Bad Boy

by Peter Robinson

  “An egg timer?”

  “More properly known as an hourglass or a sand clock. See how it’s shaped? That’s why they sometimes talk about women having hourglass figures. Did you know that?”

  Victor did, but he wasn’t keen to appear too clever in front of these men. He had dealt with similar types before and found that at the first sign of intellectual superiority they became more resentful and, therefore, more aggressive. A public school education followed by an Oxbridge degree was definitely not an advantage in these circumstances. “No,” he said. “I didn’t. I thought it was an egg timer.”

  “You turn it over, and the sand falls through the tiny hole from one glass bulb to the other. Very clever, really. Sometimes I could watch it for hours. Of course, it doesn’t take hours. It doesn’t even take anywhere near an hour, so why they call it an hourglass I don’t fucking know, except it looks like a woman’s figure, and they talk about hourglass figures, don’t they? Now, these you might find even more interesting. Ciaran.”

  The other man took a large folded pouch from the same grip, set it on the table next to the hourglass and unfurled it.

  “This is Ciaran’s collection of surgical instruments,” the man went on. “Not that he’s a surgeon or anything. Didn’t have the Latin, did you, Ciaran?”

  “That’s a judge,” said Victor.

  “What?” the bald man asked, fixing Victor with a blank stare.

  “He could have been a judge, but he didn’t have the Latin.” Victor regretted the words immediately they were out. They smacked of superiority. What the hell did he think he was doing, correcting this yahoo’s quotation?

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Sorry. The sketch. It’s Peter Cook and Dudley Moore.”

  The two men looked at each other and shook their heads. “Whatever,” the bald one said. “Anyway, like I said before I was so rudely interrupted, our Ciaran’s no surgeon. Bit of an amateur, really. But he likes the tools, and he likes to dabble. The collection’s a bit of a ragbag, no rhyme nor reason to it, except Ciaran’s personal tastes.” The bald man picked up the sharp gleaming instruments one by one. “Now, I don’t know what these all are, but I do know that some of them are used in dermatology. Know what that is? A clever boy like you should do, university education, Latin and all. No? It means they’re sharp enough to peel an eyeball. Gives a whole new meaning to keeping your eyes skinned, doesn’t it? Others are meant for making deeper cuts through layers of fat or muscle. And then there are things that keep the edges of the wounds open or hold back the underlying organs and tissue while the doctors do their business and put their hands inside, or rip things out.” He held up a hooked instrument. “Retractors of various sizes and designs. Clamps, too, to slow down the bleeding. And most of these other blades are so sharp that they probably don’t hurt very much at first, like when you cut yourself shaving, you don’t really feel it. But eventually the pain comes. Delayed reaction. The blood’s already there, of course. All over the place by then, I should imagine.”

  As the bald man talked, Victor felt his spirits sinking and his heart rate rising. He knew the kind of damage and pain these instruments could inflict. Even the dental probe terrified him. His mouth was dry and his skin clammy. “Why are you doing this?” he croaked. “What do you want? I haven’t done anything. You don’t have to do this.”

  Ciaran busied himself with the instruments, lovingly and carefully polishing each one with a white cloth.

  The bald man looked on, smiling. “What a perfectionist. I tell him not to bother, they’ll only get bloody again, but every time, without fail, he has to polish his instruments. Maybe he’s just an optimist? Maybe he thinks he won’t have to use them this time?”

  “He doesn’t,” said Victor, licking his lips. “He doesn’t have to use them. What do you want? I’ll tell you. If it’s money, take it.”

  “We don’t want your money, and I’m sure you’ll tell us plenty,” said the bald one. “But I’m also sure you can understand that we have to be certain you’re telling us what we need to hear, not just what we want to hear. There’s a subtle difference.”

  “I’ll tell the truth.”

  The man laughed. “Hear that, Ciaran? He’ll tell the truth. That’s a good one. Where have you heard that one before?”

  “What do you mean?” Victor’s mind was clear enough now for him to worry because the bald man had no hesitation about calling Ciaran by name, if that was his real name. And that couldn’t be good, could it? “I won’t talk. I won’t tell anyone,” he added, for good measure.

  “No, that you won’t,” said the bald man. “See those tongs and that blade there? Very good for loose tongues, those are.”

  Victor swallowed. His tongue felt too big for his mouth.

  The bald man clapped his hands. “But that’s all further down the road. After we’ve reached what I call the point of no return. First off, let’s just have a go, shall we? See how we start off. Starter for ten, eh? An educated lad like you ought to know University Challenge. Let’s see how far we can get without resorting to any serious unpleasantness.”

  “That’s fine with me,” said Victor.

  “Good. The way it works is like this.” The man turned the hourglass until the sand started slowly sifting through the tiny hole into the other glass bowl. “I’m not sure exactly how long this takes,” he said. “To be honest, I’ve never actually timed it. But while the sand is still running, Ciaran here will hold back with his instruments. That’s the amount of time you’ve got to give me the answers I need. Understand?”

  “Yes. Yes. Please. Go on. Ask me anything. Hurry.” Victor glanced at the sand. It was moving far faster than the laws of physics allowed, he was certain, rushing through at an alarming rate.

  “Calm down, Victor. There’s no hurry. Plenty of time.”

  “Please. Ask me what you want to know. Start now.”

  “Need to know.”

  “All right. Need.” Victor wanted to yell, “Just bloody get on with it!” as he eyed first the cascading sand, then the shiny curved retractor that Ciaran was polishing. He felt his bowels loosening. He said nothing.

  “We’ll start with questions we think we know the answers to already. That way we’ll know if you’re lying. A kind of litmus test. You’re a friend of Jaff McCready’s, yes or no?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right. Good start. Did he come to see you recently?”

  “The other day. Yes. Monday, I think.”

  “Well done. What did he want?”

  “To swap cars for a few days.”

  “Did you swap?”

  “Yes. He’s a mate. He was in a jam. You help out a mate in a jam, don’t you?”

  “Highly commendable. Tell me the make, color and number of your car.”

  Victor told him. “What else?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What else did he want?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Tut-tut, Victor.” The bald man tapped the hourglass. It seemed to make the sand move even faster. “Time’s running out.”

  “All right, all right! He wanted a shooter.”

  “And you just happened to have one lying around?”

  “I have a source. I help people out sometimes. Jaff knew that.”

  “So you gave him a gun?”

  “Sold him one. A Baikal. With a silencer.”

  “I’m not interested in the make. You’re wasting time. Is that all?”

  “Yes, I swear.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. He just drove off. I didn’t even see which way he went.”

  “Where was he going?”

  “I told you. I don’t—”

  “Victor, you don’t have long left. Better stick to the truth.”

  “I…he…he said he had a girl waiting outside in his car.”

  “Tracy Banks?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see her, and he didn’t mention her
name. I thought his girlfriend was called Erin, but you never know with Jaff.”

  “Quite the ladies’ man, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where were they going?”

  “All he said was that they were going to chill out at her dad’s place in the country for a couple of days while he got things organized, then he was heading down to London.”

  “Where in London?”

  “I don’t know. Honest, I don’t. He didn’t say.”

  “Victor…”

  “Why would I lie?”

  “I don’t know. Your time’s running out. I certainly wouldn’t lie in your position. But you are lying, aren’t you?”

  Victor licked his lips. “Look, he’s got a mate in Highgate. Bloke called Justin. I’ve only met him once. He’s involved in people-smuggling and all kinds of nasty shit. It’s not my scene at all. I don’t know his last name. Jaff said Justin would help him out if it came to it. Fake passport and all that. That’s all I know. Honest.”

  “Highgate’s a big place.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s all I know.”

  “Maybe Ciaran will be able to get a bit more out of you?”

  Victor struggled at his bonds, but it did no good. “I don’t know any more.”

  The bald man watched the sand contemplatively for a few moments, then he said, “What do you think, Ciaran?”

  Ciaran stared at Victor for what seemed like an age. The sand flowed through the tiny hole. It was almost all gone now. Victor’s mouth was so dry that it hurt his throat when he tried to swallow. He felt that if this went on much longer he was going to start crying and begging for mercy.

  “Nah,” said Ciaran, and rolled up his instruments. “Not worth it. He doesn’t know any more.” Victor’s mouth dropped.

  The bald man picked up the hourglass and put it back in his grip. “Close call, Victor,” he said, going over and ruffling Victor’s hair. “Very close call. We’ll let you get back to your shitty music again. But remember—we know where you live. I suppose I don’t need to tell you what’ll happen if there’s any comeback on us for this, do I?”

  Victor shook his head.

  “Good lad.” The bald man slapped Victor’s cheek playfully, but still hard enough to hurt, two or three times, then said, “Ciaran.”

  They turned off the light and walked toward the door.

  “Aren’t you going to cut me free?” Victor asked in a small voice.

  The bald man paused in the doorway. “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he said. “Ciaran’s hand might slip with the blade. Like another layer of skin, that duct tape. I tell you what, though.” He took the tape out of the grip and walked over, cutting off a short strip with a pocket knife. “This’ll help save you from yourself. Don’t worry. Someone will turn up eventually. They always do.”

  “But how will I explain—”

  The man slapped the tape over Victor’s mouth before he could finish the sentence. “Use your imagination, Victor. Use your imagination.” Then they left, pausing only to turn on the CD player on their way out.

  HOSPITALS ALWAYS depressed Banks, and sitting in the coffee shop watching the people taking a short break from dealing with sick children, relatives dying of cancer or lying there senile in geriatric wards didn’t help at all. The couple at the next table were talking about the side effects of prostate surgery. Banks tried to shut it out and concentrate on what Winsome was telling him. At least the coffee was good, and he got a chocolate rush from the KitKat. It was well after lunch-time, but he wasn’t really hungry. Sleep seemed a long way off, too, after seeing Annie lying there like that and hearing what Winsome and Mr. Sandhar had told him. A nurse had told them that Annie’s father, Ray, was on his way up from St. Ives by train.

  “So, as far as I can gather from what you’ve told me,” Banks summarized, “Annie was shot when she went to my cottage to water the plants. Didn’t it also cross her mind that Tracy might be there with her boyfriend?”

  “Probably not. I’m sure she didn’t really think that would be the case, or she would have brought in backup.”

  “Not if she thought she was protecting me or Tracy,” said Banks gloomily. “Not if she didn’t want anyone else to know, thought she could nip any problems in the bud. Go on.”

  “He’s not really Tracy’s boyfriend. He was Erin Doyle’s.”

  “But Erin’s been arrested for possession of a handgun?”

  “Yes. She’s out on police bail.”

  “This boyfriend…?”

  “Jaff. His name’s Jaffar McCready, but everyone calls him Jaff.”

  “He’s most likely the one who shot Annie?”

  “So we think.”

  “And Tracy made the 999 call?”

  “Yes,” said Winsome. “It was a female voice, and it was her mobile number. I’ve also heard the recording at the dispatch center. It sounds like Tracy, as well as I can remember. She sounds scared.”

  “As well she might,” said Banks.

  “We found her mobile phone at the scene, close to where we think their car was parked. It had been smashed to pieces. The SIM card was still in intact, and it showed the phone hadn’t been used since Monday.”

  “Isn’t that when this whole business started?”

  “It’s when Juliet Doyle turned up at the station to report finding a firearm in her daughter’s bedroom, yes. According to Annie, she asked for you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. I should think she hoped you would deal with it without making too much of a fuss, that things would go better for Erin.”

  “I see,” said Banks. “But I wasn’t there, and things went haywire. Erin got arrested and Tracy went to tell the boyfriend.”

  “Looks that way,” said Winsome. “And Juliet Doyle?”

  “She’s stopping with Harriet Weaver. No charges against her, naturally.”

  “Naturally. I don’t suppose this Jaff would want Tracy using the phone if he thought we might link the two of them and track her down through her mobile use. But she loved that mobile. She was never off it. He must have taken it from her on Monday, kept it switched off. Was she there with him willingly? She can’t have been. What do you think?”

  “We honestly don’t know,” Winsome said. “She might have been. In the first place. I mean, according to Rose, she went over to his place of her own free will. After that we don’t know how events unfolded, but she must have been the one who took him to your cottage. Maybe he forced her to take him. It’s possible. All we know is what Tracy’s housemate told us. But we don’t know what happened after they got there—the place is a bit of a shambles—but, like you, I can’t believe Tracy would willingly have anything to do with Annie’s shooting.”

  “Of course not,” said Banks. “It’s absurd. However this all started, I think we have to assume that Tracy’s under duress right now. She’s a hostage of this Jaff McCready. That’s an odd name, by the way. Know anything about him?”

  “I‘ve been doing a bit of digging. His mother’s from Bangladesh. Was. She died of breast cancer a few years ago. She was only forty. Anyway, she was a model. Very lovely, by all accounts. She married Jack McCready. He came from East Kilbride originally, but he built up an empire of bookmakers down south and did a bit of investing in the movie business. That’s how they met. He liked to hang about with the stars and directors and such.”

  “Don’t we all?” said Banks. “I’ve heard the name, seen his photo in the papers and his name in the gossip columns from time to time, starlet on each arm sort of thing. Can’t say as I’ve ever met a bookie I could trust. Dead, though, isn’t he?”

  “Heart attack,” said Winsome. “Eight years ago. There were rumors about him. Money laundering, nobbled horses, fixed races, what have you. Nothing proven, and the death was all aboveboard. Anyway, the parents split up when Jaffar was eight. He went with his mother to India. She became quite a famous Bollywood star there. I think Jaffar himself got used to a certain amount of fame and
celebrity rubbing off on him. Then his mother died tragically, and he was sent back here. He was thirteen then. His father put him straight into boarding school, no love lost there, I imagine, then he went to Cambridge. Read Philosophy.”

  “Bright?”

  “Average. He got through. They said that he could have applied himself more.”

  “They said that about me, too. ‘Could have tried harder.’ Trouble-maker?”

  Winsome smiled. “I think McCready was more of a misfit, really. He’s got no form. Definitely not your run-of-the-mill disaffected youth.”

  “No,” said Banks. “Perhaps a bit more deeply psychologically scarred. How old is he?”

  “Thirty-one.”

  “Jobs?”

  “Never had one, as far as we can determine.”

  “Was he on our radar at all?”

  “No. But I had a chat with Ken Blackstone, and West Yorkshire are aware of him. That’s all. Nothing concrete, just a lot of suspicions. Drugs, mostly. They suspect he’s linked with an illegal laboratory, among other things. Something to do with an old mate from Cambridge, a chemistry student. It’s an ongoing investigation. A slow one, Ken says. They haven’t found anything yet.” She took the two sketches that Rose Preston had made from her briefcase. “And these two charmers are also looking for Jaff and Tracy. They pretended to be police officers, gave Tracy and Erin‘s housemate a hard time.”

  Banks examined the sketches. They were good quality—bold, confident lines and subtle shading. He was no expert, but he thought Rose showed talent as an artist.

  “She said their names were Sandalwood and Watkins.”

  “That’s a lie,” said Banks. They’re Darren Brody and Ciaran French.”

  Winsome’s jaw dropped. “You know them?”

  “I made it my business to know them. We’ve met in passing. They work for George Fanthorpe, better known as The Farmer.”