‘And this Morgan has a good reputation?’
‘I suppose he must have.’
‘Could he be the one who texted Michael about a job yesterday morning?’
‘It’s likely,’ said Alex. ‘It’s what he usually does. Last minute, as often as not.’
‘Have you rung Morgan?’
‘No. I don’t know his number. But I know where he lives. He’s got a caravan at that site down by the river, you know, near Hindswell Woods.’
‘Riverview?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Well, it’s a start, I suppose,’ said Annie, nodding towards Doug Wilson, who was busy scribbling in his notebook between stolen glances at Alex.
‘Can you give me Michael’s mobile number?’ Wilson asked. ‘And tell me the full names and addresses of the friends you mentioned, Miss Preston, including this Morgan character? Phone numbers, too, if you have them. And do you have a recent photograph of Michael we can borrow?’
‘Please, call me Alex,’ she said, smiling.
Annie could see that Doug was hers forever. He carefully wrote down the names and addresses, mostly just a street name, occasionally a telephone number Alex retrieved from her mobile’s contacts. It was enough to be going on with. Back at the station, they could put DC Masterson on it. Nobody could track down a name, address or phone number as fast as she could. ‘We’ll check again with them all,’ said Annie. ‘Just in case. One of them might remember something he said, something that might not have seemed important at the time.’
Alex disappeared into the other room and came back with a photo of Michael posing casually on the balcony, with the view of Eastvale spread out in the background. ‘That was taken two weeks ago,’ she said. ‘I took it myself. You remember, that nice weekend near the end of last month?’ She handed over the photo, then put her hands to her face. ‘Oh, God, what can have happened to him?’
‘I know you’re worried, Alex,’ Annie said, ‘but I’ve had a lot of experience with this sort of thing, and there’s almost always no cause for concern. I bet you we’ll have Michael back home with you in no time.’
‘It’s true,’ added Doug Wilson. ‘Leave it to us. Is there anywhere you think he might have gone? A favourite place, a hideaway? You know, if he got upset about his father, or you had an argument or something? Somewhere he’d go to be alone, to think things over, feel safe and secure?’
Annie thought it was a good question to ask, and she watched Alex as she thought her way through it and framed an answer.
‘I don’t really know. I mean, he always feels safe and secure here, with us. He doesn’t need an escape. We haven’t really had any fights, not serious fights where either of us has gone off alone. Michael does like long walks by himself, though. I think it’s a habit he developed in his childhood, you know, growing up on the farm.’ She laughed. ‘You had to walk a long way to get anywhere, where he lived.’
‘Anywhere in particular?’ Wilson asked.
‘Just around the dale in general,’ said Alex, ‘though I’m sure it’s not something he’d do in this weather.’
‘We have to cover all the possibilities, Miss— Alex,’ said Wilson.
Alex favoured him with another smile. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘If I could think of where he might be, don’t you think I’d tell you? I can’t go looking for him myself. I don’t have the car, and there’s Ian…’
‘Don’t worry,’ Annie assured her, standing and giving Wilson the signal to close his notebook. ‘It’s our job. We’ll take care of it. Can we have a look at that computer now?’
They drew a blank on Michael’s computer. Nothing but a lot of spam and a few harmless emails from friends – nothing from Morgan, no references to tractor-thieving sprees, as far as Annie could gather – and his photo collection, along with various software programmes for manipulating images. The photos, mostly landscapes and people at work around farms, were as good as the framed ones in the living room. There was no porn, and no record of porn sites in his bookmarks or browsing history. Either he was happy with what he had, or he had gone to great pains to erase his tracks. Annie guessed the former. Most of the bookmarks were for travel-related sites and photo-posting services such as Flickr. If this business went any further, of course, the computer would have to go to Liam in technical support for a thorough examination, and if there was anything dodgy on it, or ever had been, he would find it, but there was no reason to suspect that it was hiding deep and dirty secrets just yet.
‘You’ll ring me as soon as you find him?’ Alex asked at the door.
‘We’ll ring you,’ said Annie. She took out a card, scribbled on the back and handed it to Alex. ‘And I hope you’ll call me if you hear from Michael. My mobile number’s on the back.’
They didn’t even bother trying the lift. On their way down the stairs, Annie heard a cry of pain as they went through the fifth-floor gauntlet. Doug Wilson was behind her, hands in his pockets, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and behind him one of the hoodies was bent over, hands cupping his groin. The others were too shocked to move.
‘Tut-tut, Dougal,’ said Annie, smiling. ‘Who’s been a naughty boy, then?’
Chapter 3
Morgan Spencer lived on a caravan site across the River Swain from Hindswell Woods, about half a mile west of town. The Riverview Caravan Park wasn’t anywhere near as attractive as its name suggested. There was a river view for the first row of caravans, but as the meadow they were parked in was flat, all the rest could see was other caravans blocking the view. Most were permanent fixtures, up on blocks, though there were a few spaces for temporary sojourners. Of the permanent caravans, by far the majority belonged to people in Leeds, Bradford, Darlington or Teesside, who used them for weekend getaways. It wasn’t far to travel, and it was the Yorkshire Dales, after all, river view or no river view. At least you could see the trees and hills on the other side and go for long bracing walks in the country. Quite a few people lived in the park year-round, the site manager told them, and Morgan Spencer was one of them. Annie had already heard the rumour that many of those who lived in Riverview Caravan Park were what the Americans would call ‘trailer trash’. ‘Caravan trash’ didn’t sound anywhere near as apt a description, she thought, perhaps because it lacked the alliteration. The park’s only attraction for occasional holiday visitors was that it was cheap.
The caravans were set out in neat rows stretching back from the riverbank across the meadow, each with a parking space beside it, though none of them was big enough for a large van. Some of the homes looked well maintained, with a fresh paint job, awning over the door, a window box or hanging basket. Others looked more neglected, resting unevenly on their concrete supports, sagging at one end, windows dirty and covered on the inside with makeshift moth-eaten curtains made of old bedding or tea towels. Because of the rain over the last few days, the field was a quagmire, and any grass there may have been before had been trampled into the mud. It reminded Annie of the time she went to Glastonbury as a teenager. It had rained the entire weekend. Even the Boomtown Rats weren’t worth getting that wet for.
Annie and Doug Wilson left their car at the paved entrance, beside the site office, which was deserted at the moment, put on their wellies again and went the rest of the way on foot. They found Spencer’s caravan on the third row back from the riverbank. On a scale of one to ten, it was about a six, which is to say, not bad, but a little on the run-down side. There was nothing parked beside it. Annie’s first knock produced no reaction, only an empty echo from inside. She strained to listen but heard no sound of movement. Her second knock produced an opening door, but in the neighbouring caravan, not Spencer’s.