Peter Robinson - Bad Boy

Mallory screamed and put his hands to his mouth. If the police outside heard him, they certainly didn’t come rushing in to put an end to the police brutality.

“You’ve ripped my lips off,” Mallory moaned. There was a small amount of blood on the carpet where he had been lying, and a patch of his hair on the left side was matted.

“Don’t be a baby,” said Banks. “You okay otherwise? Do you need an ambulance? A doctor?”

“No. No, I don’t need an ambulance or a doctor. I…I just banged my head when the chair tipped over. I don’t think I have concussion. I didn’t lose consciousness or anything.” Mallory rubbed his wrists and ankles. “I could do with some water, though.”

Winsome went and brought him a pint glass filled to the brim. Some of it dribbled down Mallory’s front as he slurped it greedily, but he didn’t seem to mind.

Banks gave him a while to get his circulation flowing again, and to compose himself.

Mallory avoided Winsome’s eye. “Er, look here,” he said to Banks when he had finished the water. “I…er…I had a small accident…do you think I might possibly have a quick shower and change before we talk?” He spoke with an educated accent, public school, a little too posh and plummy for Banks’s liking.

“We don’t have time for that,” Banks said. “But I-”

“Look, why don’t we compromise? You can dry yourself down and have a quick change, but I’ll have to stay with you. Best I can offer. Okay?”

“It’ll have to do, won’t it?”

“I’ll make some tea while you’re gone,” Winsome volunteered.

“Excellent,” said Banks. “You’re lucky,” he said to Mallory. “She doesn’t usually do tea.” He followed Mallory into the hall and up the stairs. “Nice house you’ve got here.”

“Thanks.”

“How much did you pay for it?”

“Too much.”

“No, come on. Quarter? Half? A mill?”

“Four hundred K. A bargain at the time.”

Banks whistled. He followed Mallory into a nondescript white bedroom with an en suite bathroom and walk-in cupboards and waited while he undressed and threw his clothes in a laundry basket, then rubbed himself down with a green fluffy towel, which joined his clothes, and pulled on a navy blue tracksuit. When Mallory was ready, Banks gestured for him to head back downstairs.

Winsome was waiting on the sofa, a pot of tea, milk, sugar and three mugs on the table in front of her. “I’ll play mother, then, shall I?” she said, pouring.

“Victor,” Banks said, settling down opposite Mallory, who sat in the winged armchair by the fireplace. “Tell us what happened?”

“Two men came,” Victor said. “They…they trussed me up, the way you saw, with sticky tape, then they just left me. I could have starved or choked to death if you hadn’t come.”

“We’ll cheerfully accept the praise for saving your life,” Banks said, “but I’d say you’re exaggerating just a wee bit. How long have you been like that?”

“I don’t know. I lost track of time. They came just after lunch.”

“Maybe five or six hours, then,” said Banks, with a glance at Winsome, who had started to take notes.

“Something like that. I tried to struggle free, but all I succeeded in doing was making the tape tighter. Then I rocked the chair so hard trying to pull away, it fell over. I was helpless, like a tortoise flipped on its back.”

“So we saw.”

“Look, do you mind if I get myself a drop of brandy. This tea’s very nice and all, but I’ve really had quite a shock, you know.”

“Not at all.”

“Can I get…I mean, would either of you like anything?”

“No, thank you,” said Banks, holding up his mug. “Tea will do fine for me.”

Winsome nodded in agreement.

“Okay.” Mallory went to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a generous measure of Rémy into a crystal glass. “That’s better,” he said after the first sip.

“I suppose you already know that we’ll probably want the same information your previous visitors wanted.”

“I’d guessed that already. But you’re not going to tie me up and threaten me with surgical instruments, are you?”

“Is that what they did?”

Mallory gave a theatrical shudder. On second thought, Banks realized, perhaps it wasn’t so theatrical. “One of them did. A real psychopath.”

“Ciaran. One of his persuasion techniques.”

Mallory almost choked on his Remy. “You know who they are?”

“I can make a pretty good guess,” said Banks. “Winsome?”

Winsome took Rose’s sketches from her briefcase and passed them to Mallory. “Good God,” he said. “Yes. That’s them.” He passed them back to Winsome.

“Then you’re a lucky man,” said Banks. “You still have all your organs intact.” He put his mug down on the table, leaned forward and cracked his knuckles. “The thing is, Victor, we don’t have a lot of time to beat about the bush. They’ve already got five hours or more start on us, and there’s a lot at stake. A lot more than you can imagine.”

“But who are they? Why me? Are you going to arrest them?”

“That’s a lot of questions, and I’m the one supposed to be doing the asking. Did you know that your friend Jaff McCready works for a man called Fanthorpe, better known as The Farmer?”

“Fanthorpe? No. Who’s he?”

“All you need to know is that he’s also the employer of Ciaran and Darren, the men who just paid you a visit. And they may have sup-planted Jaff in Fanthorpe’s favor in recent days.”

Mallory swallowed. Banks could see his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “They wanted to know where Jaff is. That’s all.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No, I don’t. Honest, I don’t.”

“But you must have some idea. The Ciaran and Darren I know wouldn’t believe that at face value. They’d have cut at least a little finger off, or sharpened it like a pencil, just to make sure, and they don’t really seem to have harmed a hair on your head. All the damage that was done, you did to yourself.”

“They terrorized me! Tortured me. In my own home.”

“My guess is,” Banks went on, “that you talked, and that you talked very quickly indeed. So we’d like you to do the same with us. You owe us that courtesy, at least. I mean, they only tied you up and threatened you with mutilation. We set you free, let you change your wet clothes, gave you a cup of tea and a glass of brandy. You owe us something, Victor. You must see that.”

“You sound just like them.”

“Don’t be silly. Where’s Jaff McCready?”

Victor turned away. “I don’t know.”

“That’s better. Now I know for certain you’re lying. I like to know where I stand.” Banks read out the number of the car that had been found hidden off the moorland road. “That mean anything to you?”

“Yeah. It’s my car.”

“Good. I’m glad you didn’t try to deny that. Now we’re getting somewhere. What was it doing on the moors above Gratly?”

“I don’t even know where Gratly is.”

“That wasn’t my question. How did it get there? And don’t try to tell me it was stolen.”

“Okay, so I lent it to Jaff. I assume you already know that or you wouldn’t be here. So what? He’s a mate of mine. I didn’t know what sort of trouble he was in.”

“But you must have known he was in some trouble?”

“Well, sure. But like I said, he’s a mate. You help out a mate in trouble, don’t you?”

Banks thought of Juliet Doyle, who had turned her daughter in to the police when she found a handgun in her possession. Who was going to help them out of their trouble? “Let’s not get too philosophical about it, Victor. We don’t have time. What else did you ‘lend’ Jaff?”