“Was anyone following it? Another car? A lorry, motorcycle?”
“No, nobody. At least not for as long as it took me to get back to the house and open the door.”
It was something, at any rate, Winsome thought. They could get some patrol cars out to the moors villages and ask if anyone remembered seeing a dirty gray Peugeot last Sunday morning. A car like that might stand out in areas where there wasn’t much poor weather traffic. Nobody in Drewick had mentioned it when first questioned by the patrol officers, but it might be a good idea to recanvass the village. Also, Winsome remembered that Lane’s mother and grandparents lived over the moors, in Whitby. If Lane had continued across the Thirsk road, he’d have hit the A19 eventually. A little jog either way on there would have had him heading into the North York Moors. Or up to Teesside or down to York, she reminded herself glumly.
She made some notes, aware of Gilchrist watching her writing with a curious eye. “What?” she said, glancing up.
“Nothing. You’re very meticulous, that’s all.”
“It pays to be, in my job.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Do you know what a bolt pistol is?”
Gilchrist frowned. “Isn’t it one of those things they use in abattoirs?”
“That’s right. Have you seen one lately, heard anything about one?”
“No. Not just recently, but never. The only reason I know about them is the firearms course I took in my basic training. Not that we’d use them, but the instructor was thorough. He even covered air pistols and cap guns.” Gilchrist stood up slowly. “Look, I’ve got to go now, but I’ve just had a great idea. Why don’t you come to trivia night with me? I promise you’ll enjoy it. The Coach and Horses is just on the village high street.”
“I’m not much of a trivia person, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t worry about it, I’m good enough for the two of us.”
Winsome laughed. “No, I still don’t think so. Sorry. It’s been a very long day, and tomorrow doesn’t promise to be any easier. I’m tired.”
Gilchrist looked disappointed. “If you say so. Is that all?”
“For now. Yes.”
“OK, then. Let me help you with your coat.”
Ever the gentleman, Gilchrist led her, again without his stick, into the hall, and helped her on with her coat. Winsome’s Polo was next to Gilchrist’s Ford Focus.
“Can I offer you a lift or anything?” Winsome asked. “Save you taking the car out.”
Gilchrist tapped his leg. “No, thanks. The walk will do me good. The doc says I need as much exercise as I can get if I hope to return to my former Adonis-like physical glory.”
“I’m sure if anyone makes it, you will. Good night. And thanks.”
They stood there a little awkwardly, and Winsome felt confused by the waves of tension between them. Just when she thought Gilchrist was leaning forward to kiss her cheek, or her lips, she turned quickly and left. Back in the car, her heart was beating fast, and she had to tell herself to get a grip and calm down. Why had she refused his invitation? She wasn’t that tired. And the potholing he had mentioned on her previous visit? What harm could that do? Was it because she still thought of him as a suspect, or at least as a witness involved in a case she was working on? Partly, she thought. But it was more than that. She didn’t like the idea of sitting in an estate pub in what was little more than a modern country village. She would be the only black person in there, and she would stand out. She was used to that in her job, of course, but people knew her in Eastvale, and at least there was a college there. It attracted all colors and all kinds. In the pub, she would be an object of curiosity, and that would make her uncomfortable.
Oh, why, she told herself, after running through the list of reasons for turning down Gilchrist’s offer, didn’t she just admit the truth: that she was attracted to him, and that the feeling frightened her. Then she heard her mother’s voice in her mind, as she so often did. “Get a grip on yourself, you foolish girl.” It wasn’t easy, but she made herself stop thinking of Gilchrist and concentrated on the road.
IT HAD been a useful meeting, Banks thought, as he tossed his briefcase on his computer desk, picked up the post and hung his coat up on the rack behind the door, but he still felt that he lacked a coherent picture of recent events. No defining pattern had emerged from the vast collection of data and pooling of ideas.
Vic Manson’s contribution had probably been the most valuable: the identification of the man who had threatened Alex Preston. He would see the complete file in the morning, but he already knew the man’s name was Ronald Tanner, and he had a string of arrests for breaking and entering, and one for GBH. He had served two prison sentences, one for six months and the second for eighteen. What his connection was with the rural crime gang and Morgan Spencer’s murder remained to be seen, but they would certainly be a step closer to finding out when they got Tanner in custody. The local police had agreed to pick him up before dawn and deliver him to Eastvale. It was the most likely time to find him at home, and they would certainly have the element of surprise on their side, which could make all the difference if he were in possession of a weapon.
Banks walked through the hall passage to the kitchen. There was a small dining-table-cum-breakfast-nook that could seat four, in a pinch, and a TV on one of the shelves on the wall beside it, where he usually watched the news or listened to the radio as he drank his breakfast coffee. He flicked on the remote, found nothing of interest and switched it off again, then he poured himself a glass of wine and sat at the table in silence.
The post was uninteresting, apart from the latest issue of Gramophone, which he flipped through idly as he drank. Then he realized he was hungry again. The only thing he had to eat in the fridge was some leftover pizza with pork, apple and crackling saved from the quick lunch he and Annie had grabbed at Pizza Express at the back of the Corn Exchange in Leeds. He put it in the convection oven, where it would hopefully crisp up a bit, and went back to his magazine. When the bell dinged, he took his wine, pizza and Gramophone into the conservatory. Dense clots of black cloud fringed the top of Tetchley Fell on the horizon, but above them, the starry night was a clear dark blue, with a thin silvery crescent of moon. Banks sat in the wicker chair and watched its slow-moving arc as he ate his pizza. The crust was dry, and still a bit too cold. He decided he wasn’t hungry anymore and put it aside. When he had finished, the moon had disappeared behind the fell.
The headache that Banks had first felt during the meeting began to get worse when he concentrated on thinking about the case. He left his wine for a moment and went into the entertainment room to pick some music, finally settling on Agnes Obel’s Aventine. The gentle, repetitive piano figures and cello and violin accompanying her soaring voice would soothe him better than paracetamol.
But even with the music playing, he felt restless; random thoughts continued to swirl around his mind, and his head throbbed steadily. He thought of breaking the pledge and ringing Oriana to ask if she wanted to meet up for a quick drink, but soon changed his mind. They had a great relationship, he felt, as long as neither of them tried to push it too far. Right now, even if her body was still in Eastvale, her mind would already be in Australia.
He could always wander down to the Dog and Gun, he supposed. There was bound to be someone he knew in there, maybe even Penny Cartwright. But he didn’t particularly feel like company, he realized—other than Oriana’s, of course. Ever since Sandra had left him and the kids moved out, he had become more and more attuned to his solitude—to the point where he actually enjoyed being alone. Maybe he didn’t eat healthily enough or work out at the gym, and perhaps he drank and brooded too much, but on the whole, he enjoyed his life. It wasn’t necessarily a psychologically healthy state of affairs, he thought, but there was a lot to be said for solitude. Some people even climbed distant mountains to be alone. The world was often far too much with him, the hustle-bustle always just around the corner. In the end, he decided to pour himself another glass of wine and go watch a DVD in the entertainment room. The latest James Bond movie had been lying around for a while unopened, mostly because Oriana didn’t like James Bond.