Peter Robinson - Bad Boy

“Looks that way,” said Winsome. “And Juliet Doyle?”

“She’s stopping with Harriet Weaver. No charges against her, naturally.”

“Naturally. I don’t suppose this Jaff would want Tracy using the phone if he thought we might link the two of them and track her down through her mobile use. But she loved that mobile. She was never off it. He must have taken it from her on Monday, kept it switched off. Was she there with him willingly? She can’t have been. What do you think?”

“We honestly don’t know,” Winsome said. “She might have been. In the first place. I mean, according to Rose, she went over to his place of her own free will. After that we don’t know how events unfolded, but she must have been the one who took him to your cottage. Maybe he forced her to take him. It’s possible. All we know is what Tracy’s housemate told us. But we don’t know what happened after they got there-the place is a bit of a shambles-but, like you, I can’t believe Tracy would willingly have anything to do with Annie’s shooting.”

“Of course not,” said Banks. “It’s absurd. However this all started, I think we have to assume that Tracy’s under duress right now. She’s a hostage of this Jaff McCready. That’s an odd name, by the way. Know anything about him?”

“I‘ve been doing a bit of digging. His mother’s from Bangladesh. Was. She died of breast cancer a few years ago. She was only forty. Anyway, she was a model. Very lovely, by all accounts. She married Jack McCready. He came from East Kilbride originally, but he built up an empire of bookmakers down south and did a bit of investing in the movie business. That’s how they met. He liked to hang about with the stars and directors and such.”

“Don’t we all?” said Banks. “I’ve heard the name, seen his photo in the papers and his name in the gossip columns from time to time, starlet on each arm sort of thing. Can’t say as I’ve ever met a bookie I could trust. Dead, though, isn’t he?”

“Heart attack,” said Winsome. “Eight years ago. There were rumors about him. Money laundering, nobbled horses, fixed races, what have you. Nothing proven, and the death was all aboveboard. Anyway, the parents split up when Jaffar was eight. He went with his mother to India. She became quite a famous Bollywood star there. I think Jaffar himself got used to a certain amount of fame and celebrity rubbing off on him. Then his mother died tragically, and he was sent back here. He was thirteen then. His father put him straight into boarding school, no love lost there, I imagine, then he went to Cambridge. Read Philosophy.”

“Bright?”

“Average. He got through. They said that he could have applied himself more.”

“They said that about me, too. ‘Could have tried harder.’ Trouble-maker?”

Winsome smiled. “I think McCready was more of a misfit, really. He’s got no form. Definitely not your run-of-the-mill disaffected youth.”

“No,” said Banks. “Perhaps a bit more deeply psychologically scarred. How old is he?”

“Thirty-one.”

“Jobs?”

“Never had one, as far as we can determine.”

“Was he on our radar at all?”

“No. But I had a chat with Ken Blackstone, and West Yorkshire are aware of him. That’s all. Nothing concrete, just a lot of suspicions. Drugs, mostly. They suspect he’s linked with an illegal laboratory, among other things. Something to do with an old mate from Cambridge, a chemistry student. It’s an ongoing investigation. A slow one, Ken says. They haven’t found anything yet.” She took the two sketches that Rose Preston had made from her briefcase. “And these two charmers are also looking for Jaff and Tracy. They pretended to be police officers, gave Tracy and Erin‘s housemate a hard time.”

Banks examined the sketches. They were good quality-bold, confident lines and subtle shading. He was no expert, but he thought Rose showed talent as an artist.

“She said their names were Sandalwood and Watkins.”

“That’s a lie,” said Banks. They’re Darren Brody and Ciaran French.”

Winsome’s jaw dropped. “You know them?”

“I made it my business to know them. We’ve met in passing. They work for George Fanthorpe, better known as The Farmer.”

“I know that name.”

“You should. One of the best kept secrets in the county. Thinks of himself as Lord of the Manor, gentleman farmer. Owns a dairy and acres of farmland. Stables and horse training, too. Lives near Ripon. His crooked reach stretches as far as Middleham. Beyond, too, probably.”

“They were asking about Jaff, and his dad was a bookie,” Winsome said. “Think there might be a connection?”

“I doubt it,” said Banks. “Perhaps at one time. But Jack McCready is long dead, and Fanthorpe’s main source of income is drugs. Cocaine and heroin, mostly. Bulk. Never sees or touches the stuff himself, of course. Mr. Big. Mostly deals with the student population. The farming businesses are a nice facade, handy for laundering the money. He’s probably the only dairyman making a healthy profit these days, or any kind of profit. The racehorses are a hobby-the sort of thing a country squire might be expected to take an interest in. The stables might actually be profitable.”

“How do you know about him?”

Banks finished his coffee. “Just one of those things. I talked to a minor drug dealer called Ian Jenkinson at Eastvale College about six years ago, just a follow up for a West Yorkshire case, and he let The Farmer’s name slip in connection with a murder on Woodhouse Moor. Another low-level dealer called Marlon Kincaid, who catered mostly to the Leeds student population. Apparently Jenkinson got some of his supplies from this Kincaid, who, in turn, we think, got them from Fanthorpe’s organization. Or should have done. As it turned out, he was freelancing, and this annoyed The Farmer. I paid The Farmer himself a visit. Smooth bastard, played the part well, but you know how you get a feeling sometimes, develop an instinct?”

“I’m getting one now,” Winsome said. “It can’t be a coincidence.”

“What can’t?”

“That name you just mentioned: Marlon Kincaid. I hadn’t got around to telling you yet, but we’re almost certain that the gun we found at the Doyle house was used in his murder on November fifth, 2004.”

“That’s about the right time,” said Banks. “Very interesting.”

Winsome nodded. “Indeed. Maybe we should have another chat with this Ian Jenkinson, if we can find him. What happened?”

“Well, it was like I said, a hunch. I did a bit of digging, but I couldn’t get below the surface. All the snitches clammed up. Scared. Next time I went to see The Farmer, Ciaran and Darren here were with him, lurking in the shadows. Business associates, he introduced them as. I noticed them on a couple of occasions after that, following me, parked over the street, shopping in the same supermarket. Always said hello and smiled, asked after the family. That sort of thing. Mild intimidation.”

“And were you intimidated?”

“A bit. Those two have a nasty reputation. Darren’s just a thug, not without brains entirely, but a thug nonetheless. Ciaran takes a genuine pleasure in hurting and humiliating people. Rumor has it they’ve killed more than once, and the killings are linked to Fanthorpe. But you know the way it goes sometimes. No evidence. Perfect alibis. Then something else came up. Marlon Kincaid was well known as a dealer to the student scene, and most people felt the planet was a better place without him. We got no further on Fanthorpe or on the murder. You know as well as I do that someone in that business can antagonize a lot of people, from rivals to disgruntled parents whose kids have overdosed. West Yorkshire checked all the avenues, but came up with nothing. We were only marginally involved because of the Ian Jenkinson connection. We had nothing on The Farmer to start with. He’s never been charged with anything. Maybe the forensic accountants could have made a case if they’d got access to his books, like they did with Al Capone, but we didn’t even have enough for a warrant. The CPS said forget it. There were more urgent matters screaming for our attention. Fanthorpe faded into the background with a little flag beside his name. Ciaran and Darren disappeared from my life. I can’t say as I ever forgot any of them, but nor did I lose any sleep over them, either.”