Free Unti Peter Robinson #22 by Peter Robinson Page A

think it’s a habit he developed in his childhood, you know, growing up on the farm.” She laughed. “You had to walk a long way to get anywhere, where he lived.”
    â€œAnywhere in particular?” Wilson asked.
    â€œJust around the dale in general,” said Alex, “though I’m sure it’s not something he’d do in this weather.”
    â€œWe have to cover all the possibilities, Miss—­ Alex,” said Wilson.
    Alex favored him with another smile. “I know,” she said. “If I could think of where he might be, don’t you think I’d tell you? I can’t go looking for him, myself. I don’t have the car, and there’s Ian . . .”
    â€œDon’t worry,” Annie assured her, standing and giving Wilson the signal to close his notebook. “It’s our job. We’ll take care of it. Can we have a look at that computer now?”
    They drew a blank on Michael’s computer. Nothing but a lot of spam and a few harmless emails from friends—­nothing from Morgan, no references to tractor-­thieving sprees, as far as Annie could gather—­and his photo collection, along with various software programs for manipulating images. The photos, mostly landscapes and ­people at work around farms, were as good as the framed ones in the living room. There was no porn, and no record of porn sites in his bookmarks or browsing history. Either he was happy with what he had or he had gone to great pains to erase his tracks. Annie guessed the former. Most of the bookmarks were for travel-­related sites and photo-­posting ser­vices such as Flickr. If this business went any further, of course, the computer would have to go to Liam in technical support for a thorough examination, and if there was anything dodgy on it, or ever had been, he would find it, but there was no reason to suspect that it was hiding deep and dirty secrets just yet.
    â€œYou’ll ring me as soon as you find him?” Alex asked at the door.
    â€œWe’ll ring you,” said Annie. She took out a card, scribbled on the back and handed it to Alex. “And I hope you’ll call me if you hear from Michael. My mobile number’s on the back.”
    They didn’t even bother trying the lift. On their way down the stairs, Annie heard a cry of pain as they passed 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.
    â€œTut-­tut, Dougal,” said Annie, smiling. “Who’s been a naughty boy, then?”

 
    3
    M ORGAN 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 rumor 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