Abattoir Blues (3 page)

The uniformed constable introduced herself and dropped her cigarette and trod on it as Winsome approached. Winsome had been told by dispatch that someone had reported seeing what he thought was a bloodstain in a disused hangar near the railway line. It was her job to go over there and assess the situation, weigh up the pros and cons of bringing in an expensive CSI team. The wind tugged at her hair and seemed to permeate the very marrow of her bones. The rain felt like a cold shower.

‘What have we got?’ Winsome asked.

‘They’re padlocked shut, ma’am,’ said one of the officers, pointing at the gates. ‘There’s nothing urgent, so we thought it best to wait for you.’

Winsome looked at the man inside. She couldn’t help but see him as a man imprisoned in some sort of prison camp or compound. He had a military air about him, though she would have been hard pushed to put her finger on what made her think that. ‘How did you get in there, Mr . . . ?’

‘Gilchrist. Terry Gilchrist. There’s a gap round the side. I wouldn’t recommend it, though. It’s a tight squeeze, and it’s mucky down there.’ He gestured to the mud-stained front of his jacket and knees of his trousers. Winsome was wearing black jeans and a belted winter coat, not exactly her best outfit, but not something she wanted to drag through the mud, either. She guessed that the uniformed officers also hadn’t liked the idea of crawling through a hole in the fence and getting their uniforms dirty. ‘Do you know who owns the place?’

‘Government, probably. You coming in?’

Winsome sighed. ‘A good detective always comes prepared,’ she said, and returned to her car. She opened the boot, took out a torch and a pair of bolt cutters and approached the gates. She handed the torch through the fence to Gilchrist, and with one quick, hard snip of the bolt cutters she snapped open the padlock, which clattered to the concrete. Then, with Gilchrist’s help, she pushed the gates open. They grated as they followed the semicircular grooves already etched in the crumbling concrete. They might not have been opened frequently, Winsome noted, but they had certainly been opened occasionally, and quite recently by the looks of the tracks.

Gilchrist smiled at her. ‘Thanks for rescuing me,’ he said. ‘I was beginning to feel I’d never get out of here.’

Winsome smiled back. ‘You won’t. Not for a while yet.’

Gilchrist turned. ‘Follow me.’

As he walked towards the hangar entrance, the dog trotting by his side, his stick clicked on the concrete. Winsome could see by the way he limped that the walking stick was no affectation. What had happened, then? An accident? A war wound?

Winsome paused in the doorway and took in the hangar. She imagined you could fit a few planes in here, at a pinch. She had no idea how many Lancasters or Spitfires there were in a squadron, or even if the hangar had been used during wartime. Her grandfather on her mother’s side had fought in the Second World War, she remembered, and he had been killed somewhere in Normandy shortly after the D-Day landings. She doubted that there were a lot of fellow Jamaicans with him; he must have been very scared and lonely for his own people. A place like this made her think about such things.

Gilchrist stood by an area of the concrete floor and the dog’s tail started wagging. Winsome went and stood beside him, taking her torch and holding it up, at eye level, shining the light down on the floor.

On the patch of cracked concrete Gilchrist pointed to Winsome saw a large dark stain shaped like a map of South America. It certainly resembled congealed blood. There was the familiar smell of decaying matter, too. She squatted closer. Just around where Brazil would have been, she saw fragments of bone and grey matter stuck to the scarlet stain. Brains, she thought, reaching for her mobile. Maybe they were both wrong, maybe it was paint, or a mixture of water and rust, but now that she had seen it for herself, she could understand exactly why Gilchrist had been concerned enough to ring the police. It could be animal blood, of course, but a simple test would determine that.

Winsome keyed in the station number, explained the situation and asked for AC Gervaise to be informed and for the forensic bloodstain analyst, Jasminder Singh, and DC Gerry Masterson to come out to check the blood at the hangar.

The Lane farm seemed a lot less grand than the Beddoes’ spread, Annie thought, as DC Doug Wilson parked behind a muddy Rav 4 outside the front porch, a cobwebbed repository for inside-out umbrellas, wellington boots and a couple of rusty shovels. The farmhouse was smaller and shabbier, with a few slates missing from the roof and a drainpipe leaning at a precarious angle, water dripping from the gutter. The yard seemed neglected, and the outbuildings were fewer in number. They looked old and in need of repair. One barn was practically in ruins. A couple of skinny chickens pecked at the wet ground inside their sagging wire coop. Annie doubted that Frank Lane had a Deutz-Fahr Agrotron locked in his garage, if his garage even had a lock, and she wondered what the relationship between the two farmers really was. Beddoes hadn’t given much away, but surely Lane had to envy the newcomer’s obvious wealth? Or resent it? And was Beddoes patronising or honestly supportive of his neighbours? Perhaps in their eyes he was merely playing at being a farmer while they were living the very real hardship of it. He had hinted at so much himself. These considerations might matter down the line, she told herself.

They got out of the car and tried to avoid the worst of the mud, which seemed even squelchier than that at the Beddoes’ farm. At least the rain had abated to a steady drizzle over the short drive, and there were now a few patches of blue sky visible through the cloud cover. Not enough ‘to make baby a new bonnet’, as her father used to say, but a small handkerchief, perhaps.

Annie knocked on the door, which was opened by a broad-shouldered man in his mid-forties. Wearing jeans and a wrinkled shirt, he had a whiskered, weather-beaten face that conformed more closely to Annie’s idea of a farmer. Satisfied by their credentials, he invited them in. There was a weariness and heaviness about his movements that told Annie he had perhaps been overdoing it for years, maybe for lack of help, or because the stress of survival was eating away at him. Farming was a hard physical job and often involved long hours of backbreaking work with little or no relief, though it was also seasonal and subject to the vagaries of the weather. But whereas Beddoes had seemed fit and fluent in his movements, Lane seemed hunched over and cramped up.

The living room smelled musty and stale, no scented air-freshener. No offer of tea, either. Everything in the living area demonstrated the same quality of neglect and plain utility as the farmyard itself.

Frank Lane moved some newspapers aside and bade them sit on the worn sofa while he settled himself into what was no doubt his usual armchair by the fireplace. There were cigarette burns on the armrest beside an overflowing glass ashtray.

When everyone had made themselves as comfortable as possible, and Doug Wilson had taken out his pen and notebook, Lane looked at Annie as if to tell her to get on with it.

‘We’re here about your neighbour’s tractor, Mr Lane. I understand Mr Beddoes asked you to keep an eye on his place while he and his wife were on holiday in Mexico?’

‘Aye,’ said Lane, lighting a cigarette. ‘Bloody Mexico. I ask you. But you can’t keep your eye on a place unless you’re living there, can you, and I’ve more than enough to do here. I did my best.’

‘I’m sure you did,’ said Annie. ‘Nobody’s saying it was your fault. But how did you manage it? What did your duties consist of?’

‘I drove over there every day, fed the pigs and chickens, checked that everything was still under lock and key. He never told me to keep a particular eye on his tractor. I saw nowt amiss.’

‘That’s very neighbourly of you.’

Lane gave a harsh laugh. ‘Neighbourliness has nothing to do with it. Beddoes paid me well enough.’

‘Ah, I see.’

‘A man deserves to be paid for his labour. And it’s not as if he can’t afford it.’

‘When was the last time you checked on the place?’

‘Saturday. Day before they got back.’

‘You didn’t go over on Sunday?’

‘No. They were supposed to be back by early morning. How was I to know they’d have problems with their flights? Nobody phoned me or anything.’

‘And everything was in order on Saturday?’

‘It was. Or I’d have said something then, wouldn’t I?’

Annie sighed internally.
Here we go again
. She was used to this type of cantankerous and patronising Yorkshireman, but she still didn’t have to like it. ‘What time was this?’

‘Late afternoon. Around five.’

‘So the tractor was probably stolen sometime after dark on Saturday night?’

‘It were still locked up at five when I left. Make sense to steal it after dark, wouldn’t it?’

‘Were you at home on Saturday night?’

‘I’m always at home, unless I’m out in the fields. You might not have noticed, young lady, but it’s lambing season, and with no help that means long days and even longer nights. Those young ’uns don’t always know the most convenient time to be born.’

‘Did you notice anything wrong at all while you were over at the Beddoes’ place during the week? Hear anything? See anything?’

‘No. But that’s not surprising. If you’ve been up there, you’ll know there’s a fair bit of distance between us. Two miles at least, as the crow flies.’

‘Yes, but I think you’d probably hear a tractor starting up, for example, wouldn’t you?’

Lane’s face cracked into a mocking smile. ‘You don’t think they just got on it and drove it out of there, do you? They’d have needed summat to take it away, a flatbed lorry or summat.’

‘There would have been some noise,’ said Annie, blushing at her mistake. ‘A lorry, van, flatbed, whatever.’

‘Aye, but you hear lorries and cars from time to time. Even tractors. Nothing unusual about that in the countryside.’

‘In the middle of the night?’

‘When your days are as busy as mine, you sleep like a log. I wouldn’t have heard the bloody Angel of Doom blowing his trumpet. I said I didn’t hear owt unusual, and I didn’t. I’d have reported it if I had, wouldn’t I?’

‘What were you doing here on Saturday night?’

‘Watching telly, when I finally got the chance. Not that it’s any of your business. Then sleeping.’

‘Might Mrs Lane have heard something?’

Lane snorted. ‘Not unless she’s developed superhuman powers. She’s stopping with her mother out Whitby way.’

‘Oh. Is her mother ill?’

‘No. More’s the pity. Old bag’s as fit as a fiddle and twice as squeaky.’

‘So your wife’s on holiday?’

‘I suppose you could call it that.’ Lane snorted. ‘Extended leave.’

Annie sighed. ‘Mr Lane,’ she said, ‘I’m just trying to get some basic information here.’

‘Well, the basic information, if it’s any of your business, which it isn’t, is that’s she gone. Left. Bolted. Buggered off. And good riddance. Been gone two years now, and she still hasn’t got out of the old bag’s clutches. Serves her bloody well right, is what I say.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mr Lane.’

‘Don’t be,’ Lane snapped, his face darkening. ‘I’m not. Though what it’s got to do with Beddoes’ tractor I don’t know.’

‘We just try to gather as much background information as we can, sir,’ Doug Wilson chimed in. ‘It’s perfectly routine.’

Lane gave Wilson a withering glance. ‘Has anyone ever told you you look just like that bloke who plays Harry Potter?’

Wilson reddened.

‘Watch them with your son, did you, Mr Lane?’ Annie said. ‘The Harry Potter films?’

‘Leave my son out of it.’

‘Is he here? Can we have a word with him? Maybe he heard something.’

Lane stubbed his cigarette out viciously in the ashtray. Sparks flew on to the upholstery. It was a wonder he hadn’t burned the place down years ago, Annie thought.

‘He doesn’t live here any more. He says there’s nowt for a young lad in this life, around this place. Nowt to do, nowt worth doing. Nowt but hard graft. I just about reckon he might be right.’

‘So what does he do?’ Annie persisted.

‘Don’t ask me. He lives in town. Wanted his own “space”. I can’t help it if he’s drinking himself silly, like they do, or smoking Ecstasy.’

Annie stopped herself from telling him that people don’t usually smoke Ecstasy. It would only antagonise him further. ‘Is your son involved with drugs, Mr Lane?’

‘I’ve no idea. He doesn’t confide in me.’

‘But you brought it up.’

‘It was just something you say. I didn’t mean owt by it. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t. Can’t say as I care one way or another.’

Annie didn’t believe that. She sensed that under Lane’s brittle anger and truculence were sadness, regret and guilt. Perhaps even love. But the anger and self-pity went deep, she felt. She knew from experience that people don’t always have the patience, or the skill, to cut through someone’s layers of aggression and unpleasantness to whatever kindness and vulnerability might lie below. Sometimes they might try for a while, then they realise life is too short, so they cut their losses and leave, move on to someone else, maybe, someone more open, someone easier to be with. Perhaps that was what both his wife and his son had done.

‘What’s his name?’ Annie asked.

‘We christened him Michael, but he goes by Mick. Why?’

‘I understand he was in a bit of trouble some time ago. Something to do with a stolen car?’

‘Silly bugger. It were nowt, really. Storm in a teacup.’

‘Even so, he got probation.’

‘They give kids probation as soon as look at them these days. It doesn’t mean owt. Used to be ASBOs. Now it’s something else. And community service.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Nineteen.’

‘Where is he living in Eastvale?’

‘I don’t know the number, but it’s one of them tower blocks. That rough estate. As if he didn’t have a good home of his own. He’s living with some tart, apparently.’

Annie knew where Lane meant. The East Side Estate was the oldest and roughest housing estate in town. She ought to be able to find Mick Lane there easily enough. ‘He’s living with a woman?’