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“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?” A
“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.”
A
Doug Wilson tapped his pen on his notebook and looked over at A
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.”
A
“There was no one else in the house,” Wilson said. “I had a good look around. Clean as a whistle.”
“Not surprising,” said A
“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.
A
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 ma
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?”