“But you said yourself that The Farmer’s name came up in that investigation,” said Winsome.
“From Ian Jenkinson, who didn’t really know what or who it referred to. We’ve still nothing to arrest him for-”
“Perverting the course of justice? Wasting police time?” suggested Gervaise.
“We’d be better off waiting till we get something a bit more serious than that. Best just keep a close eye on him. We do hav-”
“Don’t worry, Alan. Ripon are keeping a close watch on him. He’s not going anywhere.”
“He doesn’t need to. He can do all he needs from the comfort of his cozy little den. Anything on Darren and Ciaran?”
“We can hardly check all the London hotels,” Gervaise said. “Besides, they could be staying at a private house. All we know is what you told us, that they’re in London somewhere waiting for orders.”
“Have you checked Fanthorpe’s holdings?”
“Yes. No London property. At least not under his own name, or any of his companies that we can find.”
“Damn. So it’s back to the waiting game.”
“At least we know there’s a connection between Fanthorpe, the gun, McCready and an unsolved murder,” said Gervaise. “A few more missing pieces and we ought to be able to put something together.”
“And the Met are on Justin Peverell’s trail,” said Winsome. “The Intelligence Bureau. They’ve got men out talking to their informers, people they’ve planted in the trafficking business. They’re taking some risks. They’re doing what they can.”
“I know,” said Banks. “And I appreciate it. I’m not criticising. Just frustrated, that’s all.”
“Why don’t you go home?” said Gervaise. “Or back to your digs. Put your feet up for a while, have a bit of a nap if you can. You’re doing no good here. We’ve got the manpower we need for what we have to do. You never know, your eyes might close for a few minutes of their own accord. We’ll keep everything ticking over here and call you the minute anything breaks.”
“The minute?”
“The minute.”
“I might just do that. And Annie?”
“Holding her own, last I heard,” said Gervaise. “Her father’s with her. Again, I’ll let you know as soon as I do.” She must have noticed Banks hesitate. “Don’t worry,” she went on, “I’ll hold the fort here. I’ll be passing out TIES and actions momentarily. Winsome, I want you to keep pushing on the London angle. Something’s got to give. Somebody down there has to know this Justin Peverell.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Winsome. “I have a few irons in the fire already.”
“Good. And let’s not forget, Ciaran and Darren are after Justin, too, and I don’t fancy his chances if they find him first.”
“Me, neither,” said Banks. “Or McCready’s and Tracy’s. Ciaran’s been indulging in a lot of foreplay over the last couple of days, and he’ll be just about ready to go all the way with someone.” He glanced sheepishly at Winsome. “If you’ll pardon the metaphor.”
Winsome said nothing.
A quick tap at the door was followed by the appearance of a PC with a yellow message note in his hamlike hand. “Sorry to interrupt, ma’am,” he said, addressing Superintendent Gervaise, “but it’s important, and I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible.”
“What is it, lad? Give,” said Gervaise.
“It’s about DI Cabbot. Message from Cook hospital. She’s regained consciousness.”
Gervaise turned to Banks with a smile. “Alan? I imagine this will change your plans a wee bit.”
“Of course,” said Banks. “Sleep can wait. You’ll drive, Winsome?”
“My pleasure.”
THE FARMER felt ill at ease after his visit from Banks and Winsome. Not that he was unduly worried by them. They had nothing on him, and they never would have. He never touched anything he sold, kept no paperwork, and anyone who did know his name was usually wise enough not to repeat it. Well, something had slipped out once, but that was a few years ago, and the surviving kid, Ian Jenkinson, hadn’t known who or what he was talking about. The Farmer had heard that the young lad was training for the ministry these days. Good for him. He liked to keep tabs on people who’d crossed his path over the years, and he never knew when it might be useful to have a vicar in his pocket.
Besides, the kid had been a drug user. The Farmer didn’t employ druggies anymore. In this business, he had come to realize, it pays to keep a clear head on your shoulders, which means not indulging in your own merchandise, for a start. Like a pub landlord. Once you start sampling the produce, you’re finished, and your pub could burn down around you while you sleep it off on a bench in the public bar after the punters have all gone home. No. Abstinence was a good policy. The only policy. The way it had to be. Which certainly didn’t mean that he couldn’t enjoy a nice malt now and then, he thought, topping up his glass.
This was also why Jaff had always been a bit of a worry. The Farmer knew that Jaff was a user, coke mostly, but the kid was so bright, so quick, so lethal and so ruthless that it somehow didn’t seem to matter. There were people who had a great capacity for mind-altering substances, who functioned all the better, or at least as well as ever, under the influence, and Jaff was one of those. Or so he had appeared.
The Farmer had told him right from the outset that if he ever saw him obviously off his face on anything at all, he’d get his marching orders on the spot. And he hadn’t. Not so far as Fanthorpe knew. Whether Jaff had actually been stoned at any of their rare one-on-one meetings or not, Fanthorpe had no idea. All he knew was that Jaff’s thought-processes were always sharp and logical, and his contributions helped fill the coffers. The kid was cocky, and he liked to see himself as more of an equal partner than an employee, which, in a way, The Farmer supposed he was. He was certainly willing to let Jaff go on thinking so, up to a point.
But now things had gone way too far, and that point had been passed. If he didn’t act quickly and decisively, and do what had to be done to eradicate the source of his problem, he might as well hand over the reins. Sources, really, because the Banks girl was now part of the problem, when he had tried to make her part of the solution. Now she would have to suffer the same fate as Jaff, then all would be on an even keel again. Ciaran and Darren would disappear overseas for a reasonable period, operations would be slowed down to the absolute minimum necessary to keep things ticking over, like an animal’s system in hibernation, and as soon as it all died down, he would be back to normal again.
The Farmer lounged back in the soft embrace of his chair, sipped the Ardbeg and surveyed the gleaming wainscoting, the racing scenes, the crystal decanters and ornate cabinets. Classical music was still playing, though he had no idea what the piece was now. It was soothing and quiet-strings, woodwinds; no blaring brass, and that was what counted. He lit a Cuban cigar.
He would never understand cops. Not if he lived a million years. In the old days, when everyone knew where they stood, they beat confessions out of innocent men, even hanged some of them, took kickbacks, bribes, resold confiscated drugs and generally indulged in the madness and mayhem of power gone haywire. But you knew where you were with them.
PACE had tidied things up a bit, but no one could convince George Fanthorpe that these things didn’t still happen, that suspects didn’t get beaten to a pulp, or that coppers weren’t on the take. And then you had someone like Banks, a known maverick, a bad boy, who wouldn’t even lift his little finger to save his own daughter’s life. Some world. Bizarre.
And Jaff…how he had turned. Fanthorpe remembered their first meeting over six years ago in a posh restaurant in The Calls. One of his dinner companions had pointed Jaff out at the next table with two very attractive girls. “So you’re Jack McCready’s lad,” Fanthorpe had said, offering his hand. “Bless my soul. I’ve never met him, but I’ve lost a bob or two to your old man in my days.” Jaff had smiled at him, but the smile hadn’t reached his dark, haunted eyes.