Abattoir Blues (16 page)

‘Or down,’ said Joanna. ‘How do you know they didn’t come from Newcastle, or Edinburgh, Glasgow?’

‘Point taken. Or down. But one way or another we’re looking at placing a vehicle, or vehicles, at the abandoned airfield between, say, half nine and ten o’clock, which means they would have come off the A1 about a mile from the village of Hallerby five minutes earlier. Or from the junctions at Thirsk or Northallerton.’

‘You’d be surprised how much data that involves, but I’d say we could probably do it, yes. Remember, though, we’re only interested in specific vehicles. We’ve got a definite location and a specific time frame. What exactly are you looking for?’

‘In the first place, anyone on your list, any of your specific vehicles, anyone suspected of having even the remotest involvement in rural crime on a large scale being spotted at that place and time. Secondly, anyone you’ve been tracking for some time, anyone who seems to have made an inordinate number of trips up there for no apparent reason. Also, anyone with a criminal record of any kind, especially for violent offences.’

‘That latter request might be a difficult one,’ Joanna said. ‘It’s not really within our parameters to check all number plates for convicted criminals. Needless to say, we can’t actually tell you who was driving the car or lorry at the time, just that it passed such and such a location. And it’s not as if we’re out there writing down the numbers of all the cars that pass by. It’s a very specific operation, precise, targeted.’

Banks slipped out his notebook and gave her Michael Lane’s number plate. ‘It would help if we could know whether he’d been in the area or not, too,’ he said. ‘And we’re tracking down another number, a large van used for removals. We think it may have been involved in the theft of the tractor.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Joanna. ‘But, remember, some of these people are clever.’

‘Everyone slips up sometime. And it’s just possible that someone might have been in a hurry. It looks as if there was a shooting at the hangar, Joanna. It’s not just a stolen tractor or a few missing sheep now. It could be murder.’

Chapter 6

Caleb Ross had been driving around the dales farms for thirty-five years, thirty of them for Vaughn’s ABP, always the white vans with the high sides, covered and leakproof, in their various incarnations. He wouldn’t say he knew the roads the way he knew the gnarled veins on the backs of his hands, but he knew most of them well enough that he didn’t have to drive every inch; he could usually let the internal cruise control take over for a while. He was also used to people overtaking him. Everyone wanted to overtake him, no matter what speed he was travelling, so he had learned to stay at a reasonable fifty and to wave drivers on when he could see that the road ahead was clear. If anyone honked a horn at him, he never heard it because he was always playing his loud music, usually of the kind known as progressive rock, from Rick Wakeman to Genesis and Emerson, Lake & Palmer. He liked the operatic structures of the concept albums and the fantastic stories they told –
The Six Wives of Henry VIII
,
Journey to the Centre of the Earth
,
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
– they kept him interested as he did what was, most of the time, an extremely dull job. And an occasional puff or two on the old wacky baccy didn’t do any harm, either.

Early on Tuesday afternoon, he was driving south over Belderfell Pass from the western end of Swainsdale, listening to Pink Floyd’s ‘Grantchester Meadows’. It was not as progressive as some of the music he liked, but it suited his mood. He loved the drive for its panoramic views with nothing but an occasional abandoned farmhouse, a distant dot on the vast landscape. Even in March, the greens were rich on the lower pastures and contrasted sharply with the patches of sere grass higher up. Belderfell Beck ran far below, a thin silver line winding along the narrow groove of the valley bottom, and squiggly lines of rills meandered down the daleside.

But Caleb didn’t enjoy the journey so much on days like this. On days like this, only the experienced, the foolhardy and the lost ventured over Belderfell Pass. It had been clear when Caleb had made his way up the hill out of Swainsdale, but now heavy clouds massed and threatened from the north and west, and the wind was getting up, changing direction every few seconds, buffeting the high sides of the van. Caleb gripped the steering wheel tight.

He lit a cigarette and shuffled in his seat to get more comfortable. Beside the road, which hugged the steep valley side, the land fell away on his left, a long, sheer drop littered with rocky outcrops. It seemed especially dizzying when you were driving south, magnetic, too, as if the edge were calling you over, drawing you to it. Caleb tried to stick close to the centre of the road. Sheep grazed and wandered on and off the road, which was fenced only sporadically.

Caleb was driving carefully, but he had a schedule to keep, and he was already running late, so perhaps his foot was pressed down a little harder than it should have been. There again, the faster he got over the pass, the less likely it was that the conditions would worsen while he was up there. At least it wasn’t raining yet, and there was no ice on the road.

Then it happened, it seemed, with the change in direction of one rough blast of wind. The next thing Caleb knew, hailstones as big as marbles were pelting down on the van, almost hard enough to shatter the windscreen. He certainly heard them over the music, and he felt as he imagined a soldier might feel under fire. Instinctively, he found himself hunkering down in his seat, as if he were dodging bullets, wondering if he should pull over until it stopped. Sometimes these storms were blessedly brief. The soothing pastoral of ‘Grantchester Meadows’ played on through the bombardment.

Before he could make up his mind, the hail pellets started falling so thickly that for a moment he couldn’t see a thing, only hear the unrelenting rat-a-tat-tat on the metal and glass, and then he saw a dark shadow looming towards him, a frightened sheep running in front of the van, right into his path. He was at one of the steepest points of the pass, and he knew he was still too close to the centre of the road. He felt himself hit the sheep before he jerked the steering wheel to avoid what he now saw was an oncoming car, but the combination of hail, shock, speed and lack of visibility disoriented him so much that, before he knew it, he crashed right through the flimsy fence and became airborne.

For a split second, he had the strangest sensation of being free. He had no control. There was nothing he could do. He was floating, cut loose from all that bound him to the world, and it came as a great ecstatic rush of release. But the euphoria soon gave way to panic as the van nosedived down to the valley bottom with the gentle music still playing and hailstones tapping their staccato rhythm on the metal, Caleb screaming as he scrambled to unfasten his safety belt. Maybe if he jumped . . . ? But he didn’t have time. The van had almost reached the bottom when it hit a huge limestone outcrop square on. The engine block smashed through the dashboard, taking the steering wheel with it, and squashed Caleb in his seat as a wanton boy might squash a fly. Then the van shattered into pieces and scattered itself and its load over the valley bottom.

Before the last scrap of metal had stopped spinning, the hailstorm ended, and the sun lanced through the clouds.

Winsome and Gerry Masterson arrived in Hallerby after a morning of paperwork and phone calls, and parked outside the George and Dragon. Winsome glanced around the village. The houses lining the road were mostly modern semis or short terraces, built of red brick, with a mix of slate and red pantile roofs, the occasional bay window and a touch of pebble-dash in evidence. There was no country charm here, though one or two larger, detached homes stood back from the road, closer to the riverbank, and seemed older and grander. There was no village green, as everything was spread out along the roadside: a small four-square chapel, the George and Dragon, a row of shops including a hairdresser, general store and outdoor gear supplier, a community hall, and a fish and chip shop. The church was behind the row of shops, reached by a narrow ginnel, and Winsome could just see the tips of the tombstones in the cemetery. That was about it for Hallerby. At least the sun was shining, even though there was a definite chill in the air, and on the eastern horizon Winsome could see the Hambleton Hills catching light.

‘Where should we start?’ asked Gerry.

Winsome nodded towards the pub. ‘Why not here?’ she said. ‘Let’s take a leaf out of the boss’s book. These places are usually the hub of village gossip. Besides,’ she added, ‘I hate knocking on doors. It makes me feel like a commercial traveller. And the dogs can drive you crazy.’

Gerry smiled. ‘I remember from my uniform days,’ she said.

Winsome gave her an appraising look. Her ‘uniform’ days weren’t far behind, but she was showing excellent promise as a detective, especially in the fields of intelligence-gathering and computers. There didn’t seem to be any fact or snippet of information that was beyond the touch of her fingers on a keyboard. It was the other, more human, skills she needed to develop.

‘It’s a miracle the place is still open,’ said Winsome. ‘So many village pubs seem to be closing for good these days.’

The interior seemed dark after the bright sunlight, but their eyes soon adjusted. It was a modern pub, not one of those old-fashioned places with lots of brass and heavy varnished wood. The tables were square and made of some sort of black synthetic substance. The chairs had tubular legs. There was even a carpet on the floor. Video machines flashed and winked on the far side of the room. The lunch menu was chalked on a board on the wall and offered the usual pub grub.

‘What’ll you have?’ Winsome asked.

‘Diet bitter lemon, please.’

‘Sure you don’t want something a bit stronger?’

‘You must be joking,’ said Gerry. ‘If the boss found out we’d been drinking on the job he’d go spare.’

Winsome smiled. ‘I do hear he’s not averse to a tipple himself now and then.’

Gerry laughed. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

Winsome ordered two diet bitter lemons and turned to the barman after he had taken the small bottles from the glass-covered refrigerated area. ‘Are you the landlord?’ she asked.

‘For my sins. Gordon Fullerton. At your service.’

Winsome flashed him her identification card and introduced Gerry.

‘I thought I recognised you from the papers,’ Fullerton said. ‘Aren’t you the—’

‘Mind if we ask you a few questions?’ Winsome cut in. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s not a social call.’

‘There’s not been any trouble, has there? I keep a quiet pub, and you won’t find any after hours drinking here, either, whether the local bobby’s in or not.’

Winsome thought he was protesting too much, but she wasn’t interested in after hours drinking. ‘No, it’s nothing like that. We’re here because of your location.’

‘Location?’ Fullerton scratched his head, and Winsome noticed a few flakes of dandruff float to the shoulders of his brown cardigan. His wispy greyish hair looked both uncombed and unwashed, though he was otherwise presentable. Clean-shaven, with a small nick on his chin, clear-eyed behind wire-rimmed glasses, not too much of a pot belly, as far as she could see. There were only four other customers in the place, two couples occupying separate tables and engaged in eating their lasagne and chips. If business was always as bad as this, Winsome found herself wondering if the pub could last much longer. There couldn’t be enough drinkers in the village to support it, and people were so scared of drinking and driving these days, they mostly stayed home to drink. Also, money was tight, the economy poor, and people tended to buy their home supplies cheaply at Bargain Booze and drink while they watched telly in the evening, instead of going to the local any more. It was a shame, really, she thought, though she had never been much of a pub-goer herself, a whole tradition slowly dying. But times change. Nowadays it was all city centre wine bars and gastropubs, for those who could afford them, and a taxi home.

‘That lane heading off the High Street just outside, know where it goes?’ she asked.

‘Kirkway Lane? Aye. It’s centuries old. Roman, I think. It runs through Kirkway Woods, then across a few patches of waste ground beside an old airfield up Drewick way. I think it used to go all the way up to Northallerton years ago, but now it sort of peters out in the woods just past the airfield. Nobody uses it much these days. We just get the odd lorry now and then.’

‘Lorries? How often?’

‘Not that often.’

‘How many times a week?’ Winsome persisted.

‘Certainly not every week. Far more irregular. I’ve seen them maybe three, four times in the past year or so.’

‘Coming or going?’

‘Both. They come off the High Street from the direction of the A1 and turn left up Kirkwood Lane. Then later they come back down, turn right and head back towards the A1.’

‘How much later?’

‘An hour, two. I don’t stand around watching and waiting, you know, but sometimes it’s devilish quiet around here. Mostly I’ve just heard them.’

‘What time do they usually arrive?’

‘I don’t really remember. Different times, I suppose.’

‘Any particular days of the week?’

‘Not so as I remember.’

‘Did any of them have any markings? A company name or logo or something?’

‘No, they’re just plain lorries, as a rule.’

‘How big are they?’

‘It varies. You can’t get anything really big up there, like those juggernauts or pantechnicons, or whatever they call them. Just lorries.’

‘Big enough to hold a tractor or a combine?’ asked Winsome.

‘Not a combine, I shouldn’t think,’ said Fullerton. ‘That road’s too narrow. Tractors and other heavy equipment, though. Aye. Why?’

‘Livestock?’

‘Well, they’re not your typical livestock transporters, but I don’t see as to why they couldn’t be used for that. What’s going on?’

‘When was the last time you saw or heard one?’