It had been hard work, but they had managed to hide the car. The wall was just high enough to obscure it from the road, and they had covered the top with branches and scrub. It wouldn’t stay hidden for long, though. Someone would enter through the gate and see it soon enough. With any luck, Tracy hoped, that would be sooner rather than later, and the police would realize they were out on the moors somewhere.
Only a few miles from where they had dumped the car they had come across the barn and, as the sun was already rising, Jaff had said they should hole up there for a while. Tracy had known by then that he was stumped, that he hadn’t come up with a plan to get out of this situation. He was lost without wheels. What did he hope to do? Hide in the barn all day and then tramp off through the heather again when darkness fell? Jaff had almost broken his ankle twice last night tripping over heather roots or clumps of springy grass, so he wouldn’t want to try that again in a hurry. It would take them days at this rate, and the net would surely be tightening. The whole country would be alerted to the search by now, Tracy hoped. But it was best to keep her mouth shut about that, she realized. If Jaff hadn’t thought of these things, of the full extent of what he had done, she wasn’t going to tell him. The longer they were out here in the wilds, the more chance she had of escape, or of being found.
Tracy struggled against the ropes once more, but they didn’t give; they just tightened and caused her more pain. The spider fell off her stomach and scuttled away. She felt the hot tears trail down her cheeks. Jaff must have 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.”