Abattoir Blues

Chapter 10

As things turned out, the interview was delayed until Alex Preston had picked out Ronald Tanner from the VIPER display, much relieved that she could go through the process on a large TV screen instead of having to stand in front of him again. After that, Tanner requested a second consultation with his lawyer. Banks used the extra time to prepare himself for the interview, gathering all the evidence they had against Tanner in one folder and everything they suspected him of being involved with in another. Alex’s identification certainly strengthened the case against him, so it was worth the delay. The only new evidence came in the form of a partial fingerprint found in the hangar. There weren’t enough points of comparison to declare that it actually was Tanner’s, but it was something Banks felt he could use as extra ammunition in an interview.

According to his file, Ronald Tanner was forty-six, a car mechanic by trade from Chester-le-Street. After spells in London, Bristol and Birmingham in the nineties and early noughties, he had been living in Darlington since 2004. In addition to his arrests for breaking and entering, assault, theft and GBH, the local police were also interested in him as part of a wide-ranging porn and prostitution investigation, linked to some of the places he had worked as a club bouncer. Both Tanner’s prison sentences had been significantly reduced for good behaviour. Apparently, he was a model prisoner. As Banks read over the files for the fourth or fifth time, he yawned. He had stayed up too late watching the Bond movie, and even the double hit of espresso from AC Gervaise’s private machine hadn’t given him much of a second wind.

He selected Gerry Masterson to accompany him. She had the training, but lacked the experience. After all, most interviews were carried out by detective sergeants and constables, and it was only at Banks’s own insistence that he had managed to keep his hand in all these years. Nowadays, there was even talk about training civilians to carry out police interviews in order to free up officers for other duties and show more of a presence in the communities and on the streets. Banks wasn’t too sure about that. Mostly, it was matter of getting the experience, not being trained by a psychologist. He wasn’t as skilled in all the fancy modern psychological techniques as someone like Gerry would be, after all the courses she had done, but he usually knew how to get what he wanted out of someone without resorting to torture, which was, after all, the point of a police interview. However he proceeded, there was no chance of using the casual, friendly approach in the hope to getting Tanner to admit to something in a weak moment; the man was far too experienced for that.

They walked into the interview room at 9.35 a.m. Tanner was sitting beside his brief with his arms folded, brow furrowed and a scowl on his face, wearing his disposable ‘Elvis’ suit while his clothes were being forensically examined. Banks could hardly blame him for scowling after the morning he’d had. The locals had busted down his door at five o’clock and hustled him out in the cold pre-dawn. Then he had sat in a holding cell down in the basement while the various formalities, including Alex Preston’s identification, were completed. The only advantage he had gained from all this was that it had given him time to get his solicitor there.

Her name was Cassandra Wakefield, and she was one of the better-known advocates in the county. No lowly legal-aid lawyer for Tanner. Even so, Banks was surprised by the firepower he had managed to acquire, especially at such short notice. He was a habitual criminal, but how had he got to know Ms Wakefield? And how could he afford her? Banks suspected the hand of a bigger player in this, but he knew it would be impossible to discover who was actually paying for Tanner’s defence. Cassandra Wakefield was too good to let anything like that slip through the cracks. After all, how was she to pay for her trips to Harvey Nicks? She certainly wasn’t a Primark sort of woman. Rumour had it she had more shoes than Imelda Marcos. She was a thoroughly professional lawyer in her mid-forties, very attractive, always immaculately and fashionably turned out, with a great deal of charm and far more alluring beauty than an interviewing cop wanted sitting opposite him at a time like this. Distractions were all very well in their place, but Ms Wakefield knew the value of what she had, and she wasn’t afraid to exploit it. The extra button on the blouse undone, the full, shiny lips, long wavy auburn hair, slightly hooded green eyes, and the entirely deceptive dreamy bedroom look. At least, Banks thought it was deceptive. She was good in court, too. Gone were the times when only a barrister could represent a client – now people like Cassandra Wakefield offered the full service criminal defence. She had obtained her Higher Rights of Audience and could, theoretically, appear in any courtroom in the land.

Pleasantries out of the way, Banks turned on the recording machine and clearly stated the necessary details. Gerry Masterson seemed nervous – she was playing with her hair too much – but he had advised her to observe for the most part, unless she was struck with a sudden inspiration. He imagined she would settle into her role when the interview got going. The room was stuffy but bearable. Hot enough that Tanner’s shaved head was damp and shiny with sweat and Banks felt like taking his jacket off. With its beige walls, a high window covered with a grille, one overhead light fixture similarly covered and scuffed concrete floor, it was meant to be neutral, but it erred more on the side of unpleasantness. It needed to be the kind of place that those not used to such institutional claustrophobia wanted to get out of quickly, thereby encouraging their willingness to talk. Sometimes it even worked.

‘So, Ronald,’ he began. ‘What’s your story?’

‘I don’t have to tell you anything.’

‘That’s true. But you might want to help yourself a little by helping me.’

‘You lot always say that. Why would I want to help you?’

‘Do you know why you’re here?’

‘Because a gang of coppers broke into my house at the crack of dawn and dragged me here.’

‘We’ve had a serious complaint about you,’ Banks went on. ‘A woman alleges that you talked your way into her home by impersonating a police officer, and that once inside, you threatened and intimidated her and her child.’

‘What a load of bollocks.’

‘She further alleges that you destroyed her mobile telephone and that you badly damaged her index finger by treading on it while she was lying on the floor, pushed there by you. How am I doing so far?’

‘You tell a good story.’

‘She picked you out of a VIPER identification parade.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Come on, Ronald, don’t play the innocent. How long since your last arrest? Move with the times. Video Identification Parade Electronic Recording. A bit awkward when you say it all out loud, but VIPER works quite well, I think. Most apt.’

‘Can you cut out the innuendos, DCI Banks,’ said Cassandra Wakefield, rolling her eyes. ‘I mean, really.’

‘We’re not in court, you know,’ Banks shot back. ‘There’s no jury.’

‘Even so. Let’s all get along here, shall we?’

Banks turned back to Tanner. ‘How about giving me your version of events?’

‘How about I don’t?’

‘Did you visit Alex Preston and her son Ian at flat 81 Hague House on the evening of Monday the twenty-fifth of March? That’s last Monday, in case you’re confused.’

‘I’m not confused. I’ve never heard of the woman or the kid. Or Hague House, for that matter.’

‘I suppose you’ve got an alibi, then?’

Tanner just smiled. He might as well have said, ‘I can rustle one up if you want.’

Banks shuffled his papers and slid over the sketch artist’s likeness so that both Tanner and Cassandra Wakefield could see it. ‘Would you say this bears a reasonable resemblance to you?’ he asked Tanner.

‘Could be anyone. Lots of blokes shave their heads these days.’

‘I don’t think so. It’s not just the shaved head. There’s the broken nose. Quite distinctive, that. And the shifty eyes. It’s you, all right. This description was worked out between Alex Preston, the alleged victim, and a police sketch artist. I’d say, as these things go, it’s a good likeness.’

‘I don’t think you’d get very far with that in court, Mr Banks, as I’m sure you know,’ said Cassandra Wakefield. ‘These sorts of concocted identifications can be incredibly unreliable. The witness could easily have been describing someone she’d seen in the street, someone she had a grudge against. And there’s evidence that witnesses simply pick out faces they don’t like from VIPER displays. My client can’t help being… er… distinctive.’

‘It’s because he’s distinctive that we were able to identify him so quickly,’ said Banks. ‘And everything was done according to correct legal procedure, so I think it will be up to a court to decide, not you.’ He returned to Tanner. ‘There’s the fingerprint, too. Let’s not forget that. It was on a card Ms Preston says you handed to her.’

‘Why would I do that?’ Tanner said. ‘Give her a card? Assuming I’d ever met her, of course, which I haven’t.’

‘Are you saying you didn’t?’

‘Of course I didn’t.’

‘Can you explain the card with your fingerprints and a telephone number on it being in the possession of Alex Preston?’

‘Maybe it was something I threw away in the street and she picked up? A handout of some sort. Did the number have anything to do with me?’

‘We called the number. There was silence, then dead air. The number is untraceable. A pay-as-you-go cheapie, unregistered and disposable.’

‘Well, there you go,’ said Tanner. ‘The wonders of modern technology.’

‘Except for your fingerprints on the card.’

‘And I’m saying that maybe someone handed it to me in the street or something and I threw it away. Jehovah’s Witnesses or someone. What are you going to do, arrest me for littering?’

‘DCI Banks, do you have anything other than this remarkably circumstantial evidence for holding my client against his will?’

‘I would think that when a young woman reports the events Ms Preston reported and presents us with the evidence she has presented us, in the form of the sketch, a broken finger, the fingerprints and the VIPER identification, it’s a little more than circumstantial. It’s certainly something we all ought to take seriously.’

Ms Wakefield glanced at her watch. ‘As you will. But please hurry up. I have appointments.’

‘Don’t let me keep you.’ Banks went immediately back to Tanner. ‘Where were you on Monday evening, Ronald?’

‘Home, I suppose. I haven’t been out much all week. The weather, you know. Plays havoc with my rheumatism.’

‘Can anyone corroborate that?’

‘I’m not married, if that’s what you’re asking.’

It was no alibi, but Banks knew that most alibis were thin. If you had someone who would lie for you, it helped, of course, but Tanner could just have easily have said he went for a walk on the moors, and it would have been as hard to disprove, unless he had been seen elsewhere. The damn thing was they had only Alex Preston’s statement to go on. Not that Banks doubted her for a moment, but it might not be enough when people like Ronald Tanner and Cassandra Wakefield were involved. Officers were still asking questions round Alex Preston’s tower block, but Banks held out little hope that anything would come from that. The residents of the East Side Estate were hardly known for helping the police. ‘Are you currently employed?’ Banks asked.

‘Not at the moment.’

‘What do you do for money?’

‘Benefits. The social. I’m entitled.’

‘Did you know a lad called Morgan Spencer?’

‘Can’t say as I did. Past? Is he dead or something?’

He was lying, Banks could tell from his change in tone. Cassandra Wakefield knew it too, but she was doing her best not to react. ‘Yes, he’s dead,’ Banks continued. ‘Murdered. Were you anywhere near the Riverview Caravan Park on Monday night?’

‘Why would I go there?’

‘To burn down Morgan’s caravan after you’d had a good look for anything that might incriminate you or your mates.’

‘Incriminate how? What mates?’

‘What about Caleb Ross?’

Tanner looked just surprised enough at the question that Banks guessed he did know Caleb Ross.

‘No,’ Tanner went on. ‘Funny name, Caleb. I think I’d remember.’

‘Mr Ross used to drive for Vaughn’s ABP. He is also deceased.’

‘Murdered?’

‘We’re not sure. What kind of work did you do before you became unemployed?’

‘I’m a motor mechanic. Skilled, trained, experienced, and all that, but it doesn’t seem to matter these days when they can get someone half my age with half the experience for half the money. Last while I’ve been doing a bit of club work.’

‘Bouncer?’

‘Crowd maintenance, noise control, that sort of thing.’

‘Odd that,’ Banks said. ‘About you being a motor mechanic and all. Caleb Ross died in a motor accident.’

‘Treacherous time of year on the roads.’

‘Have you ever worked in an abattoir?’

‘You must be joking. Me? In one of those places? I couldn’t stand the stink, for a start.’

‘But killing the animals wouldn’t bother you?’

Tanner shrugged.

‘Do you own a captive bolt gun?’

‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

‘It’s a nasty little weapon. A special kind of gun used in an abattoir to stun or kill the animals. Mostly fatal on humans.’

‘Sounds cruel to me. No, I don’t own anything like that. You’ll no doubt have searched the house, so you’ll know that already.’

‘You could have hidden it somewhere. Have you got a lock-up?’

‘Why would I need a lock-up? I don’t even need a garage.’

‘Do you take drugs?’

‘Tobacco and alcohol, for my sins.’

‘Do you know anything about tractors?’

‘I’ve worked on a few in my time. Stands to reason, if you’re a motor mechanic on the edge of a large rural area.’

‘Where were you on Saturday night?’

‘All night?’

‘Yes.’

‘I went to the pub. I usually do on a Saturday night. Then I went home and fell asleep watching telly.’

Another flimsy but probably unbreakable alibi. Even if the people in the pub didn’t remember him, it wouldn’t mean much. One night was very much like another and most people, if pushed, didn’t know what they were doing last week. Tanner was being smart in not coming up with anything too elaborate. Elaborate alibis were the easiest to break.

‘What about Sunday morning?’

‘Sunday morning’s my lie-in time. Make a cuppa, read the Sport and the Mail. I don’t usually do much on a Sunday. Maybe down the pub for a jar or two and a game of darts at lunchtime. Roast beef and Yorkshires if I can afford it.’

‘Are you sure you didn’t go out last Sunday?’

‘I don’t think so. Where to?’

‘An abandoned airfield near Drewick.’

‘I’d remember that.’

‘Do you know the place?

‘I’ve seen it from the train.’

‘Did you go there last Sunday morning about nine thirty?’

‘Why would I do that?’

But Tanner was getting worried, Banks could tell. He could see his mind working furiously behind the words. Banks wanted to push him. Tanner hadn’t realised that they had already connected him to the airfield and Morgan Spencer’s murder.

‘Nothing. Only our lads found another fingerprint there that’s very much—’

‘DCI Banks,’ Cassandra Wakefield cut in. ‘I’d like to know where you’re going with this. But first of all I’d like to know about this fingerprint. There’s no mention of it in my notes. If it was indeed Mr Tanner’s why wasn’t I informed? And if it wasn’t, why bring it up?’

‘It was brought to my attention just before this interview,’ said Banks. ‘It’s only a fragment, not enough to be certain, but—’

‘In that case, DCI Banks, I think we’ll pass it by. Continue.’

‘Our men are still working at the scene.’

‘I still say you’re fishing. Move on.’

Banks paused to shuffle his papers and frame his words. ‘We believe that the hangar was used as a transfer point for stolen farm equipment on its way overseas. Possibly also for stolen livestock being shipped to illegal abattoirs around the country.’ Banks knew he was close to the edge, especially with Cassandra Wakefield present, but he needed a break.

‘Sheep rustling, eh?’ said Tanner, grinning. ‘Just like the wild west, isn’t it?’

‘Perhaps even more important,’ Banks went on, ‘a man was murdered there. The one I mentioned earlier. Morgan Spencer.’

‘Yes, and I told you then I don’t know him. Didn’t know him. Never known any Morgans or Calebs. And I don’t own a gun, even one of those abattoir ones you’ve been going on about.’

It was true that police searching Tanner’s Darlington home had found no trace of a captive bolt gun by the time Banks started the interview, though they had found a stash of weapons, including various knives and flick-knives, knuckledusters, a cosh and a crossbow. If Tanner had used the bolt gun on Spencer, there was a good chance that he had done the sensible thing and tossed it. On the other hand, according to ballistics, it was a formidable weapon, and would no doubt be expensive and difficult to replace.

As if reading his mind, Cassandra Wakefield said, ‘This is getting us nowhere, DCI Banks. I trust your search hasn’t turned up a gun of any sort on my client’s property?’

‘Not yet.’

She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘Like the fingerprint that’s not quite his but might be?’ She scooped up the papers in front of her and stood up as if to leave. ‘Then I suggest we suspend this interview for the time being and review my client’s situation. Pending the results of the house search and the fingerprint identification at this abandoned hangar, as I see it you have no evidence on which to base a charge. I also find myself confused about what it is exactly you want to charge Mr Tanner with. Threatening this poor woman, murdering Morgan Spencer and Caleb Ross, sheep rustling? What is it to be?’

‘We’ll decide that later, Ms Wakefield,’ Banks shot back. ‘With the CPS, of course. And it may include possession of illegal weapons.’

Cassandra Wakefield favoured him with a sweet smile, tender lips curled at the edges. ‘Of course. And in the meantime…’

‘Just a couple of final points. I’ll keep it brief.’

Tanner looked apprehensive.

‘Have you ever heard of a man called Montague Havers?’ Banks asked.

Tanner narrowed his eyes. ‘You do come up with some funny names.’

‘His real name is Malcolm Hackett.’

‘Means nothing to me.’

‘What about John Beddoes?’

‘Isn’t that the bloke whose tractor got pinched?’

‘It is. Do you know him?’

‘Only from reading about it in the paper.’

‘Why are you looking for Michael Lane?’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Who wants you to find Michael Lane?’

‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’

‘Why did you visit Alex Preston and ask her where Lane had gone?’

‘I told you, I never did that. I don’t know the woman.’

‘Is it because Lane witnessed something happen at the hangar on Sunday morning?’

‘You’ve lost me.’

‘Me, too, I’m afraid,’ said Cassandra Wakefield. ‘I think we’ll have to call it a day.’

‘Interview suspended at 10.05,’ said Banks. Tanner was rattled, he could tell. It wouldn’t be such a bad idea to let him stew for a few hours while the team tried to dig up more damning evidence.

Cassandra Wakefield walked towards the door.

Ronald Tanner, however, lingered a moment, then said. ‘Look, I’m sure this will all be sorted out soon. In the meantime, please give my regards to Ms Preston. Tell her I’m sorry she felt that she had to go to such trouble over a silly mistake and I hope her young lad’s all right.’

Cassandra Wakefield stopped in her tracks and turned, an alarmed expression on her face, then quickly shooed her client out of the interview room, where the custody officer was waiting to take him back to his cell.

Gerry Masterson looked at Banks open-mouthed and said, ‘Was that what I thought it was, sir?’

Banks smiled. ‘Yes, Gerry,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I very much think it was. We’ve got to get moving fast on this. Our twenty-four hours is running down. We’ve got to connect Ronald Tanner to Morgan Spencer and Caleb Ross. Finding Michael Lane would be a big help. And you might have a look into Tanner’s known associates.’

‘What about Alex Preston? Gerry said.

‘I’ll have a word with Annie and AC Gervaise, but I think we’re going have to increase security on Alex. She’s in far more danger now that Tanner knows she shopped him. He obviously isn’t in this alone.’

‘I don’t like it,’ Annie said over an early lunch in the Queen’s Arms with Banks and Gerry Masterson. ‘I don’t like it at all.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Banks, putting aside his bacon butty for a moment. ‘But it’s done now. And you know as well as I do that it had to be done.’

‘But I’m the one who convinced her to talk in the first place, arranged the sketch artists, had Vic get the fingerprints from the card.’

‘None of this is your fault, Annie. You were only doing your job. And it was good police work. Alex Preston herself volunteered the information about Tanner’s visit, even after he had threatened her to keep silent.’

‘I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to her. Or Ian.’ She gave a shudder.

‘It won’t come to that.’

‘You can’t guarantee it, short of locking them in a cell. Even then—’

‘There’s no point jumping to worst-case scenarios,’ Banks snapped. ‘At the moment, Tanner’s the one in a cell.’

‘Yes, but you and I know damn well how long that will last. That Harvey Nicks lawyer of his will have him out on the street the minute his twenty-four hours are up. What are you going to do then? Put Alex and Ian in the witness protection programme? We don’t have one.’

‘I’m sure something along those lines could be arranged, but it’s not necessary yet.’

‘You mean you won’t do anything until you’ve brought Tanner’s accomplices into the open. You’re using Alex and Ian as bait?’

‘That’s not fair,’ said Gerry.

Annie shot her a dark look and turned back to Banks. ‘It’s true, though, isn’t it? That’s why you had Gerry here in on the interview and not me. You didn’t trust me to keep my cool. These people are out there covering their tracks, and the closer we get the more danger all the people on the fringes are in. They’ve got rid of Spencer and perhaps Ross. They’re after Michael Lane, maybe they’ve even got to him already, and now there’s Alex and Ian, too.’

‘It’s Lane they want,’ said Banks. ‘Not Alex or Ian.’

‘No, but they’ll use her and Ian as a means to an end, won’t they? And we’ve seen just how much respect for human life they have. I saw Caleb Ross’s and Morgan Spencer’s bodies in the pass, too, you know.’

‘I know,’ said Banks. ‘But this all started with Spencer. He wasn’t killed as a part of any clean-up operation, or for information, as far as we know. We don’t know why he was killed, but I think Michael Lane does. There’s a different motive for his murder, and as far as we can be certain, there’s been only one murder so far. We might suspect that Caleb Ross’s van was sabotaged, but we have absolutely no evidence of that. The CSIs have managed to get the pieces back to the forensic garage and they’re still working on it. Until they can tell us something definite, we’re only investigating one murder: Morgan Spencer.’

‘Well, that makes me feel a whole lot better.’

Gerry Masterson nibbled on her chicken in a basket and looked from one to the other. ‘I’ll get back to the computer with the lists straight after lunch,’ she said. ‘We’ve got plenty of names from a number of sources. Maybe it’s Venture Properties?’

‘Venture?’ said Annie. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘Just that someone who has invested in the new shopping centre development would be in a good position to know the state of negotiations and the lie of the land at the airfield. I mean, I doubt the place was chosen just at random.’

‘Good point,’ said Annie grudgingly. ‘I must admit I had a funny feeling about Venture.’

Banks laughed. ‘I always have a funny feeling around property developers. It doesn’t mean they’re all murderers.’

‘I’m not saying anything about murderers,’ said Gerry, tucking a stray tress of red hair behind her ear. ‘It’s probably just a business to them.’ She glanced at Banks. ‘And I’m not saying Venture are involved, only that their lists might provide a connection.’

‘Have you got anywhere with that name I gave you yesterday? Montague Havers?’

‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ said Gerry. ‘It took a bloody long time and a lot of perhaps less than legal manoeuvres, but I got the name.’

‘He’s on the Venture list?’

‘Indeed he is.’

‘Why didn’t you say so before?’

Gerry blushed. ‘I just got it, the moment before we came out to lunch, sir.’

‘Well, go on,’ Banks urged her.

‘It might not lead anywhere.’

‘But Havers is an investor in the shopping centre?’

‘Indirectly, yes. That’s why it took so long. To cut a long story short, sir, he’s connected with a company called Retail Perfection Ltd, or a smaller division of that, a company within a company.’

‘You’re losing me, Gerry.’

‘High finance and corporate finagling aren’t really my area of expertise, either, sir, but let’s say he’s on the board, a major shareholder, of a branch of Retail Perfection Ltd that handles property acquisition and development. His main business is international financing, but he’s got his finger in a number of pies, or companies, I should say.’

‘That’s the connection we were looking for.’

‘Yes, but there are lots of other investors.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Banks. ‘Joanna gave me Havers’ name as someone they were keeping on an eye on for Operation Hawk. Apparently he’s clever and slippery and they’ve not been able to get him for anything yet. He’s obviously careful and makes sure he never handles anything that can be traced back to the thefts and transportation. But if he’s also an investor in the Drewick shopping centre development, then he’s in a position to know that it would be a good place to use as a depot. All he has to do is know and pass on that knowledge. He doesn’t have to organise anything himself, get his hands dirty. It’s ideal. That’s great, Gerry. Well done.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Annie. ‘Gerry said there are a lot of other people involved in investing in the airfield. What about them? Shouldn’t we check all of them out?’

‘We could, I suppose,’ said Banks. ‘But I vote that Havers gets first attention. It’s a double hit, Annie. He’s invested in the airfield development and he’s on Joanna MacDonald’s Operation Hawk list. Also, he drove up here on the Sunday we think Morgan Spencer was killed at the hangar.’

‘I suppose that makes sense,’ Annie said. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Go see him. I was going anyway, but now I’ve even got a bit more ammunition thanks to Gerry.’

Gerry Masterson blushed, and Annie looked sulky. ‘While Alex and Ian just wait around for someone to kill them or abduct them?’

‘Don’t be absurd. They’ll be well protected.’

‘Sure.’

Gerry stood up. ‘I should get back to the squad room now, if that’s OK? I’ve got the Venture stuff to finish, then a whole lot of abattoirs to look into.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Banks. ‘And dig up all you can on Montague Havers.’

Gerry left, and they watched her go. ‘She’s come on a lot,’ said Annie.

‘Indeed she has.’

‘Still a bit sensitive, though.’

Banks smiled. ‘And you’re still a bit acerbic.’

‘Whatever that is. I’m working on it.’

Banks touched her hand on the table. ‘I know you are. And your concern for Alex and Ian hasn’t gone unnoticed. We’re going to make damn sure their security is tight and that neither of them is going to be damaged by this.’

‘But for how long?’ asked Annie, banging her fist on the table. The glasses rattled and one or two people looked over. ‘I just feel so damn responsible.’

‘As long as it takes. As I said before, they’re not interested in Alex. True, she’s a means to an end, but as soon as that end no longer matters, neither does she. We’ve got to increase our efforts to find Michael Lane.’

‘So why not just kill her, then?’

‘Because I think we’re dealing with businessmen, and it wouldn’t be to their advantage. They’ve no reason to. Look at Spencer. We don’t know why they killed him, but it was hardly as a warning, an example or to hurt someone else. They were hoping his body would be incinerated, for crying out loud. All we’ve encountered so far has been the pond life: Tanner, Ross, Spencer, Lane. The man with the bolt gun, whoever that is. But there’s someone else calling the shots, someone whose orders they obey, someone with brains. That’s who we want to get to. And that’s why I’m going to see Montague Havers.’

‘I don’t think Michael Lane is pond life.’

‘Maybe not. But that’s another question we want the answer to, isn’t it? How deeply is he involved? And he’s the focal point, too. They want Lane. We have to get to him first. Then Alex Preston becomes irrelevant.’

‘Unless they’re the vengeful type,’ muttered Annie.

Banks phone rang and he excused himself to answer it. The message was brief and he smiled when he ended the call and slipped the mobile back in his pocket.

‘Well, at least we’ve made a bit of progress,’ he said. ‘We’ve found Michael Lane’s car. Fancy a trip to the seaside?’

Scarborough in season is a delightful and popular place to visit. The ruined castle towers over the seascape, its promontory splitting the town in two: South Bay, with its promenade of amusement arcades, pubs, casinos and fish and chip restaurants; North Bay with its holiday apartments, golf club and Peasholm Park.

But on a cold, blustery March day, even the inhabitants would admit that it is not a place in which you would care to linger long. Marine Drive runs round the base of the promontory and links the two halves. On a rough day, it is often flooded by waves that crash high over the solid sea wall, and signposts warn of falling rocks from the steep cliff on the other side of the road. Unfortunately for Banks and Annie, Michael Lane’s car had been found parked in a Pay n’ Display area close to the coastguard office, in the old Tollhouse, with its fairy-tale brick tower and its witch’s hat of red tiles topped with a weathervane. And this was certainly the sort of day when you didn’t need a weathervane to know which way the wind was blowing. It was blowing straight off the North Sea, wet and freezing, carrying with it a spray that immediately soaked anyone in the vicinity.

The local police had cordoned off the car when Banks and Annie arrived early in the afternoon. Ronald Tanner was still in his cell, and Gerry Masterson was slaving away over her computer with lists of names and companies beside her.

‘Nice day for a visit to the seaside, sir,’ said one of the uniformed officers cheerfully, as Banks and Annie struggled to keep their raincoats on in the wind, which seemed to be trying to rip off every item of clothing they wore. ‘Isn’t it funny,’ he went on, ‘the way people assume you’re on perpetual holiday when you tell them you’re stationed in Scarborough?’

‘Indeed,’ said Banks. There was no point in even trying to open an umbrella. Banks could feel the salt spray on his face and taste it in his mouth. It was invigorating, at least for a moment or two, then it just became cold, uncomfortable and downright annoying. ‘So what have you got?’

The officer, an inspector named Martin Mills, led them to the front of the car, where they could clearly see the parking permit stuck in the window of the ancient grey Peugeot. It gave them the date, which was Tuesday’s, and the time by which the car was supposed to leave, which was 1814. Lane had put in enough money for three hours, which meant that he had parked there at 1514 on Tuesday, two days after he had ‘disappeared’. As he had paid until after six, when the parking charges no longer applied, he would have been all right there until eight o’clock on Wednesday morning. In season, the car would no doubt have been towed away quite early that day, but at this time of year, in this sort of weather, it had only attracted a couple of parking tickets before one of the more adventurous parking officers had become suspicious. Even so, it was Thursday now. Lane could be anywhere.

Banks tried the driver’s door. Locked. He was eager to find out if there were any clues to Lane’s whereabouts in the car. ‘Any chance of getting this open?’ he asked Mills. The pounding waves and screaming wind were so loud they had to shout to make themselves heard.

Inspector Mills pulled a key from his pocket. ‘Thought you might want to do that,’ he said. ‘No point just standing around getting wet while we were waiting for you. It’s an old car, no fancy locking mechanism. There’s not even an alarm system. We also checked the fuel earlier with a dipstick. Empty.’

Banks nodded. ‘Thanks. So he ran out of petrol and couldn’t afford any more?’

‘Not surprising at today’s prices,’ said Annie. ‘And Alex said he didn’t have much money with him. But don’t you think it’s a bit strange?’

Both Banks and Mills looked at her curiously. ‘What? Why?’

She pointed to the windscreen. ‘Well, that he’s on the run and he dumps his car because it’s run out of petrol and he can’t afford any more, but he takes the trouble to pay and display a parking sticker?’

‘People do odd things when they’re flustered,’ said Banks.

‘They also do what they’d normally do,’ said Annie. ‘Don’t you think this is a sign of an honest man?’

‘I’ll grant you it’s a little odd,’ said Banks. ‘Who was that famous killer who got caught because of a parking ticket?’

‘Son of Sam,’ said Mills. ‘And he was caught because of a ticket he got for parking illegally. See, even serial killers don’t pay for parking.’

‘But our Michael Lane does,’ said Annie. ‘I still think it’s weird.’

‘Shall we have a look inside?’ said Banks.

Annie took out her protective gloves.

Mills held up the key. ‘The garage assures me this should do the trick.’ He opened the door. ‘Voilà!

‘I’ll do the front and you do the back,’ Banks said to Annie.

They got in the car and started looking and feeling around. It was a relief to be out of the wind and spray for a while, a haven of quiet and shelter. The interior smelled neutral, and the seats and floor weren’t littered with sweet wrappers or discarded newspapers. The glovebox yielded nothing but a dog-eared manual, a few old petrol station receipts and a pack of chewing gum. There was a dock for a mobile phone, but no phone, also no GPS, which might have been useful for plotting Lane’s travels. There were no maps conveniently open at a particular page, either. There was a box of tissues and a few CDs in the box between the seats: Vampire Weekend, Manic Street Preachers, White Denim. Banks reached down the sides and under the seats. Nothing there but a dried-up chip, one of those long skinny ones from McDonald’s, by the look of it, and a crumpled coffee container from the same establishment.

‘Anything in the back?’ he asked Annie.

‘Couple of twenty-p coins down the back of the seats. A Mars bar wrapper, copy of the Beano from last month. Looks like Ian’s been in here. Nothing else.’

‘OK,’ said Banks. Let’s get it locked up again and shipped to the forensic garage. See if they can get anything out of it. I’d like Vic Manson on it, too. Prints would help. We’ll see if anyone other than Michael, Alex and Ian have been inside recently.’

‘You’d have to take Ian’s prints for elimination purposes then.’

‘He’ll love it,’ Banks said. ‘I know I would have done when I was a kid. In fact, I remember getting my very own fingerprint kit for Christmas one year. I took everyone’s. Even the postman’s.’

Annie rolled her eyes. ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’

‘Don’t mock. They came in useful when we nicked him for receiving stolen property later.’

‘You never—’

Banks pointed at her. ‘Got you there.’

They got out of the car, and a blast of cold wind laced with sea spray hit them again. It was the kind of chilly damp that penetrated deep into Banks’s body and gave his bones an inkling of the aches and pains they would be feeling even on a normal day in a few years’ time. When they had made sure the car was locked, Mills suggested they adjourn to a tea shop over the road and warm up. He even offered to buy.

When they were settled with their cups of tea, Banks rubbed a clear patch in the misted window and gazed out at the bleak grey North Sea heaving in the distance. His mind became lost out there on the almost imperceptible horizon where sea met sky, until he realised that Annie was asking him a question.

‘So where do you think he is, then?’

‘He parked here just after three on Tuesday and he rang Alex from a public telephone in York on Tuesday evening. You can catch a train to almost anywhere from York, even connect to the Eurostar. He could be on the bloody Riviera by now.’

‘Remember,’ Annie said, ‘he’s got no money. And we’d know if he used any of his credit or debit cards. Besides, he doesn’t have his passport with him.’

‘Somewhere still in England, then. Or maybe he took a train north to Scotland?’

‘But what about the money, the abandoned car, the empty petrol tank?’

‘Maybe they were designed to throw us off the scent. We’re assuming that he had no money, but we don’t know it for a fact, do we? We’re just basing our assumption on Alex Preston’s word. We’re making a lot of guesses about his motives, too, but maybe it’s just blind fear that’s driving him, and there’s nothing to be read into it. Is he just a scared kid or a seasoned criminal on the run? He could have money on him that Alex doesn’t know about.’

‘A private stash?’

‘Why not? Especially if he was involved in criminal activities.’

‘Happens all the time,’ said Mills. ‘People don’t always tell their partners about financial matters, especially cash. Look at those blokes who spend a fortune on prostitutes. Do you think they use their credit cards?’

‘These days, probably yes,’ said Banks. ‘It no doubt appears on the statements as dry-cleaning or something.’

Mills laughed.

‘But seriously,’ Annie went on. ‘OK, let’s say he does have money with him.’

‘I can think of three, maybe four ways he might have got it,’ said Banks. ‘First off, he was prepared to go from the start and took his own private funds Alex didn’t know about. Second, he could have got it at his meeting with Spencer. We don’t know what happened there except that someone’s tracking him down because of it. Maybe it was a meeting to split proceeds, or a pay-off? Couldn’t he be on the run because he made off with someone’s money?’

‘But Alex said he was running because he saw something he shouldn’t have seen at the hangar.’

‘But again we only have her word for what he said, and even if she’s telling the truth, we don’t know that he is. And don’t forget, if Lane was involved with people who knew about overseas smuggling routes, he might not need a passport to get out of the country. If they needed to get him out, they’d get him out. And he’d hardly tell her about a pile of money he’d nicked, or received for criminal activities, would he?’

‘What’s the third and fourth?’ asked Mills.

‘He could have nicked it or someone could have given him it.’

‘Does he have any friends here in Scarborough?’

‘Not as far as we know.’

‘There is one more possibility I reckon we should follow up while we’re in the area,’ said Annie.

‘Lane’s mother and grandparents?’

‘Right. They live in Whitby, which is just a few miles up the road. We need to head up there and have a word.’

Banks turned to Mills. ‘Thanks, Inspector. Sorry to put you to such trouble on a miserable day like this. Someone from forensics will be over for the car before long.’

‘You don’t think we should leave it here and keep it under surveillance in case he comes back for it?’ Mills asked.

Banks thought for a moment, then said, ‘Have a patrol car keep an eye out until our men come. But I don’t expect he’ll be back now. He’s left it here for two days already. And like I said, it’s a red flag. Even he must know that. He’s not coming back for it. We’ll learn more from forensics than we would by leaving it here.’

‘You’re the boss. We’ll guard it with our lives till they come.’

Banks smiled. ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ Then he looked at Annie. ‘Come on, then, let’s have a ride up to Whitby. With any luck it’ll be teatime when we’ve finished and we can grab some fish and chips and salvage something out of this day.’