‘This is nothing but speculation,’ said Cassandra Wakefield.
‘We’ve got a witness statement from Michael Lane.’
‘Not enough.’
‘They never accepted me,’ said Beddoes.
Cassandra Wakefield narrowed her eyes. Banks and Gerry looked at him quizzically.
‘What?’ Beddoes said. ‘Why are you looking at me like that? You’re just the same. You’re just like the other bloody farmers. They laughed at me behind my back, called me a “weekend” farmer, made fun of me. I was better than the lot of them put together. I was a Master of the Universe.’
‘That was a long time ago, John,’ said Banks.
‘I’m saying they didn’t respect me. My own neighbours. And I’d grown up on a farm. It was in my blood.’
‘Is that why you did it? Went into business with Havers.’
‘I knew I’d show them somehow.’
‘By stealing their livestock and equipment?’
‘It’s all they bloody care about.’
Cassandra Wakefield dropped her pencil on the table. ‘Enough,’ she said. ‘I think we should end this interview right now.’
‘Getting a bit too close to the bone for you, is it?’ Banks said.
‘My client needs a break. He’s been under a lot of stress lately. PACE regulations call for—’
Banks raised his hand. ‘Fine. Fine,’ he said. ‘Interview suspended at nine twenty-seven p.m. To be continued.’ He called to the uniformed constable at the door. ‘Take him back to his cell, Nobby.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The constable took Beddoes by the arm. He stood up and went without resisting.
Cassandra Wakefield looked at her watch. ‘You’ve got another nineteen hours or so to come up with some real evidence, otherwise my client walks.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Banks. ‘He’s already admitted to theft of farm equipment.’
Cassandra Wakefield snorted, then she followed Beddoes and the constable out of the room.
Gerry let out a long breath. Banks smiled. ‘Get used to it,’ he said. ‘It’s the way of the world.’
One of the female PCs stuck her head around the door. ‘Phone call, guv,’ she said. ‘A Detective Chief Superintendent Burgess.’
‘I’ll take it in my office.’
Banks told Gerry to hang on back in the squad room and walked down the hall to his office. He picked up the phone and engaged the line.
‘Hello, Banksy,’ said the familiar voice. ‘Any luck?’
‘We’re getting there. Unfortunately we had Cassandra Wakefield representing Beddoes.’
‘She gets around, doesn’t she? Mind you, I’d hardly call that bad luck. Have you seen the tits on her? Nipples like chapel hat-pegs. What I’d—’
‘Yes, yes, I can imagine what you’d do,’ said Banks. ‘But she happens to be a bloody good solicitor.’
‘Nobody’s perfect. Anyway, it’s your lucky day. I’ve got news’ll make the hairs on your arse stand on end.’
‘Go on. I can hardly wait.’
‘Havers coughed. The lot.’
Banks gripped the receiver tightly. His palm was sweating. ‘He what?’
‘He cracked. Easy-peasy.’
‘What did you do, bring out the rubber hosepipes?’
‘Didn’t need them. He did it to save his own skin and to protect his overseas bosses. He’s more scared of them than he is of us. Basically, you could say he fell on his sword. He knew the northern operation was fucked. They knew it, too. Word came down. They were cut off. Finished. They’re falling over each other to avoid a murder charge. They’ll take tax evasion, handling stolen goods, you name it, but not the murder. Havers wasn’t going to go down by himself, so he gave us Beddoes, Ronald Tanner and Kenneth Atherton. And Carl Utley as a bonus. He was hiding out in a farmhouse in Provence. We’re sending him up to you, but he was so shaken by what he saw Atherton do in the hangar up there that we can’t shut him up. He and Tanner had to hold the poor bastard’s arms. They thought Atherton was just going to rough him up a bit, but before they knew what was happening he pulled out the bolt gun and shot the kid. At least that’s what Utley says. Apparently there was history between them, bad blood. It was all a rush job. Utley says Spencer didn’t contact Tanner about the tractor he’d nicked until early Sunday morning. They had no time to get the usual crew up from London for a transfer so they arranged to meet at the hangar to figure out what to do: Spencer, Tanner, Utley and Atherton. Then they discovered whose tractor it was and all hell broke loose.’
‘That sounds about right,’ said Banks. ‘What about Michael Lane?’
‘That name never came up. But it’s airtight, Banksy. It’s being faxed to you as we speak. Next time you get Beddoes and little Miss Melons in the room, you’ll have times, dates, amounts, bank accounts, an eyewitness statement from Utley. Everything but the cream, of course. We know there are people pulling Havers’ and Beddoes’ strings, we even think we know who some of them are, but they’re good at protecting themselves. There are no money trails leading to them, and nobody dare talk. Welles/Atherton isn’t the only psycho killer they’ve got strutting around. But we’ve got the northern mob sewn up. Not too bright, none of them. Get down to the fax machine, then read it and weep. Beat you again, Banksy. And hold the party. I’m coming up for it. You can invite Cassandra Wakefield, too, if you like.’
Banks thanked Burgess, then hung up and sighed. For a moment he felt defeated. He hadn’t got as far as he had wanted with Beddoes while Burgess had broken Havers, obviously the weakest link. Then he realised that it was just as he had said to Gerry, the way of the world. Get used to it, mate, he told himself. There’ll always be a Cassandra Wakefield, and there’ll always be a Dirty Dick Burgess. He smiled at the thought of what a couple they would make. And Burgess was certainly right about her charms.
This was no defeat, it was a win, and it called for champagne, or at least beer. Maybe they wouldn’t get Beddoes for murder, but they would get Atherton, if they could find him. Tanner, Utley and Beddoes would get time for various offences, too. And Michael Lane could probably live happily ever after with Alex and Ian, if he kept his nose clean. That would please Annie, but Banks still found himself wondering to what extent Lane had egged Spencer on to steal Beddoes’ tractor simply because he didn’t like the man who had once given him a clip round the ear. Lane couldn’t have known Spencer would get killed, of course. If he had instigated the theft, he had done so to get at Beddoes, and perhaps at his father. The rest was just pure irony. That Lane had helped Spencer with certain jobs of a criminal nature, Banks had no doubt. He only hoped the kid had the sense to realise what he’d got in Alex and Ian, and what a lucky escape he’d had. Some people learn, many never do. It was a toss-up.
It was a mopping-up exercise now. Compile the evidence, get the forensics right on Atherton’s farmhouse and private abattoir. Spencer’s blood was sure to be among the sticky mess Banks had seen in the central trough, and Atherton’s prints were all over the bolt gun. He’d clearly had his own little business on the side there, which explained the disappearance of stock around the dale over the past year or so.
Banks ran his hand over his head. He was tired. And hungry. He looked at his watch: nine forty-five. Time to go down to the fax machine, then home for some microwaved chicken tikka masala and a bottle of red. Maybe not champagne, but a good red, one from the ‘cellar’. And thinking of a good red got him thinking of Australia and Oriana. He wondered what time it was over there. He was whistling ‘You Win Again’ as he picked up his coat, turned off the light and left his office.