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

Автор книги: Peter Robinson

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

7

IT WAS EARLY EVENING BEFORE DETECTIVE CHIEF Superintendent Gervaise managed to gather the troops together for another meeting in the boardroom. This time the whiteboard and glass board were practically covered in names, circles, arrows and photographs. They showed just how much the case had escalated within a few short hours. A lot of the information concerned the Belderfell Pass crash, but there were more connections now, more circles linked by arrows.

Banks and Annie had just got back from the crash scene. Annie still looked ill, Banks thought, though he could hardly blame her. She had been as keen as he was to get out of the flesh-strewn valley bottom, so she had decided to take the helicopter back with him rather than wait for someone to give her a lift along the bumpy, winding tracks back to civilization. Dr. Burns had accompanied them this time. The ride was less turbulent, and though Annie had held on to a fresh paper bag, she hadn’t needed to use it.

When Banks and Annie had left the scene, Morgan Spencer’s head was still missing, though his right arm had been discovered under some of the van wreckage. The CSIs and crash scene investigators were still searching. As soon as the rest of Morgan had been found and photographed in situ, the pieces would be delivered to Dr. Glendenning, the Home Office pathologist, in the basement of Eastvale General Infirmary, where they would be assembled for the postmortem. Banks had agreed to attend the procedure, and he was not looking forward to it. The media had also arrived in force, and there were rumors on the evening news about human body parts being found among the animals.

Leslie Palmer, the driver of the oncoming car, had been able to add nothing to his statement. He was the proprietor of a secondhand bookshop in Swainshead, on his way back home after a visit to colleagues at the Grove Bookshop in Ilkley. All he could tell the police was that Ross had been too close to the middle of the road when the sheep ran out and Palmer turned the bend. Pure bad luck. Geoff Hamilton’s team and the rest would continue to investigate the circumstances of the incident, and Peter Darby and his crash scene photographer expert from Salford would take photographs and videos, but Banks was more interested in the remains found scattered around the scene than in Caleb Ross’s unfortunate demise. As far as Banks was concerned, the pass wasn’t the real crime scene; that was still the hangar in the Drewick airfield, where he was certain that Morgan Spencer had been shot. All they needed now was more forensic evidence to back up these theories.

“Right,” said Gervaise, as soon as everyone had settled down. “Can we get down to business? It’s been a long day, and it isn’t over yet. DCI Banks?”

Banks walked to the front as Gervaise sat down. A long day, indeed. Banks remembered standing beside Morgan Spencer’s smoldering caravan in the gray dawn light. It seemed eons ago.

“It’s true that a lot’s happened,” he began, “and we’ve learned quite a bit. But we’re still missing some important pieces of the jigsaw. While Jazz has analyzed the DNA sample from the hangar and discovered that it’s human, and it belongs to one person only, we haven’t yet found any match on the database. That doesn’t mean a lot, as you know, but it does mean that we need to get a move on and broaden our search. Specifically,” he said, “we need to get a sample of Morgan Spencer’s blood analyzed as soon as possible. Given that we just found him—or what we think is him—in pieces scattered over the bottom of Belderfell Pass, that shouldn’t prove too difficult.”

Jazz nodded. “I’m on it.” She looked at Gervaise. “If someone could just get Harrogate CID off my back for a while, please? They’re driving me crazy over a sample I’m late with. It’s a rape case, so I can hardly blame them.”

“I’ll talk to Harrogate, Ms. Singh,” said Gervaise. “Just do your best.”

“Thanks. Well . . . one thing I can say for certain is that there was no DNA belonging to Michael Lane found in the hangar. The hairbrush DI Cabbot brought in gave us hairs with the follicle attached, which was just what we needed to check that out. No match.”

“So the body in the hangar wasn’t Lane’s,” Banks said. “And thanks to Gerry, we also know from the mobile records that it was Morgan Spencer who texted Michael Lane at 9:29 a.m. on Sunday morning. We don’t know what he wrote, of course, as we don’t have access to either his or Lane’s mobile phones, but we were able to check with the service provider against the numbers of the itemized calls. According to his partner, Alex Preston, when Michael Lane received this text, he said he had to go out to do a job, and that he might visit his father later. He left his flat at the East Side Estate shortly after 9:30, and it would have taken him about ten or fifteen minutes to get to the hangar, if that was his destination. That puts him there at about 9:45. We can also assume that the job involved Spencer, as he was the one who texted, and he and Lane were known to work together on removals and farm labor. As far as we can gather, Michael Lane never got to his father’s, and he hasn’t been seen or heard of since Sunday morning. Alex Preston assured DI Cabbot that’s out of character.”

“But can we assume that this job Lane and Spencer had to do involved the airfield and the hangar?” asked Gervaise.

“We still lack any hard evidence on that. We don’t know anything about Morgan Spencer’s movements that morning, except that he sent Lane a text at 9:29. If he stole the tractor, he may well have spent the night with it at his lockup. A number of people from the site do remember seeing him as usual during the day on Saturday. We’ve questioned most of the people at the caravan park now, and nobody admits to really knowing Spencer, or to seeing anything suspicious during the night of the fire. At the moment I’m just assuming it was his blood at the hangar because we know it wasn’t Lane’s, and we’d have to be very unlucky to have two major incidents at once. We’ll know whether Morgan was killed in the hangar when Jazz compares the blood sample with that from the crash site.”

“But how is the hangar connected with the theft of Beddoes’s tractor?” Gervaise asked.

“We don’t know that it is. Not for certain. Whatever happened there might not be connected with Morgan Spencer or Michael Lane or the tractor theft at all. I mean, why kill someone over a stolen tractor? The owner, John Beddoes, didn’t get back from Mexico until late Sunday night, so he’s in the clear. He also doesn’t need the insurance money. It’s possible that Spencer intended to meet Lane somewhere else entirely to do an honest job, then he got snatched and taken to the hangar, but none of that explains Lane’s disappearance. If he couldn’t find Spencer at the intended job site, why didn’t he just go home?”

“I still don’t like it,” Gervaise said, casting her eyes around the room. “Too much speculation. What about physical evidence?”

“Stefan found some traces of red diesel in the hangar,” said Banks. “It could have come from the tractor or some other farm vehicle permitted to use the stuff. But there was nothing else to indicate that the tractor had been there. He also found traces of other vehicles having been there, but it’s impossible to say when. We just don’t know.”

“Anything from the train companies or the news item we ran?” Gervaise asked Doug Wilson.

“No, ma’am. They said they’d check the online purchase records and put a few flyers on the route, but it’ll take time.”

“Rather like train journeys themselves,” muttered Banks.

“Is there anything else to connect the hangar with the stolen tractor?” Gervaise asked him.

“I think Winsome and Gerry might have something to report on that.”

Winsome cleared her throat and spoke without referring to her notes. “The landlord of the George and Dragon in Hallerby saw a racing green removal van large enough to carry a tractor come down the lane that leads from the airfield at just after ten o’clock on Sunday morning,” she said. “Headed in the direction of the A1. He got a brief look at the driver and said he was wearing a flat cap and had muttonchop sideburns. The lorry had no markings. He didn’t see the number plate.”

“What sort of car does Michael Lane drive, again?” Banks asked Annie.

“A clapped-out gray Peugeot.”

“Has it been seen?”

“Not since he went out on Sunday morning. And nothing from the airlines or credit card company. He’s off our radar.”

Banks thought he might need another chat with Joanna MacDonald. She was his key to the magic world of ANPR. Cars could be tracked anywhere in the country. “And do we know what Morgan Spencer drives?” he asked the room at large.

“A motorcycle,” said Doug Wilson. “According to his neighbor, he’s got a Yamaha. He usually keeps it parked beside his caravan, but it wasn’t there when DI Cabbot and I visited yesterday, and we don’t know where it is now.”

“Maybe he rode it to his lorry and put it in the back?” said Banks. “It wasn’t outside his caravan after the fire, either, perhaps because he was already dead. Which reminds me,” he said, glancing at Annie. “Could you have a word with someone at Vaughn’s ABP, where Caleb Ross worked? They must have a schedule of pickups or some such thing. There has to be some way of finding out how and where his body parts got mixed up with the fallen stock.”

Annie jotted on her pad. “And where it got chopped up like that,” she added.

“Let’s see what Dr. Glendenning has to say about that at the p.m.”

“Do you think Caleb Ross had anything to do with it all?” asked Gervaise.

“It’s a definite possibility,” said Banks. “The accident may have been beyond Ross’s control, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t know that he was carrying Morgan Spencer’s body. Or at least something not quite kosher. We’ll be looking for a link.”

“If it was an accident,” Annie Cabbot said.

“You think the van might have been sabotaged?” said Gervaise.

“I’m just saying it’s a possibility, ma’am. Maybe the crash site investigators will be able to tell us what happened.”

“Maybe,” said Banks. “But they don’t have an awful lot left to go on. If someone did sabotage the van, there may well be no evidence of that left.”

“Morgan Spencer had an oversize lockup on the Bewlay Industrial Estate,” said Gerry Masterson. “Apparently his van is sometimes filled with the contents of someone’s house overnight, and he’s required for insurance purposes to keep it somewhere safe, not just on the street, so the estate rents him the garage. It’s empty at the moment. We’re waiting for some free CSIs to send over there, but . . .”

“I know,” said Banks. “They’re all busy at Belderfell Pass, or the hangar.”

“Yes, sir. DS Nowak says he hopes he can get some experts over there by the morning. Until then, we’ve put a guard on the place.”

“We’ll put out a bulletin on the van and motorcycle.” Banks glanced at Winsome. “And the gray Peugeot. The landlord of the George and Dragon only reported one lorry coming out of the woods that Sunday morning, didn’t he?”

“Yes, sir. One racing green lorry.”

“Nothing going in?”

“He didn’t see anything. But if they were using the route for criminal activities, it would make sense to vary it sometimes.”

“I suppose it could have been Spencer’s lorry the landlord saw,” said Banks. “Gerry, do you think you could attempt to tie reported rural thefts in the region to traffic observed at the hangar or passing through Hallerby from Kirkway Lane?”

“We’d need a lot more data to go on, sir,” said Gerry. “I mean, it’s easy to collate the incidents of thefts from our crime figures, but that’s no use unless we have definite recollections from people who lived in Hallerby. Who’s going to remember when a lorry came down the lane?”

“The pub landlord might if you push him a bit,” Winsome said.

“If he does, see if you can make any connections,” said Banks.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know who owns the airfield property yet?”

“Venture Property Developments, sir,” said Gerry. “I spoke briefly to one of their executives on the phone. I must say I couldn’t get much out of him. He seemed rather abrupt. They’re based in Leeds. Apparently they’re still involved in legal arguments over zoning it for commercial use—a shopping center. There’s some local opposition from the villagers in Drewick and Hallerby. They say it’ll ruin their peaceful natural environment.”

“Indeed it will,” said Banks. “Unless they can find some particularly rare species of bird or a few bedraggled badgers to get it a protection order.”

“The company doesn’t expect it to drag on for too long,” Gerry went on. “In the meantime, they haven’t been paying much attention to it. Other fish to fry. I asked them if it was locked up securely, and they said it had to be to comply with Health and Safety. But nobody from Venture has actually been there in ages, so they have no idea whether anyone has been using it for their own purposes.”

“According to Terry Gilchrist, the kids get in anyway,” said Winsome. “He says while walking his dog he’s seen them playing football and cricket inside the grounds there.”

Banks remembered his childhood, when he used to love playing in condemned houses. Did Health and Safety exist then? He didn’t remember ever hearing about them. If they had, he thought, there would probably have been no bonfire night and the old houses would have been more secure. But children are resilient and malleable. They can survive the occasional fall through the staircase of a condemned slum. “Talk to Terry Gilchrist again, Winsome. He’s the one who lives the closest. See if he knows anything else about the place. Anything. It might be worth finding out who some of these kids are, too, if he knows. They might be able to tell us more. Kids can be surprisingly observant. And find out what kind of car Gilchrist drives, just in case it comes up.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Winsome, “Mr. Gilchrist showed a couple of patrol officers where some of the children live this morning. None of them reported seeing anything. And he drives a dark blue Ford Focus.”

“Well done, Winsome. I’ll visit Venture tomorrow, myself,” Banks went on. “See what sort of outfit they are. Find out what they know about the properties they own. Rattle their cage a bit. There’s money and brains behind this rural crime business. It’s not just the Morgan Spencers and Michael Lanes of this world nicking tractors while the owner’s sunning himself in Mexico. It goes deeper than that. It wouldn’t surprise me if Venture’s cut in for some of the action. After all, they own the land and they know the hangar’s out there, empty. Anything else?”

Nobody had anything to add, so AC Gervaise closed the meeting.

“We’ve all got plenty to do,” Banks said as they filed out of the room, “so I suggest we get to it. Annie, would you meet me in the office in half an hour.”

AFTER ALEX had put Ian to bed—the poor lad was tired out—she went back into the living room and turned on the television, just for the company. She had kept the front door deadlocked and bolted, with the chain on, all the time she had been at home, and now she sat with her new mobile on her lap, fingers ready to key in 999 if anyone came to the door. Luckily, the SIM card hadn’t been damaged, and the man in the shop had set up a new phone with the same number and same account as the damaged one. She couldn’t risk not having the phone—and the number—in case Michael called.

Her broken finger was throbbing, but she decided against taking the painkillers the doctor had given her until bedtime. She needed to be vigilant. Meadows, the phony policeman, might come again if he didn’t hear from her, and she didn’t know how long her nerves could stand the stress of knowing there would be another visit, more threats, perhaps even more serious violence this time, or—God forbid—violence toward Ian, because she really had nothing to tell him. And if she did find out where Michael was, she could hardly give that information away to someone who wanted to harm him.

When the mobile jangled like the old black telephones used to do, she nearly jumped out of her skin. It was the first time it had rung, and she had had no idea what ringtone was set. She didn’t recognize the number and was in two minds about answering it. It could be Meadows. Then she decided she would. It was only a mobile phone; what harm could it do her?

After she spoke her name, there was a silence punctuated by some crackling in the background. Finally, his voice came through: “Alex. It’s me, love. Michael.”

Alex almost dropped the phone with the surge of relief that flooded through her. “Michael! You’re all right.”

“Yeah. I’m just peachy.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“You could say that.”

“Trouble with the police?”

“They’re the least of my worries.”

“What is it? Tell me, Michael. I’ve been frantic with worry here.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. I couldn’t . . . I didn’t want . . . Oh, shit, it’s hopeless.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think they’re after me, Alex. Some very bad people.”

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything. I just saw them, that’s all. I witnessed something I shouldn’t have.”

“When you went out on Sunday?”

“Yes. I went to meet Morgan. He said he had a job. He didn’t say what it was, just that he needed my help. I drove out to that old deserted airfield out Hallerby way.”

“What happened?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t, that’s all. Except it was awful.”

“Where are you now?”

“I can’t tell you that, either.”

“Why not? You mean you don’t know?”

“I mean it wouldn’t be safe for you to know. If you don’t know where I am, then you can’t tell anyone, can you?”

Alex bit her lip. She wasn’t so foolish as not to realize that if Meadows decided to torture her, she would have nothing to give up, nothing with which to save herself. People usually broke in the end, when they were tortured, and Alex didn’t think she could stand much pain—physical or emotional. But if you really didn’t have the information the torturer wanted, what happened then? Not that she would ever betray Michael, but such were the chaotic thoughts that spun around in her mind. She was on the verge of telling him about last night’s visit and her broken finger, but she held off. What good would it do? It would only add to his burden of worries, and he didn’t sound as if he needed that right now. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I just wanted you to know that I’m all right. At least, I’m not hurt or anything.”

“Why didn’t you call sooner?”

“I couldn’t. I didn’t dare use my mobile. People can trace those things. They leave records of calls and stuff. And I’ve been lying low. I couldn’t get to a pay phone.”

He sounded far from all right to Alex. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I have to keep out of the way until it all blows over. I just wanted you to know I’m all right, that’s all. I saw the news this evening for the first time since it happened. I was in a pub and they had a big screen. I know they’re looking for me and Morgan, and I know that something happened at Belderfell Pass. A car crash. Animal parts. Perhaps a human body. It was all very vague, but I’m sure it’s all connected, Alex. I just wanted you to know that I’m OK. I thought you might be worried, that’s all.”

“Of course I’m worried, you idiot. The police have been around. How could I not be worried? What do you think this is doing to us?”

“Don’t be angry with me, love. I couldn’t stand that. Not now. I’m sorry. What did you tell them?”

“Nothing. I don’t know anything. And I’m not angry. I’m upset. I just wish you’d tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t, love. Not yet. It doesn’t matter what you tell the police. Tell them what you want.”

“When are you coming back?”

“I don’t know. When it’s all over. They’ll have to get to the bottom of it without me, then it’ll be safe to come home. How’s Ian?”

“He’s fine. We’re both fine.”

“Give him my love. And be careful, Alex.”

“Why?”

“Just be careful, that’s all. I’ve got to go now.”

“Michael, don’t! Please. Tell me where you are. Let me come to you.”

“No. Stay there. Stay with Ian.”

“But when will I see you?”

“When it’s over. Remember I love you, Alex. Good-bye.”

“Will you ring again?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Alex held on to the phone, tears in her eyes, but the other end went dead. She sat still for a while holding the phone, staring at but not seeing the meaningless images moving around on the TV screen, her heart pounding in her chest, stomach churning, head aching. This was worse than when Lenny had hit her. There was no end in sight. Just when she thought she had found something worthwhile, something she could hold on to, it had been snatched from her.

Alex threw the phone onto the sofa, where it bounced to the floor, downed the rest of her wine and poured another full glass. She knew that alcohol wouldn’t help, but she could think of nothing else to dull the edges of her pain except perhaps a couple of those pills the doctor had prescribed. Maybe even the whole bottle. What the hell was Michael playing at, gambling with their future like this? She knew he must be in serious trouble or he wouldn’t have left her and Ian the way he had. He loved them. She had to cling to that. It was all she had.

Finally, she could think of nothing else to do, and she could no longer stand doing nothing, or feeling so alone, so she picked up the phone, took out the policewoman’s card and called the number DI Cabbot had written on the back.

“THE OFFICE” meant the Queen’s Arms. If Banks had meant his office at the station, he would have said “my office.” It was going on for eight o’clock, and the pub was starting to fill up, which no doubt brought cheer to the heart of Cyril the landlord. The usual oldies selection was a bit loud, so they had to raise their voices to talk. Still, Banks thought it was pleasant enough to hear occasional fragments of “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” or “She’s Not You” in the background. A lot of pubs used themed satellite radio feeds, but not the Queen’s Arms. Cyril was an intrepid pop fan, still stuck in the late fifties and early sixties, and he played his iPod through the pub’s music system. If anyone didn’t like it, they were welcome to drink elsewhere.

Banks noticed that Lisa Gray was working that night. She had short hair now, and most of the facial metal was gone. He knew that Winsome had developed a close relationship with Lisa during their previous case, and that they kept in touch. She smiled from behind the bar and he gave her a quick wave. Annie came back with the drinks.

Annie sipped some of her beer. “I still can’t see Michael Lane as the villain,” she said. “All he ever did before was take a joyride because he was mixed up and upset after his mother left. Since then, he’s found a serious relationship. He has a kid to think about, too.”

“Maybe all that was too much for him?” Banks argued. “Maybe he felt stifled and had to get out? Or maybe he just cracked under the responsibility? You said they don’t have much money, that they’re struggling.”

“Yeah, but at least they’re trying. They weren’t doing so badly. And if that was the case, if Michael suddenly couldn’t take the pressure anymore, then Alex Preston wasn’t aware of it.”

“I never expected Sandra to walk out on me for another bloke,” said Banks. “But she did. These things happen, Annie.”

In the silence that followed that remark, Lisa Gray approached the table with two plates. “Who wanted the salad and who wanted burger and chips?”

Banks and Annie exchanged a few moments’ small talk with Lisa until she returned to her position behind the bar. Once they had settled down to their food, Banks went on. “I know you’re emotionally involved and you don’t want to think ill of Alex Preston or Michael Lane,” he said, “and I’m sure they are trying their best to make a go of it, but we’re not in the business of rehabilitation.” He nodded toward Lisa. “Sure, Winsome took a damaged young woman under her wing and worked miracles, but let’s not get carried away with the social work. Don’t you think Alex might be just a little naive, especially when it comes to Michael Lane? Don’t they say love is blind? Let’s not allow it to blinker your judgment.”

“I’m not.”

“All I’m saying, Annie, is that we can’t always save their souls, and we shouldn’t expect to. Half the time we can’t even save their bodies. Believe me, I’ve met plenty of deserving cases in my time, and sometimes I’ve even helped them, but sometimes I haven’t. Sometimes it even worked. Often it didn’t, and they went on to commit more serious crimes. We’re not psychologists or miracle workers.”

“I’m not blinkered,” said Annie. “I fully accept that Michael Lane might have made a mistake, that he was probably involved at some level. I realize that being perpetually short of cash might have pushed him into doing something illegal, no doubt with Morgan Spencer’s encouragement. He may even have seen the tractor as just a one-off to get him back on his feet, and to thumb his nose at John Beddoes. I’m not dismissing those possibilities. But I’d also like to point out that right now he’s a missing person, possibly in danger, or already come to harm, not a suspect.”

“But he is a suspect as well,” said Banks.

“In what? The bloody tractor theft?”

“In that, yes, and in Morgan Spencer’s murder, until we prove otherwise.”

“Rubbish,” said Annie.

“Maybe so. All I’m asking is that you keep an open mind.”

Annie returned to her salad for a moment. “It’s open,” she muttered, when she looked him directly in the eye again. “She’s got a broken finger,” she said. “Alex Preston has. All right?”

“You never mentioned this before. What happened?”

“She said she trapped it in the door.”

“You don’t believe her?”

Annie paused before answering. “No,” she said, then washed a mouthful of salad down with her beer. “Something’s going on. I could tell by the way she was behaving. She was lying. You asked me if I thought Alex was being a bit naive. Well, maybe she is. Or was. I think she’s getting a few quick lessons in the harsh realities of life right now. She’s frightened as well as worried.”

Banks sighed. “All right. I want you to keep on top of Alex Preston,” he said. “Short of shadowing her. You think she’s holding something back. It’s no good thinking you’re protecting her by keeping it to yourself.”

“She might have let slip to Michael about Beddoes being on holiday,” Annie said. “She did know he was going. She booked the trip for him. And we know there’s no love lost between Michael Lane and John Beddoes. Also, if Michael found out that Morgan Spencer had made a pass at his mother, that might have given him a motive for Spencer’s murder, too. How’s that for an open mind?”

“But you said that was what, three years ago? Why would he find out just now?”

“I don’t know. I’m not saying he did. I’m keeping an open mind. Maybe it’s so open the dust’s blowing in. I’m just saying it’s another thing to consider when you look at Michael Lane as a suspect. Or his father, for that matter.”

“Frank Lane?”

“Yes. Have we checked his alibis? Do we know for sure he’s telling us the truth about everything? He’s certainly not rolling in money, and he’s no great love for Beddoes. What if the father had something to do with the tractor theft? Have we forgotten about that possibility?”

“Hmm, not entirely,” said Banks. “We’ll keep it on the back burner. What do you think happened to Alex?”

“Dunno. I suppose someone might have been warning her to keep quiet, if she knew anything, or perhaps they think she knows where Lane is and tried to get it out of her. Maybe they saw me and Doug call by her flat the other day.”

“You don’t believe she does know where Lane is, do you?”

“No, Alan, I don’t. The poor woman’s beside herself. That much I accept as true. You can’t fake that, not unless you’re an exceptional actress. Tears, yes, but it’s much more than that.”

“OK.” Banks held his hands up in surrender. “Let’s assume she doesn’t know where he is. Someone thinks she does and comes to ask her? Breaks a finger when she won’t, or can’t, tell?”

“Which raises another important question,” said Annie.

“Oh?”

“How did whoever did it know who she was and where she lived?”

“Through Michael Lane, I’d guess.”

“That’s right. Meaning that Lane probably is involved with whatever’s been going on. Involved enough that the people he works for know where he lives and who with.”

“There is another possibility,” said Banks.

“What’s that?”

“That it’s Alex they know, Alex who’s working with them. And she’s spinning you a line.”

“No way,” said Annie, looking down into her dish.

“The question is,” said Banks, “do we put someone on her 24/7?”

Annie looked up again. “Do you think Madame Gervaise would authorize that?”

“Hell, we got to use the new helicopter today, didn’t we? It seems since we got our new home secretary and police commissioner, we only have to ask. Enjoy it while you can. It won’t last. What I’m saying is that if you think Alex Preston is in danger, then we obviously need to keep an eye on her.”

“It was probably just a low-level thug, not the boss himself.”

“Even so. And there’s something in it for us. He could lead us to the boss.”

“OK,” said Annie. “I’ll see what I can get organized. It’s stretching things a bit thin, I know, but four officers should be able to manage a twenty-four-hour watch between them. I mean, we don’t need anything too elaborate here. It’s not exactly Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy.”

“OK,” Banks said. “And in the meantime, after the postmortem, why don’t we go pay Alex a visit before we check out Venture in Leeds. Winsome can take Gerry or Doug and have a chat with someone at Vaughn’s about Caleb Ross’s pickup schedule and who might have had access to it. Ross probably drove a circuitous route. How long had he had this particular load in his van? How long did his round take him? Once we have the list, we’ll have to check every farm he called at, and even then there’s no guarantee anyone will know anything. I don’t know, but I imagine it’s easy to sneak another black bin bag or two among the pile if you know where it’s kept. Ross is also bound to have left the van unattended here and there, and it wouldn’t have taken long for someone to add a few bags to his load.”