Annie stopped at the door. “Just one more thing,” she said. “Do you remember if John Beddoes booked his trip to Mexico through GoThereNow?”
“Yes. Yes, he did. I took the details myself. But what—”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“Why would I?”
“I don’t know. Just in passing, you know, in general conversation. After all, Michael knows him. It might have come up.”
“I suppose I might have. But I don’t understand. Surely you’re not suggesting that Michael had anything to do with that tractor, are you? I told you, he was here all night Saturday.”
“Until Sunday morning?”
“Yes.”
“When he got a text, probably from Morgan Spencer, and said he had to go out and do a job and might call in on his father?”
“Yes.”
Annie grasped the door handle. “I’m sure everything’s fine, Alex. Don’t worry. And be sure to keep your doctor’s appointment.”
“You’ll stay in touch?”
“As soon as we find anything out, you’ll be the first to know.”
“WHERE’S THAT bonny young lass and wee Harry Potter,” said Lane, when Banks showed him his ID and a warrant to search the premises.
“DI Cabbot’s on other business, and Harry couldn’t come today,” Banks answered. “He has an important Quidditch match.” He thought Annie would be pleased to hear that she had been called a bonny young lass, though she might not be so thrilled when she heard the source. Lane wasn’t that much older than she was, probably only in his mid forties, Banks guessed, though the years of hard physical labor had taken their toll on him: his shoulders sloped, his skin was leathery and weather-beaten, his complexion rough and raw.
Lane snorted. “I suppose you’d better come in.” He glanced over Banks’s shoulder at the uniformed officers, who were already setting about their search of the outbuildings. “What about them?”
“They won’t be long, Mr. Lane. And they’ll be careful. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried. Let ’em look to their hearts’ content. I can’t imagine what they expect to find.”
Banks followed Lane into the living room. “We won’t take up much of your time,” he said, “only we’ve been around asking a few questions about your son, and the thing is, we still can’t seem to find Michael.”
“Oh.”
“You’re not worried about him?”
“Our Michael can take care of himself.”
“You said you last saw him about two weeks ago?”
“A little over. Two weeks last Friday. He was doing some work at a farm over the dale, and he dropped by for a cup of tea.”
“So you’re on speaking terms at the moment?”
Lane’s expression hardened. “We have our disagreements, but I’ve never shunned him. He’s my son.”
“Alex Preston said Michael told her that he might drop in on you last Sunday.”
“Well, he didn’t. And who might she be when she’s at home?”
“Alex is your son’s partner.”
“Partner.” Lane spat the word. “Scarlet woman, more like.”
“Have it your way. I’m not interested in your petty family squabbles. I want to find your son, and I want to find out what happened to your neighbor’s tractor.” Banks didn’t want to mention the blood just yet, the more serious reason for his questions, not until they knew a lot more about what had happened in the old hangar.
“You think he’s here, don’t you? Our Michael. That’s what yon woodentops are looking for, isn’t it?”
“We’re interested in finding your son, Mr. Lane. It would hardly look good on us if we overlooked the obvious, would it?”
“I told you. I don’t know where he is.”
“Do you think he could be in trouble?”
“What sort of trouble?”
“Any sort. He’s been in trouble with the law before, hasn’t he?”
“That was when . . .” Lane stopped himself and subsided in his chair, reaching for a cigarette.
“When what, Mr. Lane?”
“When he was upset. His mother left. It was just a phase he went through, that’s all.”
“Do you know Morgan Spencer?”
“Aye. And I know Denise always blamed him for Michael’s problems. Bad influence. She wouldn’t have him in the house.”
“He seems to be missing, too. Any idea what might have happened to him?”
“None at all. Why would I? I haven’t seen him in nigh on three years.”
There was a knock at the door, and the leader of the search team said they’d finished outside and would like to search the interior now. Lane had all three of them take off their muddy Wellington boots before letting them in the house, but they had come prepared with indoor slip-ons.
“Mind if I have a look around with them?” Banks asked.
“Please yourself. You will, anyway. You’ve got the warrant.”
Banks followed the officers around the inside rooms. It wasn’t a thorough search, the kind they would make if looking for drugs, for example; at the moment, they were just looking for any signs of someone else living on the premises. There were none that Banks could see. Only one of the three bedrooms was in use, with clothes strewn here and there over an unmade bed. One room was completely empty, even down to the bare floorboards, and the other, the smallest, had a single bed and a small pile of boxes in one corner. That would be where Michael slept if he stopped over, Banks guessed. The boxes held a few childhood toys and books. There was nothing to indicate that the room had been used or the bed slept in at all recently. The house was clean, including the bathroom and toilets. There was only one shaving brush, one twin-blade razor, one toothbrush and one tube of toothpaste. Banks watched a uniformed officer check the cabinets, too, where he found nothing but common pain relievers, cold remedies, indigestion tablets, a prescription for blood pressure medication, plasters and Germolene.
When they had finished, they returned to the living room. Lane looked up and said, “Told you there was nobody here.” Then he lit a cigarette and turned on the TV with the remote control. An old episode of Midsomer Murders, the ones with John Nettles, came on. Some sort of village fete interrupted by a pagan ritual. It must have been ITV-3, Banks thought; they showed mysteries all day. He looked at the back of Lane’s head for a while, then gestured to the three search officers to put their wellies on again and headed back to the police Range Rover. Michael Lane wasn’t at his father’s farm.
DENISE LANE’S parents, Henry and Ilva Prince, lived in a retirement bungalow on the coast between Whitby and Sandsend. As Annie and Doug Wilson crossed the North Yorkshire moors, through patches of thick fog and deep puddles, they chatted every now and then, but they were also comfortable in silence, just watching the landscape go by, when they could see it. Annie reflected on how nice it was not to have to listen to Banks’s music, which could be dreadful sometimes. At the coast, the weather did another about-face and the sky was clear out to sea. The sun blazed down from a deep blue sky, but there was a sharp icy wind off the water.
The slight, gray-haired lady, who answered the door with a suspicious and alarmed expression on her face, examined their warrant cards and let them into her sparsely furnished living room, explaining how you couldn’t be too careful these days, especially as her husband was out. A picture window faced the North Sea across the slope of a well-trimmed lawn. The waves rolled in, bright white streaks against the blue of the sea, finally crashing in a haze of foam on the beach below. Several tankers or merchant ships edged slowly across the horizon. Sunlight sparkled on the whitecaps.
“Lovely view,” said Annie.
“Henry always wanted to retire to the seaside, so here we are,” said Ilva Prince. Her voice sounded like a sigh. Another woman disappointed with her lot in life.
Annie and Doug Wilson continued to enjoy the view as Mrs. Prince made a pot of tea, then they sat down on the burgundy velour three-piece suite, complete with wing arms, gold-braided cushions and white lace antimacassars.