There seemed both anger and resignation in Gilchrist’s sense of irony. Winsome had known one or two soldiers whose experience of combat had isolated them from their fellow man, but Gilchrist didn’t seem like that – just wounded and angry. She picked up the threads of the conversation. ‘How long have you been back from…’
‘Afghanistan. Helmand Province. It’s OK to say it. Little over a year.’
‘How often do you take Peaches walking there, by the airfield?’
‘Every now and then, maybe once a week or so.’
‘You knew about the hole in the wire, then?’
‘Yes. I think it’s always been there. I used to play there myself, and I’ve seen the local kids crawling in and out. But kids can usually find a way to get in anywhere, can’t they? They’re all right. They don’t do any harm. The younger ones play cricket and footie, and the older ones maybe down a few cans of cheap lager, kiss and cuddle with their girlfriends. They’ve nowhere else to go, poor sods. Where’s the harm?’
‘Was there anything else going on out there that you know of? I mean kids might get into fights, might even organise them. What about cockfighting, that sort of thing?’
Gilchrist shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen anything or heard any rumours of anything like that. I’ve seen lorries coming and going once or twice. Other than that, nothing.’
‘Lorries? Since when?’
‘Just the past year or so. Since I’ve been here alone.’
‘How often?’
Gilchrist thought for a moment. ‘Maybe three or four times over the year. It’s not a regular thing.’
Gerry Masterson could always check on what companies had the use of the place, if any, Winsome thought. If it came to that. ‘You said you think the government owns the land.’
‘Just a wild guess. I’ve no idea, really. It’s been like that as long as I can remember. All I know is it was used as an air-force base in the last war. Nice and flat around here, see, edge of the Vale of Mowbray, and most of the trees weren’t here back then. They were planted when Drewick was built in the fifties, to shelter it from the railway, I suppose. There was talk of building more houses on the airfield land a few years ago, but nothing ever came of that, and now it’s supposed to become a shopping centre. You ask me, people don’t want to live that close to the train tracks. It’s a busy line these days. London or the West Country to Scotland. And you can’t go wrong with a shopping centre, can you?’
Winsome had used the East Coast train line often enough. Plenty of people lived close to the railway lines, she thought, remembering gazing dreamily over backyards with their rabbit hutches, dilapidated brick outhouses, washing hanging on lines and old tyres hanging from tree branches on train rides she had taken over the past few years. But perhaps Gilchrist was right, and such sites were becoming less popular for housing estates these days. A shopping centre would make more sense. Out of the way, background noise no problem.
She couldn’t think of anything else to ask Gilchrist for the moment, not until she had a better idea about what might have happened in the hangar. She stayed and chatted for a while longer, finishing her tea, then said she had better get back to the airfield to meet her colleagues. Gilchrist helped her on with her coat, and as she slipped her arms easily in the sleeves, she thought how pleasant it was to have someone do that for her.
Chapter 2
Banks wasn’t due back at work until Tuesday, but he felt restless and took a taxi to Eastvale police headquarters straight from Durham Tees Valley airport on Monday morning, dropping Oriana off at home on the way. He had enjoyed a wonderful weekend in a village on Lake Trasimeno, looking out over the Isola Polvese, with Oriana and her extended Italian family. Her parents lived in Yorkshire, as did Oriana herself, but there seemed to be a whole village full of aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews and cousins in Umbria. Most of the time Banks and Oriana spent eating fresh fish from the lake, talking and drinking the local Montefalco wines, and going for long walks by the lake, or in the nearby countryside, by olive groves, vineyards and winding brooks.
And now they were back in wet and windy Yorkshire.
He dumped his bags and hung up his raincoat in his office. He had taken with him only a small weekend bag for clothes and toiletries, along with his battered leather satchel, in which he carried his essentials – iPod, mobile phone, a book, notebook, pen, a couple of magazines, wallet and keys. There were no messages for him, and everything was as he had left it last Thursday. He walked along the unusually silent corridor to the squad room and found only DC Gerry Masterson there, tapping away at her computer.
‘Gerry, what’s up?’
‘You’re back early, sir. Everything all right?’
‘Everything’s fine. I’m fresh from the plane. Seeing as I’m back, I thought I might as well come by and find out if anything’s been happening in my absence.’
‘You’re a glutton for punishment, sir.’
‘Where is everyone?’
‘At this very moment? I’m not exactly sure.’
‘In general will do. Is there some sort of flap on?’
Gerry leaned back in her chair and linked her hands behind her head. Her luxuriant red pre-Raphaelite hair was tied back so it stayed out of her eyes as she worked. ‘No flap,’ she said. ‘Basically, we’ve got a stolen tractor, which DI Cabbot and DC Wilson are investigating, and a mysterious bloodstain, which DC Jackman is attending to.’
‘Major crimes, indeed.’ Banks grabbed Doug Wilson’s empty chair and sat facing Gerry’s desk. ‘Do tell me more.’
‘Not much more to tell, sir. You’ve just missed Doug. He was back briefly checking out some names in connection with the stolen tractor. They’re searching for a lad called Mick Lane.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘His dad’s a neighbour of Mr Beddoes, whose tractor was stolen.’
‘It just gets more and more exciting, doesn’t it?’
Gerry laughed. ‘Yes, sir. Maybe you should have stayed in Umbria?’
‘I should be so lucky. And the bloodstain?’
‘A chap called Terry Gilchrist claims he came across it walking his dog. The AC decided to send DS Jackman to check it out.’
‘Is AC Gervaise in her office?’
‘Meeting at County HQ.’ Gerry’s telephone rang. ‘Excuse me, sir.’
‘Of course.’ Banks stood up and went back to his own office, wondering which of the major crimes that had occurred in his absence required his immediate attention. Stolen tractor or possible bloodstain? The tractor wasn’t the first piece of expensive farm equipment to go missing over the past few months, and they had nothing resembling a lead so far. Perhaps this Lane boy Gerry said they were looking for would provide the break they needed.
Moments later, Gerry Masterson popped her head round the door. ‘That was dispatch, sir. DS Jackman just called in from that abandoned airfield near Drewick, on the other side of the A1.’
‘I know the place,’ said Banks.
‘It seems our amateur bloodstain expert was right on the mark. Winsome’s found what she thinks is a pool of congealed blood in the old hangar there. They’ve already sent more patrol cars, and Ms Singh is on her way.’
‘Right,’ said Banks, grabbing his raincoat and satchel. ‘It’s probably a fox or something, but I’ll take a possible human bloodstain over a stolen tractor any day. What are we waiting for?’
Annie discovered that Mick Lane had been arrested eighteen months ago for stealing a car and taking it for a joyride that resulted in over two thousand pounds’ worth of damage. Not a fancy German tractor, just a knockabout Honda, but even so, Annie thought, young Lane merited further investigation. He had got off with community service, supervised by a probation officer, as he had been only seventeen at the time, and it had been his first offence. He seemed to have acquitted himself well and had not reoffended. Or he hadn’t been caught. It was early days yet. Also, according to his probation officer, Mick Lane was living in a flat in Hague House on the East Side Estate with a twenty-eight-year-old woman called Alex Preston. She had a four-year-old shoplifting charge on her record and an eight-year-old son called Ian to care for. Whether she was still up to her thieving tricks, the probation officer didn’t seem to know, but her name wasn’t known around the station. Maybe Mick Lane had made an honest woman of her?