Abattoir Blues

Chapter 16

Though the snow was piling up against the rock face, it was easy for Winsome to get through the opening into the large cavern. She risked a quick glance behind her and saw that Atherton was stumbling in pursuit, about two hundred yards down the hillside, but he didn’t seem to be carrying the bolt gun.

About thirty feet inside the opening, which was high enough for even Winsome to enter without crouching, three caves ran deeper into the system, but only one led to the cathedral-sized chamber where Winsome wanted to go. Another dead-ended, and the third became so low at one point that even a mouse could hardly squeeze through. You had to know which tunnel to choose, and Winsome did.

To throw Atherton off the scent, she made sure she had her mobile and wallet and keys, but took off her quilted jacket and laid it outside the central cave before she took the one to her right. If he didn’t know the caves, it might fool him into picking the wrong entrance.

It was cold inside the cave, especially without her jacket, but while the stone acted as a natural coolant, it also insulated the place from the worst of the cold. And the snow couldn’t penetrate here, no matter how hard the wind blew. The walls were slimy, cool and moist to the touch, veined with minerals and crystals. It was getting darker with every step she took from the main entrance. Soon she was bending over to keep going, and as yet she had heard no signs of Atherton following her. He had seemed out of shape as he made his way up the hill, despite his sturdy build, and he was probably pausing to catch his breath and try to work out which way she had gone. At least, that was what she hoped.

Soon, Winsome knew, the ceiling would hang so low that it would look impossible to get under. A novice would turn round and go back. But Winsome had been through here more than once, and she knew it was higher than it looked, even though you had to crawl on your belly for such a long way that it was easy to panic if you were in the slightest bit claustrophobic. And if you panicked, you got stuck.

The trick, she remembered as she lay on her belly and slid forward into the clammy darkness, was to pretend that you were a snake and could squeeze through the narrowest of spaces. She cursed the few pounds she had put on since she had last been potholing and vowed to go to the gym regularly if she survived this ordeal, but even with her arse feeling much bigger than she could bear it to be, she managed.

She slithered along on her stomach, oblivious to the sharp bits of rock and quartz here and there that cut into her. At the worst moments, she felt as if she were being crushed by an almighty weight, the breath squeezed out of her. For a few seconds, about halfway along, she stopped. There was silence except for the wind and water dripping somewhere. Now the rock underneath her was wet. About an inch of water had accumulated in the passage, soaking though her blouse and jeans, chilling her to the bone.

When she turned a slight bend in the passage, she knew she was almost there, and soon the rock above her seemed to draw up, like a press after it had done its work. In no time she was on all fours, the jeans around her knees shredded to rags. She had grazed her elbows and they hurt like hell. But she was almost there. It was pitch black now, and she was far enough away from any possibility of the light being seen, that she finally risked taking out her mobile and using its light to show her the low entrance ahead. It was just a hole in the wall, really, but Winsome knew that it led to a ledge about forty feet from the bottom of the enormous cathedral-like cavern so many intrepid visitors had oohed and aahed over. She bent forward and squeezed through. After about five feet, she found herself on the ledge, which was wide enough to sit comfortably on.

The light from her phone didn’t have the power to illuminate the full glory of the cavern, but it was better than total darkness. If Atherton did follow her, if he chose the right path and made it under the overhang, then she would hear him coming and have time to stand in wait against the wall by the edge of the entrance and use his momentum as he came through the hole in the wall to hurl him forward over the edge. Whether the forty-foot drop would kill him, she had no idea. It would certainly incapacitate him, and there would be no way he would be able to climb back up and get at her.

Winsome turned off the phone to conserve battery power and huddled against the wall, shivering, arms locked round her drawn-up knees. As her eyes grew used to the darkness, she could just make out the shapes of stalactites and stalagmites and sense the cathedral vastness of the space she was in. She would stay where she was until she was certain Atherton had given up, or her backup had arrived and caught him, then she would crawl and slither back out again, hoping to God the drifting snow hadn’t completely blocked the exit.

Now there was nothing to do but wait. Water dripped. The wind moaned and whistled through the interconnected passages and made a deep humming music in the chamber. She heard a loud cry followed by what she thought were curses, swear words. Atherton. She couldn’t tell where they were coming from, but they froze her blood. Again she heard howls and curses echoing around the vast space, as if she were being hunted by a pack of hounds, and she hugged herself tighter and tighter until she almost turned into a ball.

Banks and Annie signed out one of the police four by fours from the car pool for their journey. Neither Banks’s Porsche nor Annie’s Astra would handle the present conditions well. It was tough going, and Banks gritted his teeth as he drove every inch of the snow-swept roads out of town. Neither said a word. Banks didn’t even put any music on. He needed all the concentration he could muster for the driving.

Out on the main dale road, through Fortford, Helmthorpe and Swainshead, the conditions were much worse, as Banks had expected. It hadn’t yet got to the point where any stretches were completely impassable, but it sometimes felt close to that, and once Banks skidded on a drift and clipped the drystone wall before regaining control of the steering. Annie held on to him. It was hard to see. The windscreen wipers couldn’t keep up with the volume of snow. The only piece of good fortune was that there was hardly anyone else out on the roads.

For a while after they turned off the main road, which branches towards Belderfell Pass to the left and the High Pennine moorland beyond the source of the River Swain to the right, Banks thought they might have to stop and continue on foot. But the drifting was patchy and for every deep and difficult stretch to plough through they would get a few hundred yards of relatively easy driving.

Eventually, taking much longer than he would have liked, Banks pulled up in the yard of High Point Farm, happy to see that two squad cars had somehow managed to beat him there. Even better, one of the officers said he had used his police radio to send out for a snowplough from Crowborough, the nearest village, about seven miles north. There were telegraph wires leading to the farmhouse, Banks noticed, so Welles/Atherton clearly had a landline.

Winsome’s Polo stood in the yard, half covered by snow. Without touching it, Banks glanced through the windows. No Winsome. No keys in the ignition, no signs of a struggle. The snow had covered up any tracks that might have been in the yard, except their own. There were no indications of where Winsome and Atherton might have gone.

One of the uniformed officers told him there was also a red pickup truck in one of the outbuildings. Its engine was cold, which meant Atherton had probably been at home when Winsome arrived. Banks pulled up the collar of his three-quarter-length overcoat and surveyed the scene. Snow had drifted up against the front door of the low-roofed farmhouse and one side of the barn. He thought there was something odd about the place when he looked closely. ‘What are those?’ he asked Annie. ‘Those pens on the side.’

‘That’s not a barn,’ said Annie. ‘At least, it probably was once, but it isn’t now. They’re called lairage. They’re used to keep the animals waiting for slaughter. It’s an abattoir, Alan, a private bloody abattoir.’

Banks hurried over to the building, with Annie not far behind. The front door stood open, and the long fluorescent lights shone on the inner workings of the small abattoir, the motorised rail running lengthways along the ceiling, the dangling hook with its bloody curve, the central trough, boilers and spray hoses for skinning. They stood just inside the doorway, wary of contaminating what might be a crime scene. Not to mention frightened of catching something. Whoever owned the place certainly had no interest in cleanliness and hygiene. It stank to high heaven and the floor was caked in shit and blood and worse. Banks almost gagged; Annie held her nose and breathed through her mouth. She pointed, and Banks saw an object on the floor, a bolt gun. They would leave it for the CSIs. At least Winsome wasn’t here, though she might have been, Banks thought. There could have been a struggle, and Atherton had dropped the bolt gun. But where were they now?

Banks and Annie left the abattoir as it was when they found it and walked back to the farmhouse. The front door was locked, but one of the officers soon got it open with his mini battering ram, the ‘red doorknocker’ as it was affectionately called. Nobody gave any thought to a warrant. A police officer’s life was in danger, and they had every reason to suspect the person who lived there of serious crimes.

The inside of the farmhouse was almost as unsavoury as the abattoir. Cups, pans, plates, knives and forks stood piled in the stained sink, unwashed for days, or weeks. A plate on the small table with mould growing out of what had once been food on it, mouse droppings everywhere, signs of rats, too. On the wall was a rack of knives, and not Henkel cookware, either. These were nasty blades, clearly designed for the skinning and gutting of animals, or people. They were the only clean objects in the place, sharp blades so lovingly polished you could see your face in them.

Though Banks and Annie wore latex gloves, they were careful not to touch anything as they went methodically through the place, the bedroom, with its unruly mess of sheets, like the apparition from MR James’s ‘Whistle and I’ll Come To You’ Banks had seen on television at Christmas. The toilet was a pigsty, the rest of the upstairs drab, bare and dusty. And nowhere were there any signs of Winsome or Atherton.

Banks supposed that was a good thing. At least they hadn’t found her tied to a bed with a bolt pistol wound between her eyes. That meant there was a good chance she had escaped, or was at least on the run. If she had headed for the moors with Atherton in pursuit, Banks would put his money on Winsome. He had seen her in chases, and she was fast and strong. Whether either had the stamina to get very far under these conditions, however, remained doubtful.

It was down in the cellar where they found the hydroponic set-up. Marijuana plants, lots of them, along with about a kilo of hash and a similar amount of cocaine, clearly from elsewhere. Drugs were another of Atherton’s little sidelines. He had no doubt supplied Caleb Ross with the wacky baccy he had smoked.

‘We’ll seal the cellar off for now,’ Banks said. ‘It’s more important to get search parties organised for Winsome. They can’t have got far. Have a word with the patrol officers. They might know the area a bit better than we do. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of getting a helicopter out in this weather, but it’s worth asking, too.’

Annie walked over to the nearest patrol car, leaning down to speak through the window. Banks looked around. The snow showed no signs of abating. He imagined Winsome caught in a drift, slowly freezing to death. He put away such disturbing thoughts when he heard a car approaching. It turned out to be a dark blue Focus, and it appeared round the bend in the drive and pulled to a halt behind the police four by four.

Though he had never met Terry Gilchrist before, Banks recognised him from the car he drove, his limp and Winsome’s description. ‘Oh, bloody hell,’ he said as Gilchrist advanced through the snow. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I thought you might need some help.’

‘It’s a police operation,’ said Banks. ‘We don’t normally involve civilians, not even ex-military.’

‘So that’s all the thanks I get for fighting for my country? Not to mention driving all this way in a bloody Ford Focus?’

Banks shrugged.

‘What exactly are you doing that you don’t want my help on?’

‘Why don’t you just get back in your car and head for home, Mr Gilchrist. Leave it to us.’

‘It’s Winsome, isn’t it? I knew something was wrong when she didn’t call.’

‘Yes, it’s Winsome,’ said Banks, losing his temper. ‘She’s a friend and a colleague and I’d like you to clear out of here and let us do our job.’

Gilchrist stood his ground and looked around the farmyard. ‘It doesn’t look to me as if you’re actually doing very much.’

‘That’s your opinion.’

Gilchrist sighed. ‘Look, Chief Inspector, you may not like me, or you may simply not like the idea of someone telling you your business, but if you’re looking for Winsome, I might be able to help. And if I think what’s happened is true, the sooner the better.’

Banks was suddenly interested. ‘Oh? And what do you think happened?’

‘Do you know where you are?’

‘High Point Farm. You said you’d never heard of it. I blame myself for letting it slip.’

‘I hadn’t, but it was easy to look up. You’re within a quarter of a mile of Woadly Edge, though you can’t see it from here in this weather. It’s up that hill and across the moors a couple of hundred yards or so.’

‘So?’

‘Winsome and I have had a few conversations. I wouldn’t say I know her well, but I do know one or two things about her that I think you ought to consider.’

‘Those being?’

‘First off, Woadly Edge is one of the main access points for the Swainsdale cave system. And second, Winsome used to be a keen potholer. She’d know the caves like the back of her hand.’

‘So you’re saying…’

‘You’re catching on. If she was in trouble out here, the odds are she’d run for the caves. It would give her an advantage.’

‘And her chances once she’d got there?’

‘Depends on whether someone was after her, and whether that someone also knows the system. It’s not for novices, though, so he’d have to be an experienced potholer. The odds are good. There aren’t that many.’

‘From what I know of him, I doubt he goes potholing in his spare time. More like pulls the legs off flies. What would you advise us to do, assuming this is true?’

‘Get up there right away and find out if I’m right.’

Banks said nothing.

As if sensing and understanding his indecision, Gilchrist said, ‘Look, I know you don’t want people like me interfering, but I assure you I also have experience of the caves. I have military training, too. I can handle myself, despite the injury.’ He held his arms out. ‘Look, no stick.’

‘You don’t need it?’

‘Actually, it’s in the car, and I could certainly use it to get to Woadly Edge. But once I’m inside, no. As long as I don’t have to run.’

‘This is against my better judgement,’ said Banks.

‘Come on, we should get going. Bring the others. We might need some help clearing the entrance.’

Banks spoke to Annie and two of the patrol officers while Gilchrist got his walking stick and torch, along with two spades they found in the yard, then the four of them set off up the rise towards Woadly Edge. It didn’t take long to get there, and the drifts had not covered the entrance. A gaping dark hole showed in stark contrast against the white surroundings. The snow was light enough that they could walk straight through it.

‘That’s her jacket,’ said Banks, pointing his torch towards the middle of three cave entrances. ‘That’s Winsome’s jacket.’

His voice echoed. They were standing at a sort of stone hallway or foyer with a high ceiling, or so it seemed to Banks, and Winsome’s quilted jacket lay on the ground in front of the central of three openings. There was no trace or sign of Atherton.

‘That’s a dead end,’ said Gilchrist. ‘She was trying to misdirect him.’

‘Which means she knew he was after her, and he wasn’t far behind,’ said Banks. ‘She must be bloody freezing.’

Gilchrist bent forward and went into the right-hand tunnel.

‘What are you doing?’

Gilchrist looked back. ‘If she went anywhere,’ he said, ‘it was down here. She’d know as well as I do about the left-hand entrance.’

‘What about it?’

‘It gets too narrow. This one’s narrow in parts, too, but it’s the only way in from here.’

‘Into where?’’ Annie asked.

‘I don’t have time to explain,’ said Gilchrist, edging forward even as he spoke, ‘but it’s a large system of passages and caverns, one of the biggest in Europe. There are miles and miles of connected caves in there, but it’s a bit like a maze.’

‘Can you get through?’ Banks said, bending in the entrance after him.

‘Yes,’ Gilchrist said, then vanished into the darkness.

Banks caught up with him and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Be careful,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget, Atherton might be in there, and we believe he’s a killer.’

‘I’ve encountered killers before,’ said Gilchrist. ‘I’ll make sure I see him before he sees me.’

Banks went back outside to Annie. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I don’t like this at all.’

‘Well, do you want to go in after him?’

Banks looked at the dark tunnel. Even when he shone his torch on the walls they looked slimy and uninviting. He felt a sense of claustrophobia envelop him. ‘No way. But if it’s for Winsome I will.’

He started to move forward.

Annie grabbed his sleeve. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Leave it to Gilchrist. He might be a civilian, but he’s a trained soldier and potholer. He knows what he’s doing. You don’t. You could get stuck in there or something.’

‘I hate just waiting around.’

‘You and me both. But like you said, it’s Winsome. He’s her best chance.’

‘What if Atherton is in there?’

‘At least he doesn’t have his bolt gun. And if he is, I’d say it’s already game over, one way or another, wouldn’t you? You can’t turn back the clock.’

‘You’re a real comfort.’

She was back at Spring Hill walking home from Sunday school and a man in a battered hat and a dark moth-eaten coat was following her. Only it was snowing and she remembered thinking, in the dream, that it never snows in Maroon Town. But it did, and all the flame trees were covered in it, all green and white and red like Christmas trees. But she was frightened. The man was following her. She thought he was probably the ‘Skinner’ people were talking about. He skinned his victims after he’d had his way with them. But there was another man on the scene, her father in his best Sunday suit, not his uniform, and they were fighting. The Skinner was going to kill her father and skin him. She had to get back to them and help but she couldn’t get through, she was slipping and sliding and getting stuck up to her knees and she knew she just couldn’t make it in time, a knife flashing…

Winsome gave an involuntary twitch and her eyes opened wide with fear. She realised that she had fallen asleep. She was waking from a dream. Moving carefully, she curled up into a ball against the cold. It wouldn’t do to fall off the ledge after all she had been through. She had no idea how long she had been there. Using her mobile light, she checked her watch and saw it was going on for five o’clock. About four hours, then. Had she waited long enough? Would the cavalry have arrived at High Point Farm? Of course, they would have no idea where she was. Maybe Banks and Annie vaguely remembered her mentioning potholing, but they probably didn’t know about the cave system here, or its access points. They’d be searching for her around the farm and the open moorland, hindered by the snow.

Where was Atherton? She wasn’t certain whether the shouts and screams she had heard earlier were human or just a trick of the wind, but she hadn’t heard anything for some time now. He certainly hadn’t got through to her in two hours, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t waiting at the exit. He could even have gone back to the abattoir and picked up his bolt gun. Or perhaps he imagined there were other exits, that she must be long gone, and had given up the ghost and scarpered. She just didn’t know. Was it worth the risk of going back to find out?

Despite the insulation of the rock, she was freezing. She wished she hadn’t left her jacket behind to try to fool Atherton. She rubbed her hands together and held her knees tighter to her chest. There wasn’t much she could do about her feet. They were like blocks of ice.

She would give it an hour longer, she decided. If no help had come by then, she would make her way back out as slowly and quietly as she could. Even if Gerry and the backup had no idea that she was in the cave, they would surely have got as far as High Point Farm, and she could outrun Atherton back down there.

Just when she had made herself as comfortable as she could again on the ledge, she thought she heard a slithering sound from the tunnel.

Atherton.

She strained, but heard nothing for a few moments, then she heard it again, a light scraping, like someone crawling on his stomach.

As quietly as she could, she stood up and pressed her back against the wall by the entrance. When he came out, he would be bent forward. Just one quick tug on his arm was all it would take, and his own momentum would take him over the edge. She had rehearsed the possibility time after time in her mind during her first anxious minutes in the cavern.

He was getting closer, up on his feet now. She could hear muffled footsteps, though there was something odd about them. If he had a torch, he must have turned it off, because the opening was still pitch black. Winsome tensed. It wouldn’t be long now. Just one quick pull, she told herself, then let go, or she’d be following him over the edge and end up impaled on a stalagmite. The shuffling got nearer and she was just about to reach out when she realised why it sounded so strange. He was limping. She relaxed just as she heard a familiar voice say, ‘Winsome? Are you there? Are you alone?’

Terry. She let herself fall back against the wall and slide down so she was sitting on the ledge again.

She had tears in her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said, laughing or crying as she spoke. ‘Yes, I’m here. And yes, I’m alone. Very bloody alone.’ She never swore, and when the word came out it shocked her. She put her hand to her mouth, but she couldn’t stop laughing. ‘I swore,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe it. I swore.’

Then he was standing there, his torch on again, illuminating part of the cathedral vastness before them. ‘Wash your mouth out,’ he said.

‘Help me.’

He reached down to help her to her feet, and as soon as she was standing she leaned forward and kissed him full on the lips, for far longer than she had even planned on doing.

‘Sorry we’re so late getting round to you, Mr Beddoes,’ said Banks. ‘We had a bit of a crisis to take care of first.’ It was nine o’clock and the Beddoes had been in a holding cell at the station since four, complaining all the time. Patricia Beddoes had been demanding to see Cathy Gervaise, but even when one of the custody officers thought he should at least inform the AC what was happening, ‘Cathy’ Gervaise made it clear that she wasn’t available.

Cassandra Wakefield had turned up half an hour ago, and while her associate represented Patricia Beddoes in another interview room with Annie and Doug Wilson, she stuck with John Beddoes, sitting opposite Banks and Gerry.

‘I can’t believe this,’ Beddoes complained. ‘My wife and I are quietly going about our business and some hooligan of a police officer blocks our way and drags us all the way down here.’

‘Where were you going?’ Banks asked.

‘It’s none of your fucking business.’

‘Swearing won’t help, Mr Beddoes,’ said Cassandra Wakefield.

Banks looked at his notes. ‘According to our preliminary analysis of recent activity on your laptop computer, you had just completed a number of large financial transactions, money transfers, in fact, to offshore bank accounts in the British Virgin Islands.’

‘So what? They’re legitimate accounts. I pay my taxes.’

‘I’m sure you do, Mr Beddoes, but don’t you think it’s a bit soon for another holiday? I mean, you’ve just got back from Mexico. Think of all that ultraviolet radiation.’

‘What business of yours is it where and when we go for our holidays?’

‘You also had a lot of luggage. How long were you planning on being away for?’

‘I don’t know. A while.’

‘Don’t you think it looks a bit suspicious? Just after I visit you and let you know I’ve talked to Malcolm Hackett, an old business associate of yours, and that we’ve found Michael Lane, a witness to the murder of Morgan Spencer, you and your wife make a run for it.’

‘We weren’t “making a run for it”.’

‘It looks like that to me,’ said Banks. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Gerry?’

‘Certainly would, sir. I mean, it’s not everyone takes a fragile vase off the mantelpiece on holiday with them, or a pair of antique silver sugar tongs.’

‘That vase happens to be a valuable antique, too. And given what occurred last time we were away, I’d say we were more than justified in taking a few valuables with us.’

‘Really, Chief Inspector,’ said Cassandra Wakefield, fingering her pearls, ‘it does seem a remarkably thin context for detaining my client and interfering with his basic freedom of movement.’

‘Morgan Spencer stole your tractor, didn’t he?’ Banks said to Beddoes.

‘Did he? I can’t say it surprises me.’

‘You know Morgan Spencer, then? Earlier you said you had no idea who he was.’

‘I didn’t know him well. Not personally. Only that he was a mate of the Lane boy. I’ve seen him around. Thick as thieves. Look, you know all this. Why am I here?’

‘You’re here because we believe you’re one of the men running a lucrative international criminal activity dealing in stolen farm equipment and livestock. Your partner Malcolm Hackett, aka Montague Havers, who is currently being questioned by my colleagues in London, took care of the export side, and you supplied the raw materials from the North Yorkshire region. That is tractors, combines, Range Rovers, lambs, whatever. You employed a number of people at various levels, including Ronald Tanner, Carl Utley, Kenneth Atherton, aka Kieran Welles, Caleb Ross and Morgan Spencer. Your wife, Patricia, may be involved. Police have also picked up Mr Havers’ chief operators in Lincolnshire and Cumbria. More arrests are expected to follow. Plenty of people are talking.’

‘Really?’ said Beddoes. ‘Where’s your proof of all this?’

That was a thorny issue for Banks. He didn’t really have any proof. A deeper dig into Beddoes’ finances would probably turn up anomalies, but that would take time. Michael Lane’s word alone wasn’t good enough, but it was a place to start.

‘We also believe,’ Banks went on, ‘that Morgan Spencer was murdered partly because he stole your tractor, and partly because his colleagues, especially Atherton, had got fed up with him. He talked big, wanted a bigger role, more money, and he thought he was demonstrating his ability to get creative and play with the big boys by stealing an expensive tractor. Unfortunately, it turned out to be yours.’

‘So someone steals my tractor and I’m the criminal?’

‘Kenneth Atherton killed Morgan Spencer with a bolt pistol he stole from Stirwall’s Abattoir around the time he was fired nearly two years ago. He has also committed an earlier murder with the same weapon. We have matching prints from the weapon.’

‘This is fascinating,’ said Beddoes, ‘and nothing you can tell me about Spencer surprises me, but it has nothing to do with me, apart from the fact that the little creep stole my tractor.’

‘Why did you do it, John?’ Banks asked. ‘Why did you get into the business in the first place? Surely you had everything going for you. The life you always dreamed of. Enough money not to have to struggle like real farmers. Was it just the money? You weren’t that badly off, surely? Did Havers make you an offer you couldn’t refuse? Did he have something on you from the old days? Insider trading?’

Beddoes laughed.

Cassandra Wakefield shot Banks a puzzled glance. ‘Are you going to charge my client with insider trading in the eighties? I fear that may be even more difficult a case to bring than the one you’re struggling for at the moment. Go ahead, though. I’m sure the trial would be a lot of fun.’

‘Someone heard Atherton say to Spencer, “You went too far. You stole the boss’s fucking tractor” just before he killed him. What do you make of that?’

‘Nothing,’ said Beddoes. ‘I was probably somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean at the time.’

‘But why would he say it? It’s an odd thing to say just before you kill someone, isn’t it? “You stole the boss’s fucking tractor.” Now, neither Morgan Spencer nor Michael Lane, who overheard this, and whose return had you packing your bags and running for the British Virgin Islands, knew who this boss was until they heard that, of course. After all, it was your tractor Atherton was referring to, and Lane had an inkling that Spencer might try to nick it to prove himself to his masters. The problem was, Spencer didn’t know you were his master. You were too high and mighty to rub shoulders with the hoi polloi. Your orders went through Tanner.’

‘Lane’s a lying little bastard, always has been,’ said Beddoes. ‘He had every bit as much to do with…’ He trailed off.

‘To do with what, John? Your business enterprise? As much as Morgan Spencer?

‘Spencer was a pushy little half-caste. He—’

Cassandra Wakefield tapped her client on the shoulder and whispered in his ear.

‘They’re trying to pin a murder on me,’ Beddoes protested, turning red. ‘I’m no killer. All right, I’m no saint, either, but if Atherton killed Spencer, it was because he was getting too big for his boots. And Atherton is a fucking psycho. It was a private vendetta, nothing to do with me.’

‘The boss’s tractor, John?’

‘He must have misheard. Lane. He’s had it in for me ever since I moved to the farm. His father wanted the land, but I outbid him.’

‘I can see that might give Frank Lane a motive for killing you, but he hasn’t. Why would Michael care? He was just a kid then.’

‘I don’t know. Some kids are born evil. You can tell. All I ever did was give him a clip round the earhole.’

‘If Spencer didn’t know you were the boss, then Lane probably didn’t, either. The problem was that he knew who the tractor belonged to. Spencer had told him he was going to steal it while you were away in Mexico. Lane just put two and two together. What it added up to scared him, and he made off.’

‘This is nothing but speculation,’ said Cassandra Wakefield.

‘We’ve got a witness statement from Michael Lane.’

‘Not enough.’

‘They never accepted me,’ said Beddoes.

Cassandra Wakefield narrowed her eyes. Banks and Gerry looked at him quizzically.

‘What?’ Beddoes said. ‘Why are you looking at me like that? You’re just the same. You’re just like the other bloody farmers. They laughed at me behind my back, called me a “weekend” farmer, made fun of me. I was better than the lot of them put together. I was a Master of the Universe.’

‘That was a long time ago, John,’ said Banks.

‘I’m saying they didn’t respect me. My own neighbours. And I’d grown up on a farm. It was in my blood.’

‘Is that why you did it? Went into business with Havers.’

‘I knew I’d show them somehow.’

‘By stealing their livestock and equipment?’

‘It’s all they bloody care about.’

Cassandra Wakefield dropped her pencil on the table. ‘Enough,’ she said. ‘I think we should end this interview right now.’

‘Getting a bit too close to the bone for you, is it?’ Banks said.

‘My client needs a break. He’s been under a lot of stress lately. PACE regulations call for—’

Banks raised his hand. ‘Fine. Fine,’ he said. ‘Interview suspended at nine twenty-seven p.m. To be continued.’ He called to the uniformed constable at the door. ‘Take him back to his cell, Nobby.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The constable took Beddoes by the arm. He stood up and went without resisting.

Cassandra Wakefield looked at her watch. ‘You’ve got another nineteen hours or so to come up with some real evidence, otherwise my client walks.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Banks. ‘He’s already admitted to theft of farm equipment.’

Cassandra Wakefield snorted, then she followed Beddoes and the constable out of the room.

Gerry let out a long breath. Banks smiled. ‘Get used to it,’ he said. ‘It’s the way of the world.’

One of the female PCs stuck her head around the door. ‘Phone call, guv,’ she said. ‘A Detective Chief Superintendent Burgess.’

‘I’ll take it in my office.’

Banks told Gerry to hang on back in the squad room and walked down the hall to his office. He picked up the phone and engaged the line.

‘Hello, Banksy,’ said the familiar voice. ‘Any luck?’

‘We’re getting there. Unfortunately we had Cassandra Wakefield representing Beddoes.’

‘She gets around, doesn’t she? Mind you, I’d hardly call that bad luck. Have you seen the tits on her? Nipples like chapel hat-pegs. What I’d—’

‘Yes, yes, I can imagine what you’d do,’ said Banks. ‘But she happens to be a bloody good solicitor.’

‘Nobody’s perfect. Anyway, it’s your lucky day. I’ve got news’ll make the hairs on your arse stand on end.’

‘Go on. I can hardly wait.’

‘Havers coughed. The lot.’

Banks gripped the receiver tightly. His palm was sweating. ‘He what?’

‘He cracked. Easy-peasy.’

‘What did you do, bring out the rubber hosepipes?’

‘Didn’t need them. He did it to save his own skin and to protect his overseas bosses. He’s more scared of them than he is of us. Basically, you could say he fell on his sword. He knew the northern operation was fucked. They knew it, too. Word came down. They were cut off. Finished. They’re falling over each other to avoid a murder charge. They’ll take tax evasion, handling stolen goods, you name it, but not the murder. Havers wasn’t going to go down by himself, so he gave us Beddoes, Ronald Tanner and Kenneth Atherton. And Carl Utley as a bonus. He was hiding out in a farmhouse in Provence. We’re sending him up to you, but he was so shaken by what he saw Atherton do in the hangar up there that we can’t shut him up. He and Tanner had to hold the poor bastard’s arms. They thought Atherton was just going to rough him up a bit, but before they knew what was happening he pulled out the bolt gun and shot the kid. At least that’s what Utley says. Apparently there was history between them, bad blood. It was all a rush job. Utley says Spencer didn’t contact Tanner about the tractor he’d nicked until early Sunday morning. They had no time to get the usual crew up from London for a transfer so they arranged to meet at the hangar to figure out what to do: Spencer, Tanner, Utley and Atherton. Then they discovered whose tractor it was and all hell broke loose.’

‘That sounds about right,’ said Banks. ‘What about Michael Lane?’

‘That name never came up. But it’s airtight, Banksy. It’s being faxed to you as we speak. Next time you get Beddoes and little Miss Melons in the room, you’ll have times, dates, amounts, bank accounts, an eyewitness statement from Utley. Everything but the cream, of course. We know there are people pulling Havers’ and Beddoes’ strings, we even think we know who some of them are, but they’re good at protecting themselves. There are no money trails leading to them, and nobody dare talk. Welles/Atherton isn’t the only psycho killer they’ve got strutting around. But we’ve got the northern mob sewn up. Not too bright, none of them. Get down to the fax machine, then read it and weep. Beat you again, Banksy. And hold the party. I’m coming up for it. You can invite Cassandra Wakefield, too, if you like.’

Banks thanked Burgess, then hung up and sighed. For a moment he felt defeated. He hadn’t got as far as he had wanted with Beddoes while Burgess had broken Havers, obviously the weakest link. Then he realised that it was just as he had said to Gerry, the way of the world. Get used to it, mate, he told himself. There’ll always be a Cassandra Wakefield, and there’ll always be a Dirty Dick Burgess. He smiled at the thought of what a couple they would make. And Burgess was certainly right about her charms.

This was no defeat, it was a win, and it called for champagne, or at least beer. Maybe they wouldn’t get Beddoes for murder, but they would get Atherton, if they could find him. Tanner, Utley and Beddoes would get time for various offences, too. And Michael Lane could probably live happily ever after with Alex and Ian, if he kept his nose clean. That would please Annie, but Banks still found himself wondering to what extent Lane had egged Spencer on to steal Beddoes’ tractor simply because he didn’t like the man who had once given him a clip round the ear. Lane couldn’t have known Spencer would get killed, of course. If he had instigated the theft, he had done so to get at Beddoes, and perhaps at his father. The rest was just pure irony. That Lane had helped Spencer with certain jobs of a criminal nature, Banks had no doubt. He only hoped the kid had the sense to realise what he’d got in Alex and Ian, and what a lucky escape he’d had. Some people learn, many never do. It was a toss-up.

It was a mopping-up exercise now. Compile the evidence, get the forensics right on Atherton’s farmhouse and private abattoir. Spencer’s blood was sure to be among the sticky mess Banks had seen in the central trough, and Atherton’s prints were all over the bolt gun. He’d clearly had his own little business on the side there, which explained the disappearance of stock around the dale over the past year or so.

Banks ran his hand over his head. He was tired. And hungry. He looked at his watch: nine forty-five. Time to go down to the fax machine, then home for some microwaved chicken tikka masala and a bottle of red. Maybe not champagne, but a good red, one from the ‘cellar’. And thinking of a good red got him thinking of Australia and Oriana. He wondered what time it was over there. He was whistling ‘You Win Again’ as he picked up his coat, turned off the light and left his office.

‘Mine’s a pint of lager, Banksy,’ said Burgess in the Queen’s Arms a week later.

‘As if I’d forget,’ muttered Banks, heading to the bar to buy the round of drinks. It was the ‘official’ celebration, mainly because the CPS had reviewed the evidence and agreed that there were strong cases against Beddoes, Tanner, Utley, Atherton and Havers. Vic Manson had also managed to get some prints from Spencer’s removal van, and they matched Carl Utley’s. Caleb Ross’s tox screen had come back clean. Banks didn’t think Ross knew it was human remains he was collecting. Atherton, who supplied him with marijuana, probably told him it was the carcass of a sheep or a pig he’d slaughtered and didn’t want to go through official channels.

Cyril was playing his oldies playlist in the background, Amen Corner belting out ‘If Paradise Is Half As Nice’. The whole team was there: Annie, Winsome, Gerry, Doug, Burgess up from London, Stefan Nowak, Vic Manson, even Terry Gilchrist, under special dispensation from AC Gervaise, who had bought the first round. She was looking a bit put out, Banks thought, perhaps because Patricia Beddoes had screamed blue murder at her when her husband was charged, accusing her of being a false friend. Patricia also swore blind she had no idea what John was up to, that he had just, on the spur of the moment, suggested they take another holiday, and she didn’t see why not. That rankled with Gervaise, too. It was patently untrue, but they couldn’t prove her guilt, and none of those who had talked had ever mentioned her name.

The only problem was that Atherton wouldn’t be able to stand trial. His frozen body had been found in the caverns the day after Winsome’s ordeal, when the search parties went in. He had taken the left passage and managed to get himself stuck where the ceiling reached its lowest point. He must have thought he could wriggle under it, because he appeared to have got his head and shoulders through and pushed on, then got stuck around his midriff. In trying to shake his body free, he had managed to wedge himself firmly between the rock bed and the overhang. The doctor who examined the body, once the rescuers had managed to chip away enough rock from above to pull him out, said that he had clearly panicked, as his body was covered in bruises and abrasions, and his back was broken. Nobody could have saved him. He was probably dead by the time Banks and the others arrived on the scene to rescue Winsome.

It was a horrible way to go, Banks thought with a shudder, but so was Morgan Spencer’s death and its aftermath. He couldn’t dredge up a great deal of sympathy for a killer who liked to stub out cigarettes in a pig’s eye. Looking on the bright side, Atherton’s death saved them the expense of making a case against him and keeping him in prison for the rest of his life.

Annie appeared at Banks’s side to help him carry the drinks back as Bobby Vee came on singing ‘Take Good Care of My Baby’.

Back at the table, Burgess was chatting up AC Gervaise, so that ought to take her mind off Patricia Beddoes for a while, Banks thought. The thing about Burgess, Banks knew from experience, was that however crude and blokeish he was with the lads, he was still a handsome devil in his way, and he had the sort of manly charm that many women found attractive. Not exactly a bit of rough – he was too sophisticated for that – but world-weary with a hint of danger and a definite dash of the bad boy.

Banks and Annie handed out the drinks and sat down again. As Banks sipped his pint, he started to feel himself drifting away from the crowd; the voices became distant, blending into one another, just meaningless sounds. It happened often these days. Even Bobby Vee sounded faraway and distorted, fading in and out.

He thought about Oriana. He had phoned her the other night in Sydney, after working out what he thought would be a good time. She hadn’t sounded exactly over the moon to hear from him, had seemed distracted, as if she had somewhere to go, something else on her mind, things to do. She was busy, she said, and still tired from the jet lag. He understood that, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she had resented his intrusion into her other life, and in the end he had hung up feeling much worse than when he had dialled the number.

‘Penny for them,’ Annie whispered in his ear.

‘Oh, nothing,’ he said, snapping back to the giddy world of the group celebration. ‘Just life, you know.’

‘Life, the universe, and everything?’

‘Something like that. You doing OK?’

Annie smiled and clinked glasses. ‘I’m doing OK.’

Burgess had just finished telling a funny story, and everyone was laughing. At that moment Joanna MacDonald walked in and flashed him a quick smile. She’d been invited, but Banks had assumed she wasn’t coming. But there she was, looking lovely as ever with her blonde hair loose, a powder-blue tailored jacket over a crisp white top, and a skirt that ended just above her knees. Everyone moved over and made room for her. Banks asked her what she wanted to drink and she said a gin and tonic. Off he went to the bar again.

As he waited to be served, he looked back at the table, at his team, deservedly wallowing in the feeling of a job well done. Bobby Vee gave way to Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Man of the World’. Winsome looked hale and hearty despite her terrifying experience of the previous week. She leaned in close towards Terry Gilchrist, smiling at something he was saying. Banks was pleased for her. It was about time she found someone who recognised her rare and precious qualities, and Gilchrist seemed like a decent, solid bloke. Why Banks felt so protective, he had no idea. Annie, too, deserved someone, but that might take a bit more time, he thought. She was prickly to start with, and there was still some residue left over from the shooting, however well she was doing. He cared about them all, he realised. Sometimes it was a feeling of heart-swelling pride; other times it was a burden. Tonight it was a joy to share their joy, even though he felt distant and more than a little melancholic.

Burgess switched his attentions from AC Gervaise to Joanna MacDonald, turning up the charm a notch. Banks could see Joanna responding, smiling a little flirtatiously, then laughing easily at his jokes. Their shoulders were touching, and it didn’t seem to bother her. Now she was looking serious and nodding, engaged in something Burgess was saying. As Banks walked back to the table with the gin and tonic and a double Laphroaig for himself, he experienced something that, if he were to be honest with himself, felt very much like jealousy. He sat down and shrugged it off, then picked up the whisky and knocked it back in one.