Текст книги " In the Dark Places (Abbatoir Blues) "

Автор книги: Peter Robinson

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

She and DC Wilson got out of the car and tried to avoid the worst of the mud, which seemed even squelchier than that at the Beddoes farm. At least the rain had abated to a steady drizzle over the short drive, and there were now a few patches of blue sky visible through the cloud cover. Not enough “to make baby a new bonnet,” as her father used to say, but a small handkerchief, perhaps.

Annie knocked on the door, which was opened by a broad-shouldered man in his mid forties. Wearing jeans and a wrinkled shirt, he had a whiskered, weather-beaten face that conformed more closely to Annie’s idea of a farmer. Satisfied by their credentials, he invited them in. There was a weariness and heaviness about his movements that told Annie he had perhaps been overdoing it for years, maybe for lack of help, or that the stress of survival was eating away at him. Farming was a hard physical job and often involved long hours of backbreaking work with little or no relief, though it was also seasonal and subject to the vagaries of the weather. But whereas Beddoes had seemed fit and fluent in his movements, Lane seemed hunched over and cramped up.

The living room smelled musty and stale, no scented air freshener. No offer of tea, either. Everything in the living area demonstrated the same quality of neglect and plain utility as the farmyard itself.

Frank Lane moved some newspapers aside and bade them sit on the worn sofa while he settled himself into what was no doubt his usual armchair by the fireplace. There were cigarette burns on the armrest beside an overflowing glass ashtray.

When everyone had made themselves as comfortable as possible, and Doug Wilson had taken out his pen and notebook, Lane looked at Annie as if to tell her to get on with it.

“We’re here about your neighbor’s tractor, Mr. Lane. I understand Mr. Beddoes asked you to keep an eye on his place while he and his wife were on holiday in Mexico?”

“Aye,” said Lane, lighting a cigarette. “Bloody Mexico. I ask you. But you can’t keep your eye on a place unless you’re living there, can you, and I’ve more than enough to do here. I did my best.”

“I’m sure you did,” said Annie. “Nobody’s saying it was your fault. But how did you manage it? What did your duties consist of?”

“I drove over there every day, fed the pigs and chickens, checked that everything was still under lock and key. He never told me to keep a particular eye on his tractor. I saw nowt amiss.”

“That’s very neighborly of you.”

Lane gave a harsh laugh. “Neighborliness has nothing to do with it. Beddoes paid me well enough.”

“Ah, I see.”

“A man deserves to be paid for his labor. And it’s not as if he can’t afford it.”

“When was the last time you checked on the place?”

“Saturday. Day before they got back.”

“You didn’t go over on Sunday?”

“No. They were supposed to be back by early morning. How was I to know they’d have problems with their flights? Nobody phoned me or anything.”

“And everything was in order on Saturday?”

“It was. Or I’d have said something then, wouldn’t I?”

Annie sighed internally. Here we go again. She was used to this type of cantankerous and patronizing Yorkshireman, but she still didn’t have to like it. “What time was this?”

“Late afternoon. Around five.”

“So the tractor was probably stolen sometime after dark on Saturday night?”

“It were still locked up at five when I left. Make sense to steal it after dark, wouldn’t it?”

“Were you at home on Saturday night?”

“I’m always at home, unless I’m out in the fields. You might not have noticed, young lady, but it’s lambing season, and with no help that means long days and even longer nights. Those young ’uns don’t always know the most convenient time to be born.”

“Did you notice anything wrong at all while you were over at the Beddoes place during the week? Hear anything? See anything?”

“No. But that’s not surprising. If you’ve been up there, you’ll know there’s a fair bit of distance between us. Two miles, at least, as the crow flies.”

“Yes, but I think you’d probably hear a tractor starting up, for example, wouldn’t you?”

Lane’s face cracked into a mocking smile. “You don’t think they just got on it and drove it out of there, do you? They’d have needed summat to take it away, a flatbed lorry or summat.”

“There would have been some noise,” said Annie, blushing at her mistake. “A lorry, van, flatbed, whatever.”

“Aye, but you hear lorries and cars from time to time. Even tractors. Nothing unusual about that in the countryside.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“When your days are as busy as mine, you sleep like a log. I wouldn’t have heard the bloody Angel of Doom blowing his trumpet. I said I didn’t hear owt unusual, and I didn’t. I’d have reported it if I had, wouldn’t I?”

“What were you doing here on Saturday night?”

“Watching telly, when I finally got the chance. Not that it’s any of your business. Then sleeping.”

“Might Mrs. Lane have heard something?”

Lane snorted. “Not unless she’s developed superhuman powers. She’s stopping with her mother out Whitby way.”

“Oh. Is her mother ill?”

“No. More’s the pity. Old bag’s as fit as a fiddle and twice as squeaky.”

“So your wife’s on holiday?”

“I suppose you could call it that.” Lane snorted. “Extended leave.”

Annie sighed. “Mr. Lane,” she said, “I’m just trying to get some basic information here.”

“Well, the basic information, if it’s any of your business, which it isn’t, is that she’s gone. Left. Bolted. Buggered off. And good riddance. Been gone two years now, and she still hasn’t got out of the old bag’s clutches. Serves her bloody well right, is what I say.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Lane.”

“Don’t be,” Lane snapped, his face darkening. “I’m not. Though what it’s got to do with Beddoes’s tractor I don’t know.”

“We just try to gather as much background information as we can, sir,” Doug Wilson chimed in. “It’s perfectly routine.”

Lane gave Wilson a withering glance. “Has anyone ever told you you look just like that bloke who plays Harry Potter?”

Wilson reddened.

“Watch them with your son, did you, Mr. Lane?” Annie said. “The Harry Potter films?”

“Leave my son out of it.”

“Is he here? Can we have a word with him? Maybe he heard something.”

Lane stubbed his cigarette out viciously in the ashtray. Sparks flew onto the upholstery. It was a wonder he hadn’t burned the place down years ago, Annie thought.

“He doesn’t live here anymore. He says there’s nowt for a young lad in this life, around this place. Nowt to do, nowt worth doing. Nowt but hard graft. I just about reckon he might be right.”

“So what does he do?” Annie persisted.

“Don’t ask me. He lives in town. Wanted his own ‘space.’ I can’t help it if he’s drinking himself silly, like they do, or smoking Ecstasy.”

Annie stopped herself from telling him that people don’t usually smoke Ecstasy. It would only antagonize him further. “Is your son involved with drugs, Mr. Lane?”

“I’ve no idea. He doesn’t confide in me.”

“But you brought it up.”

“It was just something you say. I didn’t mean owt by it. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t. Can’t say as I care one way or another.”

Annie didn’t believe that. She sensed that under Lane’s brittle anger and truculence were sadness, regret and guilt. Perhaps even love. But the anger and self-pity went deep, she felt. She knew from experience that people don’t always have the patience, or the skill, to cut through someone’s layers of aggression and unpleasantness to whatever kindness and vulnerability might lie below. Sometimes they might try for a while, then they realize life is too short, so they cut their losses and leave, move on to someone else, maybe, someone more open, someone easier to be with. Perhaps that was what both his wife and his son had done.

“What’s his name?” Annie asked.

“We christened him Michael, but he goes by Mick. Why?”

“I understand he was in a bit of trouble some time ago. Something to do with a stolen car?”

“Silly bugger. It were nowt, really. Storm in a teacup.”

“Even so, he got probation.”

“They give kids probation as soon as look at them these days. It doesn’t mean owt. Used to be ASBOs. Now it’s something else. And community service.”

“How old is he?”

“Nineteen.”

“Where is he living in Eastvale?”

“I don’t know the number, but it’s one of them tower blocks. That rough estate. As if he didn’t have a good home of his own. He’s living with some tart, apparently.”

Annie knew where Lane meant. The East Side Estate was the oldest and roughest housing estate in town. She ought to be able to find Mick Lane there easily enough. “He’s living with a woman?”

“So he said.”

“Who?”

“Dunno. He hasn’t exactly brought her home for tea. But if she’s living in a council flat, it stands to reason she’s a slapper, doesn’t it?”

Annie knew the East Side Estate and some of its denizens, but that didn’t mean she agreed with Lane’s opinion. “Do you still see Mick at all?”

“He drops by from time to time.”

“Does he own a car?”

“A used Peugeot. Falling to bits.”

“When was the last time he came here?”

“About two weeks ago.”

“Does he have a job?” Annie asked.

“Hasn’t mentioned one.”

“Any particular skills?”

“Well, he weren’t much use around the farm, that’s for sure. Oh, he was all right with the manual labor, and he was good with the sheep, shearing and all. But he hasn’t it in him to be a real farmer. Too lazy. He can draw and paint, I’ll give him that, for all the use it is.”

Annie was just about getting to the end of her tether with Frank Lane. Her father, Ray, was an artist, and drawing and painting had been a lot of use to him. Annie sketched and painted, herself, though only as a hobby, like Beddoes farmed. “How do you manage without your wife and son, up here all alone?”

“I get by. I don’t mind being alone. I get plenty of peace and quiet. But I have to pay for help when I need it, don’t I? Cuts into the savings, what’s left of them. This isn’t a one-man job, you know, especially when you get to harvesttime, or planting, or sheep shearing. Or lambing.”

“It sounds like a hard life.”

Lane grunted and lit another cigarette.

Annie coughed. He didn’t react. “How do you get on with John Beddoes?” she asked.

For the first time, Lane seemed to think for some time before answering. “Beddoes is all right, I suppose,” he said grudgingly. “For an amateur, that is. He’s a bit full of himself, but there’s nowt I can really fault him on. Or that wife of his. Patricia. Been good to me, they have, since Katie left. Not their fault they had more advantages in life.”

“What do you mean?”

“Incomers, aren’t they? City folk. Only been here seven years.” He rubbed his thumb and index finger together. “Gentleman farmer. Hobbyist. Got a chip on his shoulder about it, too. Thinks we look down on him. Mebbe we do. I were raised to it. This farm was my father’s, and his father’s before him. Goes back as long as you like. John Beddoes bought his farm off Ned Fairbairn when it got too much for him to manage by himsen. Nowt wrong in that. Things change. And it meant a bit of extra land for me at a good price when I needed it. But it helps when you’ve got money behind you, doesn’t it?”

“What money?”

“Beddoes were something big in t’City. Banking or stockbroking or whatever they do down there. Big finance. All a bunch of thieves, if you ask me. He paid me well enough for taking care of his farm, and I can use the money. I’m sorry about his tractor, but there really was nowt I could do short of stand guard over his yard all week. A fancy Kraut tractor and all. Asking for trouble around here, that is. God knows what he thinks he needs it for.” He pointed a fat finger at Annie. “It’s you lot should be paying more attention to crime around these parts. How often do we get a patrol car up here?”

“We do our best, Mr. Lane,” said Annie. “But it’s a bit like farming—good help’s thin on the ground these days, and there’s a lot of territory to cover.”

“Aye, well . . . summat ought to be done.”

“Do the Beddoeses have any children?” Annie asked.

“Not as they’ve ever mentioned.”

There didn’t seem much more to say. Wilson put away his notebook and they walked to the door. Lane remained motionless in his armchair, smoking and staring into space. He didn’t say good-bye.

“Well, that was fun,” said Annie as the car lurched back down the track to the road. Then she noticed something she hadn’t seen on the way in: what looked like several rows of dead mice nailed to the wooden fence. At second glance, they seemed too large to be mice, she thought, and she gave a little shudder. Rats, perhaps?

“What the hell are those?” she asked Wilson, a well-known expert on all things Yorkshire.

“Moles,” he said, turning to grin at her. “The mole catcher nails them there.”

“Good Lord. Why?”

“To show he’s doing his job,” said Wilson. “And as a warning, of course.”

“A warning to who?”

“Other moles.”

TERRY GILCHRIST lived in an old farm laborer’s cottage about a hundred yards west of the village of Drewick, from which he was separated by a patchwork field of allotments dotted with greenhouses and potting sheds. Gilchrist had his own garden, which Winsome could see through the window was well tended, even though everything was drooping under the weight of the rain, or bent by the wind. Beyond the allotments, apart from the square-towered Norman church and a couple of limestone and millstone manor houses, Drewick was almost entirely a postwar village with a few shops, a community hall and a pub, about halfway between Northallerton and Thirsk. Most of the houses were redbrick, with red pantile roofs, and consisted generally of bungalows and semis, with a few short terraces running off at right angles from the high street. The house was only a mile or so from the hangar, and she had thought it best to take him back home for a quick chat rather than stand out in the wind and rain. She had detailed the patrol car officers to guard the scene until Gerry and Jasminder arrived.

Gilchrist took her coat and offered her a cup of tea, which Winsome gratefully accepted. She could see him grimace with pain as he stood, and she offered to help. “Can I do it?”

“No. I’m used to it, thank you. Back in a jiffy.”

Winsome took out her notebook and prepared some questions while he was away. He soon came back with the teapot and mugs, and as he poured, Winsome studied him more closely. She realized that he was much younger than his injury made him seem. War had aged him. The Blair Folly started in 2003 with the invasion of Iraq, and the Afghanistan fiasco had been going on even longer. If Gilchrist had been a young lad when he started out in, say, 2000, he could easily be somewhere between thirty and forty now. It was impossible to tell. He had a fine head of fair hair, a strong jaw and clear blue eyes. He was even taller than Winsome, and he had a soldier’s bearing, but he also had a slight stoop, and the limp, of course. Though he seemed a little shy, there was something solid and dependable about his presence and Winsome felt safe in his company. Not that she normally felt unsafe, but it was a definite feeling, and one she wasn’t used to. She found herself wondering whether the wound embarrassed him, if that was what made him appear awkward and shy. After a sip of Earl Grey, she got down to business. “Have you ever noticed anything odd about the hangar before?”

Gilchrist patted his dog. “I didn’t even notice anything this time. Peaches was off the leash and wouldn’t come back. That seemed unusual, so I went to get her.”

“That’s never happened before?”

“No.”

“How long have you lived here?”

Gilchrist gazed around the room. “I grew up here. This house belonged to my parents. They died while I was overseas. Car crash. Ironic, isn’t it? There am I dodging bullets and they get killed by a drunk driver who walks away without a scratch.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I’m an only child. The mortgage was paid off. I inherited.”

There seemed both anger and resignation in Gilchrist’s sense of irony. Winsome had known one or two soldiers whose experience of combat had isolated them from their fellow man, but Gilchrist didn’t seem like that—just wounded and angry. She picked up the threads of the conversation. “How long have you been back from . . .”

“Afghanistan. Helmand Province. It’s OK to say it. Little over a year.”

“How often do you take Peaches walking there, by the airfield?”

“Every now and then, maybe once a week or so.”

“You knew about the hole in the wire, then?”

“Yes. I think it’s always been there. I used to play there myself and I’ve seen the local kids crawling in and out. But kids can usually find a way to get in anywhere, can’t they? They’re all right. They don’t do any harm. The younger ones play cricket and footie, and the older ones maybe down a few cans of cheap lager, kiss and cuddle with their girlfriends. They’ve nowhere else to go, poor sods. Where’s the harm?”

“Was there anything else going on out there that you know of? I mean kids might get into fights, might even organize them. What about cockfighting, that sort of thing?”

Gilchrist shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything or heard any rumors of anything like that. I’ve seen lorries coming and going once or twice. Other than that, nothing.”

“Lorries? Since when?”

“Just the past year or so. Since I’ve been here alone.”

“How often?”

Gilchrist thought for a moment. “Maybe three or four times over the year. It’s not a regular thing.”

Gerry Masterson could always check on what companies had the use of the place, if any, Winsome thought. If it came to that. “You said you think the government owns the land.”

“Just a wild guess. I’ve no idea, really. It’s been like that as long as I can remember. All I know is it was used as an air force base during the last war. Nice and flat around here, see, edge of the Vale of Mowbray, and most of the trees weren’t here back then. They were planted when Drewick was built in the fifties, to shelter it from the railway, I suppose. There was talk of building more houses on the airfield land a few years ago, but nothing ever came of that, and now it’s supposed to become a shopping center. You ask me, people don’t want to live that close to the train tracks. It’s a busy line these days. London or the West Country to Scotland. And you can’t go wrong with a shopping center, can you?”

Winsome had used the East Coast train line often enough. Plenty of people lived close to the railway lines, she thought, remembering gazing dreamily over backyards with their rabbit hutches, dilapidated brick outhouses, washing hanging on lines and old tires hanging from tree branches on train rides she had taken over the past few years. But perhaps Gilchrist was right, and such sites were becoming less popular for housing estates these days. A shopping center would make more sense. Out of the way, background noise no problem.

She couldn’t think of anything else to ask Gilchrist for the moment, not until she had a better idea about what might have happened in the hangar. She stayed and chatted for a while longer, finishing her tea, then said she had better get back to the airfield to meet her colleagues. Gilchrist helped her on with her coat, and as she slipped her arms easily in the sleeves, she thought how pleasant it was to have someone do that for her.

2

BANKS WASN’T DUE BACK AT WORK UNTIL TUESDAY, but he felt restless and took a taxi to Eastvale police headquarters straight from Durham Tees Valley airport on Monday morning, dropping Oriana off at home on the way. He had enjoyed a wonderful weekend in a village on Lake Trasimeno, looking out over the Isola Polvese, with Oriana and her extended Italian family. Her parents lived in Yorkshire, as did Oriana herself, but there seemed to be a whole village full of aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews and cousins in Umbria. Most of the time Banks and Oriana spent eating fresh fish from the lake, talking and drinking the local Montefalco wines and going for long walks by the lake or in the nearby countryside, by olive groves, vineyards and winding brooks.

And now they were back in wet and windy Yorkshire.

He dumped his bags and hung up his raincoat in his office. He had taken with him only a small weekend bag for clothes and toiletries, along with his battered leather satchel, in which he carried his essentials—iPod, mobile phone, a book, notebook, pen, a couple of magazines, wallet and keys. There were no messages for him, and everything was as he had left it last Thursday. He walked along the unusually silent corridor to the squad room and found only DC Gerry Masterson there, tapping away at her computer.

“Gerry, what’s up?”

“You’re back early, sir. Everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine. I’m fresh from the plane. Seeing as I’m back, I thought I might as well come by and find out if anything’s been happening in my absence.”

“You’re a glutton for punishment, sir.”

“Where is everyone?”

“At this very moment? I’m not exactly sure.”

“In general will do. Is there some sort of flap on?”

Gerry leaned back in her chair and linked her hands behind her head. Her luxuriant red Pre-Raphaelite hair was tied back so it stayed out of her eyes as she worked. “No flap,” she said. “Basically, we’ve got a stolen tractor, which DI Cabbot and DC Wilson are investigating, and a mysterious bloodstain, which DC Jackman is attending to.”

“Major crimes, indeed.” Banks grabbed Doug Wilson’s empty chair and sat facing Gerry’s desk. “Do tell me more.”

“Not much more to tell, sir. You’ve just missed Doug. He was back briefly checking out some names in connection with the stolen tractor. They’re searching for a lad called Mick Lane.”

“Never heard of him.”

“His dad’s a neighbor of Mr. Beddoes, whose tractor was stolen.”

“It just gets more and more exciting, doesn’t it?”

Gerry laughed. “Yes, sir. Maybe you should have stayed in Umbria?”

“I should be so lucky. And the bloodstain?”

“A chap called Terry Gilchrist claims he came across it walking his dog. The AC decided to send DS Jackman to check it out.”

“Is AC Gervaise in her office?”

“Meeting at County HQ.” Gerry’s telephone rang. “Excuse me, sir.”

“Of course.” Banks stood up and went back to his own office, wondering which of the major crimes that had occurred in his absence required his immediate attention. Stolen tractor or possible bloodstain? The tractor wasn’t the first piece of expensive farm equipment to go missing over the past few months, and they had nothing resembling a lead so far. Perhaps this Lane boy Gerry said they were looking for would provide the break they needed.

Moments later, Gerry Masterson popped her head around the door. “That was dispatch, sir. DS Jackman just called in from that abandoned airfield near Drewick, on the other side of the A1.”

“I know the place,” said Banks.

“It seems our amateur bloodstain expert was right on the mark. Winsome’s found what she thinks is a pool of congealed blood in the old hangar there. They’ve already sent more patrol cars, and Ms. Singh is on her way.”

“Right,” said Banks, grabbing his raincoat and satchel. “It’s probably a fox or something, but I’ll take a possible human bloodstain over a stolen tractor any day. What are we waiting for?”

ANNIE DISCOVERED that Mick Lane had been arrested eighteen months ago for stealing a car and taking it for a joyride that resulted in more than two thousand pounds’ worth of damage. Not a fancy German tractor, just a knockabout Honda, but even so, Annie thought, young Lane merited further investigation. He had got off with community service, supervised by a probation officer, as he had been only seventeen at the time, and it had been his first offense. He seemed to have acquitted himself well and had not reoffended. Or he hadn’t been caught. It was early days yet. Also, Annie had learned that, according to his probation officer, Mick Lane was living in a flat on the East Side Estate with a twenty-eight-year-old woman called Alex Preston. She had a four-year-old shoplifting charge on her record and an eight-year-old son called Ian to care for. Whether she was still up to her thieving tricks, the probation officer didn’t seem to know, but her name wasn’t known around the station. Maybe Mick Lane had made an honest woman of her?

Rain suited the East Side Estate, Annie thought, as Doug Wilson pulled up outside the block of flats. It looked too dirty, too bright and too brittle in sunlight. Along with its twin, it had been rushed up in the first Wilson era, that flush period when “progress” and “the white heat of technology” were the buzzwords. Architecturally, the best that could be said about the buildings was that they hadn’t fallen down yet. Socially, many people wished they had. Luckily, there were only two tower blocks, and they were only ten stories high. As beautiful a market town as it was, and as attractive to tourists, Eastvale was slightly outside the borders of the Yorkshire Dales National Park, so not subject to its stringent building rules, or there wouldn’t have been any East Side Estate at all, let alone tower blocks. Mustn’t trouble the tourists with eyesores like that.

“Shall I put the Krook lock on?” Wilson asked.

“Nah,” said Annie. “Don’t bother. What’s the point? It’s not likely to stop anyone around here if they want to drive off with a police car. Bolt cutters come with the territory.”

“Watch it, guv,” said Wilson. “I grew up on an estate like this. You’re maligning my social background. You can get done for that. It’s not politically correct.”

“Sorry. Is that right? I thought you grew up in the country. You seem to know plenty about mole catchers and so on.”

“Just familiarizing myself with the territory. I like to take an interest in many things.”

“You really grew up on an estate like this?”

“Worse.” Wilson adjusted his glasses. “In Sheffield. It’s not something I’d lie about, or brag about, either. Actually, it wasn’t as bad as people think. We were lucky. We had decent neighbors. Give you the shirt off their back, they would. Or off someone’s back, at any rate.”

Annie laughed. “Come on.”

They walked toward the lift and Wilson pressed the button.

“You know, if this were on telly,” Annie said, “the lift would be out of order, and we’d have to walk up eight flights of stairs through a gauntlet of drugged-up hoodies flashing knives.”

“Or if it worked,” said Wilson, “it’d be covered in graffiti and stink of piss.”

The lift shuddered to a halt, and the doors slid open. The inside was covered in graffiti and stank of piss. They got in anyway. Annie held her nose and pressed the button for the eighth floor. The doors closed, but nothing happened. She tried again. Still nothing. After a moment’s panic—Annie had always been claustrophobic in lifts—the “doors open” button worked, and they got out and walked. In the fifth-floor stairwell, they had to push their way through a gang of hoodies. Someone made a remark about Harry Potter after they had passed, and they all laughed. Wilson turned beet red and reached up to take off his glasses. Annie grabbed his elbow to stop him going back and thumping the one who had spoken. “Not worth it, Dougal. Not worth it. Easy does it. It’s probably just the glasses, you know.”

“Yes, guv,” he said through clenched teeth. “Think I’ll make an appointment with the optometrist tomorrow and get fitted with some contact lenses.”

“That should help,” Annie said. “And maybe if you could do something with your hair, and lose the wand . . .”

Wilson turned and started to glare at her, then his face broke into a smile. “Right. I’ll do that, too.”

“Here we are,” said Annie. “Eighth floor.”

They walked along the balcony between the windows and doors and the midriff-high fence, past bicycles without wheels, a pram and an abandoned fridge almost blocking their path. It was a hell of a view, Annie had to admit. If you turned to the west, you could see over the railway tracks to Eastvale, the castle ruins, the market square, the river falls, and beyond that, Hindswell Woods and the rising slopes of the dales farther on, all tinged gray by mist and rain. She could also see Eastvale’s “millionaires’ row,” where Banks’s new girlfriend Oriana lived and where people paid a fortune for the same view. And a big house, of course. Perhaps a bit more peace and quiet and less crime, too.

Annie knocked on the door. A few moments later a young woman answered it on the chain and frowned at them. “Yes?” she said, nervously touching her cheek. “What is it? Can I help you?”

“Alex Preston?”

The woman nodded.

“Police,” said Annie, flashing her warrant card. “Mind if we come in for a chat, love?”

“Is it about Ian? Nothing’s happened to him, has it? Or Michael?”

“Nothing’s happened to anyone as far as we know.”

“That’s a relief.” The woman took off the chain and opened the door. It led directly into the living room.

Annie realized that she was probably as prejudiced as the next person, except Frank Lane, when it came to life on the East Side Estate—you got a blinkered view of such things when you were a copper—so she was surprised to see how clean and tidy the small flat was inside. Alex Preston clearly did the best she could with what little she had. The furniture, if inexpensive, was relatively new, polished and well kept, the walls a tasteful pastel, with small, framed photographic prints strategically placed here and there. The air smelled of pine freshener. The flat-screen TV didn’t dominate the room, but sat peacefully in its corner, out of the way until it was needed. An electric fire with fake coals stood in the fake fireplace, and framed photographs of a smiling young towheaded boy stood on the mantelpiece. There were also a couple of shots of Alex with a young man, whom Annie took to be Mick Lane.

Of course, Annie’s prejudice hadn’t vanished entirely, nor had her suspicious nature. She found herself wondering just how and where Alex Preston and Mick Lane had got the money for all this.

“Can I make you a cup of tea?” Alex asked. “I’m afraid we don’t have any coffee. Neither of us drinks it.”

“No, thanks,” said Annie. “Maybe a glass of water? Those stairs . . .”

“I’m sorry about the lift. It’s got a mind of its own, hasn’t it? Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. We’ve been trying to get the council to fix it for weeks now, but you know what they’re like. Especially when it comes to this estate.”