“She married young?”

“Young enough. She was nineteen. Worked at the NatWest down on Eastvale market square back then. Henry and I were living in Middlesbrough for his work, like. It wasn’t all that far away. And she’d learned to drive, had a little car of her own. Then Frank Lane had to walk in and apply for a loan. I ask you, what woman in her right mind would fall for a man who goes into a bank to apply for a loan?”

Wilson came back into the room and sat down again.

“How long were they married?” Annie asked.

“Twenty years. She’s still a young woman. Takes good care of herself, too. Always down at that gym, working out.”

“And she has a job at Tesco’s?”

Mrs. Prince paused. “Well, it’s just temporary, like, until she gets on her feet. She’ll be back in banking before long, just you wait and see. Manager, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“So she’s not working in the Tesco office now, in management?”

“Not exactly.”

“When she split up with Frank, did she come straight here to live with you and your husband?”

“Yes. She was in a terrible state. He kicked her out and chucked her clothes after her. I told her right from the start she shouldn’t have married him, that life as a farmer’s wife would never agree with her. She was like a beautiful bird in a cage. She liked nice things and parties and going to restaurants, holidays in Spain, trips to London and Paris. She was a virtual prisoner up at that farm. I don’t know how she stuck it out for so long. It must have been for the sake of the boy.”

“You think that’s what did it in the end? The farm, her life up there, the isolation?”

“’Course it was. And there was never enough money. They were always scrimping and saving to make ends meet. I’m not saying her Frank was tightfisted or owt, not really, but there were times when she could hardly afford to put a meal on the table. I ask you. And he was working all hours God sent. They had no life, never went anywhere. Not even London. No, it’s a wonder it didn’t happen sooner.” Mrs. Prince folded her arms.

“You mentioned the sake of the boy. Do you think she waited until Michael grew up before leaving?”

“I suppose that was partly it. I mean, she does care for the lad, give her her due. She was a good mother. But I’m sure it had been in the cards for some time. Michael was seventeen when our Denise finally left. I reckon she thought he was old enough to take care of himself by then. Not that he had a clue, like. Another one who didn’t want to stay in school and go to university. Didn’t know what he wanted to do, if you ask me. Still doesn’t.”

Annie didn’t think she knew what she wanted to do when she was seventeen. Mostly just get drunk on Bacardi Breezes and hang out with the boys. Doug Wilson probably didn’t know, either, she thought, glancing sideways at him. She thought Winsome knew, though, that she always wanted to be a police officer, just like her dad back in Jamaica. He was her hero, or so she had once confessed after a vodka and tonic too many. But Annie had no idea. Even now she sometimes wondered whether she had made the right decision.

Doug Wilson tapped his pen on his notebook and looked over at Annie. It was the kind of look that said what are we doing wasting our time here, and Annie realized he was right. They had found out as much as she wanted to know about the Lane family, and they would get nothing but more bile out of old Mrs. Prince. Christ, what a miserable bloody family, Annie thought. At least the two members she’d met so far were hardly bundles of joy. Maybe Michael and Denise had a better attitude. Well, she’d soon find out.

Just as they were leaving, she turned and asked Mrs. Prince, “Do you know any of Michael’s friends?”

“I can’t say as I do.”

“A lad called Morgan Spencer?”

“Can’t say as I’ve heard of him.”

“Is there anything else you can help us with?”

“I don’t see how. As I said, I don’t have anything much to do with the Lanes, not since our Denise moved out.”

Annie nodded to Wilson, and they left. They stood by the car for a moment and looked out to sea. The ships were mere dots on the horizon. The wind was chill but the water was blue, the sun bright.

“There was no one else in the house,” Wilson said. “I had a good look around. Clean as a whistle.”

“Not surprising,” said Annie. “So what do you think?”

“She doesn’t know anything.”

“I’ve a feeling you’re right. Fancy a bit of lunch before we tackle the ex-­wife? I mean, one can hardly come to Whitby and not have fish and chips, can one?”

5

BANKS THOUGHT HE MIGHT AS WELL CHECK IN WITH Beddoes while he was out that way, and while he did so, the three search team officers could have a good rummage around the outbuildings. He didn’t think Michael Lane would be hiding out there, but you never knew. Besides, he hadn’t met John Beddoes yet and wanted to get the measure of the man.

Annie had told Banks that Beddoes looked more like a business executive than a farmer, and it was true. He was suave and distinguished looking, a man used to being in charge. Either way, Banks certainly couldn’t see him mucking out the stables or cleaning out the pigsty or whatever farmers did. Maybe he employed someone else to do that for him. Gerry had also dug up a bit of background and found out that he had been one of the City boys in the mid-­1980s, making huge amounts of money on the stock market when they threw out the rule book. Banks had been working in London then, but he had been fighting a losing battle with Soho gangs rather than making money hand over fist. Everyone was at it, though, and he knew that more than a few of his colleagues were on the take. Heady times.

The Bang & Olufsen sound system was top of the line, Banks noticed, and a quick glance at the stack of CDs on his way to sit down indicated a taste for Bach, Mozart and Handel.

“So you’re the famous DCI Banks. I’ve heard all about you. The wife is in a book club with your boss, you know.”

“I know,” said Banks, who found it hard to imagine Area Commander Gervaise talking about him at her book club. “I hope what you’ve heard is all good.”

Beddoes smiled. “That would be telling. Sorry. Pardon my manners. Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee, something stronger, perhaps?”

Banks held his hand up, palm out. “Nothing, thanks. This is just a quick call. That’s a nice sound system you’ve got there.”

“An indulgence of mine. Would you like to hear it in action?”

“Please.”

Beddoes got up, flipped through the discs and put on a Bach cantata. Every instrument, every nuance of voice, came through loud and clear, yet the music was low enough that they could easily talk over it.

Beddoes gestured toward the window. “I notice you’ve brought the troops.”

“Oh, them. I hope you don’t mind. I asked them to have a good look at the scene, see if they could find any more trace evidence. We have so little to go on.”

“I sympathize,” said Beddoes. “And I don’t mind at all. They’d better not get too close to the pigs, though. They’re in a bit of a bad mood today.”

“I’m sure they won’t disturb your pigs.”

Beddoes crossed his legs the other way. “So what can I help you with? I must say, everyone I’ve talked to so far has been very thorough. Most commendable. I don’t imagine I’ll be able to add anything to what I’ve already told your officers.”

“I just wanted a look at the place, really,” said Banks, “and as I was over talking to Mr. Lane I thought I’d drop by and introduce myself.”

“Checking out the scene of the crime, eh? Have you seen anything of Patrick’s son yet? I understand the lad’s gone walkabout.”

“Nothing yet,” said Banks. “You didn’t have much time for Michael Lane, did you?”

“I can’t say I did. He was a juvenile delinquent just waiting to happen, as far as I was concerned,” said Beddoes. “Or is that a politically incorrect term these days?”