“Yes. Come on. You know Darren. Your farm-hand-cum-enforcer. For some reason neither Darren nor Ciaran was involved with the Marlon Kincaid killing. Perhaps they were on another job, mucking out the stables or something. Or perhaps you just needed McCready to get his hands dirty, a blooding, like the kid’s first foxhunt. But Ciaran and Darren have been doing quite a lot of overtime for you lately, haven’t they?”
“What do you mean?”
Banks shook his head. “Ciaran’s seriously deranged. You should know what a liability it is to have someone like him on your payroll.”
“Ciaran would never say a thing against me.”
“You’re right about that. Ciaran’s a vicious psychopath who enjoys hurting people. But he’s loyal. He probably thanks you for the opportunity. He hurt Justin Peverell’s girlfriend, Martina Varakova. Killed her, in fact, very slowly and very painfully, while Justin was tied up and made to watch. Justin is catatonic now. The doctors aren’t holding out a lot of hope of his making a full recovery. Well, you wouldn’t after something like that, would you? Imagine someone doing that to your lovely wife.”
“Why are you telling me all this? What’s it all got to do with me?”
“Jaffar McCready had something of yours—two kilos of cocaine, fifty thousand pounds and a hot gun, to be exact. We have it all now, locked up safely in our evidence room.”
Fanthorpe sneered. “Safely? I’ll bet.”
“You wanted it all back. Naturally. You even told me you wanted it back. DS Jackman here is a witness to that.”
Winsome looked up from her notebook and smiled at Fanthorpe.
“You just never told me what it was,” Banks said.
“But you think you’ve worked it out for yourself?”
“It wasn’t that difficult.”
“I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong conclusion. If that’s what you found, then I was obviously mistaken, and Jaffar didn’t have what I thought he had. None of that belonged to me.”
“Darren Brody has been working with Ciaran French for a few years now. He knows what Ciaran’s like, has seen him getting progressively more violent and cruel. It’s all right with him when it’s worked as a threat and people talk, then usually go away with only a few cuts and bruises. But this time it got out of hand. Way out of hand. My guess is that Ciaran had built up such a lust for bloodletting that he couldn’t hold it back any longer. Victor Mallory. Rose Preston. Teasers. However it happened, Darren was with him, and Darren couldn’t stop him, but he didn’t like what he saw.”
“Darren’s just trying to save his own skin. They’re both psychos.”
“We’ll leave the question of why you would employ a couple of psychos aside for the moment. Jaffar McCready certainly wasn’t one. He was a greedy, cocksure, ambitious, intelligent young man with a tendency to violence when necessary. He wanted to be a player. He didn’t especially like killing. He wasn’t even particularly good at it. He had so many chips on his shoulder he could have given Harry Ramsden a run for his money. Anyway, the point is that Darren has had enough. He had to watch Justin’s face while Ciaran sliced up Martina Varakova in front of his eyes. I doubt it was a pretty sight. Darren’s a bit tougher than Justin, and he still has his faculties, but a strange thing happened to him that night. They’d found out what they wanted to know, that Justin was meeting Jaffar and Tracy on Hampstead Heath, near the Highgate Ponds, but Ciaran had already gone too far to stop. He couldn’t. Because of that, while Darren was watching him, he was suddenly struck, like Saul on the road to Damascus, with a revelation. He asked himself, Why? Why was he watching this? Why was he participating in this? True, the people Ciaran was hurting were a couple of toerags who didn’t give a damn about people’s lives themselves. But this was too much. How on earth could Darren ever extricate himself from his complicity in Ciaran’s actions, though those actions horrified and disgusted him? And do you know what? He found a way. It’s called cooperating with the police fully in their inquiries. Darren talked, Farmer. In fact he sang like the three tenors all rolled into one. The complete performances. Box set.”
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 s
tuck 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.”
“I know. You were there, weren’t you?”
“Yes. I didn’t see it coming, either.” Banks had brought a Starbucks grande latte with him, and he took a sip, then set it down on top of Annie’s side cupboard. As he did so, he realized that he had forgotten the flowers. He mentally kicked himself. Idiot. Next time. No, he’d have some delivered, with a note, as soon as he left. “We recovered his gun, by the way. McCready’s. A Baikal, as we thought. It had a silencer, and I think that’s what saved your life. Apparently, with a silencer, it loses a third of its power and is far less accurate.”
“Well, I never,” said Annie. “What’s happening over the McCready shooting business?”
“About what you’d expect. They’re all back-pedaling like crazy. In the end it all comes down to spin, of course. The media don’t have many facts, but there’s been plenty of speculation about my presence there, and Tracy’s, not to mention a ‘rogue’ AFO. Mostly the brass has being trying to quash those rumors, or at least deflect the worst of them. We’ve had a few more meetings, without PC Powell’s presence this time. Even the chief constable himself was at one of them. Everyone has ended up bending over backward so the media reports it as all going according to procedure. An unfortunate necessity, but an officer’s life at risk, a proven police shooter, dangerous criminal on the run, unstable behavior, hostages involved, official operation, judgment call, no choice in the matter. Blah, blah, blah. Take your pick.”
“You disagree?”
“Not at all. It’s just—barely—possible to argue it that way. We even had civilian witnesses to bear out the evidence that my life and Tracy’s were at immediate risk, and that the police sharpshooter acted appropriately, with all reasonable regard for any members of the public in the vicinity. All of which is true. The fact that she was there unofficially, under her own steam, and with an unofficial weapon…well, we just tried to sweep all that under the carpet. There are still bits sticking out, of course, but…ACC McLaughlin told the press that we hadn’t been able to authorize any sort of large or visible Firearms Support Unit operation because of time constraints, the delicacy of the situation and the danger involved to the hostages, not to mention the public at large. He wasn’t lying. We’ll take a lot of flack, and Chambers is still on the warpath, but what’s new? Cooler heads might prevail this time.”
“And Nerys?”
Banks sipped a little more of his latte and said, “I’d say her career’s effectively over, wouldn’t you? I mean, not because of the Taser business with Warburton. That’s dead in the water. Even Chambers realizes that. Ironically enough, it was partly your shooting that knocked it off the front page. Cop shootings do get us a lot of public sympathy.”
“Glad to be of help.”
Banks smiled. “There may be a few slapped wrists for a less than full assessment of the situation at the Doyle house. Chambers and his lads from Greater Manchester will continue to conduct their inquiry, and they’ll want their pound of flesh, or at least a couple of ounces in compensation, but I’d guess the result’s a foregone conclusion.”
“Cover-ups all round, then?”
“Not really. Certainly not the Taser incident. The whole thing was an unfortunate accident, and luckily the media’s quite happy to view it that way—until the next time. But Nerys? The McCready shooting? That’s a little different. Nobody wants wild headlines in the papers about rogue cops shooting people down in motorway service station car parks, so we’ll put a slightly more heroic spin on her actions. Even so, it won’t be easy for her. There’s the rifle, for a start. She shouldn’t have been carrying it around. She’s damn lucky not to be going to prison after what she pulled. They’ll make her see a shrink, too, of course. I must say, you do pick them, Annie.”
“Speak for yourself. Besides, I didn’t pick her. She picked me. And how can you say that? Why are you so ambivalent about her? She saved your life.”
“I know she did. And I’m grateful for that. But she’s still bloody lucky to get off without serious criminal charges, in my opinion. Lucky no one needs a sacrificial lamb right now. And I’m ambivalent because I’m not convinced of her motives.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think she did it as much for herself as for me
.”
“Where do you get that from?”
“I can’t prove it, but I’ll bet you a pound to a penny that it was you she was thinking of, and what Jaff had done to you, when she pulled that trigger. She was shooting him for what he did to you.”
Annie reddened. “Well, we’ll probably never know, will we?” She let go of Banks’s hand for a moment and reached for her water. Banks saw her grimace in pain as she turned, so he passed it to her. “Thanks,” she said.
“We won’t know unless she tells us, which I doubt she ever will,” said Banks. “Why should she? I’d be the first to admit that it probably doesn’t even matter to anybody but me, and to people like Chambers and Trethowan, who seem to want to make her lesbianism an issue here.”
“And you don’t?”
“I don’t care whether she did it for a man or a woman. What matters is that she didn’t do it for the reasons she said she did. She did it for revenge. It was personal.” Then Banks rubbed his hand over his eyes. “But it was personal for a lot of us, so I’m not saying she should be crucified for it.”
“And she saved your life.”
“Yes.”
“And there was no other way?”
“No. Look, I know I’m not making a lot of sense. I’ll get it all sorted out in time.”
“So what happens to Nerys?”
“If she has any sense she’ll get out of North Yorkshire as fast as she can, lie low for a while, then she might well make some clandestine counterterrorism squad or other. They’re not always so fussy about who they take on, depending on the level of threat, and she is a good shot. She won’t go to waste. Who knows, maybe even the Americans will take her? She suits their style.”
“Don’t you think that’s a bit harsh?”
“On whom? Nerys, or the Americans?”
Annie laughed. “Touché. What about The Farmer?”
“Who knows?” said Banks. “We’re building a case. The CPS is enthusiastic. But he’s got good lawyers. Still, there’s some interesting stuff in his Jersey and Cayman Island files. We got Victor Mallory, too, by the way. Found his lockup with the lab and cache of Baikals. The clever bastards were using one of McCready’s father’s old shell companies. That’s why it took so long to track down.”
Bad Boy Page 38
