“I have no problem with Castle Bolton, Mr. Havers. It’s just the timing. Did you meet with a Ronald Tanner, Carl Utley, Michael Lane or Morgan Spencer?”

“I can’t say I’ve ever heard any of those names.”

“What about John Beddoes?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Are you sure the name John Beddoes doesn’t ring any bells?”

“I’m afraid not. Should it?”

“Indeed it should. You worked with him in the stockbroking business in the mid eighties. You were friends. You socialized together. Snorted coke. Drank champagne from the bottle. Painted the town red.”

“Now hang on a—­ Just a minute.” Havers snapped his fingers. “Of course! Bedder Beddoes. How could I forget? Yes, I knew him, back in the day. It was a long time ago, though.”

“Bedder Beddoes?”

“Use your imagination, Mr. Banks. We were young and free.”

“A lot of coke gone up the nasal passages since then?”

“That was one mistake. I don’t do that sort of thing anymore. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t.” He patted his chest. “Heart.”

“Are you telling me you have one, or that there’s something wrong with it?”

“Ha-­ha. Very funny. I’m saying I’ve had two heart attacks. Cocaine would kill me. I’m allowed two units of wine a day. Do you know how hard that is?”

Banks could only imagine. “So we’ve established that you do know John Beddoes, and you did work with him some years ago, but you didn’t visit him in Yorkshire last week? Did you know he now owns a farm there?”

“Bedder? No. I didn’t even know he lived there. We were good mates once, it’s true. But you know how it goes. You drift apart over time. And those times, well, they were heady indeed. Fueled by coke and champagne, as you say. The memory tends to fade quickly, if indeed it registers at all. It went by in a whirl, I’m afraid. I’m only lucky I still had my wits left when the bubble burst. I was able to get into international banking. That’s where I learned most of what I know about overseas investments.”

“So if we were to dig into your financial affairs, the financial affairs of your company and your movements over the past while, we wouldn’t find any sort of intersection with John Beddoes and his interests?”

“I couldn’t guarantee that, but they would be none that I’m aware of. He’s not a client, if that’s what you mean.”

Havers sounded nervous at the prospect. It was obvious that he was lying, but Banks didn’t think he was going to get any further with him. By denying that he knew Beddoes, though, Havers had unintentionally told Banks a lot. Why deny it unless Beddoes was involved? Or unless Havers himself was involved? Havers had pulled himself out of the hole quickly, but not quickly enough to convince Banks that he had forgotten “Bedder” Beddoes’s existence. No doubt he had lied about other things, too. He wasn’t going to admit to knowing any of the others, thugs like Tanner and Spencer, or to using the hangar at the airfield as a loading bay for stolen farm equipment. But by talking to him, and by letting him know that he knew, Banks thought he might just have ruffled things up enough that Havers, or someone in the organization, would make a mistake. He still didn’t know how deeply Beddoes was involved—­after all, it was his expensive tractor that had been reported stolen—­but these two old friends certainly had the knowledge between them to run a sideline in stolen farm equipment. Beddoes knew something about farming, and he lived in a large rural area; he had also been a merchant banker, so he knew about financing. All they needed were connections to the illegal trade routes, and Havers’s international contacts might easily have supplied those, according to what Joanna MacDonald had said. Banks decided to lay his cards on the table before leaving.

“Mr. Havers, I believe you’re part of a group, or call it a gang, a criminal organization, involved in rural crime in a big way, and a part of your operation made a nasty mess on my patch. I believe you’ve been using the abandoned airfield and hangar at Drewick because it’s a convenient transfer point for stolen goods from the north, and because you knew it was in limbo for the time being. Your men wouldn’t be disturbed. Last Sunday, one of your underlings, Morgan Spencer, was murdered there, killed by a penetrating bolt pistol to the head. Either you wanted rid of him for some reason or some rival gang was muscling in. We don’t know yet why he was killed. Either way, I believe you know something about it.”

“This is ridiculous,” protested Havers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I wasn’t even—­”

“In the area at the time? How do you know what time it took place? I didn’t tell you.”

“Oh, very clever. The old ‘how could you have known’ trick. Now you’re putting words in my mouth.”

“Well, how could you?”

“Because it was on the news on Monday, while I was still at my brother-­in-­law’s. Ask him. They said it took place on Sunday morning. I didn’t get to Richmond until Sunday afternoon, as you well know.”

As far as Banks was aware, the media didn’t know on Monday that the murder had taken place in the hangar on Sunday morning, but he decided he would keep that point in reserve until he had done a thorough check on Havers, including a visit to his brother-­in-­law. “Exactly,” said Banks. “So where were you before then? How do I know you didn’t find a way to foil Operation Hawk and the ANPR cameras and sneak up to the airfield earlier, for example?”

“This is absurd,” said Havers. “I have nothing more to say to you. If you plan on continuing this charade I want my lawyer present.”

Banks stood up to leave. “You’d hardly need a lawyer if it were a charade, Monty,” he said. Then he paused at the door. “You know,” he went, “if I were you, I’d take this as an omen, a bad omen. If I were you, I’d back off for a while, lie low and take stock. Disappear from the radar. No matter what you think, things aren’t going to get any easier for you from now on.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s reality, Monty. The threats come later.”

Banks closed the door gently behind him. The secretary scowled at him as he left.

13

SO YOU DIDN’T NOTICE ANYTHING UNUSUAL ABOUT Mr. Ross when he came to pick up here on Tuesday?” Winsome asked. She was at the last farm on her list, the last place Caleb Ross had visited before heading for the Belderfell Pass and his death, and she had found out nothing new. He had arrived at a quarter to one and left just after one, so Mr. Wythers said. Some of the farmers thought Caleb was a bit distracted, in a hurry, whereas others thought his behavior just the same as usual.

Mr. Wythers, owner of Garsley Farm, had invited her in for a cup of tea, and Winsome was grateful for it. She felt as if it had been a long day, though it was still only midafternoon, and she had not stopped for lunch. The slice of Battenberg cake Mr. Wythers gave her with her tea reminded her how hungry she was. It would be back to the station, a quick report, then home for an early dinner followed by an early night.

“Caleb never said much,” Mr. Wythers was saying. “I don’t mean he was rude or anything, but we weren’t mates, if you know what I mean. He was just a man doing his job, and I was the one who paid him for it. It was just like that. Businesslike, but polite, friendly, you know. I even asked him in for a cup of tea and a piece of cake, just like I did you, but he said he’d just had his lunch. We didn’t chat or gossip or owt, so I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything about him.”

“That’s all right,” said Winsome. “I’m just collecting whatever bits and pieces I can to try to build up a picture of his last day.”

“It’s a terrible thing, what happened,” said Wythers. “That pass has claimed more than one victim in my time here, that’s for certain. And you couldn’t see it coming. When he left here it was clear as anything. Clouds, aye, but there’s nowt odd about that. Came like a bolt from the blue, it did. Weather’s like that in these parts and it can be awful bleak out here. It pays to be careful, lass.”