Winsome gave her an appraising look. Her “uniform” days weren’t far behind, but she was showing excellent promise as a detective, especially in the fields of intelligence gathering and computers. There didn’t seem to be any fact or snippet of information that was beyond the touch of her fingers on a keyboard. It was the other, more human, skills she needed to develop.
“It’s a miracle the place is still open,” said Winsome. “So many village pubs seem to be closing for good these days.”
The interior seemed dark after the bright sunlight, but their eyes soon adjusted. It was a modern pub, not one of those old-fashioned places with lots of brass and heavy varnished wood. The tables were square and made of some sort of black synthetic substance. The chairs had tubular legs. There was even a carpet on the floor. Video machines flashed and winked on the far side of the room. The lunch menu was chalked on a board on the wall and offered the usual pub grub.
“What’ll you have?” Winsome asked.
“Diet bitter lemon, please.”
“Sure you don’t want something a bit stronger?”
“You must be joking,” said Gerry. “If the boss found out we’d been drinking on the job he’d go spare.”
Winsome smiled. “I do hear he’s not averse to a tipple himself now and then.”
Gerry laughed. “Doesn’t matter.”
Winsome ordered two diet bitter lemons and turned to the barman after he had taken the small bottles from the glass-covered refrigerated area. “Are you the landlord?” she asked.
“For my sins. Gordon Fullerton. At your service.”
Winsome flashed him her identification card and introduced Gerry.
“I thought I recognized you from the papers,” Fullerton said. “Aren’t you the—”
“Mind if we ask you a few questions?” Winsome cut in. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s not a social call.”
“There’s not been any trouble, has there? I keep a quiet pub, and you won’t find any after-hours drinking here, either, whether the local bobby’s in or not.”
Winsome thought he was protesting too much, but she wasn’t interested in after-hours drinking. “No, it’s nothing like that. We’re here because of your location.”
“Location?” Fullerton scratched his head, and Winsome noticed a few flakes of dandruff float to the shoulders of his brown cardigan. His wispy grayish hair looked both uncombed and unwashed, though he was otherwise presentable. Clean-shaven, with a small nick on his chin, clear-eyed behind wire-rimmed glasses, not too much of a potbelly, as far as she could see. There were only four other customers in the place, two couples occupying separate tables and engaged in eating their lasagne and chips. If business was always as bad as this, Winsome found herself wondering if the pub could last much longer. There couldn’t be enough drinkers in the village to support it, and people were so scared of drinking and driving these days, they mostly stayed home to drink. Also, money was tight, the economy poor and people tended to buy their home supplies cheaply at Bargain Booze and drink while they watched telly in the evening, instead of going to the local anymore. It was a shame, really, she thought, though she had never been much of a pub-goer herself, a whole tradition slowly dying. But times change. Nowadays it was all city center wine bars and gastropubs, for those who could afford them, and a taxi home.
“That lane heading off the high street just outside, know where it goes?” she asked.
“Kirkway Lane? Aye. It’s centuries’ old. Roman, I think. It runs through Kirkway Woods, then across a few patches of waste ground beside an old airfield up Drewick way. I think it used to go all the way up to Northallerton years ago, but now it sort of peters out in the woods just past the airfield. Nobody uses it much these days. We just get the odd lorry now and then.”
“Lorries? How often?”
“Not that often.”
“How many times a week?” Winsome persisted.
“Certainly not every week. Far more irregular. I’ve seen them maybe three, four times in the past year or so.”
“Coming or going?”
“Both. They come off the high street from the direction of the A1 and turn left up Kirkway Lane. Then later they come back down, turn right and head back toward the A1.”
“How much later?”
“An hour, two. I don’t stand around watching and waiting, you know, but sometimes it’s devilish quiet around here. Mostly I’ve just heard them.”
“What time do they usually arrive?”
“I don’t really remember. Different times, I suppose.”
“Any particular days of the week?”
“Not so as I remember.”
“Did any of them have any markings? A company name or logo or something?”
“No, they’re just plain lorries, as a rule.”
“How big are they?”
“It varies. You can’t get anything really big up there, like those juggernauts or pantechnicons, or whatever they call them. Just lorries.”
“Big enough to hold a tractor or a combine?” asked Winsome.
“Not a combine, I shouldn’t think,” said Fullerton. “That road’s too narrow. Tractors and other heavy equipment, though. Aye. Why?”
“Livestock?”
“Well, they’re not your typical livestock transporters, but I don’t see as to why they couldn’t be used for that. What’s going on?”
“When was the last time you saw or heard one?”
“Funny you should mention that. It were this last Sunday.”
Winsome felt a surge of excitement. “What time?”
“Let’s see. I were just bringing Fred and Barney—them’s the whippets, like—back from their run, so it would have been just after ten.”
“Which way was it going?”
“Coming down, heading for the A1.”
“You didn’t notice it going up earlier?”
“No. But it could have gone up while I was walking the dogs. I wouldn’t have noticed anything.”
“Can you remember what it looked like?”
“Just like a moving van, really, like I said. Not one of those really big ones, like a furniture van or something.”
“Could you see the driver?”
“Just about. I think he was wearing a flat cap, and I do remember noticing something a bit odd.” He touched his cheek, just beside his ear. “He has those long sort of sideburns that come halfway around the chin. Do you know what I mean?”
“Muttonchops?” said Gerry.
“That’s right. I was close enough to see them.”
“Did you notice what color the lorry was?” Winsome asked.
“Dark green. Racing green, I think they call it.”
“Did this one have any markings, the name of a firm, phone number, anything at all distinguishing about it?”
“No, it were just a green lorry. I mean, it might have had a phone number and a name on the side, but I didn’t notice it. It certainly didn’t have any logos or anything. I’d remember that.”
“I don’t suppose you remember the number plate?” asked Winsome.
“It’s a long time since I used to stand by the roadside scribbling down car number plates.”
“Did you see anything else at all on Sunday morning?”
“No. I’m afraid that’s all.”
“Thanks a lot, Mr. Fullerton,” Winsome said. “You’ve been a great help.”
“I have?” said Fullerton, looking puzzled.
BANKS LOOKED through the window of the helicopter as the pilot took it slowly down as close to the wreckage as he could get. The moving dots soon became people, emergency services, crash investigators, even some CSIs, all of whom had laboriously made their way down the steep valley side via obscure and bone-jolting farm tracks gleaned from Ordnance Survey maps. Most of the tracks hadn’t been used for years, as the farms had died and the farmers had moved away. The location, about halfway along the pass, had very few points of access, and that was no doubt one reason for the economic failure of the farms. There was no road that ran along the valley bottom. Nobody lived there anymore.