Bad Boy

by Peter Robinson

  “I know that name.”

  “You should. One of the best kept secrets in the county. Thinks of himself as Lord of the Manor, gentleman farmer. Owns a dairy and acres of farmland. Stables and horse training, too. Lives near Ripon. His crooked reach stretches as far as Middleham. Beyond, too, probably.”

  “They were asking about Jaff, and his dad was a bookie,” Winsome said. “Think there might be a connection?”

  “I doubt it,” said Banks. “Perhaps at one time. But Jack McCready is long dead, and Fanthorpe’s main source of income is drugs. Cocaine and heroin, mostly. Bulk. Never sees or touches the stuff himself, of course. Mr. Big. Mostly deals with the student population. The farming businesses are a nice facade, handy for laundering the money. He’s probably the only dairyman making a healthy profit these days, or any kind of profit. The racehorses are a hobby—the sort of thing a country squire might be expected to take an interest in. The stables might actually be profitable.”

  “How do you know about him?”

  Banks finished his coffee. “Just one of those things. I talked to a minor drug dealer called Ian Jenkinson at Eastvale College about six years ago, just a follow up for a West Yorkshire case, and he let The Farmer’s name slip in connection with a murder on Woodhouse Moor. Another low-level dealer called Marlon Kincaid, who catered mostly to the Leeds student population. Apparently Jenkinson got some of his supplies from this Kincaid, who, in turn, we think, got them from Fanthorpe’s organization. Or should have done. As it turned out, he was freelancing, and this annoyed The Farmer. I paid The Farmer himself a visit. Smooth bastard, played the part well, but you know how you get a feeling sometimes, develop an instinct?”

  “I’m getting one now,” Winsome said. “It can’t be a coincidence.”

  “What can’t?”

  “That name you just mentioned: Marlon Kincaid. I hadn’t got around to telling you yet, but we’re almost certain that the gun we found at the Doyle house was used in his murder on November fifth, 2004.”

  “That’s about the right time,” said Banks. “Very interesting.”

  Winsome nodded. “Indeed. Maybe we should have another chat with this Ian Jenkinson, if we can find him. What happened?”

  “Well, it was like I said, a hunch. I did a bit of digging, but I couldn’t get below the surface. All the snitches clammed up. Scared. Next time I went to see The Farmer, Ciaran and Darren here were with him, lurking in the shadows. Business associates, he introduced them as. I noticed them on a couple of occasions after that, following me, parked over the street, shopping in the same supermarket. Always said hello and smiled, asked after the family. That sort of thing. Mild intimidation.”

  “And were you intimidated?”

  “A bit. Those two have a nasty reputation. Darren’s just a thug, not without brains entirely, but a thug nonetheless. Ciaran takes a genuine pleasure in hurting and humiliating people. Rumor has it they’ve killed more than once, and the killings are linked to Fanthorpe. But you know the way it goes sometimes. No evidence. Perfect alibis. Then something else came up. Marlon Kincaid was well known as a dealer to the student scene, and most people felt the planet was a better place without him. We got no further on Fanthorpe or on the murder. You know as well as I do that someone in that business can antagonize a lot of people, from rivals to disgruntled parents whose kids have overdosed. West Yorkshire checked all the avenues, but came up with nothing. We were only marginally involved because of the Ian Jenkinson connection. We had nothing on The Farmer to start with. He’s never been charged with anything. Maybe the forensic accountants could have made a case if they’d got access to his books, like they did with Al Capone, but we didn’t even have enough for a warrant. The CPS said forget it. There were more urgent matters screaming for our attention. Fanthorpe faded into the background with a little flag beside his name. Ciaran and Darren disappeared from my life. I can’t say as I ever forgot any of them, but nor did I lose any sleep over them, either.”

  Winsome studied the sketches. “I can see that you wouldn’t forget them in a hurry. Ugly customers. I wonder why they aren’t more concerned about people giving descriptions of them after a visit?”

  “They rely on the implied threat that they’ll come back and take their revenge. Most of the people they deal with are the same sort of scum as they are, so they know that. Rose isn’t from their world.”

  “Will they go after her? Should we offer her protection?”

  “I don’t think so. She’s not important enough for that. She was a means to an end, whether they got what they wanted out of her or not. It’s my bet they’d have no further interest. They’ve moved on. They don’t care if we know what they look like or find their prints all over the house. They know that, for one reason or another, it won’t go any further. If the worst comes to the worst, they’ll have rock solid alibis. Do you have any leads beyond what happened at the cottage? I need to find this little gobshite who’s abducted my daughter and scrape him off my shoe. If you’ll pardon the crude talk.”

  “I’ll pardon it this once, sir,” Winsome said, “because I know you’re upset.”

  “Thank you.”

  “One thing I’ve been meaning to ask.”

  “Go ahead?”

  “About Tracy being involved. Are you going to call your family and let them know? Sandra? Brian?”

  Banks thought for a moment and massaged the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. The caffeine and sugar rushes hadn’t lasted. He felt exhausted again, like lying down right here and now and curling up in the fetal position. Conversations hummed around him, but they were all meaningless drivel. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Not yet, at any rate. The last thing I need right now is Sandra on my back, or even Brian running around trying to help. They’d only get in the way. Besides, as far as I know he’s on tour with the band somewhere.”

  “But shouldn’t they be informed by you before they read about it in the papers or see it on the TV news? We can’t keep the details of what’s happened from the media forever.”

  “I suppose they should. But why worry them at this point? Worst case scenario, I’ll tell them later. Best case, all goes well, and they’ll never need to know.”

  “What about your mum and dad. They are Tracy’s grandparents.”

  “They’re on a cruise,” said Banks. “They’re always on a cruise these days.”

  Winsome shrugged. “It’s your decision. They’ll probably find out when they get back, anyway.”

  “Probably. But that’s then, and this is now. What’s the latest?”

  “I’m not up to speed,” said Winsome. “Remember, I got the airport detail.”

  “Okay. Thanks for doing that, by the way. Let’s head for the station and see what we can find out. What’s my role to be in all this? I can hardly sit at home and twiddle my thumbs, but I doubt that Madame Gervaise will want me on the case.”

  “She wants to see you about that as soon as possible,” Winsome said, “I’m sure she’ll find you something to do. And as far as sitting around at home is concerned, I think you’d better organize some alternative accommodation to twiddle your thumbs in as soon as possible”

  Banks looked puzzled. “What? Why?”

  “Maybe you’ve forgotten the protocol, sir, but your cottage is now a crime scene. It’s locked down. You can’t go home.”

  11

  BANKS MADE THE PHONE CALL TO ARRANGE FOR HIS accommodation on the way to Western Area Headquarters in the patrol car Winsome had arranged. Mrs. Haggerty was shocked by the recent shooting in the village. “In a policeman’s house, as well,” she said. “What are things coming to?” And she proceeded to tell Banks that the last, and only other, shooting they had had there was in 1942, when a local farmer mistakenly fired his shotgun at a tramp, thinking he was a German spy. The tramp suffered only minor injuries, and no charges were brought.

  Luckily, the flat that she had let to Banks once before, when New-hope Cottage was being rebuilt af
ter the fire, was vacant. An American couple had booked it, she said, but the husband had lost his savings and his job in the recent financial collapses over there, and they had had to cancel at the last minute. At least, Banks thought, he would be on familiar territory, and he did still have all the clothes and toiletries he had taken on holiday with him. There was a washer-dryer unit in the flat, he remembered, so he could have clean clothes again by tomorrow.

  Western Area Headquarters seemed much more crowded than usual, but Annie’s shooting had cast a somber pall over the place. A number of officers nodded grimly to Banks as he walked in, and Winsome helped him carry his suitcase and hand luggage upstairs before heading for the Major Crimes squad room to check if there had been any developments.

  When Banks opened his office door, he found that the space was already occupied. By this time, the shock and jet lag had eroded his patience to breaking point.

  “What the hell are you doing snooping around my office?” he said, dropping the heavy suitcase and carry-on bag on the floor. “Get out.” Superintendent Reg Chambers remained seated behind Banks’s desk. “Welcome home,” he said. “Nobody told me you were coming in today, but now that you’re here we might as well have a little chat.”

  Banks glanced around. Everything seemed as he had left it, as best he could remember, and he knew that he had locked his filing cabinets and drawers. There was a master key, of course, but Detective Superintendent Gervaise had that. And Chambers would never be able to guess his computer’s password. “I still want to know what the fuck you’re doing here.”

  “My job, DCI Banks. I’m on an active investigation. That means I have the run of the station.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Chambers waved his hand and stood up. “Mere technicalities,” he said. “Anyway, let’s not get off on the wrong foot. It’s the only quiet haven in the building. I needed a bit of peace and quiet, that’s all. Don’t worry, I haven’t touched anything. You can have it all to yourself again.” He picked up his folders from the desk. “I’ll go now.” Then he paused in the doorway. “Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “Well, I would like a word with you.. We could do it later, of course, but why not do it now, seeing as we’re both here? That is, if you’re up to it? I understand you’ve been on holiday?”

  Banks walked over to the window and looked out over the cobbled market square. Reassuringly, it hadn’t changed. Then he turned and rested the backs of his thighs against the cold radiator. “Why do you want to talk to me?” he asked. “I wasn’t here. This has nothing to do with me.”

  “Your name was mentioned. You know the people involved. You might be able to help.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Even so…Look, I heard what happened to Annie Cabbot,” Chambers went on, a deep frown wrinkling his brow. “I’m really sorry. How is she?”

  “Touch and go,” said Banks. He walked back over and sat in his chair, which was still unpleasantly warm from Chambers, and offered the superintendent the seat opposite. “Let’s do it now,” he said. He would rather have waited, but there was also a slim chance that he might pick up a useful scrap of information from a chat with Chambers. Besides, he wasn’t going to show the man weakness or tiredness; that was just the kind of thing Chambers fed on.

  Chambers sat down and scratched his head. “Right, well, I suppose you must have some idea of what’s been going on around here in your absence?”

  “I know,” said Banks.

  “Yes, well, it’s my job to get to the bottom of it.”

  “You’re after portioning out blame according to the demands of the media, that’s what you’re doing. Basic public relations. Let’s not try to dignify it. Remember who you’re talking to.”

  “Well, if you’re going to take that attitude I can’t see us getting anywhere, can you?”

  “Don’t get in a huff. It’s you who wants to talk to me, after all. Ask your bloody questions. And make it quick. Just remember, you’re not talking to some frightened probationary constable who’s forgotten to pay his tea money this week.”

  Chambers puffed out his considerable chest. “It’s my brief to investigate the conduct of all officers concerned in the lethal discharge of a Taser against Patrick Doyle and the events leading up to that tragic occurrence. In case you don’t know, that incident happened on Monday morning at the home of the deceased during a routine police operation.”

  “Routine? There was nothing routine about it from what I’ve heard.”

  “Then perhaps you’ve heard wrong? Or you haven’t heard enough.”

  “Anyway,” said Banks. “Like I said, I’m not involved. I was out of the country.”

  “It’s my understanding that a woman came to this police station asking for you.”

  “Juliet Doyle. Yes. I know her. But as I said, I wasn’t here.”

  “In what capacity do you know her?”

  “We used to be neighbors.”

  “Is that all?”

  “You’re trying my patience, Chambers.”

  “So your relationship with the Doyle family was as a family friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “The daughter, too?”

  “Yes. And Patrick was a good friend, so knock it off with the innuendos. There’s nothing there, and no reason for it.”

  “I’m concerned as to why this woman should ask for you in person when she came to report an illegal handgun.”

  “It’s natural enough to seek out someone you know in a difficult situation, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t you think she did it because she expected special treatment?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not my place to speculate as to motive. Or yours. As I said, a familiar face goes a long way if you’re upset.”

  “Do you think Mrs. Doyle had any idea of the legal penalties involved in possessing a handgun?”

  “I have no idea. Probably not. Most people don’t.”

  “Because this is her daughter we’re talking about. And there’s no denying prison time would be involved.”

  “She did what she thought was best.”

  “That’s easy enough to say.”

  Banks got up and walked over to the window again. The butcher over Market Street, to his right, was taking all the cuts of meat from his display window, and his assistant was scrubbing the trays. A last minute shopper dashed in through the door and the butcher looked up to smile and serve her. Banks turned to face Chambers. “Why are you asking me these questions? What do you hope to gain? I’ve already told you, I wasn’t here. You should be concentrating on the AFOs involved.”

  “Don’t tell me my job.” Chambers thumped the table. “That woman asked for you specifically, and I want to know what you would have done if you’d been here.”

  “Oh, that’s it,” said Banks. “We’re dealing in would-haves and what-ifs now, are we?”

  “A man died.”

  “You don’t have to remind me. He was my friend.”

  “Could you have prevented it?”

  “Could I? I don’t know. What does it matter? It would have been out of my hands. You want to know what I would have done? It’s easy. I would have got as much information as I could from Mrs. Doyle and tried to verify, then assess, the circumstances. In all likelihood I would have logged the incident, and it would have been passed on to our Area Control Room. The ACR would no doubt inform the Divisional Duty Inspector responsible for the area concerned, and she would, in turn, make the Force Duty Supervisor aware of the log. They would discuss the circumstances, and the Fsup would then ask that more information be gathered. Once that had been carried out, the Fsup would request that the DDI deploy a conventional double crewed response vehicle, ensuring that all officers have full Personal Protective Equipment. The Fsup would then…Do you really want me to go on?”

  “No. That’s quite enough.”

  “But that’s the procedure. Don’t try to teach your grandmother to suck eggs, Chambers.” />
  “You wouldn’t have gone around there by yourself?”

  “Well, that would probably have been the best course of action to take, wouldn’t it? They would have been expecting me, so they wouldn’t have felt threatened. Mrs Doyle would have been accompanying me, and she would have let me in, so I wouldn’t have had to break down the door. And I wouldn’t have been carrying a Taser or a weapon of any kind. But that’s not following the rules, is it? What the bloody hell did you expect me to say?”

  Chambers looked fit to burst. He made a noise somewhere between a huff and a snort, then lumbered to his feet again. “You’re not being helpful, you know. You’re impeding the investigation. I’ll be making a note of this.”

  “I’m not impeding anything. This is pure fantasy. What happened, happened. I was five thousand miles away or more. But you do that,” said Banks calmly. “You go ahead and make your notes. But before you do, be aware of one thing.”

  Chambers paused at the door. “And what may that be?”

  “Things have changed since you started this particular witch-hunt—”

  “I obj—”

  “A policewoman has been shot. Annie Cabbot. My friend. My partner.” He felt himself choke up and struggled for control. Even as he spoke the word “partner,” it sounded odd to his ear. Blame Dashiell Hammett and three weeks in America. He would normally have referred to Annie as his colleague, or oppo, or even as his DI, but “partner” sounded good. She was. He would use it from now on. He remembered a line from The Maltese Falcon about when a man’s partner gets killed he’s supposed to do something. Annie hadn’t been killed, thank God, but he still knew that he had to do something, and he could start by putting Chambers in his place. Annie would approve.

  “A policewoman has been shot,” Banks repeated. “The media and the politicians won’t be all over the AFOs and their Tasers from now on. They’ll be on our side. The hue and cry will be about how many illegal handguns are floating around out there, and you will have nothing to gain from crucifying anyone inside the department.”