“I should be so lucky. And the bloodstain?”
“A chap called Terry Gilchrist claims he came across it walking his dog. The AC decided to send DS Jackman to check it out.”
“Is AC Gervaise in her office?”
“Meeting at County HQ.” Gerry’s telephone rang. “Excuse me, sir.”
“Of course.” Banks stood up and went back to his own office, wondering which of the major crimes that had occurred in his absence required his immediate attention. Stolen tractor or possible bloodstain? The tractor wasn’t the first piece of expensive farm equipment to go missing over the past few months, and they had nothing resembling a lead so far. Perhaps this Lane boy Gerry said they were looking for would provide the break they needed.
Moments later, Gerry Masterson popped her head around the door. “That was dispatch, sir. DS Jackman just called in from that abandoned airfield near Drewick, on the other side of the A1.”
“I know the place,” said Banks.
“It seems our amateur bloodstain expert was right on the mark. Winsome’s found what she thinks is a pool of congealed blood in the old hangar there. They’ve already sent more patrol cars, and Ms. Singh is on her way.”
“Right,” said Banks, grabbing his raincoat and satchel. “It’s probably a fox or something, but I’ll take a possible human bloodstain over a stolen tractor any day. What are we waiting for?”
ANNIE DISCOVERED that Mick Lane had been arrested eighteen months ago for stealing a car and taking it for a joyride that resulted in more than two thousand pounds’ worth of damage. Not a fancy German tractor, just a knockabout Honda, but even so, Annie thought, young Lane merited further investigation. He had got off with community service, supervised by a probation officer, as he had been only seventeen at the time, and it had been his first offense. He seemed to have acquitted himself well and had not reoffended. Or he hadn’t been caught. It was early days yet. Also, Annie had learned that, according to his probation officer, Mick Lane was living in a flat on the East Side Estate with a twenty-eight-year-old woman called Alex Preston. She had a four-year-old shoplifting charge on her record and an eight-year-old son called Ian to care for. Whether she was still up to her thieving tricks, the probation officer didn’t seem to know, but her name wasn’t known around the station. Maybe Mick Lane had made an honest woman of her?
Rain suited the East Side Estate, Annie thought, as Doug Wilson pulled up outside the block of flats. It looked too dirty, too bright and too brittle in sunlight. Along with its twin, it had been rushed up in the first Wilson era, that flush period when “progress” and “the white heat of technology” were the buzzwords. Architecturally, the best that could be said about the buildings was that they hadn’t fallen down yet. Socially, many people wished they had. Luckily, there were only two tower blocks, and they were only ten stories high. As beautiful a market town as it was, and as attractive to tourists, Eastvale was slightly outside the borders of the Yorkshire Dales National Park, so not subject to its stringent building rules, or there wouldn’t have been any East Side Estate at all, let alone tower blocks. Mustn’t trouble the tourists with eyesores like that.
“Shall I put the Krook lock on?” Wilson asked.
“Nah,” said Annie. “Don’t bother. What’s the point? It’s not likely to stop anyone around here if they want to drive off with a police car. Bolt cutters come with the territory.”
“Watch it, guv,” said Wilson. “I grew up on an estate like this. You’re maligning my social background. You can get done for that. It’s not politically correct.”
“Sorry. Is that right? I thought you grew up in the country. You seem to know plenty about mole catchers and so on.”
“Just familiarizing myself with the territory. I like to take an interest in many things.”
“You really grew up on an estate like this?”
“Worse.” Wilson adjusted his glasses. “In Sheffield. It’s not something I’d lie about, or brag about, either. Actually, it wasn’t as bad as people think. We were lucky. We had decent neighbors. Give you the shirt off their back, they would. Or off someone’s back, at any rate.”
Annie laughed. “Come on.”
They walked toward the lift and Wilson pressed the button.
“You know, if this were on telly,” Annie said, “the lift would be out of order, and we’d have to walk up eight flights of stairs through a gauntlet of drugged-up hoodies flashing knives.”
“Or if it worked,” said Wilson, “it’d be covered in graffiti and stink of piss.”
The lift shuddered to a halt, and the doors slid open. The inside was covered in graffiti and stank of piss. They got in anyway. Annie held her nose and pressed the button for the eighth floor. The doors closed, but nothing happened. She tried again. Still nothing. After a moment’s panic—Annie had always been claustrophobic in lifts—the “doors open” button worked, and they got out and walked. In the fifth-floor stairwell, they had to push their way through a gang of hoodies. Someone made a remark about Harry Potter after they had passed, and they all laughed. Wilson turned beet red and reached up to take off his glasses. Annie grabbed his elbow to stop him going back and thumping the one who had spoken. “Not worth it, Dougal. Not worth it. Easy does it. It’s probably just the glasses, you know.”
“Yes, guv,” he said through clenched teeth. “Think I’ll make an appointment with the optometrist tomorrow and get fitted with some contact lenses.”
“That should help,” Annie said. “And maybe if you could do something with your hair, and lose the wand . . .”
Wilson turned and started to glare at her, then his face broke into a smile. “Right. I’ll do that, too.”
“Here we are,” said Annie. “Eighth floor.”
They walked along the balcony between the windows and doors and the midriff-high fence, past bicycles without wheels, a pram and an abandoned fridge almost blocking their path. It was a hell of a view, Annie had to admit. If you turned to the west, you could see over the railway tracks to Eastvale, the castle ruins, the market square, the river falls, and beyond that, Hindswell Woods and the rising slopes of the dales farther on, all tinged gray by mist and rain. She could also see Eastvale’s “millionaires’ row,” where Banks’s new girlfriend Oriana lived and where people paid a fortune for the same view. And a big house, of course. Perhaps a bit more peace and quiet and less crime, too.
Annie knocked on the door. A few moments later a young woman answered it on the chain and frowned at them. “Yes?” she said, nervously touching her cheek. “What is it? Can I help you?”
“Alex Preston?”
The woman nodded.
“Police,” said Annie, flashing her warrant card. “Mind if we come in for a chat, love?”
“Is it about Ian? Nothing’s happened to him, has it? Or Michael?”
“Nothing’s happened to anyone as far as we know.”
“That’s a relief.” The woman took off the chain and opened the door. It led directly into the living room.
Annie realized that she was probably as prejudiced as the next person, except Frank Lane, when it came to life on the East Side Estate—you got a blinkered view of such things when you were a copper—so she was surprised to see how clean and tidy the small flat was inside. Alex Preston clearly did the best she could with what little she had. The furniture, if inexpensive, was relatively new, polished and well kept, the walls a tasteful pastel, with small, framed photographic prints strategically placed here and there. The air smelled of pine freshener. The flat-screen TV didn’t dominate the room, but sat peacefully in its corner, out of the way until it was needed. An electric fire with fake coals stood in the fake fireplace, and framed photographs of a smiling young towheaded boy stood on the mantelpiece. There were also a couple of shots of Alex with a young man, whom Annie took to be Mick Lane.
Of cour
se, Annie’s prejudice hadn’t vanished entirely, nor had her suspicious nature. She found herself wondering just how and where Alex Preston and Mick Lane had got the money for all this.
“Can I make you a cup of tea?” Alex asked. “I’m afraid we don’t have any coffee. Neither of us drinks it.”
“No, thanks,” said Annie. “Maybe a glass of water? Those stairs . . .”
“I’m sorry about the lift. It’s got a mind of its own, hasn’t it? Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. We’ve been trying to get the council to fix it for weeks now, but you know what they’re like. Especially when it comes to this estate.”
Annie could guess.
Alex fetched them each a glass of water and sat down in the armchair, leaning forward, clasping her hands in her lap. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, showing to advantage her shapely figure. Fluffy blue slippers with pink pompoms added a homely touch. Her blond hair, which looked natural to Annie’s trained eye, was tied back in a ponytail. Young and fresh-faced, she wore hardly any makeup and needed none. Her complexion was pale and flawless, she had a slightly upturned nose, a wide mouth and big eyes, a dark, beguiling shade of blue. Young Doug Wilson seemed smitten, at any rate. Annie gestured for him to stop gawping and get out his notebook. He fumbled with his ballpoint pen.
“What is it you want?” Alex asked, sitting forward in her chair, the small frown of concern still wrinkling her smooth forehead. “Are you sure nothing’s wrong? It’s not Ian, is it? Has something happened to Ian?”
“Ian? That’s your son, isn’t it?”
“Yes. He’s eight. He’s supposed to be at school.”
“Then I’m sure that’s where he is. This isn’t about Ian, Ms. Preston.”
Alex Preston seemed to relax again. “Well, that’s good to know,” she said. “And call me Alex, please. Kids. You never stop worrying. The older kids mostly leave him alone, but now and then they tease him a bit. They’re not so bad, really.” Then the frown reappeared. “What is it then? It’s not Ian, and you said nothing’s happened to Michael.”
Michael, Annie noticed. Not Mick, as his father had called him. “Not as far as we know,” she said. “But we would like to talk to him. Do you know where he is?”
“That’s just it. That’s why I was worried when you knocked at the door. I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning. I’m starting to get worried.”
“He does live here, though, doesn’t he?”
Alex smiled. It was a radiant smile, Annie thought. “Yes. I know you all probably think I’m a cradle snatcher, got myself a toy boy. Don’t think I haven’t heard it all. But . . . it’s hard to explain . . . we’re . . . well, you know, it’s the real thing.” She blushed a light pink and made a self-mocking expression. “True love.”
“None of my business,” said Annie.
“I just wanted you to know. That’s all. And he’s really great with Ian. The two of them just get along so well.”
“Where do you think Michael might be?”
“Well, he said he was going to meet someone about a job, and after that he might go and drop in on his dad later. They aren’t on the best of terms, and it worried Michael. He knew he’d upset his father and let him down, especially after his mum left. He acted up, stole a car and all. I’m sure you know all about that, being police. They had a serious falling-out. They got over it to some extent, but things are still . . . well, difficult. I think it’s partly my fault, you know, being older, having a child. His father doesn’t approve.”
“Did he say where he was going on this job?”
“No.”
“Was that unusual?”
“No, not really. He doesn’t always give a full account of his comings and goings. I don’t expect him to. I find that sort of thing can stifle a relationship, don’t you?”
Chance would be a fine thing, thought Annie. “And he said after that he might drop in on his father, even though they were on bad terms?”
“Yes.”
“Has he done this before? Stopped out all night?”
“No. Not like this. I mean, once or twice he’s stopped over at his father’s, if they’ve had a few drinks, like, and got to talking, or if it’s really late. But he always phones or texts.”
“Not this time?”
“No, nothing. I’ve tried ringing him, and texting, but I got no response.”
“No need to worry,” Annie said. “His mobile’s probably run out of power.”
“It’s always doing that. Like his camera. He’s not very good with keeping his stuff charged.”
“Which mobile provider does he use?”
“Virgin pay-as-you-go.”
“Did you phone the farm? I noticed Mr. Lane has a landline when we were there earlier.”
Alex glanced away. “Yes. His father just grunted, like, said he hadn’t seen him. Then he hung up.”
“You said that Mick Lane and his father still have a problematic relationship.”
“Michael. Yes.” Alex paused. “I can see you’re both a bit confused. I think I know what you’re thinking. I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re police, and you have a very narrow way of seeing things. You saw that Michael was on probation, that he did community service for the stolen car, and then you found out he was living with me, an older woman in a council flat, with an illegitimate child and a conviction for shoplifting. Well, you put two and two together and make . . . I don’t know what. Bonnie and Clyde, maybe? It’s only natural. I don’t blame you. Michael’s dad’s the same. But it’s not like that at all. I don’t deny I’ve done some bad things, and I got caught. I don’t know how I sank so low, but I did. I’ve had to face up to that. But people can change.”
“What happened?”
“Ian’s father walked out on me when Ian was little. I was flat broke. Lenny took everything, even emptied Ian’s piggy bank, the miserable bastard. We were hungry. They were taking ages to process my benefits. So I went to the Asda in the shopping center and started filling up my pockets. It was either that or sell my body, and I hadn’t sunk that low, though don’t think I hadn’t received a few offers from people who should have known better. You soon find out who your friends are when you reach rock bottom. I thought I was being careful, you know, but they had CCTV, store detectives, the lot. Took me in a room in the back and scared the wits out of me, pushed me about a bit, threatened me but stopped short of hitting me, then they called the police. Wanted to make an example of me.” She gave a harsh laugh. “A couple of hundred years ago they’d have sent me to Australia, and there’s some countries in the world today where they’d chop my hand off, but all I got was probation. I was lucky, I suppose. Child Care were round like a shot, of course, but I managed to hang on to Ian, if only because his dad had no interest in taking custody of him. God knows what I’d have done if I’d lost Ian. It was a bad time in my life. A very bad time. But it’s over now. I only needed the one lesson.”
Pity that doesn’t work for everyone, Annie thought, feeling some of her skepticism slough away. “And now?” she asked.
“I’m doing a part-time course. Travel and tourism. Eastvale College. Ever since I was a little girl I’ve dreamed of seeing the world. I’ve got a part-time job at GoThereNow—you know, the new travel agency in the Swainsdale Centre—just taking bookings for stag weekends in Prague or Tallinn and stuff. There’s not much money in it right now, but when I’ve finished the course, if I do well, I’m hoping to start leading some tour groups of my own. Today’s my day off.” She picked up a thick book about the history of Rome from the low coffee table. “Just doing a bit of homework. The history of the Coliseum.”
“Won’t you be away a lot?” Annie said. “If you’re leading tours. What’ll happen to Ian?”
“I’ll take care of Ian, don’t you worry about that. Michael and I will. We’ll work it out. Maybe the
y can come with me? Michael can take photographs for travel magazines.”
“Sounds ideal.”
Alex shrugged. “Besides, there’s school, and the neighbors are great. Well, most of them. Michael helps a lot, too, of course.”
“How did you meet Michael?”
“It was a year ago. He was up at the college seeing if he could get into a photography course through the back door. He likes taking pictures. Drawing, too. He’s very good at both, got a real eye. He did those.” She gestured to the photographs and drawings on the wall that Annie had thought were bought prints. The castle ruins at night. Someone, Mick’s father perhaps, shearing a sheep. The river falls in full spate. A charcoal head-and-shoulders sketch of Alex. Annie had an eye for good art and photography herself, and these were very good indeed. She told Alex so.
“Thank you, but to be honest, he might have the talent, but he doesn’t have the qualifications, not even A levels, so they turned him down. He spent too much time off school helping out around the farm when he was a young lad. He doesn’t have the right equipment, either. All Michael has is an old Cyber-shot. About six pixels. They’re up to sixteen or more these days. He needs a better camera, a DSLR, with all the lenses.”
“You understand about that sort of stuff?”
Alex cocked her head and gave Annie an appraising glance. “Of course. I’m not stupid. Look, we’re poor but we’re not destitute, you know. We both work, when we can. We’re careful with what we have—have to be—but he’ll get a new and better camera soon, especially if he gets into college and I make some progress in my job.”
“So you met at the college?”
“Student pub. He was a bit depressed when he came in, and I was serving behind the bar—my previous part-time job. The place was nearly empty. I was revising for my exams. We got talking over a couple of drinks. He told me about his mum leaving and how miserable he was up at the farm with his dad, how he’d gone off the rails a bit, stolen a car, he didn’t know why. Didn’t know why he was telling me, either. Neither of us really came on to the other. . . . It just . . . you know . . . happened. It felt totally natural. I was lonely, too. I’ve been here with Ian now for about six years. We got the place when I was still with Lenny and Ian was two, but these past four years we’ve been on our own. One thing led to another. Funny, but we never thought about the age thing. People say I look younger than I am, and Michael looks older than he is, more mature.”
Unti Peter Robinson #22 Page 4
