Bad Boy (30 page)

He turned back to her, a key in his hand and a smile on his face, and gestured for her to follow him to the lift. They went up to the fourth floor in silence and walked along the deserted corridor, some rooms with trays of empty bottles and glasses outside, the remains of half-finished steaks and prawn shells scattered on plates.

No one saw them as they entered room 443. The view was nondescript, a back street so narrow you couldn’t really see anything but the low slate roofs opposite, and, beyond them, the windows of an office tower, empty for the night, though one or two lights still burned in the checkerboard pattern of windows.

The thunderstorm hadn’t come yet, but the sky still looked angry as a boil ready to burst. Jaff drew the heavy curtains. Their closing made Tracy feel claustrophobic. Somehow, at least having some sort of view, however mean, gave her some hope, some snatched glimpse of a part of the world that was being kept from her, a place she may never enter again. She told herself to stop being so maudlin, that the fears Jaff had planted in her mind had taken too strong a hold and made her jittery.

Jaff tossed his grip on the bench under the window, then fumbled inside it and brought out the small plastic bag he had prepared for himself. He held it up to her and raised his eyebrows. Tracy shook her head and sat on the edge of the bed, hunched in on herself. Jaff shrugged and laid out a couple more lines on a mirror. When he’d snorted them, he used his untraceable mobile, and Tracy guessed he was calling Justin in London.

“It’s ready? Great…terrific…Hey, that’s a bit steep…No, all right, I’m not arguing…Yeah, I understand…Okay. Look, Jus, we won’t come around to your place, if that’s all right with you, just in
case, you know, yeah, in case we’re being followed or something…Yeah. Right…How about we meet somewhere…? The Heath…that’s cool…Highgate Pond. Course I can find it. No problem. We’ll have wheels in the morning…Yeah, early afternoon…I’ll give you a bell…See you then, mate. You’re a lifesaver.”

He ended the call, dropped the phone on the bed, then clapped his hands and raised his fist in the air. “We’re away!” he said. When Tracy didn’t react, he turned on her. “We’re off to London in the morning and then…points exotic. Who knows? Well, at least I am. What’s up, misery guts? Are you planning on sulking like this from now on? I mean, it’s a difficult enough situation we’re in already, without you sitting there with a face as long as a wet weekend in Blackpool.”

“Jaff,” Tracy said. “I’m tired and I’m scared. I’m not here to cheer you up or amuse you. I’m your prisoner, remember? All I want is to go home. Please, just leave me alone.”

“Same old bloody record, isn’t it? Can’t you change your tune? You should do some coke, have some fun while you can.”

“I don’t want any.”

“Have it your way. We’ve got all night.”

Tracy shuddered at the thought. She didn’t think Jaff noticed. The room was spacious, but it was impossible to ignore the fact that it was dominated by a king size bed. Tracy was quite happy to sleep in the bath, if in fact she could sleep at all, but she doubted that was what Jaff had in mind. He wouldn’t want her out of his sight, for one thing. “Can we have the TV on?” she asked.

“Why?”

“I want to see the news. They might say something about…you know.”

“They can’t tell us anything we don’t already know,” said Jaff. “Are you hungry? Shall I call room service? What do you fancy?”

“I don’t know. Whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. How about pizza?”

“Pizza’s fine.”

“What do you want on it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t mind.”

“Mushrooms? Onions? Olives? Hot Italian sausage. Anchovies? Pineapple?”

“That’s fine.”

“Right. And a bottle of wine. I’ll order a bottle of red wine, too, shall I?”

“If you want.”

“If I want. It’s not just me, Francesca, you know. Will you give me a little help and encouragement here? What do
you
want?”

“A bottle of red wine is fine.”

“Right. I’ll order pizza and a bottle of red wine. Anything else?”

“Not right now, no.”

“Maybe some bottled water, too, hey? Can’t be too careful. Fizzy or still?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Tracy. “Tap water’s fine with me.”

“Fizzy,” said Jaff. “Right. Good. Good.” His leg was twitching from the coke now, and he made no move toward the telephone. “What about Madison?”

“Madison?”

“Yeah. The blond girl on the desk. She’s American. I bet she’d be game for it. Shall I see if I can get her to nip up, too, for some fun and games? A threesome?”

“Don’t bother on my account. She’s probably busy, anyway.”

“I suppose so.”

“Look, do you want me to call?” Tracy asked. She stood up and walked toward the telephone. “I’ll do it, if you like.”

Jaff wagged his finger as he swiftly intercepted her. “Clever try,” he said. “No doubt there’s some secret code you can use to communicate with Madison and get her to put you through to your father. You like your father, don’t you? Love him, even. I hated mine. No way. I’ll do it.” He went over to the phone and ordered a pizza with green peppers, pepperoni and chicken, and a bottle of chardonnay, then hung up, licked his lips and walked over to her, coming a little too close for comfort. Tracy started to back slowly away. “While we’re waiting, though,” he said, “why don’t we…? I mean, it has been a while. Work up an appetite. Know what I mean? Even if it is just the two of us.”

“You mean sex?” Tracy said, hoping she didn’t sound as incredulous as she felt. “After everything that’s happened? You want sex? You’re sick, you. You must be joking.”

But the expression on his face said not. “I’ll show you how sick I am,” he said. “And how much I’m joking.”

Tracy felt his hand grasp her throat and push her toward the bed behind. The backs of her knees hit the edge of the mattress, and her legs buckled, causing her to fall back. She knew then that he wasn’t joking.

A
NNIE CABBOT FELT AS IF SHE WERE DRAGGING HERSELF
up from the depths of the ocean, huge shadows circling her in the dark green mist, slimy fronds of underwater plants undulating in the water, wrapping themselves around her arms and legs to immobilize her as she tried to float to the surface, pulling her back. She struggled in the grip of invisible tentacles that wouldn’t let go, no matter how much she kicked and thrashed. The pressure of the water pushed down on her chest, into her lungs, so she couldn’t breathe but only flail uselessly as the tentacles hauled her down. She opened her mouth and breathed in deep gulps of salt water, and suddenly she was floating free, calm, wrapped in a warm cocoon, rising up, up. Just as she was about to give in to the drowsy warmth that was spreading through her body, she burst to the surface and her lungs were suddenly filled with cool air.

Annie’s first sensation was of pain; her second was panic. There was something stuck down her throat, and she felt as if it was choking her. As she fought to control her racing heart she could hear the buzzing and beeping of the machines surrounding her. Okay, she told herself, opening her eyes and slowly adjusting to the dim light. Be calm. You’re in hospital. Hooked up to machines. She had thought someone was with her—Ray, her father—but she soon
realized that she was actually alone.

She couldn’t remember how she had got there, and she only had the
poorest recollection of why, but she was alone in a room, her bed slightly raised, propping her at a thirty degree angle. There were tubes coming out of her chest as well as the one down her throat, and IVs hooked up to a catheter on the back of her hand. Pouches of blood, plasma and clear liquid hung on stands beside the bed. Beyond them was an illuminated screen which told her that her blood pressure was 125/91 and her heart rate 102. Even as she watched, the automatic sphygmomanometer strapped to her upper arm activated itself. Her BP was now 119/78, heart rate 79. She tried to relax. That was better, she thought. Not bad at all. But her throat still hurt and her breathing felt the same way it had under the ocean in her waking dream.

As she took stock of herself and her various aches and pains, needles and machines, she realized that one thing struck her above all others: she was still alive. Maybe she was dying, a machine doing her breathing for her, or maybe she had even died and been brought back, but right now she was alive. Her brain felt slow and heavy, as if it were stuffed with warm cotton wool, and her memory felt tenuous and flimsy, but it still worked. Her nose also seemed to be in the right place, ears, arms, legs and torso, too. What really hurt most of all were her chest and her back. Painkillers dulled some of it, but not enough. From her neck down to her stomach, front and back and inside, she felt as if she had been beaten black and blue by a giant cricket bat. Maybe she had been. Maybe that was why she was here. She could feel her toes, though, even wiggle them; and she could clench and unclench her hands, so she knew that her neck or her back weren’t broken.

Annie had a hazy sense of people going about their business outside her room, of muffled conversations, laughter and tannoy messages, but there was no clock, and she didn’t know where her watch was, so she had no sense of time, day or night. She lay there trying to calm the images of fear and panic that had first crowded her mind on her trip back from the underworld. She felt dreadfully thirsty and noticed a plastic cup of water on the bedside table, complete with a bendy straw, then she realized she couldn’t drink anything with the tube down her throat. Nor could she call out. Feeling the panic rise again, she looked for a bell or a buzzer, and finding a button, pressed it, but even as she
did so, she became aware of people dashing into the room, and there was no doubt that one of them was Ray, bearded and disheveled as ever. She couldn’t speak, but her heart ached with love for him, and she was sure the tears streamed down her cheeks as she lay back, exhausted with her efforts, and waited for the doctor and nurses to take out the tube that was choking her.

EVERYONE IN
the boardroom close to midnight that Thursday night was tired, but none of them would entertain any ideas of sleep until Annie’s shooter had been brought to justice, and until Banks’s daughter was safe. Banks and Winsome were present, along with Gervaise, and Doug Wilson, Geraldine Masterson, Vic Manson, Stefan Nowak and several uniformed officers from Traffic, Patrol and Communications. They had already been cheered by the news that the fingerprints Vic Manson had taken from the photograph The Farmer had handled matched those on the magazine of the Smith & Wesson automatic found in Erin Doyle’s possession. It confirmed the link they already suspected between The Farmer, Jaff McCready and the murder of Marlon Kincaid. But there was no sign of Justin Peverell on the electoral rolls.

“I think we’re getting to the stage now where everyone’s feeling just a bit twitchy,” Gervaise said when Banks and Winsome had finished telling everyone about their visits to Victor Mallory and The Farmer. “There are just so many sides to the equation.” She glanced at Doug Wilson and Geraldine Masterson. “What did you get from West Yorkshire Homicide and Major Enquiries?”

Wilson indicated that Geraldine Masterson should do the talking. “Not a lot, ma’am,” she said, clearly nervous to find herself performing in front of such a distinguished audience for the first time. “Detective Superintendent Quisling was able to confirm that the body of Marlon Kincaid was discovered beside a bonfire close to Woodhouse Moor, Leeds, in the early hours of sixth November, 2004.”

“By a jogger?” Banks asked. “A dog walker?”

“No, sir. Someone had to douse the flames, make sure the fire was out. Health and Safety.”

“So Health and Safety turn out to have their uses after all,” said Banks. “Miracles will never cease. Carry on.”

Geraldine Masterson gave him a nervous smile and continued. “The body was partially burned, but examination at the scene soon showed he’d been shot. Twice. You already know about the bullet and casing comparisons matching. Mr. Quisling said it was hard to track down everyone at the bonfire. It had been quite a large party, apparently, with live music, dancing, lots of drink. At first the people putting out the fire thought it was just some unfortunate drunk who had fallen down in the wrong place.”

“Drugs were involved, too, no doubt?” Gervaise suggested.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Was Ian Jenkinson any more forthcoming than Mr. Quisling?”

Geraldine Masterson cast a sideways glance at Doug Wilson, who was looking more like Harry Potter than ever tonight, wearing what looked like his school tie and blazer. With her long red hair, green eyes, high forehead and pale skin, Geraldine Masterson could easily have passed for one his fellow Hogwarts pupils, but she hadn’t been around long enough to be given a nickname yet. Annie Cabbot, who knew about these things, had once suggested that she resembled Elizabeth Siddal, a famous pre-Raphaelite beauty and artists’ model immortalized by Dante Gabrielle Rossetti and other painters, but that was hardly nickname material.

Doug Wilson adjusted his glasses and picked up the story. “Believe it or not, Ian Jenkinson is studying for the ministry at the moment. Wants to be a vicar. C of E. Gone quite religious. Not a fanatic or anything, but it’s a bit of an about turn from his past.”

“I suppose we should thank heaven that there is such a thing as rehabilitation,” said Gervaise. “Go on.”

“According to Jenkinson, who went down from Eastvale to the bonfire and who knew the victim, Marlon Kincaid was bragging a bit that he’d been warned off the territory by some bloke called The Farmer, but he wasn’t planning on paying any attention to any country bumpkin. Marlon wasn’t a big player, apparently, just sold a bit of pot and E to the student population now and again, but he thought it was his patch. Word had reached The Farmer, who’d been assuming he had the whole scene locked up and under control.”

“So he wanted to make an example of Kincaid?”

“I guess so, ma’am.”

“Did Jenkinson witness the shooting?”

“He says not.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s not just the churchy bit. He really does seem to genuinely regret his past—the drugs, the dealing. There were a lot of loud fireworks going off that night, he said, a lot of loud music, and a lot of drunkenness. People passed out and fell asleep right there on the ground. There was a good chance that nobody would have either heard the shot or noticed that Kincaid was dead.”

“Terrific,” said Banks. “Does Jenkinson know Jaff McCready?”

“He says not, but he
did
say that he saw a young Asian bloke slinking away at one point in the evening, quite late on. He was wearing a black leather jacket, and he had one hand inside the front of it, you know, like Napoleon, as if he was carrying something he was trying to hide.”

“Like a gun,” said Banks. “Did he tell this to Detective Superintendent Quisling and his team at the time?”

“No. He says that, in the first place it was all very vague—he was far from sober himself at the time—and in the second, the last thing he wanted was the police following up on his accusations and bothering him again. He was worried we’d frame him or harass him or something. He just wanted to give his statement and get back to Eastvale.”

“Hmm,” said Banks. “He never mentioned it when I talked to him in Eastvale, either, though he did hint at this feud between The Farmer and Kincaid. That’s how I first came across the name. When I pressed him, he maintained he had no idea who The Farmer was, or even whether it was a name or a nickname. Jaff McCready wasn’t even on the radar then.”

“If The Farmer’s fingerprints are on the magazine,” said Gervaise, “and if McCready was possibly the shooter, then Fanthorpe must have given the gun to McCready and sent him to do the job. A trial or an initiation ritual. Something like that? Prove himself.”

“It’s possible,” said Banks. “And now we’re caught up in a falling out among thieves precipitated by Erin Doyle’s actions.”

“Maybe McCready was using the gun as some kind of hold over The Farmer?” Gervaise suggested.

“I doubt it,” said Banks. “The Farmer’s not the kind of villain to sit
around and let something like that happen. No, if McCready had tried it on with him, he’d have had Ciaran and Darren round to his flat before you could say abracadabra and McCready would have ended up in bits and pieces in the canal. You can be sure that if The Farmer did give McCready the gun to shoot Kincaid, he had no idea that he was still holding on to it.”

“Then why?” Winsome asked.

“Insurance?” Banks said. “Or sheer bloody-mindedness? McCready and his pal Mallory liked guns. It was a hobby of theirs. And West Yorkshire’s still trying to find Mallory’s drug lab. The odds are that when they do, they’ll find a cache of Baikals as well. The Smith and Wesson’s a nice gun. The Farmer no doubt told McCready to dump it when he’d finished the job, but the cocky young bastard decided to keep it. He would have known that Fanthorpe’s prints were still on the magazine, once he’d wiped it clean of his own. Maybe it gave him a feeling of power or security?”

“Makes sense,” said Gervaise.

“Anyway,” Banks went on, “we’ve got a lot of scraps of information, and they seem to be making some sort of a pattern, but most of all, if we’re to bring an end to all this, we need to know Justin Peverell’s bloody address in Highgate. It’s a waiting game. And nobody enjoys that when the stakes are so high. We need to step up our road surveillance. If their van’s held out, there’s a good chance they’re still chugging along in the slow lane somewhere on the M1.”

“And if not?” said Gervaise.

“Then they’ve holed up somewhere en route, and McCready’s thinking furiously about how to get hold of another vehicle.”

“We’ve already got all the motorway patrol cars keeping their eyes open for a slow white van heading for London,” said Gervaise. “And if they have stopped for the night somewhere on the way, it gives us even more time to trace this Justin. He’s the key. Once we know where he lives we can stake out his house.”

“True,” said Banks. “But McCready won’t want to linger. One way or another, he’ll be back on the road as soon as he can be. McCready needs Justin, or needs what he can get from him. Then he’ll disappear like smoke. Or so he thinks.”

“And Tracy?” asked Gervaise.

“I don’t like to think about that,” said Banks. “I can’t see as it would be in his interests to hurt her. Or Darren and Ciaran’s, no matter what Fanthorpe said. On the other hand, when McCready has got what he wants, I can also see that Tracy would become an unnecessary burden. That’s why we have to get to them first.”

“We’ve got Armed Response units across the country on call,” said Gervaise.

Banks managed a grim smile. “Now, why doesn’t that make me feel a whole lot better?”

“Should we bring in The Farmer right away?” suggested Gervaise. “Now we know those prints of his you got on the photos earlier are a match against those on the magazine of the Smith and Wesson, we might be able to put a bit of pressure on him.”

“I don’t think it’ll do any good,” said Banks. “He won’t tell us anything, and the lawyers will spring him in minutes. All it means is that he handled the magazine at some point. There’s no proof he shot the gun that killed Marlon Kincaid. In fact, he most likely didn’t. I’m certain he was never at the bonfire. He’ll have a perfect alibi.”

“But you said yourself that The Farmer’s name came up in that investigation,” said Winsome.

“From Ian Jenkinson, who didn’t really know what or who it referred to. We’ve still nothing to arrest him for—”

“Perverting the course of justice? Wasting police time?” suggested Gervaise.

“We’d be better off waiting till we get something a bit more serious than that. Best just keep a close eye on him. We do hav—”

“Don’t worry, Alan. Ripon are keeping a close watch on him. He’s not going anywhere.”

“He doesn’t need to. He can do all he needs from the comfort of his cozy little den. Anything on Darren and Ciaran?”

“We can hardly check all the London hotels,” Gervaise said. “Besides, they could be staying at a private house. All we know is what you told us, that they’re in London somewhere waiting for orders.”