Bad Boy

15

ANNIE CABBOT FELT AS IF SHE WERE DRAGGING HERSELF up from the depths of the ocean, huge shadows circling her in the dark green mist, slimy fronds of underwater plants undulating in the water, wrapping themselves around her arms and legs to immobilize her as she tried to float to the surface, pulling her back. She struggled in the grip of invisible tentacles that wouldn’t let go, no matter how much she kicked and thrashed. The pressure of the water pushed down on her chest, into her lungs, so she couldn’t breathe but only flail uselessly as the tentacles hauled her down. She opened her mouth and breathed in deep gulps of salt water, and suddenly she was floating free, calm, wrapped in a warm cocoon, rising up, up. Just as she was about to give in to the drowsy warmth that was spreading through her body, she burst to the surface and her lungs were suddenly filled with cool air.

Annie’s first sensation was of pain; her second was panic. There was something stuck down her throat, and she felt as if it was choking her. As she fought to control her racing heart she could hear the buzzing and beeping of the machines surrounding her. Okay, she told herself, opening her eyes and slowly adjusting to the dim light. Be calm. You’re in hospital. Hooked up to machines. She had thought someone was with her-Ray, her father-but she soon realized that she was actually alone.

She couldn’t remember how she had got there, and she only had the poorest recollection of why, but she was alone in a room, her bed slightly raised, propping her at a thirty degree angle. There were tubes coming out of her chest as well as the one down her throat, and IVs hooked up to a catheter on the back of her hand. Pouches of blood, plasma and clear liquid hung on stands beside the bed. Beyond them was an illuminated screen which told her that her blood pressure was 125/91 and her heart rate 102. Even as she watched, the automatic sphygmomanometer strapped to her upper arm activated itself. Her BP was now 119/78, heart rate 79. She tried to relax. That was better, she thought. Not bad at all. But her throat still hurt and her breathing felt the same way it had under the ocean in her waking dream.

As she took stock of herself and her various aches and pains, needles and machines, she realized that one thing struck her above all others: she was still alive. Maybe she was dying, a machine doing her breathing for her, or maybe she had even died and been brought back, but right now she was alive. Her brain felt slow and heavy, as if it were stuffed with warm cotton wool, and her memory felt tenuous and flimsy, but it still worked. Her nose also seemed to be in the right place, ears, arms, legs and torso, too. What really hurt most of all were her chest and her back. Painkillers dulled some of it, but not enough. From her neck down to her stomach, front and back and inside, she felt as if she had been beaten black and blue by a giant cricket bat. Maybe she had been. Maybe that was why she was here. She could feel her toes, though, even wiggle them; and she could clench and unclench her hands, so she knew that her neck or her back weren’t broken.

Annie had a hazy sense of people going about their business outside her room, of muffled conversations, laughter and tannoy messages, but there was no clock, and she didn’t know where her watch was, so she had no sense of time, day or night. She lay there trying to calm the images of fear and panic that had first crowded her mind on her trip back from the underworld. She felt dreadfully thirsty and noticed a plastic cup of water on the bedside table, complete with a bendy straw, then she realized she couldn’t drink anything with the tube down her throat. Nor could she call out. Feeling the panic rise again, she looked for a bell or a buzzer, and finding a button, pressed it, but even as she did so, she became aware of people dashing into the room, and there was no doubt that one of them was Ray, bearded and disheveled as ever. She couldn’t speak, but her heart ached with love for him, and she was sure the tears streamed down her cheeks as she lay back, exhausted with her efforts, and waited for the doctor and nurses to take out the tube that was choking her.

EVERYONE IN the boardroom close to midnight that Thursday night was tired, but none of them would entertain any ideas of sleep until Annie’s shooter had been brought to justice, and until Banks’s daughter was safe. Banks and Winsome were present, along with Gervaise, and Doug Wilson, Geraldine Masterson, Vic Manson, Stefan Nowak and several uniformed officers from Traffic, Patrol and Communications. They had already been cheered by the news that the fingerprints Vic Manson had taken from the photograph The Farmer had handled matched those on the magazine of the Smith & Wesson automatic found in Erin Doyle’s possession. It confirmed the link they already suspected between The Farmer, Jaff McCready and the murder of Marlon Kincaid. But there was no sign of Justin Peverell on the electoral rolls.

“I think we’re getting to the stage now where everyone’s feeling just a bit twitchy,” Gervaise said when Banks and Winsome had finished telling everyone about their visits to Victor Mallory and The Farmer. “There are just so many sides to the equation.” She glanced at Doug Wilson and Geraldine Masterson. “What did you get from West Yorkshire Homicide and Major Enquiries?”

Wilson indicated that Geraldine Masterson should do the talking. “Not a lot, ma’am,” she said, clearly nervous to find herself performing in front of such a distinguished audience for the first time. “Detective Superintendent Quisling was able to confirm that the body of Marlon Kincaid was discovered beside a bonfire close to Woodhouse Moor, Leeds, in the early hours of sixth November, 2004.”

“By a jogger?” Banks asked. “A dog walker?”

“No, sir. Someone had to douse the flames, make sure the fire was out. Health and Safety.”

“So Health and Safety turn out to have their uses after all,” said Banks. “Miracles will never cease. Carry on.”

Geraldine Masterson gave him a nervous smile and continued. “The body was partially burned, but examination at the scene soon showed he’d been shot. Twice. You already know about the bullet and casing comparisons matching. Mr. Quisling said it was hard to track down everyone at the bonfire. It had been quite a large party, apparently, with live music, dancing, lots of drink. At first the people putting out the fire thought it was just some unfortunate drunk who had fallen down in the wrong place.”

“Drugs were involved, too, no doubt?” Gervaise suggested.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Was Ian Jenkinson any more forthcoming than Mr. Quisling?”

Geraldine Masterson cast a sideways glance at Doug Wilson, who was looking more like Harry Potter than ever tonight, wearing what looked like his school tie and blazer. With her long red hair, green eyes, high forehead and pale skin, Geraldine Masterson could easily have passed for one his fellow Hogwarts pupils, but she hadn’t been around long enough to be given a nickname yet. Annie Cabbot, who knew about these things, had once suggested that she resembled Elizabeth Siddal, a famous pre-Raphaelite beauty and artists’ model immortalized by Dante Gabrielle Rossetti and other painters, but that was hardly nickname material.

Doug Wilson adjusted his glasses and picked up the story. “Believe it or not, Ian Jenkinson is studying for the ministry at the moment. Wants to be a vicar. C of E. Gone quite religious. Not a fanatic or anything, but it’s a bit of an about turn from his past.”

“I suppose we should thank heaven that there is such a thing as rehabilitation,” said Gervaise. “Go on.”

“According to Jenkinson, who went down from Eastvale to the bonfire and who knew the victim, Marlon Kincaid was bragging a bit that he’d been warned off the territory by some bloke called The Farmer, but he wasn’t planning on paying any attention to any country bumpkin. Marlon wasn’t a big player, apparently, just sold a bit of pot and E to the student population now and again, but he thought it was his patch. Word had reached The Farmer, who’d been assuming he had the whole scene locked up and under control.”

“So he wanted to make an example of Kincaid?”

“I guess so, ma’am.”

“Did Jenkinson witness the shooting?”

“He says not.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s not just the churchy bit. He really does seem to genuinely regret his past-the drugs, the dealing. There were a lot of loud fireworks going off that night, he said, a lot of loud music, and a lot of drunkenness. People passed out and fell asleep right there on the ground. There was a good chance that nobody would have either heard the shot or noticed that Kincaid was dead.”

“Terrific,” said Banks. “Does Jenkinson know Jaff McCready?”

“He says not, but he did say that he saw a young Asian bloke slinking away at one point in the evening, quite late on. He was wearing a black leather jacket, and he had one hand inside the front of it, you know, like Napoleon, as if he was carrying something he was trying to hide.”

“Like a gun,” said Banks. “Did he tell this to Detective Superintendent Quisling and his team at the time?”

“No. He says that, in the first place it was all very vague-he was far from sober himself at the time-and in the second, the last thing he wanted was the police following up on his accusations and bothering him again. He was worried we’d frame him or harass him or something. He just wanted to give his statement and get back to Eastvale.”

“Hmm,” said Banks. “He never mentioned it when I talked to him in Eastvale, either, though he did hint at this feud between The Farmer and Kincaid. That’s how I first came across the name. When I pressed him, he maintained he had no idea who The Farmer was, or even whether it was a name or a nickname. Jaff McCready wasn’t even on the radar then.”

“If The Farmer’s fingerprints are on the magazine,” said Gervaise, “and if McCready was possibly the shooter, then Fanthorpe must have given the gun to McCready and sent him to do the job. A trial or an initiation ritual. Something like that? Prove himself.”

“It’s possible,” said Banks. “And now we’re caught up in a falling out among thieves precipitated by Erin Doyle’s actions.”

“Maybe McCready was using the gun as some kind of hold over The Farmer?” Gervaise suggested.

“I doubt it,” said Banks. “The Farmer’s not the kind of villain to sit around and let something like that happen. No, if McCready had tried it on with him, he’d have had Ciaran and Darren round to his flat before you could say abracadabra and McCready would have ended up in bits and pieces in the canal. You can be sure that if The Farmer did give McCready the gun to shoot Kincaid, he had no idea that he was still holding on to it.”

“Then why?” Winsome asked.

“Insurance?” Banks said. “Or sheer bloody-mindedness? McCready and his pal Mallory liked guns. It was a hobby of theirs. And West Yorkshire’s still trying to find Mallory’s drug lab. The odds are that when they do, they’ll find a cache of Baikals as well. The Smith and Wesson’s a nice gun. The Farmer no doubt told McCready to dump it when he’d finished the job, but the cocky young bastard decided to keep it. He would have known that Fanthorpe’s prints were still on the magazine, once he’d wiped it clean of his own. Maybe it gave him a feeling of power or security?”

“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.

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 hadn’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

Norma Waterson sang about how God loves a drunk, and Banks continued to follow the drift of his thoughts. He didn’t know if he even wanted to try to sleep or not. It had been so long, he feared that if he did drop off he might not hear the phone, which sat on the chair arm beside him, might never wake again. It seemed ages since he had woken up in Teresa’s bed at the Monaco in San Francisco. Surely it couldn’t be only two days ago? She would be back to her life in Boston now, and their encounter would start slipping slowly but surely from her memory, the way such things do without further contact. The flesh forgets.

When Banks finally became aware of the mobile playing the opening notes of Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto no. 3, Norma Waterson had long finished, and an early-morning mist was rising from the valley in wraiths around the church tower, like will-o’-the-wisps slithering up the opposite daleside. Above Crow Scar the indigo sky was tinted with the rosy hues of dawn.

He awoke with a start from a dream that scuttled away into the dark recesses of his mind like some light-shy insect, but left him feeling unsettled and edgy. Reaching for the phone, he almost knocked it off the arm to the floor, but he managed to hold on and flip the case. “Banks,” he mumbled.

“It’s Winsome. Sorry for waking you but there’s been developments. Madame Gervaise wants you to come in now. Shall I drive over and pick you up?”

“Please,” said Banks. “Tracy?”

“No, no, it’s not Tracy or Annie, but it is important. I can’t tell you any more right now. Information’s still coming in. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“I’ll be ready.” Banks closed the mobile and ran his hand over the stubble on his chin. Twenty minutes just about gave him time for a quick shower and a shave, which might help make him feel more human. He’d brush his teeth, too; he could still taste the Laphroaig. As he moved toward the bathroom he wondered what Gervaise could be in such a tizzy about.