‘Not often. He keeps some pigs and poultry, doesn’t he? I think we’ve been out there a couple of times over the past few years.’
‘Caleb?’
‘I wouldn’t know offhand. We have several vans and drivers. I can check if you really want to know.’
‘If you would, please.
Vaughn walked over to the large filing cabinet, opened the top drawer and flipped through the folders. ‘I’m afraid you’re out of luck,’ he said after running his finger down the column for a few moments. ‘Mr Beddoes’ last pickup was November last year, and Todd Griffin and Pat Bingley did the job.’
‘Was Caleb Ross working on Monday?’
‘Yes. It was a normal work day for us all.’
‘Sunday?’
‘Not this week. We do operate a skeleton staff on Sundays – you have to in this business – but Caleb had enough seniority he rarely worked on weekends. What’s all this about?’
‘We think that whoever stole Mr Beddoes’ tractor must be informed as to which farms are especially vulnerable, where the rich pickings are, and when they’re likely to be minimally managed, as John Beddoes’ farm was last week. Now, don’t you agree that Caleb Ross would have been in a perfect position to know what was going on with all the local farms? After all, you’ve told us everyone knew him.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so. But you didn’t know Caleb. He was completely reliable. Surely there must be plenty of others in such a position?’
‘Perhaps. But was he really so trustworthy? You’ve already admitted to us that he may have falsified official papers. Perhaps he did the same thing for someone else, no questions asked. Maybe he was doing a favour for someone and he didn’t even know he was transporting human body parts? They say every man has his price. And the information he could give about local farms might also have been worth a fair bit. That’s why I asked about financial problems earlier.’
‘But Caleb didn’t lack for anything. He never needed much.’
‘Everything has got much more expensive over the past few years.’ Winsome glanced at the electric fire. ‘Just keeping warm, for example. Or the cost of cigarettes. Someone might have come up with an offer that made sense to him.’
Vaughn shook his head. ‘No. I can’t see it. Not Caleb.’
‘Did he have mutton chops?’ Gerry cut in.
Vaughn turned to her as if she were mad. ‘Mutton chops?’
‘Yes. Sideboards. You know.’ She touched her cheeks beside her ears.
‘Ah, I see what you mean. What an odd question. No. No, Caleb didn’t have mutton chops.’
‘Very well, Mr Vaughn,’ said Winsome. ‘We’ll take your character reference into consideration. Perhaps you might also care to give us the names and addresses of one or two of Mr Ross’s co-workers? Todd Griffin and Pat Bingley for starters.’
‘They’ll only tell you the same I have.’
‘All the more reason for us to talk to them, then,’ said Winsome. ‘The quicker we’ll be able to cross him off our list. By the way, do you know what a penetrating captive bolt pistol is?
‘A bolt pistol? Yes, of course. It’s what the slaughterman uses in an abattoir to stun the animals.’
‘Do you own one?’
‘Certainly not. Why would I need one? The animals are already dead when they come to us.’
‘Just wondering. Do you know of anyone who has one?’
‘I can’t say as I do.’
‘Caleb Ross, for example?’
‘I very much doubt it. Why would Caleb have one? Where could he get hold of one? I take it you can’t just buy them in the shops.’
Winsome gave Gerry the signal and they stood up to leave. ‘Just one more thing, sir,’ said Winsome, pausing at the door.
‘Yes?’
‘As I said, the human remains had been cut into manageable pieces. It looked like a professional job, according to our pathologist. Would you have any idea how or where that might have been carried out?’
Vaughn rubbed his forehead. ‘Me? No.’
‘Don’t know any dodgy butchers? Or slaughtermen?’
Vaughn was looking decidedly pale now. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Sorry. That’s not a part of our business service.’ And it seemed to Winsome as if he couldn’t wait to shut the door behind them.
Venture Property Developments was housed on the sixth floor of a redbrick office complex just south of Granary Wharf, overlooking the tangle of arterial roads south of Leeds city centre. The mirrored lift was clean, fast and practically silent. Banks watched Annie ‘powder her nose’ as they went up and was amazed at how quickly she applied a fresh coat of lipstick and brushed her hair into its natural chestnut glory. It had been windy outside, and even the short walk from their parked car to the office had been enough to reduce it to a messy tangle. Banks, of course, had no such problems. The wind hardly made a dent in his closely cropped dark hair. He did notice in the large mirror, though, that the touch of grey seemed to be spreading from his temples.
‘You OK?’ he asked Annie. She had been fidgety in the car and had phoned Doug Wilson on his mobile twice to check that Alex Preston was safe. She had told Banks on the way about her visit the previous evening, and about Alex’s phone call from Michael Lane.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, with a forced smile. ‘Ready to rock and roll.’
The lift doors opened at the reception area of Venture Properties, where an immaculately groomed receptionist, whose name tag read brenda, sat behind a semicircular desk under the red company logo on the wall. The area smelled faintly of nail varnish remover.
Brenda smiled her patent smile of greeting, tinged with a hint of suspicion she no doubt reserved for newcomers, and said, ‘Good morning. Can I help you?’
Banks showed his warrant card. ‘We’re here to see Mr Norrington.’
Brenda seemed unimpressed by the official identification. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘Yes,’ said Banks.
‘Please take a seat.’ She gestured towards a modular orange couch arranged around a glass table, on which was spread a selection of magazines: the Economist, House & Home, along with the Financial Times and a selection of the morning’s papers, all looking untouched.
Brenda busied herself on the telephone, her voice reduced to a distant whisper. When she hung up, she said, ‘Mr Norrington will see you in a few minutes. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea, water?’
‘Coffee, please. Black, two sugars,’ said Annie.
Banks asked for water.
Brenda disappeared and came back seconds later with a cup and saucer and a plastic bottle of fizzy water. Before Annie had managed to finish her coffee, Brenda’s phone buzzed and she asked them to follow her.
Norrington’s office was at the end of the corridor. It was larger than the entire Eastvale squad room, and the far wall was one giant picture window. The sky was grey, so the venetian blinds were up. Unfortunately, the window didn’t look out over the city centre, but towards the south, a flat and dreary wasteland of other office buildings, arterial roads, factory yards and retail warehouse outlets. Banks could even see the sprawling shopping park at Crown Point. Beyond that, lanes of traffic sped on the M621 as it coiled through the run-down urban areas of Hunslet and Beeston. Perhaps the view was an inspiration to property developers, Banks thought, a spur to bigger and better things. To most, though, he imagined it would be depressing.
Norrington himself had the look of a man who was comfortable with his environment. As he stood up and came forward to greet them, Banks noticed he had hung his suit jacket on the back of his chair, had his shirtsleeves rolled halfway up his arms and his tie loose at the collar, the way Banks liked to wear his when he had to wear one. His thinning grey hair was swept back and his nose slightly bulbous. His manner was open and polite. He even gave a little bow when Banks introduced Annie, and for a moment Banks thought he was going to kiss her hand. Instead, he offered more refreshments, which both Banks and Annie declined, then bade them sit. Their chairs were wide and comfortable, and faced the large window. At that angle, they could see only the sky, not the wastelands of south Leeds.