Bad Boy

4

THE WOMAN AT THE WINE TASTING WAS DEFINITELY smiling at Banks. He had seen her there yesterday, too, and had thought she was by herself. Right now she was talking to an elderly couple from Lansing, Michigan-he knew because he’d chatted with them yesterday-but she was definitely looking his way. Perhaps she needed rescuing.

Banks smiled back and walked over.

The man from Lansing, Michigan-Bob, Banks remembered, who worked in farm machinery-saw him coming. “Well, if it isn’t my old buddy, Al. What a pleasure to see you again.”

Banks said hello to Bob and his wife Betsy, waiting for them to introduce the mystery woman, who stood by rather shyly, he thought, eyes cast down, looking into her almost-empty wineglass. She had appeared tall from a distance, but when he got closer Banks saw she was probably only about five feet three or four. She was Asian, but Banks had no idea where exactly she might have come from, or what age she was. There was no gray in her glossy black hair, which hung down over her shoulders, and no lines around her almond eyes.

“This here’s Teresa,” said Bob. “All the way from Boston.”

Teresa looked up at Banks and held out her delicate hand. He shook it. Her skin was soft and silky, but her grip was firm and dry. She wore a couple of rings on her fingers and a silver bracelet that matched her hoop earrings.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Banks. “Likewise,” said Teresa.

“Can I get anyone another drink? I need one myself.”

Bob and Betsy declined, but Teresa handed him her glass and said, “Yes, I’ll have a sauvignon blanc, please.” The glass was warm from her palm, and Banks noticed a little semicircle of pink lipstick on the rim.

The hotel called it a wine tasting, but Banks thought it was more of an excuse to get a couple of glasses of alcohol under his belt before dinner, a bit of a social mixer and a cheap promotion for the wine-maker. It wasn’t that you actually had to discuss the wine’s forward leathery nose, or fill out a tasting card. It was definitely a nice gesture on the part of the hotel, as was the tarot reader, who sat poring over an arrangement of cards with a portly, bearded, anxious-looking man in baggy shorts sitting opposite her.

On the whole, Banks had decided, he liked America. Having spent plenty of time back in the pubs in England listening to his mates slag off the USA and its people, he found that while Americans were easy to ridicule and could often appear obnoxious abroad-which is something you could just as easily say about the British and the Germans-at home they were mostly a delight, from the family diners and roadside honky-tonks with local country bands to the city wine bars, hotels and fancy restaurants. And they understood the concept of a service industry. Like now. The woman at the bar collected his glasses, asked him what he wanted and handed him full fresh ones, smiling as she did so, saying she hoped he was enjoying the wine. Maybe she didn’t mean it, but Banks said he was. Sometimes a smile and a little politeness go a long way. Try that in your average English pub, he thought, where the concept of wine runs about as far as red or white and sweet or dry, and a grunt is the most likely response to a hello. He carried a pinot noir and the sauvignon blanc carefully back through the throng.

“Look,” said Bob, glancing at his watch. “I’m afraid we have to skip out now. The show starts in half an hour. You folks have a good time.” And with that, they were gone. Banks handed Teresa her glass, and the two of them stood in rather awkward silence as the conversations buzzed around them. She was wearing a sleeveless flower-print dress which curved in to accentuate her narrow waist and ended just above her knees, cut low enough to show a tantalizing glimpse of smooth cleavage. Around her neck she wore a string of colored glass beads and had fixed some sort of coral pink flower in her hair just above her right ear. Her complexion was flawless and smooth, her nose small and straight, her lips full, curved slightly upward at the edges.

Banks would hazard a guess that she had her origins in Thailand, or perhaps Vietnam, but he didn’t know enough about the differences in the physiognomy of the Far Eastern countries to be of any certainty. She looked as if she smiled a lot, but Banks sensed there was also a seriousness and sadness about her. He probably had an instinct for such things, he thought, given the way his life had been going lately. But it was definitely getting better.

“It’s a nice hotel, isn’t it?” said Teresa after a sip of wine.

“Yes,” Banks agreed, looking around at the Mediterranean-themed decor, with its warm terra cotta glow, shaded table lamps, ornate ceiling and cornices, paintings and gilt-framed mirrors. They were standing near a painting of Earth resting amid a cornucopia of fruit and foliage in what appeared to be a desert landscape. The Monaco was a nice hotel, Banks thought, and it also had the advantage of being in one of the most interesting cities he had visited so far on his two-and-a-half-week odyssey: San Francisco. Banks especially liked cities he could walk around, and San Francisco was one of the best, once you got used to the hills. He had already taken the cable car and strolled along the waterfront to Golden Gate Bridge and halfway across it, all on his first day, finishing the evening with a very expensive martini at the Top of the Mark, looking out on the Bay Area lights way in the distance. Tomorrow he planned to walk along Fisherman’s Wharf, and then perhaps go up Coit Tower for another view.

“How long are you staying?” he asked Teresa. “Just until Wednesday.”

“Me, too,” said Banks. “You’re English, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Banks said. “Thank you for not guessing Australia or New Zealand. Not that I have anything against those places, mind you, but I get it a lot.”

“Oh, I wasn’t guessing. My grandfather was English. From Hull.”

“Really? I know it. In fact, I don’t live all that far away from Hull. If you don’t mind my asking, how on earth did you…you know?”

Teresa laughed. “How does a girl who looks like me have relatives from Hull? Easy. Don’t laugh. They owned a Chinese restaurant.” Banks couldn’t think of anything to say.

“You should see your face,” she said, laughing at him. “I’m joking, of course. I’m not Chinese. My grandfather was a sailor, and somehow or other he found himself on a French merchant ship. He made many visits to the Far East and ended up settling in Vietnam. So, you see, I, too, have English blood in me. Hull blood.”

Banks lowered his voice and leaned closer to her. “It’s not something I’d boast about in public,” he said. “You know what they say about Hell, Hull and Halifax?” He caught of whiff of her perfume, delicate but a little sweet and heady, cut with a hint of jasmine.

“No. Tell me.”

“It was the thieves’ litany. ‘From Hell, Hull and Halifax may the Good Lord deliver us.’ Sixteenth century. There was a particularly nasty jail in Hull and the gallows at Halifax. I think Hell rather speaks for itself.”

Teresa laughed again. “You English people are so strange,” she said. “I’ve never been there, but I’d like to go sometime, just to see it.”

Banks couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to go to see Hull-it wasn’t exactly a major tourist destination-though he enjoyed its rough charm, the docks and its down-to-earth people. Hull also had a Premier League football team, a big plus in the northeast these days. “Maybe one day you will,” he said. “Look, I know this probably sounds a bit forward, but are you here by yourself?”

He thought Teresa blushed before she averted her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “I…I…” Then she made a dismissive gesture with her free hand. “I’m sorry. It’s a long story.”

“Maybe you’d like to have dinner with me tonight and tell me? I don’t have any plans, and I’m a good listener.”

Teresa put her hand to her chest. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I mean, I would, you know, really, but I can’t. I’ve already got…I have to be somewhere.”

“Of course,” said Banks, embarrassed that he had asked. “I understand.”

She rested her hand on his arm. “No, it’s nothing like that,” she said. “Really. I’m going to have dinner with my son and daughter-in-law and their kids. It’s one of the reasons I’m here. In fact, I must hurry. I just felt I needed another drink before facing the little terrors. My grandchildren, that is.”

Banks didn’t think she was old enough to have grandchildren, but he thought it would sound like a terrible come-on line if he told her that. “I see,” he said.

She widened her eyes. “Tomorrow? I mean, that’s if you’re not, you know, you don’t…”

“Tomorrow would be perfect,” said Banks. “My last night here.”

“Mine, too.” Teresa knocked back the rest of her drink, set the glass on a nearby table and took a packet of breath mints from her handbag, or purse, as they called them in America, Banks had learned. She caught Banks looking at her. “It’s all right. I’m not an alcoholic. I’m not in the habit of doing this. It’s just with the kids, you know, and my daughter-in-law is so disapproving. Religious. Her father’s a Baptist minister. Shall we meet here?”

“Fine,” said Banks. “Same time? Seven? Shall I make a reservation somewhere?”

“Let me do it,” said Teresa. “I know the city.”

“Okay,” said Banks. “See you tomorrow.”

Then Teresa hurried off and Banks was left alone. The tarot reader glanced over at him with a conspirational smile, and for a moment he considered having his fortune told. He quickly dismissed the idea. It would either depress him or give him false hope. He smiled back, finished his drink and headed out to see what the evening had to offer.

The first thing he saw, around the corner on Taylor, was an old street lady being sick in the gutter. After she had staggered away, three pigeons swooped down and started pecking at the chunks. Sadly, it wasn’t such an unusual sight in this area of the city. As Banks walked along Geary, a homeless black man in rags followed him for about half a block raging about how mean people were. It could have been London, Banks thought, until he got to Union Square and saw the cable car go by with people hanging off the sides laughing and whooping, heard the bell clanging, the underground cables thrumming. With no particular destination in mind, he crossed the square and started wandering the downtown streets. Sooner or later, he knew, he would find a friendly-looking bar or restaurant, where he could while away the evening.

THE ROOM on the ground floor of the Western Area Headquarters that the officers always used for their press conferences had a small elevated area that passed for a stage and contained all the wooden chairs they could rustle up. Annie and Superintendent Gervaise had gone over the developments with ACC McLaughlin in regard to what should be mentioned and what they should keep to themselves for the moment. The best they could hope for, Annie thought, was to dispel a few rumors and douse the flames before they roared out of control. Already, she felt, it was getting a bit late for that.

Patrick Doyle’s death had thrown a spanner in the works, not only because it had occurred during a sanctioned police operation, but because a Taser was involved. One piece of information that had come to light at the hospital was that Patrick Doyle had suffered a heart attack two years ago. Though he had been responding well to medication, and his recent ECGs and echoes had all been good, there remained some minor damage to the heart that would never repair itself. They should have known that before sending Warburton and Powell in with Tasers. That’s what the media would say, too, when they got hold of the story. The Taser debate sold a lot of newspapers.

In addition to the local press and TV, there were reporters from the major national dailies-Mail, Sun, Guardian, Telegraph, Express, Times, Independent, Mirror-and one or two feature writers looking for something a bit more in-depth-gun crime, today’s youth, or police-related deaths.

The small room was buzzing with speculation and excitement when Annie and Gervaise entered that Tuesday morning and stood by the door to observe ACC McLaughlin in action. The space wasn’t so large that anyone needed a microphone, but the conference had been set up so that the proceedings could be recorded on digital video, and there were also a couple of TV cameras discreetly positioned in the back corners.

Annie surveyed the room and noticed the backs of a few familiar heads, including some she had seen at Laburnum Way yesterday. She leaned against the back wall by the door and sipped coffee from the mug she had brought with her as the reporters settled down and McLaughlin began his prepared statement.

“Yesterday morning at ten forty-five A.M.,” he began, “police were called to an address on Laburnum Way, where a loaded firearm had been reported. Unable to gain permission to enter from the occupants of the house, the Authorised Firearms Officers effected entry, and during the ensuing operation a man was injured by Taser fire. He later died of complications in Eastvale General Infirmary. A loaded gun was recovered from the scene. Now, I’m sure you have many questions, and I’m sure you also understand that my replies have to be necessarily restricted at this point in the investigation.”

Hands went up all over the room, and the man from the Daily Mail got the first question. “I understand that a Mr. Patrick Doyle was the registered owner of the house in question. Was he present at the time of the police assault? Was he the one who died? If so, how did it happen?”

“I must object to your use of the word ‘assault’ as unnecessarily inflammatory,” McLaughlin said. “The officers were dealing with a potentially very dangerous situation. But let me do my best to give you a clear and succinct answer, seeing as you know most of it already. Mr. Patrick Doyle was indeed the registered owner of 12 Laburnum Way. He was on the premises at the time the AFOs entered. He was injured by the discharge of a Taser and has sadly since died of unrelated injuries in Eastvale General Infirmary.”

Reactions buzzed about the room and more hands went up. McLaughlin picked a local reporter next, Annie noticed. “Yes, Ted.”

Ted Whitelaw from the Eastvale Gazette stood up. “You said ‘unrelated injuries.’ Was Mr. Doyle’s death directly caused by the Taser discharge, or wasn’t it?”

“That we can’t say at the moment,” said McLaughlin.

“Can’t or won’t?” someone shouted.

McLaughlin ignored the lone voice. “Mr. Doyle’s body is awaiting a postmortem examination,” he went on calmly, “and until that has been carried out, we won’t be able to say with any degree of certainty exactly what caused his death.”

“But isn’t it likely?” Whitelaw persisted. “We all know that Tasers can kill.”

“This is neither the time nor place to enter into a debate on Tasers,” said McLaughlin. “We’ll have to await the postmortem results before we know any more.”

“I understand that Taser deaths are often related to drug use or pre-existing heart conditions,” Whitelaw went on. “Did Mr. Doyle have a heart condition? Did he use drugs?”

“Patrick Doyle had a heart attack two years ago,” said McLaughlin, “but according to his doctor, he was in excellent shape.”

“Were the armed officers who entered his house aware of this heart attack?”

“They had not been advised of his condition, no,” said McLaughlin. “Why was that?”

“It’s not for me to speculate. That remains to be determined.”

“Was it because you didn’t know about it?”

McLaughlin said nothing.

“So would you say the Taser could have been responsible for his death?” Whitelaw pressed on.

“This was a very unfortunate incident, and it will be investigated thoroughly. Now, you’ve had more than your fair share of questions, Ted. It’s time to sit down.”

Whitelaw sat, smirked and began scribbling on his pad.

“You said the incident would be investigated thoroughly,” said the Daily Mirror man. “Can you tell us who by?”

“The actions of the officers involved will be investigated by Superintendent Chambers, from the Professional Standards Department, who will be working with an outside team brought in by the Independent Police Complaints Commission, according to protocol.”

“But it will be a police investigation, won’t it?” asked the woman from the Guardian.

“The last time I checked, Maureen,” said McLaughlin, “the police were the best qualified organization in the country to carry out such an investigation. Whom do you suggest we bring in? The librarian? A local antiques dealer? The little old lady down the street who takes in all the stray cats?” His Scottish accent grew more pronounced with his sarcasm.

The woman smiled. “I was merely pointing out that it’s simply another case of the police investigating their own,” she said, then sat down.

McLaughlin searched around for another raised hand. He didn’t have far to look. “Yes. You, Len.”

It was Len Jepson from the Yorkshire Post. “My question is a simple one,” he began. “Why was a team of Authorised Firearms Officers breaking down the door of a pebble-dash semi in a nice middle-class street in Eastvale on a quiet Monday morning?”

A ripple of laughter went around the room.

“As I said in my statement, we had reliable reports that there was a loaded firearm on the premises,” said McLaughlin,” and when our duty officers got no response to their requests for peaceful entry, the AFOs were called in. It’s standard procedure, Len. You should know that.”

“How many AFOs were involved?” asked a reporter from the Independent.

“Four. Two at the front and two at the back, as per usual. SOP.” Another hand. “Yes, Carol.”

“You mentioned in your statement earlier that a loaded gun was recovered from the house. Had it been used?”

“The weapon had not been recently discharged.”

“Who does it belong to?”

“That we don’t know.”

“Where is it now?” asked another voice.

“It’s been sent to the Forensic Science Services in Birmingham for further examination.”

“Any idea how it came to be in the house?”

“That matter is under investigation.”

“Was it anything to do with Erin Doyle?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t make any further comment at present.” More hands. McLaughlin picked the woman from the Darlington & Stockton Times. “Jessica?”

“You’ve been singled out before for your rather, shall we say, left wing views on some subjects of public concern, such as racial profiling, overcrowded prisons and the use of police force. Can you tell our readers what your personal thoughts on this matter are?”

McLaughlin managed a tight smile. Some people, Annie knew, called him “Red” Ron, and he pretended not to like it, though she thought he was secretly rather proud. His father, who had worked on the Glasgow shipyards after the war, had been a strong trade unionist, and some of the old socialist ideals had rubbed off on his son. “My personal opinions on the matter in hand are hardly relevant,” McLaughlin said. “The point at issue here is that a life has been tragically lost, and a family is in mourning. I ask you all to respect their grief.”

“Do you respect it?” someone called out. “Isn’t it true that you’ve been interrogating and harassing the Doyle family since yesterday morning?”

“I can’t discuss the details of the ongoing investigation at this stage, but I can assure you that there has been no harassment on our part.”

More grumbles and shuffling, then another voice spoke out. This time it was Luke Stafford of the Sun. “What part did Erin Doyle play in all this?” he asked. “Patrick Doyle’s daughter. Was the gun hers?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss such the detail of an ongoing investigation.”

“So you think it was? She was seen by a neighbor being led out of the house in handcuffs,” Stafford went on. “And isn’t it true that she was mixing with some pretty bad company in Leeds? Drug dealers and such scum?”

Annie could see that this was the first McLaughlin had heard of it. It was the first she had heard of it, too. They must have sent a reporter to dig around. “I can’t comment on that, Mr. Stafford,” said McLaughlin, “but if you have any information pertinent to our investigation, I hope you’ll do your duty as a citizen and come forward with it.” Then he stood up. “I’m afraid that’s all for now, ladies and gentlemen. This conference is over.”

Annie could tell that the crowd wasn’t happy with the way things had gone. They had wanted blood and had got merely the scent of it. God only knew what they would write now.

McLaughlin was also clearly not happy. On his way out of the door, he leaned toward Annie and Gervaise and said between gritted teeth, “Just what the hell was all that about? What do we know about Erin Doyle’s life in Leeds?”

“Nothing yet, sir,” said Gervaise. “We’ve hardly started our investigation yet.”

“The newspapers obviously have. I suggest you get a move on with it. Let’s bloody well find out what’s going on before the red tops get there, shall we? I want results, and I want them fast. I also want them first.”

“Yes, sir,” said Gervaise. When McLaughlin had gone, she turned to Annie and said, “In my office in an hour.”

This could be interesting, Annie thought. She had planned on going down to Leeds on her own after work to talk to Tracy Banks, anyway, but now the Leeds connection was an official part of the investigation. She should tell Gervaise that Erin Doyle and Tracy Banks shared a house; there was no doubt that she would find out soon enough, anyway. But Annie also thought that she owed it to Banks to keep his daughter out of trouble, if she was in any trouble, if that was at all possible. She decided to tread cautiously and keep her own counsel for the moment, at least until she had a better grasp of exactly what it was they were investigating.

OF COURSE, the inevitable had happened. Tracy and Jaff had stayed up most of the night, first drinking Banks’s Highland Park and smoking joints in the conservatory, laughing and playing Animal Collective, Fleet Foxes, and My Morning Jacket, then ransacking the DVD collection for something to watch. They had settled on one of the Jason Bourne films, basically just a long chase punctuated by close-combat fights and shoot-outs. Again, Jaff had chucked the DVDs he didn’t like on the floor, which was getting quite littered by then. Tracy remembered the jewel cases crunching and splintering under their feet as they stumbled toward the stairs. After that, things had got very blurry.

When Tracy awoke at about half past ten in the morning, she was lying naked under the duvet in her old bedroom, and Jaff was nowhere in sight. Her head ached, but if she tried, she could piece together most of what had transpired…

They had taken the bottle of whiskey upstairs to her father’s bedroom, and there she had tumbled onto the bed with Jaff. Soon he was kissing her and his hands were groping all over her body. She had struggled a bit and thought at one point she might have told him to stop because she didn’t feel well. She remembered that she felt weird about doing it in her father’s bed, and her stomach didn’t feel too good after all the whiskey and wine. But Jaff was urgent. Soon he’d got her blouse off, and his hand wandered down the front of her jeans. Then they were coming off, too, and…well, that was when she was sick.

She had managed to turn away just in time and do it over the edge of the bed. She had thought that would stop him, put him off, especially when she had to go and rinse her mouth and brush her teeth. But when she had come back, jeans all zipped up, blouse straight and buttoned, he had been lying there on his back stark naked, smiling and huge, and he had started all over again. Her head had still been spinning, and she hadn’t been able to find the will or the strength to stop him. Not that she had really wanted to. She didn’t want to be thought a tease, and she was quite flattered by his attentions. She had also felt a little bit better by then, and she had quite liked it; after all, she had fantasized about sex with Jaff often enough, had even kissed him on the dance floor. A lot of girls, Tracy knew, would have swapped places with her in the blink of an eye. And she was doing it in her father’s bedroom.

Tracy couldn’t really remember what it had been like, but she recalled that Jaff hadn’t taken long, despite the amount he’d had to drink. It had all been over in a matter of moments. Jaff had then fallen fast asleep, or passed out. When Tracy had been sure that he wasn’t going to wake up for a while, she had crept out of her father’s room and gone to the other bedroom, the one she used to sleep in when she visited. And that was where she woke up to bright sunshine and bird-song. She had forgotten to close the curtains. For a moment she panicked, not knowing where she was, then she realized. She also remembered what she had done and where her clothes were.

Tracy wandered back into Banks’s bedroom and got dressed. Jaff was nowhere to be seen, and the house was silent. After using the bathroom and taking some of Banks’s paracetamol, Tracy went downstairs, calling Jaff’s name softly. She found him in the conservatory curled up in one of the wicker chairs, a half-full glass of whiskey and an overflowing ashtray on the table by his side. He looked almost angelic, she thought-long eyelashes, moist lips slightly parted, making breathy, snuffling sounds. She felt like kissing him, but she didn’t want to disturb him.

Tracy made some tea and toast in the kitchen as quietly as she could, then she decided to set about tidying up. First, she took a bowl of water and a cloth upstairs to clean the sick off the bedroom floor-thank God it was wood and not a carpet-feeling herself flush with embarrassment-how could she?-then she moved down to the entertainment room. Not sure where to begin there, she wandered back into the kitchen to refill her cup with tea.

That was when she thought of her mobile, and she realized that while Jaff was asleep, she could probably get it back. It could be ages before he found out what she had done. Jaff had put it in his hold-all, she remembered. He was probably right about it being dangerous to use. She had heard about people being traced through their mobile signals-her dad had mentioned it more than once-and Jaff seemed to know what he was talking about. It would be nice just to have it with her, though. It would be a great comfort. And she would keep it switched off. Surely that could do no harm? Surely Jaff couldn’t possibly object to that, even if he did find out?

Tracy was just about to go over and open Jaff’s hold-all on the breakfast table when he emerged in the conservatory doorway, stretching, yawning and rubbing his eyes. Ah, well, Tracy thought, maybe later.

“Morning,” she said. “Cup of tea?”

Jaff grunted. Clearly not a morning person. Tracy made tea anyway. He drank it with milk and two sugars, pulled a face and told her he preferred coffee. She made coffee.

When he had poured his first cup, he said, “I’m starving. Is there anything left to eat?”

Tracy had checked both the fridge and freezer, not to mention the cupboards. There were a couple of tins of baked beans and some soup, but that was it. They ate cold baked beans from the cans.

“After this, we’ve got to go shopping if we plan on staying here,” Tracy said. “There’s absolutely nothing left to eat. We have to go to Eastvale.”

“How long did you say your old man’s going to be away?”

“Until next Monday. We’re all right for a bit. Have you had a chance to think things out yet?”

“Sort of.”

“And?”

“I reckon we should stay here as long as it’s safe,” Jaff said. “Say till the end of the week. We’ll let things quiet down a bit. It’s nice and isolated here, nobody to come around asking awkward questions. And nobody will think to look for me here. Even if someone does come, you can talk to them, tell them everything’s okay and send them packing. After all, it’s your dad’s house. You’ve got every right to be here, haven’t you? There’s even some decent music and movies. Not to mention the booze. I reckon we’ve lucked out.”

“But we can’t stay here forever,” Tracy argued, vague images in her mind of the further damage Jaff might do to her father’s home. She’d enjoyed last night’s careless abandon and wild freedom, but it couldn’t go on indefinitely.

“I know that, babe.” Jaff ambled over and ran his hand over her hair, her cheek, her breast. “I just need to put a few plans into operation, that’s all. I know people. I’ve got an old college mate down in Clapham who can get us fixed up with new passports, no questions asked, but I need a few days to make some calls and set things up. These things don’t come cheap. I’m just saying we’ve got a good hide-away for now, and that’s all we need. Soon as I’m organized, we can go down to London, then get out of the country. Once we’re over the Channel, we’re home free.”

“Not these days,” said Tracy. “There’s Interpol and Europol and God knows what other pols. I’ve seen programs on telly.”

“You worry too much. Don’t be a drag, babe. All I’m saying is that if you know how to disappear, you can do it over there.”

“And you know?”

Jaff kissed her. “Trust me. And maybe you should get a different lipstick while we’re in Eastvale. Pink, maybe. I don’t like that dark red color. Same goes for the nail varnish. It looks slutty. Get something lighter. Is there anything you can do about your hair? I liked it better without the colored streaks.”

“They’ll wash out easily enough,” Tracy said. She touched her hair and licked her lips self-consciously, then examined her scarlet nails. Still she felt uneasy. She wasn’t sure that she wanted to change her appearance and go into forced exile over the Channel with Jaff, much as she fancied him. After all, she didn’t know him very well and she hadn’t done anything illegal. She wasn’t on the run. In fact, she wasn’t even sure what she was doing, or why. All she’d done wrong so far was help make a bit of a mess of her dad’s place and drink some of his booze. But she decided to concentrate on the moment, on the now. She could deal with the rest later.

NOT SO far away, in his eighteenth-century manor house on the northwestern fringes of Ripon, “Farmer” George Fanthorpe stood at his picture window and surveyed his domain as he mulled over what he had just been told. He could see his own flushed, craggy face, round shoulders and thick curls of graying hair reflected in the glass. Beyond his reflection lay the garden, his pride and joy, with its beautifully trimmed lawn, swings, slide and a seesaw for the kids, topiary hedges, cinder paths, fountains, flower beds and vegetable patches where Zenovia liked to spend her time, though today she was on a shopping trip in York.

The high walls that enclosed the garden were mostly covered by climbing vines and partially hidden by trees, though where the garden sloped down there were enough gaps in the foliage to make the view of the Wensleydale hills beyond Masham a magnificent one. Today, the frozen waves of hills had become gray, muted humps, each higher than the one before it, undulating into the far distance. Fanthorpe loved that view, could watch it for hours. It was even more spectacular from the bedroom window, without any obstruction in the way at all. But the walls were necessary. They were also topped with broken glass. “Farmer” Fanthorpe had enemies.

The grayness of the weather reflected his mood that afternoon. There were things happening in the far-flung reaches of his empire that he didn’t like, didn’t like at all. He prided himself on running a slick operation, and the snippets of news that Darren had just given him were disturbing his equilibrium, to say the least.

“You’re certain it’s Jaff’s girlfriend?” he asked, half turning.

“Certain,” said Darren, who had been standing behind him in silence, arms folded…

Fanthorpe knew that Darren wasn’t an alarmist, not one to exaggerate or get in a tizzy over nothing. Cool, Darren was, even in a scrape. Especially in a scrape. And he understood the value of intelligence. “And they found the shooter in her house?”

“Parents’ house. It was on the news.”

“Just a shooter? I mean, they didn’t mention…?”

“Just a shooter. The cops shot her old man with a Taser. He died.”

Fanthorpe turned his back on the view and moved closer toward Darren. “Tough titty. You know, this is the last thing we need right now, don’t you? The last thing. What with negotiations with the Russians going so well. The Lithuanians falling into line. And the Albanian deal. What does that stupid bastard think he’s up to, giving his shooter to his fucking girlfriend? And where is he? He was supposed to be here with the stuff last night. Last fucking night.”

“I don’t know,” said Darren. “Maybe he didn’t give the gun to her. Maybe she took it and the stuff. The cops aren’t saying. What do you want us to do?”

“Is Ciaran with you?”

“In the car.”

Fanthorpe paced the room, thinking furiously. He didn’t want to do anything that would draw further unwanted attention to himself-and pretty much all attention was unwanted in his line of work, which involved criminal business of astonishing breadth and variety, from the merely gray to the out-and-out black: moving things around, matching demand with supply, whether drugs, dirty money, luxury cars or unwilling sex-trade workers. His daughters went to the best school in the county, and his beautiful young Serbian wife didn’t have to get dishpan hands. Fanthorpe wanted to keep it that way. And the manor house, too; that was a given.

It often amazed him how utterly still Darren could stand. He didn’t even blink while he waited for the answer.

“And this was all on the news this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Has Jaff’s name been mentioned?”

“Not yet. We think the girl must be keeping shtum.”

“It won’t last,” said Fanthorpe. “It never does.”

“She’s on bail. We might still be able to get to her. We could-”

Fanthorpe held his hand up, palm out. “No,” he said. “No. I appreciate the sentiment, Darren, I really do. And if anyone can do it, you and Ciaran can. But it’s too risky. I know we’ve done similar things before with witnesses and other problems, but the risks far out-weigh the advantages this time. If she doesn’t name him, someone else will. You can’t tell me they don’t hang around with other people like themselves. Don’t like to show off a bit, flash the cash around. You know kids today. Clubs. Pubs. Loose tongues. A social circle. No. If she doesn’t tell them, someone else will.”

“Then what?”

“First, I want you to pay a visit to Jaff’s flat. You know where it is. That posh place by the wharf in Leeds. Here’s the key. He’s still got something of mine, and I want it back. Maybe he heard what happened to his girlfriend and took off somewhere, took it with him, even though he must know what that means, but…well, have a butcher’s, anyway.”

Darren pocketed the key. He didn’t ask where Fanthorpe had got it from. It didn’t matter. “No sweat, boss. And then?”

“Jaff. He’s not as tough as he thinks he is. Once the coppers get to him, and they will, it’s only a matter of time before he talks, if he hasn’t already. Maybe they’ll offer him a deal, too. And he knows too much about us. Way too much.” Fanthorpe shook his head. “I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. Jaff. You know he’s practically my partner? I’ve treated that boy like the son I never had. Groomed him. And this is how he repays me.”

“We don’t know that he’s done anything yet.”

Fanthorpe turned red. “He’s given me fucking indigestion, for a start. And he’s a let a gun fall into police hands, all because of some stupid tart. If that’s not enough, I don’t know what is. He’s a liability.”

“So what do we do?” Darren asked again.

“Whatever damage is done, we make sure it stops with Jaff. Is there anything concrete to link him to us?”

“Tenuous, at best,” said Darren. “Rumors. Innuendo. Nothing we can’t deal with. No loose ends we can’t tie up.”

Fanthorpe nodded. “As I thought. Well, rumors and innuendo are about as much use as a fart in a force nine gale, but they can cause a lot of peripheral damage. So it stops with Jaff. See to it.”

“Right, boss.”

“Find him. Pay him a visit. Don’t bring him back here. Take him somewhere nice and quiet. Find out exactly what’s going on. Let Ciaran loose on him if you have to. He must be getting thirsty for blood again by now. It’s been a long while. Get what you can out of him. Get my stuff back for me. Give me a bell when you’ve done it, and I’ll give you further instructions then. Think you can you handle it?”

Darren gave him a look of wonder that he should ask such a question.

“Course you can,” said Fanthorpe, patting Darren’s shoulder. “Course you can, my lad. You haven’t let me down yet. Remember. It stops with Jaff. First get my stuff back, then…then…” He paused and drew the edge of his hand across his throat. “It stops.”