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“That lane heading off the high street just outside, know where it goes?” she asked.
“Kirkway Lane? Aye. It’s centuries’ old. Roman, I think. It runs through Kirkway Woods, then across a few patches of waste ground beside an old airfield up Drewick way. I think it used to go all the way up to Northallerton years ago, but now it sort of peters out in the woods just past the airfield. Nobody uses it much these days. We just get the odd lorry now and then.”
“Lorries? How often?”
“Not that often.”
“How many times a week?” Winsome persisted.
“Certainly not every week. Far more irregular. I’ve seen them maybe three, four times in the past year or so.”
“Coming or going?”
“Both. They come off the high street from the direction of the A1 and turn left up Kirkway Lane. Then later they come back down, turn right and head back toward the A1.”
“How much later?”
“An hour, two. I don’t stand around watching and waiting, you know, but sometimes it’s devilish quiet around here. Mostly I’ve just heard them.”
“What time do they usually arrive?”
“I don’t really remember. Different times, I suppose.”
“Any particular days of the week?”
“Not so as I remember.”
“Did any of them have any markings? A company name or logo or something?”
“No, they’re just plain lorries, as a rule.”
“How big are they?”
“It varies. You can’t get anything really big up there, like those juggernauts or pantechnicons, or whatever they call them. Just lorries.”
“Big enough to hold a tractor or a combine?” asked Winsome.
“Not a combine, I shouldn’t think,” said Fullerton. “That road’s too narrow. Tractors and other heavy equipment, though. Aye. Why?”
“Livestock?”
“Well, they’re not your typical livestock transporters, but I don’t see as to why they couldn’t be used for that. What’s going on?”
“When was the last time you saw or heard one?”
“Fu
Winsome felt a surge of excitement. “What time?”
“Let’s see. I were just bringing Fred and Barney—them’s the whippets, like—back from their run, so it would have been just after ten.”
“Which way was it going?”
“Coming down, heading for the A1.”
“You didn’t notice it going up earlier?”
“No. But it could have gone up while I was walking the dogs. I wouldn’t have noticed anything.”
“Can you remember what it looked like?”
“Just like a moving van, really, like I said. Not one of those really big ones, like a furniture van or something.”
“Could you see the driver?”
“Just about. I think he was wearing a flat cap, and I do remember noticing something a bit odd.” He touched his cheek, just beside his ear. “He has those long sort of sideburns that come halfway around the chin. Do you know what I mean?”
“Muttonchops?” said Gerry.
“That’s right. I was close enough to see them.”
“Did you notice what color the lorry was?” Winsome asked.
“Dark green. Racing green, I think they call it.”
“Did this one have any markings, the name of a firm, phone number, anything at all distinguishing about it?”
“No, it were just a green lorry. I mean, it might have had a phone number and a name on the side, but I didn’t notice it. It certainly didn’t have any logos or anything. I’d remember that.”
“I don’t suppose you remember the number plate?” asked Winsome.
“It’s a long time since I used to stand by the roadside scribbling down car number plates.”
“Did you see anything else at all on Sunday morning?”
“No. I’m afraid that’s all.”
“Thanks a lot, Mr. Fullerton,” Winsome said. “You’ve been a great help.”
“I have?” said Fullerton, looking puzzled.
BANKS LOOKED through the window of the helicopter as the pilot took it slowly down as close to the wreckage as he could get. The moving dots soon became people, emergency services, crash investigators, even some CSIs, all of whom had laboriously made their way down the steep valley side via obscure and bone-jolting farm tracks gleaned from Ordnance Survey maps. Most of the tracks hadn’t been used for years, as the farms had died and the farmers had moved away. The location, about halfway along the pass, had very few points of access, and that was no doubt one reason for the economic failure of the farms. There was no road that ran along the valley bottom. Nobody lived there anymore.
Banks turned to glance at A
Banks could already see that the crash site was spread over a wide area. The valley bottom was narrow, not more than a quarter of a mile wide, and bits of white van and various pieces of engine metal glinted in the sun, which seemed to illuminate the scene with an almost gleeful garishness, as if to say nature doesn’t care, the universe doesn’t care, we move to our own rhythms, follow our own whims, and life on earth means nothing.
An abrupt landing jolted Banks back to reality. The rotor blades started to slow down; the noise diminished from a roar to a whoosh. Banks touched A
A
“I assume you want me to wait, sir?” the pilot asked Banks.
“Yes, if you would, Mal.” Banks glanced at A
“Right you are, sir.”
Banks and A
Nowak was standing beside something made out of metal and human body parts that resembled a Damien Hirst sculpture or some Giger-designed creature from the Alien series. That bits of it had once been a man, a car seat, an engine and a steering wheel was just about possible to discern, but it wasn’t as easy to estimate where one began and the other ended. Both Banks and A
“I know,” Nowak said, looking at their expressions. “I’ve seen tidier crime scenes. We think it’s the driver.” He pointed up the steep daleside to a rocky outcrop. “It looks as if he plunged over the edge and hit that rock full on. Most unfortunate.”