“They’ll wash out easily enough,” Tracy said. She touched her hair and licked her lips self-consciously, then examined her scarlet nails. Still she felt uneasy. She wasn’t sure that she wanted to change her appearance and go into forced exile over the Channel with Jaff, much as she fancied him. After all, she didn’t know him very well and she hadn’t done anything illegal. She wasn’t on the run. In fact, she wasn’t even sure what she was doing, or why. All she’d done wrong so far was help make a bit of a mess of her dad’s place and drink some of his booze. But she decided to concentrate on the moment, on the now. She could deal with the rest later.
NOT SO far away, in his eighteenth-century manor house on the northwestern fringes of Ripon, “Farmer” George Fanthorpe stood at his picture window and surveyed his domain as he mulled over what he had just been told. He could see his own flushed, craggy face, round shoulders and thick curls of graying hair reflected in the glass. Beyond his reflection lay the garden, his pride and joy, with its beautifully trimmed lawn, swings, slide and a seesaw for the kids, topiary hedges, cinder paths, fountains, flower beds and vegetable patches where Zenovia liked to spend her time, though today she was on a shopping trip in York.
The high walls that enclosed the garden were mostly covered by climbing vines and partially hidden by trees, though where the garden sloped down there were enough gaps in the foliage to make the view of the Wensleydale hills beyond Masham a magnificent one. Today, the frozen waves of hills had become gray, muted humps, each higher than the one before it, undulating into the far distance. Fanthorpe loved that view, could watch it for hours. It was even more spectacular from the bedroom window, without any obstruction in the way at all. But the walls were necessary. They were also topped with broken glass. “Farmer” Fanthorpe had enemies.
The grayness of the weather reflected his mood that afternoon. There were things happening in the far-flung reaches of his empire that he didn’t like, didn’t like at all. He prided himself on running a slick operation, and the snippets of news that Darren had just given him were disturbing his equilibrium, to say the least.
“You’re certain it’s Jaff’s girlfriend?” he asked, half turning.
“Certain,” said Darren, who had been standing behind him in silence, arms folded..
Fanthorpe knew that Darren wasn’t an alarmist, not one to exaggerate or get in a tizzy over nothing. Cool, Darren was, even in a scrape. Especially in a scrape. And he understood the value of intelligence. “And they found the shooter in her house?”
“Parents’ house. It was on the news.”
“Just a shooter? I mean, they didn’t mention…?”
“Just a shooter. The cops shot her old man with a Taser. He died.”
Fanthorpe turned his back on the view and moved closer toward Darren. “Tough titty. You know, this is the last thing we need right now, don’t you? The last thing. What with negotiations with the Russians going so well. The Lithuanians falling into line. And the Albanian deal. What does that stupid bastard think he’s up to, giving his shooter to his fucking girlfriend? And where is he? He was supposed to be here with the stuff last night. Last fucking night.”
“I don’t know,” said Darren. “Maybe he didn’t give the gun to her. Maybe she took it and the stuff. The cops aren’t saying. What do you want us to do?”
“Is Ciaran with you?”
“In the car.”
Fanthorpe paced the room, thinking furiously. He didn’t want to do anything that would draw further unwanted attention to himself—and pretty much all attention was unwanted in his line of work, which involved criminal business of astonishing breadth and variety, from the merely gray to the out-and-out black: moving things around, matching demand with supply, whether drugs, dirty money, luxury cars or unwilling sex-trade workers. His daughters went to the best school in the county, and his beautiful young Serbian wife didn’t have to get dishpan hands. Fanthorpe wanted to keep it that way. And the manor house, too; that was a given.
It often amazed him how utterly still Darren could stand. He didn’t even blink while he waited for the answer.
“And this was all on the news this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Has Jaff’s name been mentioned?”
“Not yet. We think the girl must be keeping shtum.”
“It won’t last,” said Fanthorpe. “It never does.”
“She’s on bail. We might still be able to get to her. We could—”
Fanthorpe held his hand up, palm out. “No,” he said. “No. I appreciate the sentiment, Darren, I really do. And if anyone can do it, you and Ciaran can. But it’s too risky. I know we’ve done similar things before with witnesses and other problems, but the risks far out-weigh the advantages this time. If she doesn’t name him, someone else will. You can’t tell me they don’t hang around with other people like themselves. Don’t like to show off a bit, flash the cash around. You know kids today. Clubs. Pubs. Loose tongues. A social circle. No. If she doesn’t tell them, someone else will.”
“Then what?”
“First, I want you to pay a visit to Jaff’s flat. You know where it is. That posh place by the wharf in Leeds. Here’s the key. He’s still got something of mine, and I want it back. Maybe he heard what happened to his girlfriend and took off somewhere, took it with him, even though he must know what that means, but…well, have a butcher’s, anyway.”
Darren pocketed the key. He didn’t ask where Fanthorpe had got it from. It didn’t matter. “No sweat, boss. And then?”
“Jaff. He’s not as tough as he thinks he is. Once the coppers get to him, and they will, it’s only a matter of time before he talks, if he hasn’t already. Maybe they’ll offer him a deal, too. And he knows too much about us. Way too much.” Fanthorpe shook his head. “I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. Jaff. You know he’s practically my partner? I’ve treated that boy like the son I never had. Groomed him. And this is how he repays me.”
“We don’t know that he’s done anything yet.”
Fanthorpe turned red. “He’s given me fucking indigestion, for a start. And he’s a let a gun fall into police hands, all because of some stupid tart. If that’s not enough, I don’t know what is. He’s a liability.”
“So what do we do?” Darren asked again.
“Whatever damage is done, we make sure it stops with Jaff. Is there anything concrete to link him to us?”
“Tenuous, at best,” said Darren. “Rumors. Innuendo. Nothing we can’t deal with. No loose ends we can’t tie up.”
Fanthorpe nodded. “As I thought. Well, rumors and innuendo are about as much use as a fart in a force nine gale, but they can cause a lot of peripheral damage. So it stops with Jaff. See to it.”
“Right, boss.”
“Find him. Pay him a visit. Don’t bring him back here. Take him somewhere nice and quiet. Find out exactly what’s going on. Let Ciaran loose on him if you have to. He must be getting thirsty for blood again by now. It’s been a long while. Get what you can out of him. Get my stuff back for me. Give me a bell when you’ve done it, and I’ll give you further instructions then. Think you can you handle it?”
Darren gave him a look of wonder that he should ask such a question.
“Course you can,” said Fanthorpe, patting Darren’s shoulder. “Course you can, my lad. You haven’t let me down yet. Remember. It stops with Jaff. First get my stuff back, then…then…” He paused and drew the edge of his hand across his throat. “It stops.”
5
DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT GERVAISE OCCUPIED her predecessor Gristhorpe’s old office, as befitted her rank, but it was far less cluttered than it had been when the old man was in residence, Annie thought, far more spick-and-span, light and airy. A fresh coat of pale blue paint had worked wonders. The bookcases held works mostly relevant to the job, rather than the rows of leather-bound classics Gristhorpe had kept there, and the volumes were interspersed by the occasional cup or mounted award for dressage and fencing, along with si
lver-framed family photographs. A white MacBook sat open on her orderly desk, pushed slightly to one side. Street sounds drifted in through the open window—a car starting, schoolchildren calling out to one another across the market square, the sliding door of a large delivery van—along with the occasional breath of fresh air and the aroma of warm bread wafting up from Pete’s Bakery.
“Sit down, Annie,” said Gervaise. “I’ve already sent for tea. Earl Grey all right with you?”
“Fine,” said Annie. She crossed her legs and leaned back in the chair.
Gervaise toyed with a paper clip, unbending it slowly, her Cupid’s-bow lips pursed. “I like the blond highlights,” she said finally, turning her blue eyes on Annie. “What made you do that?”
“I don’t know. Blondes have more fun?” Annie was far from certain that she’d done the right thing. Having her hair cut short in the first place was one step toward a new look, but the highlights were quite another, and she was still feeling self-conscious about them.
“And are you? Having more fun?”
“Not at the moment, I must admit.”
“Me neither.” Gervaise paused and put the paper clip down. Annie noticed a bubble of blood on the tip of her index finger. “Look, Annie, we’ve had our ups and downs, you and me, but I like you, Annie. I want you to know that. Despite your often misguided loyalty to DCI Banks taking precedence over correct procedure, and even simple common sense at times, I like you. And I want to build on that. How are things?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a simple question. How are things? Your life? In general. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine, ma’am.”
“And would you tell me if they weren’t?”
“Probably not.”
“So I haven’t earned your trust yet?”
“It’s not a matter of…” Annie began. Then she stopped. “Of what? Go on.”
Annie shook her head.
“I suppose what I meant,” Gervaise went on, “was you and Alan. DCI Banks. In the short time I’ve been here, it could hardly have escaped my attention that the two of you have a somewhat special relationship, and—”
“There’s nothing untoward about it, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Annie said. “No romantic involvement. No impropriety whatsoever.”
“Whoa there.” Gervaise held her hand up, palm out. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much. But that’s by the by. I wasn’t referring to your sex life. Ah, here’s the tea. Come in, Sharon. Put the tray down here, please. Thank you.” The WPC who had brought the tea smiled, nodded and left the room.
“We’ll just let that mash awhile, shall we?” Gervaise said. “Then I’ll play mother. No, what I meant before was that you actually complement one another quite well in your work. I know things have a tendency to go awry once in a while, especially when DCI Banks is around, and some things don’t always look too good on paper, but your cases get solved, you get results. Both of you.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Gervaise leaned forward and linked her hands on the desk. The tiny bubble of blood smeared the knuckles on her left hand. Her diamond engagement ring sparkled as it caught the sunlight. “Let me tell you, quite frankly, that I’m worried about Alan. I’ve been worried about him ever since that business with MI5 last spring. There’s something…different about him. And one hears…rumors. I understand he split up with his girlfriend, too?”
“Yes. Sophia.” Annie had never really taken to Sophia, had always believed she could see right through her, see her for what she was—vain and shallow, used to being desired and celebrated as a muse by men. Sophia needed their adoration, she fed on it, and the attentions of an older, attractive man of Banks’s stature had flattered her ego. For a while. Until a better offer came along, someone who would write poems or songs for her, perhaps. But she couldn’t say that to Gervaise. It would sound like sour grapes, as if it were born out of envy and jealousy. Which it partly was. Since Banks had split up with Sophia and become uncommunicative, Annie had found herself frequently thinking of their short time together. He had been hers once. Could she have hung on to him? Should she have tried? Even taken a transfer to some other county force not too far away so that they wouldn’t have to work together? Because that had been the problem, she had discovered; she hadn’t been able to work alongside him and be romantically involved.
“Is there more to it than that?”
Annie snapped herself back to the present. “I’m sorry?”
“I asked if there was anything else that was worrying him. I’m not asking you to betray any sort of trust, you understand. I ask entirely out of concern for his welfare. And for yours, too, of course. For the team.”
“No, I don’t think so,” said Annie. “Not that I can think of. At least, there’s nothing he’s said anything to me about. It’s just…”
Gervaise leaned forward a fraction more. “What?”
“Oh, nothing. I had the same feeling, too, that’s all. That something else was going on. That he was haunted by something. Or that he’d reached the end of something. But he doesn’t confide in me. Maybe he’s gone away looking for new beginnings?”
“Then let’s hope he finds some. When exactly is he due back at work? It’s in my files somewhere. Monday, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
As Gervaise shuffled some papers on her desk, she noticed the blood, picked up a tissue and wiped it off. She pressed a couple of keys on her MacBook. “I’m just a bit concerned about him walking right into the middle of all this, especially as he knows the Doyles.”
“He’ll deal with it,” said Annie, with more conviction than she felt. “And he’s resilient. Whatever happens, he’ll come through. We shouldn’t worry about him too much.”
“I suppose we have enough to worry about as it is.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Do? As we’re told, of course. Which is to work in conjunction with Superintendent Chambers and his team, and not to step on his toes. I understand he’s bringing in a couple of PSD officers from Greater Manchester to conduct the investigation for him. Firearms Cadre Superintendent Trethowan will continue to manage the scene, the Doyle house.”
“And us?”
“Our job remains the gun found in the possession of Erin Doyle. Or should I say, found in her bedroom. As yet we have no proof who put it there.” Gervaise looked at her watch. “I think the preliminary report on the firearm from Birmingham should be with us before today’s over. I’ll be SIO on this and you will be my deputy. Which means that you and Winsome and Harry Potter will be doing most of the work, as you can imagine, things being what they are around here. You can have DC Masterson, too. She needs to get her feet wet. I’m guessing, but I think much of my time will be taken up by meetings and discussions of various kinds. Not to mention bloody paperwork. I don’t want any complaints about you from the family or from Superintendent Chambers. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes.”
“I trust you have appointed a Family Liaison officer?”
“Patricia Yu. She’d done the requisite courses and has over a year’s experience.”
“Very well. I’d like you to proceed very carefully with the investigation, and keep me posted. Regular reports.” She tapped her desk. “Here. In my office.”
“Yes,” said Annie. She stood up to leave. “And, Annie?”
Annie turned at the door and raised her eyebrows.
“Watch your back. I don’t trust Chambers any more than you do.” She paused. “And about DCI Banks. If anything…Well, you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I know,” said Annie.
IT WAS after lunchtime before Tracy got Jaff on the road to Eastvale. He had dragged his feet so much that she had offered to go and do the shopping alone, which would have suited her far better, but he wouldn’t have any of it. She wasn’t leaving his sight, he told her. “Such devotion,” she replied. He missed the sarcasm.
&nb
sp; The roads and the Swainsdale villages were busy with tourist traffic, and nobody paid Vic’s silver-gray Ford Focus any special attention as they passed through Gratly, Helmthorpe or Fortford. Jaff drove cautiously, hovering just above the speed limit the whole way, like most of the other cars, except when he got stuck behind a tractor and slowed to a crawl, cursing so much that Tracy cracked up laughing. “It’s amazing,” she said. “Like you’ve never been in the country before.”
Jaff laughed with her. “I’ve been on worse roads than this, babe. But you’re right. Tractors and caravans. I’m with Jeremy Clarkson on that.”
When they got to Eastvale the sky had clouded over. They parked in the pay-and-display under the Swainsdale Centre and took the escalator up to the shops. The center itself was bustling with people. For a moment Tracy worried that she might bump into someone who recognized her, then she realized it didn’t matter if she did. Nobody knew what was going on with her and Jaff. Nobody knew they were lying low until a spot of bother passed over.
Sometimes Tracy wondered if anybody actually went out to work anymore. She knew the economy was bad, but it seemed strange to her that if people were unemployed, or simply hadn’t any money, they were in the shopping center all the time. Unless they just came there to sigh through the windows at things they couldn’t afford, which seemed stupid. Most of the people she saw were young enough to have jobs, if there were any. Some were mothers pushing their kids in prams, of course, or trailing them around by the hand, but others didn’t look much more than school-leaving age, and very few of the shoppers seemed old enough to be pensioners.
The two of them blended in easily to the crowd. They bought newspapers at W.H. Smith’s and picked up a couple of CDs and DVDs at HMV. Jaff bought three white shirts, a Boss sports jacket and a new pair of designer jeans. He eyed Tracy up and down. “You know, you could do with some new clothes, too, babe,” he said. “I can’t say that charity-shop look really does a lot for you.”
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