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Banks scratched his scar. “You know, I’m not always too sure, myself, Mr. Norrington. I often feel as if I’m just digging around until my shovel hits something. I tell you what. Why don’t you just take your jacket off, again, nice and informal like, then sit down, and we’ll carry on. OK?”
Norrington hesitated, then seemed to relax and did as Banks suggested, though the suspicious expression remained on his face. “All right,” he said, spreading his hands. “I’ve nothing to hide.”
“Good. Can you give us a list of the investors who’ve signed up for Drewick already?”
“I’m afraid that’s privileged information. I can’t just go around giving out names. Some of these individuals might wish to remain anonymous. Surely you understand that?”
Banks leaned forward. “Mr. Norrington, perhaps it’s us who ought to bring our legal representatives. In our case, it’s called the Crown Prosecution Service, and they’re very busy, but I’m sure we could persuade someone it’s for a good cause. Next to the Internal Revenue, bankers, town pla
“We do an important and necessary job.”
“Just as we do,” said Banks. “So let’s all do it. Accepting that you are an honest businessman, it doesn’t have to follow that all of your investors are. One of them might have had an idea for putting the property to good use while he waited for a return on his investment.”
Norrington ummed and aahed for a while longer, then rang through to his secretary and asked her to make a photocopy of the Drewick Shopping Centre investor list. “Just to show we’ve nothing to hide,” he added. “Though I would appreciate your discretion in the matter.”
“We’ll prove the very souls of discretion, don’t you worry.” It would probably come to nothing, Banks knew, as anyone who was using the hangar for criminal purposes was hardly likely to be co
“Is there anything else?” Norrington asked.
“Have you ever visited the site yourself?”
“Once. Years ago, when we first acquired the property.”
“2009?”
“Around then, yes.”
“Do you always check out your firm’s acquisitions?”
“I usually try to.”
“Perhaps you could have your secretary make us a copy of the list of other properties your company is preparing for development before we leave, too?”
“Wait a minute. I’ve already given you the list of investors, against my better judgment. I really don’t see why we should be expected to give you a list of our properties.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Again, it’s private information, privileged.”
“Mr. Norrington, your company owns a property on which a brutal murder has been committed, and which we believe to be a transfer point for stolen-goods shipments. How do we know you aren’t using other properties you own for the same purposes? Absentee landlords or not, Venture Property Developments can’t shirk responsibility entirely. Or the publicity that could come with it.” Banks glanced at A
A
“Wait. Wait,” said Norrington, waving his hand as A
Banks and A
9
THE TEAM GATHERED IN THE BOARDROOM AT THE END of the day, as the last rays of sunlight struggled in vain to blaze a trail of glory through the thickening clouds. Gervaise, Banks, A
The overhead fluorescent lights were turned off and a couple of tasteful shaded lamps provided a soft ambient glow that everyone seemed to need after the long and frustrating day they’d had. Banks knew they needed a break in the case soon, and the meeting was being held to try to determine from which direction that lead might come. Tacked to the whiteboard next to a sketch of Morgan Spencer and a picture of Beddoes’s bright green Deutz-Fahr Agrotron were images of the penetrating bolt gun and the man Alex had described to the police sketch artist. There was no news from Vic Manson on the fingerprints yet, but Banks knew that Vic was a patient man, and sometimes these things took time to get right. He’d come up with something, even if they had to wait until tomorrow.
Jazz Singh was a bit faster with DNA, and she spoke first. “I won’t bore you with the technical details,” she said. “Not that you’d understand them. First, and perhaps most important, we have a match between the DNA extracted from the blood at the hangar near Drewick and that taken from the body discovered in the Vaughn’s van crash. And to be clear, I don’t mean the driver, but the other body, the one that was cut up and put in bin bags.”
“So it was Morgan Spencer who was killed at the hangar,” said Banks.
“Hold your horses,” said Jazz. “I didn’t say that. I simply said they were the same. We don’t have a sample of anything we know to be Morgan Spencer’s DNA, so I can’t say for certain it’s him. Everything he owned was destroyed when his caravan burned down, and he’s not on any of our databases.”
“OK,” said Banks. “We recognized Morgan Spencer from the crash site, especially after the searchers found his head.” He pointed toward the sketch on the board. “That’s how everyone we know who’s seen him says he looks. Especially Alex Preston.”
“What about his parents?” asked Winsome.
“His father is proving difficult to contact,” said Banks. “We understand he’s somewhere in Barbados, but other than that . . . His mother lives in Sunderland. She’s an ex-junkie and her mental health is precarious. She lives in a halfway house and has very few personal possessions, none of which include a photograph of her son. Apparently, she lost touch with Morgan some years ago, when she lost touch with the rest of the world.”
“We’ve had a look around Spencer’s lockup,” said Stefan Nowak, “but I don’t know if there’s anything that can help you in there, Jazz. You’re welcome to have a look. You might find a hair or something. No sign of his removal lorry or his motorbike, but we found traces of oil, petrol and red diesel.”