Peter Robinson - Bad Boy

Before she could say any more, Jaff had dashed around the car and snatched the phone from her hand. In his anger he threw it to the ground and crushed it with his heel again and again until the pieces were scattered over the gravel. That was it, Tracy thought, her heart sinking even lower. Her lifeline. Gone. She was alone now. Alone with a killer. He shoved her into the passenger seat and started the car.

Tracy began to shake. She couldn’t get the image of Annie out of her mind: just lying there, pale, still and bleeding on the broken glass table. But at least she had made the 999 call, however dearly it had cost her. If there was any hope at all, that was it. Now she had to turn her mind to her own predicament, which it didn’t take a genius to work out was a lot worse than it had been only half an hour ago.

She had thought Jaff was going to kill her after he had discovered that her father was a policeman, but he had come up with another option: to keep her as a hostage until he had got to safety. He had told her he could use her as a bargaining tool in negotiations. She being a DCI’s daughter was a double-edged sword, he went on, and he intended to be the one who was wielding it.

But Annie’s shooting changed everything. He’d be far less concerned about killing a second person now, and far more worried about his own escape and safety. She could still be a bargaining tool, but she had just become more expendable than before, especially after making the phone call.

“What are you doing?” she said, snapping out of it when she saw Jaff was about to turn right at the end of the drive.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Jaff said. “Since your little act of rebellion with the mobile, that main road down there is going to be full of police cars and ambulances. I’m going the other way.”

Jaff turned right and headed for the open moors. The sun was still up, but the shadows were lengthening, and the light was turning softer, streaks of faint pastel coloring the pale blue sky. Soon it would dip below the hills and the sky would darken. Tracy thought she could hear a siren in the distance. God, she hoped she was right, hoped they were in time. “Don’t you realize how what you’ve done changes everything?” she said. “One of their own? They’ll pull out all the stops on this.”

“What the hell else was I supposed to do?” Jaff snapped. “Hold out my hands for the cuffs? Anyway, you should know,” he went on, giving her a sidelong glance. “Copper’s daughter. Traitorous bitch. But they don’t know what’s happening yet. They don’t know about me. She’d never have come by herself if she’d known the truth.”

“Maybe she had no reason to suspect you’d got hold of another gun, or that you’d shoot her,” Tracy said. “Maybe she did come to water the plants. But it didn’t take her long to suss out the situation. She knew more than you think. And that means others will probably know, too.”

“You can’t be certain of that.”

“I know how they work. Would you rather take the risk?” Jaff didn’t reply.

Tracy contemplated her position. Perhaps it was for the best that he had turned right at the end of her dad’s drive. She knew the moors; she had come out here with her father many times after his divorce, walked the hidden paths with him for hours, explored hidden clefts and gullies, the abandoned quarries and old lead mine workings. There were twelve miles of open moorland between Banks’s cottage and the next village of any significance. Jaff was like a fish out of water here, dependent on her to show him the way. It gave her an advantage, especially if she could find an excuse to get him to stop after dark.

She was still wondering how the hell she could get out of his clutches for as long as it took to disappear when, just two miles along the narrow, unfenced road, the car gave up the ghost.

Jaff tried to start it up again a few times, then cursed, got out and started kicking the tires. “Fucking Vic! Fucking idiot!” He kept repeating it like a mantra.

Though the sun had just set, there was still too much daylight left, but Tracy took advantage of Jaff’s tantrum by edging toward the drystone wall beside Topfleet Woods. Perhaps if she could escape into there, she could keep far enough ahead of him to double back down to Cobbersett, a tiny village on the daleside just to the west of Gratly. From there she could easily make it to Helmthorpe and get help. She doubted that Jaff would pursue her for very long through the woods if he thought the police were after him. He would want to go forward, not back. Nimbly, she hopped the wall and ran into the trees.

But Tracy underestimated both Jaff’s intentions and his speed. He had kept his eye on her. In no time at all, she could hear him behind her, and soon she felt a tight grip around her neck. She jerked to a halt, her head snapping back, and screamed in pain.

“Shut up, or so help me I’ll strangle you here and now,” said Jaff between gasps for breath. “You stupid bitch. You’re losing us time. Get back to the road. Get us the fuck out of here, not back where we came from.”

“Let go. I can’t breathe. You’re breaking my neck.”

“Promise you won’t run anymore.”

“I promise! I promise! Let go!”

Jaff let go. He caught his breath, hands on knees, while Tracy massaged the back of her neck. It obviously wasn’t broken, or she wouldn’t still be standing, but it certainly hurt like hell. Finally Jaff turned and started walking back to the car, cocky and confident enough simply to leave her to follow. She hated him at that moment more than anyone ever in her life, and she was tempted to take off again. But he was faster than she thought, and this time if he caught her, he would probably kill her. She paused and stooped to look for a stone she could smash his head in with, but there was nothing. He turned and looked at her, shook his head, then carried on walking again. Head hung low, still massaging her neck, she followed like a shameful Eve following Adam out of Paradise. Some paradise.

“We’ve got to get rid of the car,” Jaff said. “There’s a gate up ahead. You can help me push it there and through, then we’ll see if we can’t hide it on the other side.”

Tracy felt too defeated to respond. Her nose hurt, her neck hurt and her heart ached. So she followed him.

BANKS HAD BEEN ON THE PLANE SINCE FIVE TO FIVE on Wednesday afternoon, and by his watch it was three o’clock in the morning when they finally stopped circling Heathrow and began the slow descent. It was broad daylight outside. Banks hadn’t slept-he never did on planes-but at least he hadn’t drunk any alcohol; he had heard that abstinence helped to alleviate jet lag. The food had been pretty dreadful, and the choice of movies not much better. Mostly he had read The Maltese Falcon until his eyes got too tired, then he took out his iPod and listened to Angela Hewitt playing Bach’s Keyboard Concertos. The noise-canceling headphones he had bought before flying out had been expensive, but they were well worth it. The music came out loud and clear, while everything else was a distant background hum. Somehow Bach managed to calm and relax him on a flight in a way that most other music didn’t.

But soon came the instructions to turn off all electronic devices, along with the information that the time in London was 11:05 A.M. on Thursday morning, and the temperature was eighteen degrees Celsius. Banks packed up his iPod and headphones and took out his book again for the last few minutes. At least they hadn’t barred people from reading old-fashioned print on the final descent. Yet.

He could see London spread out below him between the clouds as they came in to land from the east: the meandering Thames, the green sward of a large park, Tower Bridge, busy streets and clusters of buildings, all the familiar landmarks gleaming in the bright sunshine. It looked like a fine day, but all he really wanted to do was crawl into bed. He had booked a hotel room in the West End and planned on spending the weekend in London seeing old friends before taking the train back up north on Monday morning. He hoped the hotel room would be ready for him when he arrived.