Bad Boy

9

BANKS HAD BEEN ON THE PLANE SINCE FIVE TO FIVE on Wednesday afternoon, and by his watch it was three o’clock in the morning when they finally stopped circling Heathrow and began the slow descent. It was broad daylight outside. Banks hadn’t slept-he never did on planes-but at least he hadn’t drunk any alcohol; he had heard that abstinence helped to alleviate jet lag. The food had been pretty dreadful, and the choice of movies not much better. Mostly he had read The Maltese Falcon until his eyes got too tired, then he took out his iPod and listened to Angela Hewitt playing Bach’s Keyboard Concertos. The noise-canceling headphones he had bought before flying out had been expensive, but they were well worth it. The music came out loud and clear, while everything else was a distant background hum. Somehow Bach managed to calm and relax him on a flight in a way that most other music didn’t.

But soon came the instructions to turn off all electronic devices, along with the information that the time in London was 11:05 A.M. on Thursday morning, and the temperature was eighteen degrees Celsius. Banks packed up his iPod and headphones and took out his book again for the last few minutes. At least they hadn’t barred people from reading old-fashioned print on the final descent. Yet.

He could see London spread out below him between the clouds as they came in to land from the east: the meandering Thames, the green sward of a large park, Tower Bridge, busy streets and clusters of buildings, all the familiar landmarks gleaming in the bright sunshine. It looked like a fine day, but all he really wanted to do was crawl into bed. He had booked a hotel room in the West End and planned on spending the weekend in London seeing old friends before taking the train back up north on Monday morning. He hoped the hotel room would be ready for him when he arrived.

The plane bumped along the runway, and after a lengthy ground journey came to a halt beside a Jetway. In no time at all Banks was shuffling along the miles of airport corridors with the rest of the weary passengers to Passport Control. The EU line wasn’t very long, and it was soon Banks’s turn to walk up to the officer and present his passport. She checked the photograph against his face, scanned it through her computer, checked it again, then turned around, and two burly men who had been hanging back keeping an eye on the arrivals walked forward.

“Mr. Banks? Can you please come with us, sir,” one of them said in a voice that made it clear that he wasn’t asking a question.

“What is-”

“Please, sir.” The man took his arm and led him away from the queue.

Banks had done the same thing to enough people himself-albeit in slightly different circumstances-that he knew not to expect any answers. Maybe they thought he was a terrorist. Maybe they would waterboard him. They could do what they wanted, and there was nothing he could do about it. Most likely, he thought, it was something to do with that business with MI5 earlier in the summer. He’d made a mess of things then, and he had also made some dangerous enemies. They had long memories; they didn’t forget. Was this some kind of payback for what he had done? And how serious were they? Whatever it was, he certainly wouldn’t get to say anything until they got where they were going. He felt panic rise in his chest; his heart thumped, and he found it difficult to breathe. He also felt faint and light-headed from jet lag and lack of sleep. And fear.

They led him down the corridor toward the baggage-claim area and through a heavy door to the left marked AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY. After a few more twists and turns along dim and airless passages, they got to an unmarked office door. One of the men opened the door, and with a gentle but firm touch to the small of Banks’s back, the other made sure he went inside. Then the door closed behind him.

The office was larger, cleaner and better-appointed than he would have expected, but there were no windows, and a little fan sat on the desk slowly churning the stale humid air. It was who sat behind the desk that surprised Banks. Perhaps it shouldn’t have. Detective Superintendent Richard Burgess was somehow connected with Special Branch, and he had helped Banks out with a case earlier in the summer, the one that made him so nervous about all this security business to start with. At the sight of Burgess he relaxed a bit, and his heart rate slowed closer to normal, but there was still something wrong about this, because DS Winsome Jackman was also in the room. What on earth was she doing here?

“You all right, Alan?” asked Burgess. “You look a bit peaky.”

“It’s not every day I get picked up at Passport Control by airport security. What the hell’s going on?” Banks realized that Dirty Dick only knew a part of what had happened earlier that summer, and that Winsome knew nothing, so they couldn’t really have any idea of the sort of images that went through his mind or the level of terror he felt when two burly plainclothes security officers dragged him off without explanation. After the experiences he had had, he could easily believe that people had been led into those very same corridors and had never been seen again.

“Take a pew,” said Burgess, pushing a bottle of Laphroaig and a plastic cup toward him. “Sorry about the lack of crystal ware. This is still your tipple of choice, isn’t it?”

“I’m not sitting anywhere or drinking anything till someone tells me what’s going on.”

“I’m sorry about the welcoming committee,” Burgess went on. “Had to be done, though. I can’t go out there. And they had no idea why they were doing it. They were just following orders. It’s the only way they do things around here. Winsome will explain.”

“What orders? Whose orders? Winsome?”

“Pour yourself a drink first and sit down,” said Burgess. “Go on. Believe me, it’ll help.”

Though he had switched from whiskey to red wine a couple of years ago, Banks did as Burgess suggested. Immediately he smelled the acrid peaty malt, he felt his throat constrict and his skin burn, but he managed to take a sip. The warmth flooded his veins. He could get used to this again. “Just get on with it, then. What’s going on?”

Winsome’s expression was grave, and now Banks feared that something might have happened to Tracy, Brian, his mother or his father. This was the way they told you about a death in the family. The solicitous tone, a drink, a chair to sit on, the sepulchral expressions.

“I’m sorry, too,” said Winsome. “But I think it was the best way. Detective Superintendent Gervaise knew what flight you were returning on, and Mr. Burgess was kind enough to help out with airport security. Otherwise, I’d be standing out in Arrivals holding up a sign with your name on it.”

“I think I’d have spotted you without the sign, Winsome. Come on. Give. What is it?”

“It’s Annie,” Winsome said, leaning forward. “There’s no easy way to break this. She’s…”

“Annie? She’s what? Get it out.”

“Annie’s been shot.”

Banks fell back in his chair and put his hands to his burning cheeks. “Shot?”

“Last night. I didn’t want to risk you seeing it in the paper, sir. It even made some headlines. That’s why…I mean, if you’d gone wandering in the concourse…you might have…”

Banks instinctively reached for the Laphroaig, tipped the cup toward his mouth and took a large mouthful. It burned as it went down, but it helped bring his mind into sharper focus. “How serious is it?”

“It’s very serious,” Winsome said. “They’ve sent for her father.”

“But she’s still alive?”

“Yes. But it’s touch and go. One of the bullets nicked her right lung. It collapsed. The lung and chest cavity filled with fluid. She almost didn’t make it to the hospital.”

“One bullet?”

“She was shot twice. Once in the chest and once in the shoulder. The second bullet shattered the clavicle and fragmented. It’ll cause mobility problems, but they say it’ll heal in time. The surgeons were operating most of the night. They may have to go in again.”

“Good God,” whispered Banks. “Have you caught whoever did it?”

“Not yet… Our information’s a bit sketchy.”

“Where is she now?”

“Cook University Hospital. Middlesbrough. They don’t have the facilities at Eastvale General to deal with that kind of trauma.”

“Not many people get shot in Eastvale,” Banks pointed out. There was a pause. Burgess reached for the Laphroaig bottle, and Banks saw him exchange a glance with Winsome. “What?” Banks said. “Is there something else?”

“It didn’t happen in Eastvale,” said Winsome. She glanced at her watch. “Look, do you want to head up to Middlesbrough and see her now? We can pick up your suitcases at the baggage claim on the way out, and I’ll fill you in on everything I know. There’s a helicopter-”

“A helicopter?”

Burgess cleared his throat. “Least I could do, mate. I put in for a Lear jet, but budgets being what they are these days…” He managed a weak grin.

Banks stared at him and swirled the remaining whiskey in his cup before finishing it off. “Thanks,” he said. Then he held up the empty cup before he set it down on the desk. “And for this, too.”

Burgess just nodded, then he got up and opened the door to have a brief word with the two security guards, who were still waiting outside. “They’ll escort the both of you out of here,” he said.

Winsome got to her feet.

“Right, then,” said Banks. “Let’s go.” He paused in the doorway. “Just one thing. If Annie wasn’t shot in Eastvale, where exactly did it happen?”

“In Gratly, sir,” Winsome said. “In your conservatory.”

TRACY DIDN’T know exactly what time it was when she awoke from a terrifying dream that skittered off back into her subconscious the moment she opened her eyes, leaving her wide awake and afraid. She must have dozed off for a while, she realized. Going by the height and position of the sun through the bare roof beams and gaps in the stone walls, she guessed it was mid-morning. Her face and arm hurt, she felt dirty and wanted a shower, but most of all she needed desperately to go to the toilet.

They were in a ruined barn. Though most of the roof was gone, and large sections of the stone walls had collapsed, it had provided some shelter for the night and, more importantly, a place to hide and remain unseen in the early daylight hours. But they had no food, and Tracy realized now that she was also desperately hungry.

Jaff slept on, snoring and snuffling occasionally, tossing and turning on the hard floor. How could he? Tracy wondered. Her hands and feet felt numb from the rope he had found in the boot of Vic’s car and used to tie her up. She couldn’t even move enough to dislodge the fat black spider that was crawling over her bare midriff. She hated spiders. It tickled and seemed, to her, to be deriving some pleasure from the discomfort it was causing her, though she knew that was ridiculous. Maybe it would bite her. It just wouldn’t go away.

All night she had fought off panic attacks by deep-breathing, but she still felt on the verge of some sort of breakdown as she watched the spider’s progress. And she knew that if she caused any trouble now, Jaff would certainly kill her. She was here under sufferance because she might be useful. He now felt he had nothing to lose. He had already shot Annie, probably killed her, and who knew whom else he had shot with the gun Erin took? Annie had mentioned someone called Marlon Kincaid, so maybe Jaff had shot him, too. Her only chance was to take to the open moorland the first chance she got, and she couldn’t do that while her hands were tied behind a post and her ankles bound.

As she sat there waiting for Jaff to wake up, Tracy cried and longed for her father. Perhaps he had ignored her, neglected her in favor of Brian, perhaps he hadn’t really understood her and sympathized with her failure, realized how much it had meant to her, especially in the light of her brother’s success, but she couldn’t really blame him for all that. At least, she didn‘t want to anymore. He had his own life, and she knew it had been difficult enough since her mother had left. Not that she blamed her mother, either. But the baby had been a bit hard to take. Growing kid, now. A half sister. But she should have been kinder, more understanding. She would be, if ever she got out of this.

The birds had started early, and the cacophony of their different voices continued through the morning. Tracy’s bladder hurt more and more with every second that passed, but she wasn’t going to sink to the indignity of peeing her pants. She had been hoping for hours to hear the sound of a tractor or some other vehicle approaching before Jaff awoke, but there had been nothing so far but the birds. Nor had she heard any human voices. They were too far from the road. Besides, she realized, what chance would a poor farmer or a couple of ramblers have against Jaff and his gun? Anyone who approached them would most likely be walking to their death. About an hour earlier she thought she had heard a helicopter overhead, but it hadn’t swept close enough to see them through the bare roof. Maybe it would come back. And if there was a helicopter, there were others searching, on foot and in cars.

It had been hard work, but they had managed to hide the car. The wall was just high enough to obscure it from the road, and they had covered the top with branches and scrub. It wouldn’t stay hidden for long, though. Someone would enter through the gate and see it soon enough. With any luck, Tracy hoped, that would be sooner rather than later, and the police would realize they were out on the moors somewhere.

Only a few miles from where they had dumped the car they had come across the barn and, as the sun was already rising, Jaff had said they should hole up there for a while. Tracy had known by then that he was stumped, that he hadn’t come up with a plan to get out of this situation. He was lost without wheels. What did he hope to do? Hide in the barn all day and then tramp off through the heather again when darkness fell? Jaff had almost broken his ankle twice last night tripping over heather roots or clumps of springy grass, so he wouldn’t want to try that again in a hurry. It would take them days at this rate, and the net would surely be tightening. The whole country would be alerted to the search by now, Tracy hoped. But it was best to keep her mouth shut about that, she realized. If Jaff hadn’t thought of these things, of the full extent of what he had done, she wasn’t going to tell him. The longer they were out here in the wilds, the more chance she had of escape, or of being found.

Tracy struggled against the ropes once more, but they didn’t give; they just tightened and caused her more pain. The spider fell off her stomach and scuttled away. She felt the hot tears trail down her cheeks. Jaff must have sensed something, because suddenly his eyes were open, and he was dragging himself up into a sitting position, clearly stunned, Tracy thought, probably not sure where he was. At that moment he had the little-boy-lost air about him, the kind of look that had once made her want to hold him and smooth his hair. Now she just wanted to smash his head in with a lump of stone and run away as far and as fast as she could. If she got the opportunity, she would do it, too. She checked the ground for a loose rock. Perhaps when he untied her, she would get her chance.

“I need to go to the toilet,” Tracy said. Jaff rubbed his eyes. “Then go.”

Tracy squirmed. “I can’t. You tied me up. It hurts.”

He seemed to think about that for a moment. Then he got to his feet and walked over to her. “You’d better not try anything.”

“I won’t.”

Slowly he untied her feet first, then, kneeling behind her, her hands, carefully winding up the rope and putting it back in his hold-all. He clearly intended to use it again, Tracy thought, which probably meant that he wasn’t going to shoot her just yet. Unfortunately there were no handy stones to smash into his head, and she wouldn’t have been able to manage a surprise attack anyway.

Finally Tracy was able to get haltingly to her feet. She jogged up and down and rubbed her wrists to get the circulation moving. The movement made her bladder hurt even more. She turned to walk outside.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Jaff said. “Outside.”

Jaff shook his head. “I’m not letting you out of my sight for one second. Not after the stupid stunts you pulled last night.”

“But I want some privacy.”

“And I want a plate of bacon and eggs and a pot of hot coffee, but neither of us is going to get what we want. If you want to go, you go here.”

“At least turn away,” Tracy begged. Jaff folded his arms. “No.”

She tried to stare him down, to hold back her need, but the pressure was too much. In the end she turned her eyes away from his stare and, face burning with shame, turned her back to him, let down her jeans and squatted.

GEORGE FANTHORPE didn’t like being seen in public with Darren and Ciaran, but he didn’t like them coming to the house too often, either, especially if Zenovia and the kids were home. He tried to balance things as best he could, family and business, and when they did go out in public, as they were doing now, having lunch at the Wheelwright’s Inn just outside the village, he insisted that Darren wear a polo-neck jumper to cover the tattoo on the back of his neck, and that Ciaran wear a suit and comb his hair. That way they gave an almost credible appearance of business colleagues.

Luckily, the Wheelwright’s Inn had a tiny private snug, and the landlord was always happy to accommodate Mr. Fanthorpe if he rang ahead. After all, Fanthorpe was the local squire in all but title, the Lord of the Manor, and the locals were deferential to him, practically doffed their caps when he walked by. It was a role he loved, and he didn’t intend to jeopardize it by taking the risk of anyone finding out how and where he got the money to run his legitimate businesses, such as the dairy he owned, which helped support a good number of the area’s cattle farmers. Not to mention a great deal of the land thereabouts, which he leased to farmers at reasonable prices.

With their food on order and three pints of Sam Smith’s Old Brewery Bitter before them, they got down to business. Fanthorpe wanted a cigarette, but you couldn’t smoke in pubs anymore, not even in the snug. Couldn’t smoke bloody anywhere. Zenovia wouldn’t even let him smoke in his own house. The one he’d paid for, with his money. All he had left was the garden shed, a shabby, musty, dim and dusty domain for a multimillionaire to escape to for a smoke and a quick gander at The Economist three or four times a day.

“Right, lads, so what do we have so far?” Fanthorpe asked after wetting his whistle and wiping the mustache of foam from his upper lip.

Darren gave him the details of their visits to Jaff’s flat and the girlfriend’s house, where they had had their little chat with Rose Preston. Ciaran, as usual, said nothing, merely nodded occasionally.

“So he’s definitely done a runner, then?” Fanthorpe concluded. “Looks like it.”

“With one of his girlfriend’s housemates?”

“That’s right.”

“The dirty, cheating bastard. Still, it shouldn’t be too hard to find out who she is.”

Darren cleared his throat. “Er, we already know that, boss.”

“Good work. I won’t ask you how. You didn’t hurt anyone, did you, Ciaran?”

Ciaran gave a twisted smile. “Not yet.”

“Good lad.”

“She calls herself Francesca,” said Darren, “but young Rose told us that her real name is Tracy. Tracy Banks.”

“Tracy Banks?” said Fanthorpe, suddenly alert. “Did you say Tracy Banks?”

“Right, boss. Why?”

“Fuck. I suppose it could be a common-enough name, but if it’s the one I’m thinking of, she’s a copper’s daughter. Alan Banks. DCI Alan Banks.”

“The one up Eastvale way?”

“That’s the one. Remember him?”

“I remember him now,” said Darren. “Ciaran and I did a bit of research into his family a few years ago. I just couldn’t place the name.”

“Mr. Banks and I have crossed swords on a couple of occasions, as you know. I make a point of finding out everything I can about my enemies. Nothing proven, mind you. He never got anything on me, but a few years ago, when he was local CID, he was sniffing a bit too close for my liking. You’ll both remember that. He’s second in command of Western Area Major Crimes now, under that new woman superintendent. Gervaise. Quite a reputation, he has. Bit of a maverick, too, by all accounts, which is why they say he’ll never make superintendent. Doesn’t always play by the rules, or go by the book.”

“All the more fun for us, then,” said Darren. “Would you like us to have a word?”

“With Banks? Are you fucking insane? That’d be a red rag to a bull. No, no, we leave him well out of it. The last thing we need is the police knowing any more than they do already. Right now they’ve no reason to come talking to us. I’m just saying be careful. If his daughter’s involved, it could mean more trouble than we expected. He’ll be mental. Things could escalate.”

“What about the girl we talked to? Rose. She’ll remember us. Should we deal with her permanently?”

“I don’t want you dealing with anyone right now. Keep a low profile. Either they’ve already talked to her, or she’s too scared to say anything. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Let’s stay focused here.”

Jelena, the Czech serving girl, brought their meals. It took her two trips, and Fanthorpe flirted with her, as usual, and ogled her arse as she wiggled away. Darren and Ciaran didn’t seem interested. But they never did. Sometimes Fanthorpe wondered about those two. If truth be told, he wouldn’t have minded half an hour in a haystack with the lovely Jelena, even a full hour, but he knew how far to push it. He had plenty of opportunities to play away from home on his “business” trips. No point doing it on his own doorstep. Around these parts he was a well-respected family man, and it was in his best interests to keep it that way. So he stuck to flirting and drew the line at anything further. Though he wondered if she might be interested in a quick trip to London next week, dinner at The Ivy, take in a West End show…

“The problem is,” said Darren, bringing Fanthorpe back to the matter at hand, “that if it is her, this Tracy Banks, then she’s gone over to the dark side, hasn’t she?”

“The dark side? Jaff? Is that meant to be some sort of a fucking joke?”

“No.” Darren seemed genuinely nonplussed. “Because if it is, it’s not very funny.”

“No, boss. What I mean is, Jaff’s hardly the sort of bloke you associate with nice girls, is he?”

“I don’t suppose he is, now you come to mention it,” said Fanthorpe. “He’s a bad ’un through and through. But these young lasses…Some of them like that sort of thing. Got minds of their own these days, they have.”

“Between their legs, more like,” said Darren.

“You watch your tongue. I’ve got daughters of my own.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“Just watch your tongue, that’s all.”

“Sorry, boss. Have you seen the news today?”

“Haven’t had time,” said Fanthorpe, who found most news, except the economic kind, boring. All they could talk about was sport, sex and politics, anyway. Or crime.

“There was a copper shot in Swainsdale last night. They’re not saying much, except it was a woman, a DI, no less, and she wasn’t even on active duty at the time. There’s rumors she might not survive.”

“Jaff?”

“Well, he’d have had to get hold of another gun if his girlfriend took the one he had.”

“Easy enough for him,” said Fanthorpe. “He’s got a mate imports them by the crate load from Lithuania. Baikals with silencers. Right pieces of shite, if you ask me. Converted from firing tear-gas pellets. I ask you. But they’re deadly enough in the right hands. No, the shooter’s no problem. Not for Jaff.” Fanthorpe rubbed his stubbly chin. “I always thought there was something not quite kosher about our Jaff, much as I loved him like my own. A bit too independent-minded. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had a few of his own little enterprises going on the side, a few irons in the fire we don’t know about.”

“Then it’s not our problem, is it?”

“It is now. He’s made it our problem. He’s taken something of mine, and he’s got himself in trouble with the law. I don’t take kindly to any of that. He’s opened us up to the kind of exposure and attention we don’t want. Sooner or later, when the police come knocking, someone talks. Right now I wouldn’t trust Jaff as far as I could throw him. He’s capable of anything. Look how bloody moody and unpredictable he is. And that temper of his. Like a barrel of dodgy dynamite, ready to go off at any moment. No, I don’t want Jaff on the loose. But this Tracy Banks business adds a whole new dimension. You sure the copper getting shot is connected?”

“Has to be, doesn’t it?” Darren said. “I mean, that part of the world, Swainsdale, bit of a backwoods, really, innit? Nothing much happens there. Now all this. It’d be too much of a coincidence if they weren’t connected, wouldn’t it?”

“Jaff?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Darren. “You said it yourself. He’s a loose cannon.”

“And you think the Banks girl is on the run with him?”

“Along for the ride, by the sound of it. I’ll bet he’s giving her plenty, too. Bit of a randy goat, our Jaff. Maybe she just likes a bit of rough?”

“What a fucking idiot.”

“He’s on the run. Like an animal. He’s not thinking clearly. Not acting rational. Desperate.”

“Well, that gives us an edge, doesn’t it?” said Fanthorpe, detaching some flakes of crispy batter from his fish. The soggy white meat tasted oily. There was something not quite right about it, and his stomach was already making grumbling sounds. Maybe he should follow his doctor’s advice and lay off booze and fatty foods. “An edge. Because we’re going to remain cool, calm and collected about this. Aren’t we, gentlemen?”

Both men nodded.

“Right. Where was this policewoman shot?”

“I don’t know, boss. They only said her wounds were life-”

“I don’t mean that, you idiot. Where in Swainsdale? Eastvale? Helmthorpe? Lyndgarth?”

“They didn’t say.”

“Boxing clever, eh?” Fanthorpe sipped some more beer and finished his fish and chips, which tasted better now, then he said, “Right, this is the situation as I see it. The way I put the pieces together, our Jaff was on the run or hiding out somewhere in Swainsdale with Tracy Banks. Running from a gun charge his girlfriend was no doubt helping to bring against him, which, as we know, not only means a five-year stretch, which is bad enough, but the kind of police scrutiny a lad in Jaff’s business couldn’t survive. And he’s running with something of mine, something of great value. Not to mention the fifty grand he was supposed to deliver. As Alan Banks works out of Western Area Headquarters in Eastvale, I think we can safely assume it’s the same Tracy Banks. Somehow or other, one of the local plods caught up with them, and Jaff, silly, lovable, impulsive bugger that he is, pulled a gun and shot her. That means Tracy Banks is either with him all the way, or she’s suddenly become a distinct liability. I’d guess the latter. Either way, she’ll slow him down.”

“Unless he just shoots her and dumps her?”

“Possibly,” said Fanthorpe. “But he’ll know she might be useful to him. Jaff’s not stupid. We need to find them before the police do, or we’ve seen the last of our little commodities.”

“And the money,” Darren added. “Let’s not forget the money. It’ll end up under some copper’s mattress. But where are we supposed to start? Swainsdale’s a bloody big place, and it’s mostly full of nothing.”

“If I know Jaff,” Fanthorpe said, “he’ll be heading for the city. He’s a city boy at heart. He’s got contacts in London, the old boys’ network. You’d be surprised how many of them are crooked. He’s got people who can get him anything he needs, for a price, no questions asked. That’s the class he comes from, remember. He always thought he was a cut above you and me. But he’s got to get there first. I assume he’s got a car. You can’t get around in that part of the world without wheels. But he wouldn’t use his own car. He wouldn’t want every patrol car in the area looking out for his number plate, would he?”

“He might have stolen one,” Darren suggested.

“Only if he could be certain the owner was well out of the way for a few days so he couldn’t report it stolen. But point taken. Now, I happen to know he’s got an old mate in Leeds called Victor Mallory. The Baikal boy, as it happens. I’ve used him ourselves for freelance jobs once or twice. Just small stuff. Nothing important. They went to school together down south. One of those posh bum-boy places. Eton or Harrow, or whatever. Anyway, they’re close. This Mallory lives just north of the Leeds ring road, near Harrogate Road, where all those golf clubs are. Alwoodley, something like that. According to my sources, he’s as dodgy as Jaff, and not only with the guns. Clever with a test tube, they say.”

“Alwoodley’s not so far from the airport, is it?” said Darren. “Maybe Jaff got on a flight to Benidorm or somewhere?”

“Don’t be a fucking idiot, Darren. He couldn’t get on a plane to anywhere. Not with what he’s carrying. Everyone has to go through them security scanners now. They can see what you had for breakfast.”

“Sorry, boss. Forgot.”

“No. Wherever he’s going, he’s got to drive, and he’s got to unload the stuff in this country, unless he’s a lot more bloody organized than I think he is and has his own network of couriers and mules, which I very much doubt. He might risk a bus or a train, but he’d be worried they’re already keeping an eye on the stations. So my guess is he’s driving a car nobody knows he’s got. So here’s what you do. You go pay this Victor Mallory a visit. I’ll give you his address. Be discreet. Find out all you can from him and give me a buzz on the throwaway. The throwaway, mind you. Not the landline. And see if you can find out exactly where that copper was shot. If Jaff’s behind it, it’ll give us at least some idea of what route he might be taking. But it’s my guess he’s headed for the bright lights.”

“He could be there by now,” said Darren.

Fanthorpe clapped his hands. “Well, all the more reason to get moving right away, isn’t it? And ask Jelena to bring me another pint and a plate of them profiteroles on your way out, would you?” Maybe now would be a good time to ask her if she fancied a couple of days away, no strings, he thought.