Peter Robinson - Bad Boy

Fanthorpe’s face had flushed as he talked, with anger and with drink. Banks wanted to hit him. Plant a hard, heavy fist smack in the middle of his face and watch the claret flow. “And assuming I went along with this plan of yours?” he said. “Just what would I have to do?” Banks could sense Winsome looking agape at him, but he ignored her. She would find out where he was going soon enough.

“Why, nothing! That’s the beauty of it.” Fanthorpe’s gray eyes glittered. “A mere slap on the wrist, as I said. You simply have to leave it to me.”

“To Ciaran and Darren, you mean?”

“They’ve got a head start. And I’ll bet you anything my contacts are better than yours, that I can find out where Jaff and your daughter are going sooner than you can.”

“That may be true,” Banks agreed. “So why don’t you just share that information with me, and we can do this all legal and aboveboard. That should make everyone happy. It’ll keep Ciaran and Darren from facing a murder charge and life imprisonment, too. And you, if you’re implicated.”

Fanthorpe shook his head. “You just don’t get it, do you? You just don’t get it. And have what’s mine disappear from the evidence room, or get tied up in judicial red tape for the next twenty years? No way.”

“That must be some dodgy fortune you’re after getting back. Or maybe it’s a nice kilo or two of coke? If that’s the case, we’ll definitely be hanging on to it.”

“That’s none of your business. What is your business is that Ciaran and Darren don’t know to leave Tracy alone. Focus on that.”

Banks felt a chill run through him, immediately followed by the raging impulse to hurt Fanthorpe. “What do you mean by that?” he asked, though he knew full well the meaning of Fanthorpe’s threat. He could sense Winsome’s empathy, and her determination to hold him back if he suddenly snapped. She was poised, ready. But he wasn’t going to snap.

If there was one part of the job Banks hated more than any other, it was that feeling of impotence and ineffectiveness he so often felt by having dedicated himself to upholding the law, following the rules. He cut corners from time to time, like everyone, had occasionally acted rashly and even, perhaps, illegally, but on the whole he was on the side of virtuous and good. There was no way he would go along with what Fanthorpe was suggesting. He was going to get Tracy back, and he was going to take Jaff down, Fanthorpe, Ciaran and Darren along with him. He was as certain of that as he had been certain of the true way things stood in his life that night out in the Nevada desert. He just didn’t know how he was going to achieve it all yet.

“I should have thought my meaning was obvious,” said Fanthorpe. “As far as Ciaran and Darren are concerned, Jaff and your daughter are one and the same. My enemies. Tarred with the same brush. However you care to put it. They’re in it together. If I let my men know otherwise, then all will unfold as I promised. Your daughter will be rescued unharmed, and Jaff will take his punishment like a man.”

“And if I don’t?”

“That’s asking for trouble. Events would take their course. Why would an otherwise intelligent man like yourself want to take the moral high ground here?”

“Because I’m a policeman, Mr. Fanthorpe And as a policeman I could hardly turn a blind eye to murder, could I? Because, however you whitewash it, that’s what it would be. What you’re basically telling me is that you’ll make sure your men hurt my daughter if I don’t let you have your drugs or your drug money back and leave you free to do what you want with Jaffar McCready, including kill him? Well, he might be a criminal, it’s true, but if I do as you say, I become like you. Nothing more than some twopenny-ha’penny gob of slime who’s managed to raise his greedy maw a few inches out of the gutter at feeding time.”

The Farmer spluttered on his whiskey and dribbled some down his jumper. “Hey, steady on. Bloody hell, that’s a bit strong, Banks,” he said, pointing his finger. “You’ll regret that. Whatever happens, you’ll regret that. Ciaran and Darren are in London already, awaiting my instructions.”

“Well, why don’t you call them? We’re not stopping you. But you don’t have any orders to give them yet, do you? You don’t know any more than we do. Probably less.” He looked over at Winsome, who smiled and shook her head.

Fanthorpe stared at Banks for a long moment. “I don’t understand you,” he said finally. “I just don’t understand. I propose a simple deal. I get my money back. I give the thief a slap on his wrist. You get your daughter back unharmed. Where’s the problem?”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Banks said, gesturing to Winsome that they should be going. “That you don’t see it as a problem. We’ll trouble you no more tonight. No need to see us out.”

“Was that wise?” Winsome said as Banks got into the passenger seat beside her. “Winding him up like that?”

“Perhaps not,” said Banks. “I don’t know. But Fanthorpe’s not the answer. If I could arrest him, I would, but we’ve got nothing on him. Not yet. It wouldn’t even do any good to take him in on sus and sweat him in an interview room for a while, either, much as I’d enjoy the opportunity. First off, we don’t have a while, and second, he’s too canny for that. He’d have his team of high-priced lawyers down there like a shot. No, we’ll get The Farmer when the time is right. For the moment I’ll ask the locals to keep an eye on his movements. At least we know now that Ciaran and Darren are in London because that’s where they think Jaff and Tracy are heading.”

“Can we put a tap on Fanthorpe’s phone? Their mobiles?”

“Not enough time,” said Banks with a wistful grin. “Besides, he’s bound to have a throwaway. I suppose we could try hanging him upside down or beating it out of him, or maybe pulling his fingernails out with pliers, but that relinquishes the moral high ground pretty damn quickly, doesn’t it?” Banks gestured toward Winsome’s briefcase. “And at least we’ve got his fingerprints.”

“I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

“I’m not that tired. Well done. They might come in useful, and we don’t have them on record.”

“Well, he’s never done anything illegal, has he?”

“He certainly hasn’t been caught.”

“What next?”

“Back to the station. Regroup. Don’t forget, we’ve got Justin Peverell’s surname and The Farmer doesn’t. We’re not without our contacts, either. I’m still willing to bet that our resources are better than Fanthorpe’s. I also have a sneaking suspicion that Jaff and Tracy are nowhere near London yet. Wasn’t it you who told me that the van they stole was an old clunker? Wouldn’t go more than forty miles an hour? Isn’t that what you said?”

“Yes.”

“Fanthorpe doesn’t seem to know that, either. It buys us time. Let’s go see if Madame Gervaise and the rest have made any more progress with Ian Jenkinson and this Quisling bloke.”

AS SOON as Tracy watched Jaff walk up to the hotel reception desk and start talking to the pretty young blond receptionist in his best posh accent, offering his corporate credit card, the one that couldn’t be traced back to him, her heart sank. He could do no wrong. Judging by the girl’s smile and her body language, she was practically in bed with him already.

Tracy seriously considered making a run for it at that very moment, but Jaff’s words and threats came back to her, and the images he had evoked: a car door opening and someone dragging her inside the dark interior; or tossing her into the boot, smothering her with smelly old blankets; the threat of the unseen pinprick in the thigh or hip, waking up in an unfamiliar country; standing on a sort of makeshift stage with other girls, dressed only in pink diaphanous chiffon fluttering in a breeze from nowhere, the leering eyes of the men on the front row crawling all over her. She realized it was a ridiculous image, of course, but it kept her sitting where she was, only a few feet behind him as he made the booking, glancing occasionally back at her and grinning, but giving most of his attention to the blonde.