Shivering in the sudden chill breeze, she got back in her car and decided to take the long way back to Eastvale, over Belderfell Pass. Remembering Wythers’ warnings about the weather, she scanned the sky as she made her way up the winding, unfenced road. Before long, she could feel her ears blocking and ringing, the way they did in aeroplanes at take-off and landing. She yawned and felt them crack and clear. The pass wound its way high above the valley bottom over to the next dale. She’d got about halfway when she encountered the first signs of the accident, the dots of the investigators still working at the scene way below. She could see scatterings of black plastic bags. She slowed down as she rounded a promontory and stopped for a moment to watch the men below, but the perspective gave her vertigo. She never usually had a problem with heights, but even the hardiest of souls had been known to tremble at Belderfell Pass. Going the other way was a lot easier, of course. Then you hugged the hillside all the way. But in the direction she was going, the direction Caleb Ross had taken, there was nothing between her and the sheer drop.
Soon she realised she had started on the slow and winding descent into the tiny village of Ramsghyll, nestled at the bottom of the hill and famous for its pub, the Coach and Horses, which boasted real ale and gourmet food. Hungry as she was, Winsome didn’t stop, but carried on through the village’s narrow high street, past the pub and on to the road that, beyond Helmthorpe and Fortford, would take her eventually back to Eastvale. Perhaps it had been a wasted journey, she thought as she drove along admiring the scenery in the lengthening shadows, and perhaps it had been a wasted assignment altogether, but she still couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling that the answer to Caleb Ross’s role in Morgan Spencer’s murder lay somewhere in the landscape she had just left behind. She was too tired and confused to do anything about it today, or even to know what to do, but she would approach the problem afresh tomorrow morning and work out just what it was that was niggling away at the edge of her consciousness.
The Duck and Drake was a popular old pub on Frith Street, in the heart of Soho, just a stone’s throw from Ronnie Scott’s. Banks had been there many times before, both when he worked in the West End and when he visited London or went down on business. Like this afternoon. The after-work crowd usually started congregating early, and there were already a few people standing outside smoking and quaffing pints when Banks got there at four. It was a small pub, long and narrow. Banks walked past the crowded bar through to the back room, which was furnished with a few ancient wooden tables and chairs, and found the person he was looking for right at the back table, scaring prospective punters away with his churlish expression.
Detective Chief Superintendent Richard ‘Dirty Dick’ Burgess stood up and beckoned Banks over, shaking hands vigorously. ‘Banksy, it’s good to see you again. How’s it hanging?’
Banks cringed. Burgess was the first person to call him Banksy since his schooldays. Not that he didn’t admire the artist’s work, but the nickname still rankled. Back at school there hadn’t been the ‘other’ Banksy.
Burgess had worked for just about every law enforcement agency there had been, every acronym imaginable, had been involved in counterterrorism, drugs, people-trafficking, airport security, homicide and organised crime. Now he was high up in the new National Crime Agency, the NCA, who had been working on Operation Hawk with the local forces. Though Burgess wasn’t the go-to man for rural crime, he oversaw a variety of operations, and Banks was willing to bet he knew as much about what was going on there as the team that had been assigned to it.
‘I’m fine,’ said Banks, squeezing himself into the small space on a wobbly chair.
‘I noticed the bar was getting busy,’ said Burgess, ‘so I took the liberty of getting the drinks in. Lager for me, of course, and one of those fancy real ale things for you. Can’t remember what it’s called – Codswallop or Cockadoodledoo or some such thing – but the delightful young lady at the bar recommended it.’
‘Thank you,’ said Banks, and took a sip. It tasted good. Hoppy and full-bodied.
‘So you got my message?’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ Banks had received a phone call from Joanna MacDonald just after he had left Havers’ office, telling him that she had been speaking with the NCA about his visit. They wanted to talk to him while he was in London and see if they could share information. She had no idea it was going to be Burgess who turned up. Banks doubted that she even knew him. But Banks wasn’t greatly surprised. Burgess had a habit of turning up when you least expected him – which was, perhaps, when you should most expect him. He and Banks had many points of difference, but they got along well and never let a good argument get in the way of the job.
He had also received a call from Gerry Masterson to inform him that DC Cabbot and Doug Wilson had got two names of possible bolt gun thieves out of Stirwall’s – Ulf Bengtsson and Kieran Welles. Annie believed that Welles was their best bet, but the team was working on tracking both of them down.
Gerry also informed him that the Kent police had phoned to report that Morgan Spencer’s removal van had been found on some wasteland on the outskirts of Dover. Inside were a Yamaha motorcycle and a Deutz-Fahr Agrotron tractor. Both intact. The whole lot was being shipped up to North Yorkshire as soon as the locals could get transport organised. That came as a shock to Banks, but he filed it away for later.
‘Well, it’s good to see you down here again,’ said Burgess. ‘It’s been too long. When was the last time? That gay spook murder, wasn’t it?’
‘Probably,’ said Banks. ‘I forget the exact occasion. You’re well, I take it?’
Burgess looked more gaunt than usual, the belly that had been hanging over his belt the last time they met trimmed down, and the extra flab gone from his face, making his cheeks look hollow.
‘Don’t let appearances deceive you, old mate. I’ve been working out at the gym. Given up the evil weed – Tom Thumbs, that is – and cut back on the demon alcohol. A little. You should try it. I had a minor health scare a while back, meant they had to shove a camera up my arse on a stick. I must say, though, with the drugs they give you if you go private, you can’t feel a thing. You can imagine my surprise when I found a note stuffed in my shoe afterwards saying. “I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.” Still, such is life.’
‘It was a false alarm?’
‘It wasn’t the big C, if that’s what you mean. A small operation soon put things right, and now it’s the healthy life for me.’ He knocked back some lager.
Banks felt relieved to hear that Burgess’s problem wasn’t serious, and he realised that the man sitting opposite him was one of his few remaining friends, one of the few people he cared about, though he would never admit it. ‘It’s that stuff’ll kill you,’ he said, pointing to Burgess’s quickly vanishing pint of lager. ‘All chemicals. You want something like this.’ He held up his own pint. ‘Organic. Good for you. Or red wine.’
‘Same old Banksy, it’s good to see.’ Burgess clapped his hands together. ‘Anyway, enough of this banter. Let’s get down to brass tacks, as you lot say up north.’
Banks hadn’t heard anyone say that for a long time, except on television satires of northern life, but he let it go by. It was best to do that with many of the things Burgess said, he usually found. ‘Montague Havers?’ Banks said.
‘Yes, good old Monty.’