It wasn’t until they had passed Sheffield that Banks became certain the silver Honda hatchback he had seen in Harehills was the same one that had been keeping a respectable distance behind him all the way down the motorway. And when he came to think of it, though he didn’t want to appear prejudiced at all, it had seemed odd at the time that a person dressed in a hoodie and a tracksuit bottom had gone into a sewing-machine repair shop in the first place.
DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT Catherine Gervaise took off her reading glasses and rubbed her eyes. It was years since she had stopped up practically all night, catching only a quick nap in her office between two and three, and she felt exhausted. Naps were all very well, but these days they often left her more tired than before. While she was proud of her origins as a street copper before she made the fast track, and she liked to let people know that she’d done many of the tough jobs they complained to her about, she had to admit that for the most part she’d been on training courses, studying for a university degree, sitting exams, transferring back and forth to uniform and, for the most part, she had become an administrator rather than a working detective. Now her eyes were sore, her brain slow and her body felt weak. She just wanted to go home to bed, but she had important decisions to make.
Gervaise sipped the strong coffee that Winsome Jackman had brought her, but it didn’t seem to do much good. Now they were well into the morning, her tiredness was beyond coffee. Still, at least the taste and warmth of the dark liquid kept her at subsistence level consciousness, though she still felt like one of those zombies out of the movies her son liked to watch so much. Winsome sat opposite her, at the other side of the large desk. She seemed fine, Gervaise thought; but then she was twenty years younger and far more used to the hours.
“I’ve just had Dirty Dick-I mean Commander Burgess-on the phone, ma’am,” said Winsome.
“My, my, you two are getting familiar. Be careful. That man sounds like a walking toxic waste dump to me,” Gervaise said. “What did he say?”
“Still nothing from the two suspects about The Farmer’s involvement.”
“Well, I’m not surprised,” said Gervaise.
Winsome smiled. “But the one thing they did give up-rather, Darren Brody gave up-was the location for the meet.”
“Justin Peverell with Jaff and Tracy?”
“Yes. Hampstead Heath, near Highgate Ponds.”
Gervaise thought for a moment. “That means McCready’s probably still on his way. And he was being extra careful just in case someone had located Peverell’s house.”
“But he can’t have bargained for what actually happened.”
“No. I’m sure he doesn’t know, or he’d be heading as fast as he could in the other direction. Maybe he is.” Gervaise shook her head. “I don’t know, Winsome. What the hell are we to do?”
“Commander Burgess suggested organizing an armed reception committee for McCready at the Heath.”
Gervaise snorted. “He would. What about Tracy Banks?”
“He said he thought he could keep it low-key enough, that McCready wouldn’t spot what was happening until they were on him.”
“I doubt it. We know how easily these things go pear-shaped. Where’s DCI Banks, anyway? He’s been gone ages.”
“I don’t know,” said Winsome. “He’s not around here, that’s for certain.”
Gervaise frowned. “Where did he say he was going?”
“To meet with an informant, I think. I don’t really know where. We were all so busy talking about what had happened to Justin Peverell and his poor girlfriend.”
Gervaise checked her watch. “Whatever it was, it shouldn’t have taken him this long. Especially given his concern over Tracy. Try his mobile, Winsome.”
Winsome keyed in Banks’s mobile number. “It’s turned off, ma’am,” she said.
“That’s not like him. Why would he turn off his mobile at the crucial point of an investigation that involves him personally?” Gervaise felt her brain springing to life, though it was a chaotic sort of life, sparks flying everywhere, but none of them lighting up the bulbs they should, or making the connections they were aiming for. Her thinking felt like a badly played game of pinball, but something was definitely happening. “Help me out here, Winsome. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” said Winsome. “Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless DCI Banks was…lying about the informant.”
“Don’t sound so horrified at the thought. People do. Sometimes for good reasons.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Winsome, tight-lipped.
“So, if Alan was lying, or making an excuse-he did go into the corridor to take the call-then perhaps it was Tracy. He would certainly lie for her.”
“It could have been McCready.”
“Either way, he might be in trouble.”
“It’s McCready I’d be worried about,” said Winsome. “He’s had a lot of trouble with transport. Perhaps he needs DCI Banks to drive him to Hampstead.”
The neurons were firing a lot better now, and the pinball score was racking up. “Look,” said Gervaise, “let’s find out which car Alan signed out from the pool and see if we can access Automatic Number Plate Recognition control, find out where he is. If you’re right, he’ll be on his way to London, to Hampstead Heath, and we should be able to track his progress.”
“Should we alert all the motorway patrol units?”
“Not yet. We don’t want a car chase on our hands. Not if Alan and Tracy are in one of the cars and McCready is armed. Let’s keep it low profile for now, until we know what’s happened. If they’re still on their way to Hampstead we’ve got a while yet to work something out. Get on to Burgess again, too. Try to persuade him that softly softly’s the way to go for now.”
“Do you have a plan, ma’am?”
“I wish to God I did, Winsome. I wish to God I did.”
BANKS WAS also desperately trying to work out a plan as he drove down the M1 with his silent passengers and loud music. He had already figured out that Jaff’s mood shifts were volatile. Perhaps the pressure of being on the run was getting to him, and he had also been snorting cocaine in the car. So much had gone wrong so far that he had to be becoming increasingly worried about making it. Whatever plan Banks came up with, he knew he would have to take great care and choose his moment.
Separating Jaff from his gun was the key. Without it, he was nothing. The gun was in the hold-all; of that Banks was certain. There was something about the way Jaff held it close to him all the time, often thrusting one hand inside it for a while, gripping something that gave him comfort and confidence, that made it obvious. It wouldn’t be easy to get it away from him, and there was no way it was going to happen if he dropped Jaff and Tracy off at King’s Cross. He couldn’t let that happen.
“I need to go to the toilet.”
It was Tracy, speaking up from the back. Banks turned the music down. More Miles: Someday My Prince Will Come. “What was that, love?” he asked.
“Well, you can’t,” Jaff cut in. “We’re not stopping.”
“It won’t take five minutes,” Tracy argued.
“I told you. We’re not stopping.”
“What do you expect me to do? Piss in the car?”
“I expect you to wait.”
“I can’t wait. I’ve been crossing my legs for the past half hour. I can’t wait anymore. There’s a services coming up soon. I need to go to the toilet.”
Jaff’s hand dug deep inside his hold-all. “I told-”
Tracy turned to face him. “What kind of a person are you? What harm’s it going to do? Do you think I’m going to make a run for it across the car park after you’ve told me what you’ll do? When you’ve got my dad here, too? Do you think I’ll run away if you’ve got your gun on him? What are you scared of? What do you really think I’m going to do? Start shouting out that you’ve got a gun so you can shoot a few more innocent people? For Christ’s sake, get a grip, Jaff. I need to go to the toilet. Simple as that.”