Bad Boy

14

THIS IS AN UNEXPECTED PLEASURE. DO COME AND JOIN me in the den, Mr. Banks and Ms… er?”

“Jackman. DS Winsome Jackman.”

“Winsome. What a delightful name. And one that, might I say, most certainly does you justice.”

Banks glanced at Winsome, and he could tell by her expression that she was wishing she hadn’t told Fanthorpe her first name. As Fanthorpe led the way she put her finger in her mouth and mimicked vomiting. Banks smiled.

The den was an unabashedly masculine room, from the dark wainscoting and the rosewood-and-mother-of-pearl chessboard, with its intricately carved ebony and ivory pieces, to the mounted brass telescope by the bay window, the mounted stag’s head and the framed racing scenes on the wall. Four maroon-red leather-upholstered armchairs were arranged around a solid oak antique table at the center. Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik played from hidden speakers.

The Farmer walked over to the cocktail cabinet and brought out three crystal tumblers and a decanter. He was wearing baggy brown cords and a cable sweater knit from Swaledale wool. With his round shoulders and jaunty walk, spare tire and mass of curly gray hair he reminded Banks of a leprechaun on steroids. “Drinks? I do hope you’ll join me. I have a rather fine old malt.”

“It’s not a social visit,” said Banks, settling into one of the chairs. It was so comfortable that if he took Fanthorpe up on his offer of a drink, he thought, he would probably curl up and go to sleep. Winsome crossed her long legs and took out her notebook.

“Pity.” The Farmer poured himself a large measure, sat down and smacked his lips. “It’s Ardbeg Airigh Nam Beist. That’s Gaelic for ‘Shelter of the Beast’ in case you don’t know. So what can I do for you?”

Banks caught a strong whiff of the peat and iodine. He was getting used to it more and more, and was rediscovering his taste for Islays, but he wouldn’t be sampling any of Fanthorpe’s wares, even if he weren’t so tired. The Mozart ended and was followed by Beethoven’s Für Elise. A classic FM collection of the Great Composers’ best bits, if Banks wasn’t mistaken. “We’re looking for an employee of yours,” he said. “Name of Jaffar McCready, or Jaff. Any idea where we can find him?”

“Jaff? I’m afraid I have no idea. He just does odd jobs. I’d hardly call him an employee.”

“Casual labor, perhaps, then? How do you get in touch with him if you need him?”

“By telephone, of course.”

“Mobile?”

“Home number.”

That was no use; Banks knew it already. If Jaff had a mobile, it was pay-as-you-go, unregistered and untraceable. “Exactly what sort of odd jobs does he do for you?”

“Jaff’s a jack-of-all-trades. Or should that be a Jaff-of-all-trades?” Fanthorpe laughed, but neither Banks nor Winsome joined him. He cleared his throat and sipped some malt. “Sure you won’t join me?” he asked, holding up his glass. “It truly is magnificent. Goes down like prickly silk.” By the sound of him, Banks reckoned he’d had a few already.

“Can you be a bit more specific about the nature of Jaff’s employment?”

“Well, he doesn’t muck out the stables, if that’s what you mean. Bit of courier work, the occasional security duty, when necessary.”

“And when would that be necessary?”

“You might not realize this, Mr. Banks, but racehorses can be valuable properties, very valuable indeed. And they’re vulnerable. Sadly, there are some unscrupulous people in the business. One has to be careful.”

“I’ve read Dick Francis,” said Banks.

Fanthorpe smiled. “Then you’ll get the picture.”

“Strong-arm stuff?”

“Hardly, Mr. Banks. I have no call for that sort of thing in my business.”

“I thought you said there are some unscrupulous people around?”

“Yes. But actual violence-strong-arm stuff, as you call it-is a rarity. They have more subtle ways of making their needs known.”

“What, exactly, is your business?” Banks asked. “I understand about the horses, but that’s merely the tip of the iceberg, isn’t it, a hobby almost?”

“I suppose you could say that.” Fanthorpe turned the crystal glass in his hands. It caught the light from the shaded desk lamp and different colors flared and sank in its facets. “Bit of this, bit of that. Mostly dairy farming and production-we own a cheese factory, my wife and I-the stables and horse training, of course. I also part-own a couple of thoroughbreds. Doing very well, they are. If you ever want a tip for-”

“Drugs?”

“Mr. Banks! Wash your mouth out.”

“Only I heard you’re quite a mover and shaker in the local coke trade. It seems to be having quite a renaissance these days, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I wouldn’t go around making unfounded accusations like that if I were you.”

“Why not? Pal of the chief constable, are you?”

“As a matter of fact, we have been known to play the occasional round, bring home the odd brace of grouse. I own quite a nice stretch of moorland up-”

“Let’s cut the bollocks, Fanthorpe,” said Banks, leaning forward. “I’m looking for Jaffar McCready. Simple as that. To be honest, I don’t give a damn about your dairy farms, thoroughbreds and coke business right now, except in that they relate to Jaffar McCready. You may or may not be aware of this, but he’s wanted in connection with the shooting of a female police officer.”

“Friend of yours, was she?” Fanthorpe’s eyes glinted with cruelty. “Something a bit personal, is it? Girlfriend, even? I thought that sort of thing was frowned upon in your line of work?”

“If you’d just stick to the point, sir,” said Winsome. She picked up her briefcase and passed over Rose’s sketches of Ciaran and Darren and a glossy photograph of Jaff they had got from Erin Doyle’s Laburnum Way room. “Do you recognize any of these men?”

Fanthorpe picked up each one in turn, made a show of scrutinizing it, then passed it back to her. “That’s Jaffar McCready,” he said of the photograph, “and that’s Ciaran, and that’s Darren. But you know that already.”

“Just need to make certain, sir,” Winsome said, slipping the pictures carefully back into her briefcase.

Banks gripped the arms of the chair and let his anger abate. He was thankful for Winsome’s timely interruption, and for the breathing space the pictures had afforded him. He might easily have said or done something stupid otherwise. He still might, if he didn’t get a grip.

Fanthorpe turned his gaze to Winsome. “I had a mate owned a sugar cane plantation in Jamaica once,” he said. “Wanted me to go into business with him. I told him I couldn’t stand the climate, though. Or the people. Lazy sods, the lot of them.” Then he eyed Winsome up and down. “Seems things have come a long way since then.”

“Yes, indeedy, mastah, sir,” said Winsome. “They even give us darkies warrant cards and let us arrest criminals.”

The Farmer laughed. “Cheeky, with it. I like that.”

“Where’s McCready?” Banks cut in.

“I wish I knew.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“He owes me money.”

“The bonds? Is that why Ciaran and Darren are looking for him?”

Fanthorpe swirled his whiskey in the glass. “You can draw your own conclusions. You will, anyway. I don’t know anything about any bonds. I don’t know where you got that from. All I’m saying is that McCready owes me money, and I want it before he disappears into a cell and it all ends up in a copper’s pocket.”

“McCready was already on the run before he shot Detective Inspector Cabbot. We were wondering if that had anything to do with you.”

“Me? No. Something to do with a gun, I heard,” said Fanthorpe. “It was all over the news.”

Winsome made a note and spoke up again. “Jaffar McCready was never mentioned in connection with the gun Juliet Doyle handed in to us,” she said. “We didn’t tell the press that, and they didn’t broadcast his name.”

“So how did you know?” Banks asked Fanthorpe.

“Oh, you think you’re so bloody clever, don’t you, the both of you? Do you think I don’t have my sources? A man in my position? Do you think I don’t know what doesn’t go into the newspapers or on the telly? Come on. Grow up.”

“Chief constable tell you, did he? A brief chat at the ninth hole?”

“For crying out loud.”

“Does this gun mean anything to you?” Banks asked. “It’s a nine-millimeter Smith and Wesson. Is there some reason that its falling into our possession disturbs you?”

“Not at all. I have nothing to fear.”

“So you think you’re clean on the gun? Okay. What does McCready have of yours? Drugs? Cash?”

“I told you. He owes me money.”

“Apparently, he told someone he was carrying bonds.”

“Rubbish. He was just trying to make it all sound legit, like he’s some sort of high-powered business broker. He stole from me. Cash. Simple as that.”

“Drug money?”

“I told you, he does occasional courier duties. Sometimes that involves carrying and banking large sums of money. He happened to have just such a sum in his possession when he disappeared.”

“When Jaffar McCready disappeared,” Winsome said, “he’d just returned from a business trip to Amsterdam and London, or so he said. How did he end up with so much of your money in his possession?”

“If you think I’m going to divulge my private business transactions to you, you’ve got another think coming, Ms. Winsome.”

“Do you usually use your farmhands as debt collectors?” Banks asked.

“Ciaran and Darren are men of many talents. Limited intelligence, but many talents. Their appearance can be rather…intimidating, as I’m sure you remember. Sometimes their mere arrival on a scene encourages people to do as they ask. It can be important when large sums are at stake.”

“I’ll bet it can. So far they’ve terrorized an innocent twenty-four-year-old girl and tied up and threatened a young man with torture. Real tough guys. Ever heard of a Victor Mallory?”

“Can’t say as I have.”

“He’s an old university and public school pal of McCready’s.”

“The old boys’ network? Well, Jaff always did move in rarefied circles. A bit too rich for my blood. Cambridge does that to people, you know. I came up the hard way-sheer hard work, getting my hands dirty. I never went to university, and West Leeds Boys High is hardly a public school, so I wouldn’t know about all that. Wouldn’t know this Mallory, either. Jaff has a lot of friends I don’t know about and don’t want to know about. There’s a big age difference, for a start, then the employer-employee relationship. Hardly conducive to friendship. I should imagine Jaff’s friends are more his own age.”

“Do you know what information Ciaran and Darren wanted from the people they threatened?”

“Enlighten me.”

“They wanted to know where Jaffar McCready is heading.”

“Well, then, we’re back to square one, aren’t we?” Fanthorpe spread his hands. “That’s exactly what I’d like to know. Except nobody yet has mentioned the elephant in the corner of the room.”

“Meaning?” said Banks, though he had an inkling of what Fanthorpe was getting at, and the thought chilled him like a shadow crossing the high daleside.

Fanthorpe stood up, poured himself another generous shot and pointed at Banks. “Your daughter, Banks. Tracy. Nobody’s mentioned her part in all this yet, have they?” He leaned against the wall and grinned. “Now, if you ask me, you’re a man in a lot of trouble, Mr. Banks, a lot of grief and trouble. I have daughters, too. I can understand that. Who knows, if we put our heads together, then maybe we might even be able to help one another? What about it?”

JAFF LEFT the van behind a doorless Mini on blocks in a street of dirty redbrick terrace houses not far from Beeston Hill Cemetery. The tall prewar houses seemed to Tracy to loom menacingly over them in the growing dark as they walked away, watched closely by a gang of hooded youths congregating at the end of a ginnel, looking shifty and threatening by turns. There was a mosque on the corner with an ornate mosaic dome. Televisions flickered behind moth-eaten curtains. Canned laughter spilled out into the street and mingled with the beat of a distant pub band. The streetlights had just come on, a jaundiced yellow in the late twilight purple, and they were surrounded by haloes of haze. A hint of exotic spices filled the night air. Behind the high-pitched slate roofs, roiling dark clouds parted now and then to allow a lance of moonlight to break through. There was an edgy feel to the night, Tracy sensed, and the sky seemed to echo it. Perhaps a thunderstorm was on the way. Anything could happen.

One of the youths turned and called out something after them. Tracy couldn’t make out the words. She could see that Jaff had one hand in his bag, though, and a grim smile on his face. A “just let them try something” smile. Tracy felt her pulse quicken with her footsteps. But nobody followed them. Nobody threw anything. When they got to the well-lit arterial road with its people, pubs, hairdressers, Asian shops and curry houses, Jaff relaxed his grip and removed his hand from the bag. They caught the first bus into the city center and sat upstairs at the front. There were hardly any other passengers at that godforsaken time of the evening, well after office hours and before closing time.

“Isn’t it dangerous, going to a hotel?” Tracy said. “I told you they’ll be looking for the two of us together.”

Jaff gave her a sideways glance. “I’m not letting you go, so don’t start that again. We’ll be fine. I suppose you just want to go home to Daddy?”

Tracy said nothing. She did.

“Well, that’s not going to happen, so you’d better make the best of things. Don’t forget what I said back there in the van. I mean it.” He looked her up and down. “At least you’re reasonably presentable now. You’ll just about pass muster. Just. How about me?”

Jaff looked fine. Immaculate as usual. “You’ll do,” she said.

“It’s a nice hotel I’ve got in mind,” Jaff said. “Not some fleabag place. We’ll be able to have a shower, get room service, minibar, the lot.”

The bus lumbered on, around corners, across intersections, and finally made its way into the city center.

“What about the CCTV cameras?” Tracy asked, as she saw the familiar landmarks of the Corn Exchange and Kirkgate Market ahead.

“They’re only useful if someone’s watching them and knows what to look for,” said Jaff. “If you think how many of them there must be, you’ve got to realize that there can’t possibly be enough people to watch them all, or we’d be all watching each other all the time. Real Big Brother. It’s a risk, but a minor one. Especially here. Like I said, no one’s going to expect us to come back here. And by the time anyone gets to checking all the CCTV footage, we’ll be sunning it up on the Costa del Sol. At least, I will.” He grabbed the chrome rail.

“Come on. Our stop.”

“HELP ONE another? Where do you get that from?” said Banks.

Fanthorpe sat down and cradled his fresh drink, a superior grin on his face. “I would have thought it was obvious,” he said. Winsome cast Banks a puzzled glance.

“Go on,” Banks said. “Enlighten me.”

Fanthorpe sprawled in his chair. “We both know that Jaff McCready’s on the run with your daughter Tracy. I haven’t the least interest in her, but I do have a very strong interest in young Jaff. Like I said, he’s got something of mine, and I want it back.”

“So it’s I scratch your back and you scratch mine, is that it?”

“Something like that. I can guarantee your daughter’s safety, Banks-that is, if she’s still in one piece when Ciaran and Darren find her. Can you do that, with all your protocols and procedures and red tape? Can you?”

“Go on.”

Fanthorpe leaned forward. “I thought you’d be interested. My proposal is a simple one. Leave me to find Jaff and Tracy. When I do, she’s yours. Unharmed. As I said, I have daughters, too. Believe me, I understand how you must be feeling.”

“You understand nothing. Don’t try to tell me you give a damn about saving my daughter’s life. All you want to do is carry on making your illegal fortunes.”

“I can’t help it if I make a good living.”

“Off other people’s misery.”

“Giving people what they want.”

“Selling them drugs?”

“However you look at it, you can hardly say that you’ve made a hell of a lot of people happy in your life so far, can you? I mean, how many of the petty villains you banged up got rogered so often in prison that their arseholes turned black and blue? How many scared young kids got stabbed by makeshift shivs in the showers? You hardly go around spreading joy and sunshine, mate, so don’t give me that holier-than-thou shit. I’m giving you a chance here. A chance to save your daughter’s life. Don’t you throw it back in my face. I never make an offer more than once.”

Banks felt sick. The Farmer’s offer was tempting, way too tempting, and he could do as he said; he could deliver with a lot more chance of success than any police intervention could offer. You only had to look at the Patrick Doyle case to know that. Then Banks would have Tracy back and Jaff…well, Jaff was a waste of space, anyway. Who cared?

But it would mean ending up in Fanthorpe’s pocket. It wouldn’t stop there, either, with Tracy’s safe return. There would be more demands; a little insider information, a tip here, a tip-off there, polite requests to turn a blind eye, payments made. Before long, Banks wouldn’t be able to bear looking at his reflection in the mirror. And Winsome was here, too, his moral compass: a witness to it all. She would never agree, and she wouldn’t lie for him, no matter how rude The Farmer had been to her earlier.

“And Jaff?” Banks said. “What happens to Jaff?”

Fanthorpe looked away. “What do you care? I can’t imagine why that would matter to you. I have no real interest in harming him. I just want my money back. Of course, it’s always possible that Darren and Ciaran might see fit to teach him a lesson. What he did reflects on all of us, you see. I won’t lie to you. What Jaff has done can’t go unpunished, and Ciaran doesn’t always know where to draw the line.”

“I do see,” said Banks. “They’re going to kill him. Or they’re going to take him somewhere where you can kill him.” Fanthorpe laughed. “Now, don’t be silly. I wouldn’t harm a fly. Besides, it’s nothing as extreme as that.” He sipped some whiskey. “A short period of hospitalization, perhaps, a while before he can get back in the saddle, so to speak. A mere slap on the wrist. Surely even you can see the poetic justice in something like that. I mean, look what he did, shooting that policewoman. Bit of a goat, too, is Jaff. Your daughter-”

Before Winsome could step in again, Banks held his hand up, palm out. “Don’t,” he said quietly. “For all our sakes, don’t follow that line of thought any further.”

“Fair enough. I can see how you might find it painful. As you say. I simply thought you would approve of my intentions, that’s all. If not, I can’t be in any way responsible for your daughter’s safety.”

It felt like time for the “If you harm a hair on her head I’ll rip out your spine and shove it down your throat” speech, but Banks didn’t see the point. He was sure that he and Fanthorpe understood each other already. Instead, he said, “People like you can’t let others steal from them. You have to show your power. Exercise it. You have to make examples. Jaff will be executed, no doubt in a slow, painful and terrible way, and everyone you deal with will know it. They will know what happened and why and who did it, will know that they stray at their peril. What you do to Jaff will keep your troops in order till the next time some jack-the-lad thinks he can put one over on you. I can’t be a part of that.”

“What does it matter? We’re splitting hairs. What do you care about Jaff McCready, especially after what he’s done to your daughter and your colleague? For Christ’s sake, Banks, you must want him d-”

“I told you not to take that route.”

Fanthorpe stopped in mid sentence and sighed. “Well, come on,” he said. “Isn’t it about time you woke up and saw what was happening? What you’re really dealing with here.”

Fanthorpe’s face had flushed as he talked, with anger and with drink. Banks wanted to hit him. Plant a hard, heavy fist smack in the middle of his face and watch the claret flow. “And assuming I went along with this plan of yours?” he said. “Just what would I have to do?” Banks could sense Winsome looking agape at him, but he ignored her. She would find out where he was going soon enough.

“Why, nothing! That’s the beauty of it.” Fanthorpe’s gray eyes glittered. “A mere slap on the wrist, as I said. You simply have to leave it to me.”

“To Ciaran and Darren, you mean?”

“They’ve got a head start. And I’ll bet you anything my contacts are better than yours, that I can find out where Jaff and your daughter are going sooner than you can.”

“That may be true,” Banks agreed. “So why don’t you just share that information with me, and we can do this all legal and aboveboard. That should make everyone happy. It’ll keep Ciaran and Darren from facing a murder charge and life imprisonment, too. And you, if you’re implicated.”

Fanthorpe shook his head. “You just don’t get it, do you? You just don’t get it. And have what’s mine disappear from the evidence room, or get tied up in judicial red tape for the next twenty years? No way.”

“That must be some dodgy fortune you’re after getting back. Or maybe it’s a nice kilo or two of coke? If that’s the case, we’ll definitely be hanging on to it.”

“That’s none of your business. What is your business is that Ciaran and Darren don’t know to leave Tracy alone. Focus on that.”

Banks felt a chill run through him, immediately followed by the raging impulse to hurt Fanthorpe. “What do you mean by that?” he asked, though he knew full well the meaning of Fanthorpe’s threat. He could sense Winsome’s empathy, and her determination to hold him back if he suddenly snapped. She was poised, ready. But he wasn’t going to snap.

If there was one part of the job Banks hated more than any other, it was that feeling of impotence and ineffectiveness he so often felt by having dedicated himself to upholding the law, following the rules. He cut corners from time to time, like everyone, had occasionally acted rashly and even, perhaps, illegally, but on the whole he was on the side of virtuous and good. There was no way he would go along with what Fanthorpe was suggesting. He was going to get Tracy back, and he was going to take Jaff down, Fanthorpe, Ciaran and Darren along with him. He was as certain of that as he had been certain of the true way things stood in his life that night out in the Nevada desert. He just didn’t know how he was going to achieve it all yet.

“I should have thought my meaning was obvious,” said Fanthorpe. “As far as Ciaran and Darren are concerned, Jaff and your daughter are one and the same. My enemies. Tarred with the same brush. However you care to put it. They’re in it together. If I let my men know otherwise, then all will unfold as I promised. Your daughter will be rescued unharmed, and Jaff will take his punishment like a man.”

“And if I don’t?”

“That’s asking for trouble. Events would take their course. Why would an otherwise intelligent man like yourself want to take the moral high ground here?”

“Because I’m a policeman, Mr. Fanthorpe And as a policeman I could hardly turn a blind eye to murder, could I? Because, however you whitewash it, that’s what it would be. What you’re basically telling me is that you’ll make sure your men hurt my daughter if I don’t let you have your drugs or your drug money back and leave you free to do what you want with Jaffar McCready, including kill him? Well, he might be a criminal, it’s true, but if I do as you say, I become like you. Nothing more than some twopenny-ha’penny gob of slime who’s managed to raise his greedy maw a few inches out of the gutter at feeding time.”

The Farmer spluttered on his whiskey and dribbled some down his jumper. “Hey, steady on. Bloody hell, that’s a bit strong, Banks,” he said, pointing his finger. “You’ll regret that. Whatever happens, you’ll regret that. Ciaran and Darren are in London already, awaiting my instructions.”

“Well, why don’t you call them? We’re not stopping you. But you don’t have any orders to give them yet, do you? You don’t know any more than we do. Probably less.” He looked over at Winsome, who smiled and shook her head.

Fanthorpe stared at Banks for a long moment. “I don’t understand you,” he said finally. “I just don’t understand. I propose a simple deal. I get my money back. I give the thief a slap on his wrist. You get your daughter back unharmed. Where’s the problem?”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Banks said, gesturing to Winsome that they should be going. “That you don’t see it as a problem. We’ll trouble you no more tonight. No need to see us out.”

“Was that wise?” Winsome said as Banks got into the passenger seat beside her. “Winding him up like that?”

“Perhaps not,” said Banks. “I don’t know. But Fanthorpe’s not the answer. If I could arrest him, I would, but we’ve got nothing on him. Not yet. It wouldn’t even do any good to take him in on sus and sweat him in an interview room for a while, either, much as I’d enjoy the opportunity. First off, we don’t have a while, and second, he’s too canny for that. He’d have his team of high-priced lawyers down there like a shot. No, we’ll get The Farmer when the time is right. For the moment I’ll ask the locals to keep an eye on his movements. At least we know now that Ciaran and Darren are in London because that’s where they think Jaff and Tracy are heading.”

“Can we put a tap on Fanthorpe’s phone? Their mobiles?”

“Not enough time,” said Banks with a wistful grin. “Besides, he’s bound to have a throwaway. I suppose we could try hanging him upside down or beating it out of him, or maybe pulling his fingernails out with pliers, but that relinquishes the moral high ground pretty damn quickly, doesn’t it?” Banks gestured toward Winsome’s briefcase. “And at least we’ve got his fingerprints.”

“I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

“I’m not that tired. Well done. They might come in useful, and we don’t have them on record.”

“Well, he’s never done anything illegal, has he?”

“He certainly hasn’t been caught.”

“What next?”

“Back to the station. Regroup. Don’t forget, we’ve got Justin Peverell’s surname and The Farmer doesn’t. We’re not without our contacts, either. I’m still willing to bet that our resources are better than Fanthorpe’s. I also have a sneaking suspicion that Jaff and Tracy are nowhere near London yet. Wasn’t it you who told me that the van they stole was an old clunker? Wouldn’t go more than forty miles an hour? Isn’t that what you said?”

“Yes.”

“Fanthorpe doesn’t seem to know that, either. It buys us time. Let’s go see if Madame Gervaise and the rest have made any more progress with Ian Jenkinson and this Quisling bloke.”

AS SOON as Tracy watched Jaff walk up to the hotel reception desk and start talking to the pretty young blond receptionist in his best posh accent, offering his corporate credit card, the one that couldn’t be traced back to him, her heart sank. He could do no wrong. Judging by the girl’s smile and her body language, she was practically in bed with him already.

Tracy seriously considered making a run for it at that very moment, but Jaff’s words and threats came back to her, and the images he had evoked: a car door opening and someone dragging her inside the dark interior; or tossing her into the boot, smothering her with smelly old blankets; the threat of the unseen pinprick in the thigh or hip, waking up in an unfamiliar country; standing on a sort of makeshift stage with other girls, dressed only in pink diaphanous chiffon fluttering in a breeze from nowhere, the leering eyes of the men on the front row crawling all over her. She realized it was a ridiculous image, of course, but it kept her sitting where she was, only a few feet behind him as he made the booking, glancing occasionally back at her and grinning, but giving most of his attention to the blonde.

He had the clothes, the voice, the gift of the gab, the air of superiority, all he needed to succeed, despite his mixed race heritage, the golden color of his skin. He was public school and Oxbridge, establishment through and through, and vicious criminal or not, he acted just like one of them, cocksure, certain of his place, of his due, of his worth, sure of his position, a member of the right class. To the manor born. There was no way anyone in this jumped-up provincial hotel, pretentious as it was, was going to deny his demands, let alone mistake him for a dangerous criminal on the run, or associate him with someone wanted for murder. If Annie was dead. Tracy had no way of knowing, as she hadn’t seen or heard any news since they left the cottage. Tracy’s heart sank as she watched Jaff, yet she couldn’t help but admire the performance, if performance it was. There were many sides to him, she suspected, and this was just one of them.

He turned back to her, a key in his hand and a smile on his face, and gestured for her to follow him to the lift. They went up to the fourth floor in silence and walked along the deserted corridor, some rooms with trays of empty bottles and glasses outside, the remains of half-finished steaks and prawn shells scattered on plates.

No one saw them as they entered room 443. The view was nondescript, a back street so narrow you couldn’t really see anything but the low slate roofs opposite, and, beyond them, the windows of an office tower, empty for the night, though one or two lights still burned in the checkerboard pattern of windows.

The thunderstorm hadn’t come yet, but the sky still looked angry as a boil ready to burst. Jaff drew the heavy curtains. Their closing made Tracy feel claustrophobic. Somehow, at least having some sort of view, however mean, gave her some hope, some snatched glimpse of a part of the world that was being kept from her, a place she may never enter again. She told herself to stop being so maudlin, that the fears Jaff had planted in her mind had taken too strong a hold and made her jittery.

Jaff tossed his grip on the bench under the window, then fumbled inside it and brought out the small plastic bag he had prepared for himself. He held it up to her and raised his eyebrows. Tracy shook her head and sat on the edge of the bed, hunched in on herself. Jaff shrugged and laid out a couple more lines on a mirror. When he’d snorted them, he used his untraceable mobile, and Tracy guessed he was calling Justin in London.

“It’s ready? Great…terrific…Hey, that’s a bit steep…No, all right, I’m not arguing…Yeah, I understand…Okay. Look, Jus, we won’t come around to your place, if that’s all right with you, just in case, you know, yeah, in case we’re being followed or something…Yeah. Right…How about we meet somewhere…? The Heath…that’s cool…Highgate Pond. Course I can find it. No problem. We’ll have wheels in the morning…Yeah, early afternoon…I’ll give you a bell…See you then, mate. You’re a lifesaver.”

He ended the call, dropped the phone on the bed, then clapped his hands and raised his fist in the air. “We’re away!” he said. When Tracy didn’t react, he turned on her. “We’re off to London in the morning and then…points exotic. Who knows? Well, at least I am. What’s up, misery guts? Are you planning on sulking like this from now on? I mean, it’s a difficult enough situation we’re in already, without you sitting there with a face as long as a wet weekend in Blackpool.”

“Jaff,” Tracy said. “I’m tired and I’m scared. I’m not here to cheer you up or amuse you. I’m your prisoner, remember? All I want is to go home. Please, just leave me alone.”

“Same old bloody record, isn’t it? Can’t you change your tune? You should do some coke, have some fun while you can.”

“I don’t want any.”

“Have it your way. We’ve got all night.”

Tracy shuddered at the thought. She didn’t think Jaff noticed. The room was spacious, but it was impossible to ignore the fact that it was dominated by a king size bed. Tracy was quite happy to sleep in the bath, if in fact she could sleep at all, but she doubted that was what Jaff had in mind. He wouldn’t want her out of his sight, for one thing. “Can we have the TV on?” she asked.

“Why?”

“I want to see the news. They might say something about…you know.”

“They can’t tell us anything we don’t already know,” said Jaff. “Are you hungry? Shall I call room service? What do you fancy?”

“I don’t know. Whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. How about pizza?”

“Pizza’s fine.”

“What do you want on it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t mind.”

“Mushrooms? Onions? Olives? Hot Italian sausage. Anchovies? Pineapple?”

“That’s fine.”

“Right. And a bottle of wine. I’ll order a bottle of red wine, too, shall I?”

“If you want.”

“If I want. It’s not just me, Francesca, you know. Will you give me a little help and encouragement here? What do you want?”

“A bottle of red wine is fine.”

“Right. I’ll order pizza and a bottle of red wine. Anything else?”

“Not right now, no.”

“Maybe some bottled water, too, hey? Can’t be too careful. Fizzy or still?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Tracy. “Tap water’s fine with me.”

“Fizzy,” said Jaff. “Right. Good. Good.” His leg was twitching from the coke now, and he made no move toward the telephone. “What about Madison?”

“Madison?”

“Yeah. The blond girl on the desk. She’s American. I bet she’d be game for it. Shall I see if I can get her to nip up, too, for some fun and games? A threesome?”

“Don’t bother on my account. She’s probably busy, anyway.”

“I suppose so.”

“Look, do you want me to call?” Tracy asked. She stood up and walked toward the telephone. “I’ll do it, if you like.”

Jaff wagged his finger as he swiftly intercepted her. “Clever try,” he said. “No doubt there’s some secret code you can use to communicate with Madison and get her to put you through to your father. You like your father, don’t you? Love him, even. I hated mine. No way. I’ll do it.” He went over to the phone and ordered a pizza with green peppers, pepperoni and chicken, and a bottle of chardonnay, then hung up, licked his lips and walked over to her, coming a little too close for comfort. Tracy started to back slowly away. “While we’re waiting, though,” he said, “why don’t we…? I mean, it has been a while. Work up an appetite. Know what I mean? Even if it is just the two of us.”

“You mean sex?” Tracy said, hoping she didn’t sound as incredulous as she felt. “After everything that’s happened? You want sex? You’re sick, you. You must be joking.”

But the expression on his face said not. “I’ll show you how sick I am,” he said. “And how much I’m joking.”

Tracy felt his hand grasp her throat and push her toward the bed behind. The backs of her knees hit the edge of the mattress, and her legs buckled, causing her to fall back. She knew then that he wasn’t joking.