“And you saw Paul Boyd?”
“I saw a lad what looked like that photo.” PC Craig had taken a prison photograph of Boyd to show from door to door. “His hair’s different now, but I know it was him. I’ve seen him before.”
“Where?”
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“Around town. More often than not coming out of t’dole office. I always hold my handbag tighter when I see him. I know it’s not fair to judge a book by its cover, but he looks like a bad sort to me.”
“Where did you see him this time?”
“He was running up Gallows View from t’fields.”
“From Relton way?”
“Aye, as t’crow flies.”
“And where did he go?”
“Go? He didn’t go anywhere. He were running for t’bus. Just caught it an’ all.
Nearly knocked me over, and me carrying two heavy shopping bags.”
“What was he wearing? Do you remember?”
“Aye, that I do. A red anorak. I noticed because it looked too small for him. A bit short in t’sleeves and tight around t’armpits.”
Why, Banks asked himself, wasn’t he surprised that Mara had lied about Boyd’s clothes?
“Was he carrying anything?”
“One of those airline bags-British Airways, I think.”
“Do you remember anything else?”
“Just that he seemed in such a hurry and looked worried. I mean, as a rule, like I said, it’d be me who’d be frightened of him, but this time he looked like he were scared out of his wits.”
Banks went over to the door and called Craig back. “Thanks, Mrs Evans,” he said.
“We appreciate your coming in like this. PC Craig here will drive you home.” Mrs Evans nodded gravely and Craig escorted her out.
As soon as he was alone, Banks checked the bus timetable and found that the two forty-six from Eastvale was indeed the milk run to York; it didn’t get there until 4:09. Next he phoned the York railway station and, after speaking to a succession of surly clerks, finally got put through to a pleasant woman in charge of information. From her, he discovered that Boyd could have taken a train almost anywhere between four-fifteen and five o’clock: Leeds, London, Newcastle, Liverpool, Edinburgh, plus points in between and anywhere else that connections might take him. It
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didn’t seem much of a help, but he called Sergeant Hatchley in and put him on tracking down the train-catering crews and ticket collectors. It would mean a trip to York, and it might take a long time, but at least it was action. Of course, Hatchley pulled a long face-it seemed he had plans for the evening-but Banks ignored him. It wasn’t as if Hatchley had any other work to do. Why wag your own tail when you’ve got a dog?
At home that evening, Banks ate a tin of Irish stew and pottered restlessly about the house waiting to hear from Hatchley. At nine o’clock, unable to concentrate on reading and almost wishing he’d gone to York himself, he turned on the TV and watched a beautiful blonde policewoman and her loud-mouthed American partner dash around spraying London with lead. It was background noise, something to fill the emptiness of the house. Finally, he could stand his own company no longer and phoned Sandra.
This time he felt even more lonely after he hung up, but the feeling didn’t last as long. Twenty minutes later Hatchley phoned from York. He had managed to get the addresses of most of the ticket collectors and catering staff on the trains out of York, but none of them lived locally. All in all, the first lead seemed to be petering out. That happened sometimes. Banks told Hatchley to go over to York CID headquarters and phone as many of the crew members as he could get through to, and to call back if he came up with anything. He didn’t. At eleven-thirty Banks went to bed. Maybe tomorrow morning, after Boyd’s photograph appeared in all the national dailies, they would get the break they needed.
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I
The big break came early Friday morning. The Rossghyll Guest House proved to be a dead end, and all the train crews out of York had been too busy to remember anyone, but an Edinburgh barber phoned to say he recognized Paul Boyd’s photograph in the morning paper. Though Banks found the man’s accent difficult to understand, he managed to learn what Paul’s new haircut looked like. Even more important, he discovered that Paul had ditched his red anorak for a new grey duffle coat.
As soon as he hung up, Banks checked the map. Paul had headed north rather than to London or Liverpool. That had been a clever move; it had gained him time. But now that his photograph was on the front page of all the tabloid dailies, his time was running out. In addition to getting the photo in the papers as soon as possible, Banks and his men had also circulated Boyd’s description to police in all major cities, ports and airports. It was routine, the best they could do with limited knowledge, but now there was somewhere concrete to start.
Assuming that Paul would ultimately want to leave the country, Banks took out his AA road map and ran his finger up the outline of the Scottish coast looking for ways out. He could find only two ferry routes north of Edinburgh on the east coast. The first, from Aberdeen to Lerwick, on the 177
Shetlands, could take Boyd eventually to Bergen and Torshavn, in Norway, or to Seydhisfjordhur, in Iceland. But looking at the fine print, Banks saw that those ferries ran only in summer-and as the grey sky and drizzle outside testified, it certainly wasn’t summer.
