Peter Robinson - Bad Boy

“Thank you,” Banks said. “You’ve been a great help.”

Erin shrugged. “What’s going to happen to me now? I don’t mean to be selfish or anything, but I couldn’t stand going to jail.”

“Nothing’s going to happen. Not for a while. When’s your court date?”

“Next month.”

“Get a good solicitor,” Banks said. “It’s true that the law comes down hard on possession of firearms, but you’ve got a better chance than most. You haven’t been in trouble before, you’re from a good family, you have character witnesses. It could be worse.”

“Hard to imagine,” said Erin, “but thanks. That helps.”

“I’ll help you as best I can. If you don’t know a solicitor, I can recommend one. And if this business with Jaff and Tracy comes to a satisfactory conclusion and no one gets hurt, that could go in your favor, too. You’ve helped us a lot.”

Erin nodded. They both stood up. “What are you going to do now?” Banks asked.

“I think I’m going to go to the Swainsdale Centre and buy some new clothes and makeup. I can’t believe you’d allow yourself to be seen with me looking like this.”

Banks laughed.

“It is all right, isn’t it?” she asked. “What?”

“To go to the Swainsdale Centre. You know. I don’t have to go straight back to the B-and-B and report in, do I? You’re not going to put an electronic tag on my ankle, are you?”

“Of course not,” said Banks. “You’re on police bail. You report when you’re told to and you’ll be fine. I wouldn’t advise leaving town, though. Believe me, there will be more questions. A lot more. But you can go anywhere you want in Eastvale.”

“Except home,” said Erin. “Except home.”

BANKS LEANED BACK IN HIS SEAT AND CLOSED HIS EYES as the car slowed to a crawl at the roadworks on the A1 just north of Wetherby. Winsome had offered to drive him to Leeds. Normally he would have preferred to go alone and drive himself, but this time he had accepted her offer. He didn’t trust himself behind the wheel; he was too wired and too anxious. They hadn’t spoken much on the way down, but he was glad of her company and that she had tuned the radio to Radio 3. Vaughan Williams’s “Variation on a Theme by Thomas Tallis” was playing at the moment.

Banks had never felt so weary. Lights danced behind his eyelids. He felt as if he could see the electrical pulses jumping around in his brain projected there, flashing, arcing, short-circuiting. There was simply too much to take in, too much to comprehend, and it was getting more and more difficult for him to focus. Every moment spent tracking down nuggets of valuable information meant more time in fear and danger for Tracy.

But it had to be this way. The real problems might only begin once they had located Jaff and Tracy, and he needed to go into that situation with as much information as he could get. It was his only weapon, his only armor. After all, Jaff had a gun and a hostage.

It was the tail end of rush hour, and the traffic on the Leeds Ringroad slowed them down. Luckily they didn’t have far to go. Victor Mallory’s house turned out to be between West Park and Moortown Golf Club. It was seven o’clock when Winsome pulled up outside the rambling detached house with its cream stucco facade, large garden, gables and mullioned bay windows.

“Not bad,” said Winsome. “Not bad at all for a thirty something.”

“Maybe we’re in the wrong business?” Banks suggested.

“Or maybe his business is wrong.”

“More like it,” Banks agreed. “If he’s a mate of McCready’s. There’s a lot you can do with a Cambridge degree in chemistry, and it doesn’t all involve teaching or working for pharmaceutical companies. But that’s for the locals to worry about.” Banks gestured to the silver Skoda parked down the street. “They’ve been keeping a discreet eye on him.”

“Hard to appear inconspicuous in a Skoda in a neighborhood like this,” said Winsome.

They got out and walked over to the parked car. The window was open and Banks caught a whiff of fresh cigarette smoke. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation, the way it used to be. “Anything?” he asked, flashing his warrant card as discreetly as possible.

“Nor a sausage,” replied the driver. “Waste of bloody time, if you ask me.”

“Anyone come or go?”

“No.”

“He in there?”

“No idea.”

“Right. You can get off to the pub now.”

“We go when our guv says to go.”

Banks rolled his eyes and looked at Winsome, who shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said.

“Anyone would think they enjoyed sitting there doing nothing,” said Winsome as they walked toward the house.

“Don’t assume everyone shares your work ethic, Winsome. Besides, they’re sitting on their brains, so maybe that cramps their thinking style. I suppose we got what we asked for, though-a watching brief. I mean, we didn’t ask for politeness or intelligence, did we?”

Winsome laughed. “I’ll make a note of it next time. Maybe a better model of car, too.” They walked up Victor Mallory’s flagstone path and rang the doorbell. No sound came from inside. “Curtains are closed. Maybe they’ve been watching an empty house?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” said Banks. He pressed the doorbell again. Still nothing happened, but he thought he heard a stifled groan or a muffled call from somewhere inside the house. He glanced at Winsome, who frowned and nodded to indicate that she had heard it, too. The door seemed formidable, but when Banks turned the handle and pushed, it opened. He checked the lock, which was a dead bolt, and saw that it hadn’t been secured. There was also a strong chain and an alarm system, too, but the latter wasn’t activated. With the door closed behind them, there was only enough light in the hallway to make out the dim shape of a chair and the outline of a broad staircase leading upstairs.

Banks’s eyes adjusted, and he saw three doors leading off the hall. When he heard the sound again, he realized it was coming from the first door on his left, the front room. The heavy door was already ajar, and when he pushed, it opened slowly. The room was even darker than the hall, so he walked over and opened the thick velour curtains. Early evening light flooded in and illuminated the floor-to-ceiling bookcases against one wall, framed contemporary prints and an expensive Bang & Olufsen stereo system on another, and the figure lying on the floor at the center of the room, gagged and bound to a hard-backed chair.

“Victor Mallory, I presume?” said Banks.

All he got by way of a reply was muffled growling and cursing.

“Winsome,” he said, “could you see if you can find some scissors or a sharp kitchen knife?”

Winsome headed back out into the hall. Banks heard doors opening and closing, and moments later she came back with a pair of scissors.

“Excellent,” Banks said. He bent over Mallory. He smelled the sharp animal stink of urine and noticed a wet patch down the front of the man’s trousers. “First of all, Victor,” he said, “it’s important that you know we’re police officers and we’re not going to hurt you, so when I cut you free and take off that gag, you don’t start screaming and try to make a run for it. Got that?”

Mallory nodded and made more grumbling sounds.

“You’d never make it, anyway,” Banks went on. “Winsome here is our star rugby player. Flying tackles and dropkicks are her specialty.” Banks heard Winsome mutter something under her breath. “I didn’t catch that,” he said.

“Nothing,” said Winsome with a sigh.

Banks then showed Mallory his warrant card and began to cut him free. He left the gag until last, loosening one of the edges and then ripping it fast.