Bad Boy (17 page)

Winsome noticed that her glass was almost empty. “Another?” she offered.

“I shouldn’t, but yes, please. Talking about it brings the feelings all back. Can I have a Bacardi Breezer this time?”

“Sure.” Winsome brought her the drink and a Diet Coke for herself. “What did they want to know?” she asked, sitting down again. “Did they ask about the gun Erin had?”

“No. They never mentioned it.”

“Did you know anything about it?”

“Not until I saw it on the news.”

“Did they ever mention someone called Marlon Kincaid?”

“No.”

“Did Erin or Francesca ever mention him?”

“No.”

“You’re certain?”

“Marlon Kincaid? It’s a funny name. I’d remember.”

“What other sort of questions
did
they ask you?”

“One of them had a good look round the place. Watkins. Upstairs and everything. The other one asked me the questions. He wanted to know if I knew where Jaff had gone—that’s Erin’s boyfriend. I told him I didn’t. Then he wanted to know about Francesca. He said someone had seen Jaff and her leaving the flat by the wharf together. I said I didn’t know where they were, which is true.”

“How did they know about Francesca, that she was with Jaff?”

“They didn’t. They were only guessing from what they’d heard at the flats. But they knew there were three of us living in the house, and they must have worked it out. They wanted to know who she was.”

“So you told them?”

“What else could I do?” Rose pleaded. “You weren’t there. You don’t know what it was like!”

A couple of the regulars were giving them curious looks. “Okay,” said Winsome. “Stay calm. It’s all right. I’m not blaming you.”

Rose sipped her drink. “I’m sorry.”

“Was the gun Jaff’s?”

“I don’t know. How would I know? I never even knew it existed. Erin certainly never mentioned anything like that.”

“What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. I never did trust him. Too flash for my liking.”

“Why would Erin take it, do you think?”

“I don’t know. To make him mad, maybe? She was pissed off at him. Something was going on between the three of them—Erin, Jaff and Francesca. I don’t know what it was, they didn’t tell me anything, but something wasn’t quite right.”

Winsome made a note, then asked, “What did they do next?”

“I can’t remember. Nothing. They wanted to know where Francesca was, where Jaff was, but I kept telling them I didn’t know. I was so scared they were going to hurt me anyway, but they just left.”

“You’re one lucky young woman,” said Winsome. “They must have believed that you didn’t know anything else and thought there was no percentage in harming you. They also weren’t worried about you being able to identify them. They were pros, by the sound of it.”

“Pros?”

“Yes. Professionals. Amateurs often hurt people. They’re careless, impulsive. Professionals are more careful. They know that can only bring trouble and attention, and that’s not what they want.”

“Yes, but professionals in
what
?”

Winsome paused. “That I don’t know,” she said. “But I’m going to have a very good crack at finding out. Now tell me more about this Jaff.”

“
MY GOD
! What have you done?” Tracy could only stand there staring down at Annie’s body lying across the broken table among the smashed glass and pottery. Annie’s face was ashen, covered in a sheen of sweat. There wasn’t much blood, just little smears around the two small holes in her yellow top. But that didn’t mean much. There would be internal bleeding. “You’ve killed her.”

“What choice did I have?” Jaff said from the doorway, the gun still in his hand. “She wasn’t going to just go away, you know. She
knew
.”

“But…” Tracy continued to stare down at Annie’s immobile form. For a moment she thought she could see her chest heave and
make a gurgling sound with the effort of trying to breathe, but it could have been an illusion. “We have to call an ambulance.”

“Like hell we do. Besides, it’s too late. What we’ve got to do is get out of here fast.”

Jaff grabbed Tracy firmly by her upper arm and dragged her out of the conservatory into the kitchen. He tossed his gun back into the hold-all and hefted the bag onto his shoulder, while still holding her with his free hand. Tracy squirmed and tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but she couldn’t. He was wiry but strong. Her arm was starting to go numb. Finally he put the hold-all down and gave her a sharp, stinging slap across the face. “Stop it,” he said. “Pull yourself together. We’re leaving. Now.” Tracy grabbed her shoulder bag from the bench before he pushed her through the door into the living room. She stumbled and banged the side of her thigh against the sofa. It felt as if someone had kneed her hard right on the muscle. Jaff pushed her again and she tripped into the front door face first. Blood trickled from her nose. She thought it might be broken. He grabbed her jacket and thrust it toward her. “You might need this. The nights are getting cold.”

Tracy felt dazed as she stumbled outside. She wiped the back of her hand across her face. “Jaff, please let me call an ambulance. Nobody could have heard those shots. If she’s not dead already, she’ll die for sure if we just leave her here.”

“That’s her lookout.” Jaff fumbled for his car keys, letting go of Tracy for a moment. She walked around to the passenger side. Perhaps if she took off into the woods, made a dash for it? But no. He would give chase and find her, then he would kill her. Besides, if she did that, she would never even get a chance to try to save Annie, if that was even possible.

There was one thing she could do with her moment of freedom, while Jaff was at the driver’s side opening the door, and she was at the passenger side. She took out her mobile, keeping it low, hidden by the car and her body, and pressed 999. There was no way she could do it without Jaff hearing, so she had to be really quick. There was an ambulance station in Helmthorpe, she knew, so it shouldn’t take them too long. When she heard the answering voice, she put the phone to
her mouth and said, “Ambulance. Newhope Cottage, Beckside Lane, Gratly. Come quickly. Please. Someone’s been shot—”

Before she could say any more, Jaff had dashed around the car and snatched the phone from her hand. In his anger he threw it to the ground and crushed it with his heel again and again until the pieces were scattered over the gravel. That was it, Tracy thought, her heart sinking even lower. Her lifeline. Gone. She was alone now. Alone with a killer. He shoved her into the passenger seat and started the car.

Tracy began to shake. She couldn’t get the image of Annie out of her mind: just lying there, pale, still and bleeding on the broken glass table. But at least she had made the 999 call, however dearly it had cost her. If there was any hope at all, that was it. Now she had to turn her mind to her own predicament, which it didn’t take a genius to work out was a lot worse than it had been only half an hour ago.

She had thought Jaff was going to kill her after he had discovered that her father was a policeman, but he had come up with another option: to keep her as a hostage until he had got to safety. He had told her he could use her as a bargaining tool in negotiations. She being a DCI’s daughter was a double-edged sword, he went on, and he intended to be the one who was wielding it.

But Annie’s shooting changed everything. He’d be far less concerned about killing a second person now, and far more worried about his own escape and safety. She could still be a bargaining tool, but she had just become more expendable than before, especially after making the phone call.

“What are you doing?” she said, snapping out of it when she saw Jaff was about to turn right at the end of the drive.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Jaff said. “Since your little act of rebellion with the mobile, that main road down there is going to be full of police cars and ambulances. I’m going the other way.”

Jaff turned right and headed for the open moors. The sun was still up, but the shadows were lengthening, and the light was turning softer, streaks of faint pastel coloring the pale blue sky. Soon it would dip below the hills and the sky would darken. Tracy thought she could hear a siren in the distance. God, she hoped she was right, hoped they were in time. “Don’t you realize how what you’ve done changes ev
erything?” she said. “One of their own? They’ll pull out all the stops on this.”

“What the hell else was I supposed to do?” Jaff snapped. “Hold out my hands for the cuffs? Anyway, you should know,” he went on, giving her a sidelong glance. “Copper’s daughter. Traitorous bitch. But they don’t know what’s happening yet. They don’t know about me. She’d never have come by herself if she’d known the truth.”

“Maybe she had no reason to suspect you’d got hold of another gun, or that you’d shoot her,” Tracy said. “Maybe she did come to water the plants. But it didn’t take her long to suss out the situation. She knew more than you think. And that means others will probably know, too.”

“You can’t be certain of that.”

“I know how they work. Would you rather take the risk?” Jaff didn’t reply.

Tracy contemplated her position. Perhaps it was for the best that he had turned right at the end of her dad’s drive. She knew the moors; she had come out here with her father many times after his divorce, walked the hidden paths with him for hours, explored hidden clefts and gullies, the abandoned quarries and old lead mine workings. There were twelve miles of open moorland between Banks’s cottage and the next village of any significance. Jaff was like a fish out of water here, dependent on her to show him the way. It gave her an advantage, especially if she could find an excuse to get him to stop after dark.

She was still wondering how the hell she could get out of his clutches for as long as it took to disappear when, just two miles along the narrow, unfenced road, the car gave up the ghost.

Jaff tried to start it up again a few times, then cursed, got out and started kicking the tires. “Fucking Vic! Fucking idiot!” He kept repeating it like a mantra.

Though the sun had just set, there was still too much daylight left, but Tracy took advantage of Jaff’s tantrum by edging toward the drystone wall beside Topfleet Woods. Perhaps if she could escape into there, she could keep far enough ahead of him to double back down to Cobbersett, a tiny village on the daleside just to the west of Gratly. From there she could easily make it to Helmthorpe and get help. She
doubted that Jaff would pursue her for very long through the woods if he thought the police were after him. He would want to go forward, not back. Nimbly, she hopped the wall and ran into the trees.

But Tracy underestimated both Jaff’s intentions and his speed. He had kept his eye on her. In no time at all, she could hear him behind her, and soon she felt a tight grip around her neck. She jerked to a halt, her head snapping back, and screamed in pain.

“Shut up, or so help me I’ll strangle you here and now,” said Jaff between gasps for breath. “You stupid bitch. You’re losing us time. Get back to the road. Get us the fuck out of here, not back where we came from.”

“Let go. I can’t breathe. You’re breaking my neck.”

“Promise you won’t run anymore.”

“I promise! I promise! Let go!”

Jaff let go. He caught his breath, hands on knees, while Tracy massaged the back of her neck. It obviously wasn’t broken, or she wouldn’t still be standing, but it certainly hurt like hell. Finally Jaff turned and started walking back to the car, cocky and confident enough simply to leave her to follow. She hated him at that moment more than anyone ever in her life, and she was tempted to take off again. But he was faster than she thought, and this time if he caught her, he would probably kill her. She paused and stooped to look for a stone she could smash his head in with, but there was nothing. He turned and looked at her, shook his head, then carried on walking again. Head hung low, still massaging her neck, she followed like a shameful Eve following Adam out of Paradise. Some paradise.

“We’ve got to get rid of the car,” Jaff said. “There’s a gate up ahead. You can help me push it there and through, then we’ll see if we can’t hide it on the other side.”

Tracy felt too defeated to respond. Her nose hurt, her neck hurt and her heart ached. So she followed him.

B
ANKS HAD BEEN ON THE PLANE SINCE FIVE TO FIVE
on Wednesday afternoon, and by his watch it was three o’clock in the morning when they finally stopped circling Heathrow and began the slow descent. It was broad daylight outside. Banks hadn’t slept—he never did on planes—but at least he hadn’t drunk any alcohol; he had heard that abstinence helped to alleviate jet lag. The food had been pretty dreadful, and the choice of movies not much better. Mostly he had read
The Maltese Falcon
until his eyes got too tired, then he took out his iPod and listened to Angela Hewitt playing Bach’s Keyboard Concertos. The noise-canceling headphones he had bought before flying out had been expensive, but they were well worth it. The music came out loud and clear, while everything else was a distant background hum. Somehow Bach managed to calm and relax him on a flight in a way that most other music didn’t.

But soon came the instructions to turn off all electronic devices, along with the information that the time in London was 11:05
A.M.
on Thursday morning, and the temperature was eighteen degrees Celsius. Banks packed up his iPod and headphones and took out his book again for the last few minutes. At least they hadn’t barred people from reading old-fashioned print on the final descent. Yet.

He could see London spread out below him between the clouds as they came in to land from the east: the meandering Thames, the green
sward of a large park, Tower Bridge, busy streets and clusters of buildings, all the familiar landmarks gleaming in the bright sunshine. It looked like a fine day, but all he really wanted to do was crawl into bed. He had booked a hotel room in the West End and planned on spending the weekend in London seeing old friends before taking the train back up north on Monday morning. He hoped the hotel room would be ready for him when he arrived.

The plane bumped along the runway, and after a lengthy ground journey came to a halt beside a Jetway. In no time at all Banks was shuffling along the miles of airport corridors with the rest of the weary passengers to Passport Control. The EU line wasn’t very long, and it was soon Banks’s turn to walk up to the officer and present his passport. She checked the photograph against his face, scanned it through her computer, checked it again, then turned around, and two burly men who had been hanging back keeping an eye on the arrivals walked forward.

“Mr. Banks? Can you please come with us, sir,” one of them said in a voice that made it clear that he wasn’t asking a question.

“What is—”

“Please, sir.” The man took his arm and led him away from the queue.

Banks had done the same thing to enough people himself—albeit in slightly different circumstances—that he knew not to expect any answers. Maybe they thought he was a terrorist. Maybe they would waterboard him. They could do what they wanted, and there was nothing he could do about it. Most likely, he thought, it was something to do with that business with MI5 earlier in the summer. He’d made a mess of things then, and he had also made some dangerous enemies. They had long memories; they didn’t forget. Was this some kind of payback for what he had done? And how serious were they? Whatever it was, he certainly wouldn’t get to say anything until they got where they were going. He felt panic rise in his chest; his heart thumped, and he found it difficult to breathe. He also felt faint and light-headed from jet lag and lack of sleep. And fear.

They led him down the corridor toward the baggage-claim area and through a heavy door to the left marked
AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY
. After a few more twists and turns along dim and airless passages,
they got to an unmarked office door. One of the men opened the door, and with a gentle but firm touch to the small of Banks’s back, the other made sure he went inside. Then the door closed behind him.

The office was larger, cleaner and better-appointed than he would have expected, but there were no windows, and a little fan sat on the desk slowly churning the stale humid air. It was who sat behind the desk that surprised Banks. Perhaps it shouldn’t have. Detective Superintendent Richard Burgess was somehow connected with Special Branch, and he had helped Banks out with a case earlier in the summer, the one that made him so nervous about all this security business to start with. At the sight of Burgess he relaxed a bit, and his heart rate slowed closer to normal, but there was still something wrong about this, because DS Winsome Jackman was also in the room. What on earth was she doing here?

“You all right, Alan?” asked Burgess. “You look a bit peaky.”

“It’s not every day I get picked up at Passport Control by airport security. What the hell’s going on?” Banks realized that Dirty Dick only knew a part of what had happened earlier that summer, and that Winsome knew nothing, so they couldn’t really have any idea of the sort of images that went through his mind or the level of terror he felt when two burly plainclothes security officers dragged him off without explanation. After the experiences he had had, he could easily believe that people had been led into those very same corridors and had never been seen again.

“Take a pew,” said Burgess, pushing a bottle of Laphroaig and a plastic cup toward him. “Sorry about the lack of crystal ware. This is still your tipple of choice, isn’t it?”

“I’m not sitting anywhere or drinking anything till someone tells me what’s going on.”

“I’m sorry about the welcoming committee,” Burgess went on. “Had to be done, though. I can’t go out there. And they had no idea why they were doing it. They were just following orders. It’s the only way they do things around here. Winsome will explain.”

“What orders? Whose orders? Winsome?”

“Pour yourself a drink first and sit down,” said Burgess. “Go on. Believe me, it’ll help.”

Though he had switched from whiskey to red wine a couple of years ago, Banks did as Burgess suggested. Immediately he smelled the acrid peaty malt, he felt his throat constrict and his skin burn, but he managed to take a sip. The warmth flooded his veins. He could get used to this again. “Just get on with it, then. What’s going on?”

Winsome’s expression was grave, and now Banks feared that something might have happened to Tracy, Brian, his mother or his father. This was the way they told you about a death in the family. The solicitous tone, a drink, a chair to sit on, the sepulchral expressions.

“I’m sorry, too,” said Winsome. “But I think it was the best way. Detective Superintendent Gervaise knew what flight you were returning on, and Mr. Burgess was kind enough to help out with airport security. Otherwise, I’d be standing out in Arrivals holding up a sign with your name on it.”

“I think I’d have spotted you without the sign, Winsome. Come on. Give. What is it?”

“It’s Annie,” Winsome said, leaning forward. “There’s no easy way to break this. She’s…”

“Annie? She’s what? Get it out.”

“Annie’s been shot.”

Banks fell back in his chair and put his hands to his burning cheeks. “Shot?”

“Last night. I didn’t want to risk you seeing it in the paper, sir. It even made some headlines. That’s why…I mean, if you’d gone wandering in the concourse…you might have…”

Banks instinctively reached for the Laphroaig, tipped the cup toward his mouth and took a large mouthful. It burned as it went down, but it helped bring his mind into sharper focus. “How serious is it?”

“It’s very serious,” Winsome said. “They’ve sent for her father.”

“But she’s still alive?”

“Yes. But it’s touch and go. One of the bullets nicked her right lung. It collapsed. The lung and chest cavity filled with fluid. She almost didn’t make it to the hospital.”

“One bullet?”

“She was shot twice. Once in the chest and once in the shoulder.
The second bullet shattered the clavicle and fragmented. It’ll cause mobility problems, but they say it’ll heal in time. The surgeons were operating most of the night. They may have to go in again.”

“Good God,” whispered Banks. “Have you caught whoever did it?”

“Not yet.. Our information’s a bit sketchy.”

“Where is she now?”

“Cook University Hospital. Middlesbrough. They don’t have the facilities at Eastvale General to deal with that kind of trauma.”

“Not many people get shot in Eastvale,” Banks pointed out. There was a pause. Burgess reached for the Laphroaig bottle, and Banks saw him exchange a glance with Winsome. “What?” Banks said. “Is there something else?”

“It didn’t happen in Eastvale,” said Winsome. She glanced at her watch. “Look, do you want to head up to Middlesbrough and see her now? We can pick up your suitcases at the baggage claim on the way out, and I’ll fill you in on everything I know. There’s a helicopter—”

“A helicopter?”

Burgess cleared his throat. “Least I could do, mate. I put in for a Lear jet, but budgets being what they are these days…” He managed a weak grin.

Banks stared at him and swirled the remaining whiskey in his cup before finishing it off. “Thanks,” he said. Then he held up the empty cup before he set it down on the desk. “And for this, too.”

Burgess just nodded, then he got up and opened the door to have a brief word with the two security guards, who were still waiting outside. “They’ll escort the both of you out of here,” he said.

Winsome got to her feet.

“Right, then,” said Banks. “Let’s go.” He paused in the doorway. “Just one thing. If Annie wasn’t shot in Eastvale, where exactly did it happen?”

“In Gratly, sir,” Winsome said. “In your conservatory.”

TRACY DIDN’T
know exactly what time it was when she awoke from a terrifying dream that skittered off back into her subconscious the moment she opened her eyes, leaving her wide awake and afraid.
She must have dozed off for a while, she realized. Going by the height and position of the sun through the bare roof beams and gaps in the stone walls, she guessed it was mid-morning. Her face and arm hurt, she felt dirty and wanted a shower, but most of all she needed desperately to go to the toilet.

They were in a ruined barn. Though most of the roof was gone, and large sections of the stone walls had collapsed, it had provided some shelter for the night and, more importantly, a place to hide and remain unseen in the early daylight hours. But they had no food, and Tracy realized now that she was also desperately hungry.

Jaff slept on, snoring and snuffling occasionally, tossing and turning on the hard floor. How could he? Tracy wondered. Her hands and feet felt numb from the rope he had found in the boot of Vic’s car and used to tie her up. She couldn’t even move enough to dislodge the fat black spider that was crawling over her bare midriff. She hated spiders. It tickled and seemed, to her, to be deriving some pleasure from the discomfort it was causing her, though she knew that was ridiculous. Maybe it would bite her. It just wouldn’t go away.

All night she had fought off panic attacks by deep-breathing, but she still felt on the verge of some sort of breakdown as she watched the spider’s progress. And she knew that if she caused any trouble now, Jaff would certainly kill her. She was here under sufferance because she might be useful. He now felt he had nothing to lose. He had already shot Annie, probably killed her, and who knew whom else he had shot with the gun Erin took? Annie had mentioned someone called Marlon Kincaid, so maybe Jaff had shot him, too. Her only chance was to take to the open moorland the first chance she got, and she couldn’t do that while her hands were tied behind a post and her ankles bound.

As she sat there waiting for Jaff to wake up, Tracy cried and longed for her father. Perhaps he
had
ignored her, neglected her in favor of Brian, perhaps he
hadn’t
really understood her and sympathized with her failure, realized how much it had meant to her, especially in the light of her brother’s success, but she couldn’t really blame him for all that. At least, she didn‘t want to anymore. He had his own life, and she knew it had been difficult enough since her mother had left. Not that she blamed her mother, either. But the baby had been a bit hard to
take. Growing kid, now. A half sister. But she should have been kinder, more understanding. She
would
be, if ever she got out of this.

The birds had started early, and the cacophony of their different voices continued through the morning. Tracy’s bladder hurt more and more with every second that passed, but she wasn’t going to sink to the indignity of peeing her pants. She had been hoping for hours to hear the sound of a tractor or some other vehicle approaching before Jaff awoke, but there had been nothing so far but the birds. Nor had she heard any human voices. They were too far from the road. Besides, she realized, what chance would a poor farmer or a couple of ramblers have against Jaff and his gun? Anyone who approached them would most likely be walking to their death. About an hour earlier she thought she had heard a helicopter overhead, but it hadn’t swept close enough to see them through the bare roof. Maybe it would come back. And if there was a helicopter, there were others searching, on foot and in cars.

It had been hard work, but they had managed to hide the car. The wall was just high enough to obscure it from the road, and they had covered the top with branches and scrub. It wouldn’t stay hidden for long, though. Someone would enter through the gate and see it soon enough. With any luck, Tracy hoped, that would be sooner rather than later, and the police would realize they were out on the moors somewhere.

Only a few miles from where they had dumped the car they had come across the barn and, as the sun was already rising, Jaff had said they should hole up there for a while. Tracy had known by then that he was stumped, that he hadn’t come up with a plan to get out of this situation. He was lost without wheels. What did he hope to do? Hide in the barn all day and then tramp off through the heather again when darkness fell? Jaff had almost broken his ankle twice last night tripping over heather roots or clumps of springy grass, so he wouldn’t want to try that again in a hurry. It would take them days at this rate, and the net would surely be tightening. The whole country would be alerted to the search by now, Tracy hoped. But it was best to keep her mouth shut about that, she realized. If Jaff hadn’t thought of these things, of the full extent of what he had done, she wasn’t going to tell him. The
longer they were out here in the wilds, the more chance she had of escape, or of being found.