Banks caught a strong whiff of the peat and iodine. He was getting used to it more and more, and was rediscovering his taste for Islays, but he wouldn’t be sampling any of Fanthorpe’s wares, even if he weren’t so tired. The Mozart ended and was followed by Beethoven’s Für Elise. A classic FM collection of the Great Composers’ best bits, if Banks wasn’t mistaken. “We’re looking for an employee of yours,” he said. “Name of Jaffar McCready, or Jaff. Any idea where we can find him?”
“Jaff? I’m afraid I have no idea. He just does odd jobs. I’d hardly call him an employee.”
“Casual labor, perhaps, then? How do you get in touch with him if you need him?”
“By telephone, of course.”
“Mobile?”
“Home number.”
That was no use; Banks knew it already. If Jaff had a mobile, it was pay-as-you-go, unregistered and untraceable. “Exactly what sort of odd jobs does he do for you?”
“Jaff’s a jack-of-all-trades. Or should that be a Jaff-of-all-trades?” Fanthorpe laughed, but neither Banks nor Winsome joined him. He cleared his throat and sipped some malt. “Sure you won’t join me?” he asked, holding up his glass. “It truly is magnificent. Goes down like prickly silk.” By the sound of him, Banks reckoned he’d had a few already.
“Can you be a bit more specific about the nature of Jaff’s employment?”
“Well, he doesn’t muck out the stables, if that’s what you mean. Bit of courier work, the occasional security duty, when necessary.”
“And when would that be necessary?”
“You might not realize this, Mr. Banks, but racehorses can be valuable properties, very valuable indeed. And they’re vulnerable. Sadly, there are some unscrupulous people in the business. One has to be careful.”
“I’ve read Dick Francis,” said Banks.
Fanthorpe smiled. “Then you’ll get the picture.”
“Strong-arm stuff?”
“Hardly, Mr. Banks. I have no call for that sort of thing in my business.”
“I thought you said there are some unscrupulous people around?”
“Yes. But actual violence-strong-arm stuff, as you call it-is a rarity. They have more subtle ways of making their needs known.”
“What, exactly, is your business?” Banks asked. “I understand about the horses, but that’s merely the tip of the iceberg, isn’t it, a hobby almost?”
“I suppose you could say that.” Fanthorpe turned the crystal glass in his hands. It caught the light from the shaded desk lamp and different colors flared and sank in its facets. “Bit of this, bit of that. Mostly dairy farming and production-we own a cheese factory, my wife and I-the stables and horse training, of course. I also part-own a couple of thoroughbreds. Doing very well, they are. If you ever want a tip for-”
“Drugs?”
“Mr. Banks! Wash your mouth out.”
“Only I heard you’re quite a mover and shaker in the local coke trade. It seems to be having quite a renaissance these days, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“I wouldn’t go around making unfounded accusations like that if I were you.”
“Why not? Pal of the chief constable, are you?”
“As a matter of fact, we have been known to play the occasional round, bring home the odd brace of grouse. I own quite a nice stretch of moorland up-”
“Let’s cut the bollocks, Fanthorpe,” said Banks, leaning forward. “I’m looking for Jaffar McCready. Simple as that. To be honest, I don’t give a damn about your dairy farms, thoroughbreds and coke business right now, except in that they relate to Jaffar McCready. You may or may not be aware of this, but he’s wanted in connection with the shooting of a female police officer.”
“Friend of yours, was she?” Fanthorpe’s eyes glinted with cruelty. “Something a bit personal, is it? Girlfriend, even? I thought that sort of thing was frowned upon in your line of work?”
“If you’d just stick to the point, sir,” said Winsome. She picked up her briefcase and passed over Rose’s sketches of Ciaran and Darren and a glossy photograph of Jaff they had got from Erin Doyle’s Laburnum Way room. “Do you recognize any of these men?”
Fanthorpe picked up each one in turn, made a show of scrutinizing it, then passed it back to her. “That’s Jaffar McCready,” he said of the photograph, “and that’s Ciaran, and that’s Darren. But you know that already.”
“Just need to make certain, sir,” Winsome said, slipping the pictures carefully back into her briefcase.
Banks gripped the arms of the chair and let his anger abate. He was thankful for Winsome’s timely interruption, and for the breathing space the pictures had afforded him. He might easily have said or done something stupid otherwise. He still might, if he didn’t get a grip.
Fanthorpe turned his gaze to Winsome. “I had a mate owned a sugar cane plantation in Jamaica once,” he said. “Wanted me to go into business with him. I told him I couldn’t stand the climate, though. Or the people. Lazy sods, the lot of them.” Then he eyed Winsome up and down. “Seems things have come a long way since then.”
“Yes, indeedy, mastah, sir,” said Winsome. “They even give us darkies warrant cards and let us arrest criminals.”
The Farmer laughed. “Cheeky, with it. I like that.”
“Where’s McCready?” Banks cut in.
“I wish I knew.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“He owes me money.”
“The bonds? Is that why Ciaran and Darren are looking for him?”
Fanthorpe swirled his whiskey in the glass. “You can draw your own conclusions. You will, anyway. I don’t know anything about any bonds. I don’t know where you got that from. All I’m saying is that McCready owes me money, and I want it before he disappears into a cell and it all ends up in a copper’s pocket.”
“McCready was already on the run before he shot Detective Inspector Cabbot. We were wondering if that had anything to do with you.”
“Me? No. Something to do with a gun, I heard,” said Fanthorpe. “It was all over the news.”
Winsome made a note and spoke up again. “Jaffar McCready was never mentioned in connection with the gun Juliet Doyle handed in to us,” she said. “We didn’t tell the press that, and they didn’t broadcast his name.”
“So how did you know?” Banks asked Fanthorpe.
“Oh, you think you’re so bloody clever, don’t you, the both of you? Do you think I don’t have my sources? A man in my position? Do you think I don’t know what doesn’t go into the newspapers or on the telly? Come on. Grow up.”
“Chief constable tell you, did he? A brief chat at the ninth hole?”
“For crying out loud.”
“Does this gun mean anything to you?” Banks asked. “It’s a nine-millimeter Smith and Wesson. Is there some reason that its falling into our possession disturbs you?”
“Not at all. I have nothing to fear.”
“So you think you’re clean on the gun? Okay. What does McCready have of yours? Drugs? Cash?”
“I told you. He owes me money.”
“Apparently, he told someone he was carrying bonds.”
“Rubbish. He was just trying to make it all sound legit, like he’s some sort of high-powered business broker. He stole from me. Cash. Simple as that.”
“Drug money?”
“I told you, he does occasional courier duties. Sometimes that involves carrying and banking large sums of money. He happened to have just such a sum in his possession when he disappeared.”
“When Jaffar McCready disappeared,” Winsome said, “he’d just returned from a business trip to Amsterdam and London, or so he said. How did he end up with so much of your money in his possession?”
“If you think I’m going to divulge my private business transactions to you, you’ve got another think coming, Ms. Winsome.”
“Do you usually use your farmhands as debt collectors?” Banks asked.
“Ciaran and Darren are men of many talents. Limited intelligence, but many talents. Their appearance can be rather…intimidating, as I’m sure you remember. Sometimes their mere arrival on a scene encourages people to do as they ask. It can be important when large sums are at stake.”