Bad Boy

by Peter Robinson

  “That’s not what I—”

  “So why don’t you think about that? Circumstances change. If you want to be a poster boy for the media, get with the game. And make sure you’re on the right side. Close the door behind—”

  Just then there was a tap at the door. Chambers stepped back and Detective Superintendent Gervaise popped her head around. “Didn’t interrupt anything, did I? Ah, Superintendent Chambers, I see you’re finding your way around without any difficulty. Alan, welcome back. Fancy a cup of tea and a chat? My office. Now.”

  TRACY COULD tell that Jaff was fed up with walking. He had been quiet and sulky for the past hour, no doubt trying to come up with a new plan, like growing wings.

  They had been walking under cover of as many wooded areas as they could find, which were few and far between up on the moors, and as far from even the most minor unfenced roads as they could get. At one point they had spent over an hour walking along the narrow bottom of a weed-and-nettle-choked gully, getting stung all over. Surely somebody must have found the abandoned car by now and reported it to the police, Tracy reckoned. She wondered how long it would take them to link it with her and Jaff and Annie. Would they have Vic’s name on their records? How was Annie doing? Was she still alive? There were too many questions she couldn’t answer.

  They had managed about eight or nine miles in all since they’d left the cottage, having driven only the first two before the car broke down, and they were now deeper into the moors than she had ever walked with her father. Tracy had lost the advantage of knowing the lie of the land. She hadn’t heard the helicopter again, and they were too far away to hear cars on the road. Not that there were any roads. To anybody seeing them from a distance they would probably look like a pair of ramblers, though closer observation would have revealed they were hardly dressed for the part, and that Jaff’s walking skills certainly left a lot to be desired. Most of the time he seemed to walk as if he were striding down a city street, Tracy thought, without paying attention to the land beneath his feet. Which was why he tripped and fell so often.

  Tracy had been alert the whole time, but there hadn’t been a single opportunity to steal away without the certainty of Jaff ‘s catching her. He wasn’t going to let her out of his sight for a moment; her failed escape attempt after the car broke down and the embarrassing experience that morning should have told her as much.

  It was mid-afternoon when they came to the crest of a long grassy slope and saw the car park below. There was no village, no houses, only the half-full car park, with its public toilets, stone walls and Pay-and-Display machines, at the end of a rough track that wound away into the distance and disappeared over the next hill. On the far side a stile in the drystone wall led to a public footpath with a wooden signpost which stretched for several hundred feet then dipped into a wooded area and disappeared from sight. Tracy recognized where they were now. She had been here before.

  “What the fuck’s that?” Jaff asked.

  They lay on their stomachs looking over the brow of the hill. A blade of grass tickled Tracy’s nose, and she rubbed it. “It’s popular walking country around here,” she said. “I think that’s the car park for Rawley Force, a local beauty spot. A lot of people do a circular walk from there.”

  “How long does it take?”

  “About three and a half hours. Why, do you fancy trying it?”

  “Don’t be fucking clever. But I do have an idea. We could practically be in London in three and a half hours.”

  Tracy’s heart sank when she realized what he was saying. “You’re going to have to come up with something better than that,” she said. “Haven’t you realized that every copper in the country will be looking for you since you shot Annie Cabbot?”

  “Stupid bitch asked for it.”

  Tracy sighed. “I’m hungry,” she said, hoping he would admit to feeling the same way and delay what he obviously had in mind.

  “Me, too,” he said. “But it’ll have to wait. Come on, let’s get closer.”

  They kept behind the brow of the hill and made their way in a sweeping curve toward the car park. When they were directly above it, about two hundred yards away, Jaff commanded her to stop and lie low again. The deep cleft of a dried-up streambed ran beside them down the hillside. Jaff pointed to it. “If we go that way, no one will be able to see us from the road or the footpath. Can we get to the M1 from here? And don’t lie. I’ll soon find out, and you’ll regret it.” Tracy pointed to their left. “We have to take that track. It’s the only way out. I think it ends at a B road and we turn left to get to the A1. It joins the M1 further south, around Leeds.”

  “Right. I know that part. That’s what we’ll do. And you’d better not be lying.”

  Tracy started to get up, but Jaff pulled her down beside him again. “Don’t be too hasty. We wait till the next car turns up. That way we know we’ve probably got three and a half hours before they call the alarm.”

  Resignedly Tracy lay on her stomach again. They didn’t have to wait long. It was a beautiful afternoon, just enough of a light breeze to take the edge off the heat you build up on a good long walk. An old white van pulled up, and a young man and woman got out. They wore walking boots and had tucked their trouser legs into their socks. They also carried sticks and rucksacks, and the man had some maps in a plastic bag hanging around his neck. “Perfect,” Jaff said. “Anoraks.”

  “But how are you going to get it started? What about the alarm?”

  “An old banger like that? Piece of cake.”

  And it was. They scrambled down the streambed, Jaff only falling and cursing once, and approached the van. There was no one around. Jaff got the back doors open easily with one of the keys he carried in his pocket, and once inside, it took him no time at all to hot wire the ignition. The inside of the van smelled of paint thinner and sawdust.

  “I can see you’ve done this before,” Tracy said.

  Jaff grinned. “You could say that. Put it down to a misspent youth. I used to work for a bloke who collected luxury cars for shipment overseas. Know what I mean? Years ago. I was just a kid. Fresh out of uni. Some of the newer models are really tough because of all those computerized keys and alarm systems, but these things are a doddle. And it’s perfect. Everyone’ll think it’s a builder’s van. No one takes any notice of crappy white vans.” He drummed his hands on the steering wheel and whooped, “All right! London, here we come!” Then they set off toward the A1.

  “YOU LOOK terrible, Alan,” said Gervaise as they sipped tea in her office later that afternoon.

  “Nothing that a good night’s sleep won’t cure,” Banks said. “Only somehow I don’t think I’ll be getting one for a while.”

  “I’m sorry about the cottage, but I’m sure you understand. We have no choice. We can arrange for alternate accommodation, if you like?”

  “Not a problem,” said Banks. “It’s sorted. I could use a car, though.

  Mine’s in the garage. At least I assume it’s still there?”

  “It’s there,” said Gervaise. “Don’t worry. You can sign one out from the pool in the meantime. How are you doing, Alan? Seriously. I feel I should welcome you back, but I’m afraid it’s not much of a welcome.”

  “I feel about as bad as I look,” Banks said. “You’re right about the homecoming. Seeing Annie there in the hospital, I…” He shook his head and turned away as his eyes filled with tears. Then he took a deep breath, felt his anger stir, and sipped some tea. “But I’ve got to hold it together somehow. It won’t do anyone any good if I go to pieces.”

  “It’s not your responsibility to hold everything together. Perhaps you should go and catch up on sleep.”

  “I really don’t think I could do that. Not with Annie at death’s door and Tracy out there with some homicidal creep. Could you?”

  “Perhaps not. How was the holiday?”

  “It was great. Really. Just what the doctor ordered. I’m sure it did me the world of good. A bit of a distant memory
now, though.” It was hard to believe that only yesterday he had woken up beside Teresa in San Francisco, had breakfasted with her at the Monaco and waved good-bye as she left for the airport in her taxi. He had had time for one last walk around Union Square and a quick lunch at Scala’s Bistro, beside the Sir Francis Drake Hotel, before packing, checking out and heading for the airport himself. It had been a beautiful, fresh day. The blue skies, fluffy clouds and sweet, gentle Pacific breeze were no harbingers of what lay ahead.

  “I assume you’re up to speed with what’s been going on?” Gervaise asked.

  “Most of it.”

  “This is a very delicate situation,” she went on, making a steeple of her hands. “We’re understaffed and overworked and, as you saw, we’ve got Superintendent Chambers breathing down our necks.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about him.”

  “But I do. It’s very important that you don’t go charging in like a…a…”

  “Bull in a china shop?”

  Gervaise smiled. “I was trying to think of something less crude than the usual cliché, but that’ll do for the moment. Yes.”

  “Softly, softly catchee monkey.”

  “Good God, give it a rest. Look, you were out of the country when the shit hit the fan,” Gervaise went on, “so you might think there’s absolutely no reason why you shouldn’t work on this. But there are three reasons.”

  “Annie and Tracy, for starters?”

  “Yes. You’re emotionally involved, and that should disqualify you from any active roll in these investigations. You also know the Doyles, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Our kids more or less grew up together. Pat was a good mate, though I hadn’t seen him in a while. I’m gutted to hear what happened to him.”

  “It’s a terrible business. You’re also very close to Annie, and we don’t know how deeply Tracy’s involved yet.”

  “Surely the main thing right now is that she’s in danger, and that we need to find her?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course it is. And we’re sparing nothing. Our budget’s already gone to hell in a handbasket. The local air search and rescue team is involved, and they’re sending the helicopter out again as we speak. But what I’m saying is that there might be some surprises ahead, and I don’t want you on a short fuse. I also don’t want you to give Chambers or anybody else even the slightest impression that you’ve been in a position to tamper in any way.”

  “Tamper with what?”

  “You know damn well what I mean. Fix things if it turns out your daughter is in this nasty business up to her eyeballs.”

  “I appreciate your plain speaking on this, but I don’t think you know either me or my daughter as well as you think you do.”

  “Don’t go all defensive on me, Alan. I don’t need that.”

  “What do you expect? You accuse my daughter of being a criminal and me of being corrupt enough to tamper with evidence. Just what the bloody hell do you expect me to say?”

  “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Perhaps I went a bit too far. Put it down to pressure. These last few days have got everyone’s nerves in a tizzy. I was simply trying to stress that Superintendent Chambers is already dead set against you having any involvement at all in this. I’m going out on a limb here. I know damn well what you’re like. If I warned you off, you’d do it anyway, and that could cause problems for everyone. We can hardly lock you in a cell until it’s all over, and if you go off on your own half-cocked, God only knows how much damage you could end up doing. Now, I’ve talked to ACC McLaughlin, he’s talked to the Deputy Chief Constable, and we all agree that there are good reasons you should be brought in, assuming you want to be, but that you have to play down the personal angle. You have to toe the line. You can’t let your personal feelings drive you. Objectivity, Alan; that’s what we want from you. Your brain, not your brawn. Do you think you can manage that? We’ll all be keeping a sharp eye on you. And you have to stay away from the Taser business altogether. You must be aware of the risk we’re taking in doing this? Superintendent Chambers—”

  “Chambers can go back to his kennel and lick his balls as far as I’m concerned.”

  “An interesting image, but not one I care to dwell on. Look, I know there’s no love lost between the two of you, but he’s not without influence with the DCC, or even the chief constable.”

  “People like him never are.”

  “Alan, I’m trying to help you here!”

  “I know. I know,” said Banks. “And I’m grateful. Yes, I want in. Yes, I’ll keep my personal feelings under control. I’ll behave myself. I’ll stay away from the Taser business, and I’ll try not to throttle the toe rag that’s got my daughter when I find him. No, I won’t tamper with any evidence. And I’ll try to keep out of Chambers’s way. Good enough?”

  “It’ll have to be, won’t it? Shall we get down to business?”

  “Absolutely. Anything more on the gun?”

  “Yes. Naomi Worthing from Forensic Science Services rang me from Leeds a short while ago. She got the bullets that killed Marlon Kincaid from West Yorkshire Homicide and Major Enquiries. SIO was a Detective Superintendent Quisling. Retired now. Lives in Shipley. Better still, our killer also left the spent casings at the scene, so she’s got them, too. That should provide an exact match of gun and cartridges used in the crime when she gets back to the lab.”

  “Prints?”

  “Nothing new. No matches on IDENT1, and we checked them against Erin Doyle’s and her mother’s. No matches there, either.”

  “We need to check them against Jaff McCready’s, too,” said Banks.

  “It’s in motion. Leeds police are getting a warrant to enter his flat in his absence. They’ll get prints from some of his personal effects.”

  “Ask them if they can find a photograph of him, too. The media…?”

  “They’re still frothing at the mouth over the Taser incident and Annie’s shooting. Christ, Alan, it’s hard to believe, I know, but it only happened last night. Everything’s moving so fast. Anyway, that should distract them for a while, but not for long. They’re already watching us like hawks. We’re keeping a lid on this manhunt as best we can. Certainly on the fact that a senior police officer’s daughter is involved.”

  “I appreciate that. But Tracy’s not involved; she’s been abducted.”

  “Alan, there’s no concrete evidence of that yet, just the broken mobile.”

  “You can’t tell me that Tracy would willingly have anything to do with the shooting of Annie Cabbot, or any shooting, for that matter.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it. I’m with you on this. Stop being so bloody-minded. We have to play it carefully. As I said, we’re still keeping a lid on it. But they have a way…”

  “I know their ways. It means we need to move even faster than they do. We also need to talk to Ian Jenkinson and—”

  “Hang on, hang on, Alan. You’re going too quickly for me already.”

  “Didn’t Winsome explain?”

  “Explain what? She hasn’t had a chance to explain anything yet.”

  Banks told her about the Marlon Kincaid murder, Ian Jenkinson and the connection with Ciaran and Darren, who were now looking for Jaff and Tracy, and who were connected with The Farmer, George Fanthorpe.

  Gervaise whistled. “Curiouser and curiouser. Okay,” she said. “In the light of what you’ve just told me, you’re right. We do need to talk to Ian Jenkinson and to Detective Superintendent Quisling. I’ll send Doug Wilson and Geraldine Masterson.”

  “What was Erin doing with the gun?” Banks asked. “I take it you do believe it belonged to McCready from the start, and that she didn’t come across it through some other means?”

  “We don’t have any concrete evidence of that, and we haven’t charged her with anything yet. She’s on police bail. But that’s what we think. Annie thought so, and Winsome agrees. We’re still digging into McCready’s background. But we’re not sure why it was in Erin’s possession.�
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  “Well,” said Banks, “I’d guess that he either gave it to her for safekeeping, or she took it.”

  “Why would he need her to keep it safe for him?”

  “Maybe he was expecting trouble from the police?” Banks suggested. “We can ask Ken Blackstone in Leeds. Maybe he got nervous about having it around the flat in case he got caught doing something else he was planning, and they searched the place.”

  “And if she took it?”

  “Angry with him. Trying to make him mad, get his attention.”

  “There is some evidence that they were involved in a dispute at a Leeds club the day before Erin arrived home with the gun.” Gervaise cleared her throat, then said, “I’m sorry, but there’s also evidence your daughter was involved in that dispute, too.”

  “Tracy?” said Banks. “I hadn’t heard about that. How?”

  “Jealousy.”

  “Tracy and Erin were fighting over McCready?”

  “Sounds that way.”

  Banks put his head in his hands. Suddenly he felt more weary than he had ever imagined he could. “I thought she had more sense.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Gervaise. “Not your problem.”

  “Well, it is, actually.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “From what I’ve been able to piece together, I think Erin and McCready ended up back at his flat after the fracas at the club. Maybe they made up, but somehow or other they got to fighting again, maybe the next morning.”

  “And Tracy, at this point?”

  “Home in her own bed. We think McCready was in Amsterdam and London over the weekend. It’s likely he left on Friday morning, and if Erin was alone in his flat for a while, she could easily have taken the gun out of spite and decided to go home for a few days to chill out, as they say.”

  “That would explain why McCready didn’t go looking for her that weekend.”

  “Yes. He didn’t know she had it,” Gervaise agreed. “He wasn’t home. And it probably wasn’t something he checked on every day, anyway.”

  “Why did Tracy go to McCready’s flat in the first place?”