“Take a pew,” said Burgess, pushing a bottle of Laphroaig and a plastic cup toward him. “Sorry about the lack of crystal ware. This is still your tipple of choice, isn’t it?”
“I’m not sitting anywhere or drinking anything till someone tells me what’s going on.”
“I’m sorry about the welcoming committee,” Burgess went on. “Had to be done, though. I can’t go out there. And they had no idea why they were doing it. They were just following orders. It’s the only way they do things around here. Winsome will explain.”
“What orders? Whose orders? Winsome?”
“Pour yourself a drink first and sit down,” said Burgess. “Go on. Believe me, it’ll help.”
Though he had switched from whiskey to red wine a couple of years ago, Banks did as Burgess suggested. Immediately he smelled the acrid peaty malt, he felt his throat constrict and his skin burn, but he managed to take a sip. The warmth flooded his veins. He could get used to this again. “Just get on with it, then. What’s going on?”
Winsome’s expression was grave, and now Banks feared that something might have happened to Tracy, Brian, his mother or his father. This was the way they told you about a death in the family. The solicitous tone, a drink, a chair to sit on, the sepulchral expressions.
“I’m sorry, too,” said Winsome. “But I think it was the best way. Detective Superintendent Gervaise knew what flight you were returning on, and Mr. Burgess was kind enough to help out with airport security. Otherwise, I’d be standing out in Arrivals holding up a sign with your name on it.”
“I think I’d have spotted you without the sign, Winsome. Come on. Give. What is it?”
“It’s Annie,” Winsome said, leaning forward. “There’s no easy way to break this. She’s…”
“Annie? She’s what? Get it out.”
“Annie’s been shot.”
Banks fell back in his chair and put his hands to his burning cheeks. “Shot?”
“Last night. I didn’t want to risk you seeing it in the paper, sir. It even made some headlines. That’s why…I mean, if you’d gone wandering in the concourse…you might have…”
Banks instinctively reached for the Laphroaig, tipped the cup toward his mouth and took a large mouthful. It burned as it went down, but it helped bring his mind into sharper focus. “How serious is it?”
“It’s very serious,” Winsome said. “They’ve sent for her father.”
“But she’s still alive?”
“Yes. But it’s touch and go. One of the bullets nicked her right lung. It collapsed. The lung and chest cavity filled with fluid. She almost didn’t make it to the hospital.”
“One bullet?”
“She was shot twice. Once in the chest and once in the shoulder. The second bullet shattered the clavicle and fragmented. It’ll cause mobility problems, but they say it’ll heal in time. The surgeons were operating most of the night. They may have to go in again.”
“Good God,” whispered Banks. “Have you caught whoever did it?”
“Not yet… Our information’s a bit sketchy.”
“Where is she now?”
“Cook University Hospital. Middlesbrough. They don’t have the facilities at Eastvale General to deal with that kind of trauma.”
“Not many people get shot in Eastvale,” Banks pointed out. There was a pause. Burgess reached for the Laphroaig bottle, and Banks saw him exchange a glance with Winsome. “What?” Banks said. “Is there something else?”
“It didn’t happen in Eastvale,” said Winsome. She glanced at her watch. “Look, do you want to head up to Middlesbrough and see her now? We can pick up your suitcases at the baggage claim on the way out, and I’ll fill you in on everything I know. There’s a helicopter-”
“A helicopter?”
Burgess cleared his throat. “Least I could do, mate. I put in for a Lear jet, but budgets being what they are these days…” He managed a weak grin.
Banks stared at him and swirled the remaining whiskey in his cup before finishing it off. “Thanks,” he said. Then he held up the empty cup before he set it down on the desk. “And for this, too.”
Burgess just nodded, then he got up and opened the door to have a brief word with the two security guards, who were still waiting outside. “They’ll escort the both of you out of here,” he said.
Winsome got to her feet.
“Right, then,” said Banks. “Let’s go.” He paused in the doorway. “Just one thing. If Annie wasn’t shot in Eastvale, where exactly did it happen?”
“In Gratly, sir,” Winsome said. “In your conservatory.”
TRACY DIDN’T know exactly what time it was when she awoke from a terrifying dream that skittered off back into her subconscious the moment she opened her eyes, leaving her wide awake and afraid. She must have dozed off for a while, she realized. Going by the height and position of the sun through the bare roof beams and gaps in the stone walls, she guessed it was mid-morning. Her face and arm hurt, she felt dirty and wanted a shower, but most of all she needed desperately to go to the toilet.
They were in a ruined barn. Though most of the roof was gone, and large sections of the stone walls had collapsed, it had provided some shelter for the night and, more importantly, a place to hide and remain unseen in the early daylight hours. But they had no food, and Tracy realized now that she was also desperately hungry.
Jaff slept on, snoring and snuffling occasionally, tossing and turning on the hard floor. How could he? Tracy wondered. Her hands and feet felt numb from the rope he had found in the boot of Vic’s car and used to tie her up. She couldn’t even move enough to dislodge the fat black spider that was crawling over her bare midriff. She hated spiders. It tickled and seemed, to her, to be deriving some pleasure from the discomfort it was causing her, though she knew that was ridiculous. Maybe it would bite her. It just wouldn’t go away.
All night she had fought off panic attacks by deep-breathing, but she still felt on the verge of some sort of breakdown as she watched the spider’s progress. And she knew that if she caused any trouble now, Jaff would certainly kill her. She was here under sufferance because she might be useful. He now felt he had nothing to lose. He had already shot Annie, probably killed her, and who knew whom else he had shot with the gun Erin took? Annie had mentioned someone called Marlon Kincaid, so maybe Jaff had shot him, too. Her only chance was to take to the open moorland the first chance she got, and she couldn’t do that while her hands were tied behind a post and her ankles bound.
As she sat there waiting for Jaff to wake up, Tracy cried and longed for her father. Perhaps he had ignored her, neglected her in favor of Brian, perhaps he hadn’t really understood her and sympathized with her failure, realized how much it had meant to her, especially in the light of her brother’s success, but she couldn’t really blame him for all that. At least, she didn‘t want to anymore. He had his own life, and she knew it had been difficult enough since her mother had left. Not that she blamed her mother, either. But the baby had been a bit hard to take. Growing kid, now. A half sister. But she should have been kinder, more understanding. She would be, if ever she got out of this.
The birds had started early, and the cacophony of their different voices continued through the morning. Tracy’s bladder hurt more and more with every second that passed, but she wasn’t going to sink to the indignity of peeing her pants. She had been hoping for hours to hear the sound of a tractor or some other vehicle approaching before Jaff awoke, but there had been nothing so far but the birds. Nor had she heard any human voices. They were too far from the road. Besides, she realized, what chance would a poor farmer or a couple of ramblers have against Jaff and his gun? Anyone who approached them would most likely be walking to their death. About an hour earlier she thought she had heard a helicopter overhead, but it hadn’t swept close enough to see them through the bare roof. Maybe it would come back. And if there was a helicopter, there were others searching, on foot and in cars.