Seeing her like this reminded him of the time she was twelve and finally confessed to him in tears that one of the girls at school had been bullying her and extorting her dinner money from her. Banks wanted to hug her, as he had then, and make all her pain go away.
“We’re heading for London,” Jaff said. “I suppose you know the way?”
Banks nodded. He also knew there was no point in going to London, that Martina Varakova was dead and Justin Peverell’s reason had taken a hike, maybe forever. And the fake documents were in the hands of the Metropolitan Police. But he wasn’t about to tell Jaff that. Everything depended on Jaff believing he was on his way to freedom.
“Whereabouts?”
“King’s Cross. You can drop us there, and I’ll let her go in half an hour.”
Banks didn’t like the sound of that, but now was far too early to negotiate. By the time they got to King’s Cross the balance of power might have shifted a little in his favor. They were probably not meeting at the Highgate house, Banks thought. That was why Ciaran and Darren had left after they had finished with Justin and Martina. They were going to lie in wait for Jaff and Tracy, but they hadn’t said where. “You’ve been causing us quite a bit of trouble, Jaff,” he said, without turning his head.
“It’s Mr. McCready to you. And you’ve only got yourselves to blame for that. Live and let live, that’s what I say.”
“That what you said to Annie when you shot her?”
A sly smile spread over Jaff’s face. “She your girl, was she? I know it’s a waste, a tasty morsel like that, but needs must. Just drive. I’m not in the mood for conversation.”
“Are you okay, Tracy? Are you comf-”
“I said just drive.” Banks felt a hard metallic circle push against the back of his neck, and he knew it was the Baikal’s silencer.
“Shooting me right now wouldn’t be a great idea,” he said. “That’s just to let you know that I’m still in charge. Besides, I could shoot her, not you. Maybe just in the leg or something. Or the gut. I said just shut up and drive. And don’t draw attention to us by your driving, or you’ll regret it.”
Banks drove east to the Ring Road, then turned right and followed it down through Seacroft, Killingbeck and Cross Gates to the M1 at Selby Road. He knew that he would show up on dozens of CCTV cameras but that no one would take the slightest bit of notice because his papers were all in order, the car wasn’t stolen, and he wasn’t a wanted man. Unless someone flagged him as a stray and questioned Western Area as to where he was going, which wasn’t very likely. The police drove all over the place in unmarked cars all the time.
“Put some music on,” said Jaff.
“What’s to your taste?”
“Got any Beatles?”
“I do.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t stand them. What about some jazz?”
Banks didn’t often listen to jazz when he was driving, but he had plenty on his iPod. “Anything in particular?”
“Kind of Blue.”
“No problem.”
“One of my mother’s boyfriends in Mumbai used to play Kind of Blue all the time,” Jaff said, so softly he might have been speaking to himself. “Every time I saw him, I used to say, ‘Play Miles for me, play Miles for me.’ My mother had a lot of boyfriends. I learned all sorts of things from them.” Then he lapsed into silence as Bill Evans’s piano intro to “So What?” started up, followed by the bass, and soon the music filled the car, Miles’s trumpet, Coltrane’s tenor…It was surreal, Banks thought. Here he was hurtling toward the M1, and only God knew what fate, a desperate man with a gun holding him and his daughter hostage, and one of his favorite jazz albums of all time blasting out of the speakers. Not a word was spoken. Banks chipped away at the edge of the speed limit, but never went so much beyond it that he would raise any unwanted interest. Occasionally he would look in the rearview mirror and see Tracy sucking her thumb with her eyes closed as she did when she was a little child, clearly not asleep, the tension still tight around her mouth, eyelids twitching now and again. Jaff was just staring out of the window looking grim.
It wasn’t until they had passed Sheffield that Banks became certain the silver Honda hatchback he had seen in Harehills was the same one that had been keeping a respectable distance behind him all the way down the motorway. And when he came to think of it, though he didn’t want to appear prejudiced at all, it had seemed odd at the time that a person dressed in a hoodie and a tracksuit bottom had gone into a sewing-machine repair shop in the first place.
DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT Catherine Gervaise took off her reading glasses and rubbed her eyes. It was years since she had stopped up practically all night, catching only a quick nap in her office between two and three, and she felt exhausted. Naps were all very well, but these days they often left her more tired than before. While she was proud of her origins as a street copper before she made the fast track, and she liked to let people know that she’d done many of the tough jobs they complained to her about, she had to admit that for the most part she’d been on training courses, studying for a university degree, sitting exams, transferring back and forth to uniform and, for the most part, she had become an administrator rather than a working detective. Now her eyes were sore, her brain slow and her body felt weak. She just wanted to go home to bed, but she had important decisions to make.
Gervaise sipped the strong coffee that Winsome Jackman had brought her, but it didn’t seem to do much good. Now they were well into the morning, her tiredness was beyond coffee. Still, at least the taste and warmth of the dark liquid kept her at subsistence level consciousness, though she still felt like one of those zombies out of the movies her son liked to watch so much. Winsome sat opposite her, at the other side of the large desk. She seemed fine, Gervaise thought; but then she was twenty years younger and far more used to the hours.
“I’ve just had Dirty Dick-I mean Commander Burgess-on the phone, ma’am,” said Winsome.
“My, my, you two are getting familiar. Be careful. That man sounds like a walking toxic waste dump to me,” Gervaise said. “What did he say?”
“Still nothing from the two suspects about The Farmer’s involvement.”
“Well, I’m not surprised,” said Gervaise.
Winsome smiled. “But the one thing they did give up-rather, Darren Brody gave up-was the location for the meet.”
“Justin Peverell with Jaff and Tracy?”
“Yes. Hampstead Heath, near Highgate Ponds.”
Gervaise thought for a moment. “That means McCready’s probably still on his way. And he was being extra careful just in case someone had located Peverell’s house.”
“But he can’t have bargained for what actually happened.”
“No. I’m sure he doesn’t know, or he’d be heading as fast as he could in the other direction. Maybe he is.” Gervaise shook her head. “I don’t know, Winsome. What the hell are we to do?”
“Commander Burgess suggested organizing an armed reception committee for McCready at the Heath.”
Gervaise snorted. “He would. What about Tracy Banks?”
“He said he thought he could keep it low-key enough, that McCready wouldn’t spot what was happening until they were on him.”
“I doubt it. We know how easily these things go pear-shaped. Where’s DCI Banks, anyway? He’s been gone ages.”
“I don’t know,” said Winsome. “He’s not around here, that’s for certain.”
Gervaise frowned. “Where did he say he was going?”
“To meet with an informant, I think. I don’t really know where. We were all so busy talking about what had happened to Justin Peverell and his poor girlfriend.”
Gervaise checked her watch. “Whatever it was, it shouldn’t have taken him this long. Especially given his concern over Tracy. Try his mobile, Winsome.”
Winsome keyed in Banks’s mobile number. “It’s turned off, ma’am,” she said.
“That’s not like him. Why would he turn off his mobile at the crucial point of an investigation that involves him
