Bad Boy (18 page)

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

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

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

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

“I won’t.”

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

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

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

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

“But I want some privacy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“With one of his girlfriend’s housemates?”

“That’s right.”

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

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

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

Ciaran gave a twisted smile. “Not yet.”

“Good lad.”

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

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

“Right, boss. Why?”

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

“The one up Eastvale way?”

“That’s the one. Remember him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t mean—”

“Just watch your tongue, that’s all.”

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

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

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

“Jaff?”

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

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

“Then it’s not our problem, is it?”

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

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

“Jaff?”

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

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

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

“What a fucking idiot.”

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

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

Both men nodded.

“Right. Where was this policewoman shot?”

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

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

“They didn’t say.”

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

“Unless he just shoots her and dumps her?”

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

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

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

“He might have stolen one,” Darren suggested.

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