Unti Peter Robinson #22

by Peter Robinson

  Campbell added a drop of milk and sipped his tea. “What connection might Morgan have with this missing person?”

  Wait a minute, mate, Annie thought, I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions. But she said nothing. She realized that a heavy-­handed approach wouldn’t work with an ex-­copper who also happened to be a pal of the person she was looking for. “Does Morgan have many visitors?” she asked.

  “Not many,” said Campbell. “There are no wild parties, if that’s what you mean. At least not while I’ve been around, and I’ve heard no complaints from Ted in the office, or from the ­people on the other side. Word soon gets around about antisocial behavior, a place like this. We might not be the Ritz, but we’re not some backstreet fleabag hotel, either.”

  “I didn’t assume you were,” Annie said.

  Campbell ran his hand over his hair. “Sorry, love. You get a bit tired of some of the comments about us lot from Riverview up in the town. I’m just pointing out that we’re decent folk, most of us. We’re not Travelers, and most of us aren’t on benefits.”

  Annie laughed. “You said Morgan doesn’t have many visitors. Does he have a girlfriend?”

  “If he does, she doesn’t live with him, and he hasn’t introduced me to her.” He winked. “Maybe he’s scared she’ll run off with me, eh?”

  “Not if he thinks he’s God’s gift. Do you know where his parents live?”

  “No. He hardly ever mentions them. I seem to remember him saying his dad went back to Barbados, or some such place. And I don’t think Morgan’s from these parts. He’s got a slight Geordie accent.”

  “Did you ever meet a lad called Lane? Mick or Michael Lane.”

  “I met a lad called Mick once or twice. Morgan introduced him. In fact, he was another good worker. Nice lad. They both helped out with the new siding last summer. I gave them a tenner each. Well worth it for me. I believe they work together, doing odd jobs on farms out in the dale. He a farmer’s son, this Mick?”

  “That’s the one,” Annie said. “We’re trying to locate Michael Lane, and as he’s one of Morgan’s friends, we thought he might be able to help.”

  “I’m sorry but I haven’t seen Morgan at all this weekend.”

  “How long have you been up here?”

  “Since Saturday evening.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m supposed to be heading back in a ­couple of hours.”

  “Don’t worry. We won’t keep you. Is Morgan often away for long stretches of time?”

  “I wouldn’t really know. I haven’t paid much attention to his comings and goings, and Ellie and me aren’t always up here. He’s often gone for the weekends when we do come. Maybe he does have a girlfriend hidden away somewhere. It’s been such a miserable spring so far that we haven’t been up much at all this year—­hence the leaks. We were just as well off staying in Donny and getting a few jobs done around the house there.”

  Campbell was obviously one of those cheerful DIYers who spent all their time at B & Q comparing spanners, toolboxes or bathroom tiles. Annie could understand doing your own maintenance to save a few bob, maybe, but clambering up a ladder and hammering in nails for fun, or laying tiles? That, she couldn’t grasp. Even Banks enjoyed it from time to time, and he seemed proud of the little fixtures and alterations he had made around Newhope Cottage. He’d done a lot of work on the conservatory himself, for example. It must be a bloke thing, she thought, like hogging the TV remote, not asking directions or insisting on doing the barbecue when they didn’t even know how to boil an egg.

  When Annie’s roof had sprung a small leak in the worst of the summer rains last year, the roofer she called said it was too small a job for him and suggested that perhaps she could do it herself with a spot of lead and bitumen. She had almost suffered an anxiety attack on the spot. Luckily, she had found a local handyman who was eager and more than happy to clamber up on the roof and do the work for fifty quid, cash on the nail, no questions asked, and no ladder, either, Health and Safety be buggered. Ah, the underground economy. “When did you last see Morgan?” Annie asked.

  Campbell sucked on his lower lip. “Let me see . . . it’d be a while back. Two or three weeks. Remember, we had a nice spell of sunshine in late February, early March?”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Look like?”

  “Yes. Morgan. His appearance.”

  “Well, he’s a bit shorter than me, about five foot eight, and stockier, I’d say, curly brown hair cut very short, and a sort of round face. More oval, maybe. Light colored, or light brown, enough so you can tell one of his parents is black. His dad, I suppose. No facial hair. He should have, though. Bit of a weak chin. There’s nothing that really stands out about him, except he’s got a slight limp in his left leg. Fell off a roof once when he was a kid, or so he told me. Oh, and he’s got one of those spider tattoos on his neck. Tends to be a bit flash with the bling, too. Gold chains, rings and what have you.”

  “Do you keep an eye on his place when he’s not around?”

  “I keep an eye on things for anyone who’s not around. When I’m here, that is. The others do the same when we’re not here. It’s not exactly a crime hot spot, but we get the occasional break-­in, as you probably know.”

  “Notice anyone noseying around lately?”

  “Only you.”

  Annie laughed. “How old would you say Morgan is?”

  “Early twenties. Thereabouts. Not much more.”

  “Clothes?”

  “Usually jeans and some sort of work shirt, or T-­shirt if the weather’s warm. Baggy jeans. Not those with the crotch around the knees and belt around the thighs, but just . . . you know . . . baggy. Relaxed fit.”

  “Plenty of wiggle room?” said Annie.

  “That’s right.”

  “Does he need it?”

  “Morgan’s not fat. Just stocky, like I said.”

  “Hat?”

  “Sometimes. Baseball cap, wrong way around. A red one. I don’t know if it’s got a logo. I’d have to see him from the back.”

  Doug Wilson jotted the description down.

  “Do you know where he keeps his van?”

  “What van?”

  “I understand Morgan’s in the house removal business. He has a large van.”

  “I didn’t know that. Sorry, but I’ve no idea. I do know he rides a motorbike. A Yamaha. He usually keeps it parked beside the caravan.”

  Annie could think of nothing more, but when they got to the door she asked on impulse, “Do you have a key to Morgan’s caravan?”

  “No. Why? Do you think something’s happened to him?”

  “We have no idea. As I said, we’re just trying to find his mate, Michael Lane.”

  “Sorry I can’t help.”

  “Do you think we could have a look around his caravan?”

  “Got a search warrant?”

  “Come on, Rick. You were a copper once.”

  “It might just be a shitty old caravan to you, love, but it’s home to Morgan. Come back with a warrant and Ted’ll probably let you in. But, I warn you, he’s as much a stickler as I am. We look out for one another around these parts.”

  “In adversity, solidarity,” said Annie. She didn’t know where she’d heard that before, but it sounded good. “I’ll bear that in mind. No problem. Thanks for your time.”

  They struggled back into their wellies on the steps. “I really bollixed that up, didn’t I?” Annie said to Doug Wilson as they squelched back to the car. She could feel Campbell’s eyes on them as she walked.

  “In what way?” Wilson asked.

  “The phony camaraderie. Didn’t fall for it, did he? I was hoping for a look around Spencer’s caravan.”

  “Not your fault, boss,” said Wilson. “If you ask me, the way things are going we’ll be back with a warrant tomorrow if we wan
t.”

  ANNIE CABBOT watched the door as Banks and AC Gervaise walked into the boardroom, deep in conversation, for the late briefing. The team was already assembled: Annie herself, Doug Wilson, Winsome Jackman, Gerry Masterson, Stefan Nowak and Jazz Singh, along with a ­couple of other CSI officers, Peter Darby, the police photographer, and PCs Kim Trevor and Derek Bowland. They all sat around the polished oval table under the gaze of the old wool magnates with red and purple bulbous noses and tight collars. Legal pads and styrofoam cups of tea, coffee or water sat on the boardroom table in front of them. A plate of biscuits stood at the center.

  Banks and AC Gervaise took their positions by the two whiteboards and the glass board, which was looking to Annie more and more like something out of an American cop program. She kept expecting it to light up with pictures and charts and blowups of fingerprints whenever Banks touched it, or moving and talking images he could shift around with a simple wave of his hand. But it wasn’t that good. Right now, there wasn’t much on any of the boards, except the names of the various players and the times of significant events, along with a few of Darby’s photos from the hangar, about which Annie had heard only recently, having been away most of the day. Apparently the CSIs had found some human blood, but they were still short of a body. A manned mobile crime unit had been set up on the compound just outside the hangar, and half a dozen or so CSIs were still at work out there. Shifts of uniformed officers would be guarding the scene until further notice.

  Annie looked at the whiteboard while Banks and Gervaise settled down. Two hand-­sketched maps were tacked up there, one of the area around Beddoes’s farm and the other of the hangar area. They identified access roads and footpaths. From what Annie could see, there weren’t many in either location. Rural crime at its best.

  Banks shuffled his papers, stood up and opened the briefing. “I think we’d better start off by pooling our information. As you all probably know, I just got back from leave this morning, so the only case I’m current on is an apparent killing, or serious wounding, at the old abandoned aerodrome near Drewick, though the AC has filled me in briefly on one or two other developments that may possibly be related.” He looked at Annie. “I understand you and Doug have been working on a stolen tractor and missing person?”

  Annie rolled her eyes. “So it would appear,” she said. “Not officially ‘missing,’ but we haven’t been able to locate him yet. Or his mate.” Then she went on to explain about John Beddoes and Frank Lane, not leaving out Michael Lane and Alex Preston, or Morgan Spencer. When she had finished, she leaned back in her chair and tapped her pen on her notepad.

  “Do you think this Michael Lane character could be involved in the tractor theft?” Banks asked.

  Annie seemed to deliberate a few moments before answering. “It’s possible,” she said. “I mean, he got probation and community ser­vice for joyriding eighteen months back, after his mum left his dad, though I don’t think that means much. He was upset at the time. He also sometimes works as an odd-­job man on the local farms along with his mate Morgan Spencer. It’s likely that they are in a good position to know who’s at home and who isn’t. Maybe Michael Lane couldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth? Maybe him and Spencer are both on their way to Romania or wherever with the tractor? But Lane has an alibi, for what it’s worth. His girlfriend swears he was with her all Saturday night, until about half past nine Sunday morning.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “Well,” said Annie, “I wouldn’t overlook the possibility of insurance fraud.”

  “You mean Beddoes himself?”

  “Why not? He’s got a City background, apparently. Knows finance. On the surface of it, he seems well off. But the farm can’t be all that profitable. All he does is raise a few pigs and free-­range chickens for local restaurants and several acres of rapeseed for high-­end cooking oils. He might have got into something over his head. Or maybe he needs to supplement his income? And the idiot did leave the ignition key hanging on a hook on the wall.”

  “Worth thinking about,” Banks said. He glanced toward AC Gervaise. “I understand you know Patricia Beddoes, ma’am?”

  “Slightly.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Their finances? Insurance fraud? I couldn’t really say one way or the other. She always seemed like a comfortably-­off person to me. Nice clothes. Designer labels. I think she was a bit bored with the country, missed her exotic travel. Hence the Mexico trip, I suppose. And I do believe they have a little pied-­à-­terre in Holland Park. Other than that, all I know is that she likes Kate Atkinson and Khaled Hosseini.”

  That drew several chuckles from the room. “You know,” Annie said, “if we’re considering a local candidate being involved, what about Frank Lane? By the look of his farm he could do with an injection of cash, and he felt resentful toward the successful incomer. It was obvious in his tone and what he said. He was also in a position to organize the theft easily enough. He had the keys to Beddoes’s farm, and he probably knew that the tractor keys were hanging on the wall of the garage. Just a possibility.”

  “And we’ll bear it in mind,” said Banks. “Maybe father and son were in it together? Did Michael Lane know that Beddoes was on holiday?” Banks asked Annie.

  “More than likely. And Frank Lane also seemed a bit contemptuous of the Mexico trip. Or maybe he was just envious.”

  “You said Michael Lane’s relationship with the victim, John Beddoes, was strained?”

  “Yes,” said Annie. “I suppose it could have been some sort of misguided revenge, an old vendetta. Also, Frank Lane said he thought Beddoes was full of himself. He played it down, said there was no bitterness, but there could be something in it. Lane’s a professional farmer, making a hard living the hard way. Beddoes is an amateur, a hobbyist. That sort of thing. If Michael had something against both of them, then he’d know that stealing the tractor would probably hurt his father, Frank Lane, too, as he’d been given the responsibility of looking after the Beddoes farm. Two birds with one stone. And Michael does have the joyriding incident in his background. Trouble is, we don’t really know Michael Lane, what sort of person he is. His partner thinks he’s wonderful, but she’s biased. Is he the vengeful sort, the type to harbor a grudge? We don’t know. We also need to have a more extensive search of the Lane farm premises, just in case he’s hanging out there for some reason.”

  “We’ll schedule that for tomorrow morning,” Banks said. “I’d like to talk to Beddoes and Lane myself. I’m not sure about the vendetta angle, though. These tractors are worth a lot of money, and it takes a great deal of organization, not to mention expense, to steal one. Do you think Michael Lane, or even his father, was capable of organizing such a theft?”

  “No,” said Annie. “I shouldn’t imagine they were. I certainly don’t think Michael Lane could have stolen it by himself, but he could have been involved with whoever did do it. As I said, Beddoes left the key in the garage. Michael Lane might have known about that, too. He could also have been the one who gave the tip-­off about the Beddoeses’ Mexico trip, for example.” Annie became silent, as if she were realizing something for the first time.

  Banks noticed the hesitation. “What is it, Annie?”

  “Probably nothing, really.” Damn it, Annie thought, she hated this. Talking to Alex Preston had affected her. Like most of the Eastvale police, Annie had written off the East Side Estate, mainly because the only times she had ever been there were to the scenes of domestics, drug deals turned nasty, fights, stabbings, even murders. On such experiences were a copper’s judgments based. But Alex Preston not only kept a clean house and loved her young son, she had put her mistakes behind her—­mistakes that could have set many a soul well on the way to more of the same—­and pulled herself up by the bootstraps. She had a positive, optimistic outlook that Annie admired, and she had dreams. Perhaps Annie also envied Alex a bit, she was willing to admit. Alex s
eemed to have got herself together and found a good man. Annie had no one to look after her and make her happy. She didn’t have many dreams left, either.

  It was rare that Annie felt sentimental about ­people she didn’t really know, and maybe it was a sign that she was leaving behind some of the depression and cynicism that seemed to have invaded her mind since the shooting. That was a good thing; she hadn’t liked the person she was becoming. Loneliness was turning her into a moody and sharp-­tongued bitch. If she got much worse, she wouldn’t be able to find anyone willing to put up with her, let alone love and cherish her. She just hoped that she didn’t get so soft she couldn’t see the hard truth when it was staring her in the face. Any good copper needs at least an ounce or two of skepticism, even cynicism. But Annie also realized that she had not completely lost her copper’s mistrust of the world, that some of what she had learned from Alex Preston had made her more suspicious of Michael Lane.

  “Lane’s girlfriend, Alex Preston, works part-­time at that travel agent’s in the Swainsdale Centre,” she said. “GoThereNow.”

  “The same one Beddoes used to book the trip?”

  “Dunno.” Annie glanced at Doug Wilson. “We haven’t had a chance to check it out yet. We’ve been splodging around in the mud most of the day.”

  This drew a titter from the audience. Banks glanced at his watch. “First thing tomorrow. Then we can scrounge up a few bodies and give the Lane farm a thorough once-­over, just to make sure Michael Lane isn’t there. That would be embarrassing.” He paused. “Do you think this Preston woman could be involved?”

  “She’s worried sick,” said Annie. “She thinks something’s happened to Lane.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m taking her seriously.”

  “Is anyone actually looking? I mean, he’s not officially listed as missing yet, is he?”

  “No, sir,” said Doug Wilson. “But DI Cabbot and I got a recent picture and we’ve circulated it within the area. We’ve also been in touch with the airlines and railway stations, and we’ve asked to be informed of any activity on his mobile phone, debit or credit card. Nothing yet, not since last Friday.”