Abattoir Blues (12 page)

He scanned the room, then said. ‘All right. I’ll wait.’

Everyone knew these flats had only one way in and out.

Alex slipped into her bedroom. If she could only dial 999 before he guessed what she was up to, she would be safe. They could probably trace the call if she just left the line open. Her hands were shaking as she took the mobile out of her handbag in the dark room and headed towards the toilet. Then she felt his presence looming over her. She hadn’t heard him, but there he was, standing in the hall, leaning against the wall, arms folded. ‘The toilet’s over there, I think,’ he said, pointing.

As she moved towards the door, he said, ‘What’s that in your hand?’

‘What do you mean?’ Alex tried to shove the phone in the pocket of her jeans, hoping he wouldn’t notice in the semi-darkness. But her jeans were too tight; she missed the pocket, and the phone fell to the carpet.

‘Oh, dear,’ he said, not moving. ‘Keep going. I think I’d better stay with you, though. You’re a tricky one, you are.’

Alex went into the toilet, and when he blocked the doorway behind her, following her inside, she realised the full extent of what he meant.

‘You can stand outside,’ she said.

‘I don’t think so. You’ve already shown you can’t be trusted.’ He shut the door and leaned back on it. ‘Go on, then, get your jeans down. Tinkle, tinkle. Chop chop.’

Alex reached deep for the last shreds of defiance. ‘No,’ she said, hoping she sounded firm. ‘Not with you standing there, you sick bastard.’

An odd smile crossed his face, not like the other one, but just as chilling in its way, then he opened the door for her. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Piss yourself, then, if that’s what you want.’

Alex edged out, careful not to brush against him. She thought they were going back into the living room but her blood froze when he opened Ian’s bedroom door. She rushed towards him. ‘What are you—’

He pushed her aside and blocked the open doorway, turning to look in on the sleeping child. Alex tried to get past him, to stand between him and Ian, but it was no good.

‘What a sweet scene,’ said Meadows. ‘It’s all right. Calm down, love. No one’s going to get hurt.’

‘You dare lay—’

‘Enough melodramatics. You know every bit as well as I do that if I wanted to lay a finger on him there’s nothing you could do to stop me.’

‘I’ll scratch your fucking eyes out.’ Alex launched herself towards him, arms outstretched, but he dodged aside and pushed her back. She hit the wall with such force that it stunned her, and she slid to the floor. Even then, as she was falling, she saw the dropped mobile phone and tried to reach for it, but Meadows was too quick. Before she could get a grip on it, he trod on it with all his weight and crushed it, then he shifted his foot to the index finger that she had almost managed to hook around it and trod hard on that, too. She screamed in pain. He put a finger to his lips. ‘Ssshhh,’ he said. ‘The boy’s sleeping. We don’t want to wake him right now, do we? No telling what might happen.’

Ian stirred in bed but he didn’t wake up. Alex bit back her pain and remained silent. She didn’t know what would happen if Ian woke up now and saw Meadows in his doorway, but it wasn’t something she dared contemplate.

Meadows squatted, his knees cracking loudly, and put his face close to hers. His breath smelled of Polo mints. ‘Look, Miss Preston. We don’t want any trouble. We just want Michael Lane. Your lad looks like a decent kid. It’d be a tragedy if anything happened to him, wouldn’t it? An accident walking by the river or falling out of a tree. Or on the roads. Not safe, these days, the roads. Kids get up to all sorts of dangerous mischief, don’t they. Know what I’m talking about?’

Alex nodded, cradling her throbbing finger.

‘So let’s keep it simple. Tell us where Michael Lane is, and everyone lives happily ever after.’

‘I . . . don’t . . . know,’ Alex gasped.

Meadows stood up and scratched his temple. ‘Know what?’ he said. ‘I believe you. But I’m also sure that if he hasn’t been in touch already, he will be very soon, and when he is, I want to know. Understand?’

Alex nodded.

Meadows walked towards the front door.

Alex held her breath. ‘How do I get in touch?’ she asked.

He turned. ‘That’s more like it.’ He handed her a card. On it was a printed number. ‘And there’s no use handing it over to the police,’ he said. ‘They won’t get anywhere with it, and it’ll only make things worse for you. And your son.’ He glanced at Alex’s hand. ‘Don’t forget. You’ve still got seven fingers and two thumbs left. Not to mention the boy.’ Then he took his raincoat off the hook and left.

Chapter 4

About the last thing Banks wanted to be doing so soon in the mucky grey light just after dawn on a mizzling March morning was stand around the Riverview Caravan Site looking at the smouldering 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 for 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 drink-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 enquired 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 burnt rubber, in its own way almost as bad as the smell of human innards at a post-mortem. 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 neighbouring 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 narrowboat fire. He greeted Banks, Annie and Gerry with his usual courtesy and pointed towards 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 flame-thrower?’

‘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 ideas 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’ closest neighbour 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 agent’s. 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 form. GBH and breaking and entering. I’m still working on this removals van Morgan might have owned, but rumour has it he had a lock-up 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 realms 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 realised. 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.