’
‘Thank you,’ said Banks, and took a sip. It tasted good. Hoppy and full-bodied.
‘So you got my message?’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ Banks had received a phone call from Joanna MacDonald just after he had left Havers’ office, telling him that she had been speaking with the NCA about his visit. They wanted to talk to him while he was in London and see if they could share information. She had no idea it was going to be Burgess who turned up. Banks doubted that she even knew him. But Banks wasn’t greatly surprised. Burgess had a habit of turning up when you least expected him – which was, perhaps, when you should most expect him. He and Banks had many points of difference, but they got along well and never let a good argument get in the way of the job.
He had also received a call from Gerry Masterson to inform him that DC Cabbot and Doug Wilson had got two names of possible bolt gun thieves out of Stirwall’s – Ulf Bengtsson and Kieran Welles. Annie believed that Welles was their best bet, but the team was working on tracking both of them down.
Gerry also informed him that the Kent police had phoned to report that Morgan Spencer’s removal van had been found on some wasteland on the outskirts of Dover. Inside were a Yamaha motorcycle and a Deutz-Fahr Agrotron tractor. Both intact. The whole lot was being shipped up to North Yorkshire as soon as the locals could get transport organised. That came as a shock to Banks, but he filed it away for later.
‘Well, it’s good to see you down here again,’ said Burgess. ‘It’s been too long. When was the last time? That gay spook murder, wasn’t it?’
‘Probably,’ said Banks. ‘I forget the exact occasion. You’re well, I take it?’
Burgess looked more gaunt than usual, the belly that had been hanging over his belt the last time they met trimmed down, and the extra flab gone from his face, making his cheeks look hollow.
‘Don’t let appearances deceive you, old mate. I’ve been working out at the gym. Given up the evil weed – Tom Thumbs, that is – and cut back on the demon alcohol. A little. You should try it. I had a minor health scare a while back, meant they had to shove a camera up my arse on a stick. I must say, though, with the drugs they give you if you go private, you can’t feel a thing. You can imagine my surprise when I found a note stuffed in my shoe afterwards saying. “I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.” Still, such is life.’
‘It was a false alarm?’
‘It wasn’t the big C, if that’s what you mean. A small operation soon put things right, and now it’s the healthy life for me.’ He knocked back some lager.
Banks felt relieved to hear that Burgess’s problem wasn’t serious, and he realised that the man sitting opposite him was one of his few remaining friends, one of the few people he cared about, though he would never admit it. ‘It’s that stuff’ll kill you,’ he said, pointing to Burgess’s quickly vanishing pint of lager. ‘All chemicals. You want something like this.’ He held up his own pint. ‘Organic. Good for you. Or red wine.’
‘Same old Banksy, it’s good to see.’ Burgess clapped his hands together. ‘Anyway, enough of this banter. Let’s get down to brass tacks, as you lot say up north.’
Banks hadn’t heard anyone say that for a long time, except on television satires of northern life, but he let it go by. It was best to do that with many of the things Burgess said, he usually found. ‘Montague Havers?’ Banks said.
‘Yes, good old Monty.’
‘Why is he still walking around free?’
‘Because he’s a devious bastard,’ said Burgess. ‘All right, I know. I’ll say it before you do. I’m a devious bastard, too, and not above bending the rules when it suits my purposes. You and I, we’re from the same side of the tracks. We should understand one another. Thing is, Monty is, too.’
‘But he’s a crook. And he changed his name because he thought it sounded more posh.’
‘It was a business decision. Monty grew up in the East End, like me, when it really was the East End, if you know what I mean. Thing is, when Thatcher started putting the economy to rights and commies like you went off feeling sorry for the poor fucking miners and electricians and factory workers, some of us knew a gift horse when it kicked us in the face, and we took our opportunities where we found them. There were billion-pound privatisations, hostile takeovers, corporate raids, asset stripping. And very few rules. Great times, and open to all. You didn’t have to be from Eton and Oxbridge to make it back then. All you had to do was throw out your lefty social conscience – something you could never do, old mate. Those City lads were practically printing money, and they came from the same place as you and me. The mean streets. Shitty council estates. Comprehensives. If I hadn’t already been busy climbing the greasy pole of policing, I might have been one of them, myself.’
‘I’m sure you would have made a lot more money. But things have changed.’
‘Tell me about it. Bunch of wankers we’ve got in there nowadays couldn’t manage a kid’s piggy bank, let alone a fucking economy. But that’s not our concern. If you want to understand people like Monty Havers, you’ve got to understand pe
ople like me. The barrow-boys made good. We were young, we were quick-witted and we were cocky. Not a shade of shit different from the criminal classes, you might say, and you’d be right. But we had vim and vision and stamina and, by God, that’s what the country needed. We got things done. So what happened to them when the dream ended? Well, I imagine some of them were damaged for good by the lifestyles of excess, same way as the hippies who’d taken too much LSD. But the others, like Havers, wormed their way into legitimate businesses, like specialised banking, and learned the ropes and how to get around them. Like I said, we were bright and the rule book was out of the window. Now, if you ask me, there’s not a hell of a lot of difference between most of your merchant banks and organised crime, so it shouldn’t come as such a big surprise that Havers is bent. Things is, he’s learned his tradecraft He knows intimately the ins and outs of money laundering, invisible transfers, hidden accounts, offshore shelters, shell companies and so forth. He’s always one step ahead of the legislation. That’s why we know him only by his contacts, and by what they do. Some of them do very unsavoury things, but Havers never puts his name to anything that can get back to him, never gets his hands dirty. He knows the people who can ship you anything anywhere any time, for a price. He knows where you can get your hands on fake passports, phoney bills of lading, thirteen-year-old virgins, you name it. He knows which palms need to be greased, and he might supply the funds – from somewhere squeaky clean – but he doesn’t do the greasing. See what I mean? He stays out of the world he helps to run, even socially. You’ll find him at the Athenaeum, not some dive in a Soho basement.’
‘I suppose he just had to become a Montague, then. But why the rural crime? I mean stolen tractors, for crying out loud, when according to you Havers could make a million just from the blink of an eyelid. Where does that fit in?’
‘Because there’s a market for them, old son. Multiply one tractor by ten, twenty, whatever. Do you know how much those things are worth? They’re not going to peasants in Bolivia, you know, Banksy. They’re going to people who can afford them. It’s not just tractors and combines and pitchforks and what have you, it’s forklifts, backhoes, Land Rovers, Range Rovers, along with all the Beemers and Mercs from the chop shops. Seems country people are often a lot more sloppy about security than us city dwellers. It’s easy pickings, and when you have the know-how to get it from A to B, you’ve got it made.’
‘There are a lot of people to pay off.’
‘Peanuts. I know where you can get an arm broken for twenty quid, two for thirty.’
‘Twenty quid? Them’s London prices, then?’
Burgess laughed. ‘Yes. I’m sure you can get it done for half in Yorkshire.’ He finished his lager and set the glass heavily on the table.
‘Another round?’ Banks asked.
‘Don’t mind if I do.’
Banks walked back to the bar. It wasn’t too busy. He thought over what Burgess had said as he waited to get served. If Havers were even half as smart as Burgess gave him credit for, he would be very hard to bring down. On the other hand, Banks thought he’d put the wind up him by the end of their meeting. For one thing, he had let him know that the police knew the names of pretty much everyone they thought was involved. That ought to be cause for concern, even if two of them were dead and Havers believed none of the survivors would dare talk. Whether he would be cocky enough to carry on business as usual remained to be seen. In a way, it wasn’t so much him as the northern branch of his operation that Banks was interested in, especially the person who had killed and cut up Morgan Spencer. If Beddoes was involved, Banks would also make sure he went down one way or another. Someone would talk, given the option of a softer deal.
When it was his turn, he ordered the same again. The barmaid had an American accent and hennaed hair. She smiled sweetly at Banks as she pulled the pint, but he didn’t think she was coming on to him. It was just her style. Besides, she was young enough to be his daughter. Which reminded him, he had to get in touch with Tracy. They’d planned to go and see Brian’s band the Blue Lamps at the Sage next week. Banks was excited about that, seeing his daughter and watching his son perform on a prestigious stage. He’d call her tonight when he got back home. If he got back. But he had to, he realised. There was so much to be done up there, he couldn’t desert the team and enjoy an overnight in London. There were plenty of trains, and he wasn’t far from King’s Cross. This would have to be his last pint.
Burgess was jotting something down in his notebook when Banks got back with the drinks. He put it away. ‘I knew Havers when I was growing up,’ he said. ‘Not very well – I’m a bit older than him – but I knew him. He lived in the next street over. That’s why I’m taking more of an interest than usual, I suppose.’
‘Ever heard of a John Beddoes?’ Banks asked.
‘I can’t say as I have.’
‘It was his tractor got stolen, but now I’m wondering if he isn’t in it with Havers. They were close mates back in those good old days you were just talking about.’
‘It’s entirely possible,’ Burgess said. ‘But he’d hardly steal his own tractor, or get someone to do it, would he?’
‘No. I’m working on that. It’s just been found outside Dover, so that should make him happy.’
‘That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?’
‘I agree. The thieves must have run into some sort of a snag and had to abandon it. I imagine it was due to ship from somewhere near there. But we think the whole operation was a maverick job, or at least it’s rated as one. A young lad called Morgan Spencer acting alone. It was probably what got him killed.’
‘He’s the boy who was killed with the stun gun and cut up, right? I heard about that. No, the name hasn’t come up in any of our investigations.’
‘Very low level, I should imagine,’ said Banks. ‘You had a murder with a similar MO some time ago, if I’m not mistaken?’
‘A bolt gun? Yes. Very nasty. Polish bloke. It wasn’t a case I worked on at all closely, but I took an interest. Anything out of the ordinary like that gets my attention. As far as I know, it was never solved. Maybe I’ll have another look at the case file. Something might leap out. Didn’t they find some prints?’
‘They did. I’ve got someone working on them now, comparing them with partials we found at the hangar. But if anything does jump out at you, let me know.’
‘Will do.’
‘We’ve got a couple of suspects in the theft of a penetrating bolt gun from a big abattoir up north. We’re trying to track them down, of course, but any help you can offer . . .’
Burgess took his notebook out again. ‘Give me their names.’
‘Ulf Bengtsson and Kieran Welles.’
‘Scandinavian is he, this Bengtsson?’
‘Swedish.’
‘Thought so. If my memory serves me well, he’s dead. I’ll check, but I’m pretty sure his name was Ulf something or other. Everyone knew him as “The Swede”.’
‘Oh?’
‘Don’t get your hopes up, Banksy. It was natural causes. He was sleeping rough, had a serious alcohol problem. One morning some tourists found him under a bridge near the Embankment. Lights out. Liver and heart failure.’
‘How do you know this? Surely there wasn’t an investigation?’
‘I try to keep up. It’s my city. As a matter of fact, hypothermia was involved. It had been a very cold night, and questions were asked in parliament. How could our society . . . blah, blah, blah . . . You ask me, people want to sleep out on the streets and beg instead of getting a decent job and somewhere safe and warm to kip down, good luck to them.’
‘You haven’t changed much, have you?’
Burgess winked. ‘Governments come and governments go, but basic truths remain the same.’
‘And so does Dirty Dick Burgess. And the other? Kieran Welles.’
‘Don’t know anything about him. Kieran’s an Irish name, though, isn’t it?’
‘Sounds like it to me.’
‘Hmm. I’ll see what I can find out.’ He sipped his drink. ‘Sometimes it’s like pissing in the wind, this job. Christ, don’t you long for the old days, Banksy? You were down here then. Out on the mean streets. You had a bit of a reputation. Took no prisoners, as I remember.’
‘Different times.’
‘Too true. But let’s not get all nostalgic, hey?’ He hoisted his glass and they clinked. ‘To old friends.’
‘You sentimental bastard.’
‘Go carefully,’ Burgess said. ‘I mean it. People like Havers, and perhaps even your Beddoes, for all I know, look harmless on the surface. They’d run a mile if you raised your fist to them. But they don’t have to deal with that end of the business themselves. They use people like your Kieran Welles, and they don’t care what damage they do. Do you think Welles is behind the killing?’
‘Off the cuff?’ said Banks. ‘I don’t know Kieran Welles – don’t even know if he was the one who stole the bolt gun. All I know about him is that he was cruel to animals in an abattoir, if that doesn’t take the biscuit. There’s a couple of others – Ronald Tanner, who threatened a witness, and a mate of his called Carl Utley, who we think might have driven the van with the tractor away from the scene and dumped it outside Dover. We’re looking for him. I don’t rate Tanner. He’s a bruiser. He’s never worked in an abattoir, and we’ve found no trace of a bolt gun at his house.’
Abattoir Blues: The 22nd DCI Banks Mystery (Inspector Banks 22) Page 29
