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

Автор книги: Peter Robinson

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

4

ABOUT THE LAST THING BANKS WANTED TO BE DOING so soon in the mucky gray light just after dawn on a mizzling March morning was stand around the Riverview Caravan Park looking at the smoldering remains of Morgan Spencer’s caravan. His days ended late, but they didn’t usually start so early. If there were any justice in the world, he’d be lying in bed listening to Today, waiting for “Thought of the Day” to shift him into the shower. Or better still, he’d be cuddling up to Oriana’s warm naked body beside him with the alarm clock set on snooze. He shivered. No sense making things worse for himself.

DC Gerry Masterson stood beside him. She had been first in the squad room that morning, keen newcomer that she was, and as usual, first to read through the nightlies, which detailed all the police-involved incidents that had occurred in the region overnight. Usually it was a matter of drunk drivers, the occasional domestic or late-night pub brawl that got out of hand, but this time, she told him, she had noticed one interesting item: a fire at Riverview Caravan Park. That rang a bell, and when she inquired further of the desk sergeant, she was able to discover that the caravan belonged to one Morgan Spencer. Now Banks stood beside her at the scene while the fire investigation officer Geoff Hamilton and his team sifted through the wreckage. Annie Cabbot was on her way. Winsome and Doug Wilson could be safely left to take care of everything else for the time being.

The air smelled of wet ash and burned rubber, in its own way almost as bad as the smell of human innards at a postmortem. The area was roped off, but people stood outside their caravans or crowded around the edges of the prohibited area. Some were wearing only dressing gowns, having been woken by the blaze; others were already dressed and ready for the day. A number of uniformed officers made their way through the crowd taking statements. So far, nobody had seen or heard anything. More like they didn’t want to get involved, Banks thought.

Banks spotted Annie arriving and waved her over.

“Bloody hell,” she said, when she saw the devastation.

Of the neighboring caravans, fortunately, only one had been damaged by the flames, which was a small miracle in itself. Still, Annie told Banks, ex–police sergeant Rick Campbell would be mightily pissed off about his siding.

“Do people insure these things?” Banks asked her.

“I doubt it. The ones who live here year-round probably can’t afford it, and the rest can’t be arsed.”

Hamilton conferred with his team and ambled over. He was never a man to be hurried, Banks remembered from the time they had worked together on a narrow-boat fire. He greeted Banks, Annie and Gerry with his usual courtesy and pointed toward the ruins of the caravan. “Not much left, I’m afraid. Firetraps, most of these things, no matter how much folks try to fireproof them.”

“Anyone inside?” Banks asked.

Hamilton shook his head.

“Cause?”

“Well, we can’t be certain yet, but the sniffer dogs have found no trace of accelerant, and the burn patterns would seem to indicate the Calor gas burner.”

“You mean someone left it on?” Annie said.

“Mebbe,” said Hamilton.

“But you doubt it?” Banks prompted him.

“You know me, Alan, I’m not one for wild speculation in the absence of any real concrete evidence.”

“But . . . ?”

“Well, all I can tell you is that the rubber pipe had come out at the burner end. It’s very much the same principle as a barbecue, if you know how that works.”

“I know,” said Banks. “I’ve got one.” He had even managed to use it once or twice, between rain showers.

“I’d be careful, then.”

“Don’t worry, Geoff. I keep it in the garden.”

“Even so . . . as I said, it looks as if the rubber hose had come free at the burner end, but was still attached to the Calor gas supply.”

“Which turned it into a flamethrower?”

“Aye, more or less.”

“And this happened how?” Banks pressed on.

“Well, these things do happen by themselves sometimes,” said Hamilton. “Say, if the connection gets blocked by spiders’ webs, or something else gets stuck inside and the rubber burns through. But from the remains I’ve seen here, it looks very much as if someone set a little pile of paper on fire on the floor of the caravan, near the burner, ripped out the end of the hose, turned on the Calor gas and got out fast.”

“Arson, then?”

“A near certainty.”

“Professional?”

Hamilton pulled a face as he appeared to think it over. “Doubtful. A pro would probably just have lit a fire underneath the caravan itself. Easy to do. And it would have had the same effect eventually.”

“But someone was inside?”

“I’d say so. The lock area was splintered, the latch broken off. Fire doesn’t do that. Someone had put his shoulder to the door and pushed. It wouldn’t have taken much strength.”

“Any signs of a search?” Annie asked.

Hamilton glanced back at the damage. “As you can see, nothing much has been spared. I must say, though, that while the cupboards and drawers might have come open and spilled their contents because of the fire, one thing a fire can’t do is cut open a mattress and pillows.”

“So someone went through the place thoroughly before starting the fire?” Annie said.

“Looks that way. And then pulled out the connecting hose and did as I said.”

“Damn,” said Annie. “If we’d searched the caravan last night . . .”

“You can’t blame yourself,” Banks said. “You followed correct procedure. How were we to know someone else had the same idea as we did? We still don’t know whether it’s connected to anything else we’re looking into. Besides, no one was hurt.”

“Morgan Spencer was certainly connected to Michael Lane,” Annie said. “And Michael Lane was the son of Frank Lane, John Beddoes’s closest neighbor and the man who was keeping an eye on his farm while he was in Mexico. Michael Lane lived with Alex Preston, who works in a travel agency. Those are the only connections we know about for sure.”

“I know,” said Banks. “And I don’t like coincidences any more than you do. But what on earth could they have been looking for? Something he had of theirs? Or something that connected them to him? And who are they?”

“We won’t find out standing here,” said Annie. She looked at Hamilton. “Thanks, Geoff. If anything else comes up . . .”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Where are you going?” Banks asked.

“To see Alex Preston again, pick up Michael Lane’s toothbrush or hairbrush for a DNA sample. After that, I think young Dougal and I will have a trip to the seaside.”

Banks gave her a quizzical look.

“Denise Lane, Frank’s ex, Michael’s mother. She might know something.”

Banks nodded. “Keep an eye out for any signs of Lane while you’re out there. And keep in touch. I may see you at the station later today. Jazz might have something for us by then. Otherwise, report in when you get back from the coast.”

Annie hurried back to her car, head down.

“Know anything about Morgan Spencer, Gerry?” Banks asked.

“I did a quick background check when I saw whose caravan it was,” said Gerry Masterson. “His mother lives in Sunderland, and no one knows where his dad is. Back in Barbados, most likely. And he does have a record. GBH and breaking and entering. I’m still working on this removal van Morgan might have owned, but rumor has it he had a lockup somewhere. I’ll be tracking it down when I get back.”

“Soon as possible, if you can, Gerry,” Banks said.

“Will do.”

Banks turned back to the ruins of Morgan Spencer’s caravan. The fire would have burned up any traces of DNA. If Michael Lane’s DNA wasn’t a match for that in the hangar, it could mean that Morgan Spencer was the victim, though there seemed to be no easy way to verify that. The only evidence was circumstantial. According to Alex Preston, Morgan often called or texted Michael Lane about jobs, and Lane had received a text on the Sunday morning he went missing. If both Lane and Spencer were involved in the tractor theft, which wasn’t outside the realm of possibility, and if they had both turned up at the airfield that morning, were they both dead? Only Jazz Singh could solve that one when she came back with the DNA analysis. If not, had one killed the other and done a bunk? Alex Preston had told Annie that Michael Lane was home all Saturday night, but then she would, wouldn’t she?

Too many questions, Banks realized. They could give a man a headache. He was reading too much into too little. It was time to get back to the station and start trying to gather his thoughts down on paper, put a few ideas together before heading out to the Lane farm.

ANNIE WANTED to find out if Alex Preston knew Michael Lane’s blood type. She knew she could probably ask her over the phone, but that might prove tricky, taking into account the questions it raised and Alex’s anxiety, so she decided to go in person, even if it meant climbing up to the bloody eighth floor again. Besides, she needed something that would yield a sample of Michael’s DNA to take to Jazz.

By some miracle, the lift was working again, and Annie was spared the climb to the eighth floor. The smell was just as bad as last time, and she was glad when the doors finally opened. After a deep breath, she made her way along the balcony to Alex’s flat. It was still early—she’d come straight from the caravan site—and she was hoping to catch Alex before she went to work. As it turned out, Alex had just got back from taking Ian to school, and she was making a cup of tea when Annie called.

“What happened to your finger?” Annie asked, noticing the bandages. She also noticed that Alex was looking tired, with bags under her eyes.

“I think I broke it,” Alex said. “Trapped it in the door.”

“You should see a doctor.”

“I’ve got an appointment for later this morning. I don’t think it’s so bad I need to go to A and E.”

“You never know.” Annie accepted a cup of tea and settled down in an armchair. “Is everything else all right? Ian?”

“Yes, of course. Why shouldn’t it be?”

“Nothing. You just seem a bit jumpy this morning, that’s all.”

“Well, wouldn’t you be a bit jumpy if your partner had disappeared off the face of the earth?”

“He hasn’t disappeared off the face of the earth, Alex. There’s a simple explanation for all this. We’ll find him. Have you seen or heard anything of him?”

Alex looked away. “No.”

Annie wasn’t certain whether she was lying. But why would she? “What about Morgan Spencer?”

“No.”

“His caravan was burned down during the night.”

Alex’s eyes widened. “Burned down . . . you mean it caught fire?”

“Was burned down. As in, it was deliberately set on fire.”

“And Morgan?”

“He wasn’t home. There was nobody inside. The place was ransacked first. Any idea why?”

“Me? Why should I have any idea?”

Annie leaned forward, put down her mug and rested her elbows on her legs. “Because I don’t believe you’re telling me everything.”

“Of course I am. What on earth do you mean?”

“Michael and Morgan were up to something, weren’t they? Maybe they were mixed up with some seriously dangerous people. We don’t know yet. But perhaps you do?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know anything. Surely you don’t believe Michael could have had anything to do with this fire?”

Annie could see the fear in her eyes, hear it in her tremulous voice, smell it like a particularly heavy perfume in the air. “I’m not sure I believe you,” she said. “Are you afraid of someone, Alex? Who is it? Morgan? Someone else? Michael? Has someone threatened you?”

“No,” said Alex, just a fraction too quickly. “Don’t be silly.”

Annie glanced down at her finger again. “What was that? A down payment?”

“I told you, I trapped it in the door.”

“Oh, yes.”

“I don’t care if you don’t believe me. You can’t prove otherwise.”

“You’re right.” Annie settled back and picked up her mug again. “You don’t have to tell me anything. And why should I care? But I was hoping you’d realize I’m trying to help you.”

“I . . . I . . . there’s nothing you can do.”

“You’re wrong about that. There’s a lot I can do. I’m on your side, Alex, but I need something to go on. Anything. I’m in the dark here. What’s Michael mixed up in?”

“Nothing. I told you.”

Annie sighed. “OK. If that’s the way you want to play it. Do you happen to know Michael’s blood type?”

“Blood type? Why do you—”

“Can you just answer the question, please, Alex.”

“Well . . . not offhand. I have it . . . I think. . . . ” She excused herself and went over to the sideboard, where she rummaged through a drawer and brought out a small ring-bound notebook. “This is where I keep all the important information like that, passport numbers and so on,” she said, flipping through the pages. “Here it is. A positive. Why do you want to know?”

Annie tried to show no reaction to the news. “It might help us find him.”

“You mean you think he’s been bleeding? Someone’s hurt him? Is he badly hurt?”

“Alex, do you have anything here that I might be able to get a sample of Michael’s DNA from? A toothbrush, hairbrush, perhaps?”

“Yes. He didn’t take either of those things with him. But why? Why do you need his DNA?” She grasped the collar of her blouse and held it as if she were cold. “You have a body or something, don’t you? You think it’s Michael.”

Annie walked over and rested her hands on Alex’s shoulders. “Alex, calm down. You’re letting your imagination run away with you. It’s routine. It’s not only dead people who leave traces of DNA, you know, or bodily fluids that can give us their blood group.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Alex ran her hand through her hair. “Can’t you see I’m at my wits’ end here?”

“Just give me what I ask for,” Annie said. “Please. And believe me, it will help.”

When Alex came back from the bathroom carrying a toothbrush and a hairbrush, she looked even worse. “You might want to tell your doctor you’re run-down when you go and see him this morning,” Annie said. “He may be able to give you a tonic or something. Are you due at work?”

“Not today, thank God.”

Annie stood up and took two bags from her briefcase, placed the toothbrush in one and the hairbrush in the other and wrote neatly on the labels to identify the contents, asking Alex to sign as a witness. Still looking stunned, Alex did as she was asked.

Annie stopped at the door. “Just one more thing,” she said. “Do you remember if John Beddoes booked his trip to Mexico through GoThereNow?”

“Yes. Yes, he did. I took the details myself. But what—”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“Why would I?”

“I don’t know. Just in passing, you know, in general conversation. After all, Michael knows him. It might have come up.”

“I suppose I might have. But I don’t understand. Surely you’re not suggesting that Michael had anything to do with that tractor, are you? I told you, he was here all night Saturday.”

“Until Sunday morning?”

“Yes.”

“When he got a text, probably from Morgan Spencer, and said he had to go out and do a job and might call in on his father?”

“Yes.”

Annie grasped the door handle. “I’m sure everything’s fine, Alex. Don’t worry. And be sure to keep your doctor’s appointment.”

“You’ll stay in touch?”

“As soon as we find anything out, you’ll be the first to know.”

“WHERE’S THAT bonny young lass and wee Harry Potter,” said Lane, when Banks showed him his ID and a warrant to search the premises.

“DI Cabbot’s on other business, and Harry couldn’t come today,” Banks answered. “He has an important Quidditch match.” He thought Annie would be pleased to hear that she had been called a bonny young lass, though she might not be so thrilled when she heard the source. Lane wasn’t that much older than she was, probably only in his mid forties, Banks guessed, though the years of hard physical labor had taken their toll on him: his shoulders sloped, his skin was leathery and weather-beaten, his complexion rough and raw.

Lane snorted. “I suppose you’d better come in.” He glanced over Banks’s shoulder at the uniformed officers, who were already setting about their search of the outbuildings. “What about them?”

“They won’t be long, Mr. Lane. And they’ll be careful. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried. Let ’em look to their hearts’ content. I can’t imagine what they expect to find.”

Banks followed Lane into the living room. “We won’t take up much of your time,” he said, “only we’ve been around asking a few questions about your son, and the thing is, we still can’t seem to find Michael.”

“Oh.”

“You’re not worried about him?”

“Our Michael can take care of himself.”

“You said you last saw him about two weeks ago?”

“A little over. Two weeks last Friday. He was doing some work at a farm over the dale, and he dropped by for a cup of tea.”

“So you’re on speaking terms at the moment?”

Lane’s expression hardened. “We have our disagreements, but I’ve never shunned him. He’s my son.”

“Alex Preston said Michael told her that he might drop in on you last Sunday.”

“Well, he didn’t. And who might she be when she’s at home?”

“Alex is your son’s partner.”

“Partner.” Lane spat the word. “Scarlet woman, more like.”

“Have it your way. I’m not interested in your petty family squabbles. I want to find your son, and I want to find out what happened to your neighbor’s tractor.” Banks didn’t want to mention the blood just yet, the more serious reason for his questions, not until they knew a lot more about what had happened in the old hangar.

“You think he’s here, don’t you? Our Michael. That’s what yon woodentops are looking for, isn’t it?”

“We’re interested in finding your son, Mr. Lane. It would hardly look good on us if we overlooked the obvious, would it?”

“I told you. I don’t know where he is.”

“Do you think he could be in trouble?”

“What sort of trouble?”

“Any sort. He’s been in trouble with the law before, hasn’t he?”

“That was when . . .” Lane stopped himself and subsided in his chair, reaching for a cigarette.

“When what, Mr. Lane?”

“When he was upset. His mother left. It was just a phase he went through, that’s all.”

“Do you know Morgan Spencer?”

“Aye. And I know Denise always blamed him for Michael’s problems. Bad influence. She wouldn’t have him in the house.”

“He seems to be missing, too. Any idea what might have happened to him?”

“None at all. Why would I? I haven’t seen him in nigh on three years.”

There was a knock at the door, and the leader of the search team said they’d finished outside and would like to search the interior now. Lane had all three of them take off their muddy Wellington boots before letting them in the house, but they had come prepared with indoor slip-ons.

“Mind if I have a look around with them?” Banks asked.

“Please yourself. You will, anyway. You’ve got the warrant.”

Banks followed the officers around the inside rooms. It wasn’t a thorough search, the kind they would make if looking for drugs, for example; at the moment, they were just looking for any signs of someone else living on the premises. There were none that Banks could see. Only one of the three bedrooms was in use, with clothes strewn here and there over an unmade bed. One room was completely empty, even down to the bare floorboards, and the other, the smallest, had a single bed and a small pile of boxes in one corner. That would be where Michael slept if he stopped over, Banks guessed. The boxes held a few childhood toys and books. There was nothing to indicate that the room had been used or the bed slept in at all recently. The house was clean, including the bathroom and toilets. There was only one shaving brush, one twin-blade razor, one toothbrush and one tube of toothpaste. Banks watched a uniformed officer check the cabinets, too, where he found nothing but common pain relievers, cold remedies, indigestion tablets, a prescription for blood pressure medication, plasters and Germolene.

When they had finished, they returned to the living room. Lane looked up and said, “Told you there was nobody here.” Then he lit a cigarette and turned on the TV with the remote control. An old episode of Midsomer Murders, the ones with John Nettles, came on. Some sort of village fete interrupted by a pagan ritual. It must have been ITV-3, Banks thought; they showed mysteries all day. He looked at the back of Lane’s head for a while, then gestured to the three search officers to put their wellies on again and headed back to the police Range Rover. Michael Lane wasn’t at his father’s farm.

DENISE LANE’S parents, Henry and Ilva Prince, lived in a retirement bungalow on the coast between Whitby and Sandsend. As Annie and Doug Wilson crossed the North Yorkshire moors, through patches of thick fog and deep puddles, they chatted every now and then, but they were also comfortable in silence, just watching the landscape go by, when they could see it. Annie reflected on how nice it was not to have to listen to Banks’s music, which could be dreadful sometimes. At the coast, the weather did another about-face and the sky was clear out to sea. The sun blazed down from a deep blue sky, but there was a sharp icy wind off the water.

The slight, gray-haired lady, who answered the door with a suspicious and alarmed expression on her face, examined their warrant cards and let them into her sparsely furnished living room, explaining how you couldn’t be too careful these days, especially as her husband was out. A picture window faced the North Sea across the slope of a well-trimmed lawn. The waves rolled in, bright white streaks against the blue of the sea, finally crashing in a haze of foam on the beach below. Several tankers or merchant ships edged slowly across the horizon. Sunlight sparkled on the whitecaps.

“Lovely view,” said Annie.

“Henry always wanted to retire to the seaside, so here we are,” said Ilva Prince. Her voice sounded like a sigh. Another woman disappointed with her lot in life.

Annie and Doug Wilson continued to enjoy the view as Mrs. Prince made a pot of tea, then they sat down on the burgundy velour three-piece suite, complete with wing arms, gold-braided cushions and white lace antimacassars.

Annie had already explained that they hadn’t come bearing bad news, and Mrs. Prince seemed more at ease. At least, her hand didn’t shake as she poured the tea. “What we were wondering,” Annie began, “was whether you’ve seen your grandson Michael lately.”

“Michael? Not for a few months now,” said Mrs. Prince. “The last I heard, he was shacked up with some floozie on a council estate in Eastvale.”

“That’s right,” Annie said. “Alex Preston. But you must have got that from your son-in-law, Frank. Those were his very words. I’ve met Alex, and she’s not a floozie at all. As far as I can gather, she and Michael are very much in love. Alex is worried about Michael. She hasn’t seen him since Sunday morning. She says it’s not like him to go off without saying. She thought he might have been visiting his dad. I’m just wondering if maybe he was visiting his mother?”

“Our Denise? Well, he isn’t. Maybe he’s come to his senses and left this woman?”

“I’m being serious about this, Mrs. Prince.”

“So am I. Besides, our Denise doesn’t live here anymore, and Michael certainly hasn’t been here visiting us. He’s just like his father, never had much time for Henry and me. Not that we haven’t tried. Oh, he’d drop by now and again when his mum was here at first, like, but—”

“Do you know if your daughter has seen him in the past few days?”

“She would have said.”

“So you do still see her?”

“Yes, of course. It’s just that . . . well, she met a fellow, you see. Lives in Whitby. And she . . . they . . . well, she’s moved in with him. He’s a nice chap, mind you, is Ollie. It’s short for Oliver, you know. I always thought Oliver was a lovely name. Very distinguished. Like Oliver Cromwell. Not that he’s got any airs and graces, mind you. But he’s a decent lad. He’s got a university degree. Got a good job, too. He works in the council offices. They were here for tea just this last Sunday.”

“And she didn’t mention Michael?”

“No. Why should she?”

“We’d really like to talk to her about him,” said Annie.

Mrs. Prince looked at her watch. “Well, she won’t be home now. She’ll be at work. That big Tesco’s down by the railway station.”

Doug Wilson stood up. “Mind if I use your toilet, Mrs. P.?” he said. “Long car ride from Eastvale.”

Mrs. Prince pointed across the room. “It’s through there, on the right. And leave it as you find it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Denise and her husband have been separated for two years now. Is that correct?”

“About that long, yes.”

“Do you have any insight into what happened?”

Mrs. Prince pursed her lips. “Well,” she said, “you never really know with marriages, do you? People don’t open up to you about private matters like that, do they? All they ever talk about is being incompatible, or things not working out. Only they really do know why, if they’re honest. I mean, Henry and me were against the marriage right from the start. She should never have married a farmer, I told her. She was throwing herself away on him. She could have made a good career for herself in business or something, married a nice accountant, or even a lawyer. You should have seen her then. She was a lovely girl. Clever, too. She did really well at school, got three A levels and all. She could have gone to any university she wanted, but no, she had to get a job straightaway and start earning money so she could enjoy her freedom. That’s how she put it. ‘I want to enjoy my freedom while I’m young.’ Money for clothes and makeup and CDs and nights out clubbing in Leeds.” Mrs. Prince snorted. “A long time that lasted. Her freedom.”

“She married young?”

“Young enough. She was nineteen. Worked at the NatWest down on Eastvale market square back then. Henry and I were living in Middlesbrough for his work, like. It wasn’t all that far away. And she’d learned to drive, had a little car of her own. Then Frank Lane had to walk in and apply for a loan. I ask you, what woman in her right mind would fall for a man who goes into a bank to apply for a loan?”

Wilson came back into the room and sat down again.

“How long were they married?” Annie asked.

“Twenty years. She’s still a young woman. Takes good care of herself, too. Always down at that gym, working out.”

“And she has a job at Tesco’s?”

Mrs. Prince paused. “Well, it’s just temporary, like, until she gets on her feet. She’ll be back in banking before long, just you wait and see. Manager, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“So she’s not working in the Tesco office now, in management?”

“Not exactly.”

“When she split up with Frank, did she come straight here to live with you and your husband?”

“Yes. She was in a terrible state. He kicked her out and chucked her clothes after her. I told her right from the start she shouldn’t have married him, that life as a farmer’s wife would never agree with her. She was like a beautiful bird in a cage. She liked nice things and parties and going to restaurants, holidays in Spain, trips to London and Paris. She was a virtual prisoner up at that farm. I don’t know how she stuck it out for so long. It must have been for the sake of the boy.”

“You think that’s what did it in the end? The farm, her life up there, the isolation?”

“’Course it was. And there was never enough money. They were always scrimping and saving to make ends meet. I’m not saying her Frank was tightfisted or owt, not really, but there were times when she could hardly afford to put a meal on the table. I ask you. And he was working all hours God sent. They had no life, never went anywhere. Not even London. No, it’s a wonder it didn’t happen sooner.” Mrs. Prince folded her arms.

“You mentioned the sake of the boy. Do you think she waited until Michael grew up before leaving?”

“I suppose that was partly it. I mean, she does care for the lad, give her her due. She was a good mother. But I’m sure it had been in the cards for some time. Michael was seventeen when our Denise finally left. I reckon she thought he was old enough to take care of himself by then. Not that he had a clue, like. Another one who didn’t want to stay in school and go to university. Didn’t know what he wanted to do, if you ask me. Still doesn’t.”

Annie didn’t think she knew what she wanted to do when she was seventeen. Mostly just get drunk on Bacardi Breezes and hang out with the boys. Doug Wilson probably didn’t know, either, she thought, glancing sideways at him. She thought Winsome knew, though, that she always wanted to be a police officer, just like her dad back in Jamaica. He was her hero, or so she had once confessed after a vodka and tonic too many. But Annie had no idea. Even now she sometimes wondered whether she had made the right decision.

Doug Wilson tapped his pen on his notebook and looked over at Annie. It was the kind of look that said what are we doing wasting our time here, and Annie realized he was right. They had found out as much as she wanted to know about the Lane family, and they would get nothing but more bile out of old Mrs. Prince. Christ, what a miserable bloody family, Annie thought. At least the two members she’d met so far were hardly bundles of joy. Maybe Michael and Denise had a better attitude. Well, she’d soon find out.

Just as they were leaving, she turned and asked Mrs. Prince, “Do you know any of Michael’s friends?”

“I can’t say as I do.”

“A lad called Morgan Spencer?”

“Can’t say as I’ve heard of him.”

“Is there anything else you can help us with?”

“I don’t see how. As I said, I don’t have anything much to do with the Lanes, not since our Denise moved out.”

Annie nodded to Wilson, and they left. They stood by the car for a moment and looked out to sea. The ships were mere dots on the horizon. The wind was chill but the water was blue, the sun bright.

“There was no one else in the house,” Wilson said. “I had a good look around. Clean as a whistle.”

“Not surprising,” said Annie. “So what do you think?”

“She doesn’t know anything.”

“I’ve a feeling you’re right. Fancy a bit of lunch before we tackle the ex-wife? I mean, one can hardly come to Whitby and not have fish and chips, can one?”