Bad Boy

by Peter Robinson

  ANNIE STILL seemed a small and pathetic figure as she lay there against the white sheets hooked up to the machines and tubes, but her return to consciousness seemed to have given her more presence, Banks felt. The tube was gone from her mouth, and she even managed a taut grin when she saw him walk into her room. He took her free hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “How are you doing?”

  “I feel like I’ve been hit by a ten-ton lorry.”

  “Two bullets from a Baikal nine millimeter, actually.”

  “Trust you to take all the romance out of it.” Banks smiled and felt Annie squeeze his hand. She wheezed. “It’s still hard to breathe sometimes. Could you pass me the water, please?”

  Banks passed her the cup of water with the bendy straw. “I don’t suppose the morphine does any harm, either?” he said.

  “Certainly not. Want some?”

  “What would the doctor say? Besides, if I had anything other than tea or coffee right now, I’d probably fall down right in the bed beside you. I…er…. I…”

  The machines beeped into the silence that stretched between them.

  Annie squeezed his hand again. “That probably wouldn’t be such a terrible thing,” she said, “if it weren’t for all these tubes and needles. We’d make an awful mess. But I don’t suppose that’s why you’re here.”

  “Believe it or not,” Banks said, “I’m here because we just got the news you’d returned to the land of the living, and I wanted to come and see you with my own eyes. I’m here because I care, Annie, that’s all. We all do.”

  “Stop it, you’ll make me cry.” She took her hand away for a moment to wipe her eyes.

  “Where’s Ray?” Banks asked.

  “He’s gone to get some sleep. Finally. It took a lot of persuading.”

  “I’ll bet. By the way, your girlfriend says hello.”

  “Girlf—Ah. So you’ve met Nerys?”

  “Yes. She’s very smitten with you, you know.”

  “She told me I wasn’t her type.”

  “I guess she just didn’t want to risk driving you away.”

  “And you know all about these things? You’re the expert all of a sudden? Anyway, Nerys is all right. Tell her thanks. Don’t you want to interrogate me about what happened?”

  “Oh, I’d love to. Foremost thing on my mind. Seriously, though, if you feel up to answering a couple of questions…you know, seeing as I’m here…”

  “Bastard.” Annie dug her nails into his palm. “A real Mr. Sensitive, aren’t you? I don’t remember anything, really, you know. Except…”

  “Except what?”

  “Except Tracy.”

  “What about her?”

  “Just that she was there, at Newhope Cottage. She opened the door. We were talking.”

  “How did she seem? Do you remember?”

  “Scared. She seemed scared. And nervous. Always looking over her shoulder, biting her fingernails.”

  “As if she wasn’t in control?”

  “As if she was playing a part and someone was watching her and she knew she had to get it right. But she was off-balance, a little stoned, I think, or drunk.”

  “Did you see anyone else?”

  “Jaff McCready, you mean? No, I didn’t see him. Just a shadow. That’s all. It happened so fast. After that, nothing.”

  “Tracy may have saved your life,” Banks said. “She phoned it in. The 999 call. It cost her her mobile, her lifeline, and maybe even a beating, but she did it.”

  Annie smiled. “Tell her thank you from me.”

  “I will.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Banks shook his head and stroked the palm of Annie’s hand, looking down at the dry skin. “I don’t know where she is, only that she’s in danger.”

  “Jaff’s still got her with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, Alan. I’m sorry.”

  “We’ll find them.” Banks patted her hand. “Look, the doctor told me not to tire you out.”

  “From where I’m lying, you’re the one who looks the most tired.”

  “Jet lag,” said Banks. “It’s been a long day.”

  “I suppose it’s no good telling you to go home and get some sleep?”

  “I can’t go…” Banks let it trail.

  “What? Oh, of course,” said Annie, and he saw the realization dawn on her face. “The shooting. I’m sorry, Alan, sorry I got shot in your lovely conservatory and turned your cottage into a crime scene.”

  Banks was about to protest, say it was all right or some such silly retort, when he saw the mischievous smile curling at the edges of Annie’s lips.

  “You’re winding me up.”

  “Gotcha,” she said. Then she looked beyond Banks and her expression brightened even more. “Winsome! Wonderful to see you.”

  “You, too,” said Winsome, hurrying over and giving Annie a gentle hug as best she could through the jumble of tubes. She passed the mobile to Banks. “You might want to hear this,” she said. Banks nodded, said he’d be back, and hurried out of the room.

  The line was open, and Superintendent Gervaise was on the other end. “Alan? How is she?”

  “Stunning,” said Banks. “Magnificent. What’s the news?”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. Nothing on Jaff and Tracy’s whereabouts yet, but we think we’ve found Justin Peverell. Or, rather, Winsome found him shortly before she drove you to Middlesbrough, only she didn’t know it. We just got the call back. It was touch and go to get her contact to talk to me. I must say, he was rather rude.”

  “Excellent news,” said Banks. “I didn’t mean about the rudeness. Sorry.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Anyway, the Met are none too happy about shutting Peverell down, according to a bloke called Burgess, apparently, Commander Burgess. Gave me a right earful. I believe he’s a friend of yours?”

  “I know him,” said Banks. “What did he say?”

  “Simply that his department, which he wouldn’t name, by the way, had been watching Justin Peverell for some time, and he’d led them to identify a number of couriers and traders they hadn’t known about before, in addition to a couple of routes and methods for smuggling in asylum seekers and sex-trade women that nobody had thought of. He didn’t know they were watching him, and if we shut him down, all the good information goes with him, and the ones they’ve already identified scatter.”

  “Can’t he round them up before we take in Peverell? Put a rush on it?”

  “Yes,” said Gervaise. “Some of them. That was what I suggested, and that’s exactly what he’s doing. But he’s not happy about it, and he wanted me to know it. You know the way it goes. There’s always the hope of more. Peverell hasn’t outlived his usefulness as far as Burgess is concerned.”

  “There’ll be plenty more where he came from,” said Banks. “What next?”

  “Burgess says he’ll put a watching brief on Peverell’s house in Highgate. They’ve been faxed Rose’s sketches of Ciaran and Darren, along with photos of McCready and Tracy. They’ll take note if anyone comes to the house, and there’s another team to follow anyone who leaves.”

  “Good,” said Banks. “Let’s hope we can catch up with McCready and Tracy before they get there, but it’s good to know there’s a second line of defense in place if we don’t. The only thing that worries me is they can be a bit quick on the draw down there, if you know what I mean.”

  “Commander Burgess has been fully apprised of the situation,” said Gervaise. “He…er…he knows McCready has your daughter, and he asked me to pass on his sympathy. He said he wouldn’t be telling me any of this if it wasn’t for you. He also gave his word that he’ll see to it she comes out unharmed. Can you trust him?”

  “I can trust him,” said Banks. “I don’t necessarily trust the company he keeps, but I trust him, all right.”

  “Best we can do for the moment, then,” said Gervaise. “Get Winsome to drive you back to your flat. Have a little nap. I’ll be in touch as soon as there
’s any news.”

  Winsome wandered over and joined Banks just as he ended the call. “The nurse came in,” she said. “Kicked me out. Told me we should leave and let Annie rest. She said to say good night to you.”

  “Winsome, you devil,” said Banks. “Did you get in touch with Dirty Dick Burgess behind my back? Was that one of those irons you had in the fire?”

  Winsome grinned. “Well, I had a bit of contact with him over your return. You remember, when we pulled you aside at Heathrow? He said to stay in touch, keep him apprised of what was happening. From what you’d told me about him, and from my own conversations with him, I thought he might be just the kind of bloke who would know something about the world we were investigating, so I phoned him.”

  “He must have fancied you,” said Banks.

  “Sir!”

  “It’s all right. There’s no need to get your knickers in a twist. Burgess fancies anything in a skirt.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure.”

  “Any chance of a lift back to Gratly?” Banks said.

  “Only if you apologize and promise there’ll be no more such profane talk.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Winsome, but I think I can just about manage that.”

  A slight figure walked up the corridor toward them. “Mr. Sandhar,” Banks said, holding out his hand. “I’d like to thank you.”

  Sandhar shook hands a little shyly. “You’re welcome,” he said. “Though I can hardly claim credit.” He cleared his throat. “I wonder if we could have another quick word. Same place as before?”

  Exchanging curious glances, Banks and Winsome followed Sandhar to the examining room.

  “There’s something else?” Banks asked, settling himself on the crinkly tissue of the examination table. “A problem?”

  “I’m afraid so, though I am extremely satisfied with Ms. Cabbot’s progress. The broken clavicle is a problem, of course, and it may severely limit her future range of arm movement. Usually these fractures heal quite well after four to six weeks in a sling, but in this case there was some fragmentation of the bone structure as well as of the bullet. We’ve removed the fragments, but recovery could take up to three months, and Ms. Cabbot could experience considerable pain and discomfort. But it will heal. At the very least, though, it will require a great deal of physiotherapy before Ms. Cabbot can play tennis or golf again, or bowl for the England Ladies’ eleven if, indeed, she ever can.”

  That wouldn’t be a problem, Banks thought. Annie didn’t much like playing sports. She did love yoga, though, and the loss of flexibility would be a great blow to her. “What about the bullet fragments?” he asked. “Did they stray far from the entry?”

  “They caused an additional amount of muscle and tendon damage we could have done without,” Sandhar said, “which compounds the problem of the fractured clavicle, of course. That’s what makes recovery an even slower and more painful process. But that isn’t the worst of it.”

  Banks swallowed. “What is?”

  “The other bullet. The one that didn’t fragment. It pierced the right lung, as I said, and it lodged in the spinal column, close to T5, one of the central vertebrae, in the anterior thoracic area. Do you—”

  “I understand what you’re saying,” said Banks. “Please go on.”

  “There was no vertebral damage, and fortunately the bullets weren’t hollow-points. But it is my opinion that Ms. Cabbot will require further surgery, and with such delicate surgery, there’s always a danger…”

  “Of damage to the spinal cord?” Banks interrupted. “Of paralysis?”

  “Yes,” said Sandhar. “But I want you to know that we have in this hospital perhaps the best trauma specialists, thoracic surgeons and spinal injury teams in the country, if not in all of Europe.”

  “I know your reputation,” said Banks with a wan smile. “But there’s still a risk she’ll end up in a wheelchair?”

  “To put it bluntly, yes. There’s always a risk, even without the surgery. In fact, some surgeons recommend against the operation. They argue that removing the bullet could destabilize the spinal cord.”

  “But you don’t think so?”

  Sandhar shrugged. “As I said, there’s always a risk. A second opinion would be entirely acceptable, given the circumstances. Her father already knows about this and he’s thinking it over. There are also many other factors, such as infections and blood poisoning to consider, too.”

  “I think the last thing we’d want is a doctor fight,” said Banks. “When do you plan on performing this operation?”

  “It’s hard to say,” said Sandhar. “We certainly can’t go in until the damaged lung has healed and Ms. Cabbot has fully recovered from the trauma she suffered. And we would like to see her recover from her other injuries. She’s young, strong, healthy in every other respect, as she has already proven, so I don’t foresee any serious problems there, but she needs to be stronger.”

  “What kind of time period are we talking about?”

  “If we operate, the sooner we do it the better. Scar tissue starts to form in, say, two weeks, and that makes the surgery more difficult. Of course, it may not be possible to do it that soon, depending on her general progress.”

  “Will she have to remain in hospital during this period?”

  “Oh, yes. She will also need to avoid unnecessary movement.”

  “And for now?”

  “We’ll keep her under close observation. We’ll also be keeping track of the lodged bullet, on the lookout for any movement, any slippage.”

  “And if it does slip?”

  Sandhar smiled. “Not to worry too much, Mr. Banks. We still have, as you say, a little wiggle room. Just not quite enough to risk operating until some of Ms. Cabbot’s other issues are resolved.” He stood up. “I hope I’ve been helpful. Now you really must excuse me. I have patients to see.”

  “Thank you again,” said Banks.

  IT WAS strange to be back in the old Steadman house, Banks felt, as he climbed the stairs to his upper flat. It must have been close to five years since he had lived there after the fire, when Newhope Cottage was under repair. He opened the door, walked into the hall and turned the lights on. The place smelled fresh, with a hint of some sort of lavender-scented air spray, and apart from the meager furniture it was empty, with nothing to show that anyone had ever lived there—no family photos, only generic landscape prints in Yorkshire Trading frames; no mess, no phone message light blinking. Nothing.

  Not surprisingly, being there made Banks immediately think about his brother Roy, and that night he had wobbled back, a little drunk, from the Dog and Gun, puzzled as to why Penny Cartwright had turned down his dinner invitation, and found Roy’s distress message waiting for him. That had set off a chain of events that took him down to London and deep into the shady world his brother inhabited. Burgess had been involved in that case, too, as he had in so many.

  Banks dropped his suitcase in the bedroom, noticing the bed was freshly made up, covered in a green candlewick bedspread, and glanced out of the curtains. Nothing had changed. The room looked out over a tiny disused Sandemanian graveyard, no bigger than a garden, and some of the tombstones leaned against the wall beneath his window. He had often enjoyed a feeling of tranquillity sitting on the window seat looking down over the graves on moonlit nights, listening to the gentle wind sough through the long grass, but tonight he didn’t feel like sitting there. That night five years ago, he hadn’t known just how closely death was to brush against him, but this time it almost had. Almost. Annie was alive, though she might lose the use of her legs, or even everything from the chest down. Tracy was alive, though her life was in danger. He was in no mood for memento mori.

  Banks took his smaller carry-on into the bathroom, where he unpacked his regulation plastic bag of toiletries before settling down in the living room. Then he took out the bottle of ten-year-old cask strength Laphroaig, all dutifully sealed and stamped, that he had bought at the San Francisco Airport duty free. He ha
dn’t been certain when he bought it that he would want to drink it himself, but the little taste Burgess had given him at Heathrow had gone down very well indeed.

  After he had poured himself a small measure into a glass he found in the kitchen, Banks opened the living room curtains and lifted the window a few inches to let in some air. The room had a magnificent view north, from the thin ribbon of Gratly Beck glittering in the moonlight past Helmthorpe Church, with its square tower and odd turret attached, then beyond the lights of the small market town to the opposite daleside, peaking in the magnificent limestone curve of Crow Scar above the high pastures and drystone walls, still visible, white as bone in the silvery moonlight.

  Banks carried a portable docking station to play his iPod in hotel rooms, and now he took it out and plugged it in. The sound wasn’t great, but it was impressive enough coming from a unit the size of a paperback. He docked his iPod, selected Norma Waterson’s solo album and turned out the overhead light as that beautifully forlorn voice started singing “Black Muddy River,” one of his favorite late-period Grateful Dead songs. He sat down and put his feet up, sipped Laphroaig, looked out toward Crow Scar and luxuriated in the music.

  When he closed his eyes the backs of his eyelids seemed to fragment in discs and chips of bright shifting colors, like a kaleidoscope. He rubbed them, but it only made them worse. He sipped some more whiskey and tried to keep his eyes open. It was about three o’clock, and he didn’t think much was likely to happen until morning. He felt so impotent, unable to do anything for Tracy, and he agonized again over getting in touch with her mother, his parents, or Brian. If anything happened to her, they’d never forgive him. But if she came out of it as he hoped she would, then they need never know. Her name hadn’t been mentioned in the media yet