“So Health and Safety turn out to have their uses after all,” said Banks. “Miracles will never cease. Carry on.”
Geraldine Masterson gave him a nervous smile and continued. “The body was partially burned, but examination at the scene soon showed he’d been shot. Twice. You already know about the bullet and casing comparisons matching. Mr. Quisling said it was hard to track down everyone at the bonfire. It had been quite a large party, apparently, with live music, dancing, lots of drink. At first the people putting out the fire thought it was just some unfortunate drunk who had fallen down in the wrong place.”
“Drugs were involved, too, no doubt?” Gervaise suggested.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Was Ian Jenkinson any more forthcoming than Mr. Quisling?”
Geraldine Masterson cast a sideways glance at Doug Wilson, who was looking more like Harry Potter than ever tonight, wearing what looked like his school tie and blazer. With her long red hair, green eyes, high forehead and pale skin, Geraldine Masterson could easily have passed for one his fellow Hogwarts pupils, but she hadn’t been around long enough to be given a nickname yet. Annie Cabbot, who knew about these things, had once suggested that she resembled Elizabeth Siddal, a famous pre-Raphaelite beauty and artists’ model immortalized by Dante Gabrielle Rossetti and other painters, but that was hardly nickname material.
Doug Wilson adjusted his glasses and picked up the story. “Believe it or not, Ian Jenkinson is studying for the ministry at the moment. Wants to be a vicar. C of E. Gone quite religious. Not a fanatic or anything, but it’s a bit of an about turn from his past.”
“I suppose we should thank heaven that there is such a thing as rehabilitation,” said Gervaise. “Go on.”
“According to Jenkinson, who went down from Eastvale to the bonfire and who knew the victim, Marlon Kincaid was bragging a bit that he’d been warned off the territory by some bloke called The Farmer, but he wasn’t planning on paying any attention to any country bumpkin. Marlon wasn’t a big player, apparently, just sold a bit of pot and E to the student population now and again, but he thought it was his patch. Word had reached The Farmer, who’d been assuming he had the whole scene locked up and under control.”
“So he wanted to make an example of Kincaid?”
“I guess so, ma’am.”
“Did Jenkinson witness the shooting?”
“He says not.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s not just the churchy bit. He really does seem to genuinely regret his past-the drugs, the dealing. There were a lot of loud fireworks going off that night, he said, a lot of loud music, and a lot of drunkenness. People passed out and fell asleep right there on the ground. There was a good chance that nobody would have either heard the shot or noticed that Kincaid was dead.”
“Terrific,” said Banks. “Does Jenkinson know Jaff McCready?”
“He says not, but he did say that he saw a young Asian bloke slinking away at one point in the evening, quite late on. He was wearing a black leather jacket, and he had one hand inside the front of it, you know, like Napoleon, as if he was carrying something he was trying to hide.”
“Like a gun,” said Banks. “Did he tell this to Detective Superintendent Quisling and his team at the time?”
“No. He says that, in the first place it was all very vague-he was far from sober himself at the time-and in the second, the last thing he wanted was the police following up on his accusations and bothering him again. He was worried we’d frame him or harass him or something. He just wanted to give his statement and get back to Eastvale.”
“Hmm,” said Banks. “He never mentioned it when I talked to him in Eastvale, either, though he did hint at this feud between The Farmer and Kincaid. That’s how I first came across the name. When I pressed him, he maintained he had no idea who The Farmer was, or even whether it was a name or a nickname. Jaff McCready wasn’t even on the radar then.”
“If The Farmer’s fingerprints are on the magazine,” said Gervaise, “and if McCready was possibly the shooter, then Fanthorpe must have given the gun to McCready and sent him to do the job. A trial or an initiation ritual. Something like that? Prove himself.”
“It’s possible,” said Banks. “And now we’re caught up in a falling out among thieves precipitated by Erin Doyle’s actions.”
“Maybe McCready was using the gun as some kind of hold over The Farmer?” Gervaise suggested.
“I doubt it,” said Banks. “The Farmer’s not the kind of villain to sit around and let something like that happen. No, if McCready had tried it on with him, he’d have had Ciaran and Darren round to his flat before you could say abracadabra and McCready would have ended up in bits and pieces in the canal. You can be sure that if The Farmer did give McCready the gun to shoot Kincaid, he had no idea that he was still holding on to it.”
“Then why?” Winsome asked.
“Insurance?” Banks said. “Or sheer bloody-mindedness? McCready and his pal Mallory liked guns. It was a hobby of theirs. And West Yorkshire’s still trying to find Mallory’s drug lab. The odds are that when they do, they’ll find a cache of Baikals as well. The Smith and Wesson’s a nice gun. The Farmer no doubt told McCready to dump it when he’d finished the job, but the cocky young bastard decided to keep it. He would have known that Fanthorpe’s prints were still on the magazine, once he’d wiped it clean of his own. Maybe it gave him a feeling of power or security?”
“Makes sense,” said Gervaise.
“Anyway,” Banks went on, “we’ve got a lot of scraps of information, and they seem to be making some sort of a pattern, but most of all, if we’re to bring an end to all this, we need to know Justin Peverell’s bloody address in Highgate. It’s a waiting game. And nobody enjoys that when the stakes are so high. We need to step up our road surveillance. If their van’s held out, there’s a good chance they’re still chugging along in the slow lane somewhere on the M1.”
“And if not?” said Gervaise.
“Then they’ve holed up somewhere en route, and McCready’s thinking furiously about how to get hold of another vehicle.”
“We’ve already got all the motorway patrol cars keeping their eyes open for a slow white van heading for London,” said Gervaise. “And if they have stopped for the night somewhere on the way, it gives us even more time to trace this Justin. He’s the key. Once we know where he lives we can stake out his house.”
“True,” said Banks. “But McCready won’t want to linger. One way or another, he’ll be back on the road as soon as he can be. McCready needs Justin, or needs what he can get from him. Then he’ll disappear like smoke. Or so he thinks.”
“And Tracy?” asked Gervaise.
“I don’t like to think about that,” said Banks. “I can’t see as it would be in his interests to hurt her. Or Darren and Ciaran’s, no matter what Fanthorpe said. On the other hand, when McCready has got what he wants, I can also see that Tracy would become an unnecessary burden. That’s why we have to get to them first.”
“We’ve got Armed Response units across the country on call,” said Gervaise.
Banks managed a grim smile. “Now, why doesn’t that make me feel a whole lot better?”
“Should we bring in The Farmer right away?” suggested Gervaise. “Now we know those prints of his you got on the photos earlier are a match against those on the magazine of the Smith and Wesson, we might be able to put a bit of pressure on him.”
“I don’t think it’ll do any good,” said Banks. “He won’t tell us anything, and the lawyers will spring him in minutes. All it means is that he handled the magazine at some point. There’s no proof he shot the gun that killed Marlon Kincaid. In fact, he most likely didn’t. I’m certain he was never at the bonfire. He’ll have a perfect alibi.”