Abattoir Blues (27 page)

But even with the music playing, he felt restless; the random thoughts continued to swirl around his mind. He thought of breaking the pledge and ringing Oriana to ask if she wanted to meet up for a quick drink, but soon changed his mind. They had a great relationship, he felt, as long as neither of them tried to push it too far. Right now, even if her body was still in Eastvale, her mind would already be in Australia.

He could always wander down to the Dog and Gun, he supposed. There was bound to be someone he knew in there, maybe even Penny Cartwright. But he didn’t particularly feel like company, he realised – other than Oriana’s, of course. Ever since Sandra had left him and the kids moved out, he had become more and more attuned to his solitude – to the point where he actually enjoyed being alone. Maybe he didn’t eat healthily enough or work out at the gym, and perhaps he drank and brooded too much, but on the whole, he enjoyed his life. It wasn’t necessarily a psychologically healthy state of affairs, he thought, but there was a lot to be said for solitude. Some people even climbed distant mountains to be alone. The world was often far too much with him, the hustle and bustle always just round the corner. In the end, he decided to pour himself another glass of wine and go watch a DVD in the entertainment room. The latest James Bond movie had been lying around for a while unopened, mostly because Oriana didn’t like James Bond.

Banks had just started attempting to remove the cellophane wrapping when his phone rang. It was Joanna MacDonald.

‘Alan, I think I might have something for you.’

Banks put the DVD aside, picked up his wine and sat down. ‘Fire away. Every little bit helps right now.’

‘I can’t be specific about visits to the hangar, or anything like that, but basically we have someone on our radar who’s come off or on the A1 at Scotch Corner or Darlington.’

‘It’s a start.’

‘He made a visit to the area on the Sunday in question. We’ve had our eye on him for a while – Operation Hawk, that is. He’s involved in international investments, but he’s often seen visiting rural areas. He also has a lot of overseas contacts, east European in particular. Some of them are not entirely wholesome. Frequent traveller to the Balkans and Baltic states. Knows all the palms to grease. He calls himself Montague Havers, but his real name’s Malcolm Hackett.’

‘Maybe he’s expecting a knighthood for services to crime?’ Banks suggested. ‘I think the “sir” would go better with Montague, don’t you?’

Joanna laughed. ‘Much better.’

‘What time did he leave the A1 on Sunday?’

There was a pause as Joanna consulted her notes. ‘He came off at Scotch Corner and took the Richmond road at 2.35 Sunday afternoon. He drives a silver BMW 3 Series. Nice car, but not too ostentatious. Doesn’t attract too much attention. And to be fair, he does have relatives in Richmond.’

‘That’s not far north of Eastvale or Drewick, but it’s a bit late for what we’re looking at,’ Banks said. ‘Still, he wouldn’t be the trigger-puller. If he’s southern-based, the odds are he’s one of the top brass and would want to keep himself as far away as possible from the rough stuff. And if for some reason he had to get there from London in a hurry, maybe he was there for the mopping up. Do you know when he set off back?’

‘He entered via the Catterick junction at 3.05 on Tuesday afternoon.’

‘Tuesday? That’s just after Caleb Ross’s van went over the Pass. Anything definite on Mr Havers?’

‘No. That’s the problem. The NCA are working with us on this, too.’

‘Can I talk to him?’

Joanna paused. ‘Normally we’d say no, in case you scare him off. But Monty doesn’t scare easily. We’ve questioned him on a few occasions, as have agents of the NCA, and he’s always ended up as cocky and squeaky clean as ever. Maybe a fresh face would be a good thing. I doubt he’ll give anything away, though. He’s too canny. And don’t beat him up. He knows his rights.’

Banks laughed. ‘As if I would. Thanks, Joanna. Can you give me his details?’

‘He works out of an office building just off the Euston Road. That dodgy part to the north between St Pancras and Regent’s Park.’ She gave Banks an address. ‘Apparently he used to be something in the City back when the Conservatives took away all the trading restrictions in the eighties.’

‘What a coincidence. Just like John Beddoes. How does rural crime come into it?’

‘Through his contacts. They run the routes. But we haven’t been able to pin anything on him. It’s mostly guilt by association. He’s the man standing over the road with his hands in his pockets, whistling when the building on the other side blows up. He’s the one who visits Norfolk or North Yorkshire before or after a big job. It may mean nothing, but you asked, and he’s all we’ve been able to come up with. We don’t have time or the resources to scroll through the list of all the cars that left the A1 at the exit for your airfield, and nothing else has come up that sets off our radar. Sorry.’

‘That’s OK,’ said Banks. ‘It was a long shot. But I like the sound of this guy.’

‘You’re welcome. Only too glad to help. I’m thinking maybe I should have waited until tomorrow morning to tell you, and I might have got a free lunch out of it.’

Banks laughed. ‘Maybe I’ll take you to dinner when it’s all over.’

‘And pigs will fly.’

When Banks hung up the phone, he realised that he still felt some sort of connection with Joanna. The loneliness she’d talked about over lunch the other day was in some ways at odds with his own previous contemplation of the joys of solitude, but she made him realise that he really had no friends outside the job, either, and that he neglected the ones he had. He hadn’t been to see ex-Superintendent Gristhorpe in ages, for example; Jim Hatchley had also retired and wasn’t interested in anything but his garden, his kids, darts and Newcastle United; he saw Ken Blackstone only on sporadic visits to Leeds; and even Dirty Dick Burgess only turned up when the shit hit the fan, as a rule. As for his ex-wife Sandra, she had her new family and her new life. His job had lost her to him. These days, it seemed, it was the job or nothing. He didn’t even see his own grown-up children Brian and Tracy all that often.

Why did he seem to be letting everyone go? Why didn’t he make more of an effort to keep in touch with his friends? Sometimes he felt he had nothing to say, nothing to add to the lively company of a boozy evening in the pub. It wasn’t true, though; he always enjoyed himself when he made the effort; it had just got harder to make that effort.

Maybe he should have suggested that Joanna meet him for a drink tonight, he thought. Maybe he should ring her back and ask her. Then he thought of Oriana. They had spoken nothing of fidelity, commitment, or any of those big, difficult subjects. They had made one another no promises, but he knew that if he asked Joanna out and didn’t tell Oriana, he would be cheating in a way, and she would be hurt. Even though she would be off to Australia, fighting off all those virile young journalists who wanted to interview Lady Veronica Chalmers. He also knew that if he rang Joanna back and asked her out for a drink, it wouldn’t end there. The attraction had been obvious even when they had been at odds in Tallinn, and it was still there. With Oriana away for three weeks, there would be too many opportunities for mischief. The last thing he needed at his age was to be a two-timing bastard.

Besides, he needed his sleep if he was to be sharp for an early interview tomorrow.

He finished stripping the cellophane off the Bond movie and slipped it in the player. Easier just to give himself over to a fantasy world. While the preliminaries were showing, he went back into the kitchen and fetched the rest of the bottle of wine.

Chapter 10

As things turned out, the interview was delayed until Alex Preston had picked out Ronald Tanner from the VIPER display, much relieved that she could go through the process on a large TV screen instead of having to stand in front of him again. After that, Tanner requested a second consultation with his lawyer. Banks used the extra time to prepare himself for the interview, gathering all the evidence they had against Tanner in one folder and everything they suspected him of being involved with in another. Alex’s identification certainly strengthened the case against him, so it was worth the delay. The only new evidence came in the form of a partial fingerprint found in the hangar. There weren’t enough points of comparison to declare that it actually was Tanner’s, but it was something Banks felt he could use as extra ammunition in an interview.

According to his file, Ronald Tanner was forty-six, a car mechanic by trade from Chester-le-Street. After spells in London, Bristol and Birmingham in the nineties and early noughties, he had been living in Darlington since 2004. In addition to his arrests for breaking and entering, assault, theft and GBH, the local police were also interested in him as part of a wide-ranging porn and prostitution investigation, linked to some of the places he had worked as a club bouncer. Both Tanner’s prison sentences had been significantly reduced for good behaviour. Apparently, he was a model prisoner. As Banks read over the files for the fourth or fifth time, he yawned. He had stayed up too late watching the Bond movie, and even the double hit of espresso from AC Gervaise’s private machine hadn’t given him much of a second wind.

He selected Gerry Masterson to accompany him. She had the training, but lacked the experience. After all, most interviews were carried out by detective sergeants and constables, and it was only at Banks’s own insistence that he had managed to keep his hand in all these years. Nowadays, there was even talk about training civilians to carry out police interviews in order to free up officers for other duties and show more of a presence in the communities and on the streets. Banks wasn’t too sure about that. Mostly, it was matter of getting the experience, not being trained by a psychologist. He wasn’t as skilled in all the fancy modern psychological techniques as someone like Gerry would be, after all the courses she had done, but he usually knew how to get what he wanted out of someone without resorting to torture, which was, after all, the point of a police interview. However he proceeded, there was no chance of using the casual, friendly approach in the hope to getting Tanner to admit to something in a weak moment; the man was far too experienced for that.

They walked into the interview room at 9.35 a.m. Tanner was sitting beside his brief with his arms folded, brow furrowed and a scowl on his face, wearing his disposable ‘Elvis’ suit while his clothes were being forensically examined. Banks could hardly blame him for scowling after the morning he’d had. The locals had busted down his door at five o’clock and hustled him out in the cold pre-dawn. Then he had sat in a holding cell down in the basement while the various formalities, including Alex Preston’s identification, were completed. The only advantage he had gained from all this was that it had given him time to get his solicitor there.

Her name was Cassandra Wakefield, and she was one of the better-known advocates in the county. No lowly legal-aid lawyer for Tanner. Even so, Banks was surprised by the firepower he had managed to acquire, especially at such short notice. He was a habitual criminal, but how had he got to know Ms Wakefield? And how could he afford her? Banks suspected the hand of a bigger player in this, but he knew it would be impossible to discover who was actually paying for Tanner’s defence. Cassandra Wakefield was too good to let anything like that slip through the cracks. After all, how was she to pay for her trips to Harvey Nicks? She certainly wasn’t a Primark sort of woman. Rumour had it she had more shoes than Imelda Marcos. She was a thoroughly professional lawyer in her mid-forties, very attractive, always immaculately and fashionably turned out, with a great deal of charm and far more alluring beauty than an interviewing cop wanted sitting opposite him at a time like this. Distractions were all very well in their place, but Ms Wakefield knew the value of what she had, and she wasn’t afraid to exploit it. The extra button on the blouse undone, the full, shiny lips, long wavy auburn hair, slightly hooded green eyes, and the entirely deceptive dreamy bedroom look. At least, Banks thought it was deceptive. She was good in court, too. Gone were the times when only a barrister could represent a client – now people like Cassandra Wakefield offered the full service criminal defence. She had obtained her Higher Rights of Audience and could, theoretically, appear in any courtroom in the land.

Pleasantries out of the way, Banks turned on the recording machine and clearly stated the necessary details. Gerry Masterson seemed nervous – she was playing with her hair too much – but he had advised her to observe for the most part, unless she was struck with a sudden inspiration. He imagined she would settle into her role when the interview got going. The room was stuffy but bearable. Hot enough that Tanner’s shaved head was damp and shiny with sweat and Banks felt like taking his jacket off. With its beige walls, a high window covered with a grille, one overhead light fixture similarly covered and scuffed concrete floor, it was meant to be neutral, but it erred more on the side of unpleasantness. It needed to be the kind of place that those not used to such institutional claustrophobia wanted to get out of quickly, thereby encouraging their willingness to talk. Sometimes it even worked.

‘So, Ronald,’ he began. ‘What’s your story?’

‘I don’t have to tell you anything.’

‘That’s true. But you might want to help yourself a little by helping me.’

‘You lot always say that. Why would I want to help you?’

‘Do you know why you’re here?’

‘Because a gang of coppers broke into my house at the crack of dawn and dragged me here.’

‘We’ve had a serious complaint about you,’ Banks went on. ‘A woman alleges that you talked your way into her home by impersonating a police officer, and that once inside, you threatened and intimidated her and her child.’

‘What a load of bollocks.’

‘She further alleges that you destroyed her mobile telephone and that you badly damaged her index finger by treading on it while she was lying on the floor, pushed there by you. How am I doing so far?’