“That sounds about right,” said Banks. “What about Michael Lane?”
“That name never came up. But it’s airtight, Banksy. It’s being faxed to you as we speak. Next time you get Beddoes and little Miss Melons in the room, you’ll have times, dates, amounts, bank accounts, an eyewitness statement from Utley. Everything but the cream, of course. We know there are people pulling Havers’s and Beddoes’s strings, we even think we know who some of them are, but they’re good at protecting themselves. There are no money trails leading to them, and nobody dares talk. Welles/Atherton isn’t the only psycho killer they’ve got strutting around. But we’ve got the northern mob sewn up. Not too bright, none of them. Get down to the fax machine, then read it and weep. Beat you again, Banksy. And hold the party. I’m coming up for it. You can invite Cassandra Wakefield, too, if you like.”
Banks thanked Burgess, then hung up and sighed. For a moment he felt defeated. He hadn’t got as far as he had wanted with Beddoes, while Burgess had broken Havers, obviously the weakest link. Then he realized that it was just as he had said to Gerry, the way of the world. Get used to it, mate, he told himself. There’ll always be a Cassandra Wakefield, and there’ll always be a Dirty Dick Burgess. He smiled at the thought of what a couple they would make. And Burgess was certainly right about her charms.
This was no defeat, it was a win, and it called for champagne, or at least beer. Maybe they wouldn’t get Beddoes for murder, but they would get Atherton, if they could find him. Tanner, Utley and Beddoes would get time for various offenses, too. And Michael Lane could probably live happily ever after with Alex and Ian, if he kept his nose clean. That would please Annie, but Banks still found himself wondering to what extent Lane had egged Spencer on to steal Beddoes’s tractor simply because he didn’t like the man who had once given him a clip around the ear. Lane couldn’t have known Spencer would get killed, of course. If he had instigated the theft, he had done so to get at Beddoes, and perhaps at his father. The rest was just pure irony. That Lane had helped Spencer with certain jobs of a criminal nature, Banks had no doubt. He only hoped the kid had the sense to realize what he’d got in Alex and Ian, and what a lucky escape he’d had. Some people learn, many never do. It was a toss-up.
It was a mopping-up exercise now. Compile the evidence, get the forensics right on Atherton’s farmhouse and private abattoir. Spencer’s blood was sure to be among the sticky mess Banks had seen in the central trough, and Atherton’s prints were all over the bolt gun. He’d clearly had his own little business on the side there, which explained the disappearance of stock around the dale over the past year or so.
Banks ran his hand over his head. He was tired. And hungry. He looked at his watch: 9:45. Time to go down to the fax machine, then home for some microwaved chicken tikka masala and a bottle of red. Maybe not champagne, but a good red, one from the “cellar.” And thinking of a good red got him thinking of Australia and Oriana. He wondered what time it was over there. He was whistling “You Win Again” as he picked up his coat, turned off the light and left his office.
“MINE’S A pint of lager, Banksy,” said Burgess in the Queen’s Arms a week later.
“As if I’d forget,” muttered Banks, heading to the bar to buy the round of drinks. It was the “official” celebration, mainly because the CPS had reviewed the evidence and agreed that there were strong cases against Beddoes, Tanner, Utley, Atherton and Havers. Vic Manson had also managed to get some prints from Spencer’s removal van, and they matched Carl Utley’s. Caleb Ross’s tox screen had come back clean. Banks didn’t think Ross knew it was human remains he was collecting. Atherton, who supplied him with marijuana, probably told him it was the carcass of a sheep or a pig he’d slaughtered and didn’t want to go through official channels.
Cyril was playing his oldies playlist in the background, Amen Corner belting out “If Paradise Is Half as Nice.” The whole team was there: Annie, Winsome, Gerry, Doug, Burgess up from London, Stefan Nowak, Vic Manson, even Terry Gilchrist, under special dispensation from AC Gervaise, who had bought the first round. She was looking a bit put out, Banks thought, perhaps because Patricia Beddoes had screamed blue murder at her when her husband was charged, accusing her of being a false friend. Patricia also swore blind she had no idea what John was up to, that he had just, on the spur of the moment, suggested they take another holiday, and she didn’t see why not. That rankled with Gervaise, too. It was patently untrue, but they couldn’t prove her guilt, and none of those who had talked had ever mentioned her name.
The only problem was that Atherton wouldn’t be able to stand trial. His frozen body had been found in the caverns the day after Winsome’s ordeal, when the search parties went in. He had taken the left passage and managed to get himself stuck where the ceiling reached its lowest point. He must have thought he could wriggle under it, because he appeared to have got his head and shoulders through and pushed on, then got stuck around his midriff. In trying to shake his body free, he had managed to wedge himself firmly between the rock bed and the overhang. The doctor who examined the body, once the rescuers had managed to chip away enough rock from above to pull him out, said that he had clearly panicked, as his body was covered in bruises and abrasions, and his back was broken. Nobody could have saved him. He was probably dead by the time Banks and the others arrived on the scene to rescue Winsome.
It was a horrible way to go, Banks thought with a shudder, but so was Morgan Spencer’s death and its aftermath. He couldn’t dredge up a great deal of sympathy for a killer who liked to stub out cigarettes in a pig’s eye. Looking on the bright side, Atherton’s death saved them the expense of making a case against him and keeping him in prison for the rest of his life.
Annie appeared at Banks’s side to help him carry the drinks back as Bobby Vee came on, singing “Take Good Care of My Baby.”
Back at the table, Burgess was chatting up AC Gervaise, so that ought to take her mind off Patricia Beddoes for a while, Banks thought. The thing about Burgess, Banks knew from experience, was that however crude and blokeish he was with the lads, he was still a handsome devil in his way, and he had the sort of manly charm that many women found attractive. Not exactly a bit of rough—he was too sophisticated for that—but world-weary with a hint of danger and a definite dash of the bad boy.
Banks and Annie handed out the drinks and sat down again. As Banks sipped his pint, he started to feel himself drifting away from the crowd; the voices became distant, blending into one another, just meaningless sounds. It happened often these days. Even Bobby Vee sounded faraway and distorted, fading in and out.
He thought about Oriana. He had phoned her the other night in Sydney, after working out what he thought would be a good time. She hadn’t sounded exactly over the moon to hear from him, had seemed distracted, as if she had somewhere to go, something else on her mind, things to do. She was busy, she said, and still tired from the jet lag. He understood that, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she had resented his intrusion into her other life, and in the end he had hung up feeling much worse than when he had dialed the number.
“Penny for them,” Annie whispered in his ear.
“Oh, nothing,” he said, snapping back to the giddy world of the group celebration. “Just life, you know.”
“Life, the universe, and everything?”
“Something like that. You doing OK?”
Annie smiled and clinked glasses. “I’m doing OK.”
Burgess had just finished telling a funny story, and everyone was laughing. At that moment Joanna MacDonald walked in and flashed him a quick smile. She’d been invited, but Banks had assumed she wasn’t coming. But there she was, looking lovely as ever with her blond hair loose, her powder-blue tailored jacket over the crisp white top, and the skirt that ended just above her knees. Everyone moved over and made room for her. Banks asked her what she wanted to drink and she said a gin and tonic. Off he went to the b
ar again.
As he waited to be served, he looked back at the table, at his team, deservedly wallowing in the feeling of a job well done. Bobby Vee gave way to Fleetwood Mac’s “Man of the World.” Winsome looked hale and hearty despite her terrifying experience of the previous week. She leaned in close toward Terry Gilchrist, smiling at something he was saying. Banks was pleased for her. It was about time she found someone who recognized her rare and precious qualities, and Gilchrist seemed like a decent, solid bloke. Why Banks felt so protective, he had no idea. Annie, too, deserved someone, but that might take a bit more time, he thought. She was prickly to start with, and there was still some residue from the shooting, however well she was doing. He cared about them all, he realized. Sometimes it was a feeling of heart-swelling pride; other times it was a burden. Tonight it was a joy to share their joy, even though he felt distant and more than a little melancholic.
Burgess switched his attentions from AC Gervaise to Joanna MacDonald, turning up the charm a notch. Banks could see Joanna responding, smiling a little flirtatiously, then laughing easily at his jokes. Their shoulders were touching, and it didn’t seem to bother her. Now she was looking serious and nodding, engaged in something Burgess was saying. As Banks walked back to the table with the gin and tonic and a double Laphroaig for himself, he experienced something that, if he were to be honest with himself, felt very much like jealousy. He sat down and shrugged it off, then picked up the whisky and knocked it back in one.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I WOULD FIRST LIKE TO THANK SHEILA HALLADAY FOR reading the manuscript when I thought it was finished and pointing out that there was still work to be done.
At Hodder, my thanks go to Carolyn Mays for such a terrific job on the editing, especially given the time constraints. Also thanks to Katy Rouse for all her assistance and to Justine Taylor for clear and clean copyediting. At McClelland & Stewart, I would like to thank Ellen Seligman and Kendra Ward for their editing, and at William Morrow, Carolyn Marino and Emily Krump.
Thanks to my agents Dominick Abel and David Grossman for their continuing support. Also thanks to the publicists—Kerry Hood at Hodder, Ashley Dunn at McClelland & Stewart, and Laurie Connors at William Morrow. Thanks are also due to Debby de Groot in Toronto and Jane Acton at Four Colman Getty, London.
A special thank-you to Nicholas Reckert for the interesting walks that somehow always seem to suggest a possible crime scene.
Last but not least, thanks to the sales teams who make the deals and set up the special promotions, to the reps who get out on the road and sell the book to the shops, and to the booksellers themselves, without whom you wouldn’t be holding this volume in your hand. And thanks, of course, to you, the reader.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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ALSO BY PETER ROBINSON
GALLOWS VIEW
A DEDICATED MAN
A NECESSARY END
THE HANGING VALLEY
PAST REASON HATED
WEDNESDAY’S CHILD
THE FIRST CUT
FINAL ACCOUNT
INNOCENT GRAVES
BLOOD AT THE ROOT
IN A DRY SEASON
COLD IS THE GRAVE
AFTERMATH
CLOSE TO HOME
PLAYING WITH FIRE
STRANGE AFFAIR
PIECE OF MY HEART
FRIEND OF THE DEVIL
ALL THE COLORS OF DARKNESS
THE PRICE OF LOVE AND OTHER STORIES
BAD BOY
BEFORE THE POISON
WATCHING THE DARK
CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
CREDITS
Cover design by Mary Schuck
Cover photograph © by Lisa Howarth / Trevillion Images
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
IN THE DARK PLACES. Copyright © 2015 by Eastvale Enterprises, Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-224054-5
EPub Edition AUGUST 2015 ISBN: 9780062240583
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Unti Peter Robinson #22 Page 36
