Peter Robinson - Bad Boy

“If he is leading the search, the way you say, it’s because of me. Without me you stand a much better chance.”

Jaff shook his head. “Maybe it’s partly because of you. But it’s also because of that bitch I shot back at his house. Think he’s going to give up on her? He was probably shagging her. They stick together.”

“It’s not like that. You can drop me off right here, or in the city center. I can make my own way home.”

“I’m sure you can. Right into your father’s police station. I’ll bet you’ve got plenty of friends there, and you’d be more than happy to answer all their questions.”

“You’ll have a much better chance of getting to London and out of the country without me.”

“Who said I wasn’t already planning on getting out of the country without you?”

His words didn’t surprise Tracy, but she still felt shocked all the same. “What?”

“Surely you don’t think I’m planning on taking you with me now, after everything that’s happened? It’s not as if you’ve exactly proved to be an asset, is it?”

“What are you going to do with me?”

“I haven’t decided yet. I’ll think of something.” He gave her a crooked sideways smile. “Justin might have some ideas. Who knows? You might even be worth something. There’s still a market for young white female flesh in some places, and Justin’s specialty is getting people over borders with the minimum of fuss and maximum of profit. Or maybe I’ll just shoot you. Easier that way. No loose ends. Anyway, one thing at a time.”

Tracy folded her arms and shrank into her seat. White slavery. It sounded silly when she put it that way, such an old-fashioned term, but it still sent a shiver of fear through her. It wasn’t quite as farfetched as it sounded. She had heard and read things in the papers recently about white girls sold into sexual bondage overseas, and her father had worked on a people-trafficking case not so long ago involving girls being smuggled from Eastern Europe. He didn’t discuss his cases in any detail with her, but he had let slip one or two disturbing facts about the way these things were done.

“And just in case you get any clever ideas about trying to escape when we’re among people again, you can forget it. If I’m close to being caught because of you, and I think it’s all over, anyway, I’ll shoot you without a second thought. If I think I can get away, I might not shoot you in public, but I will catch up with you, or my friends will. We have long memories. Every car that passes you on your way to work in the morning, every suspicious-looking person you see lurking on the street…Get the idea? You’ll never know. You’ll never see it coming. Then one day, the hardly felt needle prick, and when you wake up you’re in a stinking metal container on the way to some shit-hole country you’ve never heard of where rich men will pay unimaginable sums of money to do things so filthy to you you’ll wish you were dead. So don’t even think of trying to escape.”

Soon they were on the M621 under the sodium lamps. When Tracy closed her eyes she couldn’t prevent the images of Annie’s shooting from running again in her mind, the shock in her eyes and the way she fell among the crockery, breaking the glass table. She thought about what Jaff had just said, whether he was only trying to scare her or not, and she felt herself on the verge of panic. Maybe he was laying it on a bit thick, but no amount of reason could hold at bay the images that now tormented her. She had never been so frightened in her life, had never wanted her father so much, had never felt so far from home.

Jaff turned off the motorway into Beeston.

THIS IS AN UNEXPECTED PLEASURE. DO COME AND JOIN me in the den, Mr. Banks and Ms… er?”

“Jackman. DS Winsome Jackman.”

“Winsome. What a delightful name. And one that, might I say, most certainly does you justice.”

Banks glanced at Winsome, and he could tell by her expression that she was wishing she hadn’t told Fanthorpe her first name. As Fanthorpe led the way she put her finger in her mouth and mimicked vomiting. Banks smiled.

The den was an unabashedly masculine room, from the dark wainscoting and the rosewood-and-mother-of-pearl chessboard, with its intricately carved ebony and ivory pieces, to the mounted brass telescope by the bay window, the mounted stag’s head and the framed racing scenes on the wall. Four maroon-red leather-upholstered armchairs were arranged around a solid oak antique table at the center. Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik played from hidden speakers.

The Farmer walked over to the cocktail cabinet and brought out three crystal tumblers and a decanter. He was wearing baggy brown cords and a cable sweater knit from Swaledale wool. With his round shoulders and jaunty walk, spare tire and mass of curly gray hair he reminded Banks of a leprechaun on steroids. “Drinks? I do hope you’ll join me. I have a rather fine old malt.”

“It’s not a social visit,” said Banks, settling into one of the chairs. It was so comfortable that if he took Fanthorpe up on his offer of a drink, he thought, he would probably curl up and go to sleep. Winsome crossed her long legs and took out her notebook.

“Pity.” The Farmer poured himself a large measure, sat down and smacked his lips. “It’s Ardbeg Airigh Nam Beist. That’s Gaelic for ‘Shelter of the Beast’ in case you don’t know. So what can I do for you?”

Banks caught a strong whiff of the peat and iodine. He was getting used to it more and more, and was rediscovering his taste for Islays, but he wouldn’t be sampling any of Fanthorpe’s wares, even if he weren’t so tired. The Mozart ended and was followed by Beethoven’s Für Elise. A classic FM collection of the Great Composers’ best bits, if Banks wasn’t mistaken. “We’re looking for an employee of yours,” he said. “Name of Jaffar McCready, or Jaff. Any idea where we can find him?”

“Jaff? I’m afraid I have no idea. He just does odd jobs. I’d hardly call him an employee.”

“Casual labor, perhaps, then? How do you get in touch with him if you need him?”

“By telephone, of course.”

“Mobile?”

“Home number.”

That was no use; Banks knew it already. If Jaff had a mobile, it was pay-as-you-go, unregistered and untraceable. “Exactly what sort of odd jobs does he do for you?”

“Jaff’s a jack-of-all-trades. Or should that be a Jaff-of-all-trades?” Fanthorpe laughed, but neither Banks nor Winsome joined him. He cleared his throat and sipped some malt. “Sure you won’t join me?” he asked, holding up his glass. “It truly is magnificent. Goes down like prickly silk.” By the sound of him, Banks reckoned he’d had a few already.

“Can you be a bit more specific about the nature of Jaff’s employment?”

“Well, he doesn’t muck out the stables, if that’s what you mean. Bit of courier work, the occasional security duty, when necessary.”

“And when would that be necessary?”

“You might not realize this, Mr. Banks, but racehorses can be valuable properties, very valuable indeed. And they’re vulnerable. Sadly, there are some unscrupulous people in the business. One has to be careful.”

“I’ve read Dick Francis,” said Banks.

Fanthorpe smiled. “Then you’ll get the picture.”

“Strong-arm stuff?”

“Hardly, Mr. Banks. I have no call for that sort of thing in my business.”

“I thought you said there are some unscrupulous people around?”

“Yes. But actual violence-strong-arm stuff, as you call it-is a rarity. They have more subtle ways of making their needs known.”

“What, exactly, is your business?” Banks asked. “I understand about the horses, but that’s merely the tip of the iceberg, isn’t it, a hobby almost?”