Tracy contemplated her position. Perhaps it was for the best that he had turned right at the end of her dad’s drive. She knew the moors; she had come out here with her father many times after his divorce, walked the hidden paths with him for hours, explored hidden clefts and gullies, the abandoned quarries and old lead mine workings. There were twelve miles of open moorland between Banks’s cottage and the next village of any significance. Jaff was like a fish out of water here, dependent on her to show him the way. It gave her an advantage, especially if she could find an excuse to get him to stop after dark.
She was still wondering how the hell she could get out of his clutches for as long as it took to disappear when, just two miles along the narrow, unfenced road, the car gave up the ghost.
Jaff tried to start it up again a few times, then cursed, got out and started kicking the tires. “Fucking Vic! Fucking idiot!” He kept repeating it like a mantra.
Though the sun had just set, there was still too much daylight left, but Tracy took advantage of Jaff’s tantrum by edging toward the drystone wall beside Topfleet Woods. Perhaps if she could escape into there, she could keep far enough ahead of him to double back down to Cobbersett, a tiny village on the daleside just to the west of Gratly. From there she could easily make it to Helmthorpe and get help. She doubted that Jaff would pursue her for very long through the woods if he thought the police were after him. He would want to go forward, not back. Nimbly, she hopped the wall and ran into the trees.
But Tracy underestimated both Jaff’s intentions and his speed. He had kept his eye on her. In no time at all, she could hear him behind her, and soon she felt a tight grip around her neck. She jerked to a halt, her head snapping back, and screamed in pain.
“Shut up, or so help me I’ll strangle you here and now,” said Jaff between gasps for breath. “You stupid bitch. You’re losing us time. Get back to the road. Get us the fuck out of here, not back where we came from.”
“Let go. I can’t breathe. You’re breaking my neck.”
“Promise you won’t run anymore.”
“I promise! I promise! Let go!”
Jaff let go. He caught his breath, hands on knees, while Tracy massaged the back of her neck. It obviously wasn’t broken, or she wouldn’t still be standing, but it certainly hurt like hell. Finally Jaff turned and started walking back to the car, cocky and confident enough simply to leave her to follow. She hated him at that moment more than anyone ever in her life, and she was tempted to take off again. But he was faster than she thought, and this time if he caught her, he would probably kill her. She paused and stooped to look for a stone she could smash his head in with, but there was nothing. He turned and looked at her, shook his head, then carried on walking again. Head hung low, still massaging her neck, she followed like a shameful Eve following Adam out of Paradise. Some paradise.
“We’ve got to get rid of the car,” Jaff said. “There’s a gate up ahead. You can help me push it there and through, then we’ll see if we can’t hide it on the other side.”
Tracy felt too defeated to respond. Her nose hurt, her neck hurt and her heart ached. So she followed him.
9
BANKS HAD BEEN ON THE PLANE SINCE FIVE TO FIVE on Wednesday afternoon, and by his watch it was three o’clock in the morning when they finally stopped circling Heathrow and began the slow descent. It was broad daylight outside. Banks hadn’t slept-he never did on planes-but at least he hadn’t drunk any alcohol; he had heard that abstinence helped to alleviate jet lag. The food had been pretty dreadful, and the choice of movies not much better. Mostly he had read The Maltese Falcon until his eyes got too tired, then he took out his iPod and listened to Angela Hewitt playing Bach’s Keyboard Concertos. The noise-canceling headphones he had bought before flying out had been expensive, but they were well worth it. The music came out loud and clear, while everything else was a distant background hum. Somehow Bach managed to calm and relax him on a flight in a way that most other music didn’t.
But soon came the instructions to turn off all electronic devices, along with the information that the time in London was 11:05 A.M. on Thursday morning, and the temperature was eighteen degrees Celsius. Banks packed up his iPod and headphones and took out his book again for the last few minutes. At least they hadn’t barred people from reading old-fashioned print on the final descent. Yet.
He could see London spread out below him between the clouds as they came in to land from the east: the meandering Thames, the green sward of a large park, Tower Bridge, busy streets and clusters of buildings, all the familiar landmarks gleaming in the bright sunshine. It looked like a fine day, but all he really wanted to do was crawl into bed. He had booked a hotel room in the West End and planned on spending the weekend in London seeing old friends before taking the train back up north on Monday morning. He hoped the hotel room would be ready for him when he arrived.
The plane bumped along the runway, and after a lengthy ground journey came to a halt beside a Jetway. In no time at all Banks was shuffling along the miles of airport corridors with the rest of the weary passengers to Passport Control. The EU line wasn’t very long, and it was soon Banks’s turn to walk up to the officer and present his passport. She checked the photograph against his face, scanned it through her computer, checked it again, then turned around, and two burly men who had been hanging back keeping an eye on the arrivals walked forward.
“Mr. Banks? Can you please come with us, sir,” one of them said in a voice that made it clear that he wasn’t asking a question.
“What is-”
“Please, sir.” The man took his arm and led him away from the queue.
Banks had done the same thing to enough people himself-albeit in slightly different circumstances-that he knew not to expect any answers. Maybe they thought he was a terrorist. Maybe they would waterboard him. They could do what they wanted, and there was nothing he could do about it. Most likely, he thought, it was something to do with that business with MI5 earlier in the summer. He’d made a mess of things then, and he had also made some dangerous enemies. They had long memories; they didn’t forget. Was this some kind of payback for what he had done? And how serious were they? Whatever it was, he certainly wouldn’t get to say anything until they got where they were going. He felt panic rise in his chest; his heart thumped, and he found it difficult to breathe. He also felt faint and light-headed from jet lag and lack of sleep. And fear.
They led him down the corridor toward the baggage-claim area and through a heavy door to the left marked AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY. After a few more twists and turns along dim and airless passages, they got to an unmarked office door. One of the men opened the door, and with a gentle but firm touch to the small of Banks’s back, the other made sure he went inside. Then the door closed behind him.
The office was larger, cleaner and better-appointed than he would have expected, but there were no windows, and a little fan sat on the desk slowly churning the stale humid air. It was who sat behind the desk that surprised Banks. Perhaps it shouldn’t have. Detective Superintendent Richard Burgess was somehow connected with Special Branch, and he had helped Banks out with a case earlier in the summer, the one that made him so nervous about all this security business to start with. At the sight of Burgess he relaxed a bit, and his heart rate slowed closer to normal, but there was still something wrong about this, because DS Winsome Jackman was also in the room. What on earth was she doing here?
“You all right, Alan?” asked Burgess. “You look a bit peaky.”
“It’s not every day I get picked up at Passport Control by airport security. What the hell’s going on?” Banks realized that Dirty Dick only knew a part of what had happened earlier that summer, and that Winsome knew nothing, so they couldn’t really have any idea of the sort of images that went through his mind or the level of terror he felt when two burly plainclothes security officers dragged him off without explanation. After the experiences he had had, he could easily believe that people had been led into those very same corridors and had never been seen again.