“Only if he could be certain the owner was well out of the way for a few days so he couldn’t report it stolen. But point taken. Now, I happen to know he’s got an old mate in Leeds called Victor Mallory. The Baikal boy, as it happens. I’ve used him ourselves for freelance jobs once or twice. Just small stuff. Nothing important. They went to school together down south. One of those posh bum-boy places. Eton or Harrow, or whatever. Anyway, they’re close. This Mallory lives just north of the Leeds ring road, near Harrogate Road, where all those golf clubs are. Alwoodley, something like that. According to my sources, he’s as dodgy as Jaff, and not only with the guns. Clever with a test tube, they say.”
“Alwoodley’s not so far from the airport, is it?” said Darren. “Maybe Jaff got on a flight to Benidorm or somewhere?”
“Don’t be a fucking idiot, Darren. He couldn’t get on a plane to anywhere. Not with what he’s carrying. Everyone has to go through them security scanners now. They can see what you had for breakfast.”
“Sorry, boss. Forgot.”
“No. Wherever he’s going, he’s got to drive, and he’s got to unload the stuff in this country, unless he’s a lot more bloody organized than I think he is and has his own network of couriers and mules, which I very much doubt. He might risk a bus or a train, but he’d be worried they’re already keeping an eye on the stations. So my guess is he’s driving a car nobody knows he’s got. So here’s what you do. You go pay this Victor Mallory a visit. I’ll give you his address. Be discreet. Find out all you can from him and give me a buzz on the throwaway. The throwaway, mind you. Not the landline. And see if you can find out exactly where that copper was shot. If Jaff’s behind it, it’ll give us at least some idea of what route he might be taking. But it’s my guess he’s headed for the bright lights.”
“He could be there by now,” said Darren.
Fanthorpe clapped his hands. “Well, all the more reason to get moving right away, isn’t it? And ask Jelena to bring me another pint and a plate of them profiteroles on your way out, would you?” Maybe now would be a good time to ask her if she fancied a couple of days away, no strings, he thought.
10
BANKS FELT QUEASY AFTER THE HELICOPTER RIDE AS HE FOLLOWED Winsome along the hospital corridors toward Intensive Care, across the hall from the large modern operating suite. During the flight Winsome had tried to fill him in on the general outline of what had been happening in his absence, but the helicopter had been noisy, they had had to wear earmuffs and conversation had been all but impossible.
Banks felt numb, too, partly from lack of sleep and jet lag, but also because of the news he had been given about Annie. He needed to get back into gear fast, but he somehow couldn’t quite persuade his body or his brain to make the shift. As a result everything seemed slightly out of phase, movements in his peripheral vision distracted him, sharp sounds jarred him, and he started to develop a throbbing headache. If he was going to collapse, he thought, he was in the best place for it.
A short muscular woman with spiky hair came up to them as they neared Annie’s room. “DCI Banks? DS Jackman?”
Banks stopped. He thought he recognized her from somewhere, but he couldn’t put a name to the face. Was she a bearer of bad news?
“You won’t remember me,” she went on. “I’m PC Nerys Powell, with the AFO team? I was with the unit that went to the Doyle house.” Banks didn’t understand what she meant, but Winsome seemed to be following all right. “I know you,” she said. “I’ve seen you around HQ, and you were at the meeting on Monday.”
“We’re spending a lot of time there these days,” Nerys said. She turned to Banks. “Look, sir,” she said, “the officer on the door won’t let me in to see Annie. She spoke very highly of you. Will you let me know how she’s doing?”
“Why do you want to know?” Banks asked. He knew he sounded brusque, but he was anxious to get past her, to Annie’s bedside.
“We were working on the case together. She was kind to me. That’s all. It’s been…things have been…very difficult. I sort of feel responsible.”
“Things are difficult for me right now,” said Banks, brushing past her. Then he half turned. “I’ll keep you informed, PC Powell. I promise. Go home now. Get some rest.”
Intensive Care had facilities for about sixteen patients, but an arrangement of curtains and screens allowed for a certain amount of privacy. Banks’s knees felt weak when he approached Annie’s bedside. She seemed so small, frail and lifeless, lying there against the white sheets amid the machines and tubes. But the monitors were beeping steadily, and the LCD lights were all on. He thought he could see her blood pressure at 139/81 and her heart rate at 72, which wasn’t so bad, as far as he knew. Probably lower than his, at any rate. A nurse stood by the bedside adjusting one of the tubes, and Banks asked if he might hold Annie’s hand.
“Just for a few moments,” she said.
So Banks sat there holding the limp hand, Winsome standing behind him. The other hand was bandaged up and held fast in the brace along with her injured shoulder. The IV needle was taped to the back of her good hand and several tubes were attached. Banks could see that she was getting blood and some sort of clear fluid, probably saline, with whatever medication she was being given. There was a yellow clip on her finger, also attached to a machine, to measure the oxygen level in her blood. The lower half of her face was covered by the tube in her mouth and the tape that held it in place. Her eyes were closed. Her pale hand was warm to his touch, but there was no grip, no life in it. For a moment his universe shrank to that small space defined by the steady in and out of the pump that was giving her breath. If he looked closely, he could see her chest gently rising and falling with its rhythm.
Banks felt a stir of air behind him and turned to see a slight Asian man. He hardly seemed old enough to be out of medical school, but he was wearing a charcoal-gray suit, white shirt and tie, not the bright turquoise scrubs that are the sign of a medical student. Banks had seen plenty of them on his walk down the corridors to Intensive Care.
“That’s enough now,” said the nurse, putting her hand on Banks’s shoulder. “This is Mr. Sandhar. He’s the star surgeon on our trauma team, and he operated on the patient. Perhaps you’d like to talk to him?”
Banks thanked her, kissed Annie on the forehead and left her side. Mr. Sandhar led Banks and Winsome through another maze of corridors into a small consultation room. There was only one chair, so Banks and Winsome sat side by side on the examination table. Its tissue-paper cover made a crinkling sound as they sat. A chart on the wall depicted the circulation of the blood. Sandhar’s chair was next to a weighing machine.
“Can you give it to us in plain English?” Banks asked.
Sandhar smiled. “Of course. Believe it or not, we usually do try to translate medical jargon into layman’s terms wherever possible for friends and family. Obfuscation is not our business.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Perhaps it would be easier if you were to ask me questions? I should imagine you are quite used to being in that position.”
“Well, I’m hardly going to interrogate you,” said Banks, “but I can certainly ask the questions if you prefer. First of all, can you tell me what happened?”
“Ms. Cabbot has been shot twice. One bullet entered her chest, passing through the middle lobe of her right lung, and the other hit her left clavicle and fragmented, causing a fracture. She was perhaps fortunate in that neither bullet exited, though that very fact alone caused an entirely different set of problems.”
“Those being?”
Sandhar crossed his legs and rested his hands on his lap. “From my information,” he said, “the response time of the ambulance was within ten minutes, which is excellent for a rural area, and for a Category A emergency, which this most certainly was. Whoever made that 999 call probably saved the patient’s life. As I understand it, that person has not been found, but I think that’s your domain rather than it is mine. To continue, the patient had already lost a significant amount of blood by the time the paramedics arrived, but had the weapon been more powerful, and had the bullets exited, there’s no telling how much more blood she would have lost. With an entrance wound only, you see, the skin has a certain elasticity, and it closes around the point of entry.” He used his thumb and forefinger to mimic the puncture hole closing. “Not so much blood is spilled.”