Peter Robinson - Bad Boy

When he had poured his first cup, he said, “I’m starving. Is there anything left to eat?”

Tracy had checked both the fridge and freezer, not to mention the cupboards. There were a couple of tins of baked beans and some soup, but that was it. They ate cold baked beans from the cans.

“After this, we’ve got to go shopping if we plan on staying here,” Tracy said. “There’s absolutely nothing left to eat. We have to go to Eastvale.”

“How long did you say your old man’s going to be away?”

“Until next Monday. We’re all right for a bit. Have you had a chance to think things out yet?”

“Sort of.”

“And?”

“I reckon we should stay here as long as it’s safe,” Jaff said. “Say till the end of the week. We’ll let things quiet down a bit. It’s nice and isolated here, nobody to come around asking awkward questions. And nobody will think to look for me here. Even if someone does come, you can talk to them, tell them everything’s okay and send them packing. After all, it’s your dad’s house. You’ve got every right to be here, haven’t you? There’s even some decent music and movies. Not to mention the booze. I reckon we’ve lucked out.”

“But we can’t stay here forever,” Tracy argued, vague images in her mind of the further damage Jaff might do to her father’s home. She’d enjoyed last night’s careless abandon and wild freedom, but it couldn’t go on indefinitely.

“I know that, babe.” Jaff ambled over and ran his hand over her hair, her cheek, her breast. “I just need to put a few plans into operation, that’s all. I know people. I’ve got an old college mate down in Clapham who can get us fixed up with new passports, no questions asked, but I need a few days to make some calls and set things up. These things don’t come cheap. I’m just saying we’ve got a good hide-away for now, and that’s all we need. Soon as I’m organized, we can go down to London, then get out of the country. Once we’re over the Channel, we’re home free.”

“Not these days,” said Tracy. “There’s Interpol and Europol and God knows what other pols. I’ve seen programs on telly.”

“You worry too much. Don’t be a drag, babe. All I’m saying is that if you know how to disappear, you can do it over there.”

“And you know?”

Jaff kissed her. “Trust me. And maybe you should get a different lipstick while we’re in Eastvale. Pink, maybe. I don’t like that dark red color. Same goes for the nail varnish. It looks slutty. Get something lighter. Is there anything you can do about your hair? I liked it better without the colored streaks.”

“They’ll wash out easily enough,” Tracy said. She touched her hair and licked her lips self-consciously, then examined her scarlet nails. Still she felt uneasy. She wasn’t sure that she wanted to change her appearance and go into forced exile over the Channel with Jaff, much as she fancied him. After all, she didn’t know him very well and she hadn’t done anything illegal. She wasn’t on the run. In fact, she wasn’t even sure what she was doing, or why. All she’d done wrong so far was help make a bit of a mess of her dad’s place and drink some of his booze. But she decided to concentrate on the moment, on the now. She could deal with the rest later.

NOT SO far away, in his eighteenth-century manor house on the northwestern fringes of Ripon, “Farmer” George Fanthorpe stood at his picture window and surveyed his domain as he mulled over what he had just been told. He could see his own flushed, craggy face, round shoulders and thick curls of graying hair reflected in the glass. Beyond his reflection lay the garden, his pride and joy, with its beautifully trimmed lawn, swings, slide and a seesaw for the kids, topiary hedges, cinder paths, fountains, flower beds and vegetable patches where Zenovia liked to spend her time, though today she was on a shopping trip in York.

The high walls that enclosed the garden were mostly covered by climbing vines and partially hidden by trees, though where the garden sloped down there were enough gaps in the foliage to make the view of the Wensleydale hills beyond Masham a magnificent one. Today, the frozen waves of hills had become gray, muted humps, each higher than the one before it, undulating into the far distance. Fanthorpe loved that view, could watch it for hours. It was even more spectacular from the bedroom window, without any obstruction in the way at all. But the walls were necessary. They were also topped with broken glass. “Farmer” Fanthorpe had enemies.

The grayness of the weather reflected his mood that afternoon. There were things happening in the far-flung reaches of his empire that he didn’t like, didn’t like at all. He prided himself on running a slick operation, and the snippets of news that Darren had just given him were disturbing his equilibrium, to say the least.

“You’re certain it’s Jaff’s girlfriend?” he asked, half turning.

“Certain,” said Darren, who had been standing behind him in silence, arms folded…

Fanthorpe knew that Darren wasn’t an alarmist, not one to exaggerate or get in a tizzy over nothing. Cool, Darren was, even in a scrape. Especially in a scrape. And he understood the value of intelligence. “And they found the shooter in her house?”

“Parents’ house. It was on the news.”

“Just a shooter? I mean, they didn’t mention…?”

“Just a shooter. The cops shot her old man with a Taser. He died.”

Fanthorpe turned his back on the view and moved closer toward Darren. “Tough titty. You know, this is the last thing we need right now, don’t you? The last thing. What with negotiations with the Russians going so well. The Lithuanians falling into line. And the Albanian deal. What does that stupid bastard think he’s up to, giving his shooter to his fucking girlfriend? And where is he? He was supposed to be here with the stuff last night. Last fucking night.”

“I don’t know,” said Darren. “Maybe he didn’t give the gun to her. Maybe she took it and the stuff. The cops aren’t saying. What do you want us to do?”

“Is Ciaran with you?”

“In the car.”

Fanthorpe paced the room, thinking furiously. He didn’t want to do anything that would draw further unwanted attention to himself-and pretty much all attention was unwanted in his line of work, which involved criminal business of astonishing breadth and variety, from the merely gray to the out-and-out black: moving things around, matching demand with supply, whether drugs, dirty money, luxury cars or unwilling sex-trade workers. His daughters went to the best school in the county, and his beautiful young Serbian wife didn’t have to get dishpan hands. Fanthorpe wanted to keep it that way. And the manor house, too; that was a given.

It often amazed him how utterly still Darren could stand. He didn’t even blink while he waited for the answer.

“And this was all on the news this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Has Jaff’s name been mentioned?”

“Not yet. We think the girl must be keeping shtum.”

“It won’t last,” said Fanthorpe. “It never does.”

“She’s on bail. We might still be able to get to her. We could-”

Fanthorpe held his hand up, palm out. “No,” he said. “No. I appreciate the sentiment, Darren, I really do. And if anyone can do it, you and Ciaran can. But it’s too risky. I know we’ve done similar things before with witnesses and other problems, but the risks far out-weigh the advantages this time. If she doesn’t name him, someone else will. You can’t tell me they don’t hang around with other people like themselves. Don’t like to show off a bit, flash the cash around. You know kids today. Clubs. Pubs. Loose tongues. A social circle. No. If she doesn’t tell them, someone else will.”