Bad Boy

by Peter Robinson

  Winsome went and brought him a pint glass filled to the brim. Some of it dribbled down Mallory’s front as he slurped it greedily, but he didn’t seem to mind.

  Banks gave him a while to get his circulation flowing again, and to compose himself.

  Mallory avoided Winsome’s eye. “Er, look here,” he said to Banks when he had finished the water. “I…er…I had a small accident…do you think I might possibly have a quick shower and change before we talk?” He spoke with an educated accent, public school, a little too posh and plummy for Banks’s liking.

  “We don’t have time for that,” Banks said. “But I—”

  “Look, why don’t we compromise? You can dry yourself down and have a quick change, but I’ll have to stay with you. Best I can offer. Okay?”

  “It’ll have to do, won’t it?”

  “I’ll make some tea while you’re gone,” Winsome volunteered.

  “Excellent,” said Banks. “You’re lucky,” he said to Mallory. “She doesn’t usually do tea.” He followed Mallory into the hall and up the stairs. “Nice house you’ve got here.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How much did you pay for it?”

  “Too much.”

  “No, come on. Quarter? Half? A mill?”

  “Four hundred K. A bargain at the time.”

  Banks whistled. He followed Mallory into a nondescript white bedroom with an en suite bathroom and walk-in cupboards and waited while he undressed and threw his clothes in a laundry basket, then rubbed himself down with a green fluffy towel, which joined his clothes, and pulled on a navy blue tracksuit. When Mallory was ready, Banks gestured for him to head back downstairs.

  Winsome was waiting on the sofa, a pot of tea, milk, sugar and three mugs on the table in front of her. “I’ll play mother, then, shall I?” she said, pouring.

  “Victor,” Banks said, settling down opposite Mallory, who sat in the winged armchair by the fireplace. “Tell us what happened?”

  “Two men came,” Victor said. “They…they trussed me up, the way you saw, with sticky tape, then they just left me. I could have starved or choked to death if you hadn’t come.”

  “We’ll cheerfully accept the praise for saving your life,” Banks said, “but I’d say you’re exaggerating just a wee bit. How long have you been like that?”

  “I don’t know. I lost track of time. They came just after lunch.”

  “Maybe five or six hours, then,” said Banks, with a glance at Winsome, who had started to take notes.

  “Something like that. I tried to struggle free, but all I succeeded in doing was making the tape tighter. Then I rocked the chair so hard trying to pull away, it fell over. I was helpless, like a tortoise flipped on its back.”

  “So we saw.”

  “Look, do you mind if I get myself a drop of brandy. This tea’s very nice and all, but I’ve really had quite a shock, you know.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Can I get…I mean, would either of you like anything?”

  “No, thank you,” said Banks, holding up his mug. “Tea will do fine for me.”

  Winsome nodded in agreement.

  “Okay.” Mallory went to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a generous measure of Rémy into a crystal glass. “That’s better,” he said after the first sip.

  “I suppose you already know that we’ll probably want the same information your previous visitors wanted.”

  “I’d guessed that already. But you’re not going to tie me up and threaten me with surgical instruments, are you?”

  “Is that what they did?”

  Mallory gave a theatrical shudder. On second thought, Banks realized, perhaps it wasn’t so theatrical. “One of them did. A real psychopath.”

  “Ciaran. One of his persuasion techniques.”

  Mallory almost choked on his Remy. “You know who they are?”

  “I can make a pretty good guess,” said Banks. “Winsome?”

  Winsome took Rose’s sketches from her briefcase and passed them to Mallory. “Good God,” he said. “Yes. That’s them.” He passed them back to Winsome.

  “Then you’re a lucky man,” said Banks. “You still have all your organs intact.” He put his mug down on the table, leaned forward and cracked his knuckles. “The thing is, Victor, we don’t have a lot of time to beat about the bush. They’ve already got five hours or more start on us, and there’s a lot at stake. A lot more than you can imagine.”

  “But who are they? Why me? Are you going to arrest them?”

  “That’s a lot of questions, and I’m the one supposed to be doing the asking. Did you know that your friend Jaff McCready works for a man called Fanthorpe, better known as The Farmer?”

  “Fanthorpe? No. Who’s he?”

  “All you need to know is that he’s also the employer of Ciaran and Darren, the men who just paid you a visit. And they may have sup-planted Jaff in Fanthorpe’s favor in recent days.”

  Mallory swallowed. Banks could see his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “They wanted to know where Jaff is. That’s all.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “No, I don’t. Honest, I don’t.”

  “But you must have some idea. The Ciaran and Darren I know wouldn’t believe that at face value. They’d have cut at least a little finger off, or sharpened it like a pencil, just to make sure, and they don’t really seem to have harmed a hair on your head. All the damage that was done, you did to yourself.”

  “They terrorized me! Tortured me. In my own home.”

  “My guess is,” Banks went on, “that you talked, and that you talked very quickly indeed. So we’d like you to do the same with us. You owe us that courtesy, at least. I mean, they only tied you up and threatened you with mutilation. We set you free, let you change your wet clothes, gave you a cup of tea and a glass of brandy. You owe us something, Victor. You must see that.”

  “You sound just like them.”

  “Don’t be silly. Where’s Jaff McCready?”

  Victor turned away. “I don’t know.”

  “That’s better. Now I know for certain you’re lying. I like to know where I stand.” Banks read out the number of the car that had been found hidden off the moorland road. “That mean anything to you?”

  “Yeah. It’s my car.”

  “Good. I’m glad you didn’t try to deny that. Now we’re getting somewhere. What was it doing on the moors above Gratly?”

  “I don’t even know where Gratly is.”

  “That wasn’t my question. How did it get there? And don’t try to tell me it was stolen.”

  “Okay, so I lent it to Jaff. I assume you already know that or you wouldn’t be here. So what? He’s a mate of mine. I didn’t know what sort of trouble he was in.”

  “But you must have known he was in some trouble?”

  “Well, sure. But like I said, he’s a mate. You help out a mate in trouble, don’t you?”

  Banks thought of Juliet Doyle, who had turned her daughter in to the police when she found a handgun in her possession. Who was going to help them out of their trouble? “Let’s not get too philosophical about it, Victor. We don’t have time. What else did you ‘lend’ Jaff?”

  “Nothing. I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Was he with anyone?”

  “There was a girl. She stayed outside in his car. I only saw her when they swapped cars and got into mine. He said her name was Francesca.”

  “She just stayed outside in the car of her own accord?” Mallory frowned. “Of course. Why not?”

  “She didn’t appear under duress or anything?”

  “No, not that I could tell.”

  Banks could feel Winsome’s gaze on him. He had to tread carefully, he knew, show no emotion. If he used Tracy’s true identity to browbeat Mallory, it could all backfire on him if it came to court. Gervaise had warned him he was on thin ice, and he was already beginning to feel it splintering under his feet. “Did Jaff tell you why he needed to borrow your car?�
�

  “Not specifically, no. He just said he was in a spot of bother and he had to get away. It was only later, when I watched the news…heard about Erin…”

  “You know Erin?”

  “Met her a couple of times. Crazy bitch. I told him she was trouble.”

  “And what did he say to that?”

  “Just gave me that knowing smile of his and said he could handle it.”

  “Why was she trouble?”

  Mallory scratched his temple. “She was dead jealous. Impulsive, fiery. And obsessive, too possessive. It’s a dangerous combination.”

  “Sounds like a young woman in love to me,” said Banks.

  “But Jaff doesn’t like to be tied down. He likes his freedom. Likes to come and go as he pleases, with whom he wants.”

  “So I gather. Did he tell you where he was going?”

  Mallory sipped some Rémy and looked away. “Not specifically, no.”

  “But he gave you a general idea?”

  “Well, he said he needed to lie low for a while, ring a few people and get some business deals organized. He had some bonds he wanted to sell. He said he was going to London, that there was a bloke he knew there in Highgate, name of Justin Peverell. I remember him vaguely from uni, but I wasn’t part of their scene. He was a foreign student, I think. Somewhere in Eastern Europe. Anyway, this Justin can fix things like fake passports and that. I knew Jaff was in with some pretty shady people, but I wasn’t involved in any of that. I didn’t want to know about it.”

  “What business deal was he talking about?” Banks asked. “What are these bonds he mentioned? Do you know anything more about this Justin Peverell other than that he lives in Highgate and deals in dodgy passports?”

  “No. Honest. That’s all I know. I lent Jaff my car, and he said he was going to London to see Justin. He’d get it back to me somehow, he said, and in the meantime I could use his.”

  “Where’s Jaff’s car?”

  “In my garage. He asked me to keep it out of sight for a while.”

  “Did you tell Ciaran and Darren about Justin?”

  “Yes. I had to. They were going to cut me to pieces, man. But I didn’t tell them his last name. I just remembered it.”

  So Fanthorpe had almost the same information and about five hours’ start, thought Banks. That didn’t bode well. Fanthorpe would also have the resources to find this Justin—the criminal network. In fact, it would probably be a damn sight easier for him than it would be for Banks if Justin hadn’t registered on the Met’s radar yet. And no doubt Ciaran and Darren were down in Highgate already awaiting instructions. Still, this sounded like the same Justin of whom Erin had spoken, and they not only had his last name, Peverell, but also the name of his girlfriend, Martina. It might just give them the edge they needed. They could check the electoral rolls, the phone book, even. Of course, if Peverell was from Eastern Europe he probably wasn’t using his real name, and if he wasn’t a British citizen or resident, that might make him difficult to track down.

  But where the hell were Jaff and Tracy? Banks wondered. They could be in London themselves, by now. They’d certainly had enough time to get there. Victor’s car had been found on the moors only two or three miles from Banks’s cottage where Annie had been shot, and from there on they must have been on foot for a while. They could still be up there, wandering in circles. People had been lost for days on the moors, had died there. It didn’t even take a bad storm or a major snowfall. On the other hand, Tracy knew something of the lie of the land from their walks up there, and if they had got hold of another vehicle they could be anywhere. It was one thing to know where they were going, but it would be much better to know where they were. Especially as Tracy’s value to McCready declined with every mile they got closer to Justin Peverell. Jaff certainly wasn’t going to fork over for two passports. Did he even know who she was? Who her father was? And if he did, how would that affect his strategy?

  “I want to know about the gun, Victor,” Banks said.

  Mallory seemed nervous. “What gun? All I did was lend my car to a mate in trouble. I don’t know anything about any gun.”

  “I don’t know if your last visitors asked you about it or not. They probably weren’t interested once you’d told them about Justin. But I am. Very interested. We don’t know if Jaff had a gun with him when he left his flat, but we think it’s very unlikely, partly because Erin Doyle had already run off with it and her mother had found it and handed it over to us. Which is the main reason why Jaff was running away in the first place. He was certain she’d name him and he didn’t want the police poring over his dodgy business deals. So if he didn’t have two guns at home to start with—and why would he?—then he must have got the second one from you. Stands to reason. As far as we know, this is the only place he stopped before he…” Banks was about to say “went to my house,” but he pulled himself up in time. “Before he went on the run. That gun was used to shoot a policewoman, Victor. The gun we think you gave him. A Baikal, in all likelihood.” And, he might have added, it is probably now being used to threaten my daughter into doing what he wants. “That makes you an accessory.”

  Mallory turned pale. “Jaff did that? No. I can’t believe it. You can’t lay that on me. I never gave him any gun. I’ve never had a gun.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Banks, “but I don’t have the time right now to thrash it out of you. If I find out that you’re in any way connected with that gun, or that you’ve lied or withheld any information from us, I’ll be back, and I’ll prove it. In the meantime, don’t even think of going on your holidays.”

  Banks gestured to Winsome, who put away her notebook and stood up. When they left, Mallory was sitting in ashen silence with his glass of Rémy in his slightly trembling hand. Outside, the watchers were still sitting in their Skoda, plumes of smoke drifting out through the open window. Banks walked over to them and leaned on the roof.

  “We’ve finished for now,” he said, gesturing with his thumb back toward Vic’s house. “But if I were you, I’d get your guv to send in a search team and take his house apart brick by brick. You’re looking for handguns and possibly an illegal lab of some kind. If you don’t find anything there, then try to find out if he’s got another place, a business property, perhaps, or a secret lockup somewhere, maybe under another name. You never know, it might earn you a few Brownie points, and by the looks of you both, you could do with them. Bye.”

  When Banks got back to the car Winsome was listening to her mobile, frowning. She said good-bye and folded it shut. “I’ve asked Geraldine to check the electoral rolls and telephone directories for a Justin Peverell,” she said. “And there’s good news.”

  “Do tell.”

  “We’ve got a report from the local police station at Baldersghyll. A white builder’s van has been stolen from the car park near Rawley Force, about three miles away. It’s a national park spot, and apparently people park there and do the circular walk. It takes about three and a half hours.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Couple came back a bit early, after only about two hours—seems they hadn’t a lot of time so they did the short version—and they found their van gone. Madame Gervaise has acted quickly, and all units have the number and description. It makes sense. Too much of a coincidence that someone else would have just come along and nicked it. It was in the vicinity and general direction Jaff and Tracy would have been heading.”

  “Good,” said Banks.

  “There’s more. Seems the van’s a bit of an old clunker. According to its owner, it doesn’t go more than about forty.”

  Banks smiled. “Not having a lot of luck with his motors, our Jaff, is he?”

  IF THE speedometer of the stolen van crept up toward fifty, the chassis and engine block started shaking so much that Tracy feared it would fall apart, or that the wheels would drop off. This only increased Jaff’s frustration, along with the Wetherby roadworks on the A1, and now an accident blocking the southboun
d lanes to the M1. It was starting to get dark by the time they finally crawled onto the M1 east of Leeds, and already it was close to two and a quarter hours since they had stolen the van. Time was definitely not on Jaff’s side.

  Tracy noticed that he was getting edgier by the minute. It was partly the frustration and partly the coke he kept stuffing up his nose. The motorway was plagued by more CCTV cameras and police patrol cars than anywhere else, he complained, and an old white builder’s van hobbling along in the slow lane couldn’t help but attract unwanted attention. These days, too, he told her, many of the motorway cameras used the ANPR system—Automatic Number Plate Recognition—which meant that they automatically informed the police if a car was stolen. Pretty soon, he was certain, they wouldn’t stand a chance on the M1. And it would be at least a five- or six-hour drive at the speed they were going now. More likely, the van would clap out before Sheffield, and they’d be stuck on the open road.

  “Fuck it,” Jaff finally said, thumping the steering wheel. “We’re not going to make it. At this rate we won’t even be south of Wakefield by the time the van’s reported stolen. We’ve got to get rid of this piece of shit before they find us. They’re bound to know we took it pretty soon, if they don’t know already. Maybe those people were fast walkers, or they didn’t do the whole route for some reason. The cops could be on to us at any moment.”

  “But where can we go?” Tracy said. “They’ll have the railway and bus stations covered.”

  “I need time to think and make some calls,” said Jaff. “But first we’ve got to dump this van.” He drove on in silence for a few more minutes, then indicated a turn at the next junction.

  “What are you doing?” Tracy asked.

  “I’ve got an idea. We’ll go to Leeds.”

  “Leeds? Are you insane?”

  Jaff shot her a hard glance. “Think about it. Leeds is one of the last places they’ll be looking for us. They’d never expect us to go back there in a million years.”

  But Tracy knew they would. The police didn’t always think in quite so linear a fashion as Jaff seemed to imagine when he thought he was being clever. Especially her father. “Fine,” she said, a glimmer of hope now flickering inside her. Leeds. She knew Leeds. It was home turf. “Your place or mine?”