Bad Boy

by Peter Robinson

  “Makes sense,” said Gervaise.

  “Anyway,” Banks went on, “we’ve got a lot of scraps of information, and they seem to be making some sort of a pattern, but most of all, if we’re to bring an end to all this, we need to know Justin Peverell’s bloody address in Highgate. It’s a waiting game. And nobody enjoys that when the stakes are so high. We need to step up our road surveillance. If their van’s held out, there’s a good chance they’re still chugging along in the slow lane somewhere on the M1.”

  “And if not?” said Gervaise.

  “Then they’ve holed up somewhere en route, and McCready’s thinking furiously about how to get hold of another vehicle.”

  “We’ve already got all the motorway patrol cars keeping their eyes open for a slow white van heading for London,” said Gervaise. “And if they have stopped for the night somewhere on the way, it gives us even more time to trace this Justin. He’s the key. Once we know where he lives we can stake out his house.”

  “True,” said Banks. “But McCready won’t want to linger. One way or another, he’ll be back on the road as soon as he can be. McCready needs Justin, or needs what he can get from him. Then he’ll disappear like smoke. Or so he thinks.”

  “And Tracy?” asked Gervaise.

  “I don’t like to think about that,” said Banks. “I can’t see as it would be in his interests to hurt her. Or Darren and Ciaran’s, no matter what Fanthorpe said. On the other hand, when McCready has got what he wants, I can also see that Tracy would become an unnecessary burden. That’s why we have to get to them first.”

  “We’ve got Armed Response units across the country on call,” said Gervaise.

  Banks managed a grim smile. “Now, why doesn’t that make me feel a whole lot better?”

  “Should we bring in The Farmer right away?” suggested Gervaise. “Now we know those prints of his you got on the photos earlier are a match against those on the magazine of the Smith and Wesson, we might be able to put a bit of pressure on him.”

  “I don’t think it’ll do any good,” said Banks. “He won’t tell us anything, and the lawyers will spring him in minutes. All it means is that he handled the magazine at some point. There’s no proof he shot the gun that killed Marlon Kincaid. In fact, he most likely didn’t. I’m certain he was never at the bonfire. He’ll have a perfect alibi.”

  “But you said yourself that The Farmer’s name came up in that investigation,” said Winsome.

  “From Ian Jenkinson, who didn’t really know what or who it referred to. We’ve still nothing to arrest him for—”

  “Perverting the course of justice? Wasting police time?” suggested Gervaise.

  “We’d be better off waiting till we get something a bit more serious than that. Best just keep a close eye on him. We do hav—”

  “Don’t worry, Alan. Ripon are keeping a close watch on him. He’s not going anywhere.”

  “He doesn’t need to. He can do all he needs from the comfort of his cozy little den. Anything on Darren and Ciaran?”

  “We can hardly check all the London hotels,” Gervaise said. “Besides, they could be staying at a private house. All we know is what you told us, that they’re in London somewhere waiting for orders.”

  “Have you checked Fanthorpe’s holdings?”

  “Yes. No London property. At least not under his own name, or any of his companies that we can find.”

  “Damn. So it’s back to the waiting game.”

  “At least we know there’s a connection between Fanthorpe, the gun, McCready and an unsolved murder,” said Gervaise. “A few more missing pieces and we ought to be able to put something together.”

  “And the Met are on Justin Peverell’s trail,” said Winsome. “The Intelligence Bureau. They’ve got men out talking to their informers, people they’ve planted in the trafficking business. They’re taking some risks. They’re doing what they can.”

  “I know,” said Banks. “And I appreciate it. I’m not criticising. Just frustrated, that’s all.”

  “Why don’t you go home?” said Gervaise. “Or back to your digs. Put your feet up for a while, have a bit of a nap if you can. You’re doing no good here. We’ve got the manpower we need for what we have to do. You never know, your eyes might close for a few minutes of their own accord. We’ll keep everything ticking over here and call you the minute anything breaks.”

  “The minute?”

  “The minute.”

  “I might just do that. And Annie?”

  “Holding her own, last I heard,” said Gervaise. “Her father’s with her. Again, I’ll let you know as soon as I do.” She must have noticed Banks hesitate. “Don’t worry,” she went on, “I’ll hold the fort here. I’ll be passing out TIES and actions momentarily. Winsome, I want you to keep pushing on the London angle. Something’s got to give. Somebody down there has to know this Justin Peverell.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Winsome. “I have a few irons in the fire already.”

  “Good. And let’s not forget, Ciaran and Darren are after Justin, too, and I don’t fancy his chances if they find him first.”

  “Me, neither,” said Banks. “Or McCready’s and Tracy’s. Ciaran’s been indulging in a lot of foreplay over the last couple of days, and he’ll be just about ready to go all the way with someone.” He glanced sheepishly at Winsome. “If you’ll pardon the metaphor.”

  Winsome said nothing.

  A quick tap at the door was followed by the appearance of a PC with a yellow message note in his hamlike hand. “Sorry to interrupt, ma’am,” he said, addressing Superintendent Gervaise, “but it’s important, and I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible.”

  “What is it, lad? Give,” said Gervaise.

  “It’s about DI Cabbot. Message from Cook hospital. She’s regained consciousness.”

  Gervaise turned to Banks with a smile. “Alan? I imagine this will change your plans a wee bit.”

  “Of course,” said Banks. “Sleep can wait. You’ll drive, Winsome?”

  “My pleasure.”

  THE FARMER felt ill at ease after his visit from Banks and Winsome. Not that he was unduly worried by them. They had nothing on him, and they never would have. He never touched anything he sold, kept no paperwork, and anyone who did know his name was usually wise enough not to repeat it. Well, something had slipped out once, but that was a few years ago, and the surviving kid, Ian Jenkinson, hadn’t known who or what he was talking about. The Farmer had heard that the young lad was training for the ministry these days. Good for him. He liked to keep tabs on people who’d crossed his path over the years, and he never knew when it might be useful to have a vicar in his pocket.

  Besides, the kid had been a drug user. The Farmer didn’t employ druggies anymore. In this business, he had come to realize, it pays to keep a clear head on your shoulders, which means not indulging in your own merchandise, for a start. Like a pub landlord. Once you start sampling the produce, you’re finished, and your pub could burn down around you while you sleep it off on a bench in the public bar after the punters have all gone home. No. Abstinence was a good policy. The only policy. The way it had to be. Which certainly didn’t mean that he couldn’t enjoy a nice malt now and then, he thought, topping up his glass.

  This was also why Jaff had always been a bit of a worry. The Farmer knew that Jaff was a user, coke mostly, but the kid was so bright, so quick, so lethal and so ruthless that it somehow didn’t seem to matter. There were people who had a great capacity for mind-altering substances, who functioned all the better, or at least as well as ever, under the influence, and Jaff was one of those. Or so he had appeared.

  The Farmer had told him right from the outset that if he ever saw him obviously off his face on anything at all, he’d get his marching orders on the spot. And he hadn’t. Not so far as Fanthorpe knew. Whether Jaff had actually been stoned at any of their rare one-on-one meetings or not, Fanthorpe had no idea. All he knew was that Jaff’s thought-processes were always sharp
and logical, and his contributions helped fill the coffers. The kid was cocky, and he liked to see himself as more of an equal partner than an employee, which, in a way, The Farmer supposed he was. He was certainly willing to let Jaff go on thinking so, up to a point.

  But now things had gone way too far, and that point had been passed. If he didn’t act quickly and decisively, and do what had to be done to eradicate the source of his problem, he might as well hand over the reins. Sources, really, because the Banks girl was now part of the problem, when he had tried to make her part of the solution. Now she would have to suffer the same fate as Jaff, then all would be on an even keel again. Ciaran and Darren would disappear overseas for a reasonable period, operations would be slowed down to the absolute minimum necessary to keep things ticking over, like an animal’s system in hibernation, and as soon as it all died down, he would be back to normal again.

  The Farmer lounged back in the soft embrace of his chair, sipped the Ardbeg and surveyed the gleaming wainscoting, the racing scenes, the crystal decanters and ornate cabinets. Classical music was still playing, though he had no idea what the piece was now. It was soothing and quiet—strings, woodwinds; no blaring brass, and that was what counted. He lit a Cuban cigar.

  He would never understand cops. Not if he lived a million years. In the old days, when everyone knew where they stood, they beat confessions out of innocent men, even hanged some of them, took kickbacks, bribes, resold confiscated drugs and generally indulged in the madness and mayhem of power gone haywire. But you knew where you were with them.

  PACE had tidied things up a bit, but no one could convince George Fanthorpe that these things didn’t still happen, that suspects didn’t get beaten to a pulp, or that coppers weren’t on the take. And then you had someone like Banks, a known maverick, a bad boy, who wouldn’t even lift his little finger to save his own daughter’s life. Some world. Bizarre.

  And Jaff…how he had turned. Fanthorpe remembered their first meeting over six years ago in a posh restaurant in The Calls. One of his dinner companions had pointed Jaff out at the next table with two very attractive girls. “So you’re Jack McCready’s lad,” Fanthorpe had said, offering his hand. “Bless my soul. I’ve never met him, but I’ve lost a bob or two to your old man in my days.” Jaff had smiled at him, but the smile hadn’t reached his dark, haunted eyes.

  They had talked a little about racehorses, on which subject Jaff seemed knowledgeable enough, and soon it had been obvious to both of them that they were the same beneath the skin, though nothing was said there and then.

  The Farmer had given Jaff his card; Jaff had given Fanthorpe one of the girls and a room key for the discreet boutique hotel across the road. What a night. They hadn’t looked back. After that, contact had to be kept to a minimum for business reasons, but he always remembered that night and imagined Jaff thrashing the sheets with gorgeous women like that every night while he stayed at home and worried about the bills and his daughters’ education, Zenovia’s increasingly extravagant shopping trips. He knew he felt more than a little envious toward Jaff, that he lived life vicariously through him. Perhaps, he had even once gone so far as to think Jaff represented the son he had never had. Even in business Jaff was perhaps the partner The Farmer could never quite acknowledge that he had.

  And he remembered a few months after their first meeting, in this very same den where he was sitting now, handing the Smith & Wesson automatic to Jaff, putting in the magazine for him, identifying the target and telling him to make sure he dumped the gun in the river afterward. Well, it appeared as if he hadn’t got around to that last part. But what did it really matter? The Farmer thought. So he’d been a bit sloppy once. So the cops might get his prints from the magazine. So what? Jaff wouldn’t be talking; that was for certain.

  The Farmer was lost in this line of thought when his private mobile rang, the one with the bell that sounded like an old telephone. He picked it up and barked his name. From the other end of the line came a name and an address, followed by a click. It was all he needed, all he’d been waiting for. He keyed in the number of Darren’s throwaway.

  “SIR?” SAID Winsome on the way to hospital.

  “You don’t need to call me that.”

  “I know. I just feel more comfortable sometimes.”

  “Oh? Does that mean you have a tricky question? A complaint?”

  “Neither, I hope, sir. I just…well, I just wondered why you didn’t take George Fanthorpe’s offer.”

  “I’m surprised to hear you, of all people, asking me that.”

  “What if I hadn’t been there?”

  “You think I’d have gone along with him then?”

  “No, sir, not that. But would you have done the same? After all, you could always have agreed, pretended to go along, and then when Tracy was safe, you could have made your move.”

  “When you sup with the devil you need a long spoon, Winsome, and I didn’t have time to go out and get one.”

  “Sir?”

  Banks sighed and glanced out of the window. Beyond the buildings he could see lightning from a distant storm. Tracy had been scared of storms when she was a little girl, he remembered. He hoped she wasn’t scared of them anymore; she had enough to worry about. “Right now,” he said, “we’re at a delicate stage of the game where Fanthorpe, Jaff, Ciaran and Darren hold most of the cards. We’re also at that stage where things are tending toward chaos. The still point. It’s a bad place to be and an even worse place to make the sort of gamble that puts one’s daughter’s life at stake.”

  “I still don’t understand, sir.”

  “I’m tired, Winsome. There were many reasons—ethical, personal, practical—why I didn’t take The Farmer up on his generous offer. But when you get right down to it, it just wasn’t that good an offer.”

  “But why not?”

  “Because Fanthorpe couldn’t guarantee Tracy’s safety. Situations like the one Ciaran and Darren are entering into right now are volatile by nature, full of uncertainty and chaotic in the extreme. No one can predict what the outcome might be. Anything could happen. A butterfly might spread its wings in Mexico and change the world. My gambling on Fanthorpe would have been exactly that. A gamble. And the way things are now, I at least maintain a modicum of control, and more than enough self-respect. And that’ll have to do for now. You can get quite a long way on them, actually. We’re here, aren’t we?”

  TRACY BANKS lay awake in the dark. The ropes that secured her hands and her ankles to the bedposts made her feel as if she were on the rack every time she moved. Whenever the thunder rumbled outside, she felt a deep and primitive sense of unease ripple through her. Despite the stimulation of the coke, Jaff had fallen asleep quickly and easily. She could hear his gentle snoring beside her, see the outline of his sleek naked body glistening in the darkness. Four twenty-three. The devil’s hour. Her spirits were low and she felt used, abused, humiliated, worthless. And powerless.

  Jaff had had his way with her, of course, after he had tied her up, and then he turned the TV on when he lost interest, muttering something about ringing Madison, blaming Tracy for just lying there like a sack of potatoes. It could have been worse. He could have beaten her. But he hadn’t; he had just shagged her routinely and fallen asleep watching TV. Worse things had happened after a night in the clubs and a drunken trip home with a stranger, awkward fumblings in the back of a minicab. But this time she hadn’t been drunk or stoned, and Jaff wasn’t a stranger, though in a way he was more unknowable than any of the predictable boys she had slept with before. And this time it had been different. This time it had been rape. He had tied her down and had sex with her against her will. That she hadn’t screamed out or struggled changed nothing. She was his prisoner, and he had a gun.

  She couldn’t reach the telephone even if she tried; it was on Jaff’s side of the bed. Even in his intoxication and his lust he wasn’t stupid; he never lost sight of the practical realities. She wished she could at least get hold of the remote to
turn off the bloody TV, which he had switched on just before falling asleep. It was an American football game, and it was driving her crazy. But the remote was on Jaff’s side, too, of course.

  Suddenly she sensed that he was awake beside her. “Did you hear that?” he said.

  “All I can hear is the bloody TV,” said Tracy.

  Jaff ignored her tone, grabbed the remote and switched it off. “Listen,” he commanded.

  Tracy listened. “I can’t hear anything.”

  “Ssshhh. I thought I heard someone outside, in the corridor.”

  “You’re paranoid. It’s just the thunderstorm. Or someone going back to their room after a night out.”

  Jaff slipped out of bed. He was wearing only his white underpants. “Paranoia is a form of awareness.”

  “And whose words of wisdom are those?”

  Jaff gave her a knife blade of a smile. “Charles Manson.” He pulled the gun from his bag and went over to the door, placing his ear against the wood. Then he looked through the peephole. A few moments later he undid the chain and opened the door, checked both ways up and down the hotel corridor, and came back in.

  “I could have sworn I heard someone out there.”

  Tracy couldn’t very well tell him not to worry and come back to bed. In her position, there wasn’t much point in saying anything. She just kept quiet, hoping he would leave her alone and fall asleep again.

  He did lie down beside her, but he didn’t fall asleep. She could feel the tension emanating from his body, coiled on the bed beside her. But he didn’t touch her, and she was relieved at least for that.

  Time dragged slowly on, the storm abated and the dawn light started to show through the curtains. Tracy wondered how long they would stay there, how long before they headed out to the garage, where they would pick up a nice clean car and drive to London and…When did the place open? Seven o’clock? Eight? Nine? It didn’t matter how many CCTV cameras recorded their journey if the car wasn’t on the police’s stolen list. Jaff was certain to obey all the rules of the road and to avoid speeding, no matter how much of a hurry he was in. Because for him the journey meant freedom, and for her it might mean death.