Even though Gerry had drawn a blank at the first two sites, she still felt optimistic as she pulled into the gates of the Riverview Caravan Park around half past four. It wasn’t the first time Gerry had visited Riverview, about half a mile west of Eastvale across the river from Hindswell Woods. Only a couple of years ago she had been there with Banks around dawn on a miserable March morning watching the smouldering remains of a caravan.
The site stood on the north side of the River Swale, and when Gerry got there, the place was like a fairground packing up and leaving town. Car headlights and high-beam torches lanced through the darkness like searchlights as the cars crawled to the narrow gates, some of them pulling caravans behind them. Dark shapes stood in the rain waving their arms about and shouting instructions. It was an exodus in the wake of flood warnings, Gerry realised, and she was driving against the flow. She could hardly get through the entrance to park outside the main office building no matter how much she leaned on her horn.
Some good Samaritans were directing the traffic towards higher ground, and helping to get out the cars that got stuck in the churning mud. Several caravans had also got bogged down, one of them almost on its side. When Gerry finally managed to squeeze through and park outside the office, she grabbed her umbrella and put on the wellington boots she had kept in the boot of the car in the event of just such a situation. You didn’t go far without a pair of wellies in the Yorkshire Dales, no matter what the time of year.
The scene inside the office wasn’t any less chaotic, with the poor manager inundated by worried residents asking him where the hell they should go. As there was a fair slope down to the river, then a steep bank leading down to the water itself, Gerry wasn’t convinced that the site would be flooded, but perhaps it was better to be safe than sorry.
The manager seemed almost relieved to see Gerry and excused himself to come over and talk to her, leaving his poor receptionist to deal with the anxious crowd.
‘I remember you from before,’ he said. ‘Harry’s my name. Harry Bell. What’s up?’
Gerry slipped the photo of Vincent out of her pocket and showed it to Bell. ‘Have you seen this man?’
Bell studied the photo for a few seconds, then said, ‘That’s him. Mr Newton. Gordon Newton. Can you tell me what it’s all about?’
Gord, Gerry thought. At last. ‘How long has he been here?’
‘Over two months. Since last November, I think. Quiet as a mouse. I must admit I had my concerns at first. He’s hardly Mr Sartorial Elegance, if you catch my drift. His car’s a right old banger, too, a clapped-out Renault, and the caravan’s an eyesore. Mind you, he keeps it clean and tidy. So what’s he done?’
‘We don’t know that he’s done anything yet. I just need to talk to him.’
Bell gestured towards the outside. ‘Must be serious if you’ve come out here in this weather.’
Gerry smiled. ‘I’m only a detective constable,’ she said. ‘I’m out in all weathers. Now if it was my DI or the super, you might have a bit more cause for concern.’
Bell laughed.
‘Is he here now?’ Gerry asked.
‘I’m afraid he’s gone out. Drove off earlier this afternoon, before the rain was quite so bad. I try to keep an eye on the comings and goings. It passes the time.’
‘Any idea where he was heading?’
‘No. I just remember seeing his car leaving.’
‘With or without the caravan?’
‘Without.’
‘Which way did he go?’
‘Turned right at the top.’
That meant he was most likely heading for Eastvale, Gerry thought. On his way to abduct Maureen Tindall. ‘Would it be possible for me to have a look inside his caravan?’ she asked.
‘Well, I—’
‘As I said, we just want to talk to him, but it is quite urgent that we find him as soon as possible.’
‘Bad news, is it? A death in the family?’
‘Something like that,’ Gerry said. ‘There might be a clue in his caravan as to where he’s gone.’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you have a key?’
‘Er... no. Is that a problem?’
‘We’ll see,’ said Gerry. In her experience, caravan doors were pretty easy to open.
Bell accompanied her outside on to the porch, where the chaos was starting to abate, and pointed down the rutted track to his right. ‘Down there, towards the river. Second left, fourth caravan along, on the right side as you’re walking. You can’t miss it. It’s quite small and could definitely do with a paint job. You’ll see what I mean. Pardon me if I don’t accompany you but...’ He gestured back to the office. ‘Bit of a crisis. We’ll probably be fine, but people get all wound up listening to the weather forecasts.’
Gerry stood on the porch, scowled up at the sky, unfurled her umbrella and trudged off into the mud, fumbling with her mobile as she went.
Banks looked out of his office window at the blurry lights in the town square, listening to a Philip Glass string quartet on Radio 3. Gerry’s phone call had him a little worried. If Harry Bell was wrong and Vincent was home, or if he suddenly came back, it could be dangerous for her. He had told her to wait at the site office for backup, but he was pretty sure she had already set off for the caravan when she phoned, and she wouldn’t go back. There was a kind of hard-headed fearlessness about Gerry that he much admired, but it caused him concern for her safety. He called the duty sergeant and asked him to send out the nearest patrol car, just to be on the safe side. The sergeant said he’d do what he could, but the roads were a major concern. Banks stopped short of saying ‘officer in need of assistance’, the way he’d heard it on American cop shows, but raised the level of urgency in his voice and made it quite clear that Gerry’s welfare took precedence over bloody traffic problems, thank you very much.
Next, he phoned Annie in the squad room.
‘DI Cabbot,’ she answered.
‘Found out anything yet?’
‘Not much,’ Annie said. ‘I talked to Doug back on the Tindalls’ street. Neighbour across the way three doors down is the best bet. Says he saw someone leading Mrs Tindall by the elbow out of the house and shoving her into a beat-up old car about three o’clock. Thought it looked suspicious. He did phone it in, by the way, but Robert Tindall called us first.’
‘Did he get the make?’
‘He didn’t get the number plate, but he said he thought it was a Renault. An old Clio. He couldn’t see the colour because the light was poor, and the streetlights just reflected. But it was a dark colour, and there were rust patches, or lighter patches at any rate, around the wheel rims, and what looked like spray jobs elsewhere. All in all, it looked as if it had been around the block a few times too many. Seemed to know his cars.’
‘Good.’ Banks paused. ‘Gerry’s hot on the trail. She thinks she’s found him. Vincent.’
‘The little devil,’ said Annie.
‘Riverview Caravan Park.’
‘That hotbed of crime.’
‘Seems so. Anyway, the site manager says he’s not in his caravan but has no idea where he might be. Drove off earlier this afternoon.’
‘In time to nab Maureen Tindall?’
‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘According to my calculations.’
‘So what next?’
‘I think we’d better get out there as soon as possible. I’ve got a bad feeling about this. You know how impulsive Gerry can be. I’ve already dispatched a patrol car, but you can’t rely on them tonight. They’re very thin on the ground.’
‘I’ll meet you downstairs.’
Banks went back to the window, then walked over and turned off the radio. Philip Glass’s edgy repetition was doing nothing to dispel his sense of unease. He grabbed his raincoat, switched out the lights and headed down. The sooner they got out to the Riverview Caravan Park, the better.