Abattoir Blues

Chapter 8

It was far too early in the morning for a post-mortem, Banks thought as he walked down the high green-tiled basement corridor of Eastvale General Infirmary.

It would always be too early in the morning for a post-mortem like this one, he thought, when he entered Dr Glendenning’s recently modernised domain and saw the pieces arranged on the stainless steel autopsy table: two sides of a human being, like two halves of a pig in a butcher’s cold room, roughly aligned. The arms had been placed where they should have been joined to the body, and the head, which had been found after dark under a split bin bag containing a stillborn lamb, sat on top. Between the eyes was a ragged hole.

‘Ah, Banks,’ said Dr Glendenning. ‘Glad you could come. Decided to have a lie-in, did you? You almost missed the show.’

‘Pity,’ said Banks. For a moment, he longed for the old days, when Dr Glendenning bent over the body, a cigarette dangling from his lips, spilling ash in open incisions. The days when he could enjoy a cigarette himself, anything to mask the smell of decayed flesh and take his mind off violent death.

No chance these days. Both he and Glendenning had stopped smoking years ago, and a lit cigarette would probably set off every alarm in the building. It was almost unthinkable today how much they used to be able to get away with. Dr Glendenning didn’t believe in a dab of Vicks under the nose, either. He thought anyone who did was a sissy, and you didn’t want to be thought a sissy by Dr Glendenning. Still, this time there wasn’t much of a smell at all. At the crime scene, most of the stink had come from the dead animals, not from Morgan Spencer’s butchered corpse.

‘You look a bit pink around the gills,’ Dr Glendenning went on as they approached the body. ‘Been sitting around brooding and boozing again?’

‘Not sleeping very well,’ said Banks. ‘Or not enough.’

‘It’s the demon drink. I thought so. Plays havoc with your sleep patterns. Now, what do we have here?’

‘A jigsaw puzzle?’ Banks suggested.

‘I’m not normally a fan of TV crime dramas, but did you ever see that Swedish programme – or was it Danish – the one about the body on the bridge? That was in two halves, but in that case, it was top and bottom. This is much more unusual. And see how clean the cuts are. Look at those arms, taken off right at the shoulder joints, just like chicken wings. What does that suggest to you?’

‘A chef?’

‘Be serious, man.’

‘A professional?’ Banks ventured.

‘But what kind? What kind?’

‘Doctor, perhaps? A surgeon?’

‘Hah. Apart from the personal insult implied, you couldn’t be more wrong. The body’s been jointed and split, Banks. Now, why on earth would a surgeon do that?’

‘I don’t know. A butcher, then?’

‘Possibly.’ Glendenning scratched his bristly moustache. ‘Closer, any rate.’ He bent over the remains and poked and prodded for a while, at one point lifting up the right arm and examining it from various angles. He then put it down and picked up the other arm. ‘No sign of defensive wounds, but there’s some light bruising on the arms,’ he said. ‘Pre-mortem.’

‘Somebody held him by his arms?’

‘Well, laddie, he might not want to just stand still and get shot. Some people would take objection to that, you know.’

Banks noticed as he looked at the naked body that there were no genitals. ‘Was he castrated?’ he asked.

‘The genitalia were certainly removed,’ said Glendenning. ‘As were all the internal organs and viscera. He was also exsanguinated. But all that was carried out post-mortem. There are no incisions on what’s left. Each part is intact in itself, except the head.’

‘Be thankful for small mercies,’ Banks muttered.

‘Aye.’ Dr Glendenning pointed to the head. The eyes were closed. ‘That’s what killed him, I’m almost certain. That bloody great hole in his head, to be technical about it. And you can see if you look carefully that the throat was cut before the head was severed. There are signs of two different incisions.’ He selected a scalpel from the tray of instruments on the side table. ‘Now, let’s see what else we’ve got here. There’s no sign of lividity, no blood settled in the muscles or tissue.’ He put down the scalpel and conferred with his assistant quietly for a few moments, then he turned back to Banks.

‘The victim was shot in the forehead. And I’m glad you haven’t asked about time of death, because I’m afraid it would be very hard to tell.’

‘We think it probably happened on Sunday morning.’

‘Now look at this.’ Dr Glendenning pointed towards the ankles, where Banks could see the deeply cut groove of some sort of binding.

‘Rope?’ he asked. ‘Leather? Metal?’

‘We’ll settle that later when we check the wound for fibres. For the moment, though, I can tell you that the throat was cut and the body was drained of blood, most likely while hanging upside down. The arms were expertly removed at the shoulder joints – no cutting of bone involved – and finally, the body was sliced in half by a very sharp blade and eviscerated. Scraped out. Look at the cleanness of those cut lines. There’s little tearing, no raggedness.’

‘What was used? A chainsaw or something?’

‘Certainly something.’ Glendenning nodded towards his assistant. ‘But probably not a chainsaw. At least not an ordinary one. There would be much more tearing. Karen over there has a theory. Tell DCI Banks your theory, my dear.’

Karen gave Dr Glendenning a daggers-drawn look at the sexist endearment. Not that it would do any good, Banks thought. Glendenning loved to tease and play the politically incorrect male chauvinist pig, and he was too old to change now. ‘Taking everything together,’ Karen said, ‘it very much looks to me as if this body was dressed in a working abattoir.’

‘An abattoir?’ Banks repeated.

‘Yes.’ Karen glanced at the remains, then back at Banks. She was a petite, serious brunette, most of her hair hidden under the surgeon’s cap, and she looked far too young and innocent to know such things. ‘That’s my opinion, DCI Banks. Your victim was shot first, and then taken and cut up in a slaughterhouse.’

‘Of course.’ Banks scratched his head. ‘Goes without saying. And the gunshot wound, the cause of death?’

‘I just said shot,’ Karen explained. ‘I did not say gunshot.’

‘Christ,’ said Banks. ‘They use bolt guns, don’t they? No Country for Old Men.’

Dr Glendenning gave him a surprised glance. ‘It certainly isn’t,’ he agreed, ‘but this is hardly the time or place for a discussion of age and society.’

‘It’s a movie,’ said Banks. ‘The killer uses a bolt gun.’

‘Give the man a cigar. I’ll bet you a grand to a bucket of slops that when I go inside I’ll find the frontal lobes scrambled, and no stray bullet. It’s rare in human murder cases, but as you can see it does the job. The way it usually works is a gas cylinder is used to power the bolt, which enters the skull to a certain point, causing massive and irreversible brain damage, then the bolt retracts back into the gun. Used on a cow or a pig, you couldn’t guarantee that death would ensue – the animal may just be stunned – so you’d probably have to be prepared for exsanguination on the spot, but with a human being… well, our skulls aren’t as thick, no matter what some of us might think. This man was shot with a penetrating bolt gun, the kind that a professional slaughterman would use.’

‘So he would have died on the spot?’

‘Most likely,’ said Glendenning. ‘Though he might have survived for a short while as his system was shutting down. Death is not always immediate from such wounds. Though he would most certainly have been incapacitated.’

‘And the loss of blood?’

‘Apart from the amount he lost at the scene – there’s usually a lot of blood with head wounds – the rest was drained later. Judging by the straps and the split carcass, I’d suggest that he was hung upside down and his throat was slit. All you need to bleed out then is gravity’s help. It doesn’t even matter if your heart’s stopped. After that, he was cut up, disjointed, eviscerated, and from what I can gather, packaged up like a stillborn lamb and shipped off for incineration. No one would be any the wiser.’

Banks looked at the gruesome remains of Morgan Spencer on the steel table and felt the taste of hot, acid bile in his throat. Christ, he wondered, what, and who, were they dealing with here?

Annie felt disoriented when she woke early on Wednesday morning, and for a moment she experienced that terrifying sensation of not knowing where she was or how she had got there. It didn’t last long, thank the Lord, until the dry mouth and the throbbing headache told her she was on Alex Preston’s let-down sofa and she had a bloody hangover. It was the strangest sensation, she reflected as she sat up and stretched, that split second when you don’t recognise the place you’re in. Maybe that’s what you felt when you woke up dead, she thought, then chided herself for being so stupid as to think you could wake up dead. It must be the hangover thinking.

It was just starting to get light outside, and nobody else in the flat was up yet. Then she heard an alarm ring and stop suddenly. A few moments later, Alex padded down the hall in her dressing gown and, without stopping to check on Annie, went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Annie lay on her back and pulled the blanket up to her chin. When Alex came back, she stopped in the half-light by the sofa and looked down at Annie.

‘You’re awake,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t sure. Mind if I switch the light on?’

Annie rubbed her eyes. ‘Not at all.’

‘The kettle will come to the boil in a minute. Stay where you are, if you like, and I’ll bring you a cup of tea. Right now I have to go and get Ian up. Believe me, it can be quite a job.’

She seemed far too brisk and chirpy for so early in the morning, thought Annie, who was not at all a morning person herself. Especially a morning after the boozy night they’d had. At least it was quiet in the flat. No kids screaming next door. No domestics from upstairs. Maybe Ian would be quiet. And a cup of tea in bed. Now, that was a rare treat.

She checked her watch. Half past seven. She had better get a move on; there was a lot to do today. Banks would already be at the post-mortem. Then she remembered last night’s conversation, the card with the number on it. She still had it in an envelope in her bag. She would have to get it fingerprinted as soon as possible. And Banks would want to know everything Alex had told her. She reached for her handbag and checked her notebook. Thank God she had written it all down. Then she realised another thing. From this moment on, she couldn’t leave Alex and Ian alone. Until she could organise a shift of watchers, she would have to stick with them herself, or get someone else to do it. Her unexpected visitor didn’t sound the sort who would stop at a broken finger.

When Alex came back, Annie asked if she could use the bathroom.

‘Of course,’ said Alex. ‘It’ll take Ian half an hour to get out of bed, and I’ve got breakfast to make. Take your time.’

Annie luxuriated in a hot shower and then brushed her teeth so long that she probably wore off most of the enamel. She had forgotten to do it last night, so she was making up for it now. Luxury. When she looked for some paracetamol in the bathroom cabinet, she noticed a strip of contraceptive pills. So there were to be no more children, at least not for the time being. It was none of her business, and she felt vaguely guilty about even finding them. But it was her nature to pry, and when she did, she found nothing more of interest. No prescription drugs. No illegal drugs. No guns.

She hated dressing in yesterday’s clothes, but she had no choice. She thought of asking Alex for a loan of clean underwear but felt too embarrassed. The best she could do was turn her knickers inside out and pretend they were fresh. The bra was fine, and her jeans, but she could do with a different top, and she had no time to go home before she went to the station.

Things progressed slowly through tea, cornflakes and toast and marmalade, and eventually they were all ready for the off. Though she felt she was perhaps being paranoid, Annie went out of the door first and glanced up and down the landing. Nobody around. She held her breath as they went down in the lift, half expecting the doors to open at six or four and for some heavies to get in. But they had it to themselves the whole way down.

She had been a bit anxious the previous evening about leaving her car parked in the street, expecting the wheels to be gone, or worse, but Alex had told her not to worry, and it was just as she had left it. Though Ian’s school was hardly more than a couple of hundred yards away, they dropped him off there first and made sure he was through the doors before driving to the station.

If Winsome, Doug or Gerry noticed that Annie was wearing the same clothes as yesterday when she entered the squad room, they were too polite to say anything. She remembered once in her early days she had turned up at the station in yesterday’s clothes, and all the blokes had nudged one another and whispered and smirked. They wouldn’t let her forget for the rest of the day. And if she had compounded the error by turning up with an attractive female civilian in tow, their imaginations, and comments, would have known no bounds. Annie introduced Alex to her colleagues, then took her over to the annexe.

She could see Alex’s eyes wandering everywhere, the expression of intelligent curiosity on her face as they walked among the lab-coated techies and the various machines and computer stations.

‘I hadn’t thought it would be so high-tech,’ Alex said.

‘No expense spared for crime-fighting,’ said Annie as they entered the Fingerprint Development Laboratory, Vic Manson’s domain. ‘Except when it comes to our wages, of course.’

Manson was at his desk already, poring over a stack of photographed fingerprints. He covered them with a folder when he saw there was a civilian present. Annie wondered why. It wasn’t as if Alex would recognise someone’s fingerprint from a photograph. Normally, of course, no one would go to Manson’s office for fingerprinting; that would be done down at the custody suite. But Manson had all the latest technology, and instead of ink and paper, he simply scanned Alex’s prints, leaving out the broken one, into the computer after Annie had explained what they were after. ‘These will be erased as soon as we’ve finished,’ Manson assured Alex, who said she didn’t really care as she had nothing to hide.

‘Getting fingerprints from porous surfaces is much easier than it used to be a few years ago,’ Manson explained as he held the card by its edge between his thumb and forefinger. ‘But the quality still depends on how much the handler secreted. Paper and cards such as this one are absorbent, you see, so we need to use special chemicals to make them visible. It may take a little time.’

‘He was sweating, if that helps,’ Alex said.

Manson looked curiously at her.

‘The man who gave the card to me,’ Alex explained. ‘He’d just had to walk up the stairs to the eighth floor, you see. The lift’s on and off, and it was off when he came. He didn’t look very fit, either.’

‘Excellent. That should help a lot,’ said Manson. Then he waved his hand. ‘Now if you’ll give me a little time, I’ll get back to you later. I’ve still got a mass of work to get through from the hangar and the crash scene first, but I should be able to find time to fit this in some time later today.’

‘When do you think you’ll have a result?’ Annie said. ‘It’s all connected, we think. The crash. The hangar. This man.’

‘I’ll do my best to have something by the end of the day,’ said Manson.

‘Can you run it against NAFIS, see if you can come up with a name?’

‘NAFIS? You’re a bit out of date, Annie. We’re more advanced than that now. I can run it against IDENT1, Eurodac, Europol and Interpol databases, too.’

‘Well, I suppose that gives us one good reason to stay in the EU.’

Manson laughed. ‘We can even check with the FBI, if you like.’

‘You know me and technology, Vic. I’m just a silly slip of a lass. Europe wouldn’t be a bad idea, but I don’t think we need trouble the Feds just yet.’

‘Will do,’ said Manson. ‘I’ll give you a bell.’

Annie thanked him and shepherded Alex out of the lab. She looked as if she wanted to stay and watch, but Annie knew Manson wouldn’t like that. Like many a scientist, he wanted to preserve the mystique, the magic, mystery and secrets of his profession, like the conjuror who won’t reveal how he pulls a rabbit out of the hat.

‘What now?’ said Alex as they walked back down the corridor towards the squad room.

‘Work for you, after the sketch artist. Me, too. I have to go to Leeds this morning.’

‘What about—’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of before I go anywhere.’ There was no point now, she thought, in keeping the surveillance from Alex. Especially as knowing that there would be someone watching over her might ease her stress levels. Doug Wilson could take care of it for today, he said. She knew that Banks would approve as Alex had now become a priority, if not a major, witness. She was the best lead they had to Morgan Spencer’s killer and to another member of the gang. ‘Ian will be fine at school, and you’ll be fine at work, but I’ll make sure there’s someone keeping an eye out for both of you, and someone to take you to pick up Ian and go home.’

‘But how will I know he’s real?’

‘You’ve already seen him. In the squad room.’

‘The one who looks like Harry Potter?’

‘Don’t you dare say that to him,’ said Annie. ‘He’s very sensitive. He also has a black belt in karate.’

Doug had no such thing, of course, but Annie felt the lie would reassure Alex more than knowing that he had grown up on an estate like the one where she lived, and that he could handle himself.

‘Will you—’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll be around to check that everything’s all right later. We should have some results from Vic by then. And we’ll also have some other officers to keep an eye on you. I’ll make sure you’re introduced to them. If you hear anything at all from the man who came to see you, call me.’ They turned into the squad room. ‘Now wait here with Doug. I’ll go and arrange for the artist.’

Winsome took Gerry Masterson with her to Vaughn’s ABP after Banks had given them all the quick version of Morgan Spencer’s post-mortem results. She thought it could be too important an interview to carry out alone, and it would be good experience for Gerry.

They pulled up at the gate of the fenced compound and got out of the car. The place wasn’t very large, Winsome noticed, just a few metal storage structures, aluminium most likely, an area for parking the fleet of collection vans, two temporary office buildings on blocks, and a windowless structure with a tapered chimney, which Winsome took to be the incinerator. It was a fair day, weather-wise, if a bit cold and grey, but the ground was still muddy from the recent rains. Winsome and Gerry put their wellingtons on before getting out of the car and heading for the nearest office trailer. A faint smell of decay hung around the compound – an occupational hazard, Winsome imagined, no matter how well you packaged up the dead meat. She also noticed that there were no other farms or businesses for some distance.

As they climbed the steps to the office another thing Winsome noticed was a total lack of activity. There was no one in the yard, no sounds at all, only the pale smoke drifting from the chimney of the incinerator and dispersing in the chill air. She wondered if there was anybody around at all. It was Wednesday, so it should be a regular work day. She knocked on the flimsy door.

Almost immediately it was opened by a tall and slightly stooped man in jeans and a polo neck green jersey. He had a head of bristly grey hair, which matched the bristles around his jaw. Winsome put him in his mid-fifties. ‘Mr Vaughn?’ she inquired.

‘One of them. Neil. It’s a family business.’

Winsome and Gerry showed their warrant cards and Neil Vaughn invited them inside. The side of an old cardboard box served as a doormat, and they wiped their feet as best they could without reducing it to shreds. Vaughn seemed to be the only person around. After he asked them to sit down, he returned to a desk littered with papers and swivelled his chair to face them. The inside of the trailer was bleak, as such places usually are, and the pasteboard walls were hung with a girlie calendar curling at the edges, a large chart with written-in squares and an Ordnance Survey map of the immediate area. The floor didn’t feel stable and the chairs were lumpy. The office smelled of pipe tobacco, and Winsome guessed they didn’t bother much about non-smoking regulations in the workplace out here. A small electric fire stood against the far wall. Both elements were on, but the heat wasn’t reaching where they were sitting.

‘We’re all gutted by what happened to Caleb,’ said Vaughn. ‘I gave everyone the day off. I can’t imagine how anyone would have had the heart for collections today. I do most of the hands-on business now my father’s incapacitated. My brother Charlie helps out sometimes.’ Vaughn paused. ‘When he can be bothered, that is.’

Winsome didn’t miss the edge in his tone. Nor did Gerry, judging by the way she frowned.

Neil Vaughn looked from one to the other. ‘What can I say? We all follow our own paths. Charlie’s doesn’t involve fallen stock collection and disposal.’

‘What does it involve?’ Winsome asked.

‘Horses, mostly. And not dead ones.’

Winsome thought it would be a good idea to have a chat with Charlie Vaughn, and she saw Gerry writing in her notebook. Somehow, she sensed that was exactly what she was jotting down.

‘Was Caleb with you for a long time?’ she asked.

‘Thirty years. I’ve known him since I started in the business. He taught me practically all I know.’

‘But he never sought promotion? Or got it.’

Vaughn gave a harsh laugh. ‘There’s not a lot of promotion to be had around here. No, Caleb liked driving. He was his own boss, in his own world. Put him in the van with his music and his fags, and he was happy as a pig in… well… the proverbial.’

‘He worked alone?’

‘That was one concession he earned over the years. And there weren’t many as would want to ride with him and put up with the smoke and the music. That prog rock stuff, I think it’s called. Old-fashioned, at any rate. Gives me earache. And I know smoking’s not strictly legal on the job, but… well, it was Caleb’s cab. We usually have a team of two on collections, of course, but the local farmers were happy to help Caleb if they had to. Everyone knew him. He hadn’t a bad word to say for anyone. And he was strong. It wasn’t often he needed a hand with a load.’

Winsome was getting the picture. Caleb Ross was a saint. Well, saint or sinner, it didn’t matter that much; Ross wasn’t the victim who interested them, unless he had played a part in the events of his own demise.

‘Do you know if Mr Ross had any financial problems, any money troubles at all?’

‘Caleb? Good Lord, no. At least, he never complained. He lived a simple life. Had a little cottage in Lyndgarth, just off the green, lived there with his wife Maggie. The kids had grown up and flown the coop. Maggie… has anyone…?’

‘She’s been informed, sir,’ said Gerry.

‘That’s a relief. I must pay her a visit. Soon as I… well…’ He waved his hands over the mess of papers. ‘I thought there was no sense in me staying at home. I couldn’t bear it, just pacing and thinking of poor Caleb. So I came to work. Thought it might take my mind off things.’

‘And has it?’ Winsome asked.

‘Not really. Something like this, it’s hard to get your mind around it. We all have to go eventually, I know that, but Caleb was fit and strong, and about the same age as me. I suppose I assumed he would always be around.’

‘From what we can gather, it was just a tragic accident,’ said Winsome. ‘The perfect storm. Though I don’t suppose that’s much consolation.’

One of the elements made a crackling sound, as if a fly had just landed on it. ‘Then why are you here?’ Vaughn asked. ‘Is it a matter of insurance?’

‘Nothing like that, sir,’ said Winsome.

‘Neil, please. Then what?’

Winsome and Gerry exchanged glances. ‘You haven’t been watching the news?’

‘A constable came to the office,’ Vaughn said. ‘All I know is that he told us Caleb had died in a crash due to severe weather conditions. I didn’t want to go home and see it replayed endlessly on the news. Is that not what happened?’

‘That’s exactly what happened,’ Winsome said. ‘A freak hailstorm, a stray sheep and an oncoming car. There’s no question of blame or anything.’

Vaughn looked puzzled. ‘Then what…?’

‘It’s what Mr Ross was carrying that interests us.’

‘I don’t understand. Carrying?’

‘There was another body found at the scene.’

‘Another body? You mean a human body? Whose?’

‘Among the animal parts, sir.’

‘Good God! I don’t believe it. How could a human body be mistaken for a fallen animal?’

‘We don’t think it could, but all the parts were wrapped in black bin liners.’

‘Parts?’

‘The body had been cut into several pieces. I must ask you to keep this information to yourself for the moment, sir. All the press and TV have are rumours so far.’

‘Of course. My God. And you’re saying someone put it there? This human body?’

‘It looks very much that way. I can’t imagine it got there by accident.’

‘But why?’

‘We don’t know why. Right now we’re more concerned about how and who. Obviously, it was meant to be disposed of.’ Winsome glanced out of the window. ‘It would have ended up in your incinerator, most likely, and nobody would have been any the wiser.’

‘Except for the crash?’

‘That’s right. So what we need to know is what farms Caleb Ross visited yesterday morning, where he might have stopped, say for a tea break or lunch, and who might have had access to his schedule.’

‘I can certainly supply you with a copy of Caleb’s pickup schedule, but surely you can’t think anyone here had anything to do with what happened?’

‘We don’t think anything yet, sir. We’re still gathering facts and evidence. Can you help?’

‘Certainly.’ Vaughn rifled through the papers on his desk. ‘That’s easy. Our copies of yesterday’s pickup schedule are here somewhere. Caleb’s is… ah, here it is.’ He brandished two sheets of paper stapled together. ‘Of course,’ Vaughn added, ‘he didn’t finish his rounds, so he didn’t get to all these places. I think the last one was Alf Wythers, Garsley Farm, just outside Swainshead. He’d have probably have had his lunch in the village then set off over Belderfell Pass to where his next collection point was. But, of course, he never got there.’

Winsome took the list Vaughn handed her, looked it over and passed it to Gerry, who slipped it into her briefcase. ‘It seems like a long list,’ Winsome said. ‘Was he always so busy?’

‘It’s lambing season,’ said Vaughn. ‘Sad to say, but it’s a time of high mortality on the dales’ farms.’

‘Could someone have added to the load at any of the places Mr Ross visited?’

‘It wouldn’t have been that easy. At least not always. Sometimes the fallen animals are kept at some distance from the actual farm buildings, you understand, in which case it probably wouldn’t have been very difficult for some interloper to swap a bag.’

‘Is there no record of the numbers? Bags, packages, you know?’

‘Of course. Record keeping is essential when you’re dealing with fallen stock. Any carcasses sent off-farm for disposal – which is the only legal way to do it, most of the time – must be recorded, and all carcasses must be accompanied by a commercial document while in transit. In triplicate.’ Vaughn swallowed. ‘Of course, in this case, the documents would have… well…’

‘I understand,’ said Winsome. ‘But the farmers would have a record of what stock they had had taken away?’

‘Yes. They should.’ Vaughn scratched under his collar.

‘Is there a problem, sir?’

‘No, not really. I mean, ninety-nine per cent of the time everything’s shipshape and above board, but sometimes, well, human error can creep in.’

‘Even in something as important as fallen stock records?’

‘People don’t like to admit it, of course, no more than the police like to admit they make errors, I’m sure.’ Vaughn smiled, but neither Winsome nor Gerry Masterson returned it. ‘But it happens sometimes,’ he went on. ‘Records don’t always match the numbers.’

‘Why would that be?’

‘Oh, perhaps another animal has died after the list was made up and before pickup. Caleb and the other drivers would usually change it on their copies of the commercial documents, even though they’re not really supposed to.’

‘There’s no black market in fallen animals, is there?’ Gerry asked. ‘No profit to be made?’

Vaughn looked puzzled. ‘No. How could there be? I don’t understand.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps food produce? You know, like the horsemeat in the burgers.’

Vaughn laughed. ‘No. That horsemeat business was a direct result of the banning of DSM in meat products.’

‘DSM?’

‘Desinewed meat. It’s what’s left when all the good cuts have been taken. It’s used in processed meats.’

‘The nostrils and eyelids?’ Gerry said.

‘It might include them, but that’s not the point. When its use was banned, producers had to find other sources of cheap meat products to make up the shortfall. Hence the horsemeat business.’

‘What about wild animals, game?’

‘The law’s complicated on that subject. You can blame the EU for that, too, of course.’

‘Why?’ Gerry persisted.

‘It’s a matter of disease, infection. Wild animals can carry disease, even though they haven’t been tended or fed by humans. Often it’s best to make sure. But in many cases, you can’t, and if it’s apparent the animal has died of natural causes, it’s permissible to bury it without calling us. On the other hand, there’s a requirement to carry out BSE/TSE tests on all fallen cattle over forty-eight months. That’s mad cow disease to you. The rules are stringent on most matters.’

‘Do you get many infected animals?’

‘We’re not approved for over-forty-eight-month cattle sampling and testing. Too much hassle. It was mostly stillborn lambs. At least that’s what it would have said on the labels. But now we know different, of course. I’m still finding this hard to believe.’

‘Getting back to how these human remains could have been added to the load,’ said Winsome. ‘Would it have been possible for someone to add them to Mr Ross’s van, say while he was having his lunch?’

‘Officially, there’s supposed to be someone with the van at all times.’

‘Only officially?’

‘Caleb usually took his own lunch, just a sandwich and a flask of tea, but he liked his giant Yorkshire puddings. He might have stopped off in Swainshead for a quick bite at the White Rose, if the disinfectant or dead animal smell didn’t clear out the whole pub. It depends on the kind of day he’d been having. But he wouldn’t have had anything to drink. He was strictly TT, was Caleb.’

A tox screen on what was left of Caleb Ross would soon determine whether he had enjoyed a jar or two with his giant Yorkshire. ‘It sounds as if there’s a great deal of laxity with the “official” requirements around here,’ Winsome said.

Vaughn seemed unconcerned by the criticism. ‘It’s not much different from any other business in that respect, I should imagine. We accept that biosecurity is essential. We also have some very strict controls on the incinerator. But if you obeyed all the rules handed down by the EU, Trading Standards and Health and Safety to the letter you’d hardly be able to breathe, let alone run a profitable business.’

‘So it could have happened that way? Someone could have added the body parts to his load while he was having his lunch?’

‘It’s possible. If they could gain access to the van. But if his paperwork was in order, it could also easily have happened anywhere on the route. Even if we were obeying all the rules.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that Caleb wouldn’t open any of the bags to check their contents, and they’d go straight into the incinerator here when he got back. Nobody would want to open… well, you can imagine. The idea is to dispose of fallen stock as quickly as is reasonably possible and, as I said, we don’t do any testing here. If the farmer wrote down “two dead lambs”, then Caleb would assume that was what was in the bags and the commercial document would bear this out. He’s not going to open them and make sure that’s what in.’

‘Assuming they were already bagged.’

‘Yes, of course. That is usually the case.’

‘And that’s also assuming that one of the farmers Caleb visited must have known what was in the packages and passed them off as fallen stock?’ Gerry added.

‘Yes. Highly unlikely, wouldn’t you think? They’re all regular customers. All above board.’

Winsome didn’t necessarily agree, but she nodded as she watched Gerry scribbling away. In fact, it seemed to her that the whole business was lax, and that it would have been unbelievably easy for someone to have slipped Morgan Spencer’s body parts in with the load. ‘Someone could have made an exchange at one of the farms, if the fallen stock had already been bagged and listed. Swapped a couple of bags and labels. Then no one would have been the wiser, would they?’

‘I suppose not,’ said Vaughn. ‘I really don’t know. It’s not something I’ve thought much about. It’s not something that happens every day.’

‘How do you know?’ Gerry asked.

Vaughn looked at her, open-mouthed. ‘Well… I… I mean…’

‘If you incinerate the bags without checking what’s in them when they’ve been listed on the paperwork, it could have happened any number of times.’

‘Yes, strictly speaking. But you’re splitting hairs.’

Winsome thought so too. They were hardly trying to make out that Vaughn was running a murder victim disposal service. One body was enough. She gave Gerry a curious glance and picked up the threads again. ‘I suppose it would make more sense if someone sneaked the body parts into Caleb’s load while he wasn’t looking. Most of the drivers are worried about theft, but we have the opposite here.’

‘You have a list of all the farms Caleb visited on his rounds before the accident. That’s about all I can help you with. It’s possible that someone invited him in for a cup of tea, and he left his load unguarded for a short while. None of us is perfect. If you can find out where he had lunch – if he did – you might get lucky there.’

Winsome smiled. Nice of the public to tell them how to do their jobs, she thought, but she thanked him anyway. ‘If the other possibilities sound remote, is it likely that Caleb Ross loaded the body parts himself?’

‘Caleb? You’re suggesting that Caleb had something to do with this?’

‘Well, he was driving a van containing several plastic bags of human remains.’

‘But like you said before, someone must have added those while he was away from the van, or at one of the farms. It’s ridiculous to think Caleb—’

‘Is it?’ Winsome asked. ‘Is it, really? Mr Vaughn, we think this murder is linked with a spate of rural crime in the area, involving not only livestock but expensive farm equipment. The latest victim was John Beddoes, who had a valuable tractor stolen over the weekend.’

‘Yes, I heard about that.’

‘Do you know Mr Beddoes? Was he a client?’

‘Not often. He keeps some pigs and poultry, doesn’t he? I think we’ve been out there a couple of times over the past few years.’

‘Caleb?’

‘I wouldn’t know offhand. We have several vans and drivers. I can check if you really want to know.’

‘If you would, please.

Vaughn walked over to the large filing cabinet, opened the top drawer and flipped through the folders. ‘I’m afraid you’re out of luck,’ he said after running his finger down the column for a few moments. ‘Mr Beddoes’ last pickup was November last year, and Todd Griffin and Pat Bingley did the job.’

‘Was Caleb Ross working on Monday?’

‘Yes. It was a normal work day for us all.’

‘Sunday?’

‘Not this week. We do operate a skeleton staff on Sundays – you have to in this business – but Caleb had enough seniority he rarely worked on weekends. What’s all this about?’

‘We think that whoever stole Mr Beddoes’ tractor must be informed as to which farms are especially vulnerable, where the rich pickings are, and when they’re likely to be minimally managed, as John Beddoes’ farm was last week. Now, don’t you agree that Caleb Ross would have been in a perfect position to know what was going on with all the local farms? After all, you’ve told us everyone knew him.’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so. But you didn’t know Caleb. He was completely reliable. Surely there must be plenty of others in such a position?’

‘Perhaps. But was he really so trustworthy? You’ve already admitted to us that he may have falsified official papers. Perhaps he did the same thing for someone else, no questions asked. Maybe he was doing a favour for someone and he didn’t even know he was transporting human body parts? They say every man has his price. And the information he could give about local farms might also have been worth a fair bit. That’s why I asked about financial problems earlier.’

‘But Caleb didn’t lack for anything. He never needed much.’

‘Everything has got much more expensive over the past few years.’ Winsome glanced at the electric fire. ‘Just keeping warm, for example. Or the cost of cigarettes. Someone might have come up with an offer that made sense to him.’

Vaughn shook his head. ‘No. I can’t see it. Not Caleb.’

‘Did he have mutton chops?’ Gerry cut in.

Vaughn turned to her as if she were mad. ‘Mutton chops?’

‘Yes. Sideboards. You know.’ She touched her cheeks beside her ears.

‘Ah, I see what you mean. What an odd question. No. No, Caleb didn’t have mutton chops.’

‘Very well, Mr Vaughn,’ said Winsome. ‘We’ll take your character reference into consideration. Perhaps you might also care to give us the names and addresses of one or two of Mr Ross’s co-workers? Todd Griffin and Pat Bingley for starters.’

‘They’ll only tell you the same I have.’

‘All the more reason for us to talk to them, then,’ said Winsome. ‘The quicker we’ll be able to cross him off our list. By the way, do you know what a penetrating captive bolt pistol is?

‘A bolt pistol? Yes, of course. It’s what the slaughterman uses in an abattoir to stun the animals.’

‘Do you own one?’

‘Certainly not. Why would I need one? The animals are already dead when they come to us.’

‘Just wondering. Do you know of anyone who has one?’

‘I can’t say as I do.’

‘Caleb Ross, for example?’

‘I very much doubt it. Why would Caleb have one? Where could he get hold of one? I take it you can’t just buy them in the shops.’

Winsome gave Gerry the signal and they stood up to leave. ‘Just one more thing, sir,’ said Winsome, pausing at the door.

‘Yes?’

‘As I said, the human remains had been cut into manageable pieces. It looked like a professional job, according to our pathologist. Would you have any idea how or where that might have been carried out?’

Vaughn rubbed his forehead. ‘Me? No.’

‘Don’t know any dodgy butchers? Or slaughtermen?’

Vaughn was looking decidedly pale now. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Sorry. That’s not a part of our business service.’ And it seemed to Winsome as if he couldn’t wait to shut the door behind them.

Venture Property Developments was housed on the sixth floor of a redbrick office complex just south of Granary Wharf, overlooking the tangle of arterial roads south of Leeds city centre. The mirrored lift was clean, fast and practically silent. Banks watched Annie ‘powder her nose’ as they went up and was amazed at how quickly she applied a fresh coat of lipstick and brushed her hair into its natural chestnut glory. It had been windy outside, and even the short walk from their parked car to the office had been enough to reduce it to a messy tangle. Banks, of course, had no such problems. The wind hardly made a dent in his closely cropped dark hair. He did notice in the large mirror, though, that the touch of grey seemed to be spreading from his temples.

‘You OK?’ he asked Annie. She had been fidgety in the car and had phoned Doug Wilson on his mobile twice to check that Alex Preston was safe. She had told Banks on the way about her visit the previous evening, and about Alex’s phone call from Michael Lane.

‘I’m fine,’ she said, with a forced smile. ‘Ready to rock and roll.’

The lift doors opened at the reception area of Venture Properties, where an immaculately groomed receptionist, whose name tag read brenda, sat behind a semicircular desk under the red company logo on the wall. The area smelled faintly of nail varnish remover.

Brenda smiled her patent smile of greeting, tinged with a hint of suspicion she no doubt reserved for newcomers, and said, ‘Good morning. Can I help you?’

Banks showed his warrant card. ‘We’re here to see Mr Norrington.’

Brenda seemed unimpressed by the official identification. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘Yes,’ said Banks.

‘Please take a seat.’ She gestured towards a modular orange couch arranged around a glass table, on which was spread a selection of magazines: the Economist, House & Home, along with the Financial Times and a selection of the morning’s papers, all looking untouched.

Brenda busied herself on the telephone, her voice reduced to a distant whisper. When she hung up, she said, ‘Mr Norrington will see you in a few minutes. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea, water?’

‘Coffee, please. Black, two sugars,’ said Annie.

Banks asked for water.

Brenda disappeared and came back seconds later with a cup and saucer and a plastic bottle of fizzy water. Before Annie had managed to finish her coffee, Brenda’s phone buzzed and she asked them to follow her.

Norrington’s office was at the end of the corridor. It was larger than the entire Eastvale squad room, and the far wall was one giant picture window. The sky was grey, so the venetian blinds were up. Unfortunately, the window didn’t look out over the city centre, but towards the south, a flat and dreary wasteland of other office buildings, arterial roads, factory yards and retail warehouse outlets. Banks could even see the sprawling shopping park at Crown Point. Beyond that, lanes of traffic sped on the M621 as it coiled through the run-down urban areas of Hunslet and Beeston. Perhaps the view was an inspiration to property developers, Banks thought, a spur to bigger and better things. To most, though, he imagined it would be depressing.

Norrington himself had the look of a man who was comfortable with his environment. As he stood up and came forward to greet them, Banks noticed he had hung his suit jacket on the back of his chair, had his shirtsleeves rolled halfway up his arms and his tie loose at the collar, the way Banks liked to wear his when he had to wear one. His thinning grey hair was swept back and his nose slightly bulbous. His manner was open and polite. He even gave a little bow when Banks introduced Annie, and for a moment Banks thought he was going to kiss her hand. Instead, he offered more refreshments, which both Banks and Annie declined, then bade them sit. Their chairs were wide and comfortable, and faced the large window. At that angle, they could see only the sky, not the wastelands of south Leeds.

‘One of our colleagues rang you yesterday, I believe?’ Banks said.

‘She talked to Geoffrey Melrose, not to me,’ said Norrington. ‘He’s my partner, to all intents and purposes. I’m afraid he’s had to go to London on business today, but I can help you with anything you need.’

‘I hope so. My colleague said she got rather short shrift.’

‘Geoff’s a busy man. He told me it was something to do with the Drewick development.’

‘That’s right. The old airfield with the hangar. How long have you owned the property?’

‘About four years now. It was run-down for years, going cheap, so we bought it for the land. Ever since then we’ve been trying to get zoning laws and investors in line for a new shopping development. It’s a long haul, I can tell you.’

‘Do such things usually take so long?’

‘It depends. You certainly need patience in this business, though.’

‘While you’re negotiating all this, who takes care of the property?’

‘Again, it depends on the property.’

‘In this case.’

Norrington leaned back in his chair and started stretching a rubber band. ‘In this case, nobody, really. There seemed little point in employing a nightwatchman or a security company as there was nothing there to watch. The chain-link and gates were already in place. We put up all the required signs and padlocks. I suppose some schoolkids might have managed to sneak in through a hole in the fence, but even a nightwatchman probably couldn’t have prevented that. Kids get everywhere.’

‘Too true,’ Banks agreed. ‘And anyone can take a pair of bolt cutters and replace your chain and padlock with their own. Did you ever consider whether the premises were being used for criminal activity?’

‘Why would I? We have many properties awaiting development, and it’s never been an issue before.’ Norrington put his rubber band down and wagged his finger. ‘Now, I do hope you aren’t trying to lay the blame for anything like that at our feet. Is this a matter of liability?’

‘Well, as a legal issue, I suppose it might interest the lawyers and cost everyone else a fortune. But nobody’s blaming anyone. That’s not why we’re here.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

‘So what’s the answer?’

‘Of course we didn’t know anything about criminal activities. I’m shocked to hear that you think we did.’

‘Not only that, Mr Norrington,’ said Annie, ‘but the area is now also a crime scene, a possible murder scene, in fact. What do you think of that?’

‘I don’t know what to think. I find it very hard to believe, as a matter of fact. Besides, you can’t blame any of this on us.’

Banks stood up and walked over to the window. Norrington swivelled his chair so he could keep his eyes on him.

‘Believe me, it’s true,’ Annie went on. Norrington didn’t seem to know who to look at. He finally decided on Annie.

‘But what can I possibly do to help you?’ he asked. ‘I’ve already told you, we’ve been involved in negotiations to develop that property for years now. It’s not as if we stand guard over it or anything. Sometimes these things move very slowly.’

‘What’s the matter? Not managed to grease the right palms yet?’ said Banks, reclaiming his chair again. ‘Not found the right city councillors to enlist in the cause?’

Norrington reddened. ‘I resent that.’

‘Of course you do. But it happens in your business, doesn’t it?’

‘As a matter of fact,’ Norrington went on, ‘that’s not the problem at all. Not that we’d resort to such a thing.’

‘Course not. What is the problem, then?’

‘Not that it’s any of your business, but it’s investors. Lack thereof. To put it crudely, we’re still a bit short of the readies to make a start, even with the requisite planning permission, which we are on the verge of acquiring.’

‘I’m surprised you can’t get anyone to invest in the building of a major shopping centre where there isn’t any competition for miles around.’

‘It surprises me, too, but that’s the way it happens sometimes. Man plans. God laughs.’

‘I’ve had that feeling myself, often,’ said Banks. ‘Wouldn’t it help if you rented the place out for some private venture in the meantime? Perhaps that would bring in the cash you need? Help you keep your heads above water until it’s time to proceed?’

‘Too much hassle,’ said Norrington. ‘Then we would have to hire security and worry about it all the time. We’ll get the money. And by legitimate means.’ Norrington glanced from Banks to Annie and back. ‘What exactly is it that you want from me, Mr Banks? I do have things to do, you know. Important things.’

‘I’m sure you do. And we’ll try not to keep you much longer. For a start, I’d like to know if you have any idea who has been using the old airfield and hangar as a transfer point on a trafficking route.’

‘Trafficking? What do you mean? What trafficking?’

‘Stolen farm equipment and livestock. Maybe other things. People. Drugs. We don’t know the full extent of the operation yet. It’s an ideal location, though. Isolated, unguarded, close to the A1.’

‘I have no knowledge of any such activity.’ Norrington seemed shaken. He stood up, took his jacket from the back of his chair and put it on. ‘Look, I think I’m going to have to ask our legal representatives to come in if our conversation continues in this vein.’

‘Why?’ asked Banks.

‘These insinuations you’re making.’

‘I’m not making any insinuations. Do you have something to hide?’

‘No, of course I don’t. It’s just… well, I don’t know what you’re after.’

Banks scratched his scar. ‘You know, I’m not always too sure myself, Mr Norrington. I often feel as if I’m just digging around until my shovel hits something. I tell you what. Why don’t you just take your jacket off, nice and informal like, then sit down, and we’ll carry on. OK?’

Norrington hesitated, then seemed to relax and did as Banks suggested, though the suspicious expression remained on his face. ‘All right,’ he said, spreading his hands. ‘I’ve nothing to hide.’

‘Good. Can you give us a list of the investors who’ve signed up for Drewick already?’

‘I’m afraid that’s privileged information. I can’t just go around giving out names. Some of these individuals might wish to remain anonymous. Surely you understand that?’

Banks leaned forward. ‘Mr Norrington, perhaps it’s us who ought to bring our legal representatives. In our case, it’s called the Crown Prosecution Service, and they’re very busy, but I’m sure we could persuade someone it’s in a good cause. Next to the Internal Revenue, bankers, town planners and lawyers themselves, property developers are pretty low down in the popularity stakes, you know.’

‘We do an important and necessary job.’

‘Just as we do,’ said Banks. ‘So let’s all do it. Accepting that you are an honest businessman, it doesn’t have to follow that all of your investors are. One of them might have had an idea for putting the property to good use while he waited for a return on his investment.’

Norrington ummed and aahed for a while longer, then rang through to his secretary and asked her to make a photocopy of the Drewick Shopping Centre investor list. ‘Just to show we’ve nothing to hide,’ he added. ‘Though I would appreciate your discretion in the matter.’

‘We’ll prove the very souls of discretion, don’t you worry.’ It would probably come to nothing, Banks knew, as anyone who was using the hangar for criminal purposes was hardly likely to be connected to the place on paper. But it all had to be checked: criminals get too clever and slip up, or they’re just plain stupid to start with.

The secretary knocked and entered with the photocopy, which Norrington directed her to give to Banks.

‘Is there anything else?’ Norrington asked.

‘Have you ever visited the site yourself?’

‘Once. Years ago, when we first acquired the property.’

‘2009?’

‘Around then, yes.’

‘Do you always check out your firm’s acquisitions?’

‘I usually try to.’

‘Perhaps you could have your secretary make us a copy of the list of other properties your company is preparing for development before we leave, too?’

‘Wait a minute. I’ve already given you the list of investors, against my better judgement. I really don’t see why we should be expected to give you a list of our properties.’

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘Again, it’s private information, privileged.’

‘Mr Norrington, your company owns a property on which a brutal murder has been committed, and which we believe to be a transfer point for stolen goods shipments. How do we know you aren’t using other properties you own for the same purposes? Absentee landlords or not, Venture Property Development can’t shirk responsibility entirely. Or the publicity that could come with it.’ Banks glanced at Annie. ‘I’m sure you can get a court order in an hour or less, DI Cabbot. I’ll wait here with Mr Norrington until you get back.’

Annie stood up. Banks held his breath as she walked to the door. There was no way she could return with a court order within a couple of hours, so he could only hope his bluff worked.

‘Wait. Wait,’ said Norrington, waving his hand as Annie grasped the door handle. ‘If it’ll get rid of you once and for all, fine. I’ve got work to do.’ Slowly he picked up the phone and gave the instructions. After he had done so, he went on, ‘I would like to inform you, however, that I don’t appreciate threats, and I will be talking to the company’s legal department immediately after you leave. Any further intrusions into our time and our business records will be a lot more difficult to carry out and will be done in the presence of legal representation. And remember: the names on that list are private property.’

Banks and Annie got up to leave. ‘Thanks, Mr Norrington, you’ve been a great help,’ Banks said over his shoulder. ‘You certainly sound as if you know the drill. No, don’t bother to see us out. We’ll pick up the list of properties from your secretary on our way.’