Peter Robinson: Bad Boy

The Farmer had turned pale now and seemed to shrink in his armchair, the whiskey left untouched for several minutes beside him.

“You’ve still got no proof,” he said, rallying. “It’s his word against mine, and who do you think the court will believe? An uneducated thug, or an upstanding pillar of the community?”

“Darren is no more an uneducated thug than you are a pillar of the community,” Banks said. “I reckon he’ll make a very good impression on a jury. Reformed sinner and all that. Atonement. Juries love a good redemption story. He knows where all the bodies are buried, Farmer. He also told us a few places we should be looking if we’re after evidence of some of your shadier dealings and contacts, so we’re executing these warrants simultaneously for this house and your business premises, including the mailboxes on Grand Cayman and Jersey. Winsome?”

Winsome excused herself and went to the front door, where she put her fingers to her lips and whistled loudly. Banks had always wished he could do that. Within a few moments six uniformed officers entered the house and spread out. DS Stefan Novak and DS Jim Hatchley were in charge of the search operation, and Banks said hello to both of them as he and Winsome escorted Fanthorpe, now in handcuffs, out to the car. Eloise was still practicing the adagio to the Moon-light Sonata in the piano room, and Zenovia was screaming and waving her arms at the search team. The other young girl frowned and turned up the volume with the remote as she tried to concentrate on Strictly Come Dancing amid the chaos all around her.

As they walked to the car, Banks looked down the cinder path with the topiary hedges toward the pond and fountain. “A young boy pissing,” he said to The Farmer, shaking his head. “That just about says it all, doesn’t it, Farmer? A young boy pissing.”

BANKS WALKED along the now familiar corridors of Cook Hospital early in the following week, saying hello to a couple of the nurses and general staff he had come to recognize. He had driven straight from Newhope Cottage, and while he was certainly glad to be home in some ways, he couldn’t help dwelling on what had happened there. Superintendent Gervaise had arranged for a cleaning crew after the SOCOs had finished, so he hadn’t had to face any blood, or the mess Tracy had told him about-except for a few damaged CDs and broken jewel cases-but he knew where Annie had been shot, and he couldn’t sit comfortably in the conservatory anymore. Maybe he would get over it. If not, he would have to move. He couldn’t go on living there feeling the way he did. Newhope used to be a joyous place, but since the fire, and now this, Banks was beginning to wonder.

He found Annie propped up on her pillows, fewer tubes than on his last visit, he was certain, and looking a lot better. She was flipping through the pages of one the Sunday newspaper supplements.

“A bit dated, isn’t it?” said Banks, pecking her on the cheek and sitting in the chair beside the bed.

“It’s about all I could scrounge since I’ve been alert enough to read,” Annie said.

“Well, this is your lucky day.” Banks opened the large hold-all he had brought with him and passed over a WH Smith’s bag full of women’s magazines he had seen her reading in the past, along with the latest Kate Mosse and Santa Montefiore paperbacks. “These should keep you busy for a while.”

“Thank you,” Annie said, searching through the bag. “That’s great. I thought I was going to end up being bored to death. It’s still a bit hard, reading with only one hand, though.”

“For when your arm gets tired,” Banks added, reaching into his pocket, “there’s this.”

“But it’s your iPod.”

“I got a new one in San Francisco. This one’s nearly full. I’m sure you’ll find some music you like, there’s quite a bit of classical, and there’s a few books on it, too, mostly classics-Jane Austen, Chekhov’s short stories, Trollope, Tolstoy, the Brontës-and some nonfiction, history and biography. It’ll help pass the time.” He glanced around furtively, then stuck his hand inside the hold-all again and brought out a bottle of Australian red wine. “I know you prefer white,” he said, “and the review of the Santa Montefiore book suggested it would go well with chilled Prosecco, but I don’t think they’d exactly put it on ice for you here. I’ve seen you drink red. And the screw top seemed important. It’s no longer a mark of poor quality, you know. This is good stuff.”

“I know,” said Annie. “I’ve had it before. And it’s perfect. Put it down in the cupboard while no one’s around, would you. I can already imagine midnight drinking sessions with one eye on the door.”

“The way I used to read books with a penlight and listen to Radio Luxemburg through an earpiece when I was a kid,” Banks said. “One more thing.” He brought out a small bag of treats from Lewis & Cooper, the Northallerton gourmet food shop. “There’s a few different cheeses, vegetable pâté, potted shrimp, just in case you feel like being really naughty, and water crackers, figs, olives. Only the best.”

Annie laughed and put her hand to her face. Banks could see she was crying, too. “Oh, thanks Alan. Come here.”

He bent over her, and she held him with her good arm. He felt the warm damp skin of her cheek against his and thought he should have shaved that morning, then he smelled her hair, smelled her. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Of course I should.” Banks moved away but held on to her hand. “I’m afraid that’s it,” he said. “How is the food here?”

“As you’d expect. Not that bad,” said Annie. “Though being a vegetarian is a definite liability. I must say, Ray’s been wonderful, though.”

“Where is he?”

“He had to go to London. There’s a gallery putting on a show of his work down there. He didn’t want to, said he thought he should stay with me, but I made him go. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Say hi from me,” said Banks. “So how are you feeling?”

“Good days and bad. I’m on the mend.”

“Your breathing sounds a lot better. Have you talked to the doctor?”

Annie turned her head. “Yes. Mr. Sandhar and I had a good long heart-to-heart late last week. He told me about the operation, explained all the details, the ins and outs, the risks.”

“And?”

“I’m scared.”

Banks tightened his grip on her hand. “It’ll be fine. You’ll see. You couldn’t be in better hands.”

“I know that. It’s just…you know, it’s always been one of my greatest fears, being unable to walk, unable to move, confined to a wheelchair. Remember Lucy Payne? What a monster she was? I even felt sorry for her. I thought it might have been easier if she’d just died.”

“It’s not going to happen to you. You’ll be back to normal in no time.”

“He certainly didn’t downplay the dangers.”

“He wouldn’t. He’s a realist.”

“Maybe a little kindly lying wouldn’t have gone amiss.” Annie winced.

“What is it?”

She put her hand to her chest. “Sometimes when I breathe in I still get a sharp pain in my chest. The doctor says it’s my lung healing. My bloody shoulder still hurts like the dickens, too. Keeps me awake at nights.”

“It’s a nasty wound.”

Annie paused. “Tell me, Alan, is he really dead? Jaff McCready?”

“Yes.”

“Poor kid. I can’t say I’d have wished that on him.”

“After what he did to you?”

“I’m not saying he didn’t deserve punishment. Severe punishment. But…”

“It was quick,” said Banks. “He didn’t even see it coming.”

“I suppose not.”

“Don’t feel too sorry for him, Annie. McCready was no innocent.”