“Did Michael receive or make any texts or phone calls that Sunday morning?”
“He got a text just before he went out. I was getting Ian ready, but I heard it, you know, that tinkling sound the phone makes when a text comes in.”
“Did he tell you who it was from?”
“No. He just said that there might be a job on.”
“On a Sunday morning? Doing what?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Did he say who with?”
“No.”
“But he said he might drop in on his father later?”
“Yes. His dad’s been unwell lately. And Michael’s a good son, despite their differences. There was a cancer scare, but it turned out to be his gallbladder. He still had to have an operation. His health’s been a bit fragile lately, and he’s been a bit depressed. And he frets so about the farm. I mean, they have their problems, right, but they get on OK most of the time, as long as they avoid certain subjects—like me, and what Michael thinks he’s doing with his life.”
“Sounds like most of us,” said Annie. “Then what?”
“He kissed me and Ian, like he usually does, then he left.”
“Did he have any money with him?”
“He usually carries a bit of cash, but he’s very careful with the credit and debit cards. We both hate the idea of being in debt and paying interest.”
It didn’t matter how careful he was, Annie thought. If he used them, they’d be able to find out where, should it come to that. “Does he have a passport?”
Alex walked over to the sideboard drawer and rummaged through it for a few moments, then returned bearing a passport. Annie opened it and saw the photo. It was the same person as in the picture on the mantelpiece. There were no stamps in the passport, which was only two years old. That meant he hadn’t been outside the EU.
“Has anything out of the ordinary happened in your lives recently?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“Did you have an argument or anything like that?”
“No.”
“Did he seem worried, frightened, nervous, anxious? Different in any way?”
“No, he was the same as normal. But you’re frightening me, asking all these questions.”
“Sorry, it’s just routine,” said Annie. “We have to ask if we’re to try and find him. Did he take the car?”
“Yes, of course. We can walk to church, but you need the car to drive up into the dale. Maybe that’s it! I wouldn’t be surprised if that old banger broke down somewhere. Maybe that’s where he is? Up on the moors in the middle of nowhere with a dead mobile and a clapped-out car, hoping the AA might just happen to pass by.”
“Can you tell me the number plate?”
Alex told her and Doug Wilson noted it down. “It’s an old Peugeot. Dirty gray.”
Alex was clutching at straws, Annie thought. Even if Michael Lane had been at home on Saturday night, there was still a better chance that he was now in a lorry helping ship a stolen tractor over to Albania than stranded on the moors in a clapped-out Peugeot hoping for the AA to turn up. But Alex didn’t need to be told that. To Annie, Michael Lane was still a prime suspect, but to Alex he was a missing loved one. Somehow or other, Annie would have to sort all that out as gently as she could, or she risked losing any valuable cooperation she might need from Alex. It was a tricky balancing act.
“Could Michael be with a friend?” Annie asked. “And I don’t mean a girlfriend. Do you know any of his mates?”
“He doesn’t really have very many. His life was pretty isolated when he lived up at the farm, you see, and since then, well, most of the friends he did have have moved away, and we’ve sort of spent most of our time together. We don’t socialize a lot. Going out can be expensive.”
“You never go out for a drink or anything? Or to a party?”
“Sometimes we go to the local for an evening out, if we can afford a sitter for Ian, but not very often. Neither of us is a big drinker, and we just enjoy our own company. It’s cheaper to get a few cans or a bottle of wine in and watch telly than it is to go out for the night. It sounds boring, I suppose, but we’re happy.”
“Can you think of anyone else at all Michael might have communicated with?”
“There’s Keith, I suppose. He’s still here. They went to school together, and they meet up for a game of darts once in a while. But Keith hasn’t seen him. I phoned. Graham, too. He’s married to Angie, who’s my best friend, really. But Graham’s a photography nut, and he and Michael get along well. They go off taking photos at various scenic spots around the Dales every now and then. Graham’s been teaching Michael his way around a camera. As I said, Michael’s a natural in some ways, but he doesn’t know much about theory and techniques, or the history. I can’t say I do, either, but Graham does. There’s Morgan, too, I suppose. Michael works with him up on the farms sometimes. But I don’t like him. He’s too flash and full of himself. Wears a gold chain and has a spider tattoo on the side of his neck. Head shaved like one of those BNP types, though he isn’t. He’s half black. His dad’s from Barbados. And he’s always flirting with me.”
“Does Michael like him?”
“They work together, and they go for a pint together, too, sometimes, after a day’s work. They get along all right. Talk about any work that might be coming up. Morgan’s managed to get Michael in on a couple of decent-paying jobs, and vice versa, so I don’t suppose I should be so down on him.” She gave a little shudder and pulled a face. “You know, it’s just like, if you’re a woman, he makes you feel like a piece of meat.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” said Annie. “I’ve met a few of those in my time. What kind of jobs do they do?”
“Anything that comes along, really. Morgan does small removals, you know, houses and flats and stuff. He’s got a large van. Michael usually helps him out on jobs like that. They also do a lot of farmyard maintenance, like I said, roofing work, drainage ditches, helping bale hay for forage, that sort of thing. It’s really a matter of who you know, who you’ve worked for before, where you’ve got a good reputation.”
“And this Morgan has a good reputation?”
“I suppose he must have.”
“Could he be the one who texted Michael about a job yesterday morning?”
“It’s likely,” said Alex. “It’s what he usually does. Last minute, as often as not.”
“Have you rung Morgan?”
“No. I don’t know his number. But I know where he lives. He’s got a caravan at that site down by the river, you know, near Hindswell Woods.”
“Riverview?”
“That’s the one.”
“Well, it’s a start, I suppose,” said Annie, nodding toward Doug Wilson, who was busy scribbling in his notebook between stolen glances at Alex.
“Can you give me Michael’s mobile number?” Wilson asked. “And tell me the full names and addresses of the friends you mentioned, Miss Preston, including this Morgan character? Phone numbers, too, if you have them. And do you have a recent photograph of Michael we can borrow?”
“Please, call me Alex,” she said, smiling.
Annie could see that Doug was hers forever. He carefully wrote down the names and addresses, mostly just a street name, occasionally a telephone number Alex retrieved from her mobile’s contacts. It was enough to be going on with. Back at the station, they could put DC Masterson on it. Nobody could track down a name, address or phone number as fast as she could. “We’ll check again with them all,” said Annie. “Just in case. One of them might remember something he said, something that might not have seemed important at the time.”
Alex disappeared into the other room and came back with a photo of Michael posing casually on the balcony, with the view of Eastvale spread out in the background. “That was taken two weeks ago,” she said. “I took it myself. You remember, that nice weekend near the end of last month?” She handed over the photo, then put her hands to her face. “Oh, God, what can have happened to him?”