Peter Robinson - Bad Boy

“Good. And let’s not forget, Ciaran and Darren are after Justin, too, and I don’t fancy his chances if they find him first.”

“Me, neither,” said Banks. “Or McCready’s and Tracy’s. Ciaran’s been indulging in a lot of foreplay over the last couple of days, and he’ll be just about ready to go all the way with someone.” He glanced sheepishly at Winsome. “If you’ll pardon the metaphor.”

Winsome said nothing.

A quick tap at the door was followed by the appearance of a PC with a yellow message note in his hamlike hand. “Sorry to interrupt, ma’am,” he said, addressing Superintendent Gervaise, “but it’s important, and I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible.”

“What is it, lad? Give,” said Gervaise.

“It’s about DI Cabbot. Message from Cook hospital. She’s regained consciousness.”

Gervaise turned to Banks with a smile. “Alan? I imagine this will change your plans a wee bit.”

“Of course,” said Banks. “Sleep can wait. You’ll drive, Winsome?”

“My pleasure.”

THE FARMER felt ill at ease after his visit from Banks and Winsome. Not that he was unduly worried by them. They had nothing on him, and they never would have. He never touched anything he sold, kept no paperwork, and anyone who did know his name was usually wise enough not to repeat it. Well, something had slipped out once, but that was a few years ago, and the surviving kid, Ian Jenkinson, hadn’t known who or what he was talking about. The Farmer had heard that the young lad was training for the ministry these days. Good for him. He liked to keep tabs on people who’d crossed his path over the years, and he never knew when it might be useful to have a vicar in his pocket.

Besides, the kid had been a drug user. The Farmer didn’t employ druggies anymore. In this business, he had come to realize, it pays to keep a clear head on your shoulders, which means not indulging in your own merchandise, for a start. Like a pub landlord. Once you start sampling the produce, you’re finished, and your pub could burn down around you while you sleep it off on a bench in the public bar after the punters have all gone home. No. Abstinence was a good policy. The only policy. The way it had to be. Which certainly didn’t mean that he couldn’t enjoy a nice malt now and then, he thought, topping up his glass.

This was also why Jaff had always been a bit of a worry. The Farmer knew that Jaff was a user, coke mostly, but the kid was so bright, so quick, so lethal and so ruthless that it somehow didn’t seem to matter. There were people who had a great capacity for mind-altering substances, who functioned all the better, or at least as well as ever, under the influence, and Jaff was one of those. Or so he had appeared.

The Farmer had told him right from the outset that if he ever saw him obviously off his face on anything at all, he’d get his marching orders on the spot. And he hadn’t. Not so far as Fanthorpe knew. Whether Jaff had actually been stoned at any of their rare one-on-one meetings or not, Fanthorpe had no idea. All he knew was that Jaff’s thought-processes were always sharp and logical, and his contributions helped fill the coffers. The kid was cocky, and he liked to see himself as more of an equal partner than an employee, which, in a way, The Farmer supposed he was. He was certainly willing to let Jaff go on thinking so, up to a point.

But now things had gone way too far, and that point had been passed. If he didn’t act quickly and decisively, and do what had to be done to eradicate the source of his problem, he might as well hand over the reins. Sources, really, because the Banks girl was now part of the problem, when he had tried to make her part of the solution. Now she would have to suffer the same fate as Jaff, then all would be on an even keel again. Ciaran and Darren would disappear overseas for a reasonable period, operations would be slowed down to the absolute minimum necessary to keep things ticking over, like an animal’s system in hibernation, and as soon as it all died down, he would be back to normal again.

The Farmer lounged back in the soft embrace of his chair, sipped the Ardbeg and surveyed the gleaming wainscoting, the racing scenes, the crystal decanters and ornate cabinets. Classical music was still playing, though he had no idea what the piece was now. It was soothing and quiet-strings, woodwinds; no blaring brass, and that was what counted. He lit a Cuban cigar.

He would never understand cops. Not if he lived a million years. In the old days, when everyone knew where they stood, they beat confessions out of innocent men, even hanged some of them, took kickbacks, bribes, resold confiscated drugs and generally indulged in the madness and mayhem of power gone haywire. But you knew where you were with them.

PACE had tidied things up a bit, but no one could convince George Fanthorpe that these things didn’t still happen, that suspects didn’t get beaten to a pulp, or that coppers weren’t on the take. And then you had someone like Banks, a known maverick, a bad boy, who wouldn’t even lift his little finger to save his own daughter’s life. Some world. Bizarre.

And Jaff…how he had turned. Fanthorpe remembered their first meeting over six years ago in a posh restaurant in The Calls. One of his dinner companions had pointed Jaff out at the next table with two very attractive girls. “So you’re Jack McCready’s lad,” Fanthorpe had said, offering his hand. “Bless my soul. I’ve never met him, but I’ve lost a bob or two to your old man in my days.” Jaff had smiled at him, but the smile hadn’t reached his dark, haunted eyes.

They had talked a little about racehorses, on which subject Jaff seemed knowledgeable enough, and soon it had been obvious to both of them that they were the same beneath the skin, though nothing was said there and then.

The Farmer had given Jaff his card; Jaff had given Fanthorpe one of the girls and a room key for the discreet boutique hotel across the road. What a night. They hadn’t looked back. After that, contact had to be kept to a minimum for business reasons, but he always remembered that night and imagined Jaff thrashing the sheets with gorgeous women like that every night while he stayed at home and worried about the bills and his daughters’ education, Zenovia’s increasingly extravagant shopping trips. He knew he felt more than a little envious toward Jaff, that he lived life vicariously through him. Perhaps, he had even once gone so far as to think Jaff represented the son he had never had. Even in business Jaff was perhaps the partner The Farmer could never quite acknowledge that he had.

And he remembered a few months after their first meeting, in this very same den where he was sitting now, handing the Smith & Wesson automatic to Jaff, putting in the magazine for him, identifying the target and telling him to make sure he dumped the gun in the river afterward. Well, it appeared as if he hadn’t got around to that last part. But what did it really matter? The Farmer thought. So he’d been a bit sloppy once. So the cops might get his prints from the magazine. So what? Jaff wouldn’t be talking; that was for certain.

The Farmer was lost in this line of thought when his private mobile rang, the one with the bell that sounded like an old telephone. He picked it up and barked his name. From the other end of the line came a name and an address, followed by a click. It was all he needed, all he’d been waiting for. He keyed in the number of Darren’s throwaway.

“SIR?” SAID Winsome on the way to hospital.

“You don’t need to call me that.”

“I know. I just feel more comfortable sometimes.”

“Oh? Does that mean you have a tricky question? A complaint?”

“Neither, I hope, sir. I just…well, I just wondered why you didn’t take George Fanthorpe’s offer.”