Abattoir Blues (29 page)

‘I don’t like it,’ Annie said over an early lunch in the Queen’s Arms with Banks and Gerry Masterson. ‘I don’t like it at all.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Banks, putting aside his bacon butty for a moment. ‘But it’s done now. And you know as well as I do that it had to be done.’

‘But I’m the one who convinced her to talk in the first place, arranged the sketch artists, had Vic get the fingerprints from the card.’

‘None of this is your fault, Annie. You were only doing your job. And it was good police work. Alex Preston herself volunteered the information about Tanner’s visit, even after he had threatened her to keep silent.’

‘I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to her. Or Ian.’ She gave a shudder.

‘It won’t come to that.’

‘You can’t guarantee it, short of locking them in a cell. Even then—’

‘There’s no point jumping to worst-case scenarios,’ Banks snapped. ‘At the moment, Tanner’s the one in a cell.’

‘Yes, but you and I know damn well how long that will last. That Harvey Nicks lawyer of his will have him out on the street the minute his twenty-four hours are up. What are you going to do then? Put Alex and Ian in the witness protection programme? We don’t have one.’

‘I’m sure something along those lines could be arranged, but it’s not necessary yet.’

‘You mean you won’t do anything until you’ve brought Tanner’s accomplices into the open. You’re using Alex and Ian as bait?’

‘That’s not fair,’ said Gerry.

Annie shot her a dark look and turned back to Banks. ‘It’s true, though, isn’t it? That’s why you had Gerry here in on the interview and not me. You didn’t trust me to keep my cool. These people are out there covering their tracks, and the closer we get the more danger all the people on the fringes are in. They’ve got rid of Spencer and perhaps Ross. They’re after Michael Lane, maybe they’ve even got to him already, and now there’s Alex and Ian, too.’

‘It’s Lane they want,’ said Banks. ‘Not Alex or Ian.’

‘No, but they’ll use her and Ian as a means to an end, won’t they? And we’ve seen just how much respect for human life they have. I saw Caleb Ross’s and Morgan Spencer’s bodies in the pass, too, you know.’

‘I know,’ said Banks. ‘But this all started with Spencer. He wasn’t killed as a part of any clean-up operation, or for information, as far as we know. We don’t know why he was killed, but I think Michael Lane does. There’s a different motive for his murder, and as far as we can be certain, there’s been only one murder so far. We might suspect that Caleb Ross’s van was sabotaged, but we have absolutely no evidence of that. The CSIs have managed to get the pieces back to the forensic garage and they’re still working on it. Until they can tell us something definite, we’re only investigating one murder: Morgan Spencer.’

‘Well, that makes me feel a whole lot better.’

Gerry Masterson nibbled on her chicken in a basket and looked from one to the other. ‘I’ll get back to the computer with the lists straight after lunch,’ she said. ‘We’ve got plenty of names from a number of sources. Maybe it’s Venture Properties?’

‘Venture?’ said Annie. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘Just that someone who has invested in the new shopping centre development would be in a good position to know the state of negotiations and the lie of the land at the airfield. I mean, I doubt the place was chosen just at random.’

‘Good point,’ said Annie grudgingly. ‘I must admit I had a funny feeling about Venture.’

Banks laughed. ‘I always have a funny feeling around property developers. It doesn’t mean they’re all murderers.’

‘I’m not saying anything about murderers,’ said Gerry, tucking a stray tress of red hair behind her ear. ‘It’s probably just a business to them.’ She glanced at Banks. ‘And I’m not saying Venture are involved, only that their lists might provide a connection.’

‘Have you got anywhere with that name I gave you yesterday? Montague Havers?’

‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ said Gerry. ‘It took a bloody long time and a lot of perhaps less than legal manoeuvres, but I got the name.’

‘He’s on the Venture list?’

‘Indeed he is.’

‘Why didn’t you say so before?’

Gerry blushed. ‘I just got it, the moment before we came out to lunch, sir.’

‘Well, go on,’ Banks urged her.

‘It might not lead anywhere.’

‘But Havers is an investor in the shopping centre?’

‘Indirectly, yes. That’s why it took so long. To cut a long story short, sir, he’s connected with a company called Retail Perfection Ltd, or a smaller division of that, a company within a company.’

‘You’re losing me, Gerry.’

‘High finance and corporate finagling aren’t really my area of expertise, either, sir, but let’s say he’s on the board, a major shareholder, of a branch of Retail Perfection Ltd that handles property acquisition and development. His main business is international financing, but he’s got his finger in a number of pies, or companies, I should say.’

‘That’s the connection we were looking for.’

‘Yes, but there are lots of other investors.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Banks. ‘Joanna gave me Havers’ name as someone they were keeping on an eye on for Operation Hawk. Apparently he’s clever and slippery and they’ve not been able to get him for anything yet. He’s obviously careful and makes sure he never handles anything that can be traced back to the thefts and transportation. But if he’s also an investor in the Drewick shopping centre development, then he’s in a position to know that it would be a good place to use as a depot. All he has to do is know and pass on that knowledge. He doesn’t have to organise anything himself, get his hands dirty. It’s ideal. That’s great, Gerry. Well done.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Annie. ‘Gerry said there are a lot of other people involved in investing in the airfield. What about them? Shouldn’t we check all of them out?’

‘We could, I suppose,’ said Banks. ‘But I vote that Havers gets first attention. It’s a double hit, Annie. He’s invested in the airfield development and he’s on Joanna MacDonald’s Operation Hawk list. Also, he drove up here on the Sunday we think Morgan Spencer was killed at the hangar.’

‘I suppose that makes sense,’ Annie said. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Go see him. I was going anyway, but now I’ve even got a bit more ammunition thanks to Gerry.’

Gerry Masterson blushed, and Annie looked sulky. ‘While Alex and Ian just wait around for someone to kill them or abduct them?’

‘Don’t be absurd. They’ll be well protected.’

‘Sure.’

Gerry stood up. ‘I should get back to the squad room now, if that’s OK? I’ve got the Venture stuff to finish, then a whole lot of abattoirs to look into.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Banks. ‘And dig up all you can on Montague Havers.’

Gerry left, and they watched her go. ‘She’s come on a lot,’ said Annie.

‘Indeed she has.’

‘Still a bit sensitive, though.’

Banks smiled. ‘And you’re still a bit acerbic.’

‘Whatever that is. I’m working on it.’

Banks touched her hand on the table. ‘I know you are. And your concern for Alex and Ian hasn’t gone unnoticed. We’re going to make damn sure their security is tight and that neither of them is going to be damaged by this.’

‘But for how long?’ asked Annie, banging her fist on the table. The glasses rattled and one or two people looked over. ‘I just feel so damn responsible.’

‘As long as it takes. As I said before, they’re not interested in Alex. True, she’s a means to an end, but as soon as that end no longer matters, neither does she. We’ve got to increase our efforts to find Michael Lane.’

‘So why not just kill her, then?’

‘Because I think we’re dealing with businessmen, and it wouldn’t be to their advantage. They’ve no reason to. Look at Spencer. We don’t know why they killed him, but it was hardly as a warning, an example or to hurt someone else. They were hoping his body would be incinerated, for crying out loud. All we’ve encountered so far has been the pond life: Tanner, Ross, Spencer, Lane. The man with the bolt gun, whoever that is. But there’s someone else calling the shots, someone whose orders they obey, someone with brains. That’s who we want to get to. And that’s why I’m going to see Montague Havers.’

‘I don’t think Michael Lane is pond life.’

‘Maybe not. But that’s another question we want the answer to, isn’t it? How deeply is he involved? And he’s the focal point, too. They want Lane. We have to get to him first. Then Alex Preston becomes irrelevant.’

‘Unless they’re the vengeful type,’ muttered Annie.

Banks phone rang and he excused himself to answer it. The message was brief and he smiled when he ended the call and slipped the mobile back in his pocket.

‘Well, at least we’ve made a bit of progress,’ he said. ‘We’ve found Michael Lane’s car. Fancy a trip to the seaside?’

Scarborough in season is a delightful and popular place to visit. The ruined castle towers over the seascape, its promontory splitting the town in two: South Bay, with its promenade of amusement arcades, pubs, casinos and fish and chip restaurants; North Bay with its holiday apartments, golf club and Peasholm Park.

But on a cold, blustery March day, even the inhabitants would admit that it is not a place in which you would care to linger long. Marine Drive runs round the base of the promontory and links the two halves. On a rough day, it is often flooded by waves that crash high over the solid sea wall, and signposts warn of falling rocks from the steep cliff on the other side of the road. Unfortunately for Banks and Annie, Michael Lane’s car had been found parked in a Pay n’ Display area close to the coastguard office, in the old Tollhouse, with its fairy-tale brick tower and its witch’s hat of red tiles topped with a weathervane. And this was certainly the sort of day when you didn’t need a weathervane to know which way the wind was blowing. It was blowing straight off the North Sea, wet and freezing, carrying with it a spray that immediately soaked anyone in the vicinity.

The local police had cordoned off the car when Banks and Annie arrived early in the afternoon. Ronald Tanner was still in his cell, and Gerry Masterson was slaving away over her computer with lists of names and companies beside her.

‘Nice day for a visit to the seaside, sir,’ said one of the uniformed officers cheerfully, as Banks and Annie struggled to keep their raincoats on in the wind, which seemed to be trying to rip off every item of clothing they wore. ‘Isn’t it funny,’ he went on, ‘the way people assume you’re on perpetual holiday when you tell them you’re stationed in Scarborough?’

‘Indeed,’ said Banks. There was no point in even trying to open an umbrella. Banks could feel the salt spray on his face and taste it in his mouth. It was invigorating, at least for a moment or two, then it just became cold, uncomfortable and downright annoying. ‘So what have you got?’

The officer, an inspector named Martin Mills, led them to the front of the car, where they could clearly see the parking permit stuck in the window of the ancient grey Peugeot. It gave them the date, which was Tuesday’s, and the time by which the car was supposed to leave, which was 1814. Lane had put in enough money for three hours, which meant that he had parked there at 1514 on Tuesday, two days after he had ‘disappeared’. As he had paid until after six, when the parking charges no longer applied, he would have been all right there until eight o’clock on Wednesday morning. In season, the car would no doubt have been towed away quite early that day, but at this time of year, in this sort of weather, it had only attracted a couple of parking tickets before one of the more adventurous parking officers had become suspicious. Even so, it was Thursday now. Lane could be anywhere.

Banks tried the driver’s door. Locked. He was eager to find out if there were any clues to Lane’s whereabouts in the car. ‘Any chance of getting this open?’ he asked Mills. The pounding waves and screaming wind were so loud they had to shout to make themselves heard.

Inspector Mills pulled a key from his pocket. ‘Thought you might want to do that,’ he said. ‘No point just standing around getting wet while we were waiting for you. It’s an old car, no fancy locking mechanism. There’s not even an alarm system. We also checked the fuel earlier with a dipstick. Empty.’

Banks nodded. ‘Thanks. So he ran out of petrol and couldn’t afford any more?’

‘Not surprising at today’s prices,’ said Annie. ‘And Alex said he didn’t have much money with him. But don’t you think it’s a bit strange?’

Both Banks and Mills looked at her curiously. ‘What? Why?’

She pointed to the windscreen. ‘Well, that he’s on the run and he dumps his car because it’s run out of petrol and he can’t afford any more, but he takes the trouble to pay and display a parking sticker?’

‘People do odd things when they’re flustered,’ said Banks.

‘They also do what they’d normally do,’ said Annie. ‘Don’t you think this is a sign of an honest man?’

‘I’ll grant you it’s a little odd,’ said Banks. ‘Who was that famous killer who got caught because of a parking ticket?’

‘Son of Sam,’ said Mills. ‘And he was caught because of a ticket he got for parking illegally. See, even serial killers don’t pay for parking.’

‘But our Michael Lane does,’ said Annie. ‘I still think it’s weird.’

‘Shall we have a look inside?’ said Banks.

Annie took out her protective gloves.

Mills held up the key. ‘The garage assures me this should do the trick.’ He opened the door. ‘
Voilà
!

‘I’ll do the front and you do the back,’ Banks said to Annie.

They got in the car and started looking and feeling around. It was a relief to be out of the wind and spray for a while, a haven of quiet and shelter. The interior smelled neutral, and the seats and floor weren’t littered with sweet wrappers or discarded newspapers. The glovebox yielded nothing but a dog-eared manual, a few old petrol station receipts and a pack of chewing gum. There was a dock for a mobile phone, but no phone, also no GPS, which might have been useful for plotting Lane’s travels. There were no maps conveniently open at a particular page, either. There was a box of tissues and a few CDs in the box between the seats: Vampire Weekend, Manic Street Preachers, White Denim. Banks reached down the sides and under the seats. Nothing there but a dried-up chip, one of those long skinny ones from McDonald’s, by the look of it, and a crumpled coffee container from the same establishment.