Alex nodded, cradling her throbbing finger.
“So let’s keep it simple. Tell us where Michael Lane is, and everyone lives happily ever after.”
“I . . . don’t . . . know,” Alex gasped.
Meadows stood up and scratched his temple. “Know what?” he said. “I believe you. But I’m also sure that if he hasn’t been in touch already, he will be very soon, and when he is, I want to know. Understand?”
Alex nodded.
Meadows walked toward the front door.
Alex held her breath. “How do I get in touch?” she asked.
He turned. “That’s more like it.” He handed her a card. On it was a printed number. “And there’s no use handing it over to the police,” he said. “They won’t get anywhere with it, and it’ll only make things worse for you. And your son.” He glanced at Alex’s hand. “Don’t forget. You’ve still got seven fingers and two thumbs left. Not to mention the boy.” Then he took his raincoat off the hook and left.
4
ABOUT THE LAST THING BANKS WANTED TO BE DOING so soon in the mucky gray light just after dawn on a mizzling March morning was stand around the Riverview Caravan Park looking at the smoldering remains of Morgan Spencer’s caravan. His days ended late, but they didn’t usually start so early. If there were any justice in the world, he’d be lying in bed listening to Today, waiting for “Thought of the Day” to shift him into the shower. Or better still, he’d be cuddling up to Oriana’s warm naked body beside him with the alarm clock set on snooze. He shivered. No sense making things worse for himself.
DC Gerry Masterson stood beside him. She had been first in the squad room that morning, keen newcomer that she was, and as usual, first to read through the nightlies, which detailed all the police-involved incidents that had occurred in the region overnight. Usually it was a matter of drunk drivers, the occasional domestic or late-night pub brawl that got out of hand, but this time, she told him, she had noticed one interesting item: a fire at Riverview Caravan Park. That rang a bell, and when she inquired further of the desk sergeant, she was able to discover that the caravan belonged to one Morgan Spencer. Now Banks stood beside her at the scene while the fire investigation officer Geoff Hamilton and his team sifted through the wreckage. Annie Cabbot was on her way. Winsome and Doug Wilson could be safely left to take care of everything else for the time being.
The air smelled of wet ash and burned rubber, in its own way almost as bad as the smell of human innards at a postmortem. The area was roped off, but people stood outside their caravans or crowded around the edges of the prohibited area. Some were wearing only dressing gowns, having been woken by the blaze; others were already dressed and ready for the day. A number of uniformed officers made their way through the crowd taking statements. So far, nobody had seen or heard anything. More like they didn’t want to get involved, Banks thought.
Banks spotted Annie arriving and waved her over.
“Bloody hell,” she said, when she saw the devastation.
Of the neighboring caravans, fortunately, only one had been damaged by the flames, which was a small miracle in itself. Still, Annie told Banks, ex–police sergeant Rick Campbell would be mightily pissed off about his siding.
“Do people insure these things?” Banks asked her.
“I doubt it. The ones who live here year-round probably can’t afford it, and the rest can’t be arsed.”
Hamilton conferred with his team and ambled over. He was never a man to be hurried, Banks remembered from the time they had worked together on a narrow-boat fire. He greeted Banks, Annie and Gerry with his usual courtesy and pointed toward the ruins of the caravan. “Not much left, I’m afraid. Firetraps, most of these things, no matter how much folks try to fireproof them.”
“Anyone inside?” Banks asked.
Hamilton shook his head.
“Cause?”
“Well, we can’t be certain yet, but the sniffer dogs have found no trace of accelerant, and the burn patterns would seem to indicate the Calor gas burner.”
“You mean someone left it on?” Annie said.
“Mebbe,” said Hamilton.
“But you doubt it?” Banks prompted him.
“You know me, Alan, I’m not one for wild speculation in the absence of any real concrete evidence.”
“But . . . ?”
“Well, all I can tell you is that the rubber pipe had come out at the burner end. It’s very much the same principle as a barbecue, if you know how that works.”
“I know,” said Banks. “I’ve got one.” He had even managed to use it once or twice, between rain showers.
“I’d be careful, then.”
“Don’t worry, Geoff. I keep it in the garden.”
“Even so . . . as I said, it looks as if the rubber hose had come free at the burner end, but was still attached to the Calor gas supply.”
“Which turned it into a flamethrower?”
“Aye, more or less.”
“And this happened how?” Banks pressed on.
“Well, these things do happen by themselves sometimes,” said Hamilton. “Say, if the connection gets blocked by spiders’ webs, or something else gets stuck inside and the rubber burns through. But from the remains I’ve seen here, it looks very much as if someone set a little pile of paper on fire on the floor of the caravan, near the burner, ripped out the end of the hose, turned on the Calor gas and got out fast.”
“Arson, then?”
“A near certainty.”
“Professional?”
Hamilton pulled a face as he appeared to think it over. “Doubtful. A pro would probably just have lit a fire underneath the caravan itself. Easy to do. And it would have had the same effect eventually.”
“But someone was inside?”
“I’d say so. The lock area was splintered, the latch broken off. Fire doesn’t do that. Someone had put his shoulder to the door and pushed. It wouldn’t have taken much strength.”
“Any signs of a search?” Annie asked.
Hamilton glanced back at the damage. “As you can see, nothing much has been spared. I must say, though, that while the cupboards and drawers might have come open and spilled their contents because of the fire, one thing a fire can’t do is cut open a mattress and pillows.”
“So someone went through the place thoroughly before starting the fire?” Annie said.
“Looks that way. And then pulled out the connecting hose and did as I said.”
“Damn,” said Annie. “If we’d searched the caravan last night . . .”
“You can’t blame yourself,” Banks said. “You followed correct procedure. How were we to know someone else had the same idea as we did? We still don’t know whether it’s connected to anything else we’re looking into. Besides, no one was hurt.”
“Morgan Spencer was certainly connected to Michael Lane,” Annie said. “And Michael Lane was the son of Frank Lane, John Beddoes’s closest neighbor and the man who was keeping an eye on his farm while he was in Mexico. Michael Lane lived with Alex Preston, who works in a travel agency. Those are the only connections we know about for sure.”
“I know,” said Banks. “And I don’t like coincidences any more than you do. But what on earth could they have been looking for? Something he had of theirs? Or something that connected them to him? And who are they?”
“We won’t find out standing here,” said Annie. She looked at Hamilton. “Thanks, Geoff. If anything else comes up . . .”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Where are you going?” Banks asked.
“To see Alex Preston again, pick up Michael Lane’s toothbrush or hairbrush for a DNA sample. After that, I think young Dougal and I will have a trip to the seaside.”