‘Don’t worry. We won’t keep you. Is Morgan often away for long stretches of time?’
‘I wouldn’t really know. I haven’t paid much attention to his comings and goings, and Ellie and me aren’t always up here. He’s often gone for the weekends when we do come. Maybe he does have a girlfriend hidden away somewhere. It’s been such a miserable spring so far that we haven’t been up much at all this year – hence the leaks. We were just as well off staying in Donny and getting a few jobs done around the house there.’
Campbell was obviously one of those cheerful DIYers who spent all their time at B & Q comparing spanners, toolboxes or bathroom tiles. Annie could understand doing your own maintenance to save a few bob, maybe, but clambering up a ladder and hammering in nails for fun, or laying tiles? That, she couldn’t grasp. Even Banks enjoyed it from time to time, and he seemed proud of the little fixtures and alterations he had made around Newhope Cottage. He’d done a lot of work on the conservatory himself, for example. It must be a bloke thing, she thought, like hogging the TV remote, not asking directions or insisting on doing the barbecue when they didn’t even know how to boil an egg.
When Annie’s roof had sprung a small leak in the worst of the summer rains last year, the roofer she called said it was too small a job for him and suggested that perhaps she could do it herself with a spot of lead and bitumen. She had almost suffered an anxiety attack on the spot. Luckily, she had found a local handyman who was eager to make a few quid and was more than happy to clamber up on the roof and do the work for fifty quid, cash on the nail, no questions asked, and no ladder, either, Health and Safety be buggered. Ah, the underground economy. ‘When did you last see Morgan?’ Annie asked.
Campbell sucked on his lower lip. ‘Let me see… it’d be a while back. Three or four weeks. Remember, we had a nice spell of sunshine in late February, early March?’
‘What does he look like?’
‘Look like?’
‘Yes. Morgan. His appearance.’
‘Well, he’s a bit shorter than me, about five foot eight, and stockier, I’d say, curly brown hair cut very short, and a sort of round face. More oval, maybe. Light coloured, or light brown, enough so you can tell one of his parents is black. His dad, I suppose. No facial hair. He should have, though. Bit of a weak chin. There’s nothing that really stands out about him, except he’s got a slight limp in his left leg. Fell off a roof once when he was a kid, or so he told me. Oh, and he’s got one of those spider tattoos on his neck. Tends to be a bit flash with the bling too. Gold chains, rings and what have you.’
‘Do you keep an eye on his place when he’s not around?’
‘I keep an eye on things for anyone who’s not around. When I’m here, that is. The others do the same when we’re not here. It’s not exactly a crime hot spot, but we get the occasional break-in, as you probably know.’
‘Notice anyone nosying around lately?’
‘Only you.’
Annie laughed. ‘How old would you say Morgan is?’
‘Early twenties. Thereabouts. Not much more.’
‘Clothes?’
‘Usually jeans and some sort of work shirt, or T-shirt if the weather’s warm. Baggy jeans. Not those with the crotch around the knees and belt around the thighs, but just… you know… baggy. Relaxed fit.’
‘Plenty of wiggle room?’ said Annie.
‘That’s right.’
‘Does he need it?’
‘Morgan’s not fat. Just stocky, like I said.’
‘Hat?’
‘Sometimes. Baseball cap, wrong way round. A red one. I don’t know if it’s got a logo. I’d have to see him from the back.’
Doug Wilson jotted the description down.
‘Do you know where he keeps his van?’
‘What van?’
‘I understand Morgan’s in the house removal business. He has a large van.’
‘I didn’t know that. Sorry, but I’ve no idea. I do know he rides a motorbike. A Yamaha. He usually keeps it parked beside the caravan.’
Annie could think of nothing more, but when they got to the door she asked on impulse. ‘Do you have a key to Morgan’s caravan?’
‘No. Why? Do you think something’s happened to him?’
‘We have no idea. As I said, we’re just trying to find his mate, Michael Lane.’
‘Sorry I can’t help.’
‘Do you think we could have a look around his caravan?’
‘Got a search warrant?’
‘Come on, Rick. You were a copper once.’
‘It might just be a shitty old caravan to you, love, but it’s home to Morgan. Come back with a warrant and Ted’ll probably let you in. But, I warn you, he’s as much a stickler as I am. We look out for one another around these parts.’
‘In adversity, solidarity,’ said Annie. She didn’t know where she’d heard that before, but it sounded good. ‘I’ll bear that in mind. No problem. Thanks for your time.’
They struggled back into their wellies on the steps. ‘I really bollocksed that up, didn’t I?’ Annie said to Doug Wilson as they squelched back to the car. She could feel Campbell’s eyes on them as she walked.
‘In what way? Wilson asked.
‘The phoney camaraderie. Didn’t fall for it, did he? I was hoping for a look around Spencer’s caravan.’
‘Not your fault, boss,’ said Wilson. ‘If you ask me, the way things are going we’ll be back with a warrant tomorrow if we want.’
Annie Cabbot watched the door as Banks and AC Gervaise walked into the boardroom, deep in conversation, for the late briefing. The team was already assembled: Annie herself, Doug Wilson, Winsome Jackman, Gerry Masterson, Stefan Nowak and Jazz Singh, along with a couple of other CSI officers, Peter Darby, the police photographer, and PCs Kim Trevor and Derek Bowland. They all sat round the polished oval table under the gaze of the old wool magnates with bulbous red and purple noses and tight collars. Legal pads and Styrofoam cups of tea, coffee or water sat on the boardroom table in front of them. A plate of biscuits stood at the centre.
Banks and AC Gervaise took their positions by the two whiteboards and the glass board, which looked to Annie like something out of an American cop programme. She kept expecting it to light up with pictures and charts and blow-ups of fingerprints whenever Banks touched it, or moving and talking images he could shift around with a simple wave of his hand. But it wasn’t that good. Right now, there wasn’t much on any of the boards, except the names of the various players and the times of significant events, along with a few of Darby’s photos from the hangar, about which Annie had heard only recently, having been away most of the day. Apparently the CSIs had found some human blood, but they were still short of a body. A manned mobile crime unit had been set up on the compound just outside the hangar, and half a dozen or so CSIs were still at work out there. Shifts of uniformed officers would be guarding the scene until further notice.
Annie looked at the whiteboard while Banks and Gervaise settled down. Two hand-sketched maps were tacked up there, one of the area around Beddoes’ farm and the other of the hangar area. They identified access roads and footpaths. From what Annie could see, there weren’t many in either location. Rural crime at its best.
Banks shuffled his papers, stood up and opened the briefing. ‘I think we’d better start off by pooling our information. As you all probably know, I just got back from leave this morning, so the only case I’m current on is an apparent killing, or serious wounding, at the old abandoned aerodrome near Drewick, though the AC has filled me in briefly on one or two other developments that may possibly be related.’ He looked at Annie. ‘I understand you and Doug have been working on a stolen tractor and missing person?’
Annie rolled her eyes. ‘So it would appear,’ she said. ‘Not officially “missing”, but we haven’t been able to locate him yet. Or his mate.’ Then she went on to explain about John Beddoes and Frank Lane, not leaving out Michael Lane and Alex Preston, or Morgan Spencer. When she had finished, she leaned back in her chair and tapped her pen on her notepad.