“I suppose not,” said Vaughn. “I really don’t know. It’s not something I’ve thought much about. It’s not something that happens every day.”
“How do you know?” Gerry asked.
Vaughn looked at her, openmouthed. “Well . . . I . . . I mean . . .”
“If you incinerate the bags without checking what’s in them when they’ve been listed on the paperwork, it could have happened any number of times.”
“Yes, strictly speaking. But you’re splitting hairs.”
Winsome thought so, too. They were hardly trying to make out that Vaughn was running a murder victim disposal service. One body was enough. She gave Gerry a curious glance and picked up the threads again. “I suppose it would make more sense if someone sneaked the body parts into Caleb’s load while he wasn’t looking. Most of the drivers are worried about theft, but we have the opposite here.”
“You have a list of all the farms Caleb visited on his rounds before the accident. That’s about all I can help you with. It’s possible that someone invited him in for a cup of tea, and he left his load unguarded for a short while. None of us is perfect. If you can find out where he had lunch—if he did—you might get lucky there.”
Winsome smiled. Nice of the public to tell them how to do their jobs, she thought, but she thanked him anyway. “If the other possibilities sound remote, is it likely that Caleb Ross loaded the body parts himself?”
“Caleb? You’re suggesting that Caleb had something to do with this?”
“Well, he was driving a van containing several plastic bags of human remains.”
“But like you said before, someone must have added those while he was away from the van, or at one of the farms. It’s ridiculous to think Caleb—”
“Is it?” Winsome asked. “Is it, really? Mr. Vaughn, we think this murder is linked with a spate of rural crime in the area, involving not only livestock but expensive farm equipment. The latest victim was John Beddoes, who had a valuable tractor stolen over the weekend.”
“Yes, I heard about that.”
“Do you know Mr. Beddoes? Was he a client?”
“Not often. He keeps some pigs and poultry, doesn’t he? I think we’ve been out there a couple of times over the past few years.”
“Caleb?”
“I wouldn’t know offhand. We have several vans and drivers. I can check if you really want to know.”
“If you would, please.”
Vaughn walked over to the large filing cabinet, opened the top drawer and flipped through the folders. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck,” he said after running his finger down the column for a few moments. “Mr. Beddoes’s last pickup was November, last year, and Todd Griffin and Pat Bingley did the job.”
“Was Caleb Ross working on Monday?”
“Yes. It was a normal workday for us all.”
“Sunday?”
“Not this week. We do operate a skeleton staff on Sundays—you have to in this business—but Caleb had enough seniority that he rarely worked on weekends. What’s all this about?”
“We think that whoever stole Mr. Beddoes’s tractor must be informed as to which farms are especially vulnerable, where the rich pickings are, and when they’re likely to be minimally managed, as John Beddoes’s farm was last week. Now, don’t you agree that Caleb Ross would have been in a perfect position to know what was going on with all the local farms? After all, you’ve told us everyone knew him.”
“Well, yes, I suppose so. But you didn’t know Caleb. He was completely reliable. Surely there must be plenty of others in such a position?”
“Perhaps. But was he really so trustworthy? You’ve already admitted to us that he may have falsified official papers. Perhaps he did the same thing for someone else, no questions asked. Maybe he was doing a favor for someone and he didn’t even know he was transporting human body parts? They say every man has his price. And the information he could give about local farms might also have been worth a fair bit. That’s why I asked about financial problems earlier.”
“But Caleb didn’t lack for anything. He never needed much.”
“Everything has got much more expensive over the past few years.” Winsome glanced at the electric fire. “Just keeping warm, for example. Or the cost of cigarettes. Someone might have come up with an offer that made sense to him.”
Vaughn shook his head. “No. I can’t see it. Not Caleb.”
“Did he have muttonchops?” Gerry cut in.
Vaughn turned to her as if she were mad. “Muttonchops?”
“Yes. Sideboards. You know.” She touched her cheeks beside her ears.
“Ah, I see what you mean. What an odd question. No. No, Caleb didn’t have muttonchops.”
“Very well, Mr. Vaughn,” said Winsome. “We’ll take your character reference into consideration. Perhaps you might also care to give us the names and addresses of one or two of Mr. Ross’s coworkers? Todd Griffin and Pat Bingley for starters.”
“They’ll only tell you the same I have.”
“All the more reason for us to talk to them, then,” said Winsome. “The quicker we’ll be able to cross him off our list. By the way, do you know what a penetrating captive bolt pistol is?”
“A bolt pistol? Yes, of course. It’s what the slaughterman uses in an abattoir to stun the animals.”
“Do you own one?”
“Certainly not. Why would I need one? The animals are already dead when they come to us.”
“Just wondering. Do you know of anyone who has one?”
“I can’t say as I do.”
“Caleb Ross, for example?”
“I very much doubt it. Why would Caleb have one? Where could he get hold of one? I take it you can’t just buy them in the shops.”
Winsome gave Gerry the signal and they stood up to leave. “Just one more thing, sir,” said Winsome, pausing at the door.
“Yes?”
“As I said, the human remains had been cut into manageable pieces. It looked like a professional job, according to our pathologist. Would you have any idea how or where that might have been carried out?”
Vaughn rubbed his forehead. “Me? No.”
“Don’t know any dodgy butchers? Or slaughtermen?”
Vaughn was looking decidedly pale now. “No,” he said. “Sorry. That’s not a part of our business service.” And it seemed to Winsome as if he couldn’t wait to shut the door behind them.
VENTURE PROPERTY Developments was housed on the sixth floor of a redbrick office complex just south of Granary Wharf, overlooking the tangle of arterial roads south of Leeds city center. The mirrored lift was clean, fast and practically silent. Banks watched Annie “powder her nose” as they went up and was amazed at how quickly she applied a fresh coat of lipstick and brushed her hair into its natural chestnut glory. It had been windy outside, and even the short walk from their parked car to the office had been enough to reduce it to a messy tangle. Banks, of course, had no such problems. The wind hardly made a dent in his closely cropped dark hair. He did notice in the large mirror, though, that the touch of gray seemed to be spreading from his temples.
“You OK?” he asked Annie. She had been fidgety in the car and had phoned Doug Wilson on his mobile twice to check that Alex Preston was safe. She had told Banks on the way about her visit the previous evening, and about Alex’s phone call from Michael Lane.
“I’m fine,” she said, with a forced smile. “Ready to rock and roll.”
The lift doors opened at the reception area of Venture Properties, where an immaculately groomed receptionist, whose name tag read bRENDA, sat behind a semicircular desk under the red company logo on the wall. The area smelled faintly of nail varnish remover.
Brenda smiled her patent smile of greeting, tinged with a hint of suspicion she no doubt reserved for newcomers, and said, “Good morning. Can I help you?”
Banks showed his warrant card. “We’re here to see Mr. Norrington.”
Brenda seemed unimpressed by the official identification. “Do you have an appointment?”