“He’s on the Venture list?”
“Indeed he is.”
“Why didn’t you say so before?”
Gerry blushed. “I just got it, the moment before we came out to lunch, sir.”
“Well, go on,” Banks urged her.
“It might not lead anywhere.”
“But Havers is an investor in the shopping center?”
“Indirectly, yes. That’s why it took so long. To cut a long story short, sir, he’s connected with a company called Retail Perfection Ltd., or a smaller division of that, a company within a company.”
“You’re losing me, Gerry.”
“High finance and corporate finagling aren’t really my area of expertise, either, sir, but let’s say he’s on the board, a major shareholder, of a branch of Retail Perfection Ltd. that handles property acquisition and development. His main business is international financing, but he’s got his finger in a number of pies, or companies, I should say.”
“That’s the connection we were looking for.”
“Yes, but there are lots of other investors.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Banks. “Joanna gave me Havers’s name as someone they were keeping an eye on for Operation Hawk. Apparently he’s clever and slippery and they’ve not been able to get him for anything yet. He’s obviously careful and makes sure he never handles anything that can be traced back to the thefts and transportation. But if he’s also an investor in the Drewick shopping center development, then he’s in a position to know that it would be a good place to use as a depot. All he has to do is know and pass on that knowledge. He doesn’t have to organize anything himself, get his hands dirty. It’s ideal. That’s great, Gerry. Well done.”
“Wait a minute,” said Annie. “Gerry said there are a lot of other people involved in investing in the airfield. What about them? Shouldn’t we check all of them out?”
“We could, I suppose,” said Banks. “But I vote that Havers gets first attention. It’s a double hit, Annie. He’s invested in the airfield development and he’s on Joanna MacDonald’s Operation Hawk list. Also, he drove up here on the Sunday we think Morgan Spencer was killed at the hangar.”
“I suppose that makes sense,” Annie said. “What are you going to do?”
“Go see him. I was going anyway, but now I’ve even got a bit more ammunition, thanks to Gerry.”
Gerry Masterson blushed, and Annie looked sulky. “While Alex and Ian just wait around for someone to kill them or abduct them?”
“Don’t be absurd. They’ll be well protected.”
“Sure.”
Gerry stood up. “I should get back to the squad room now, if that’s OK? I’ve got the Venture stuff to finish, then a whole lot of abattoirs to look into.”
“Absolutely,” said Banks. “And dig up all you can on Montague Havers.”
Gerry left, and they watched her go. “She’s come on a lot,” said Annie.
“Indeed, she has.”
“Still a bit sensitive, though.”
Banks smiled. “And you’re still a bit acerbic.”
“Whatever that is. I’m working on it.”
Banks touched her hand on the table. “I know you are. And your concern for Alex and Ian hasn’t gone unnoticed. We’re going to make damn sure their security is tight and that neither of them is going to be damaged by this.”
“But for how long?” asked Annie, banging her fist on the table. The glasses rattled and one or two people looked over. “I just feel so damn responsible.”
“As long as it takes. As I said before, they’re not interested in Alex. True, she’s a means to an end, but as soon as that end no longer matters, neither does she. We’ve got to increase our efforts to find Michael Lane.”
“So why not just kill her, then?”
“Because I think we’re dealing with businessmen, and it wouldn’t be to their advantage. They’ve no reason to. Look at Spencer. We don’t know why they killed him, but it was hardly as a warning, an example or to hurt someone else. They were hoping his body would be incinerated, for crying out loud. All we’ve encountered so far has been the pond life—Tanner, Ross, Spencer, Lane. The man with the bolt gun, whoever that is. But there’s someone else calling the shots, someone whose orders they obey, someone with brains. That’s who we want to get to. And that’s why I’m going to see Montague Havers.”
“I don’t think Michael Lane is pond life.”
“Maybe not. But that’s another question we want the answer to, isn’t it? How deeply is he involved? And he’s the focal point, too. They want Lane. We have to get to him first. Then Alex Preston becomes irrelevant.”
“Unless they’re the vengeful types,” muttered Annie.
Banks’s phone rang and he excused himself to answer it. The message was brief and he smiled when he ended the call and slipped the mobile back in his pocket.
“Well, at least we’ve made a bit of progress,” he said. “We’ve found Michael Lane’s car. Fancy a trip to the seaside?”
SCARBOROUGH IN season is a delightful and popular place to visit. The ruined castle towers over the seascape, its promontory splitting the town in two: South Bay, with its promenade of amusement arcades, pubs, casinos and fish-and-chips restaurants; and North Bay, with its holiday apartments, golf club and Peasholm Park.
But on a cold, blustery March day, even the inhabitants would admit, it is not a place in which you would care to linger long. Marine Drive runs around the base of the promontory and links the two halves. On a rough day, it is often flooded by waves that crash high over the solid seawall, and signposts warn of falling rocks from the steep cliff on the other side of the road. Unfortunately for Banks and Annie, Michael Lane’s car had been found parked in a Pay-n-Display area close to the coast guard office, in the old Toll House, with its fairy-tale brick tower and its witch’s hat of red tiles topped with a weather vane. And this was certainly the sort of day when you didn’t need a weather vane to know which way the wind was blowing. It was blowing straight off the North Sea, wet and freezing, carrying with it a spray that immediately soaked anyone in the vicinity.
The local police had cordoned off the car when Banks and Annie arrived early in the afternoon. Ronald Tanner was still in his cell, and Gerry Masterson was slaving away over her computer with lists of names and companies beside her.
“Nice day for a visit to the seaside, sir,” said one of the uniformed officers cheerfully, as Banks and Annie struggled to keep their raincoats on in the wind, which seemed to be trying to rip off every item of clothing they wore. “Isn’t it funny,” he went on, “the way people assume you’re on perpetual holiday when you tell them you’re stationed in Scarborough?”
“Indeed,” said Banks. There was no point in even trying to open an umbrella. Banks could feel the salt spray on his face and taste it in his mouth. It was invigorating, at least for a moment or two, then it just became cold, uncomfortable and downright annoying. “So what have you got?”
The officer, an inspector named Martin Mills, led them to the front of the car, where they could clearly see the parking permit stuck in the window of the ancient gray Peugeot. It gave them the date, which was Tuesday’s, and the time by which the car was supposed to leave, which was 6:14 in the evening. Lane had put in enough money for three hours, which meant that he had parked there at 3:14 on Tuesday, two days after he had “disappeared.” As he had paid until after six, when the parking charges no longer applied, he would have been all right there until eight o’clock on Wednesday morning. In season, the car would no doubt have been towed away quite early that day, but at this time of year, in this sort of weather, it had only attracted a couple of parking tickets before one of the more adventurous parking officers had become suspicious. Even so, it was Thursday now. Lane could be anywhere.
Banks tried the driver’s door. Locked. He was eager to find out if there were any clues to Lane’s whereabouts in the car. “Any chance of getting this open?” he asked Mills. The pounding waves and screaming wind were so loud they had to shout to make themselves heard.