Peter Robinson - Bad Boy

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 maverick, 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?”