Peter Robinson - Bad Boy

“Terrific,” said Banks. “Does Jenkinson know Jaff McCready?”

“He says not, but he did say that he saw a young Asian bloke slinking away at one point in the evening, quite late on. He was wearing a black leather jacket, and he had one hand inside the front of it, you know, like Napoleon, as if he was carrying something he was trying to hide.”

“Like a gun,” said Banks. “Did he tell this to Detective Superintendent Quisling and his team at the time?”

“No. He says that, in the first place it was all very vague-he was far from sober himself at the time-and in the second, the last thing he wanted was the police following up on his accusations and bothering him again. He was worried we’d frame him or harass him or something. He just wanted to give his statement and get back to Eastvale.”

“Hmm,” said Banks. “He never mentioned it when I talked to him in Eastvale, either, though he did hint at this feud between The Farmer and Kincaid. That’s how I first came across the name. When I pressed him, he maintained he had no idea who The Farmer was, or even whether it was a name or a nickname. Jaff McCready wasn’t even on the radar then.”

“If The Farmer’s fingerprints are on the magazine,” said Gervaise, “and if McCready was possibly the shooter, then Fanthorpe must have given the gun to McCready and sent him to do the job. A trial or an initiation ritual. Something like that? Prove himself.”

“It’s possible,” said Banks. “And now we’re caught up in a falling out among thieves precipitated by Erin Doyle’s actions.”

“Maybe McCready was using the gun as some kind of hold over The Farmer?” Gervaise suggested.

“I doubt it,” said Banks. “The Farmer’s not the kind of villain to sit around and let something like that happen. No, if McCready had tried it on with him, he’d have had Ciaran and Darren round to his flat before you could say abracadabra and McCready would have ended up in bits and pieces in the canal. You can be sure that if The Farmer did give McCready the gun to shoot Kincaid, he had no idea that he was still holding on to it.”

“Then why?” Winsome asked.

“Insurance?” Banks said. “Or sheer bloody-mindedness? McCready and his pal Mallory liked guns. It was a hobby of theirs. And West Yorkshire’s still trying to find Mallory’s drug lab. The odds are that when they do, they’ll find a cache of Baikals as well. The Smith and Wesson’s a nice gun. The Farmer no doubt told McCready to dump it when he’d finished the job, but the cocky young bastard decided to keep it. He would have known that Fanthorpe’s prints were still on the magazine, once he’d wiped it clean of his own. Maybe it gave him a feeling of power or security?”

“Makes sense,” said Gervaise.

“Anyway,” Banks went on, “we’ve got a lot of scraps of information, and they seem to be making some sort of a pattern, but most of all, if we’re to bring an end to all this, we need to know Justin Peverell’s bloody address in Highgate. It’s a waiting game. And nobody enjoys that when the stakes are so high. We need to step up our road surveillance. If their van’s held out, there’s a good chance they’re still chugging along in the slow lane somewhere on the M1.”

“And if not?” said Gervaise.

“Then they’ve holed up somewhere en route, and McCready’s thinking furiously about how to get hold of another vehicle.”

“We’ve already got all the motorway patrol cars keeping their eyes open for a slow white van heading for London,” said Gervaise. “And if they have stopped for the night somewhere on the way, it gives us even more time to trace this Justin. He’s the key. Once we know where he lives we can stake out his house.”

“True,” said Banks. “But McCready won’t want to linger. One way or another, he’ll be back on the road as soon as he can be. McCready needs Justin, or needs what he can get from him. Then he’ll disappear like smoke. Or so he thinks.”

“And Tracy?” asked Gervaise.

“I don’t like to think about that,” said Banks. “I can’t see as it would be in his interests to hurt her. Or Darren and Ciaran’s, no matter what Fanthorpe said. On the other hand, when McCready has got what he wants, I can also see that Tracy would become an unnecessary burden. That’s why we have to get to them first.”

“We’ve got Armed Response units across the country on call,” said Gervaise.

Banks managed a grim smile. “Now, why doesn’t that make me feel a whole lot better?”

“Should we bring in The Farmer right away?” suggested Gervaise. “Now we know those prints of his you got on the photos earlier are a match against those on the magazine of the Smith and Wesson, we might be able to put a bit of pressure on him.”

“I don’t think it’ll do any good,” said Banks. “He won’t tell us anything, and the lawyers will spring him in minutes. All it means is that he handled the magazine at some point. There’s no proof he shot the gun that killed Marlon Kincaid. In fact, he most likely didn’t. I’m certain he was never at the bonfire. He’ll have a perfect alibi.”

“But you said yourself that The Farmer’s name came up in that investigation,” said Winsome.

“From Ian Jenkinson, who didn’t really know what or who it referred to. We’ve still nothing to arrest him for-”

“Perverting the course of justice? Wasting police time?” suggested Gervaise.

“We’d be better off waiting till we get something a bit more serious than that. Best just keep a close eye on him. We do hav-”

“Don’t worry, Alan. Ripon are keeping a close watch on him. He’s not going anywhere.”

“He doesn’t need to. He can do all he needs from the comfort of his cozy little den. Anything on Darren and Ciaran?”

“We can hardly check all the London hotels,” Gervaise said. “Besides, they could be staying at a private house. All we know is what you told us, that they’re in London somewhere waiting for orders.”

“Have you checked Fanthorpe’s holdings?”

“Yes. No London property. At least not under his own name, or any of his companies that we can find.”

“Damn. So it’s back to the waiting game.”

“At least we know there’s a connection between Fanthorpe, the gun, McCready and an unsolved murder,” said Gervaise. “A few more missing pieces and we ought to be able to put something together.”

“And the Met are on Justin Peverell’s trail,” said Winsome. “The Intelligence Bureau. They’ve got men out talking to their informers, people they’ve planted in the trafficking business. They’re taking some risks. They’re doing what they can.”

“I know,” said Banks. “And I appreciate it. I’m not criticising. Just frustrated, that’s all.”

“Why don’t you go home?” said Gervaise. “Or back to your digs. Put your feet up for a while, have a bit of a nap if you can. You’re doing no good here. We’ve got the manpower we need for what we have to do. You never know, your eyes might close for a few minutes of their own accord. We’ll keep everything ticking over here and call you the minute anything breaks.”

“The minute?”

“The minute.”

“I might just do that. And Annie?”

“Holding her own, last I heard,” said Gervaise. “Her father’s with her. Again, I’ll let you know as soon as I do.” She must have noticed Banks hesitate. “Don’t worry,” she went on, “I’ll hold the fort here. I’ll be passing out TIES and actions momentarily. Winsome, I want you to keep pushing on the London angle. Something’s got to give. Somebody down there has to know this Justin Peverell.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Winsome. “I have a few irons in the fire already.”