“But Caleb didn’t lack for anything. He never needed much.”
“Everything has got much more expensive over the past few years.” Winsome glanced at the electric fire. “Just keeping warm, for example. Or the cost of cigarettes. Someone might have come up with an offer that made sense to him.”
Vaughn shook his head. “No. I can’t see it. Not Caleb.”
“Did he have muttonchops?” Gerry cut in.
Vaughn turned to her as if she were mad. “Muttonchops?”
“Yes. Sideboards. You know.” She touched her cheeks beside her ears.
“Ah, I see what you mean. What an odd question. No. No, Caleb didn’t have muttonchops.”
“Very well, Mr. Vaughn,” said Winsome. “We’ll take your character reference into consideration. Perhaps you might also care to give us the names and addresses of one or two of Mr. Ross’s coworkers? Todd Griffin and Pat Bingley for starters.”
“They’ll only tell you the same I have.”
“All the more reason for us to talk to them, then,” said Winsome. “The quicker we’ll be able to cross him off our list. By the way, do you know what a penetrating captive bolt pistol is?”
“A bolt pistol? Yes, of course. It’s what the slaughterman uses in an abattoir to stun the animals.”
“Do you own one?”
“Certainly not. Why would I need one? The animals are already dead when they come to us.”
“Just wondering. Do you know of anyone who has one?”
“I can’t say as I do.”
“Caleb Ross, for example?”
“I very much doubt it. Why would Caleb have one? Where could he get hold of one? I take it you can’t just buy them in the shops.”
Winsome gave Gerry the signal and they stood up to leave. “Just one more thing, sir,” said Winsome, pausing at the door.
“Yes?”
“As I said, the human remains had been cut into manageable pieces. It looked like a professional job, according to our pathologist. Would you have any idea how or where that might have been carried out?”
Vaughn rubbed his forehead. “Me? No.”
“Don’t know any dodgy butchers? Or slaughtermen?”
Vaughn was looking decidedly pale now. “No,” he said. “Sorry. That’s not a part of our business service.” And it seemed to Winsome as if he couldn’t wait to shut the door behind them.
VENTURE PROPERTY Developments was housed on the sixth floor of a redbrick office complex just south of Granary Wharf, overlooking the tangle of arterial roads south of Leeds city center. The mirrored lift was clean, fast and practically silent. Banks watched Annie “powder her nose” as they went up and was amazed at how quickly she applied a fresh coat of lipstick and brushed her hair into its natural chestnut glory. It had been windy outside, and even the short walk from their parked car to the office had been enough to reduce it to a messy tangle. Banks, of course, had no such problems. The wind hardly made a dent in his closely cropped dark hair. He did notice in the large mirror, though, that the touch of gray seemed to be spreading from his temples.
“You OK?” he asked Annie. She had been fidgety in the car and had phoned Doug Wilson on his mobile twice to check that Alex Preston was safe. She had told Banks on the way about her visit the previous evening, and about Alex’s phone call from Michael Lane.
“I’m fine,” she said, with a forced smile. “Ready to rock and roll.”
The lift doors opened at the reception area of Venture Properties, where an immaculately groomed receptionist, whose name tag read bRENDA, sat behind a semicircular desk under the red company logo on the wall. The area smelled faintly of nail varnish remover.
Brenda smiled her patent smile of greeting, tinged with a hint of suspicion she no doubt reserved for newcomers, and said, “Good morning. Can I help you?”
Banks showed his warrant card. “We’re here to see Mr. Norrington.”
Brenda seemed unimpressed by the official identification. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes,” said Banks.
“Please take a seat.” She gestured toward a modular orange couch arranged around a glass table, on which was spread a selection of magazines: the Economist, House & Home, along with the Financial Times and a selection of the morning’s papers, all looking untouched.
Brenda busied herself on the telephone, her voice reduced to a distant whisper. When she hung up, she said, “Mr. Norrington will see you in a few minutes. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea, water?”
“Coffee, please. Black, two sugars,” said Annie.
Banks asked for water.
Brenda disappeared and came back seconds later with a cup and saucer and a plastic bottle of fizzy water. Before Annie had managed to finish her coffee, Brenda’s phone buzzed and she asked them to follow her.
Norrington’s office was at the end of the corridor. It was larger than the entire Eastvale squad room, and the far wall was one giant picture window. The sky was gray, so the venetian blinds were up. Unfortunately, the window didn’t look out over the city center, but toward the south, a flat and dreary wasteland of other office buildings, arterial roads, factory yards and retail warehouse outlets. Banks could even see the sprawling shopping park at Crown Point. Beyond that, lanes of traffic sped on the M621 as it coiled through the run-down urban areas of Hunslet and Beeston. Perhaps the view was an inspiration to property developers, Banks thought, a spur to bigger and better things. To most, though, he imagined it would be depressing.
Norrington himself had the look of a man who was comfortable with his environment. As he stood up and came forward to greet them, Banks noticed he had hung his suit jacket on the back of his chair, had his shirtsleeves rolled halfway up his arms and his tie loose at the collar, the way Banks liked to wear his when he had to wear one. His thinning gray hair was swept back and his nose slightly bulbous. His manner was open and polite. He even gave a little bow when Banks introduced Annie, and for a moment Banks thought he was going to kiss her hand. Instead, he offered more refreshments, which both Banks and Annie declined, then bade them sit. Their chairs were wide and comfortable, and faced the large window. At that angle, they could see only the sky, not the wastelands of south Leeds.
“One of our colleagues rang you yesterday, I believe?” Banks said.
“She talked to Geoffrey Melrose, not to me,” said Norrington. “He’s my partner, to all intents and purposes. I’m afraid he’s had to go to London on business today, but I can help you with anything you need.”
“I hope so. My colleague said she got rather short shrift.”
“Geoff’s a busy man. He told me it was something to do with the Drewick development.”
“That’s right. The old airfield with the hangar. How long have you owned the property?”
“About four years now. It was run-down for years, going cheap, so we bought it for the land. Ever since then we’ve been trying to get zoning laws and investors in line for a new shopping development. It’s a long haul, I can tell you.”
“Do such things usually take so long?”
“It depends. You certainly need patience in this business, though.”
“While you’re negotiating all this, who takes care of the property?”
“Again, it depends on the property.”
“In this case.”
Norrington leaned back in his chair and started stretching a rubber band. “In this case, nobody, really. There seemed little point in employing a night watchman or a security company, as there was nothing there to watch. The chain link and gates were already in place. We put up all the required signs and padlocks. I suppose some schoolkids might have managed to sneak in through a hole in the fence, but even a night watchman probably couldn’t have prevented that. Kids get everywhere.”
“Too true,” Banks agreed. “And anyone can take a pair of bolt cutters and replace your chain and padlock with their own. Did you ever consider whether the premises were being used for criminal activity?”