Free Unti Peter Robinson #22 by Peter Robinson Page B

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 neighboring caravan, not Spencer’s.
    â€œHe’s not home, love,” said the man who stood there. “Police, you’ll be, then?”
    â€œAre we so obvious?” Annie said.
    The man smiled. “You are to an ex-­copper, love.”
    â€œYou’re . . . ?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œLeave the boots out there, if you could,” 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 sofa big enough for two sat opposite a television and stereo. Some quiet music played in the background. The sort of thing Banks would know about, Annie thought. Bach or Beethoven, or someone like that. Campbell told Annie and Wilson to sit down at the dining table as he busied himself filling the kettle.
    â€œDo you live here alone?” Annie asked.
    â€œLive here? Oh, I see what you mean. No, we don’t live here. We just come here for our summer holidays, and weekends now and again. We live in Doncaster. When I retired, it was a toss-­up between the Dales and the coast. The Dales won. Ellie and I had some fine holidays around these parts in our younger days. Keen walkers, we were. We don’t do so much now, of course, especially after Ellie’s hip replacement, but we still get around a fair bit, and there’s always the memories. It’s God’s own country to us.”
    â€œIs your wife around?”
    â€œShe’s visiting the son and daughter-­in-­law this weekend. Down Chesterfield way. I just came up to do a bit of fixing and patching up. The old dear—­the caravan, I mean, not Ellie—­needs more maintenance every year. That’s the trouble with these things. They don’t age well.”
    â€œThe rain can’t help.”
    â€œI’ll say. Mostly, it’s just general wear and tear. And they’re not exactly built for the elements in the first place.