‘Sorry we’re so late getting round to you, Mr Beddoes,’ said Banks. ‘We had a bit of a crisis to take care of first.’ It was nine o’clock and the Beddoes had been in a holding cell at the station since four, complaining all the time. Patricia Beddoes had been demanding to see Cathy Gervaise, but even when one of the custody officers thought he should at least inform the AC what was happening, ‘Cathy’ Gervaise made it clear that she wasn’t available.
Cassandra Wakefield had turned up half an hour ago, and while her associate represented Patricia Beddoes in another interview room with Annie and Doug Wilson, she stuck with John Beddoes, sitting opposite Banks and Gerry.
‘I can’t believe this,’ Beddoes complained. ‘My wife and I are quietly going about our business and some hooligan of a police officer blocks our way and drags us all the way down here.’
‘Where were you going?’ Banks asked.
‘It’s none of your fucking business.’
‘Swearing won’t help, Mr Beddoes,’ said Cassandra Wakefield.
Banks looked at his notes. ‘According to our preliminary analysis of recent activity on your laptop computer, you had just completed a number of large financial transactions, money transfers, in fact, to offshore bank accounts in the British Virgin Islands.’
‘So what? They’re legitimate accounts. I pay my taxes.’
‘I’m sure you do, Mr Beddoes, but don’t you think it’s a bit soon for another holiday? I mean, you’ve just got back from Mexico. Think of all that ultraviolet radiation.’
‘What business of yours is it where and when we go for our holidays?’
‘You also had a lot of luggage. How long were you planning on being away for?’
‘I don’t know. A while.’
‘Don’t you think it looks a bit suspicious? Just after I visit you and let you know I’ve talked to Malcolm Hackett, an old business associate of yours, and that we’ve found Michael Lane, a witness to the murder of Morgan Spencer, you and your wife make a run for it.’
‘We weren’t “making a run for it”.’
‘It looks like that to me,’ said Banks. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Gerry?’
‘Certainly would, sir. I mean, it’s not everyone takes a fragile vase off the mantelpiece on holiday with them, or a pair of antique silver sugar tongs.’
‘That vase happens to be a valuable antique, too. And given what occurred last time we were away, I’d say we were more than justified in taking a few valuables with us.’
‘Really, Chief Inspector,’ said Cassandra Wakefield, fingering her pearls, ‘it does seem a remarkably thin context for detaining my client and interfering with his basic freedom of movement.’
‘Morgan Spencer stole your tractor, didn’t he?’ Banks said to Beddoes.
‘Did he? I can’t say it surprises me.’
‘You know Morgan Spencer, then? Earlier you said you had no idea who he was.’
‘I didn’t know him well. Not personally. Only that he was a mate of the Lane boy. I’ve seen him around. Thick as thieves. Look, you know all this. Why am I here?’
‘You’re here because we believe you’re one of the men running a lucrative international criminal activity dealing in stolen farm equipment and livestock. Your partner Malcolm Hackett, aka Montague Havers, who is currently being questioned by my colleagues in London, took care of the export side, and you supplied the raw materials from the North Yorkshire region. That is tractors, combines, Range Rovers, lambs, whatever. You employed a number of people at various levels, including Ronald Tanner, Carl Utley, Kenneth Atherton, aka Kieran Welles, Caleb Ross and Morgan Spencer. Your wife, Patricia, may be involved. Police have also picked up Mr Havers’ chief operators in Lincolnshire and Cumbria. More arrests are expected to follow. Plenty of people are talking.’
‘Really?’ said Beddoes. ‘Where’s your proof of all this?’
That was a thorny issue for Banks. He didn’t really have any proof. A deeper dig into Beddoes’ finances would probably turn up anomalies, but that would take time. Michael Lane’s word alone wasn’t good enough, but it was a place to start.
‘We also believe,’ Banks went on, ‘that Morgan Spencer was murdered partly because he stole your tractor, and partly because his colleagues, especially Atherton, had got fed up with him. He talked big, wanted a bigger role, more money, and he thought he was demonstrating his ability to get creative and play with the big boys by stealing an expensive tractor. Unfortunately, it turned out to be yours.’
‘So someone steals my tractor and I’m the criminal?’
‘Kenneth Atherton killed Morgan Spencer with a bolt pistol he stole from Stirwall’s Abattoir around the time he was fired nearly two years ago. He has also committed an earlier murder with the same weapon. We have matching prints from the weapon.’
‘This is fascinating,’ said Beddoes, ‘and nothing you can tell me about Spencer surprises me, but it has nothing to do with me, apart from the fact that the little creep stole my tractor.’
‘Why did you do it, John?’ Banks asked. ‘Why did you get into the business in the first place? Surely you had everything going for you. The life you always dreamed of. Enough money not to have to struggle like real farmers. Was it just the money? You weren’t that badly off, surely? Did Havers make you an offer you couldn’t refuse? Did he have something on you from the old days? Insider trading?’
Beddoes laughed.
Cassandra Wakefield shot Banks a puzzled glance. ‘Are you going to charge my client with insider trading in the eighties? I fear that may be even more difficult a case to bring than the one you’re struggling for at the moment. Go ahead, though. I’m sure the trial would be a lot of fun.’
‘Someone heard Atherton say to Spencer, “You went too far. You stole the boss’s fucking tractor” just before he killed him. What do you make of that?’
‘Nothing,’ said Beddoes. ‘I was probably somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean at the time.’
‘But why would he say it? It’s an odd thing to say just before you kill someone, isn’t it? “You stole the boss’s fucking tractor.” Now, neither Morgan Spencer nor Michael Lane, who overheard this, and whose return had you packing your bags and running for the British Virgin Islands, knew who this boss was until they heard that, of course. After all, it was your tractor Atherton was referring to, and Lane had an inkling that Spencer might try to nick it to prove himself to his masters. The problem was, Spencer didn’t know you were his master. You were too high and mighty to rub shoulders with the hoi polloi. Your orders went through Tanner.’
‘Lane’s a lying little bastard, always has been,’ said Beddoes. ‘He had every bit as much to do with…’ He trailed off.
‘To do with what, John? Your business enterprise? As much as Morgan Spencer?
‘Spencer was a pushy little half-caste. He—’
Cassandra Wakefield tapped her client on the shoulder and whispered in his ear.
‘They’re trying to pin a murder on me,’ Beddoes protested, turning red. ‘I’m no killer. All right, I’m no saint, either, but if Atherton killed Spencer, it was because he was getting too big for his boots. And Atherton is a fucking psycho. It was a private vendetta, nothing to do with me.’
‘The boss’s tractor, John?’
‘He must have misheard. Lane. He’s had it in for me ever since I moved to the farm. His father wanted the land, but I outbid him.’
‘I can see that might give Frank Lane a motive for killing you, but he hasn’t. Why would Michael care? He was just a kid then.’
‘I don’t know. Some kids are born evil. You can tell. All I ever did was give him a clip round the earhole.’
‘If Spencer didn’t know you were the boss, then Lane probably didn’t, either. The problem was that he knew who the tractor belonged to. Spencer had told him he was going to steal it while you were away in Mexico. Lane just put two and two together. What it added up to scared him, and he made off.’