Unti Peter Robinson #22 Read Free Page B

that lay in the mud was still intact. Annie took a photo of it in situ with her mobile phone, then dug a plastic bag out of her pocket and carefully picked up the lock using the end of a pencil and dropped it in the bag.
    â€œA kid could have broken into that garage in five seconds,” Annie said in disgust. “Come on, Doug. We’ll send some CSIs to poke around in the mud when we get back to the station. There’s no hurry.”
    â€œPoor Beddoes,” said Wilson, as the windscreen wipers slid into action and the police Volvo shuddered to life.
    â€œOh, I wouldn’t feel too sorry for him. That BMW over there looks new to me. And as you said, it’s an expensive tractor.”
    Annie made herself as comfortable as possible in the passenger seat, rubbing at the steamed-­up window beside her. Unlike Banks, whom she felt always needed to be in control, she didn’t care who was driving. In fact, all the better if it wasn’t her. She didn’t like driving, especially in this weather. And there were too many arseholes on the roads these days, no matter what the weather. This week wasn’t starting out well, she thought. It was only midmorning on Monday, but already her back was aching, and she wanted nothing more than to go home and have a long hot bath with a pile of trashy gossip magazines.
    WHEN DS Winsome Jackman arrived at the abandoned airfield, there was already a patrol car parked at the gate and two uniformed officers, one of them enjoying a cigarette, were talking to a man through the chain-­link fence. The man was tall and slim, wearing a camouflage jacket, waterproof trousers, sturdy walking boots and a baseball hat, black with a stylized white “A’s” on the front. He was taller than Winsome, but stooped a little and leaned on a walking stick. Whether it was a rambler’s prop or a genuine need, she couldn’t tell. It was also hard to tell how old he was under the baseball cap, but he seemed too young to be needing a walking stick unless he’d had an accident. There was something vaguely familiar about him, Winsome felt, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. A beagle sat quietly by his side, nose twitching as Winsome appeared.
    The uniformed constable introduced herself and dropped her cigarette and trod on it as Winsome approached. Winsome had been told by dispatch that someone had reported seeing what he thought was a bloodstain in a disused hangar near the railway line. It was her job to go over there and assess the situation, weigh up the pros and cons of bringing in an expensive CSI team. The wind tugged at her hair and seemed to permeate the very marrow of her bones. The rain felt like a cold shower.
    â€œWhat have we got?” Winsome asked.
    â€œThey’re padlocked shut, ma’am,” said one of the officers, pointing at the gates. “There’s nothing urgent, so we thought it best to wait for you.”
    Winsome looked at the man inside. She couldn’t help but see him as a man imprisoned in some sort of prison camp or compound. He had a military air about him—­that was what had eluded her for the first few moments—­though she would have been hard pushed to put her finger on what made her think that. “How did you get in there, Mr. . . . ?”
    â€œGilchrist. Terry Gilchrist. There’s a gap around the side. I wouldn’t recommend it, though. It’s a tight squeeze, and it’s mucky down there.” He gestured to the mud-­stained front of his jacket and knees of his trousers. Winsome was wearing black jeans and a belted winter coat, not exactly her best outfit, but not something she wanted to drag through the mud, either. She guessed that the uniformed officers also hadn’t liked the idea of crawling through a hole in the fence and getting their uniforms dirty. “Do you know who owns the place?”
    â€œGovernment, probably. You coming in?”
    Winsome