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

Автор книги: Peter Robinson

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

“I know exactly what you mean,” said Annie. “I’ve met a few of those in my time. What kind of jobs do they do?”

“Anything that comes along, really. Morgan does small removals, you know, houses and flats and stuff. He’s got a large van. Michael usually helps him out on jobs like that. They also do a lot of farmyard maintenance, like I said, roofing work, drainage ditches, helping bale hay for forage, that sort of thing. It’s really a matter of who you know, who you’ve worked for before, where you’ve got a good reputation.”

“And this Morgan has a good reputation?”

“I suppose he must have.”

“Could he be the one who texted Michael about a job yesterday morning?”

“It’s likely,” said Alex. “It’s what he usually does. Last minute, as often as not.”

“Have you rung Morgan?”

“No. I don’t know his number. But I know where he lives. He’s got a caravan at that site down by the river, you know, near Hindswell Woods.”

“Riverview?”

“That’s the one.”

“Well, it’s a start, I suppose,” said Annie, nodding toward Doug Wilson, who was busy scribbling in his notebook between stolen glances at Alex.

“Can you give me Michael’s mobile number?” Wilson asked. “And tell me the full names and addresses of the friends you mentioned, Miss Preston, including this Morgan character? Phone numbers, too, if you have them. And do you have a recent photograph of Michael we can borrow?”

“Please, call me Alex,” she said, smiling.

Annie could see that Doug was hers forever. He carefully wrote down the names and addresses, mostly just a street name, occasionally a telephone number Alex retrieved from her mobile’s contacts. It was enough to be going on with. Back at the station, they could put DC Masterson on it. Nobody could track down a name, address or phone number as fast as she could. “We’ll check again with them all,” said Annie. “Just in case. One of them might remember something he said, something that might not have seemed important at the time.”

Alex disappeared into the other room and came back with a photo of Michael posing casually on the balcony, with the view of Eastvale spread out in the background. “That was taken two weeks ago,” she said. “I took it myself. You remember, that nice weekend near the end of last month?” She handed over the photo, then put her hands to her face. “Oh, God, what can have happened to him?”

“I know you’re worried, Alex,” Annie said, “but I’ve had a lot of experience with this sort of thing, and there’s almost always no cause for concern. I bet you we’ll have Michael back home with you in no time.”

“It’s true,” added Doug Wilson. “Leave it to us. Is there anywhere you think he might have gone? A favorite place, a hideaway? You know, if he got upset about his father, or you had an argument or something? Somewhere he’d go to be alone, to think things over, feel safe and secure?”

Annie thought it was a good question to ask, and she watched Alex as she worked her way through it and framed an answer.

“I don’t really know. I mean, he always feels safe and secure here, with us. He doesn’t need an escape. We haven’t really had any fights, not serious fights where either of us has gone off alone. Michael does like long walks by himself, though. I think it’s a habit he developed in his childhood, you know, growing up on the farm.” She laughed. “You had to walk a long way to get anywhere, where he lived.”

“Anywhere in particular?” Wilson asked.

“Just around the dale in general,” said Alex, “though I’m sure it’s not something he’d do in this weather.”

“We have to cover all the possibilities, Miss– Alex,” said Wilson.

Alex favored him with another smile. “I know,” she said. “If I could think of where he might be, don’t you think I’d tell you? I can’t go looking for him, myself. I don’t have the car, and there’s Ian . . .”

“Don’t worry,” Annie assured her, standing and giving Wilson the signal to close his notebook. “It’s our job. We’ll take care of it. Can we have a look at that computer now?”

They drew a blank on Michael’s computer. Nothing but a lot of spam and a few harmless emails from friends—nothing from Morgan, no references to tractor-thieving sprees, as far as Annie could gather—and his photo collection, along with various software programs for manipulating images. The photos, mostly landscapes and people at work around farms, were as good as the framed ones in the living room. There was no porn, and no record of porn sites in his bookmarks or browsing history. Either he was happy with what he had or he had gone to great pains to erase his tracks. Annie guessed the former. Most of the bookmarks were for travel-related sites and photo-posting services such as Flickr. If this business went any further, of course, the computer would have to go to Liam in technical support for a thorough examination, and if there was anything dodgy on it, or ever had been, he would find it, but there was no reason to suspect that it was hiding deep and dirty secrets just yet.

“You’ll ring me as soon as you find him?” Alex asked at the door.

“We’ll ring you,” said Annie. She took out a card, scribbled on the back and handed it to Alex. “And I hope you’ll call me if you hear from Michael. My mobile number’s on the back.”

They didn’t even bother trying the lift. On their way down the stairs, Annie heard a cry of pain as they passed the fifth-floor gauntlet. Doug Wilson was behind her, hands in his pockets, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and behind him one of the hoodies was bent over, hands cupping his groin. The others were too shocked to move.

“Tut-tut, Dougal,” said Annie, smiling. “Who’s been a naughty boy, then?”

3

MORGAN SPENCER LIVED ON A CARAVAN SITE across the River Swain from Hindswell Woods, about half a mile west of town. The Riverview Caravan Park wasn’t anywhere near as attractive as its name suggested. There was a river view for the first row of caravans, but as the meadow they were parked in was flat, all the rest could see was other caravans blocking the view. Most were permanent fixtures, up on blocks, though there were a few spaces for temporary sojourners. Of the permanent caravans, by far the majority belonged to people in Leeds, Bradford, Darlington or Teesside, who used them for weekend getaways. It wasn’t far to travel, and it was the Yorkshire Dales, after all, river view or no river view. At least you could see the trees and hills on the other side and go for long bracing walks in the country. Quite a few people lived in the park year-round, the site manager told them, and Morgan Spencer was one of them. Annie had already heard the rumor that many of those who lived in Riverview Caravan Park were what the Americans would call “trailer trash.” “Caravan trash” didn’t sound anywhere near as apt a description, she thought, perhaps because it lacked the alliteration. The park’s only attraction for occasional holiday visitors was that it was cheap.

The caravans were set out in neat rows stretching back from the riverbank across the meadow, each with a parking space beside it, though none of them was big enough for a large van. Some of the homes looked well maintained, with a fresh paint job, awning over the door, a window box or hanging basket. Others looked more neglected, resting unevenly on their concrete supports, sagging at one end, windows dirty and covered on the inside with makeshift moth-eaten curtains made of old bedding or tea towels. Because of the rain over the last few days, the field was a quagmire, and any grass there may have been before had been trampled into the mud. It reminded Annie of the time she went to Glastonbury as a teenager. It had rained the entire weekend. Even the Boomtown Rats weren’t worth getting that wet for.

Annie and Doug Wilson left their car at the paved entrance, beside the site office, which was deserted at the moment, put on their wellies again and went the rest of the way on foot. They found Spencer’s caravan on the third row back from the riverbank. On a scale of one to ten, it was about a six, which is to say, not bad, but a little on the run-down side. There was nothing parked beside it. Annie’s first knock produced no reaction, only an empty echo from inside. She strained to listen but heard no sound of movement. Her second knock produced an opening door, but in the neighboring caravan, not Spencer’s.

“He’s not home, love,” said the man who stood there. “Police, you’ll be, then?”

“Are we so obvious?” Annie said.

The man smiled. “You are to an ex-copper, love.”

“You’re . . . ?”

“I am. Rick Campbell’s the name. Come on in out of the rain, why don’t you? Have a cuppa.”

Annie and Wilson pulled their wellies off by the front steps, which were sheltered from the rain by a striped awning. “Don’t mind if we do,” Annie said.

“Leave the boots out there, if you could,” Campbell said, pointing to a mat outside the door.

The caravan was cramped but cheery inside, with a bright flowered bedspread, freshly painted yellow walls, polished woodwork and a spotless cooking area. The air smelled of damp leaves. At one end of the room was the bed, which could be screened off by a curtain, and at the other a dining table with a red-and-white-checked oilcloth. In between, a sofa big enough for two sat opposite a television and stereo. Some quiet music played in the background. The sort of thing Banks would know about, Annie thought. Bach or Beethoven, or someone like that. Campbell told Annie and Wilson to sit down at the dining table as he busied himself filling the kettle.

“Do you live here alone?” Annie asked.

“Live here? Oh, I see what you mean. No, we don’t live here. We just come here for our summer holidays, and weekends now and again. We live in Doncaster. When I retired, it was a toss-up between the Dales and the coast. The Dales won. Ellie and I had some fine holidays around these parts in our younger days. Keen walkers, we were. We don’t do so much now, of course, especially after Ellie’s hip replacement, but we still get around a fair bit, and there’s always the memories. It’s God’s own country to us.”

“Is your wife around?”

“She’s visiting the son and daughter-in-law this weekend. Down Chesterfield way. I just came up to do a bit of fixing and patching up. The old dear—the caravan, I mean, not Ellie—needs more maintenance every year. That’s the trouble with these things. They don’t age well.”

“The rain can’t help.”

“I’ll say. Mostly, it’s just general wear and tear. And they’re not exactly built for the elements in the first place. Certainly not the kind of elements we seem to be getting these days.” He looked toward the window and grimaced. “I’ve patched the worst leaks and strengthened the floor. So what is it I can do for you?”

“You said you’re an ex-copper.”

“Yes. I did my thirty and got out fast. South Yorkshire. Mostly uniform, traffic, a brief stint with Sheffield CID. Sergeant when I retired. Desk job the last four years. It was a good life, but I’m not a dedicated crime fighter like those TV coppers. Why keep working any longer than you have to, eh?”

Annie thought of Banks. They’d have to drag him kicking and screaming out of his office soon. Or would he get a newer, bigger office and an extra five years’ grace if he got promoted to superintendent, as Gervaise had promised last November? “We’re here about your neighbor, Morgan Spencer,” she said.

“You know, that’s what I thought when I heard you knocking on his door.” He tapped the side of his nose and laughed. “I haven’t lost all my detective skills yet, you know. So what’s he been up to now?”

“Now?”

“Just a figure of speech, love, that’s all.”

Campbell made the tea and set it on the table along with three mugs, a carton of long-life milk and a bowl of sugar. “Biscuits? I can offer custard creams or chocolate digestives.”

Both Annie and Wilson declined the offer.

Campbell settled into a chair opposite them. “Well, I can’t say I know Morgan very well,” he began, “but I must say, as neighbors go, he’d be hard to beat. Keeps some odd hours, hardly ever home, in fact, but he’s considerate, polite, and he’s even helped me out on a couple of tricky jobs around the place. Held the ladder, so to speak. He’s a good hard worker.”

Annie glanced at Wilson, who raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t what she’d expected to hear after talking to Alex Preston. Campbell didn’t miss the exchange. Once a copper always a copper. “What? Did I say something wrong?”

“Would you describe him as honest?”

“I wouldn’t know about that. All I can say is it wouldn’t surprise me to hear he’s got a fiddle or two on the side. Probably sails a bit close to the wind. He likes to talk big sometimes and I’d say he reckons he’s God’s gift to women, but at the bottom of it all he’s harmless enough. Why? Is there a problem?”

“No,” said Annie. “Not at all. We just want to talk to him in connection with a missing person, that’s all.”

“Missing person?”

“Yes.” Annie knew she was exaggerating more than a little. Michael Lane was not yet an official missing person. As she had told Alex Preston, he was a nineteen-year-old lad who hadn’t been home since yesterday morning. And what nineteen-year-old hadn’t done exactly the same thing more than once? But what other reason could she give for wanting to talk to Morgan Spencer? That he had flirted with Michael’s girlfriend and had a spider tattoo on the side of his neck?

Campbell added a drop of milk and sipped his tea. “What connection might Morgan have with this missing person?”

Wait a minute, mate, Annie thought, I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions. But she said nothing. She realized that a heavy-handed approach wouldn’t work with an ex-copper who also happened to be a pal of the person she was looking for. “Does Morgan have many visitors?” she asked.

“Not many,” said Campbell. “There are no wild parties, if that’s what you mean. At least not while I’ve been around, and I’ve heard no complaints from Ted in the office, or from the people on the other side. Word soon gets around about antisocial behavior, a place like this. We might not be the Ritz, but we’re not some backstreet fleabag hotel, either.”

“I didn’t assume you were,” Annie said.

Campbell ran his hand over his hair. “Sorry, love. You get a bit tired of some of the comments about us lot from Riverview up in the town. I’m just pointing out that we’re decent folk, most of us. We’re not Travelers, and most of us aren’t on benefits.”

Annie laughed. “You said Morgan doesn’t have many visitors. Does he have a girlfriend?”

“If he does, she doesn’t live with him, and he hasn’t introduced me to her.” He winked. “Maybe he’s scared she’ll run off with me, eh?”

“Not if he thinks he’s God’s gift. Do you know where his parents live?”

“No. He hardly ever mentions them. I seem to remember him saying his dad went back to Barbados, or some such place. And I don’t think Morgan’s from these parts. He’s got a slight Geordie accent.”

“Did you ever meet a lad called Lane? Mick or Michael Lane.”

“I met a lad called Mick once or twice. Morgan introduced him. In fact, he was another good worker. Nice lad. They both helped out with the new siding last summer. I gave them a tenner each. Well worth it for me. I believe they work together, doing odd jobs on farms out in the dale. He a farmer’s son, this Mick?”

“That’s the one,” Annie said. “We’re trying to locate Michael Lane, and as he’s one of Morgan’s friends, we thought he might be able to help.”

“I’m sorry but I haven’t seen Morgan at all this weekend.”

“How long have you been up here?”

“Since Saturday evening.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m supposed to be heading back in a couple of hours.”

“Don’t worry. We won’t keep you. Is Morgan often away for long stretches of time?”

“I wouldn’t really know. I haven’t paid much attention to his comings and goings, and Ellie and me aren’t always up here. He’s often gone for the weekends when we do come. Maybe he does have a girlfriend hidden away somewhere. It’s been such a miserable spring so far that we haven’t been up much at all this year—hence the leaks. We were just as well off staying in Donny and getting a few jobs done around the house there.”

Campbell was obviously one of those cheerful DIYers who spent all their time at B & Q comparing spanners, toolboxes or bathroom tiles. Annie could understand doing your own maintenance to save a few bob, maybe, but clambering up a ladder and hammering in nails for fun, or laying tiles? That, she couldn’t grasp. Even Banks enjoyed it from time to time, and he seemed proud of the little fixtures and alterations he had made around Newhope Cottage. He’d done a lot of work on the conservatory himself, for example. It must be a bloke thing, she thought, like hogging the TV remote, not asking directions or insisting on doing the barbecue when they didn’t even know how to boil an egg.

When Annie’s roof had sprung a small leak in the worst of the summer rains last year, the roofer she called said it was too small a job for him and suggested that perhaps she could do it herself with a spot of lead and bitumen. She had almost suffered an anxiety attack on the spot. Luckily, she had found a local handyman who was eager and more than happy to clamber up on the roof and do the work for fifty quid, cash on the nail, no questions asked, and no ladder, either, Health and Safety be buggered. Ah, the underground economy. “When did you last see Morgan?” Annie asked.

Campbell sucked on his lower lip. “Let me see . . . it’d be a while back. Two or three weeks. Remember, we had a nice spell of sunshine in late February, early March?”

“What does he look like?”

“Look like?”

“Yes. Morgan. His appearance.”

“Well, he’s a bit shorter than me, about five foot eight, and stockier, I’d say, curly brown hair cut very short, and a sort of round face. More oval, maybe. Light colored, or light brown, enough so you can tell one of his parents is black. His dad, I suppose. No facial hair. He should have, though. Bit of a weak chin. There’s nothing that really stands out about him, except he’s got a slight limp in his left leg. Fell off a roof once when he was a kid, or so he told me. Oh, and he’s got one of those spider tattoos on his neck. Tends to be a bit flash with the bling, too. Gold chains, rings and what have you.”

“Do you keep an eye on his place when he’s not around?”

“I keep an eye on things for anyone who’s not around. When I’m here, that is. The others do the same when we’re not here. It’s not exactly a crime hot spot, but we get the occasional break-in, as you probably know.”

“Notice anyone noseying around lately?”

“Only you.”

Annie laughed. “How old would you say Morgan is?”

“Early twenties. Thereabouts. Not much more.”

“Clothes?”

“Usually jeans and some sort of work shirt, or T-shirt if the weather’s warm. Baggy jeans. Not those with the crotch around the knees and belt around the thighs, but just . . . you know . . . baggy. Relaxed fit.”

“Plenty of wiggle room?” said Annie.

“That’s right.”

“Does he need it?”

“Morgan’s not fat. Just stocky, like I said.”

“Hat?”

“Sometimes. Baseball cap, wrong way around. A red one. I don’t know if it’s got a logo. I’d have to see him from the back.”

Doug Wilson jotted the description down.

“Do you know where he keeps his van?”

“What van?”

“I understand Morgan’s in the house removal business. He has a large van.”

“I didn’t know that. Sorry, but I’ve no idea. I do know he rides a motorbike. A Yamaha. He usually keeps it parked beside the caravan.”

Annie could think of nothing more, but when they got to the door she asked on impulse, “Do you have a key to Morgan’s caravan?”

“No. Why? Do you think something’s happened to him?”

“We have no idea. As I said, we’re just trying to find his mate, Michael Lane.”

“Sorry I can’t help.”

“Do you think we could have a look around his caravan?”

“Got a search warrant?”

“Come on, Rick. You were a copper once.”

“It might just be a shitty old caravan to you, love, but it’s home to Morgan. Come back with a warrant and Ted’ll probably let you in. But, I warn you, he’s as much a stickler as I am. We look out for one another around these parts.”

“In adversity, solidarity,” said Annie. She didn’t know where she’d heard that before, but it sounded good. “I’ll bear that in mind. No problem. Thanks for your time.”

They struggled back into their wellies on the steps. “I really bollixed that up, didn’t I?” Annie said to Doug Wilson as they squelched back to the car. She could feel Campbell’s eyes on them as she walked.

“In what way?” Wilson asked.

“The phony camaraderie. Didn’t fall for it, did he? I was hoping for a look around Spencer’s caravan.”

“Not your fault, boss,” said Wilson. “If you ask me, the way things are going we’ll be back with a warrant tomorrow if we want.”

ANNIE CABBOT watched the door as Banks and AC Gervaise walked into the boardroom, deep in conversation, for the late briefing. The team was already assembled: Annie herself, Doug Wilson, Winsome Jackman, Gerry Masterson, Stefan Nowak and Jazz Singh, along with a couple of other CSI officers, Peter Darby, the police photographer, and PCs Kim Trevor and Derek Bowland. They all sat around the polished oval table under the gaze of the old wool magnates with red and purple bulbous noses and tight collars. Legal pads and styrofoam cups of tea, coffee or water sat on the boardroom table in front of them. A plate of biscuits stood at the center.

Banks and AC Gervaise took their positions by the two whiteboards and the glass board, which was looking to Annie more and more like something out of an American cop program. She kept expecting it to light up with pictures and charts and blowups of fingerprints whenever Banks touched it, or moving and talking images he could shift around with a simple wave of his hand. But it wasn’t that good. Right now, there wasn’t much on any of the boards, except the names of the various players and the times of significant events, along with a few of Darby’s photos from the hangar, about which Annie had heard only recently, having been away most of the day. Apparently the CSIs had found some human blood, but they were still short of a body. A manned mobile crime unit had been set up on the compound just outside the hangar, and half a dozen or so CSIs were still at work out there. Shifts of uniformed officers would be guarding the scene until further notice.

Annie looked at the whiteboard while Banks and Gervaise settled down. Two hand-sketched maps were tacked up there, one of the area around Beddoes’s farm and the other of the hangar area. They identified access roads and footpaths. From what Annie could see, there weren’t many in either location. Rural crime at its best.

Banks shuffled his papers, stood up and opened the briefing. “I think we’d better start off by pooling our information. As you all probably know, I just got back from leave this morning, so the only case I’m current on is an apparent killing, or serious wounding, at the old abandoned aerodrome near Drewick, though the AC has filled me in briefly on one or two other developments that may possibly be related.” He looked at Annie. “I understand you and Doug have been working on a stolen tractor and missing person?”

Annie rolled her eyes. “So it would appear,” she said. “Not officially ‘missing,’ but we haven’t been able to locate him yet. Or his mate.” Then she went on to explain about John Beddoes and Frank Lane, not leaving out Michael Lane and Alex Preston, or Morgan Spencer. When she had finished, she leaned back in her chair and tapped her pen on her notepad.

“Do you think this Michael Lane character could be involved in the tractor theft?” Banks asked.

Annie seemed to deliberate a few moments before answering. “It’s possible,” she said. “I mean, he got probation and community service for joyriding eighteen months back, after his mum left his dad, though I don’t think that means much. He was upset at the time. He also sometimes works as an odd-job man on the local farms along with his mate Morgan Spencer. It’s likely that they are in a good position to know who’s at home and who isn’t. Maybe Michael Lane couldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth? Maybe him and Spencer are both on their way to Romania or wherever with the tractor? But Lane has an alibi, for what it’s worth. His girlfriend swears he was with her all Saturday night, until about half past nine Sunday morning.”

“Any ideas?”

“Well,” said Annie, “I wouldn’t overlook the possibility of insurance fraud.”

“You mean Beddoes himself?”

“Why not? He’s got a City background, apparently. Knows finance. On the surface of it, he seems well off. But the farm can’t be all that profitable. All he does is raise a few pigs and free-range chickens for local restaurants and several acres of rapeseed for high-end cooking oils. He might have got into something over his head. Or maybe he needs to supplement his income? And the idiot did leave the ignition key hanging on a hook on the wall.”

“Worth thinking about,” Banks said. He glanced toward AC Gervaise. “I understand you know Patricia Beddoes, ma’am?”

“Slightly.”

“What do you think?”

“Their finances? Insurance fraud? I couldn’t really say one way or the other. She always seemed like a comfortably-off person to me. Nice clothes. Designer labels. I think she was a bit bored with the country, missed her exotic travel. Hence the Mexico trip, I suppose. And I do believe they have a little pied-à-terre in Holland Park. Other than that, all I know is that she likes Kate Atkinson and Khaled Hosseini.”

That drew several chuckles from the room. “You know,” Annie said, “if we’re considering a local candidate being involved, what about Frank Lane? By the look of his farm he could do with an injection of cash, and he felt resentful toward the successful incomer. It was obvious in his tone and what he said. He was also in a position to organize the theft easily enough. He had the keys to Beddoes’s farm, and he probably knew that the tractor keys were hanging on the wall of the garage. Just a possibility.”

“And we’ll bear it in mind,” said Banks. “Maybe father and son were in it together? Did Michael Lane know that Beddoes was on holiday?” Banks asked Annie.

“More than likely. And Frank Lane also seemed a bit contemptuous of the Mexico trip. Or maybe he was just envious.”

“You said Michael Lane’s relationship with the victim, John Beddoes, was strained?”

“Yes,” said Annie. “I suppose it could have been some sort of misguided revenge, an old vendetta. Also, Frank Lane said he thought Beddoes was full of himself. He played it down, said there was no bitterness, but there could be something in it. Lane’s a professional farmer, making a hard living the hard way. Beddoes is an amateur, a hobbyist. That sort of thing. If Michael had something against both of them, then he’d know that stealing the tractor would probably hurt his father, Frank Lane, too, as he’d been given the responsibility of looking after the Beddoes farm. Two birds with one stone. And Michael does have the joyriding incident in his background. Trouble is, we don’t really know Michael Lane, what sort of person he is. His partner thinks he’s wonderful, but she’s biased. Is he the vengeful sort, the type to harbor a grudge? We don’t know. We also need to have a more extensive search of the Lane farm premises, just in case he’s hanging out there for some reason.”

“We’ll schedule that for tomorrow morning,” Banks said. “I’d like to talk to Beddoes and Lane myself. I’m not sure about the vendetta angle, though. These tractors are worth a lot of money, and it takes a great deal of organization, not to mention expense, to steal one. Do you think Michael Lane, or even his father, was capable of organizing such a theft?”

“No,” said Annie. “I shouldn’t imagine they were. I certainly don’t think Michael Lane could have stolen it by himself, but he could have been involved with whoever did do it. As I said, Beddoes left the key in the garage. Michael Lane might have known about that, too. He could also have been the one who gave the tip-off about the Beddoeses’ Mexico trip, for example.” Annie became silent, as if she were realizing something for the first time.

Banks noticed the hesitation. “What is it, Annie?”

“Probably nothing, really.” Damn it, Annie thought, she hated this. Talking to Alex Preston had affected her. Like most of the Eastvale police, Annie had written off the East Side Estate, mainly because the only times she had ever been there were to the scenes of domestics, drug deals turned nasty, fights, stabbings, even murders. On such experiences were a copper’s judgments based. But Alex Preston not only kept a clean house and loved her young son, she had put her mistakes behind her—mistakes that could have set many a soul well on the way to more of the same—and pulled herself up by the bootstraps. She had a positive, optimistic outlook that Annie admired, and she had dreams. Perhaps Annie also envied Alex a bit, she was willing to admit. Alex seemed to have got herself together and found a good man. Annie had no one to look after her and make her happy. She didn’t have many dreams left, either.

It was rare that Annie felt sentimental about people she didn’t really know, and maybe it was a sign that she was leaving behind some of the depression and cynicism that seemed to have invaded her mind since the shooting. That was a good thing; she hadn’t liked the person she was becoming. Loneliness was turning her into a moody and sharp-tongued bitch. If she got much worse, she wouldn’t be able to find anyone willing to put up with her, let alone love and cherish her. She just hoped that she didn’t get so soft she couldn’t see the hard truth when it was staring her in the face. Any good copper needs at least an ounce or two of skepticism, even cynicism. But Annie also realized that she had not completely lost her copper’s mistrust of the world, that some of what she had learned from Alex Preston had made her more suspicious of Michael Lane.

“Lane’s girlfriend, Alex Preston, works part-time at that travel agent’s in the Swainsdale Centre,” she said. “GoThereNow.”