Bad Boy

13

BANKS LEANED BACK IN HIS SEAT AND CLOSED HIS EYES as the car slowed to a crawl at the roadworks on the A1 just north of Wetherby. Winsome had offered to drive him to Leeds. Normally he would have preferred to go alone and drive himself, but this time he had accepted her offer. He didn’t trust himself behind the wheel; he was too wired and too anxious. They hadn’t spoken much on the way down, but he was glad of her company and that she had tuned the radio to Radio 3. Vaughan Williams’s “Variation on a Theme by Thomas Tallis” was playing at the moment.

Banks had never felt so weary. Lights danced behind his eyelids. He felt as if he could see the electrical pulses jumping around in his brain projected there, flashing, arcing, short-circuiting. There was simply too much to take in, too much to comprehend, and it was getting more and more difficult for him to focus. Every moment spent tracking down nuggets of valuable information meant more time in fear and danger for Tracy.

But it had to be this way. The real problems might only begin once they had located Jaff and Tracy, and he needed to go into that situation with as much information as he could get. It was his only weapon, his only armor. After all, Jaff had a gun and a hostage.

It was the tail end of rush hour, and the traffic on the Leeds Ringroad slowed them down. Luckily they didn’t have far to go. Victor Mallory’s house turned out to be between West Park and Moortown Golf Club. It was seven o’clock when Winsome pulled up outside the rambling detached house with its cream stucco facade, large garden, gables and mullioned bay windows.

“Not bad,” said Winsome. “Not bad at all for a thirty something.”

“Maybe we’re in the wrong business?” Banks suggested.

“Or maybe his business is wrong.”

“More like it,” Banks agreed. “If he’s a mate of McCready’s. There’s a lot you can do with a Cambridge degree in chemistry, and it doesn’t all involve teaching or working for pharmaceutical companies. But that’s for the locals to worry about.” Banks gestured to the silver Skoda parked down the street. “They’ve been keeping a discreet eye on him.”

“Hard to appear inconspicuous in a Skoda in a neighborhood like this,” said Winsome.

They got out and walked over to the parked car. The window was open and Banks caught a whiff of fresh cigarette smoke. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation, the way it used to be. “Anything?” he asked, flashing his warrant card as discreetly as possible.

“Nor a sausage,” replied the driver. “Waste of bloody time, if you ask me.”

“Anyone come or go?”

“No.”

“He in there?”

“No idea.”

“Right. You can get off to the pub now.”

“We go when our guv says to go.”

Banks rolled his eyes and looked at Winsome, who shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said.

“Anyone would think they enjoyed sitting there doing nothing,” said Winsome as they walked toward the house.

“Don’t assume everyone shares your work ethic, Winsome. Besides, they’re sitting on their brains, so maybe that cramps their thinking style. I suppose we got what we asked for, though-a watching brief. I mean, we didn’t ask for politeness or intelligence, did we?”

Winsome laughed. “I’ll make a note of it next time. Maybe a better model of car, too.” They walked up Victor Mallory’s flagstone path and rang the doorbell. No sound came from inside. “Curtains are closed. Maybe they’ve been watching an empty house?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” said Banks. He pressed the doorbell again. Still nothing happened, but he thought he heard a stifled groan or a muffled call from somewhere inside the house. He glanced at Winsome, who frowned and nodded to indicate that she had heard it, too. The door seemed formidable, but when Banks turned the handle and pushed, it opened. He checked the lock, which was a dead bolt, and saw that it hadn’t been secured. There was also a strong chain and an alarm system, too, but the latter wasn’t activated. With the door closed behind them, there was only enough light in the hallway to make out the dim shape of a chair and the outline of a broad staircase leading upstairs.

Banks’s eyes adjusted, and he saw three doors leading off the hall. When he heard the sound again, he realized it was coming from the first door on his left, the front room. The heavy door was already ajar, and when he pushed, it opened slowly. The room was even darker than the hall, so he walked over and opened the thick velour curtains. Early evening light flooded in and illuminated the floor-to-ceiling bookcases against one wall, framed contemporary prints and an expensive Bang & Olufsen stereo system on another, and the figure lying on the floor at the center of the room, gagged and bound to a hard-backed chair.

“Victor Mallory, I presume?” said Banks.

All he got by way of a reply was muffled growling and cursing.

“Winsome,” he said, “could you see if you can find some scissors or a sharp kitchen knife?”

Winsome headed back out into the hall. Banks heard doors opening and closing, and moments later she came back with a pair of scissors.

“Excellent,” Banks said. He bent over Mallory. He smelled the sharp animal stink of urine and noticed a wet patch down the front of the man’s trousers. “First of all, Victor,” he said, “it’s important that you know we’re police officers and we’re not going to hurt you, so when I cut you free and take off that gag, you don’t start screaming and try to make a run for it. Got that?”

Mallory nodded and made more grumbling sounds.

“You’d never make it, anyway,” Banks went on. “Winsome here is our star rugby player. Flying tackles and dropkicks are her specialty.” Banks heard Winsome mutter something under her breath. “I didn’t catch that,” he said.

“Nothing,” said Winsome with a sigh.

Banks then showed Mallory his warrant card and began to cut him free. He left the gag until last, loosening one of the edges and then ripping it fast.

Mallory screamed and put his hands to his mouth. If the police outside heard him, they certainly didn’t come rushing in to put an end to the police brutality.

“You’ve ripped my lips off,” Mallory moaned. There was a small amount of blood on the carpet where he had been lying, and a patch of his hair on the left side was matted.

“Don’t be a baby,” said Banks. “You okay otherwise? Do you need an ambulance? A doctor?”

“No. No, I don’t need an ambulance or a doctor. I…I just banged my head when the chair tipped over. I don’t think I have concussion. I didn’t lose consciousness or anything.” Mallory rubbed his wrists and ankles. “I could do with some water, though.”

Winsome went and brought him a pint glass filled to the brim. Some of it dribbled down Mallory’s front as he slurped it greedily, but he didn’t seem to mind.

Banks gave him a while to get his circulation flowing again, and to compose himself.

Mallory avoided Winsome’s eye. “Er, look here,” he said to Banks when he had finished the water. “I…er…I had a small accident…do you think I might possibly have a quick shower and change before we talk?” He spoke with an educated accent, public school, a little too posh and plummy for Banks’s liking.

“We don’t have time for that,” Banks said. “But I-”

“Look, why don’t we compromise? You can dry yourself down and have a quick change, but I’ll have to stay with you. Best I can offer. Okay?”

“It’ll have to do, won’t it?”

“I’ll make some tea while you’re gone,” Winsome volunteered.

“Excellent,” said Banks. “You’re lucky,” he said to Mallory. “She doesn’t usually do tea.” He followed Mallory into the hall and up the stairs. “Nice house you’ve got here.”

“Thanks.”

“How much did you pay for it?”

“Too much.”

“No, come on. Quarter? Half? A mill?”

“Four hundred K. A bargain at the time.”

Banks whistled. He followed Mallory into a nondescript white bedroom with an en suite bathroom and walk-in cupboards and waited while he undressed and threw his clothes in a laundry basket, then rubbed himself down with a green fluffy towel, which joined his clothes, and pulled on a navy blue tracksuit. When Mallory was ready, Banks gestured for him to head back downstairs.

Winsome was waiting on the sofa, a pot of tea, milk, sugar and three mugs on the table in front of her. “I’ll play mother, then, shall I?” she said, pouring.

“Victor,” Banks said, settling down opposite Mallory, who sat in the winged armchair by the fireplace. “Tell us what happened?”

“Two men came,” Victor said. “They…they trussed me up, the way you saw, with sticky tape, then they just left me. I could have starved or choked to death if you hadn’t come.”

“We’ll cheerfully accept the praise for saving your life,” Banks said, “but I’d say you’re exaggerating just a wee bit. How long have you been like that?”

“I don’t know. I lost track of time. They came just after lunch.”

“Maybe five or six hours, then,” said Banks, with a glance at Winsome, who had started to take notes.

“Something like that. I tried to struggle free, but all I succeeded in doing was making the tape tighter. Then I rocked the chair so hard trying to pull away, it fell over. I was helpless, like a tortoise flipped on its back.”

“So we saw.”

“Look, do you mind if I get myself a drop of brandy. This tea’s very nice and all, but I’ve really had quite a shock, you know.”

“Not at all.”

“Can I get…I mean, would either of you like anything?”

“No, thank you,” said Banks, holding up his mug. “Tea will do fine for me.”

Winsome nodded in agreement.

“Okay.” Mallory went to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a generous measure of Rémy into a crystal glass. “That’s better,” he said after the first sip.

“I suppose you already know that we’ll probably want the same information your previous visitors wanted.”

“I’d guessed that already. But you’re not going to tie me up and threaten me with surgical instruments, are you?”

“Is that what they did?”

Mallory gave a theatrical shudder. On second thought, Banks realized, perhaps it wasn’t so theatrical. “One of them did. A real psychopath.”

“Ciaran. One of his persuasion techniques.”

Mallory almost choked on his Remy. “You know who they are?”

“I can make a pretty good guess,” said Banks. “Winsome?”

Winsome took Rose’s sketches from her briefcase and passed them to Mallory. “Good God,” he said. “Yes. That’s them.” He passed them back to Winsome.

“Then you’re a lucky man,” said Banks. “You still have all your organs intact.” He put his mug down on the table, leaned forward and cracked his knuckles. “The thing is, Victor, we don’t have a lot of time to beat about the bush. They’ve already got five hours or more start on us, and there’s a lot at stake. A lot more than you can imagine.”

“But who are they? Why me? Are you going to arrest them?”

“That’s a lot of questions, and I’m the one supposed to be doing the asking. Did you know that your friend Jaff McCready works for a man called Fanthorpe, better known as The Farmer?”

“Fanthorpe? No. Who’s he?”

“All you need to know is that he’s also the employer of Ciaran and Darren, the men who just paid you a visit. And they may have sup-planted Jaff in Fanthorpe’s favor in recent days.”

Mallory swallowed. Banks could see his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “They wanted to know where Jaff is. That’s all.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No, I don’t. Honest, I don’t.”

“But you must have some idea. The Ciaran and Darren I know wouldn’t believe that at face value. They’d have cut at least a little finger off, or sharpened it like a pencil, just to make sure, and they don’t really seem to have harmed a hair on your head. All the damage that was done, you did to yourself.”

“They terrorized me! Tortured me. In my own home.”

“My guess is,” Banks went on, “that you talked, and that you talked very quickly indeed. So we’d like you to do the same with us. You owe us that courtesy, at least. I mean, they only tied you up and threatened you with mutilation. We set you free, let you change your wet clothes, gave you a cup of tea and a glass of brandy. You owe us something, Victor. You must see that.”

“You sound just like them.”

“Don’t be silly. Where’s Jaff McCready?”

Victor turned away. “I don’t know.”

“That’s better. Now I know for certain you’re lying. I like to know where I stand.” Banks read out the number of the car that had been found hidden off the moorland road. “That mean anything to you?”

“Yeah. It’s my car.”

“Good. I’m glad you didn’t try to deny that. Now we’re getting somewhere. What was it doing on the moors above Gratly?”

“I don’t even know where Gratly is.”

“That wasn’t my question. How did it get there? And don’t try to tell me it was stolen.”

“Okay, so I lent it to Jaff. I assume you already know that or you wouldn’t be here. So what? He’s a mate of mine. I didn’t know what sort of trouble he was in.”

“But you must have known he was in some trouble?”

“Well, sure. But like I said, he’s a mate. You help out a mate in trouble, don’t you?”

Banks thought of Juliet Doyle, who had turned her daughter in to the police when she found a handgun in her possession. Who was going to help them out of their trouble? “Let’s not get too philosophical about it, Victor. We don’t have time. What else did you ‘lend’ Jaff?”

“Nothing. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Was he with anyone?”

“There was a girl. She stayed outside in his car. I only saw her when they swapped cars and got into mine. He said her name was Francesca.”

“She just stayed outside in the car of her own accord?” Mallory frowned. “Of course. Why not?”

“She didn’t appear under duress or anything?”

“No, not that I could tell.”

Banks could feel Winsome’s gaze on him. He had to tread carefully, he knew, show no emotion. If he used Tracy’s true identity to browbeat Mallory, it could all backfire on him if it came to court. Gervaise had warned him he was on thin ice, and he was already beginning to feel it splintering under his feet. “Did Jaff tell you why he needed to borrow your car?”

“Not specifically, no. He just said he was in a spot of bother and he had to get away. It was only later, when I watched the news…heard about Erin…”

“You know Erin?”

“Met her a couple of times. Crazy bitch. I told him she was trouble.”

“And what did he say to that?”

“Just gave me that knowing smile of his and said he could handle it.”

“Why was she trouble?”

Mallory scratched his temple. “She was dead jealous. Impulsive, fiery. And obsessive, too possessive. It’s a dangerous combination.”

“Sounds like a young woman in love to me,” said Banks.

“But Jaff doesn’t like to be tied down. He likes his freedom. Likes to come and go as he pleases, with whom he wants.”

“So I gather. Did he tell you where he was going?”

Mallory sipped some Rémy and looked away. “Not specifically, no.”

“But he gave you a general idea?”

“Well, he said he needed to lie low for a while, ring a few people and get some business deals organized. He had some bonds he wanted to sell. He said he was going to London, that there was a bloke he knew there in Highgate, name of Justin Peverell. I remember him vaguely from uni, but I wasn’t part of their scene. He was a foreign student, I think. Somewhere in Eastern Europe. Anyway, this Justin can fix things like fake passports and that. I knew Jaff was in with some pretty shady people, but I wasn’t involved in any of that. I didn’t want to know about it.”

“What business deal was he talking about?” Banks asked. “What are these bonds he mentioned? Do you know anything more about this Justin Peverell other than that he lives in Highgate and deals in dodgy passports?”

“No. Honest. That’s all I know. I lent Jaff my car, and he said he was going to London to see Justin. He’d get it back to me somehow, he said, and in the meantime I could use his.”

“Where’s Jaff’s car?”

“In my garage. He asked me to keep it out of sight for a while.”

“Did you tell Ciaran and Darren about Justin?”

“Yes. I had to. They were going to cut me to pieces, man. But I didn’t tell them his last name. I just remembered it.”

So Fanthorpe had almost the same information and about five hours’ start, thought Banks. That didn’t bode well. Fanthorpe would also have the resources to find this Justin-the criminal network. In fact, it would probably be a damn sight easier for him than it would be for Banks if Justin hadn’t registered on the Met’s radar yet. And no doubt Ciaran and Darren were down in Highgate already awaiting instructions. Still, this sounded like the same Justin of whom Erin had spoken, and they not only had his last name, Peverell, but also the name of his girlfriend, Martina. It might just give them the edge they needed. They could check the electoral rolls, the phone book, even. Of course, if Peverell was from Eastern Europe he probably wasn’t using his real name, and if he wasn’t a British citizen or resident, that might make him difficult to track down.

But where the hell were Jaff and Tracy? Banks wondered. They could be in London themselves, by now. They’d certainly had enough time to get there. Victor’s car had been found on the moors only two or three miles from Banks’s cottage where Annie had been shot, and from there on they must have been on foot for a while. They could still be up there, wandering in circles. People had been lost for days on the moors, had died there. It didn’t even take a bad storm or a major snowfall. On the other hand, Tracy knew something of the lie of the land from their walks up there, and if they had got hold of another vehicle they could be anywhere. It was one thing to know where they were going, but it would be much better to know where they were. Especially as Tracy’s value to McCready declined with every mile they got closer to Justin Peverell. Jaff certainly wasn’t going to fork over for two passports. Did he even know who she was? Who her father was? And if he did, how would that affect his strategy?

“I want to know about the gun, Victor,” Banks said.

Mallory seemed nervous. “What gun? All I did was lend my car to a mate in trouble. I don’t know anything about any gun.”

“I don’t know if your last visitors asked you about it or not. They probably weren’t interested once you’d told them about Justin. But I am. Very interested. We don’t know if Jaff had a gun with him when he left his flat, but we think it’s very unlikely, partly because Erin Doyle had already run off with it and her mother had found it and handed it over to us. Which is the main reason why Jaff was running away in the first place. He was certain she’d name him and he didn’t want the police poring over his dodgy business deals. So if he didn’t have two guns at home to start with-and why would he?-then he must have got the second one from you. Stands to reason. As far as we know, this is the only place he stopped before he…” Banks was about to say “went to my house,” but he pulled himself up in time. “Before he went on the run. That gun was used to shoot a policewoman, Victor. The gun we think you gave him. A Baikal, in all likelihood.” And, he might have added, it is probably now being used to threaten my daughter into doing what he wants. “That makes you an accessory.”

Mallory turned pale. “Jaff did that? No. I can’t believe it. You can’t lay that on me. I never gave him any gun. I’ve never had a gun.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Banks, “but I don’t have the time right now to thrash it out of you. If I find out that you’re in any way connected with that gun, or that you’ve lied or withheld any information from us, I’ll be back, and I’ll prove it. In the meantime, don’t even think of going on your holidays.”

Banks gestured to Winsome, who put away her notebook and stood up. When they left, Mallory was sitting in ashen silence with his glass of Rémy in his slightly trembling hand. Outside, the watchers were still sitting in their Skoda, plumes of smoke drifting out through the open window. Banks walked over to them and leaned on the roof.

“We’ve finished for now,” he said, gesturing with his thumb back toward Vic’s house. “But if I were you, I’d get your guv to send in a search team and take his house apart brick by brick. You’re looking for handguns and possibly an illegal lab of some kind. If you don’t find anything there, then try to find out if he’s got another place, a business property, perhaps, or a secret lockup somewhere, maybe under another name. You never know, it might earn you a few Brownie points, and by the looks of you both, you could do with them. Bye.”

When Banks got back to the car Winsome was listening to her mobile, frowning. She said good-bye and folded it shut. “I’ve asked Geraldine to check the electoral rolls and telephone directories for a Justin Peverell,” she said. “And there’s good news.”

“Do tell.”

“We’ve got a report from the local police station at Baldersghyll. A white builder’s van has been stolen from the car park near Rawley Force, about three miles away. It’s a national park spot, and apparently people park there and do the circular walk. It takes about three and a half hours.”

“So what happened?”

“Couple came back a bit early, after only about two hours-seems they hadn’t a lot of time so they did the short version-and they found their van gone. Madame Gervaise has acted quickly, and all units have the number and description. It makes sense. Too much of a coincidence that someone else would have just come along and nicked it. It was in the vicinity and general direction Jaff and Tracy would have been heading.”

“Good,” said Banks.

“There’s more. Seems the van’s a bit of an old clunker. According to its owner, it doesn’t go more than about forty.”

Banks smiled. “Not having a lot of luck with his motors, our Jaff, is he?”

IF THE speedometer of the stolen van crept up toward fifty, the chassis and engine block started shaking so much that Tracy feared it would fall apart, or that the wheels would drop off. This only increased Jaff’s frustration, along with the Wetherby roadworks on the A1, and now an accident blocking the southbound lanes to the M1. It was starting to get dark by the time they finally crawled onto the M1 east of Leeds, and already it was close to two and a quarter hours since they had stolen the van. Time was definitely not on Jaff’s side.

Tracy noticed that he was getting edgier by the minute. It was partly the frustration and partly the coke he kept stuffing up his nose. The motorway was plagued by more CCTV cameras and police patrol cars than anywhere else, he complained, and an old white builder’s van hobbling along in the slow lane couldn’t help but attract unwanted attention. These days, too, he told her, many of the motorway cameras used the ANPR system-Automatic Number Plate Recognition-which meant that they automatically informed the police if a car was stolen. Pretty soon, he was certain, they wouldn’t stand a chance on the M1. And it would be at least a five- or six-hour drive at the speed they were going now. More likely, the van would clap out before Sheffield, and they’d be stuck on the open road.

“Fuck it,” Jaff finally said, thumping the steering wheel. “We’re not going to make it. At this rate we won’t even be south of Wakefield by the time the van’s reported stolen. We’ve got to get rid of this piece of shit before they find us. They’re bound to know we took it pretty soon, if they don’t know already. Maybe those people were fast walkers, or they didn’t do the whole route for some reason. The cops could be on to us at any moment.”

“But where can we go?” Tracy said. “They’ll have the railway and bus stations covered.”

“I need time to think and make some calls,” said Jaff. “But first we’ve got to dump this van.” He drove on in silence for a few more minutes, then indicated a turn at the next junction.

“What are you doing?” Tracy asked.

“I’ve got an idea. We’ll go to Leeds.”

“Leeds? Are you insane?”

Jaff shot her a hard glance. “Think about it. Leeds is one of the last places they’ll be looking for us. They’d never expect us to go back there in a million years.”

But Tracy knew they would. The police didn’t always think in quite so linear a fashion as Jaff seemed to imagine when he thought he was being clever. Especially her father. “Fine,” she said, a glimmer of hope now flickering inside her. Leeds. She knew Leeds. It was home turf. “Your place or mine?”

“Neither. I’m not so stupid as to think they won’t be guarding our places, or that the neighbors won’t be vigilant and report any sounds. Vic’s is out of the question, too. They’re bound to have traced the other car to him by now.”

“What if he talks?”

“Vic? He won’t talk. He’s an old mate. We’ve been through a lot together.”

“Like what? Cross-country running with your backs to the wall, or showers with games teacher after rugger?”

“You don’t know fuck all about it, so just shut the fuck up. Besides, Vic doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t know where we are.”

“I’ll bet he knows where we’re going, though, and who we’re going to see.”

Jaff just glared at her, which told her she was right and he was worried. The coke paranoia was kicking in. There was a short stretch of road through a desolate industrial estate in Stourton between the M1 and the M621 into Leeds, and Jaff concentrated on making the correct turns at the roundabouts, then he pulled into the entrance of a deserted warehouse yard.

“What are you doing?” Tracy asked. “Why are you stopping?”

“No need to piss yourself. We’re getting out of these filthy clothes and putting some clean ones on. You go first.”

Tracy crawled into the back of the van and opened her bag. It was a relief to change out of her old clothes and put on some of the clean, fresh ones Jaff had bought her at the Swainsdale Centre just the other day. Hard to believe only such a short while ago things had been so good between them. Now he was like another person: Jekyll and Hyde. She changed her underwear, too, and only wished she could have a bath first. The best she could do was get back in the front and use the mirror to put on a little makeup while Jaff changed quickly after her and then climbed into the driver’s seat.

“That’s better,” he said, laying out another two lines of coke on a mirror and snorting them through a rolled-up twenty-pound note. “Sure you don’t want any?”

“No, thanks,” said Tracy. “Where are we going now?”

“First off, we’ll dump this piece of shit in Beeston. It won’t last five minutes there. Then we’ll find a nice hotel in the city center, and I’ll make some phone calls. There’s no on else I trust up here, but I’ll work out a plan, don’t you worry.”

“How are we going to get to London?” Tracy asked.

“So many questions. I think I know where I can get us a clean car first thing in the morning. Bloke I know owns a garage in Harehills. MOT, road tax. No questions asked. Then we’ll be down to London in no time.”

Tracy was thinking furiously. Leeds might be her best chance yet if Jaff got a bit too cocky about their safety there. She had been hoping for her break on the moors, but it hadn’t come. Now she couldn’t see an easy way out at all, no matter where they went or what they did. They would either get to London, in which case she would be at the mercy of Jaff and his friends, who would certainly want to leave no witnesses behind, or they would run into a police roadblock and Jaff would try to shoot his way out, or put the gun to her head and use her as a hostage. Whichever way she looked at it, things were bad, and her only possible hope was her father, if they had got in touch with him. It was Thursday, and as far as she could remember he was due back in the country today. He was planning on staying the weekend in London, but surely someone must have got news of Annie’s shooting to him by now?

“They’ll be looking for two of us, you know,” Tracy said. “An Asian male and a white female. We’re making it easy for them.”

“So what do you suggest? I bleach my skin white? You tan yours brown?”

“I suggest we split up. They’ll never find you alone in Leeds. You could probably even take a train down south and they wouldn’t find you. Not on your own.”

“You don’t think they’ve got my picture out everywhere? And you a copper’s daughter.”

“Maybe they have,” Tracy argued. “But they’re still looking for the two of us. Police get blinkered like everyone else. Some of them are pretty thick, too, as a matter of fact.”

“But not your dad. And it’s my bet he’ll be the numero uno leading the search for you.”

“They won’t let him do that. It’s too personal. They have strict rules against that.”

“Think they’ll be able to stop him?” Jaff paused. “Anyway, let’s say you’re right. You’re still my insurance policy, and I’d be a fool to leave my insurance behind.”

“If he is leading the search, the way you say, it’s because of me. Without me you stand a much better chance.”

Jaff shook his head. “Maybe it’s partly because of you. But it’s also because of that bitch I shot back at his house. Think he’s going to give up on her? He was probably shagging her. They stick together.”

“It’s not like that. You can drop me off right here, or in the city center. I can make my own way home.”

“I’m sure you can. Right into your father’s police station. I’ll bet you’ve got plenty of friends there, and you’d be more than happy to answer all their questions.”

“You’ll have a much better chance of getting to London and out of the country without me.”

“Who said I wasn’t already planning on getting out of the country without you?”

His words didn’t surprise Tracy, but she still felt shocked all the same. “What?”

“Surely you don’t think I’m planning on taking you with me now, after everything that’s happened? It’s not as if you’ve exactly proved to be an asset, is it?”

“What are you going to do with me?”

“I haven’t decided yet. I’ll think of something.” He gave her a crooked sideways smile. “Justin might have some ideas. Who knows? You might even be worth something. There’s still a market for young white female flesh in some places, and Justin’s specialty is getting people over borders with the minimum of fuss and maximum of profit. Or maybe I’ll just shoot you. Easier that way. No loose ends. Anyway, one thing at a time.”

Tracy folded her arms and shrank into her seat. White slavery. It sounded silly when she put it that way, such an old-fashioned term, but it still sent a shiver of fear through her. It wasn’t quite as farfetched as it sounded. She had heard and read things in the papers recently about white girls sold into sexual bondage overseas, and her father had worked on a people-trafficking case not so long ago involving girls being smuggled from Eastern Europe. He didn’t discuss his cases in any detail with her, but he had let slip one or two disturbing facts about the way these things were done.

“And just in case you get any clever ideas about trying to escape when we’re among people again, you can forget it. If I’m close to being caught because of you, and I think it’s all over, anyway, I’ll shoot you without a second thought. If I think I can get away, I might not shoot you in public, but I will catch up with you, or my friends will. We have long memories. Every car that passes you on your way to work in the morning, every suspicious-looking person you see lurking on the street…Get the idea? You’ll never know. You’ll never see it coming. Then one day, the hardly felt needle prick, and when you wake up you’re in a stinking metal container on the way to some shit-hole country you’ve never heard of where rich men will pay unimaginable sums of money to do things so filthy to you you’ll wish you were dead. So don’t even think of trying to escape.”

Soon they were on the M621 under the sodium lamps. When Tracy closed her eyes she couldn’t prevent the images of Annie’s shooting from running again in her mind, the shock in her eyes and the way she fell among the crockery, breaking the glass table. She thought about what Jaff had just said, whether he was only trying to scare her or not, and she felt herself on the verge of panic. Maybe he was laying it on a bit thick, but no amount of reason could hold at bay the images that now tormented her. She had never been so frightened in her life, had never wanted her father so much, had never felt so far from home.

Jaff turned off the motorway into Beeston.