sensed something, because suddenly his eyes were open, and he was dragging himself up into a sitting position, clearly stunned, Tracy thought, probably not sure where he was. At that moment he had the little-boy-lost air about him, the kind of look that had once made her want to hold him and smooth his hair. Now she just wanted to smash his head in with a lump of stone and run away as far and as fast as she could. If she got the opportunity, she would do it, too. She checked the ground for a loose rock. Perhaps when he untied her, she would get her chance.
“I need to go to the toilet,” Tracy said. Jaff rubbed his eyes. “Then go.”
Tracy squirmed. “I can’t. You tied me up. It hurts.”
He seemed to think about that for a moment. Then he got to his feet and walked over to her. “You’d better not try anything.”
“I won’t.”
Slowly he untied her feet first, then, kneeling behind her, her hands, carefully winding up the rope and putting it back in his hold-all. He clearly intended to use it again, Tracy thought, which probably meant that he wasn’t going to shoot her just yet. Unfortunately there were no handy stones to smash into his head, and she wouldn’t have been able to manage a surprise attack anyway.
Finally Tracy was able to get haltingly to her feet. She jogged up and down and rubbed her wrists to get the circulation moving. The movement made her bladder hurt even more. She turned to walk outside.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Jaff said. “Outside.”
Jaff shook his head. “I’m not letting you out of my sight for one second. Not after the stupid stunts you pulled last night.”
“But I want some privacy.”
“And I want a plate of bacon and eggs and a pot of hot coffee, but neither of us is going to get what we want. If you want to go, you go here.”
“At least turn away,” Tracy begged. Jaff folded his arms. “No.”
She tried to stare him down, to hold back her need, but the pressure was too much. In the end she turned her eyes away from his stare and, face burning with shame, turned her back to him, let down her jeans and squatted.
GEORGE FANTHORPE didn’t like being seen in public with Darren and Ciaran, but he didn’t like them coming to the house too often, either, especially if Zenovia and the kids were home. He tried to balance things as best he could, family and business, and when they did go out in public, as they were doing now, having lunch at the Wheelwright’s Inn just outside the village, he insisted that Darren wear a polo-neck jumper to cover the tattoo on the back of his neck, and that Ciaran wear a suit and comb his hair. That way they gave an almost credible appearance of business colleagues.
Luckily, the Wheelwright’s Inn had a tiny private snug, and the landlord was always happy to accommodate Mr. Fanthorpe if he rang ahead. After all, Fanthorpe was the local squire in all but title, the Lord of the Manor, and the locals were deferential to him, practically doffed their caps when he walked by. It was a role he loved, and he didn’t intend to jeopardize it by taking the risk of anyone finding out how and where he got the money to run his legitimate businesses, such as the dairy he owned, which helped support a good number of the area’s cattle farmers. Not to mention a great deal of the land thereabouts, which he leased to farmers at reasonable prices.
With their food on order and three pints of Sam Smith’s Old Brewery Bitter before them, they got down to business. Fanthorpe wanted a cigarette, but you couldn’t smoke in pubs anymore, not even in the snug. Couldn’t smoke bloody anywhere. Zenovia wouldn’t even let him smoke in his own house. The one he’d paid for, with his money. All he had left was the garden shed, a shabby, musty, dim and dusty domain for a multimillionaire to escape to for a smoke and a quick gander at The Economist three or four times a day.
“Right, lads, so what do we have so far?” Fanthorpe asked after wetting his whistle and wiping the mustache of foam from his upper lip.
Darren gave him the details of their visits to Jaff’s flat and the girlfriend’s house, where they had had their little chat with Rose Preston. Ciaran, as usual, said nothing, merely nodded occasionally.
“So he’s definitely done a runner, then?” Fanthorpe concluded. “Looks like it.”
“With one of his girlfriend’s housemates?”
“That’s right.”
“The dirty, cheating bastard. Still, it shouldn’t be too hard to find out who she is.”
Darren cleared his throat. “Er, we already know that, boss.”
“Good work. I won’t ask you how. You didn’t hurt anyone, did you, Ciaran?”
Ciaran gave a twisted smile. “Not yet.”
“Good lad.”
“She calls herself Francesca,” said Darren, “but young Rose told us that her real name is Tracy. Tracy Banks.”
“Tracy Banks?” said Fanthorpe, suddenly alert. “Did you say Tracy Banks?”
“Right, boss. Why?”
“Fuck. I suppose it could be a common-enough name, but if it’s the one I’m thinking of, she’s a copper’s daughter. Alan Banks. DCI Alan Banks.”
“The one up Eastvale way?”
“That’s the one. Remember him?”
“I remember him now,” said Darren. “Ciaran and I did a bit of research into his family a few years ago. I just couldn’t place the name.”
“Mr. Banks and I have crossed swords on a couple of occasions, as you know. I make a point of finding out everything I can about my enemies. Nothing proven, mind you. He never got anything on me, but a few years ago, when he was local CID, he was sniffing a bit too close for my liking. You’ll both remember that. He’s second in command of Western Area Major Crimes now, under that new woman superintendent. Gervaise. Quite a reputation, he has. Bit of a maverick, too, by all accounts, which is why they say he’ll never make superintendent. Doesn’t always play by the rules, or go by the book.”
“All the more fun for us, then,” said Darren. “Would you like us to have a word?”
“With Banks? Are you fucking insane? That’d be a red rag to a bull. No, no, we leave him well out of it. The last thing we need is the police knowing any more than they do already. Right now they’ve no reason to come talking to us. I’m just saying be careful. If his daughter’s involved, it could mean more trouble than we expected. He’ll be mental. Things could escalate.”
“What about the girl we talked to? Rose. She’ll remember us. Should we deal with her permanently?”
“I don’t want you dealing with anyone right now. Keep a low profile. Either they’ve already talked to her, or she’s too scared to say anything. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Let’s stay focused here.”
Jelena, the Czech serving girl, brought their meals. It took her two trips, and Fanthorpe flirted with her, as usual, and ogled her arse as she wiggled away. Darren and Ciaran didn’t seem interested. But they never did. Sometimes Fanthorpe wondered about those two. If truth be told, he wouldn’t have minded half an hour in a haystack with the lovely Jelena, even a full hour, but he knew how far to push it. He had plenty of opportunities to play away from home on his “business” trips. No point doing it on his own doorstep. Around these parts he was a well-respected family man, and it was in his best interests to keep it that way. So he stuck to flirting and drew the line at anything further. Though he wondered if she might be interested in a quick trip to London next week, dinner at The Ivy, take in a West End show…
“The problem is,” said Darren, bringing Fanthorpe back to the matter at hand, “that if it is her, this Tracy Banks, then she’s gone over to the dark side, hasn’t she?”
“The dark side? Jaff? Is that meant to be some sort of a fucking joke?”
“No.” Darren seemed genuinely nonplussed. “Because if it is, it’s not very funny.”
“No, boss. What I mean is, Jaff’s hardly the sort of bloke you associate with nice girls, is he?”
“I don’t suppose he is, now you come to mention it,” said Fanthorpe. “He’s a bad ’un through and through. But these young lasses…Some of them like that sort of thing. Got minds of their own these days, they have.”
“Between their legs, more like,” said Darren.
“You watch your tongue. I’ve got daughters of my own.”
“I didn’t mean-”
“Just watch your tongue, that’s all.”
