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Cassandra Wakefield snorted, then she followed Beddoes and the constable out of the room.
Gerry let out a long breath. Banks smiled. “Get used to it,” he said. “It’s the way of the world.”
One of the female PCs stuck her head around the door. “Phone call, guv,” she said.
“I’ll take it in my office.”
Banks told Gerry to hang on back in the squad room and walked down the hall to his office. He picked up the phone and engaged the line.
“Hello, Banksy,” said the familiar voice. “Any luck?”
“We’re getting there. Unfortunately we had Cassandra Wakefield representing Beddoes.”
“She gets around, doesn’t she? Mind you, I’d hardly call that bad luck. Have you seen the tits on her? Nipples like chapel hat pegs. What I’d—”
“Yes, yes, I can imagine what you’d do,” said Banks. “But she happens to be a bloody good solicitor.”
“Nobody’s perfect. Anyway, it’s your lucky day. I’ve got news’ll make the hairs on your arse stand on end.”
“Go on. I can hardly wait.”
“Havers coughed. The lot.”
Banks gripped the receiver tightly. His palm was sweating. “He what?”
“He cracked. Easy-peasy.”
“What did you do, bring out the rubber hosepipes?”
“Didn’t need them. He did it to save his own skin and to protect his overseas bosses. He’s more scared of them than he is of us. Basically, you could say he fell on his sword. He knew the northern operation was fucked. They knew it, too. Word came down. They were cut off. Finished. They’re falling over one another to avoid a murder charge. They’ll take tax evasion, handling stolen goods, you name it, but not the murder. Havers wasn’t going to go down by himself, so he gave us Beddoes, Ronald Ta
“That sounds about right,” said Banks. “What about Michael Lane?”
“That name never came up. But it’s airtight, Banksy. It’s being faxed to you as we speak. Next time you get Beddoes and little Miss Melons in the room, you’ll have times, dates, amounts, bank accounts, an eyewitness statement from Utley. Everything but the cream, of course. We know there are people pulling Havers’s and Beddoes’s strings, we even think we know who some of them are, but they’re good at protecting themselves. There are no money trails leading to them, and nobody dares talk. Welles/Atherton isn’t the only psycho killer they’ve got strutting around. But we’ve got the northern mob sewn up. Not too bright, none of them. Get down to the fax machine, then read it and weep. Beat you again, Banksy. And hold the party. I’m coming up for it. You can invite Cassandra Wakefield, too, if you like.”
Banks thanked Burgess, then hung up and sighed. For a moment he felt defeated. He hadn’t got as far as he had wanted with Beddoes, while Burgess had broken Havers, obviously the weakest link. Then he realized that it was just as he had said to Gerry, the way of the world. Get used to it, mate, he told himself. There’ll always be a Cassandra Wakefield, and there’ll always be a Dirty Dick Burgess. He smiled at the thought of what a couple they would make. And Burgess was certainly right about her charms.
This was no defeat, it was a win, and it called for champagne, or at least beer. Maybe they wouldn’t get Beddoes for murder, but they would get Atherton, if they could find him. Ta
It was a mopping-up exercise now. Compile the evidence, get the forensics right on Atherton’s farmhouse and private abattoir. Spencer’s blood was sure to be among the sticky mess Banks had seen in the central trough, and Atherton’s prints were all over the bolt gun. He’d clearly had his own little business on the side there, which explained the disappearance of stock around the dale over the past year or so.
Banks ran his hand over his head. He was tired. And hungry. He looked at his watch: 9:45. Time to go down to the fax machine, then home for some microwaved chicken tikka masala and a bottle of red. Maybe not champagne, but a good red, one from the “cellar.” And thinking of a good red got him thinking of Australia and Oriana. He wondered what time it was over there. He was whistling “You Win Again” as he picked up his coat, turned off the light and left his office.
“MINE’S A pint of lager, Banksy,” said Burgess in the Queen’s Arms a week later.
“As if I’d forget,” muttered Banks, heading to the bar to buy the round of drinks. It was the “official” celebration, mainly because the CPS had reviewed the evidence and agreed that there were strong cases against Beddoes, Ta
Cyril was playing his oldies playlist in the background, Amen Corner belting out “If Paradise Is Half as Nice.” The whole team was there: A
The only problem was that Atherton wouldn’t be able to stand trial. His frozen body had been found in the caverns the day after Winsome’s ordeal, when the search parties went in. He had taken the left passage and managed to get himself stuck where the ceiling reached its lowest point. He must have thought he could wriggle under it, because he appeared to have got his head and shoulders through and pushed on, then got stuck around his midriff. In trying to shake his body free, he had managed to wedge himself firmly between the rock bed and the overhang. The doctor who examined the body, once the rescuers had managed to chip away enough rock from above to pull him out, said that he had clearly panicked, as his body was covered in bruises and abrasions, and his back was broken. Nobody could have saved him. He was probably dead by the time Banks and the others arrived on the scene to rescue Winsome.