Bad Boy (19 page)

“Alwoodley’s not so far from the airport, is it?” said Darren. “Maybe Jaff got on a flight to Benidorm or somewhere?”

“Don’t be a fucking idiot, Darren. He couldn’t get on a plane to anywhere. Not with what he’s carrying. Everyone has to go through them security scanners now. They can see what you had for breakfast.”

“Sorry, boss. Forgot.”

“No. Wherever he’s going, he’s got to drive, and he’s got to unload the stuff in this country, unless he’s a lot more bloody organized than I think he is and has his own network of couriers and mules, which I very much doubt. He might risk a bus or a train, but he’d be worried they’re already keeping an eye on the stations. So my guess is he’s driving a car nobody knows he’s got. So here’s what you do. You go pay this Victor Mallory a visit. I’ll give you his address. Be discreet. Find out all you can from him and give me a buzz on the throwaway. The throwaway, mind you. Not the landline. And see if you can find out exactly where that copper was shot. If Jaff’s behind it, it’ll give us at least some idea of what route he might be taking. But it’s my guess he’s headed for the bright lights.”

“He could be there by now,” said Darren.

Fanthorpe clapped his hands. “Well, all the more reason to get moving right away, isn’t it? And ask Jelena to bring me another pint and a plate of them profiteroles on your way out, would you?” Maybe now would be a good time to ask her if she fancied a couple of days away, no strings, he thought.

B
ANKS FELT QUEASY AFTER THE HELICOPTER RIDE AS HE FOLLOWED
Winsome along the hospital corridors toward Intensive Care, across the hall from the large modern operating suite. During the flight Winsome had tried to fill him in on the general outline of what had been happening in his absence, but the helicopter had been noisy, they had had to wear earmuffs and conversation had been all but impossible.

Banks felt numb, too, partly from lack of sleep and jet lag, but also because of the news he had been given about Annie. He needed to get back into gear fast, but he somehow couldn’t quite persuade his body or his brain to make the shift. As a result everything seemed slightly out of phase, movements in his peripheral vision distracted him, sharp sounds jarred him, and he started to develop a throbbing headache. If he was going to collapse, he thought, he was in the best place for it.

A short muscular woman with spiky hair came up to them as they neared Annie’s room. “DCI Banks? DS Jackman?”

Banks stopped. He thought he recognized her from somewhere, but he couldn’t put a name to the face. Was she a bearer of bad news?

“You won’t remember me,” she went on. “I’m PC Nerys Powell, with the AFO team? I was with the unit that went to the Doyle house.” Banks didn’t understand what she meant, but Winsome seemed to be following all right. “I know you,” she said. “I’ve seen you around HQ, and you were at the meeting on Monday.”

“We’re spending a lot of time there these days,” Nerys said. She turned to Banks. “Look, sir,” she said, “the officer on the door won’t let me in to see Annie. She spoke very highly of you. Will you let me know how she’s doing?”

“Why do you want to know?” Banks asked. He knew he sounded brusque, but he was anxious to get past her, to Annie’s bedside.

“We were working on the case together. She was kind to me. That’s all. It’s been…things have been…very difficult. I sort of feel responsible.”

“Things are difficult for
me
right now,” said Banks, brushing past her. Then he half turned. “I’ll keep you informed, PC Powell. I promise. Go home now. Get some rest.”

Intensive Care had facilities for about sixteen patients, but an arrangement of curtains and screens allowed for a certain amount of privacy. Banks’s knees felt weak when he approached Annie’s bedside. She seemed so small, frail and lifeless, lying there against the white sheets amid the machines and tubes. But the monitors were beeping steadily, and the LCD lights were all on. He thought he could see her blood pressure at 139/81 and her heart rate at 72, which wasn’t so bad, as far as he knew. Probably lower than his, at any rate. A nurse stood by the bedside adjusting one of the tubes, and Banks asked if he might hold Annie’s hand.

“Just for a few moments,” she said.

So Banks sat there holding the limp hand, Winsome standing behind him. The other hand was bandaged up and held fast in the brace along with her injured shoulder. The IV needle was taped to the back of her good hand and several tubes were attached. Banks could see that she was getting blood and some sort of clear fluid, probably saline, with whatever medication she was being given. There was a yellow clip on her finger, also attached to a machine, to measure the oxygen level in her blood. The lower half of her face was covered by the tube in her mouth and the tape that held it in place. Her eyes were closed. Her pale hand was warm to his touch, but there was no grip, no life in it. For a moment his universe shrank to that small space defined by the steady in and out of the pump that was giving her breath. If he looked closely, he could see her chest gently rising and falling with its rhythm.

Banks felt a stir of air behind him and turned to see a slight Asian man. He hardly seemed old enough to be out of medical school, but he was wearing a charcoal-gray suit, white shirt and tie, not the bright turquoise scrubs that are the sign of a medical student. Banks had seen plenty of them on his walk down the corridors to Intensive Care.

“That’s enough now,” said the nurse, putting her hand on Banks’s shoulder. “This is Mr. Sandhar. He’s the star surgeon on our trauma team, and he operated on the patient. Perhaps you’d like to talk to him?”

Banks thanked her, kissed Annie on the forehead and left her side. Mr. Sandhar led Banks and Winsome through another maze of corridors into a small consultation room. There was only one chair, so Banks and Winsome sat side by side on the examination table. Its tissue-paper cover made a crinkling sound as they sat. A chart on the wall depicted the circulation of the blood. Sandhar’s chair was next to a weighing machine.

“Can you give it to us in plain English?” Banks asked.

Sandhar smiled. “Of course. Believe it or not, we usually do try to translate medical jargon into layman’s terms wherever possible for friends and family. Obfuscation is not our business.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Perhaps it would be easier if you were to ask me questions? I should imagine you are quite used to being in that position.”

“Well, I’m hardly going to interrogate you,” said Banks, “but I can certainly ask the questions if you prefer. First of all, can you tell me what happened?”

“Ms. Cabbot has been shot twice. One bullet entered her chest, passing through the middle lobe of her right lung, and the other hit her left clavicle and fragmented, causing a fracture. She was perhaps fortunate in that neither bullet exited, though that very fact alone caused an entirely different set of problems.”

“Those being?”

Sandhar crossed his legs and rested his hands on his lap. “From my information,” he said, “the response time of the ambulance was within ten minutes, which is excellent for a rural area, and for a Category A emergency, which this most certainly was. Whoever made that 999
call probably saved the patient’s life. As I understand it, that person has not been found, but I think that’s your domain rather than it is mine. To continue, the patient had already lost a significant amount of blood by the time the paramedics arrived, but had the weapon been more powerful, and had the bullets exited, there’s no telling how much more blood she
would
have lost. With an entrance wound only, you see, the skin has a certain elasticity, and it closes around the point of entry.” He used his thumb and forefinger to mimic the puncture hole closing. “Not so much blood is spilled.”

“So Annie was lucky the bullets didn’t go all the way through,” Banks repeated. “I see. That’s probably the good news. What about the other problems?”

“Most of Ms. Cabbot’s bleeding was internal, and the leaking fluid put pressure on her lungs, not allowing them to expand.” Again, he used his hands as he talked, moving his open palms close together, as if about to applaud, or mimic the action of bellows. “One of her lungs collapsed and, as you can imagine, she experienced serious breathing difficulties as a result. If the other lung had stopped functioning, she would have died before the ambulance arrived. Luckily, it didn’t. The paramedics acted quickly and had the knowledge and equipment to deal with the situation en route. They managed to stabilize her in Eastvale General Infirmary and then airlifted her here.”

“But she’s going to be all right?” said Banks. “You fixed it? I mean, you operated?”

Sandhar paused. “We operated. But I must stress that the patient is far from out of danger yet. It could go either way.”

“What you mean?”

“Right now there’s a struggle going on. If she’s strong enough, she’ll win it. At the moment, no one can predict the outcome.”

“She’s strong,” Banks said.

The doctor nodded. “Good. She will need to be.”

“When will you know more?”

“The next twenty-four hours are crucial. We’ll be monitoring her constantly, looking for any signs of decline or improvement. There’s nothing else we can do right now but wait. I’m sorry.”

“Is there anything
we
can do?”

“If you’re religious you can pray.”

“And if not?”

“You can hope.”

VICTOR MALLORY
was pleasantly stoned after a few drinks at lunchtime and a nice spliff when he got home. He had just put Toru Takemitsu’s
I Hear the Water Dreaming
on the CD player, and was about to lie down and drift off for a while when he heard the doorbell ring. If he had already lain down, he thought, he might not have bothered answering. But it could be important. Maybe Jaff had brought his car back, or maybe the nubile Marianna from the golf club had taken him up on his offer, after all. So he answered it.

Immediately he opened the door he knew he had made a mistake and desperately wished he could close it again. Stoned or straight, he wouldn’t have liked the look of the two men who stood there. They could mean nothing but trouble. Panicking, he did try to shut the door, but his reactions were too slow, and they easily pushed their way into his hallway. They would probably have broken the door down, anyway, he realized. In his business he met some nasty types from time to time, and he generally found that he could talk his way out of most situations, but this time he wasn’t sure. They didn’t look like good listeners.

The smaller one with the ginger hair resembled a speed freak, bad teeth and all, and Victor didn’t like speed or speed freaks. They were wild and unpredictable. That was why he stuck to making E and the good old psychedelics like acid, mescaline and psilocybin. Not a huge market these days, it was true, but in his eyes, they beat crystal meth and crack cocaine, and the kind of people you had to deal with in that world. People like this. It could only have to do with Jaff, who wasn’t anywhere near as fussy about what he took, or what he sold to make a living.

“Come in, gentlemen,” he said. “Make yourselves at home.”

They didn’t appear to have a sense of humor. They pushed him into the living room and sized the place up. The smaller one checked out the rest of the house to see if anyone else was there, while the big bald one sat silently eyeing the modern art on the walls: prints by Dali,
Hockney, Magritte, Rothko. The smaller one returned and, satisfied that they were quite alone with their quarry, they first closed the heavy curtains and turned on the standard lamp, then they got down to business.

“First,” said the big bald man, “will you turn that fucking racket off? It makes me feel like I need a shit.”

Confused, Victor turned off the CD player. “I like it,” he said. “It’s really quite soothing if you let—”

“I’d also ask you to turn those bloody paintings around if you could,” the man went on, ignoring him. “They have about the same effect on my bowels. But we don’t have time to mess about. Ciaran.”

The ginger-haired man came forward, gestured for Victor to sit on one of the hard-backed chairs from the dining table and proceeded to use heavy gray duct tape to fasten his legs securely to it and his arms around his back. To finish off, he ran the tape around Victor’s upper body and fastened him tightly to the chair back.

Victor sat passive and silent through all this. He didn’t want them to think he was going to cause trouble. There was a chance that this was all a dream, and he could close his eyes and make it go away. He tried, but it didn’t. They hadn’t taped his mouth shut, so he assumed they wanted to ask him questions, which was a good sign. The paranoia was building, though, getting its hooks into him, but as long as he could talk, there was hope. Gift of the gab, that’s what everyone said about Victor. He could charm the birds out of the trees. This need not come to a bad end.

“Right,” said the bald one, once Victor was trussed up to the other’s satisfaction. “You may not know this, but one thing I’ve learned over the years is that the secret of fear isn’t the inflicting of pain. Not at all. It’s to do with the
anticipation
of pain. So what we’re going to do is this.” He took an object from the small grip he had put down on the sofa beside him and set it on the low glass coffee table. “Know what this is?”

“An egg timer?”

“More properly known as an hourglass or a sand clock. See how it’s shaped? That’s why they sometimes talk about women having hourglass figures. Did you know that?”

Victor did, but he wasn’t keen to appear too clever in front of these
men. He had dealt with similar types before and found that at the first sign of intellectual superiority they became more resentful and, therefore, more aggressive. A public school education followed by an Oxbridge degree was definitely not an advantage in these circumstances. “No,” he said. “I didn’t. I thought it was an egg timer.”

“You turn it over, and the sand falls through the tiny hole from one glass bulb to the other. Very clever, really. Sometimes I could watch it for hours. Of course, it doesn’t take hours. It doesn’t even take anywhere near an hour, so why they call it an hourglass I don’t fucking know, except it looks like a woman’s figure, and they talk about hourglass figures, don’t they? Now, these you might find even more interesting. Ciaran.”

The other man took a large folded pouch from the same grip, set it on the table next to the hourglass and unfurled it.

“This is Ciaran’s collection of surgical instruments,” the man went on. “Not that he’s a surgeon or anything. Didn’t have the Latin, did you, Ciaran?”

“That’s a judge,” said Victor.

“What?” the bald man asked, fixing Victor with a blank stare.

“He could have been a judge, but he didn’t have the Latin.” Victor regretted the words immediately they were out. They smacked of superiority. What the hell did he think he was doing, correcting this yahoo’s quotation?

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Sorry. The sketch. It’s Peter Cook and Dudley Moore.”

The two men looked at each other and shook their heads. “Whatever,” the bald one said. “Anyway, like I said before I was so rudely interrupted, our Ciaran’s no surgeon. Bit of an amateur, really. But he likes the tools, and he likes to dabble. The collection’s a bit of a ragbag, no rhyme nor reason to it, except Ciaran’s personal tastes.” The bald man picked up the sharp gleaming instruments one by one. “Now, I don’t know what these all are, but I do know that some of them are used in dermatology. Know what that is? A clever boy like you should do, university education, Latin and all. No? It means they’re sharp enough to peel an eyeball. Gives a whole new meaning to keeping your eyes skinned, doesn’t it? Others are meant for making deeper
cuts through layers of fat or muscle. And then there are things that keep the edges of the wounds open or hold back the underlying organs and tissue while the doctors do their business and put their hands inside, or rip things out.” He held up a hooked instrument. “Retractors of various sizes and designs. Clamps, too, to slow down the bleeding. And most of these other blades are so sharp that they probably don’t hurt very much at first, like when you cut yourself shaving, you don’t really feel it. But eventually the pain comes. Delayed reaction. The blood’s already there, of course. All over the place by then, I should imagine.”