Peter Robinson - Bad Boy

The plane bumped along the runway, and after a lengthy ground journey came to a halt beside a Jetway. In no time at all Banks was shuffling along the miles of airport corridors with the rest of the weary passengers to Passport Control. The EU line wasn’t very long, and it was soon Banks’s turn to walk up to the officer and present his passport. She checked the photograph against his face, scanned it through her computer, checked it again, then turned around, and two burly men who had been hanging back keeping an eye on the arrivals walked forward.

“Mr. Banks? Can you please come with us, sir,” one of them said in a voice that made it clear that he wasn’t asking a question.

“What is-”

“Please, sir.” The man took his arm and led him away from the queue.

Banks had done the same thing to enough people himself-albeit in slightly different circumstances-that he knew not to expect any answers. Maybe they thought he was a terrorist. Maybe they would waterboard him. They could do what they wanted, and there was nothing he could do about it. Most likely, he thought, it was something to do with that business with MI5 earlier in the summer. He’d made a mess of things then, and he had also made some dangerous enemies. They had long memories; they didn’t forget. Was this some kind of payback for what he had done? And how serious were they? Whatever it was, he certainly wouldn’t get to say anything until they got where they were going. He felt panic rise in his chest; his heart thumped, and he found it difficult to breathe. He also felt faint and light-headed from jet lag and lack of sleep. And fear.

They led him down the corridor toward the baggage-claim area and through a heavy door to the left marked AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY. After a few more twists and turns along dim and airless passages, they got to an unmarked office door. One of the men opened the door, and with a gentle but firm touch to the small of Banks’s back, the other made sure he went inside. Then the door closed behind him.

The office was larger, cleaner and better-appointed than he would have expected, but there were no windows, and a little fan sat on the desk slowly churning the stale humid air. It was who sat behind the desk that surprised Banks. Perhaps it shouldn’t have. Detective Superintendent Richard Burgess was somehow connected with Special Branch, and he had helped Banks out with a case earlier in the summer, the one that made him so nervous about all this security business to start with. At the sight of Burgess he relaxed a bit, and his heart rate slowed closer to normal, but there was still something wrong about this, because DS Winsome Jackman was also in the room. What on earth was she doing here?

“You all right, Alan?” asked Burgess. “You look a bit peaky.”

“It’s not every day I get picked up at Passport Control by airport security. What the hell’s going on?” Banks realized that Dirty Dick only knew a part of what had happened earlier that summer, and that Winsome knew nothing, so they couldn’t really have any idea of the sort of images that went through his mind or the level of terror he felt when two burly plainclothes security officers dragged him off without explanation. After the experiences he had had, he could easily believe that people had been led into those very same corridors and had never been seen again.

“Take a pew,” said Burgess, pushing a bottle of Laphroaig and a plastic cup toward him. “Sorry about the lack of crystal ware. This is still your tipple of choice, isn’t it?”

“I’m not sitting anywhere or drinking anything till someone tells me what’s going on.”

“I’m sorry about the welcoming committee,” Burgess went on. “Had to be done, though. I can’t go out there. And they had no idea why they were doing it. They were just following orders. It’s the only way they do things around here. Winsome will explain.”

“What orders? Whose orders? Winsome?”

“Pour yourself a drink first and sit down,” said Burgess. “Go on. Believe me, it’ll help.”

Though he had switched from whiskey to red wine a couple of years ago, Banks did as Burgess suggested. Immediately he smelled the acrid peaty malt, he felt his throat constrict and his skin burn, but he managed to take a sip. The warmth flooded his veins. He could get used to this again. “Just get on with it, then. What’s going on?”

Winsome’s expression was grave, and now Banks feared that something might have happened to Tracy, Brian, his mother or his father. This was the way they told you about a death in the family. The solicitous tone, a drink, a chair to sit on, the sepulchral expressions.

“I’m sorry, too,” said Winsome. “But I think it was the best way. Detective Superintendent Gervaise knew what flight you were returning on, and Mr. Burgess was kind enough to help out with airport security. Otherwise, I’d be standing out in Arrivals holding up a sign with your name on it.”

“I think I’d have spotted you without the sign, Winsome. Come on. Give. What is it?”

“It’s Annie,” Winsome said, leaning forward. “There’s no easy way to break this. She’s…”

“Annie? She’s what? Get it out.”

“Annie’s been shot.”

Banks fell back in his chair and put his hands to his burning cheeks. “Shot?”

“Last night. I didn’t want to risk you seeing it in the paper, sir. It even made some headlines. That’s why…I mean, if you’d gone wandering in the concourse…you might have…”

Banks instinctively reached for the Laphroaig, tipped the cup toward his mouth and took a large mouthful. It burned as it went down, but it helped bring his mind into sharper focus. “How serious is it?”

“It’s very serious,” Winsome said. “They’ve sent for her father.”

“But she’s still alive?”

“Yes. But it’s touch and go. One of the bullets nicked her right lung. It collapsed. The lung and chest cavity filled with fluid. She almost didn’t make it to the hospital.”

“One bullet?”

“She was shot twice. Once in the chest and once in the shoulder. The second bullet shattered the clavicle and fragmented. It’ll cause mobility problems, but they say it’ll heal in time. The surgeons were operating most of the night. They may have to go in again.”

“Good God,” whispered Banks. “Have you caught whoever did it?”

“Not yet… Our information’s a bit sketchy.”

“Where is she now?”

“Cook University Hospital. Middlesbrough. They don’t have the facilities at Eastvale General to deal with that kind of trauma.”

“Not many people get shot in Eastvale,” Banks pointed out. There was a pause. Burgess reached for the Laphroaig bottle, and Banks saw him exchange a glance with Winsome. “What?” Banks said. “Is there something else?”

“It didn’t happen in Eastvale,” said Winsome. She glanced at her watch. “Look, do you want to head up to Middlesbrough and see her now? We can pick up your suitcases at the baggage claim on the way out, and I’ll fill you in on everything I know. There’s a helicopter-”

“A helicopter?”

Burgess cleared his throat. “Least I could do, mate. I put in for a Lear jet, but budgets being what they are these days…” He managed a weak grin.

Banks stared at him and swirled the remaining whiskey in his cup before finishing it off. “Thanks,” he said. Then he held up the empty cup before he set it down on the desk. “And for this, too.”

Burgess just nodded, then he got up and opened the door to have a brief word with the two security guards, who were still waiting outside. “They’ll escort the both of you out of here,” he said.

Winsome got to her feet.

“Right, then,” said Banks. “Let’s go.” He paused in the doorway. “Just one thing. If Annie wasn’t shot in Eastvale, where exactly did it happen?”