Peter Robinson: Bad Boy

Banks felt his throat constrict and his heart beat fast. “It’s all right, Tracy. I don’t need to know the details. You say all this happened after he found out who you were, that you were a policeman’s daughter?”

“Yes. He found a letter or something with your name and rank on it. He found out you were a police detective, a DCI.”

“And how did he react?”

“It made him really angry at first, then he said it meant I might come in even more useful than he’d imagined. He was still furious at me for not telling him before. And he didn’t like the police. He became more aggressive. That’s when he raped me. He thought it was really cool, something special to do it to me in your room, on your bed, like he was getting at you personally, or violating you in some way.”

Banks certainly felt violated, and if McCready were still alive at that moment he would cheerfully have strangled him with his bare hands. “What happened when Annie came?” he asked.

“He was hiding behind the entertainment room door. The gun was in his hold-all in the breakfast nook. He told me to get rid of her as quickly as possible or he’d shoot her. I tried, Dad, I really tried. But you know Annie. She just wouldn’t stop, she wouldn’t give up, wouldn’t go…”

“She didn’t know the danger she was in,” Banks said. “She thought she was helping you. And she’s nothing if she’s not persistent.”

“She knew something was wrong, that I was there under duress. I know she was trying to help me, but she just wouldn’t take no for an answer, and then Jaff appeared and…”

“Tracy, you know you probably saved Annie’s life, don’t you? That mobile phone call you made.”

“She was bleeding. I thought she was going to die. What else could I do? He was so angry when he heard me phoning for an ambulance. I thought he was going to kill me, too, then, but I guess I was still too valuable to him. So he crushed my mobile.”

“And after that?”

“The car broke down on the moors. We were on foot, on the run. It was one misfortune after another. I have to say, if he was a master criminal, he wasn’t very good at it.” Tracy managed a grim smile.

“Lucky for us,” Banks said. He glanced at his watch, then over at the door. “Want another?”

“I shouldn’t,” Tracy said. “I’m already feeling a bit tipsy.”

“Coffee, then?”

“That’d be good.” Banks was just about to go and get Tracy a coffee and himself another pint when the door opened and Erin and Juliet Doyle walked in. Tracy gaped at Erin, then at Banks. “Did you arrange this, Dad?” she said.

“I told them we might be here until about half one, that’s all.”

The two girls just stared at each other for what seemed like an age, then Tracy got up from the table, walked over to Erin and threw her arms around her. Erin hugged her back. The tourists gawked. Banks caught Juliet Doyle’s eyes beyond Erin and Tracy. She just gave a curt nod. Banks breathed a sigh of relief. He had thought Tracy was going to thump Erin and that Erin and Juliet would never speak to each other again.

BANKS COULD HEAR THE STRAINS OF THE ADAGIO from Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata as Françoise, the au pair, led him across The Farmer’s cavernous entrance hall toward the living room. Whoever was playing hit a wrong note, then hesitated and stumbled before picking up the melody again.

“The family is watching television,” Françoise explained in precise, unaccented English. “And Miss Eloise is practicing for the piano examinations in the next week.” She opened the door and announced Banks and Winsome formally. The uniformed officers were awaiting instructions in their cars outside.

Banks had never seen Fanthorpe’s wife before. She was a beautiful woman a good few years younger than her husband, with a figure sculpted by daily workouts, long silky brown hair and a complexion that can only be achieved either through the blessings of nature or the right combination of chemical emollients. She gave her husband a puzzled look. The little girl with the long ponytail sitting next to her didn’t take her eyes from Strictly Come Dancing on the forty-two-inch TV screen.

“I see I’ve interrupted a family tradition,” said Banks.

Fanthorpe got to his feet. “What do you want this time, Banks? I’ve had just about enough of this. This is too much. I’m going to ring my solicitor.”

“Maybe you can ask him to meet you at Western Area Headquarters,” Banks said. “We’ve got a custody suite waiting for you there.”

The woman was on her feet too, now, swiftly uncurled like a cat. “What is this, George?” she asked, with a slight Eastern European accent. “Who are these people? What are they doing in my house? What’s going on?”

The Farmer put the phone down and went to rest his hands on his wife’s shoulders. “It’s all right, Zenovia. Just calm down, love. I’ll handle this.” He strode toward the door and turned to Banks. “Come on. We’ll go into the den.”

“If you like,” said Banks, following him across the hall into the room where they had talked the previous week.

“This is an outrage,” said Fanthorpe, pouring himself a large whiskey and not even bothering to offer Banks one this time. He might actually have taken it. “It’s police harassment. It’s persecution. It’s-”

“All right, all right, Farmer. I get the message,” said Banks. “Let’s just all sit down and have a nice quiet little chat before I bring the lads in.”

“Lads?”

“The search team.” Banks took some papers from his pocket. “I have here a search warrant signed by a local magistrate empowering us to conduct a full and thorough search of your premises.”

“Search my house?” Fanthorpe spluttered. “You can’t do that! You can’t just-”

“We can and we will. But first things first. I’d like to let you know just how deep the shit is that you’re in.”

“What are you talking about?” Fanthorpe flopped into his leather armchair. He slopped a little whiskey on the front of his cable-knit jumper as he did so, and dabbed at it with a handkerchief he took from the pocket of his brown cords.

Winsome sat opposite him and took out her notebook and pen. “If you think I’m going to say anything incriminating,” said Fanthorpe, pointing his finger at her, “then you’ve got another think coming.”

“It always pays to be prepared, sir,” said Winsome. “Don’t you find?”

“What do you know about the shooting of Marlon Kincaid on the fifth November, 2004?” Banks asked.

“Marlon Kincaid? Do I look like someone who’d know a person called Marlon Kincaid?”

“Why not? He was a student at Leeds Polytechnic University. Well, technically, he’d just finished his studies but he was still hanging around the student pubs in the area, the way some people do, selling drugs. Couldn’t seem to let go of the old college life.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Marlon Kincaid. Art student. His dad was a big fan of Marlon Brando, apparently, which is how he got his name. Marlon was building quite the little business for himself, selling coke and various other illegal substances to the Leeds student population at parties and in the pubs and clubs.”

“So?”

“He had his own suppliers, and you weren’t one of them.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You couldn’t allow that, could you? You were well on your way to being the local drug kingpin, and along comes some skinny, long-haired upstart and cuts right into your market. Not only that, but he makes fun of you and it gets back to you. What did you do first? Warn him? Send Ciaran and Darren to administer a beating, perhaps?”