‘Maybe you could pay a visit to this Hallerby tomorrow, Winsome, and see if anyone saw lorries, or any other traffic, heading to or from the A1 via that road this weekend. Someone must have seen or heard something coming out of the woods. It might have appeared odd or rare enough to remember.’
‘Sir,’ said Winsome.
‘Is that all?’ Banks asked, glancing around the room.
‘There is one more thing, sir,’ Doug Wilson said.
‘Doug?’
‘When DI Cabbot and I went to talk to Morgan Spencer, he wasn’t home, like DI Cabbot said. His neighbour hasn’t seen him all weekend. We didn’t have a search warrant, and he’s ex-job, so he wouldn’t have us taking a butcher’s. We’ll be needing a search warrant.’
Banks looked towards AC Gervaise.
‘Get back there tomorrow morning and have a good look around,’ she said. ‘Talk to his other neighbours on the site, too. I’ll see to the warrant first thing. But make sure you ask the site manager first and explain your predicament. If he doesn’t have a key, then you’ll have to break in, but only if, and only after you have the warrant in your hand. OK?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Gervaise looked at her watch and stood up. ‘Why don’t you all go home now and get some rest? Tomorrow looks like a busy day. We’ve got a stolen tractor, two young men we’d like to find and talk to and the makings of a suspicious death at an abandoned airfield. For the moment these are separate cases, and I’ll see that actions are issued accordingly. But for crying out loud, keep open minds, all of you.’ She pointed towards the timeline on the whiteboard. ‘You know how I feel about coincidences. If you come across one shred of evidence you think links the cases, then report it to me immediately, and we’ll change our strategy. Clear?’
Annie and the rest nodded, then they made their way out of the boardroom. After one or two brief conversations in the corridor, the team dispersed. At last, Annie thought, as she picked up her coat from the squad room, it was time to go home. Now she could enjoy what she had been wanting all day: that hot bath and stack of trashy magazines.
Terry Gilchrist had just put his feet up for an hour’s reading before dinner when the doorbell rang. His leg hurt and he cursed mildly as he got to his feet and went to answer it. He could see only a blurred figure through the frosted glass, but when he opened the door he saw the beautiful black detective standing there. At least he thought she was beautiful. He hoped his mouth hadn’t dropped as far as he felt it had. Since he’d been to war then invalided back home, he seemed to have lost whatever facility he had ever possessed with the opposite sex. He had certainly had no interest in the brothels of Helmand Province, and opportunities to meet other kinds of women outside the armed forces themselves had been few and far between. Now here stood a woman who probably suspected him of murder. He had been friendly with one of the military investigators out in Helmand, who had worked on the Met as a detective, and he knew they always suspected the person who reported the crime. Still, she was smiling, and that was a good sign.
‘Come in,’ he said, standing aside and gesturing towards the living room.
‘Hope I didn’t disturb anything,’ she said. ‘I have a few more follow-up questions for you.’
‘Not at all. Just having a sit-down.’ She had an intriguing voice, he thought. At first he had hardly noticed it, as she appeared to speak unaccented English, but if he listened closely he could hear intermingled undertones of Jamaican and Yorkshire. It was a unique blend, and he’d challenge any actor, however skilled, to reproduce it.
She sat down gracefully, crossing her long legs. He noticed her glancing at his leg as he walked by and used his arms to lower himself back into the armchair.
‘I suppose it could be worse,’ she said. ‘I mean the leg. Worse things than ending up with a slight limp.’ He got the impression from her awkward tone that he had embarrassed her by catching her looking at his disability.
‘Much worse. The alternatives hardly bear thinking about. Believe it or not, I’m on the mend. The doctors assure me the stick will go completely soon, but they fear the limp will persist. I don’t mean to complain, but the devil of it is that I’m used to outdoor pursuits. I used to love long-distance running, golf, tennis, even a little fishing and potholing now and then.’
‘Potholing?’ Winsome said. ‘I used to do that.’
‘Used to? What happened?’
‘I got lost once, and the water was rising. I’m afraid I panicked a bit. It sort of put me off.’
‘I suppose if you stop to think what you’re doing when you’re lost in a cold wet cave a hundred feet under the ground, it might seem like a sort of crazy thing to do.’
Winsome laughed. He liked her laugh, and that he could make her laugh. ‘I almost came a cropper,’ she went on. ‘I was in the narrowest section, you know, worming my way through to the ledge overlooking the big cavern at Gaping Gill. When you panic, you just get yourself more stuck. They found me and got me out, of course, but I think I must have lost my nerve after that. I thought there could be a sudden shower and I’d just drown like a… well, drown.’
‘It can be very dangerous down there.’ Gilchrist sipped his coffee. ‘I’m glad you didn’t.’
‘What?’
‘Drown.’
‘Oh, yes, Me, too.’
They both laughed.
‘Perhaps we could go together?’ Gilchrist said. ‘Potholing, that is. When all this is over.’ He tapped his leg. ‘This wouldn’t be much of a hindrance. Maybe I can help you get your nerve back?’
‘Maybe. We’ll have to see.’ Her tone sounded clipped, as if she were cutting off the possibility. Gilchrist felt disproportionately disappointed. After all, he hardly knew her. Was it forward to ask a woman you found attractive to go potholing with you? He no longer had any idea about the propriety or etiquette of such things. Best shut up about it and get to the questions she had come to ask him, stick to the point of her visit. To do otherwise would only be to invite grief.
‘Do you remember anything more about those lorries you mentioned?’ she asked. ‘Any markings or anything?’
Now they were back on familiar terrain, but even this Gilchrist found painful. He used to pride himself on his keen powers of observation and memory – he would probably have made a good detective himself, his CO had once said – but since the explosion, his memory seemed to have gone the same way as his leg. He only hoped it would recover as well in time. ‘I don’t think they had any markings,’ he said. ‘I don’t remember any.’
‘When you saw them, what did you think they were doing there?’
‘I must admit I had no idea. It’s like when you see all those juggernauts by the roadside at Scotch Corner. Drivers having a nap or something. They have their routines. I know they’re only supposed to drive a limited number of hours per day. They have to sleep somewhere, and it saves on B & B money if they sleep in the cab. These were smaller, so sleeping in the cab was probably out. In the back, maybe.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Winsome. ‘Did you ever get the impression they were delivering something, or picking something up? Ever see anyone loading or anything like that?’
Terry shook his head. ‘I think I would remember if I had,’ he said, feeling far from certain that he would.
‘What about the children you said you saw playing there? Do you know any of them?’
‘I’ve thrown their ball back to them once or twice, but I wouldn’t say I know them. Not by name. They’re from the village. As I said, they’re all right, really, but the older ones do tend to be antisocial, or just suspicious of strangers. Maybe rightly so.’