The bald man picked up the hourglass and put it back in his grip. “Close call, Victor,” he said, going over and ruffling Victor’s hair. “Very close call. We’ll let you get back to your shitty music again. But remember-we know where you live. I suppose I don’t need to tell you what’ll happen if there’s any comeback on us for this, do I?”
Victor shook his head.
“Good lad.” The bald man slapped Victor’s cheek playfully, but still hard enough to hurt, two or three times, then said, “Ciaran.”
They turned off the light and walked toward the door.
“Aren’t you going to cut me free?” Victor asked in a small voice.
The bald man paused in the doorway. “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he said. “Ciaran’s hand might slip with the blade. Like another layer of skin, that duct tape. I tell you what, though.” He took the tape out of the grip and walked over, cutting off a short strip with a pocket knife. “This’ll help save you from yourself. Don’t worry. Someone will turn up eventually. They always do.”
“But how will I explain-”
The man slapped the tape over Victor’s mouth before he could finish the sentence. “Use your imagination, Victor. Use your imagination.” Then they left, pausing only to turn on the CD player on their way out.
HOSPITALS ALWAYS depressed Banks, and sitting in the coffee shop watching the people taking a short break from dealing with sick children, relatives dying of cancer or lying there senile in geriatric wards didn’t help at all. The couple at the next table were talking about the side effects of prostate surgery. Banks tried to shut it out and concentrate on what Winsome was telling him. At least the coffee was good, and he got a chocolate rush from the KitKat. It was well after lunch-time, but he wasn’t really hungry. Sleep seemed a long way off, too, after seeing Annie lying there like that and hearing what Winsome and Mr. Sandhar had told him. A nurse had told them that Annie’s father, Ray, was on his way up from St. Ives by train.
“So, as far as I can gather from what you’ve told me,” Banks summarized, “Annie was shot when she went to my cottage to water the plants. Didn’t it also cross her mind that Tracy might be there with her boyfriend?”
“Probably not. I’m sure she didn’t really think that would be the case, or she would have brought in backup.”
“Not if she thought she was protecting me or Tracy,” said Banks gloomily. “Not if she didn’t want anyone else to know, thought she could nip any problems in the bud. Go on.”
“He’s not really Tracy’s boyfriend. He was Erin Doyle’s.”
“But Erin’s been arrested for possession of a handgun?”
“Yes. She’s out on police bail.”
“This boyfriend…?”
“Jaff. His name’s Jaffar McCready, but everyone calls him Jaff.”
“He’s most likely the one who shot Annie?”
“So we think.”
“And Tracy made the 999 call?”
“Yes,” said Winsome. “It was a female voice, and it was her mobile number. I’ve also heard the recording at the dispatch center. It sounds like Tracy, as well as I can remember. She sounds scared.”
“As well she might,” said Banks.
“We found her mobile phone at the scene, close to where we think their car was parked. It had been smashed to pieces. The SIM card was still in intact, and it showed the phone hadn’t been used since Monday.”
“Isn’t that when this whole business started?”
“It’s when Juliet Doyle turned up at the station to report finding a firearm in her daughter’s bedroom, yes. According to Annie, she asked for you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. I should think she hoped you would deal with it without making too much of a fuss, that things would go better for Erin.”
“I see,” said Banks. “But I wasn’t there, and things went haywire. Erin got arrested and Tracy went to tell the boyfriend.”
“Looks that way,” said Winsome. “And Juliet Doyle?”
“She’s stopping with Harriet Weaver. No charges against her, naturally.”
“Naturally. I don’t suppose this Jaff would want Tracy using the phone if he thought we might link the two of them and track her down through her mobile use. But she loved that mobile. She was never off it. He must have taken it from her on Monday, kept it switched off. Was she there with him willingly? She can’t have been. What do you think?”
“We honestly don’t know,” Winsome said. “She might have been. In the first place. I mean, according to Rose, she went over to his place of her own free will. After that we don’t know how events unfolded, but she must have been the one who took him to your cottage. Maybe he forced her to take him. It’s possible. All we know is what Tracy’s housemate told us. But we don’t know what happened after they got there-the place is a bit of a shambles-but, like you, I can’t believe Tracy would willingly have anything to do with Annie’s shooting.”
“Of course not,” said Banks. “It’s absurd. However this all started, I think we have to assume that Tracy’s under duress right now. She’s a hostage of this Jaff McCready. That’s an odd name, by the way. Know anything about him?”
“I‘ve been doing a bit of digging. His mother’s from Bangladesh. Was. She died of breast cancer a few years ago. She was only forty. Anyway, she was a model. Very lovely, by all accounts. She married Jack McCready. He came from East Kilbride originally, but he built up an empire of bookmakers down south and did a bit of investing in the movie business. That’s how they met. He liked to hang about with the stars and directors and such.”
“Don’t we all?” said Banks. “I’ve heard the name, seen his photo in the papers and his name in the gossip columns from time to time, starlet on each arm sort of thing. Can’t say as I’ve ever met a bookie I could trust. Dead, though, isn’t he?”
“Heart attack,” said Winsome. “Eight years ago. There were rumors about him. Money laundering, nobbled horses, fixed races, what have you. Nothing proven, and the death was all aboveboard. Anyway, the parents split up when Jaffar was eight. He went with his mother to India. She became quite a famous Bollywood star there. I think Jaffar himself got used to a certain amount of fame and celebrity rubbing off on him. Then his mother died tragically, and he was sent back here. He was thirteen then. His father put him straight into boarding school, no love lost there, I imagine, then he went to Cambridge. Read Philosophy.”
“Bright?”
“Average. He got through. They said that he could have applied himself more.”
“They said that about me, too. ‘Could have tried harder.’ Trouble-maker?”
Winsome smiled. “I think McCready was more of a misfit, really. He’s got no form. Definitely not your run-of-the-mill disaffected youth.”
“No,” said Banks. “Perhaps a bit more deeply psychologically scarred. How old is he?”
“Thirty-one.”
“Jobs?”
“Never had one, as far as we can determine.”
“Was he on our radar at all?”
“No. But I had a chat with Ken Blackstone, and West Yorkshire are aware of him. That’s all. Nothing concrete, just a lot of suspicions. Drugs, mostly. They suspect he’s linked with an illegal laboratory, among other things. Something to do with an old mate from Cambridge, a chemistry student. It’s an ongoing investigation. A slow one, Ken says. They haven’t found anything yet.” She took the two sketches that Rose Preston had made from her briefcase. “And these two charmers are also looking for Jaff and Tracy. They pretended to be police officers, gave Tracy and Erin‘s housemate a hard time.”
Banks examined the sketches. They were good quality-bold, confident lines and subtle shading. He was no expert, but he thought Rose showed talent as an artist.
“She said their names were Sandalwood and Watkins.”
“That’s a lie,” said Banks. They’re Darren Brody and Ciaran French.”