Peter Robinson - Bad Boy

“I don’t, sir. But I’ve heard that this Jaff McCready is a nasty piece of work. If it was his gun at the Doyle house, and if he was the one who shot DI-”

“I’m sorry, PC Powell. Nerys. I’m really sorry, but we’re ending this conversation right now. I can’t give you what you want. I promise I’ll do my best to keep you informed about DI Cabbot’s progress, but that’s all. Do you understand?”

Nerys got to her feet and dragged them toward the door. “Yes, sir,” she said. “If you change your mind at all…”

“I won’t,” said Banks, and he stared thoughtfully at the closed door for almost a minute after she had left.

“YOU’RE USING the throwaway mobile, right?”

“Course, boss.”

“Okay. Go on.” The Farmer was walking his favorite path in his garden. It was a warm evening, but still he wore one of the chunky cable-knit jumpers he loved so much. The neatly trimmed hedges of topiary and crinkling sound the cinders made underfoot always calmed him down. Not that he needed it. He was confident that Ciaran and Darren would do their jobs and the Jaff problem would be dealt with quickly.

The only angle that caused him any worry at all was Banks’s daughter. He remembered Banks’s tenacity and realized he’d had a lucky escape last time they had crossed paths. It wouldn’t be so easy this time, especially if anything happened to the girl. Jaff could be a mad bastard-The Farmer had seen him at work-and if the girl became a liability, her chances weren’t very good. Banks would certainly connect him to Jaff in time, and had probably already connected him with Ciaran and Darren. They never usually left a trail of bodies behind them, which was usually a good thing, but it also meant that the girl they had talked to, Rose, would probably be able to identify them, and that would be enough for Banks. He was a tricky copper, and he wouldn’t give up this time. The Farmer had to weigh what the girl might know against the possible comeback on getting rid of her along with McCready before he came to his decision. If Banks got his daughter back alive, and if he knew that The Farmer had a hand in it, then a senior copper’s gratitude might not be a bad thing to have in the long run.

“We got a name,” said Darren. “Bloke by the name of Justin. Lives in Highgate.”

“That’s not much to go on, is it?” said Fanthorpe.

“He’s bent. Involved in people-smuggling and dodgy passports. An old mate of Jaff’s.”

“Well, well,” said Fanthorpe. “You need a bit of intelligence for fake documents and people trafficking, don’t you? Knowing Jaff, that probably means he’s a mate from public school or university. Isn’t that where you meet most of your dodgy friends?”

“Wouldn’t know,” said Darren. “Never went to either. Never went to the comprehensive much, either, come to think of it.”

“It was a rhetorical question, shit for brains.”

“What’s that?”

“You’d know if you’d been to school, wouldn’t you?”

“What do you want us to do now, boss?”

“Quiet. I’m thinking.” Fanthorpe reached the fountain where the four cinder paths met and stood for a few moments watching the bare-breasted mermaids around the edge spout water from their O-shaped mouths, and the little boy pissing at the center. Zenovia’s idea. “If this Justin’s bent,” he went on, “and if he’s involved in people-trafficking, the odds are that he traffics in other things, too. Stands to reason, doesn’t it? I mean, I do. If you’ve got the routes secured and the right people paid off, you use them. Am I right?”

“You are, boss.”

“Either way, Gavin Nebthorpe will know. He knows everyone in the business. Justin in Highgate, you say? Leave it with me, lads. I want you two to head down to London fast as you can. Set off now and you’ll probably be there before dark.”

“Where in London? It’s a big place.”

“I know it’s a big place, Darren. That’s why it’s the capital of the United Kingdom. That’s why the Houses of Parliament are there. Big Ben. Buckingham Palace. That’s why the Queen of fucking England lives there. I know it’s a big place.”

“Well. Where, then?”

“You’ll hear from me before you get there. Keep the throwaway turned on. If for any reason you don’t hear from me before you arrive, get yourselves a hotel. Something inconspicuous and anonymous. Out of the way. You’d stick out like spare pricks at a wedding in The Dorchester. You might be doing a bit of wet work down there. Know what I mean?”

“Yes, boss. We’re on our way.”

Fanthorpe ended the call and stood by the fountain, a frown creasing his brow, then he keyed in another phone number. As he waited for an answer, he looked at the fountain again. Little boy pissing, indeed. Silly cow.

BEFORE HEADING DOWN TO LEEDS TO TALK TO VICTOR Mallory, Banks wanted to see if he could get anything out of Erin Doyle. He also wanted to see how Erin was bearing up under the strain of all that had happened over the last few days. She’d done a stupid thing, certainly, but he’d watched her grow up; she was a close friend of his daughter’s; she and Tracy had skipped and played hopscotch and whip’n’top in the street. What Erin had done needn’t ruin her whole life. He wasn’t going to write her off and abandon her to the likes of Chambers if he could help it. He wanted to talk to Juliet, too, but she would have to wait. He wasn’t a Family Liaison officer or a guidance counselor. Finding Tracy was his priority right now, and he doubted that Juliet could help with that. Erin and Victor Mallory just might.

Banks strode across the cobbled market square and started to climb the hill that wound up to the Norman castle overlooking the river Swain. It was a fine day for a walk, and the fresh air and exercise helped clear his foggy mind. On his way he passed the burgundy facade of the Café de Provence, where he had enjoyed his first date with Sophia. It seemed so long ago now, but it had only been last March. So much had happened in a mere six months. Now this: thrown straight back to work in the thick of a crisis. The only thing to do was to carry on.

He turned off Castle Hill onto Lamplighter’s Wynde, just past the café, and looked for number seven. It was a narrow cobbled street which wound back down to York Road in a steep curve, not even wide enough for cars, and the limestone terrace houses there were among the oldest in Eastvale, dating back in their foundations to Norman times, when the castle was built. In later years, they had been wealthy local merchants’ houses, and now they were a tourist attraction and a source of accommodation. Like many houses on the street, the one where Erin was staying had originally consisted of two separate dwellings, which had been knocked into one. The doorway was low enough that Banks had to be careful walking through it, but inside he found a greater sense of space, and far more light, than he had expected.

The landlady inspected his warrant card and pointed upstairs to where Erin was staying. Room 5. She called after Banks as he walked toward the stairs. “She hasn’t been out once, poor thing,” she said. “And she won’t eat. She just stays up there in her room fretting all day long.”

“Where is Ms. Yu?” Banks asked, thinking he should talk to the Family Liaison officer before he talked to Erin.

“She’s out.” The landlady lowered her voice. “I think she’s visiting the poor girl’s mother.”

Banks made sympathetic noises and carried on up the narrow creaking flight of stairs. The landing wasn’t quite flat, as in so many of these old houses. One of the floorboards wobbled, and the walls were out of true. Miniature watercolors of local landscapes hung on the flock-patterned walls, and Banks recognized Hindswell Woods, Lyndgarth village green, Eastvale Castle at sunset, and the little stone bridge in his own tiny village of Gratly.