She thought of telling Banks but dismissed the idea quickly. If truth be told, she was pissed off at him. Why hadn’t he told her about his relationship with the victim last night? There had been plenty of time. It would have made her feel more like a DIO and less like a bloody idiot this morning when the ACC brought the matter up.
In a way, she regretted now that she had even told Banks about the rape in the first place, but such intimacy as they had had breeds foolish confessions; she had certainly never told anyone else, not even her father. And now that she was actually working with Banks, even though she still fancied him, she was going to try to keep things on a professional footing. Her career was moving in the right direction again, and she didn’t want to mess things up. ACC McLaughlin had given her a great chance for kudos in making her DIO. The last thing she wanted to do was go crying to the boss. No, Dalton was her problem, and she would deal with him one way or another.
Banks found DI Dalton standing in his office facing the wall, Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand, looking at the Dalesman calendar. December showed a snow- and ice-covered Goredale Scar, near Malham. Dalton turned as Banks entered. He was about six feet tall and skinny as a rake, with pale, watery blue eyes and a long, thin face with a rather hangdog expression under his head of sparse ginger hair. Banks put his age at around forty. He was wearing a lightweight brown suit, white shirt and tie. A little blood from a shaving cut had dried near the cleft of his chin.
He stuck his hand out. “DI Wayne Dalton. I seem to have come in the middle of a flap.”
“Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“The chief constable’s daughter was killed last night.”
Dalton rolled his eyes and whistled. “I’d hate to be the bastard who did that, when you catch him.”
“We will. Sit down. What brings you this far south?”
“It’s probably a waste of time,” said Dalton, sitting opposite Banks, “but it looks like one of our cases stretches down to your turf.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time. We’ve quickly become a very small island indeed.”
“You can say that again. Anyway, late Sunday night – actually, early Monday morning – about twelve-thirty, to be as precise as we can be at this point – a white van was hijacked on the B6348 between the A1 and the village of Chatton. The contents were stolen and the driver’s still in a coma.”
“What’s his name?”
“Jonathan Fearn.”
Banks tapped his pencil on his desk. “Never heard of him.”
“No reason you should have. He lived here, though.” Dalton consulted his notebook. “Twenty-six Darlington Road.”
“I know it,” said Banks, making a note. “We’ll look into him. Any form?”
“No. What’s interesting, though, is that it turns out this white van was leased by a company called PKF Computer Systems, and-”
“Hang on a minute. Did you say PKF?”
“That’s right. Starting to make sense?”
“Not much, but go on.”
“Anyway, we ran a check on PKF and, to cut a long story, it doesn’t exist.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I say. PKF Computer Systems is not registered as an operating business.”
“That means someone made up the name…”
“…printed some letterhead paper, got a phone line installed, opened a bank account… exactly. A dummy company.”
“Any idea who?”
“That’s where I was hoping you might be able to help. We traced PKF to the Daleview Business Park, just outside Eastvale, and we confirmed that the van must have been on its way to a new trading estate near Wooler. At least PKF had rented premises there starting that Monday morning.”
“Let me get this straight,” said Banks. “PKF, which doesn’t exist, moves lock, stock and barrel from the Daleview Business Park, where they haven’t been operating more than two or three months, on Sunday night and heads up the A1 toward another business park near Tyneside, where they’ve also rented premises. A few miles short of their destination, the van’s hijacked and its contents removed. Right?”
“So far.”
“On Tuesday,” Banks continued, “the night watchman of the Daleview Business Park was found dead in some woods near Market Harborough, Leicestershire. Shotgun wound.”
“Execution?”
“Looks that way. We think he was killed Monday afternoon.”
“Connection?”
“I’d say so, wouldn’t you? Especially when it turns out our night watchman had been putting away another two hundred quid a week over and above his wages.”
“And PKF is a phony.”
“Exactly.”
“Any idea what that van might have been carrying?” Dalton asked.
“The only thing my DS found when she checked out the PKF unit at Daleview was an empty jewel case for a compact disc.”
“Compact discs? First time I’ve ever heard of a CD hijack.”
“We don’t know that that’s the reason. All I’m saying is that we found a jewel case at PKF, which fits with their working in the computer business. Maybe it was computer equipment the thieves were after?”
“Could be. That stuff can be valuable.”
“Any leads at all?”
Dalton shook his head. “We’ve been keeping an eye on the unit they rented near Wooler, but no one’s shown up yet. Given what’s happened, we don’t expect them to now. It was late, on a quiet road, so there were no witnesses. They left the van in a lay-by. As I said, the driver’s still in a coma and fingerprints will be working to sort out their findings till kingdom come. You and I both know that anyone doing a professional job like this would be wearing gloves, anyway. This was the only lead we got – PKF and the Daleview Business Park.”
“Okay,” said Banks, standing. “We’ll keep in touch on this one.”
“Mind if I stick around a day or two, have a look at the business park, poke about?”
“Be my guest.” Banks pulled his pad toward him. “The way things are right now we can use all the help we can get. You could also get in touch with DI Collaton at Market Harborough. It looks as if this is all connected. Where are you staying?”
“Fox and Hounds, on North Market Street. Got in yesterday evening. Nice little en suite.”
“I know the place,” said Banks. “Let us know if you find anything.”
“Will do.” Dalton touched the tips of his fingers in a friendly salute, then left the office.
Banks walked over to the window and looked out on the cobbled market square. The gold hands against the blue front of the church clock stood at quarter past ten. The morning mist had disappeared and it was as light now as it was likely to be all day. He saw DI Dalton walk across the square, pause and linger a moment at the taped-off, guarded entrance of the Bar None, then turn left on York Road toward the bus station and the Swainsdale Centre.
It was difficult for Banks to drum up much enthusiasm for the Charlie Courage investigation since Emily’s murder, but he knew he had to keep on top of it. He also knew that they should have checked into PKF the way Dalton had. Any further signs that he was dragging his feet, and Red Ron would, quite rightly, have him on the carpet. Emily was a priority, yes, but that didn’t mean poor Charlie counted for nothing. Maybe Dalton would come up with something useful. Banks would put him in touch with Hatchley, and with Annie, so she could share what she’d discovered at Daleview.
Looking at the weak gray light that seemed to cling to everything, bleeding the townscape of all color, Banks wished he could escape to somewhere warm and sunny for a couple of weeks, find a nice spot on the beach and read novels and biographies and listen to the waves all day. Normally he didn’t like that kind of holiday, preferring to explore a foreign city on foot, but there was something about the long, dark Yorkshire winters that made him yearn for the Canaries or the Azores. Or Montego Bay. If he could afford it, though, he thought he would like to go to Mexico for a while, see some Mayan ruins. But that was out of the question, especially with the mortgage on the cottage and Tracy at university.