Bad Boy

10

BANKS FELT QUEASY AFTER THE HELICOPTER RIDE AS HE FOLLOWED Winsome along the hospital corridors toward Intensive Care, across the hall from the large modern operating suite. During the flight Winsome had tried to fill him in on the general outline of what had been happening in his absence, but the helicopter had been noisy, they had had to wear earmuffs and conversation had been all but impossible.

Banks felt numb, too, partly from lack of sleep and jet lag, but also because of the news he had been given about Annie. He needed to get back into gear fast, but he somehow couldn’t quite persuade his body or his brain to make the shift. As a result everything seemed slightly out of phase, movements in his peripheral vision distracted him, sharp sounds jarred him, and he started to develop a throbbing headache. If he was going to collapse, he thought, he was in the best place for it.

A short muscular woman with spiky hair came up to them as they neared Annie’s room. “DCI Banks? DS Jackman?”

Banks stopped. He thought he recognized her from somewhere, but he couldn’t put a name to the face. Was she a bearer of bad news?

“You won’t remember me,” she went on. “I’m PC Nerys Powell, with the AFO team? I was with the unit that went to the Doyle house.” Banks didn’t understand what she meant, but Winsome seemed to be following all right. “I know you,” she said. “I’ve seen you around HQ, and you were at the meeting on Monday.”

“We’re spending a lot of time there these days,” Nerys said. She turned to Banks. “Look, sir,” she said, “the officer on the door won’t let me in to see Annie. She spoke very highly of you. Will you let me know how she’s doing?”

“Why do you want to know?” Banks asked. He knew he sounded brusque, but he was anxious to get past her, to Annie’s bedside.

“We were working on the case together. She was kind to me. That’s all. It’s been…things have been…very difficult. I sort of feel responsible.”

“Things are difficult for me right now,” said Banks, brushing past her. Then he half turned. “I’ll keep you informed, PC Powell. I promise. Go home now. Get some rest.”

Intensive Care had facilities for about sixteen patients, but an arrangement of curtains and screens allowed for a certain amount of privacy. Banks’s knees felt weak when he approached Annie’s bedside. She seemed so small, frail and lifeless, lying there against the white sheets amid the machines and tubes. But the monitors were beeping steadily, and the LCD lights were all on. He thought he could see her blood pressure at 139/81 and her heart rate at 72, which wasn’t so bad, as far as he knew. Probably lower than his, at any rate. A nurse stood by the bedside adjusting one of the tubes, and Banks asked if he might hold Annie’s hand.

“Just for a few moments,” she said.

So Banks sat there holding the limp hand, Winsome standing behind him. The other hand was bandaged up and held fast in the brace along with her injured shoulder. The IV needle was taped to the back of her good hand and several tubes were attached. Banks could see that she was getting blood and some sort of clear fluid, probably saline, with whatever medication she was being given. There was a yellow clip on her finger, also attached to a machine, to measure the oxygen level in her blood. The lower half of her face was covered by the tube in her mouth and the tape that held it in place. Her eyes were closed. Her pale hand was warm to his touch, but there was no grip, no life in it. For a moment his universe shrank to that small space defined by the steady in and out of the pump that was giving her breath. If he looked closely, he could see her chest gently rising and falling with its rhythm.

Banks felt a stir of air behind him and turned to see a slight Asian man. He hardly seemed old enough to be out of medical school, but he was wearing a charcoal-gray suit, white shirt and tie, not the bright turquoise scrubs that are the sign of a medical student. Banks had seen plenty of them on his walk down the corridors to Intensive Care.

“That’s enough now,” said the nurse, putting her hand on Banks’s shoulder. “This is Mr. Sandhar. He’s the star surgeon on our trauma team, and he operated on the patient. Perhaps you’d like to talk to him?”

Banks thanked her, kissed Annie on the forehead and left her side. Mr. Sandhar led Banks and Winsome through another maze of corridors into a small consultation room. There was only one chair, so Banks and Winsome sat side by side on the examination table. Its tissue-paper cover made a crinkling sound as they sat. A chart on the wall depicted the circulation of the blood. Sandhar’s chair was next to a weighing machine.

“Can you give it to us in plain English?” Banks asked.

Sandhar smiled. “Of course. Believe it or not, we usually do try to translate medical jargon into layman’s terms wherever possible for friends and family. Obfuscation is not our business.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Perhaps it would be easier if you were to ask me questions? I should imagine you are quite used to being in that position.”

“Well, I’m hardly going to interrogate you,” said Banks, “but I can certainly ask the questions if you prefer. First of all, can you tell me what happened?”

“Ms. Cabbot has been shot twice. One bullet entered her chest, passing through the middle lobe of her right lung, and the other hit her left clavicle and fragmented, causing a fracture. She was perhaps fortunate in that neither bullet exited, though that very fact alone caused an entirely different set of problems.”

“Those being?”

Sandhar crossed his legs and rested his hands on his lap. “From my information,” he said, “the response time of the ambulance was within ten minutes, which is excellent for a rural area, and for a Category A emergency, which this most certainly was. Whoever made that 999 call probably saved the patient’s life. As I understand it, that person has not been found, but I think that’s your domain rather than it is mine. To continue, the patient had already lost a significant amount of blood by the time the paramedics arrived, but had the weapon been more powerful, and had the bullets exited, there’s no telling how much more blood she would have lost. With an entrance wound only, you see, the skin has a certain elasticity, and it closes around the point of entry.” He used his thumb and forefinger to mimic the puncture hole closing. “Not so much blood is spilled.”

“So Annie was lucky the bullets didn’t go all the way through,” Banks repeated. “I see. That’s probably the good news. What about the other problems?”

“Most of Ms. Cabbot’s bleeding was internal, and the leaking fluid put pressure on her lungs, not allowing them to expand.” Again, he used his hands as he talked, moving his open palms close together, as if about to applaud, or mimic the action of bellows. “One of her lungs collapsed and, as you can imagine, she experienced serious breathing difficulties as a result. If the other lung had stopped functioning, she would have died before the ambulance arrived. Luckily, it didn’t. The paramedics acted quickly and had the knowledge and equipment to deal with the situation en route. They managed to stabilize her in Eastvale General Infirmary and then airlifted her here.”

“But she’s going to be all right?” said Banks. “You fixed it? I mean, you operated?”

Sandhar paused. “We operated. But I must stress that the patient is far from out of danger yet. It could go either way.”

“What you mean?”

“Right now there’s a struggle going on. If she’s strong enough, she’ll win it. At the moment, no one can predict the outcome.”

“She’s strong,” Banks said.

The doctor nodded. “Good. She will need to be.”

“When will you know more?”

“The next twenty-four hours are crucial. We’ll be monitoring her constantly, looking for any signs of decline or improvement. There’s nothing else we can do right now but wait. I’m sorry.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

“If you’re religious you can pray.”

“And if not?”

“You can hope.”

VICTOR MALLORY was pleasantly stoned after a few drinks at lunchtime and a nice spliff when he got home. He had just put Toru Takemitsu’s I Hear the Water Dreaming on the CD player, and was about to lie down and drift off for a while when he heard the doorbell ring. If he had already lain down, he thought, he might not have bothered answering. But it could be important. Maybe Jaff had brought his car back, or maybe the nubile Marianna from the golf club had taken him up on his offer, after all. So he answered it.

Immediately he opened the door he knew he had made a mistake and desperately wished he could close it again. Stoned or straight, he wouldn’t have liked the look of the two men who stood there. They could mean nothing but trouble. Panicking, he did try to shut the door, but his reactions were too slow, and they easily pushed their way into his hallway. They would probably have broken the door down, anyway, he realized. In his business he met some nasty types from time to time, and he generally found that he could talk his way out of most situations, but this time he wasn’t sure. They didn’t look like good listeners.

The smaller one with the ginger hair resembled a speed freak, bad teeth and all, and Victor didn’t like speed or speed freaks. They were wild and unpredictable. That was why he stuck to making E and the good old psychedelics like acid, mescaline and psilocybin. Not a huge market these days, it was true, but in his eyes, they beat crystal meth and crack cocaine, and the kind of people you had to deal with in that world. People like this. It could only have to do with Jaff, who wasn’t anywhere near as fussy about what he took, or what he sold to make a living.

“Come in, gentlemen,” he said. “Make yourselves at home.”

They didn’t appear to have a sense of humor. They pushed him into the living room and sized the place up. The smaller one checked out the rest of the house to see if anyone else was there, while the big bald one sat silently eyeing the modern art on the walls: prints by Dali, Hockney, Magritte, Rothko. The smaller one returned and, satisfied that they were quite alone with their quarry, they first closed the heavy curtains and turned on the standard lamp, then they got down to business.

“First,” said the big bald man, “will you turn that fucking racket off? It makes me feel like I need a shit.”

Confused, Victor turned off the CD player. “I like it,” he said. “It’s really quite soothing if you let-”

“I’d also ask you to turn those bloody paintings around if you could,” the man went on, ignoring him. “They have about the same effect on my bowels. But we don’t have time to mess about. Ciaran.”

The ginger-haired man came forward, gestured for Victor to sit on one of the hard-backed chairs from the dining table and proceeded to use heavy gray duct tape to fasten his legs securely to it and his arms around his back. To finish off, he ran the tape around Victor’s upper body and fastened him tightly to the chair back.

Victor sat passive and silent through all this. He didn’t want them to think he was going to cause trouble. There was a chance that this was all a dream, and he could close his eyes and make it go away. He tried, but it didn’t. They hadn’t taped his mouth shut, so he assumed they wanted to ask him questions, which was a good sign. The paranoia was building, though, getting its hooks into him, but as long as he could talk, there was hope. Gift of the gab, that’s what everyone said about Victor. He could charm the birds out of the trees. This need not come to a bad end.

“Right,” said the bald one, once Victor was trussed up to the other’s satisfaction. “You may not know this, but one thing I’ve learned over the years is that the secret of fear isn’t the inflicting of pain. Not at all. It’s to do with the anticipation of pain. So what we’re going to do is this.” He took an object from the small grip he had put down on the sofa beside him and set it on the low glass coffee table. “Know what this is?”

“An egg timer?”

“More properly known as an hourglass or a sand clock. See how it’s shaped? That’s why they sometimes talk about women having hourglass figures. Did you know that?”

Victor did, but he wasn’t keen to appear too clever in front of these men. He had dealt with similar types before and found that at the first sign of intellectual superiority they became more resentful and, therefore, more aggressive. A public school education followed by an Oxbridge degree was definitely not an advantage in these circumstances. “No,” he said. “I didn’t. I thought it was an egg timer.”

“You turn it over, and the sand falls through the tiny hole from one glass bulb to the other. Very clever, really. Sometimes I could watch it for hours. Of course, it doesn’t take hours. It doesn’t even take anywhere near an hour, so why they call it an hourglass I don’t fucking know, except it looks like a woman’s figure, and they talk about hourglass figures, don’t they? Now, these you might find even more interesting. Ciaran.”

The other man took a large folded pouch from the same grip, set it on the table next to the hourglass and unfurled it.

“This is Ciaran’s collection of surgical instruments,” the man went on. “Not that he’s a surgeon or anything. Didn’t have the Latin, did you, Ciaran?”

“That’s a judge,” said Victor.

“What?” the bald man asked, fixing Victor with a blank stare.

“He could have been a judge, but he didn’t have the Latin.” Victor regretted the words immediately they were out. They smacked of superiority. What the hell did he think he was doing, correcting this yahoo’s quotation?

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Sorry. The sketch. It’s Peter Cook and Dudley Moore.”

The two men looked at each other and shook their heads. “Whatever,” the bald one said. “Anyway, like I said before I was so rudely interrupted, our Ciaran’s no surgeon. Bit of an amateur, really. But he likes the tools, and he likes to dabble. The collection’s a bit of a ragbag, no rhyme nor reason to it, except Ciaran’s personal tastes.” The bald man picked up the sharp gleaming instruments one by one. “Now, I don’t know what these all are, but I do know that some of them are used in dermatology. Know what that is? A clever boy like you should do, university education, Latin and all. No? It means they’re sharp enough to peel an eyeball. Gives a whole new meaning to keeping your eyes skinned, doesn’t it? Others are meant for making deeper cuts through layers of fat or muscle. And then there are things that keep the edges of the wounds open or hold back the underlying organs and tissue while the doctors do their business and put their hands inside, or rip things out.” He held up a hooked instrument. “Retractors of various sizes and designs. Clamps, too, to slow down the bleeding. And most of these other blades are so sharp that they probably don’t hurt very much at first, like when you cut yourself shaving, you don’t really feel it. But eventually the pain comes. Delayed reaction. The blood’s already there, of course. All over the place by then, I should imagine.”

As the bald man talked, Victor felt his spirits sinking and his heart rate rising. He knew the kind of damage and pain these instruments could inflict. Even the dental probe terrified him. His mouth was dry and his skin clammy. “Why are you doing this?” he croaked. “What do you want? I haven’t done anything. You don’t have to do this.”

Ciaran busied himself with the instruments, lovingly and carefully polishing each one with a white cloth.

The bald man looked on, smiling. “What a perfectionist. I tell him not to bother, they’ll only get bloody again, but every time, without fail, he has to polish his instruments. Maybe he’s just an optimist? Maybe he thinks he won’t have to use them this time?”

“He doesn’t,” said Victor, licking his lips. “He doesn’t have to use them. What do you want? I’ll tell you. If it’s money, take it.”

“We don’t want your money, and I’m sure you’ll tell us plenty,” said the bald one. “But I’m also sure you can understand that we have to be certain you’re telling us what we need to hear, not just what we want to hear. There’s a subtle difference.”

“I’ll tell the truth.”

The man laughed. “Hear that, Ciaran? He’ll tell the truth. That’s a good one. Where have you heard that one before?”

“What do you mean?” Victor’s mind was clear enough now for him to worry because the bald man had no hesitation about calling Ciaran by name, if that was his real name. And that couldn’t be good, could it? “I won’t talk. I won’t tell anyone,” he added, for good measure.

“No, that you won’t,” said the bald man. “See those tongs and that blade there? Very good for loose tongues, those are.”

Victor swallowed. His tongue felt too big for his mouth.

The bald man clapped his hands. “But that’s all further down the road. After we’ve reached what I call the point of no return. First off, let’s just have a go, shall we? See how we start off. Starter for ten, eh? An educated lad like you ought to know University Challenge. Let’s see how far we can get without resorting to any serious unpleasantness.”

“That’s fine with me,” said Victor.

“Good. The way it works is like this.” The man turned the hourglass until the sand started slowly sifting through the tiny hole into the other glass bowl. “I’m not sure exactly how long this takes,” he said. “To be honest, I’ve never actually timed it. But while the sand is still running, Ciaran here will hold back with his instruments. That’s the amount of time you’ve got to give me the answers I need. Understand?”

“Yes. Yes. Please. Go on. Ask me anything. Hurry.” Victor glanced at the sand. It was moving far faster than the laws of physics allowed, he was certain, rushing through at an alarming rate.

“Calm down, Victor. There’s no hurry. Plenty of time.”

“Please. Ask me what you want to know. Start now.”

“Need to know.”

“All right. Need.” Victor wanted to yell, “Just bloody get on with it!” as he eyed first the cascading sand, then the shiny curved retractor that Ciaran was polishing. He felt his bowels loosening. He said nothing.

“We’ll start with questions we think we know the answers to already. That way we’ll know if you’re lying. A kind of litmus test. You’re a friend of Jaff McCready’s, yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Good start. Did he come to see you recently?”

“The other day. Yes. Monday, I think.”

“Well done. What did he want?”

“To swap cars for a few days.”

“Did you swap?”

“Yes. He’s a mate. He was in a jam. You help out a mate in a jam, don’t you?”

“Highly commendable. Tell me the make, color and number of your car.”

Victor told him. “What else?”

“I don’t understand.”

“What else did he want?”

“Nothing.”

“Tut-tut, Victor.” The bald man tapped the hourglass. It seemed to make the sand move even faster. “Time’s running out.”

“All right, all right! He wanted a shooter.”

“And you just happened to have one lying around?”

“I have a source. I help people out sometimes. Jaff knew that.”

“So you gave him a gun?”

“Sold him one. A Baikal. With a silencer.”

“I’m not interested in the make. You’re wasting time. Is that all?”

“Yes, I swear.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. He just drove off. I didn’t even see which way he went.”

“Where was he going?”

“I told you. I don’t-”

“Victor, you don’t have long left. Better stick to the truth.”

“I…he…he said he had a girl waiting outside in his car.”

“Tracy Banks?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see her, and he didn’t mention her name. I thought his girlfriend was called Erin, but you never know with Jaff.”

“Quite the ladies’ man, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Where were they going?”

“All he said was that they were going to chill out at her dad’s place in the country for a couple of days while he got things organized, then he was heading down to London.”

“Where in London?”

“I don’t know. Honest, I don’t. He didn’t say.”

“Victor…”

“Why would I lie?”

“I don’t know. Your time’s running out. I certainly wouldn’t lie in your position. But you are lying, aren’t you?”

Victor licked his lips. “Look, he’s got a mate in Highgate. Bloke called Justin. I’ve only met him once. He’s involved in people-smuggling and all kinds of nasty shit. It’s not my scene at all. I don’t know his last name. Jaff said Justin would help him out if it came to it. Fake passport and all that. That’s all I know. Honest.”

“Highgate’s a big place.”

“I’m sorry. That’s all I know.”

“Maybe Ciaran will be able to get a bit more out of you?”

Victor struggled at his bonds, but it did no good. “I don’t know any more.”

The bald man watched the sand contemplatively for a few moments, then he said, “What do you think, Ciaran?”

Ciaran stared at Victor for what seemed like an age. The sand flowed through the tiny hole. It was almost all gone now. Victor’s mouth was so dry that it hurt his throat when he tried to swallow. He felt that if this went on much longer he was going to start crying and begging for mercy.

“Nah,” said Ciaran, and rolled up his instruments. “Not worth it. He doesn’t know any more.” Victor’s mouth dropped.

The bald man picked up the hourglass and put it back in his grip. “Close call, Victor,” he said, going over and ruffling Victor’s hair. “Very close call. We’ll let you get back to your shitty music again. But remember-we know where you live. I suppose I don’t need to tell you what’ll happen if there’s any comeback on us for this, do I?”

Victor shook his head.

“Good lad.” The bald man slapped Victor’s cheek playfully, but still hard enough to hurt, two or three times, then said, “Ciaran.”

They turned off the light and walked toward the door.

“Aren’t you going to cut me free?” Victor asked in a small voice.

The bald man paused in the doorway. “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he said. “Ciaran’s hand might slip with the blade. Like another layer of skin, that duct tape. I tell you what, though.” He took the tape out of the grip and walked over, cutting off a short strip with a pocket knife. “This’ll help save you from yourself. Don’t worry. Someone will turn up eventually. They always do.”

“But how will I explain-”

The man slapped the tape over Victor’s mouth before he could finish the sentence. “Use your imagination, Victor. Use your imagination.” Then they left, pausing only to turn on the CD player on their way out.

HOSPITALS ALWAYS depressed Banks, and sitting in the coffee shop watching the people taking a short break from dealing with sick children, relatives dying of cancer or lying there senile in geriatric wards didn’t help at all. The couple at the next table were talking about the side effects of prostate surgery. Banks tried to shut it out and concentrate on what Winsome was telling him. At least the coffee was good, and he got a chocolate rush from the KitKat. It was well after lunch-time, but he wasn’t really hungry. Sleep seemed a long way off, too, after seeing Annie lying there like that and hearing what Winsome and Mr. Sandhar had told him. A nurse had told them that Annie’s father, Ray, was on his way up from St. Ives by train.

“So, as far as I can gather from what you’ve told me,” Banks summarized, “Annie was shot when she went to my cottage to water the plants. Didn’t it also cross her mind that Tracy might be there with her boyfriend?”

“Probably not. I’m sure she didn’t really think that would be the case, or she would have brought in backup.”

“Not if she thought she was protecting me or Tracy,” said Banks gloomily. “Not if she didn’t want anyone else to know, thought she could nip any problems in the bud. Go on.”

“He’s not really Tracy’s boyfriend. He was Erin Doyle’s.”

“But Erin’s been arrested for possession of a handgun?”

“Yes. She’s out on police bail.”

“This boyfriend…?”

“Jaff. His name’s Jaffar McCready, but everyone calls him Jaff.”

“He’s most likely the one who shot Annie?”

“So we think.”

“And Tracy made the 999 call?”

“Yes,” said Winsome. “It was a female voice, and it was her mobile number. I’ve also heard the recording at the dispatch center. It sounds like Tracy, as well as I can remember. She sounds scared.”

“As well she might,” said Banks.

“We found her mobile phone at the scene, close to where we think their car was parked. It had been smashed to pieces. The SIM card was still in intact, and it showed the phone hadn’t been used since Monday.”

“Isn’t that when this whole business started?”

“It’s when Juliet Doyle turned up at the station to report finding a firearm in her daughter’s bedroom, yes. According to Annie, she asked for you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. I should think she hoped you would deal with it without making too much of a fuss, that things would go better for Erin.”

“I see,” said Banks. “But I wasn’t there, and things went haywire. Erin got arrested and Tracy went to tell the boyfriend.”

“Looks that way,” said Winsome. “And Juliet Doyle?”

“She’s stopping with Harriet Weaver. No charges against her, naturally.”

“Naturally. I don’t suppose this Jaff would want Tracy using the phone if he thought we might link the two of them and track her down through her mobile use. But she loved that mobile. She was never off it. He must have taken it from her on Monday, kept it switched off. Was she there with him willingly? She can’t have been. What do you think?”

“We honestly don’t know,” Winsome said. “She might have been. In the first place. I mean, according to Rose, she went over to his place of her own free will. After that we don’t know how events unfolded, but she must have been the one who took him to your cottage. Maybe he forced her to take him. It’s possible. All we know is what Tracy’s housemate told us. But we don’t know what happened after they got there-the place is a bit of a shambles-but, like you, I can’t believe Tracy would willingly have anything to do with Annie’s shooting.”

“Of course not,” said Banks. “It’s absurd. However this all started, I think we have to assume that Tracy’s under duress right now. She’s a hostage of this Jaff McCready. That’s an odd name, by the way. Know anything about him?”

“I‘ve been doing a bit of digging. His mother’s from Bangladesh. Was. She died of breast cancer a few years ago. She was only forty. Anyway, she was a model. Very lovely, by all accounts. She married Jack McCready. He came from East Kilbride originally, but he built up an empire of bookmakers down south and did a bit of investing in the movie business. That’s how they met. He liked to hang about with the stars and directors and such.”

“Don’t we all?” said Banks. “I’ve heard the name, seen his photo in the papers and his name in the gossip columns from time to time, starlet on each arm sort of thing. Can’t say as I’ve ever met a bookie I could trust. Dead, though, isn’t he?”

“Heart attack,” said Winsome. “Eight years ago. There were rumors about him. Money laundering, nobbled horses, fixed races, what have you. Nothing proven, and the death was all aboveboard. Anyway, the parents split up when Jaffar was eight. He went with his mother to India. She became quite a famous Bollywood star there. I think Jaffar himself got used to a certain amount of fame and celebrity rubbing off on him. Then his mother died tragically, and he was sent back here. He was thirteen then. His father put him straight into boarding school, no love lost there, I imagine, then he went to Cambridge. Read Philosophy.”

“Bright?”

“Average. He got through. They said that he could have applied himself more.”

“They said that about me, too. ‘Could have tried harder.’ Trouble-maker?”

Winsome smiled. “I think McCready was more of a misfit, really. He’s got no form. Definitely not your run-of-the-mill disaffected youth.”

“No,” said Banks. “Perhaps a bit more deeply psychologically scarred. How old is he?”

“Thirty-one.”

“Jobs?”

“Never had one, as far as we can determine.”

“Was he on our radar at all?”

“No. But I had a chat with Ken Blackstone, and West Yorkshire are aware of him. That’s all. Nothing concrete, just a lot of suspicions. Drugs, mostly. They suspect he’s linked with an illegal laboratory, among other things. Something to do with an old mate from Cambridge, a chemistry student. It’s an ongoing investigation. A slow one, Ken says. They haven’t found anything yet.” She took the two sketches that Rose Preston had made from her briefcase. “And these two charmers are also looking for Jaff and Tracy. They pretended to be police officers, gave Tracy and Erin‘s housemate a hard time.”

Banks examined the sketches. They were good quality-bold, confident lines and subtle shading. He was no expert, but he thought Rose showed talent as an artist.

“She said their names were Sandalwood and Watkins.”

“That’s a lie,” said Banks. They’re Darren Brody and Ciaran French.”

Winsome’s jaw dropped. “You know them?”

“I made it my business to know them. We’ve met in passing. They work for George Fanthorpe, better known as The Farmer.”

“I know that name.”

“You should. One of the best kept secrets in the county. Thinks of himself as Lord of the Manor, gentleman farmer. Owns a dairy and acres of farmland. Stables and horse training, too. Lives near Ripon. His crooked reach stretches as far as Middleham. Beyond, too, probably.”

“They were asking about Jaff, and his dad was a bookie,” Winsome said. “Think there might be a connection?”

“I doubt it,” said Banks. “Perhaps at one time. But Jack McCready is long dead, and Fanthorpe’s main source of income is drugs. Cocaine and heroin, mostly. Bulk. Never sees or touches the stuff himself, of course. Mr. Big. Mostly deals with the student population. The farming businesses are a nice facade, handy for laundering the money. He’s probably the only dairyman making a healthy profit these days, or any kind of profit. The racehorses are a hobby-the sort of thing a country squire might be expected to take an interest in. The stables might actually be profitable.”

“How do you know about him?”

Banks finished his coffee. “Just one of those things. I talked to a minor drug dealer called Ian Jenkinson at Eastvale College about six years ago, just a follow up for a West Yorkshire case, and he let The Farmer’s name slip in connection with a murder on Woodhouse Moor. Another low-level dealer called Marlon Kincaid, who catered mostly to the Leeds student population. Apparently Jenkinson got some of his supplies from this Kincaid, who, in turn, we think, got them from Fanthorpe’s organization. Or should have done. As it turned out, he was freelancing, and this annoyed The Farmer. I paid The Farmer himself a visit. Smooth bastard, played the part well, but you know how you get a feeling sometimes, develop an instinct?”

“I’m getting one now,” Winsome said. “It can’t be a coincidence.”

“What can’t?”

“That name you just mentioned: Marlon Kincaid. I hadn’t got around to telling you yet, but we’re almost certain that the gun we found at the Doyle house was used in his murder on November fifth, 2004.”

“That’s about the right time,” said Banks. “Very interesting.”

Winsome nodded. “Indeed. Maybe we should have another chat with this Ian Jenkinson, if we can find him. What happened?”

“Well, it was like I said, a hunch. I did a bit of digging, but I couldn’t get below the surface. All the snitches clammed up. Scared. Next time I went to see The Farmer, Ciaran and Darren here were with him, lurking in the shadows. Business associates, he introduced them as. I noticed them on a couple of occasions after that, following me, parked over the street, shopping in the same supermarket. Always said hello and smiled, asked after the family. That sort of thing. Mild intimidation.”

“And were you intimidated?”

“A bit. Those two have a nasty reputation. Darren’s just a thug, not without brains entirely, but a thug nonetheless. Ciaran takes a genuine pleasure in hurting and humiliating people. Rumor has it they’ve killed more than once, and the killings are linked to Fanthorpe. But you know the way it goes sometimes. No evidence. Perfect alibis. Then something else came up. Marlon Kincaid was well known as a dealer to the student scene, and most people felt the planet was a better place without him. We got no further on Fanthorpe or on the murder. You know as well as I do that someone in that business can antagonize a lot of people, from rivals to disgruntled parents whose kids have overdosed. West Yorkshire checked all the avenues, but came up with nothing. We were only marginally involved because of the Ian Jenkinson connection. We had nothing on The Farmer to start with. He’s never been charged with anything. Maybe the forensic accountants could have made a case if they’d got access to his books, like they did with Al Capone, but we didn’t even have enough for a warrant. The CPS said forget it. There were more urgent matters screaming for our attention. Fanthorpe faded into the background with a little flag beside his name. Ciaran and Darren disappeared from my life. I can’t say as I ever forgot any of them, but nor did I lose any sleep over them, either.”

Winsome studied the sketches. “I can see that you wouldn’t forget them in a hurry. Ugly customers. I wonder why they aren’t more concerned about people giving descriptions of them after a visit?”

“They rely on the implied threat that they’ll come back and take their revenge. Most of the people they deal with are the same sort of scum as they are, so they know that. Rose isn’t from their world.”

“Will they go after her? Should we offer her protection?”

“I don’t think so. She’s not important enough for that. She was a means to an end, whether they got what they wanted out of her or not. It’s my bet they’d have no further interest. They’ve moved on. They don’t care if we know what they look like or find their prints all over the house. They know that, for one reason or another, it won’t go any further. If the worst comes to the worst, they’ll have rock solid alibis. Do you have any leads beyond what happened at the cottage? I need to find this little gobshite who’s abducted my daughter and scrape him off my shoe. If you’ll pardon the crude talk.”

“I’ll pardon it this once, sir,” Winsome said, “because I know you’re upset.”

“Thank you.”

“One thing I’ve been meaning to ask.”

“Go ahead?”

“About Tracy being involved. Are you going to call your family and let them know? Sandra? Brian?”

Banks thought for a moment and massaged the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. The caffeine and sugar rushes hadn’t lasted. He felt exhausted again, like lying down right here and now and curling up in the fetal position. Conversations hummed around him, but they were all meaningless drivel. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Not yet, at any rate. The last thing I need right now is Sandra on my back, or even Brian running around trying to help. They’d only get in the way. Besides, as far as I know he’s on tour with the band somewhere.”

“But shouldn’t they be informed by you before they read about it in the papers or see it on the TV news? We can’t keep the details of what’s happened from the media forever.”

“I suppose they should. But why worry them at this point? Worst case scenario, I’ll tell them later. Best case, all goes well, and they’ll never need to know.”

“What about your mum and dad. They are Tracy’s grandparents.”

“They’re on a cruise,” said Banks. “They’re always on a cruise these days.”

Winsome shrugged. “It’s your decision. They’ll probably find out when they get back, anyway.”

“Probably. But that’s then, and this is now. What’s the latest?”

“I’m not up to speed,” said Winsome. “Remember, I got the airport detail.”

“Okay. Thanks for doing that, by the way. Let’s head for the station and see what we can find out. What’s my role to be in all this? I can hardly sit at home and twiddle my thumbs, but I doubt that Madame Gervaise will want me on the case.”

“She wants to see you about that as soon as possible,” Winsome said, “I’m sure she’ll find you something to do. And as far as sitting around at home is concerned, I think you’d better organize some alternative accommodation to twiddle your thumbs in as soon as possible”

Banks looked puzzled. “What? Why?”

“Maybe you’ve forgotten the protocol, sir, but your cottage is now a crime scene. It’s locked down. You can’t go home.”