Bad Boy (28 page)

“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.

T
HIS
IS
AN UNEXPECTED PLEASURE. DO COME AND JOIN
me in the den, Mr. Banks and Ms…. er?”

“Jackman. DS Winsome Jackman.”

“Winsome. What a delightful name. And one that, might I say, most certainly does you justice.”

Banks glanced at Winsome, and he could tell by her expression that she was wishing she hadn’t told Fanthorpe her first name. As Fanthorpe led the way she put her finger in her mouth and mimicked vomiting. Banks smiled.

The den was an unabashedly masculine room, from the dark wainscoting and the rosewood-and-mother-of-pearl chessboard, with its intricately carved ebony and ivory pieces, to the mounted brass telescope by the bay window, the mounted stag’s head and the framed racing scenes on the wall. Four maroon-red leather-upholstered armchairs were arranged around a solid oak antique table at the center. Mozart’s
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik
played from hidden speakers.

The Farmer walked over to the cocktail cabinet and brought out three crystal tumblers and a decanter. He was wearing baggy brown cords and a cable sweater knit from Swaledale wool. With his round shoulders and jaunty walk, spare tire and mass of curly gray hair he reminded Banks of a leprechaun on steroids. “Drinks? I do hope you’ll join me. I have a rather fine old malt.”

“It’s not a social visit,” said Banks, settling into one of the chairs. It was so comfortable that if he took Fanthorpe up on his offer of a drink, he thought, he would probably curl up and go to sleep. Winsome crossed her long legs and took out her notebook.

“Pity.” The Farmer poured himself a large measure, sat down and smacked his lips. “It’s Ardbeg Airigh Nam Beist. That’s Gaelic for ‘Shelter of the Beast’ in case you don’t know. So what can I do for you?”

Banks caught a strong whiff of the peat and iodine. He was getting used to it more and more, and was rediscovering his taste for Islays, but he wouldn’t be sampling any of Fanthorpe’s wares, even if he weren’t so tired. The Mozart ended and was followed by Beethoven’s
Für Elise.
A classic FM collection of the Great Composers’ best bits, if Banks wasn’t mistaken. “We’re looking for an employee of yours,” he said. “Name of Jaffar McCready, or Jaff. Any idea where we can find him?”

“Jaff? I’m afraid I have no idea. He just does odd jobs. I’d hardly call him an employee.”

“Casual labor, perhaps, then? How do you get in touch with him if you need him?”

“By telephone, of course.”

“Mobile?”

“Home number.”

That was no use; Banks knew it already. If Jaff had a mobile, it was pay-as-you-go, unregistered and untraceable. “Exactly what sort of odd jobs does he do for you?”

“Jaff’s a jack-of-all-trades. Or should that be a Jaff-of-all-trades?” Fanthorpe laughed, but neither Banks nor Winsome joined him. He cleared his throat and sipped some malt. “Sure you won’t join me?” he asked, holding up his glass. “It truly is magnificent. Goes down like prickly silk.” By the sound of him, Banks reckoned he’d had a few already.

“Can you be a bit more specific about the nature of Jaff’s employment?”

“Well, he doesn’t muck out the stables, if that’s what you mean. Bit of courier work, the occasional security duty, when necessary.”

“And when would that be necessary?”

“You might not realize this, Mr. Banks, but racehorses can be valuable properties, very valuable indeed. And they’re vulnerable. Sadly, there are some unscrupulous people in the business. One has to be careful.”

“I’ve read Dick Francis,” said Banks.

Fanthorpe smiled. “Then you’ll get the picture.”

“Strong-arm stuff?”

“Hardly, Mr. Banks. I have no call for that sort of thing in my business.”

“I thought you said there are some unscrupulous people around?”

“Yes. But actual violence—strong-arm stuff, as you call it—is a rarity. They have more subtle ways of making their needs known.”

“What, exactly, is your business?” Banks asked. “I understand about the horses, but that’s merely the tip of the iceberg, isn’t it, a hobby almost?”

“I suppose you could say that.” Fanthorpe turned the crystal glass in his hands. It caught the light from the shaded desk lamp and different colors flared and sank in its facets. “Bit of this, bit of that. Mostly dairy farming and production—we own a cheese factory, my wife and I—the stables and horse training, of course. I also part-own a couple of thoroughbreds. Doing very well, they are. If you ever want a tip for—”

“Drugs?”

“Mr. Banks! Wash your mouth out.”

“Only I heard you’re quite a mover and shaker in the local coke trade. It seems to be having quite a renaissance these days, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I wouldn’t go around making unfounded accusations like that if I were you.”

“Why not? Pal of the chief constable, are you?”

“As a matter of fact, we have been known to play the occasional round, bring home the odd brace of grouse. I own quite a nice stretch of moorland up—”

“Let’s cut the bollocks, Fanthorpe,” said Banks, leaning forward. “I’m looking for Jaffar McCready. Simple as that. To be honest, I don’t give a damn about your dairy farms, thoroughbreds and coke business
right now, except in that they relate to Jaffar McCready. You may or may not be aware of this, but he’s wanted in connection with the shooting of a female police officer.”

“Friend of yours, was she?” Fanthorpe’s eyes glinted with cruelty. “Something a bit personal, is it? Girlfriend, even? I thought that sort of thing was frowned upon in your line of work?”

“If you’d just stick to the point, sir,” said Winsome. She picked up her briefcase and passed over Rose’s sketches of Ciaran and Darren and a glossy photograph of Jaff they had got from Erin Doyle’s Laburnum Way room. “Do you recognize any of these men?”

Fanthorpe picked up each one in turn, made a show of scrutinizing it, then passed it back to her. “That’s Jaffar McCready,” he said of the photograph, “and that’s Ciaran, and that’s Darren. But you know that already.”

“Just need to make certain, sir,” Winsome said, slipping the pictures carefully back into her briefcase.

Banks gripped the arms of the chair and let his anger abate. He was thankful for Winsome’s timely interruption, and for the breathing space the pictures had afforded him. He might easily have said or done something stupid otherwise. He still might, if he didn’t get a grip.

Fanthorpe turned his gaze to Winsome. “I had a mate owned a sugar cane plantation in Jamaica once,” he said. “Wanted me to go into business with him. I told him I couldn’t stand the climate, though. Or the people. Lazy sods, the lot of them.” Then he eyed Winsome up and down. “Seems things have come a long way since then.”

“Yes, indeedy, mastah, sir,” said Winsome. “They even give us darkies warrant cards and let us arrest criminals.”

The Farmer laughed. “Cheeky, with it. I like that.”

“Where’s McCready?” Banks cut in.

“I wish I knew.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“He owes me money.”

“The bonds? Is that why Ciaran and Darren are looking for him?”

Fanthorpe swirled his whiskey in the glass. “You can draw your own conclusions. You will, anyway. I don’t know anything about any bonds. I don’t know where you got that from. All I’m saying is that
McCready owes me money, and I want it before he disappears into a cell and it all ends up in a copper’s pocket.”

“McCready was already on the run before he shot Detective Inspector Cabbot. We were wondering if that had anything to do with you.”

“Me? No. Something to do with a gun, I heard,” said Fanthorpe. “It was all over the news.”

Winsome made a note and spoke up again. “Jaffar McCready was never mentioned in connection with the gun Juliet Doyle handed in to us,” she said. “We didn’t tell the press that, and they didn’t broadcast his name.”

“So how did you know?” Banks asked Fanthorpe.

“Oh, you think you’re so bloody clever, don’t you, the both of you? Do you think I don’t have my sources? A man in my position? Do you think I don’t know what
doesn’t
go into the newspapers or on the telly? Come on. Grow up.”

“Chief constable tell you, did he? A brief chat at the ninth hole?”

“For crying out loud.”

“Does this gun mean anything to you?” Banks asked. “It’s a nine-millimeter Smith and Wesson. Is there some reason that its falling into our possession disturbs you?”

“Not at all. I have nothing to fear.”

“So you think you’re clean on the gun? Okay. What does McCready have of yours? Drugs? Cash?”

“I told you. He owes me money.”

“Apparently, he told someone he was carrying bonds.”

“Rubbish. He was just trying to make it all sound legit, like he’s some sort of high-powered business broker. He stole from me. Cash. Simple as that.”

“Drug money?”

“I told you, he does occasional courier duties. Sometimes that involves carrying and banking large sums of money. He happened to have just such a sum in his possession when he disappeared.”

“When Jaffar McCready disappeared,” Winsome said, “he’d just returned from a business trip to Amsterdam and London, or so he said. How did he end up with so much of your money in his possession?”

“If you think I’m going to divulge my private business transactions to you, you’ve got another think coming, Ms. Winsome.”

“Do you usually use your farmhands as debt collectors?” Banks asked.

“Ciaran and Darren are men of many talents. Limited intelligence, but many talents. Their appearance can be rather…intimidating, as I’m sure you remember. Sometimes their mere arrival on a scene encourages people to do as they ask. It can be important when large sums are at stake.”

“I’ll bet it can. So far they’ve terrorized an innocent twenty-four-year-old girl and tied up and threatened a young man with torture. Real tough guys. Ever heard of a Victor Mallory?”

“Can’t say as I have.”

“He’s an old university and public school pal of McCready’s.”

“The old boys’ network? Well, Jaff always did move in rarefied circles. A bit too rich for my blood. Cambridge does that to people, you know. I came up the hard way—sheer hard work, getting my hands dirty. I never went to university, and West Leeds Boys High is hardly a public school, so I wouldn’t know about all that. Wouldn’t know this Mallory, either. Jaff has a lot of friends I don’t know about and don’t want to know about. There’s a big age difference, for a start, then the employer-employee relationship. Hardly conducive to friendship. I should imagine Jaff’s friends are more his own age.”

“Do you know what information Ciaran and Darren wanted from the people they threatened?”

“Enlighten me.”

“They wanted to know where Jaffar McCready is heading.”

“Well, then, we’re back to square one, aren’t we?” Fanthorpe spread his hands. “That’s exactly what I’d like to know. Except nobody yet has mentioned the elephant in the corner of the room.”

“Meaning?” said Banks, though he had an inkling of what Fanthorpe was getting at, and the thought chilled him like a shadow crossing the high daleside.

Fanthorpe stood up, poured himself another generous shot and pointed at Banks. “Your daughter, Banks. Tracy. Nobody’s mentioned her part in all this yet, have they?” He leaned against the wall and
grinned. “Now, if you ask me, you’re a man in a lot of trouble, Mr. Banks, a lot of grief and trouble. I have daughters, too. I can understand that. Who knows, if we put our heads together, then maybe we might even be able to help one another? What about it?”

JAFF LEFT
the van behind a doorless Mini on blocks in a street of dirty redbrick terrace houses not far from Beeston Hill Cemetery. The tall prewar houses seemed to Tracy to loom menacingly over them in the growing dark as they walked away, watched closely by a gang of hooded youths congregating at the end of a ginnel, looking shifty and threatening by turns. There was a mosque on the corner with an ornate mosaic dome. Televisions flickered behind moth-eaten curtains. Canned laughter spilled out into the street and mingled with the beat of a distant pub band. The streetlights had just come on, a jaundiced yellow in the late twilight purple, and they were surrounded by haloes of haze. A hint of exotic spices filled the night air. Behind the high-pitched slate roofs, roiling dark clouds parted now and then to allow a lance of moonlight to break through. There was an edgy feel to the night, Tracy sensed, and the sky seemed to echo it. Perhaps a thunderstorm was on the way. Anything could happen.

One of the youths turned and called out something after them. Tracy couldn’t make out the words. She could see that Jaff had one hand in his bag, though, and a grim smile on his face. A “just let them try something” smile. Tracy felt her pulse quicken with her footsteps. But nobody followed them. Nobody threw anything. When they got to the well-lit arterial road with its people, pubs, hairdressers, Asian shops and curry houses, Jaff relaxed his grip and removed his hand from the bag. They caught the first bus into the city center and sat upstairs at the front. There were hardly any other passengers at that godforsaken time of the evening, well after office hours and before closing time.

“Isn’t it dangerous, going to a hotel?” Tracy said. “I told you they’ll be looking for the two of us together.”

Jaff gave her a sideways glance. “I’m not letting you go, so don’t start that again. We’ll be fine. I suppose you just want to go home to Daddy?”

Tracy said nothing. She did.

“Well, that’s not going to happen, so you’d better make the best of things. Don’t forget what I said back there in the van. I mean it.” He looked her up and down. “At least you’re reasonably presentable now. You’ll just about pass muster. Just. How about me?”

Jaff looked fine. Immaculate as usual. “You’ll do,” she said.

“It’s a nice hotel I’ve got in mind,” Jaff said. “Not some fleabag place. We’ll be able to have a shower, get room service, minibar, the lot.”

The bus lumbered on, around corners, across intersections, and finally made its way into the city center.

“What about the CCTV cameras?” Tracy asked, as she saw the familiar landmarks of the Corn Exchange and Kirkgate Market ahead.