“Oh? Why’s that?”
“He owes me money.”
“The bonds? Is that why Ciaran and Darren are looking for him?”
Fanthorpe swirled his whiskey in the glass. “You can draw your own conclusions. You will, anyway. I don’t know anything about any bonds. I don’t know where you got that from. All I’m saying is that McCready owes me money, and I want it before he disappears into a cell and it all ends up in a copper’s pocket.”
“McCready was already on the run before he shot Detective Inspector Cabbot. We were wondering if that had anything to do with you.”
“Me? No. Something to do with a gun, I heard,” said Fanthorpe. “It was all over the news.”
Winsome made a note and spoke up again. “Jaffar McCready was never mentioned in connection with the gun Juliet Doyle handed in to us,” she said. “We didn’t tell the press that, and they didn’t broadcast his name.”
“So how did you know?” Banks asked Fanthorpe.
“Oh, you think you’re so bloody clever, don’t you, the both of you? Do you think I don’t have my sources? A man in my position? Do you think I don’t know what doesn’t go into the newspapers or on the telly? Come on. Grow up.”
“Chief constable tell you, did he? A brief chat at the ninth hole?”
“For crying out loud.”
“Does this gun mean anything to you?” Banks asked. “It’s a nine-millimeter Smith and Wesson. Is there some reason that its falling into our possession disturbs you?”
“Not at all. I have nothing to fear.”
“So you think you’re clean on the gun? Okay. What does McCready have of yours? Drugs? Cash?”
“I told you. He owes me money.”
“Apparently, he told someone he was carrying bonds.”
“Rubbish. He was just trying to make it all sound legit, like he’s some sort of high-powered business broker. He stole from me. Cash. Simple as that.”
“Drug money?”
“I told you, he does occasional courier duties. Sometimes that involves carrying and banking large sums of money. He happened to have just such a sum in his possession when he disappeared.”
“When Jaffar McCready disappeared,” Winsome said, “he’d just returned from a business trip to Amsterdam and London, or so he said. How did he end up with so much of your money in his possession?”
“If you think I’m going to divulge my private business transactions to you, you’ve got another think coming, Ms. Winsome.”
“Do you usually use your farmhands as debt collectors?” Banks asked.
“Ciaran and Darren are men of many talents. Limited intelligence, but many talents. Their appearance can be rather…intimidating, as I’m sure you remember. Sometimes their mere arrival on a scene encourages people to do as they ask. It can be important when large sums are at stake.”
“I’ll bet it can. So far they’ve terrorized an innocent twenty-four-year-old girl and tied up and threatened a young man with torture. Real tough guys. Ever heard of a Victor Mallory?”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“He’s an old university and public school pal of McCready’s.”
“The old boys’ network? Well, Jaff always did move in rarefied circles. A bit too rich for my blood. Cambridge does that to people, you know. I came up the hard way-sheer hard work, getting my hands dirty. I never went to university, and West Leeds Boys High is hardly a public school, so I wouldn’t know about all that. Wouldn’t know this Mallory, either. Jaff has a lot of friends I don’t know about and don’t want to know about. There’s a big age difference, for a start, then the employer-employee relationship. Hardly conducive to friendship. I should imagine Jaff’s friends are more his own age.”
“Do you know what information Ciaran and Darren wanted from the people they threatened?”
“Enlighten me.”
“They wanted to know where Jaffar McCready is heading.”
“Well, then, we’re back to square one, aren’t we?” Fanthorpe spread his hands. “That’s exactly what I’d like to know. Except nobody yet has mentioned the elephant in the corner of the room.”
“Meaning?” said Banks, though he had an inkling of what Fanthorpe was getting at, and the thought chilled him like a shadow crossing the high daleside.
Fanthorpe stood up, poured himself another generous shot and pointed at Banks. “Your daughter, Banks. Tracy. Nobody’s mentioned her part in all this yet, have they?” He leaned against the wall and grinned. “Now, if you ask me, you’re a man in a lot of trouble, Mr. Banks, a lot of grief and trouble. I have daughters, too. I can understand that. Who knows, if we put our heads together, then maybe we might even be able to help one another? What about it?”
JAFF LEFT the van behind a doorless Mini on blocks in a street of dirty redbrick terrace houses not far from Beeston Hill Cemetery. The tall prewar houses seemed to Tracy to loom menacingly over them in the growing dark as they walked away, watched closely by a gang of hooded youths congregating at the end of a ginnel, looking shifty and threatening by turns. There was a mosque on the corner with an ornate mosaic dome. Televisions flickered behind moth-eaten curtains. Canned laughter spilled out into the street and mingled with the beat of a distant pub band. The streetlights had just come on, a jaundiced yellow in the late twilight purple, and they were surrounded by haloes of haze. A hint of exotic spices filled the night air. Behind the high-pitched slate roofs, roiling dark clouds parted now and then to allow a lance of moonlight to break through. There was an edgy feel to the night, Tracy sensed, and the sky seemed to echo it. Perhaps a thunderstorm was on the way. Anything could happen.
One of the youths turned and called out something after them. Tracy couldn’t make out the words. She could see that Jaff had one hand in his bag, though, and a grim smile on his face. A “just let them try something” smile. Tracy felt her pulse quicken with her footsteps. But nobody followed them. Nobody threw anything. When they got to the well-lit arterial road with its people, pubs, hairdressers, Asian shops and curry houses, Jaff relaxed his grip and removed his hand from the bag. They caught the first bus into the city center and sat upstairs at the front. There were hardly any other passengers at that godforsaken time of the evening, well after office hours and before closing time.
“Isn’t it dangerous, going to a hotel?” Tracy said. “I told you they’ll be looking for the two of us together.”
Jaff gave her a sideways glance. “I’m not letting you go, so don’t start that again. We’ll be fine. I suppose you just want to go home to Daddy?”
Tracy said nothing. She did.
“Well, that’s not going to happen, so you’d better make the best of things. Don’t forget what I said back there in the van. I mean it.” He looked her up and down. “At least you’re reasonably presentable now. You’ll just about pass muster. Just. How about me?”
Jaff looked fine. Immaculate as usual. “You’ll do,” she said.
“It’s a nice hotel I’ve got in mind,” Jaff said. “Not some fleabag place. We’ll be able to have a shower, get room service, minibar, the lot.”
The bus lumbered on, around corners, across intersections, and finally made its way into the city center.
“What about the CCTV cameras?” Tracy asked, as she saw the familiar landmarks of the Corn Exchange and Kirkgate Market ahead.
“They’re only useful if someone’s watching them and knows what to look for,” said Jaff. “If you think how many of them there must be, you’ve got to realize that there can’t possibly be enough people to watch them all, or we’d be all watching each other all the time. Real Big Brother. It’s a risk, but a minor one. Especially here. Like I said, no one’s going to expect us to come back here. And by the time anyone gets to checking all the CCTV footage, we’ll be sunning it up on the Costa del Sol. At least, I will.” He grabbed the chrome rail.
“Come on. Our stop.”
“HELP ONE another? Where do you get that from?” said Banks.
Fanthorpe sat down and cradled his fresh drink, a superior grin on his face. “I would have thought it was obvious,” he said. Winsome cast Banks a puzzled glance.
