Denise Lane had a heart-shaped face under a tidy cap of streaked blond hair, a smooth complexion and attractive features, all in the right proportions. She was also long-legged and looked slim and shapely under her uniform. Mrs. Prince had been right about the fitness center. Denise Lane would hardly be forty, Annie reminded herself, not much more than ten years older than Alex Preston, and maybe five or six years younger than her ex-husband. If those hard years on the farm had taken their toll on her, she had certainly worked at regaining her good looks and youthful glow. Perhaps her weakest feature, Annie noticed, was her fingers, which were short and stubby, with bitten and broken nails.
“What’s wrong?” she asked Annie, before Doug Wilson had even returned with the coffee. “Has something happened to Michael?”
“Why would you think that?”
“It’s not every day I get a visit from the police. I haven’t done anything wrong, so I assume it must be bad news.”
“Just routine inquiries,” said Annie, kicking herself immediately for coming out with the most obvious police cliché. “I mean, we’re just here to ask you a few questions, that’s all. As far as I know, nobody’s come to any harm, and nobody’s done anything wrong.”
“You must have some reason for seeking me out.”
Wilson came back, handed her the latte and took out his notebook.
“When did you last see Michael?” Annie asked.
“Not for a while.”
“How long ago?”
“A few months.”
“You’re not close?”
“I suppose not. At least, not since . . .”
“The separation?”
“Yes. It’s been difficult for everyone. I mean, Michael stayed at the farm with his dad. What could he do, really? He was only seventeen. Oh, he used to come and see me at Mum and Dad’s sometimes, at first, but we argued. I think he blamed me for what happened. And Mum can be so . . . judgmental. I suppose I felt betrayed, abandoned. Then when I met Ollie things changed. I saw less and less of Michael. He and Ollie didn’t get on at all. Maybe in time . . . ? I don’t know.”
“So you don’t know much about his recent life, what he’s doing, how he’s living?”
“I know he moved out about a year ago and he has a girlfriend who’s older than him, but that’s about all.”
“Your mother calls her the ‘floozie.’ Doesn’t that bother you?”
“What? That Mum calls her a floozie? That she’s older than him? Why should it? Men take up with younger women all the time. As long as they’re happy, I don’t care. Look, I wish you’d get to the point. My break’s not long enough to waste on idle chat about Michael.”
Annie wished she knew what the point was. “We’re trying to find him, that’s all,” she said. “A neighbor’s tractor was stolen while he was away on holiday, and Michael’s father was supposed to be looking after the man’s farm. Mr. Beddoes mentioned Michael, that’s all.”
“And you think he did it? On John Beddoes’s say-so?”
“We don’t think that at all, but we do want to talk to him. It seems there was some bad blood between your son and Mr. Beddoes, and Michael does have a conviction to his name.”
“You never let go, you lot, do you? Oh, I know all about the stolen car. The joyride. One silly mistake and he’s in your sights forever.”
“It’s not like that,” Annie protested, though perhaps without too much conviction. “Michael’s disappeared. Alex is worried about him. We want to find him, that’s all.”
“Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. It’s not a disappearance. That’s so melodramatic. Is that what this floozie told you? Alex. That he’d disappeared?”
“Do you know a friend of his called Morgan Spencer?”
Denise looked toward the harbor through the window. “Morgan? Why do you mention Morgan?”
“Your mother said you don’t think very highly of him. He’s made himself scarce, too.”
“Well, there’s someone you should keep in your sights. I always thought he was a bad influence on our Michael. He’s older, for a start. They’ve known each other for a few years, since before I left. I suspect Morgan was behind the joyriding business, for a start. It was only Michael who took the blame, but I’ll bet you anything Morgan was behind it. He was older. He’d probably have got a harsher sentence. I also blamed him for putting ideas into Michael’s head.”
“What ideas?”
“Oh, about what a waste of time education was, how you should just make your own way, that there was plenty of easy money to be had if you knew how to get it. Christ, I wish to bloody God I’d gone to university when I had the chance.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Denise gave a harsh laugh. “I wanted money in my pocket, the flash life. I couldn’t see the sense in learning some subject I didn’t care about. I wanted holidays abroad, sun and fun. What I got was Frank bloody Lane and the farm. Only myself to blame. But that’s behind me now.”
“So Morgan was a bad influence on Michael. Is that all you know about him?”
“He’s . . . I think . . .” She looked away.
“What is it, Denise?”
“I think he’s dangerous, too.” She glanced around the coffee shop, as if to make sure no one could hear. Annie didn’t think anyone could. Then Denise lowered her voice. “Or he could be. One time, about three years ago, before things really started to fall apart, Morgan came up to the farm looking for Michael. He wasn’t there. Neither was Frank. I was by myself. Morgan didn’t seem bothered by that, and he started to . . . I don’t know . . . chat me up, I suppose. Then he got more explicit. Said why didn’t we go upstairs, we could have some fun. That I wasn’t bad looking for an old woman, and he could give me a good time. That sort of thing. Thinks he’s God’s gift.”
Annie felt herself turn cold. “Did he touch you?”
“Just, you know, he put his hand on my breast, but I slapped him away. I thought then for a moment from the expression on his face that he was going to force me. He looked so angry at being rejected.”
“But he didn’t do anything?”
“No. He just left.”
“And that was the only time?”
“I wouldn’t have him in the house after that.”
“Did you tell your husband or Michael?”
“No. I haven’t told anyone. I felt so dirty, so ashamed, and things were already bad between Frank and me. But I want you to know what kind of person he is. If there’s any trouble, if Michael’s in any sort of bother, then you can bet Morgan Spencer is behind it.”
“THANKS FOR agreeing to see me at such short notice,” Banks said to Detective Inspector Joanna MacDonald as they sat in a pub on the outskirts of Northallerton waiting for lunch.
“Any excuse to get out of the office,” Joanna said, smiling. “And you did say you were buying.”
“How’s it going?”
Joanna shrugged. “What can I say? The career’s fine. The personal life’s still a bit of a mess. It gets a bit lonely sometimes.”
Banks knew that Joanna had recently separated from her husband after she had discovered that he was involved in a number of affairs, or flings, as she had called them. He remembered how much it had hurt him when his own ex-wife, Sandra, had left him for someone else, the betrayal, the sense of being played for an idiot for not seeing it coming, the shame and humiliation.
“You miss your husband?”
“Like a bad smell. But to look on the bright side, I’m not in Professional Standards anymore, so everyone doesn’t hate me.”
Somehow, Joanna didn’t seem so much the icy Hitchcock blonde she had been when Banks had first met her. She was still blond, and still a very attractive woman, but now instead of wearing her hair piled on top, she let it hang straight over her shoulders. She wore black-rimmed glasses, which suited her and gave her the aspect of a college professor. There was also something warmer and more open about her manner. When they had been on a case in Tallinn together, she had been remote, edgy and quick-tempered. It was probably a lot to do with working for Professional Standards, Banks knew, and suspecting her husband of infidelity, and he had to admit that he hadn’t exactly welcomed her with open arms. She was the enemy, after all. In fact, he had treated her cruelly, and he now felt childish when he remembered the silly practical jokes he had played on her.