Free Abattoir Blues by Peter Robinson

through the fifth-floor gauntlet. Doug Wilson was behind her, hands in his pockets, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and behind him one of the hoodies was bent over, hands cupping his groin. The others were too shocked to move.
    ‘Tut-tut, Dougal,’ said Annie, smiling. ‘Who’s been a naughty boy, then?’

Chapter 3
    Morgan Spencer lived on a caravan site across the River Swain from Hindswell Woods, about half a mile west of town. The Riverview Caravan Park wasn’t anywhere near as attractive as its name suggested. There was a river view for the first row of caravans, but as the meadow they were parked in was flat, all the rest could see was other caravans blocking the view. Most were permanent fixtures, up on blocks, though there were a few spaces for temporary sojourners. Of the permanent caravans, by far the majority belonged to people in Leeds, Bradford, Darlington or Teesside, who used them for weekend getaways. It wasn’t far to travel, and it was the Yorkshire Dales, after all, river view or no river view. At least you could see the trees and hills on the other side and go for long bracing walks in the country. Quite a few people lived in the park year-round, the site manager told them, and Morgan Spencer was one of them. Annie had already heard the rumour that many of those who lived in Riverview Caravan Park were what the Americans would call ‘trailer trash’. ‘Caravan trash’ didn’t sound anywhere near as apt a description, she thought, perhaps because it lacked the alliteration. The park’s only attraction for occasional holiday visitors was that it was cheap.
    The caravans were set out in neat rows stretching back from the riverbank across the meadow, each with a parking space beside it, though none of them was big enough for a large van. Some of the homes looked well maintained, with a fresh paint job, awning over the door, a window box or hanging basket. Others looked more neglected, resting unevenly on their concrete supports, sagging at one end, windows dirty and covered on the inside with makeshift moth-eaten curtains made of old bedding or tea towels. Because of the rain over the last few days, the field was a quagmire, and any grass there may have been before had been trampled into the mud. It reminded Annie of the time she went to Glastonbury as a teenager. It had rained the entire weekend. Even the Boomtown Rats weren’t worth getting that wet for.
    Annie and Doug Wilson left their car at the paved entrance, beside the site office, which was deserted at the moment, put on their wellies again and went the rest of the way on foot. They found Spencer’s caravan on the third row back from the riverbank. On a scale of one to ten, it was about a six, which is to say, not bad, but a little on the run-down side. There was nothing parked beside it. Annie’s first knock produced no reaction, only an empty echo from inside. She strained to listen but heard no sound of movement. Her second knock produced an opening door, but in the neighbouring caravan, not Spencer’s.
    ‘He’s not home, love,’ said the man who stood there. ‘Police, you’ll be, then?’
    ‘Are we so obvious?’ Annie said.
    The man smiled. ‘You are to an ex-copper, love.’
    ‘You’re . . . ?’
    ‘I am. Rick Campbell’s the name. Come on in out of the rain, why don’t you? Have a cuppa.’
    Annie and Wilson pulled their wellies off by the front steps, which were sheltered from the rain by a striped awning. ‘Don’t mind if we do,’ Annie said.
    ‘Leave the boots out there, if you don’t mind,’ Campbell said, pointing to a mat outside the door.
    The caravan was cramped but cheery inside, with a bright flowered bedspread, freshly painted yellow walls, polished woodwork and a spotless cooking area. The air smelled of damp leaves. At one end of the room was the bed, which could be screened off by a curtain, and at the other a dining table with a red-and-white checked oilcloth. In between, a