Peter Robinson
Careless Love
To Sheila
“Come all you fair and tender maids
That flourish in your prime.
Beware, beware, keep your garden fair.
Let no man steal your thyme.
Let no man steal your thyme.”
1
Broad ribbons of fog lingered in the valley bottom as Detective Superintendent Alan Banks drove the unmarked police car slowly along Belderfell Pass, cursing the fact that his beloved Porsche was in the garage for its MOT. Fortunately, visibility was good on the winding road, about halfway up the steep fell side. Though it was only three o’clock in the afternoon, it was already starting to get dark as the sun sank below the hills to the west.
‘Here they are,’ said DS Winsome Jackman as they came around a bend and saw a patrol car stopped by a metallic blue Megane, reducing the two lanes to one.
Banks brought the car to a halt by the tapes, and he and Winsome got out, flashing their warrant cards. One of the uniformed officers was talking to a woman beside the Megane, while his partner kept an eye on the road in order to warn any oncoming traffic to slow down.
All three looked twice at Winsome. Not only because she was beautiful, which she was, but because it wasn’t often you saw a six-foot-tall black woman on Belderfell Pass. Or anywhere else in the Eastvale area, for that matter. As usual, Winsome took it in her stride, edging to the sideline and taking out her notebook and pen.
Tucked away in a lay-by cut into the hillside, half hidden by shrubbery, was a damaged Ford Focus, the result of a minor crash. Nobody had been seriously injured, but the car was a write-off, its radiator grille crushed, bonnet buckled and the engine hanging half out of one side. Given the remote location and the weather conditions over the previous week, the attending officer must have known it would take some time to get the wreck towed to a garage, so he had placed a yellow POLICE AWARE sign in the front windscreen. That made it clear to passers-by that the police already knew about the accident and would get around to dealing with it in their own time.
‘What have we got?’ asked Banks, eyeing the Focus.
‘She’s in there,’ said the patrol officer, pointing. The woman beside him was leaning back against the Megane’s bonnet. Her arms were folded tight and she looked upset.
The Focus stood in the lay-by facing in the wrong direction. Banks edged around to the driver’s seat and glanced through the window. A young woman was behind the wheel, eyes wide open, staring straight ahead. It didn’t take a police doctor to tell him that she was dead.
Banks slipped on his latex gloves and opened the car door. The metal squealed. He bent to examine the body. Blond hair trailed over her shoulders and a ragged fringe and hoop earrings framed a heart-shaped face that must have been quite beautiful in life. She was wearing muted pink lipstick, blue eyeshadow and a fashionable black, strapless dress, the kind of item a young woman might wear for a special night out, a dinner at a fine restaurant, say, or an evening at the theatre. She also wore strappy sandals, high-heeled, but not to the point that would cause problems of balance, and some costume jewellery. Her hands were folded on her lap, a charm bracelet on her right wrist and a watch on the other. The seat belt wasn’t fastened, and there was no handbag or coat anywhere to be seen inside the car. Her skin was pale and smooth. As far as Banks could tell, there was no physical evidence of any mistreatment of the body. No bruises, cuts or traces of blood. Also nothing to offer any clues as to her identity. He checked the glove compartment and found some petrol receipts, nicotine gum and a screwdriver.
Banks turned back to the constable. ‘Any idea of the circumstances of the accident, PC...?’
‘Knowles, sir. Barry Knowles.’
‘Well, Barry, what can you tell us?’
Knowles gestured to his partner. ‘What do you want to know? Ted and me were at the original scene.’
‘You’d better start at the beginning. All I know so far is that this Focus was involved in an accident here last weekend.’
‘That’s right.’ Knowles checked his notes. ‘Friday night, it was. Incident called in from Trevor Vernon’s mobile at ten thirty-seven p.m. That’s the owner, sir. There was a bit of patchy fog and Mr Vernon ran into a white van on a tight bend. They were lucky to get away with only cuts and bruises. If one of them had gone over the edge... well...’ He gestured down at the valley bottom and swallowed.
Banks remembered arriving at a scene not far from here by helicopter when a van full of dead farm animals had gone over the side. Being close to the spot again brought back the horrific images of that day, not least of which was the sight of an improbable combination of man, steering wheel and engine block that more resembled a horror-film scene imagined by H.R. Giger than it did a human being. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘It was all above board,’ PC Knowles went on. ‘Neither of the drivers had been drinking. The bloke in the van, John Kelly, was a builder going home late from a job. He admitted he was in a bit of a hurry but denied exceeding the speed limit. The other two, Mr and Mrs Vernon, were on their way back from a play at the Georgian Theatre in Richmond. Mr Vernon said they’d each consumed a glass of wine during the interval, and our tests showed the driver was not over the legal limit.’
‘A builder? Working until after ten thirty on a Friday night? I suppose miracles might happen, but...’
PC Knowles shrugged. ‘It’s what he told us, sir. He gave us the address of the property he was working on, too.’
‘OK,’ said Banks. ‘What happened to them all?’
‘Eastvale General. Just cuts and bruises. Shock, of course. Treated and released. Kelly’s van was still roadworthy, so he drove himself home afterwards, but the Focus... well, you can see for yourself. It can take a few days to make the arrangements with the garage. Vernon made a bit of fuss, going on about it being Kelly’s fault and all for driving too fast, but we put it down to shock.’
‘How long were you here?’
‘It was after twelve when we put the sign in the window of the Focus and left,’ said Knowles. He checked his notebook again. ‘Twelve-o-nine a.m.’
‘And what about the girl?’
PC Knowles paled. ‘Don’t know, sir. Our dispatcher got a call this morning. The lady here, Mrs Brody. She talked about an abandoned car, and Sergeant Harris was just about to tell her that we already knew about it, that’s why we had the POLICE AWARE sign in the window, but she said there was a dead girl in the car. There was certainly no girl here when we attended the scene of the accident on Friday night. Dead or alive.’
Banks smiled. ‘I should imagine not, PC Knowles, or you would have made a note of it, I’m sure.’
Knowles reddened and shuffled his feet. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did you examine the boot?’
‘No, sir. I mean, we...’
‘It’s all right. Was the car left unlocked?’
‘Yes, sir. I tried to lock it, but the key wouldn’t work. Too much damage to the doors.’
‘Do either of you recognise the girl?’
‘No,’ said PC Knowles. ‘Never seen her before.’
Banks turned to Mrs Brody, who was as tall as Winsome and just as statuesque, with short curly brown hair. Handsome rather than beautiful, Banks thought, in her early forties, casually dressed in black slacks, buttoned blouse and a padded zip-up jacket, wedding band on the third finger of her left hand. ‘Mrs Brody?’
‘Kirsten, please.’ She leaned forward and stretched out her hand. Banks shook it. Winsome came back from examining the car to stand beside them, notebook and pen in her hand.