Peter Robinson
Abattoir Blues
For Sheila
‘But look at these lonely houses, each in its own fields, filled for the most part with poor ignorant folk who know little of the law. Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on, year in, year out, in such places, and none the wiser.’
Chapter 1
Terry Gilchrist came out of the woods opposite the large hangar, which loomed ahead of him like a storage area for crashed alien spaceships in New Mexico. Only he wasn’t in New Mexico; he was in North Yorkshire.
It stood at the centre of a large area of cracked and weed-covered concrete, its perimeter surrounded by a seven-foot chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. A large sign on the padlocked double gates read private – keep out. About a quarter of a mile beyond the hangar, a passenger train sped by on the East Coast line, heading for King’s Cross.
As he usually did at this point on the walk, Gilchrist let Peaches off her leash. The space was open far enough that he could easily keep an eye on her, and she always came back when he whistled or called her name.
Peaches sniffed around the edges of the fence, and before long she had found a way in, probably the same hole the kids used when they went there to play cricket or smoke joints and try to feel up the local girls. This time, instead of continuing to sniff around the concrete and weeds, Peaches headed for the dark opening of the hangar and disappeared inside.
While he waited for her to finish her business, Gilchrist leaned his stick against a tree, stretched his arms out to prop himself up against the trunk and started doing a series of simple leg exercises the army medics had given him. They were already pleased with his progress: out walking, albeit with a stick, after only four months, when they had at first thought the leg was as good as gone. But Gilchrist wanted rid of the stick now, and the only way to do that was to build up the damaged muscle tissue little by little. His leg might never look the same, but he was determined that it would function as well as it ever had.
When he had done, Peaches had still not reappeared, so he whistled and called her name. All he got in reply was a bark followed by a whine. He called again, adding a bit more authority to his tone, and the whining went on for longer, but Peaches didn’t reappear. She wasn’t coming back. What the hell was wrong with her?
Irritated, Gilchrist grasped his stick again and made his way along the side of the fence, searching for the gap Peaches had found. When he saw it, his heart sank. He could get in, of that he was certain, but it would be a difficult and painful business. And messy. He called again. Peaches continued barking and whining, as if she were calling him.
To get through the hole, Gilchrist had to lie flat on the wet ground and edge slowly forward, sticking his arms through first and pushing back against the fencing to propel himself along. There was an immediate familiarity in lying on his belly that flooded his mind with fear, more a cellular or muscular memory than anything else, and he almost froze. Then he heard Peaches barking through the haze and carried on. Standing up was another awkward manoeuvre, as he could hardly bend his leg without causing extreme pain, but he made it, hanging on the links of the fence and using them as climbing grips. Finally, he stood panting and leaned back against the fence, clothes damp and muddy, then he grabbed his stick and made his way towards the hangar.
It was dim inside, but enough light came through the large opening to make it possible to see once his eyes had adjusted. Peaches was standing near the wall about thirty yards to his right; she was barking and her tail was wagging. Gilchrist made his way over, wondering what on earth was making her behave in such a wilful and excited manner. Irritation slowly gave way to curiosity.
The floor of the hangar was concreted over like the surrounding area, and it was just as cracked in places, weeds growing through despite the lack of light. He could hear rain tapping on the steel roofing and the wind moaning around the high dark spaces. He felt himself give an involuntary shudder as he approached Peaches.
Even in the dim light, it was easy to see that she was sniffing around a dark patch on the concrete, but it took the light from Gilchrist’s mobile phone to see that what interested her was a large bloodstain dotted with chips of bone and chunks of grey matter. Immediately, an image of blood on the sand flashed into his mind and he felt the panic rise like the bile in his throat.
Get a grip, he told himself, then he took several deep breaths and bent to peer more closely in the light of the mobile. He didn’t have Peaches’ acute sense of smell, but close up he picked up that rank and coppery smell of blood. It was a smell he remembered well.
The thought came into his mind unbidden: someone has died here.
‘A bloody stolen tractor,’ complained Annie Cabbot. ‘Would you merit it? I ask you, Doug. Is this why I put in all those years to make DI? Risked life and limb? Is this Homicide and Major Crimes? A stolen tractor? Is that why I was put on this earth?’
‘It’s rural crime,’ said DC Dougal Wilson, taking his eyes from the road for a moment to flash Annie a quick grin. ‘And rural crime is major crime. At least according to the new police commissioner.’
‘Christ, anyone would think it was election time again already.’
‘Well,’ said Wilson, ‘it’s not as if it’s the first piece of farm equipment gone missing over the past while, not to mention the occasional cow and sheep. And it is an expensive tractor.’
‘Even so… Is this farmer we’re going to see a personal friend of the commissioner’s?’
‘No, but I do believe his wife is a friend of Area Commander Gervaise. Book club, or something.’
‘Hmm. Didn’t know Madame Gervaise was a reader. Hidden depths. She and Alan must have a lot in common. And where is DCI Banks when you need him? I’ll tell you where. He’s off in Cumbria for a dirty weekend with his girlfriend, that’s where he is.’
‘I think you’ll find it’s Umbria, guv,’ muttered Wilson.
‘Umbria? That’s even worse. It’ll be sunny there.’ Annie paused as Wilson negotiated a narrow humped stone bridge. Annie had always been nervous about such bridges. There was no way you could see whether someone was coming from the other side. The best you could do was close your eyes and put your foot down. She closed her eyes. Wilson put his foot down. They made it. ‘What is it about these Italians?’ she went on. ‘First it was Joanna Passero, the one he went to Estonia with.’
‘She’s not Italian. She’s Scottish. Now she’s got divorced, she’s gone back to her maiden name. She’s just plain old Joanna MacDonald.’ Wilson blushed. ‘Well, not exactly plain, perhaps, but you know what I mean. Works at County HQ in Criminal Intelligence. Quite the rising star.’
‘I’ve always thought there was something criminal about the intelligence at County HQ,’ said Annie. She shot Wilson a suspicious glance. ‘Anyway, how do you know all this?’
Wilson pushed his glasses up on his nose. ‘One of the perks of being a lowly DC. Privilege of low rank. You get to hear all the good gossip.’
Annie smiled. ‘I remember. Vaguely. Still, a bloody stolen tractor. I ask you.’ She squinted at a road sign between the fast-beating windscreen wipers. ‘I think we’re here, Doug. The Beddoes’ farm. Here’s the track.’
‘I know. I can see it.’ Wilson turned so sharply that the car almost skidded into the ditch. The ground was sodden and the mud churned to the consistency of porridge. They hung on as the car bounced and squelched down the quarter mile of rough track that led to the farm itself, giving its shock absorbers a workout they probably didn’t need. At least it was a car from the police motor pool, Annie thought, not her new red Astra.