Bad Boy (5 page)

Perhaps the police visit
was
something to do with Jaff. If so, she needed to warn him, let him know what had happened. There was a good chance that she could get to him before the police did. What the hell had the silly bitch Erin gone and
done?
Whatever it was, it must have been in Eastvale, at her parents’ house, which was where Rose had said she had gone. Tracy just hoped that none of this would get through to her father, then she remembered that he was away somewhere in the world licking his wounds over a broken love affair, and she didn’t know exactly where he was, only that he wouldn’t be back until next week.

“Did they say anything else?” she asked.

Rose frowned. “Only that they had a warrant to search the house. They showed it to me, but I didn’t have a chance to read it. It could have said anything. One of them poked about in here while the others were gone, just in the drawers and under cushions and so on, but his heart didn’t seem in it. Like I said, they were mostly interested in Erin. They wouldn’t let me go up with them. They didn’t examine all the herb jars and stuff, thank God. I was terrified they’d take samples or sniff the basil.”

“I wonder why they didn’t,” Tracy said. “If they were looking for drugs, you’d think they’d have a good look at stuff like that, wouldn’t you? I mean, it’s hardly the most brilliant hiding place, a jar labeled ‘basil,’ is it?”

Rose shrugged. “They just didn’t. Maybe it was something else? I mean, this didn’t seem like a drugs raid. Not that I’d know what one was like, of course, but they didn’t have sniffer dogs, and they seemed to be in a bit of a hurry. It’s like they were looking for something in particular, in Erin’s room mostly. Why don’t you ring her at home? You’ve got her number, haven’t you?”

Tracy nodded. She knew the number by heart. She also knew that
the phone at the Doyles’ house had call display and recorded the number of anyone who rang. Then she realized that didn’t matter. The police had already been here. They knew this was where Erin had a flat in Leeds. They would also know Tracy’s name, her real name, and that she lived here, too. It would hardly set off any alarms if someone from here phoned to ask about Erin. And maybe Mr. or Mrs. Doyle would be able to tell her
something
.

“You were here on Friday morning when she dropped by to pick up her things,” Tracy said. “What was she like? Is there anything she said that you’ve forgotten to tell me?”

“No. She was just pissed off, that’s all. Sulky. She didn’t say anything except when I asked her where she was going, then she just said she was going home for a few days and stormed out.”

That sounded like Erin in a snit, Tracy thought. She went into the hall, picked up the handset and dialed Erin’s home number. The phone rang, then someone answered it, and a man’s voice came on the line.

“Hello,” said Tracy. “Is that Mr. Doyle?”

“Who’s speaking?”

“Are you Mr. Doyle, Erin’s dad?”

“I’d like to know to whom I’m speaking. Please identify yourself.” Tracy hung up. It wasn’t Patrick Doyle. She knew a cop’s tone when she heard it. But why would a cop be answering the Doyles’ telephone? Where were Erin’s mother and father? A deep feeling of unease stirred inside her and started to seep like the damp chill of winter through her flesh. Something was wrong, perhaps seriously wrong, and it wasn’t only Erin who was involved. She grabbed her black denim jacket and shoulder bag from the stand in the hall and popped her head back around the living room door. “I’m going out for
a while, Rose. Don’t worry. Just keep cool, right?”

“But Francesca, you can’t just leave me in the lurch like this. I’m frightened. What if—”

Tracy shut the door and cut off Rose’s protests. In a funny way, she could almost pretend that Rose wasn’t talking to
her
. After all, her name wasn’t really Francesca, was it?

ERIN DOYLE
made a pathetic figure sitting in Superintendent Gervaise’s office late that afternoon, her ash-blond hair, clearly cut professionally, falling over her shoulders in casual disarray, her cheeks tear-streaked, bags under eyes red from crying, a pale, sickly complexion. Her expression was sullen, and her fingernails were bitten to the quicks. Juliet Doyle had said that Erin’s style and appearance had improved considerably over the past six months, but that was hardly apparent right now.

Juliet Doyle had gone to stay with Harriet Weaver, a friend and neighbor across Laburnum Way. Relations were so strained between mother and daughter that Erin would have to stay elsewhere. Patricia Yu, the Family Liaison officer, was looking into local accommodation, and she would later liaise between the Doyles and the police. Erin would almost certainly get police bail after the interview. They could hardly keep her in custody after what had just happened to her father. The media would go crazy, for a start, and Annie recognized that it would be callous in the extreme to keep the poor girl locked up in a cell overnight after the death of her father, even if they got real evidence against her during the forthcoming interview.

Both Detective Superintendent Gervaise and ACC McLaughlin had agreed that the interview should be conducted in the relative comfort of Gervaise’s office. Only a couple of hours ago, Erin had been told that her father was dead, and a grungy interview room hardly seemed appropriate.

There were only four people in the spacious office. Gervaise was stuck in meetings with McLaughlin and the Deputy Chief Constable at County HQ, so Annie sat in her chair opposite Erin, who was on the other side of the desk. Chairs had also been brought in for Erin’s solicitor, Irene Lightholm, and for Superintendent Chambers, who had been granted his request to be present. Annie just hoped the fat bastard wouldn’t keep interrupting. The same went for Irene Lightholm, who sat perched on the edge of her seat like a bird of prey, with a nose to match. Her pristine notepad rested on the pleated gray material of her skirt, which itself lay across her skinny thighs.

It had been agreed that Annie, as Gervaise’s deputy investigating officer, should do the questioning, and she was, as agreed, required to
stick to the issue of the loaded gun, and avoid anything relating to the death of Erin Doyle’s father, or the actions of the AFOs. It was something of a balancing act, and she didn’t think it would be easy. As McLaughlin had said, the two issues were closely related. Annie felt she had everything working against her: the poor girl’s state of mind, the hypervigilant lawyer, piggy-eyed Chambers. Best just to ignore them all. Focus on Erin. Keep calm and carry on. She got the formalities out of the way as quickly and painlessly as possible, then began.

“I’m sorry about your father, Erin,” she said.

Erin said nothing. She just stared down at the desk and chewed on a fingernail.

“Erin? I really need you to talk to me. I know you’re upset, and you want to be with your mother, but can you please just answer a few questions first? Then you can go.”

Erin muttered something. She was still chewing on her nail, so it was hard to tell what she said.

“What was that?” Annie asked her.

“I said I
don’t
want to be with my mother.”

“Well, I know I’d want to be with mine,” said Annie.
If I had one,
she thought.

“She turned me in,” Erin said, her hands clasped on her lap now, twisting. She still stared at the desk, and her voice was muffled, her words hard to make out. “How would
you
feel?”

“She did what she thought she had to do,” Annie said. Erin gave her a withering glance. “You
would
say that.”

“Erin, that’s not what I’m here to talk to you about, however much it hurts, however bad it feels. I want you to tell me about the gun.”

Erin shook her head. “Where did you get it from?”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“Why did you bring it home with you and hide it on top of your wardrobe?”

Erin shrugged and picked at her fingernail. “Who gave you the gun, Erin?”

“Nobody.”

“Somebody must have given it to you? Or did you buy it yourself?”

Erin didn’t answer.

“Are you hiding it for someone?”

“No. Why do you think that?”

Annie knew that she was getting nowhere, and she didn’t feel that things were likely to change in the next while. It was all too raw and confusing. She was tempted to call it a day and pack Erin off to whatever hotel or B-and-B Patricia Yu had found, but she was nothing if not persistent. “Was it someone in Leeds?” she asked.

No answer.

“Your boyfriend, perhaps?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Oh, come on,” cut in Chambers, trying to sound avuncular. “A pretty young girl like you? Surely you must have a boyfriend?” He ended up sounding like a dirty old man, Annie thought.

Erin treated the question with the silent contempt it deserved. Annie could tell from her general appearance and body language that her self-esteem was low right now, and that she certainly didn’t see herself as a “pretty young girl.”

Annie gave Chambers a disapproving look and carried on. “Of course you do. Geoff, isn’t it? Don’t you want him to know where you are?” Annie didn’t understand the look Erin gave her. She carried on. “Was it Geoff who gave you the gun? Is that why you don’t want to talk about him?”

Still Erin said nothing.

“Are you afraid of him? Is that it? I’d be afraid of someone who kept a loaded gun around the house.”

“You don’t understand anything.”

“Then help me. I
want
to understand.” Annie got no reaction.

“Oh, this is getting us precisely bloody nowhere,” Chambers burst out.

“I did it,” Erin said. Her voice was little more than a whisper, and she still wouldn’t look up at them.

“Did what, Erin? Brought the gun home?” Annie asked, leaning forward to hear her words. But she didn’t need to. Erin sat bolt upright and looked directly at her, speaking in a clear, though trembling, voice.

“Not that. But I killed him,” she said. “My father. It was my fault. I—”

“Now, wait a minute,” Chambers blustered, looking over at Irene Lightholm, who remained perched on the edge of her chair, enthralled, instead of telling her client to shut up.

Erin ignored Chambers and the solicitor. Annie could tell she was trying to get out what she had to say before she completely lost control. It didn’t matter whom she was talking to; she just had to have her say. “It was my fault. What happened to Dad.” She glanced at Chambers, then at her solicitor. “We heard the banging at the door, the calls for us to open up. Dad asked me to answer because his knee hurt, and he was starting to have chest pains from all the stress. Angina. I…I told him to fuck off. I said he could bloody well turn me in if he wanted to, I couldn’t stop him doing that, but I was fucked if I was going to answer the door to the Gestapo myself.” She put her hands to her face and started to cry. “I did it,” she said, between her fingers. “Oh, God forgive me. I killed him. I killed my dad. It was all my fault.”

Finally Irene Lightholm found her voice. “I think you can see,” she said, “that my client is upset over the death of her father. I take it that she hasn’t been charged with anything yet, and as far as I can tell, you don’t have enough evidence to charge her with anything. In that case, I think we should bring this interview to a close right now, and you should release my client on police bail.”

“I agree,” said Chambers. “This interview is terminated. Now.” Annie wondered if he realized he was agreeing with a defense so
licitor. She ignored them both, walked around the desk, then bent over and put her arm around Erin’s shoulders. She expected resistance, a violent reaction, but she didn’t get it. Instead, Erin turned her face into Annie’s shoulder, grasped hold of her and sobbed her heart out.

J
AFF HAD A ONE-BEDROOM FLAT WITH A BALCONY ON
Granary Wharf, down by the river Aire and the Leeds-Liverpool Canal. Tracy had never been inside before, but Erin had pointed out the converted warehouse with the restaurant on the ground floor as they had passed by one night. Very chic. People sat at tables on the quayside outside the cafés under umbrellas advertising Campari or Stella Artois, sipping wine and chatting in the softening evening light. Tracy pressed the intercom button next to his name.

Jaff answered and sounded pleased to hear that it was she. He buzzed her in and she took the lift to the third floor. Jaff welcomed her at the door and led her into the modest but open space of the living, dining and kitchen area, where light flooded through a window that led to the small balcony. The place was messy, with newspaper sections, magazines, CDs and empty cups and glasses scattered here and there, dirty dishes piled in the sink, and a few old wine or coffee stains on the fitted carpet. The color scheme, shades of blue and green, was a bit too dark and cold for Tracy’s taste. A number of framed photographs stood on a shelf above the television set, which was tuned to the BBC
News at Six.
A couple of the photos were of Jaff, clearly in exotic places, but there was one of a beautiful woman in a colorful sari. She had golden skin, long glossy black hair, high cheekbones, large eyes, a perfect, straight nose. To Tracy she looked like a model. One of Jaff’s old girlfriends, perhaps?

“Sorry about the mess,” Jaff said. “The cleaning lady doesn’t come till Thursday.”

Tracy smiled. “No need to apologize to me. It’s not as if I’m exactly the tidiest person in the world. Who’s that beautiful woman in the photograph over there?” she asked.

Jaff looked toward the shelf. “That’s my mother,” he said. “Don’t be…It can’t possibly be,” said Tracy.

“It is,” he said. “Honest. She was thirty-six when that was taken. Four years before she died.”

“Oh, Jaff. I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago. She was an amazing woman. Grew up in the slums of Dhaka and ended up one of the biggest Bollywood stars of her day.” As he spoke, staring at the photograph, he seemed choked with emotion. “Sorry,” he said, with a wan smile. “I still don’t find it easy to talk about her. Let’s go outside.”

“Okay,” said Tracy, following him. “I understand.”

It was clear from the cigarette smoldering in the ashtray and the half-full glass of lager that Jaff had been sitting on his balcony. Tracy sat in the opposite chair.

“Good to see you, babe,” Jaff said, touching her shoulder lightly. “I was going to ring you soon as the dust settled. Thing is, I had to go away for the weekend. Bit of business. Amsterdam and London. Just got back an hour or so ago. Drink?”

Tracy accepted, more out of politeness than anything else. Jaff went back inside to pour her a gin and tonic. Tracy gazed out over the city beyond the railway tracks. So much had changed since she had first arrived there at university more years ago now than she cared to remember. She could see several distant building sites where the giant cranes had remained stationary for months, since their funds had dried up, the ambitious towers only half-finished. The closer view only confirmed what she had felt before about the canal-side development being claustrophobic and ugly. It was too near to the railway lines, for a start, just at the back of City Station, and below the balcony was the canal, a ribbon of murky, stagnant water on which floated plastic bottles, fast-food wrappers and other things she would rather not think about. There was still plenty of activity. At the moment the area seemed to be
one enormous building site. Everything was crammed together cheek by jowl. God only knew what the mishmash would look like when the builders had finished, if they ever did finish. Tracy doubted that the planners had ever thought of sketching out the whole picture.

It was a warm evening, but she kept her denim jacket on against the chill that always crept in at this time of year when darkness fell. Jaff came back outside with her drink and sat down. Tracy hadn’t stayed at the Headingley house long enough to get changed after work, and as usual, she felt quite scruffy compared to Jaff, who was wearing designer jeans and a loose white shirt hanging out at the waist. It stood in sharp contrast to his golden skin. Not for the first time, Tracy found herself admiring his long dark eyelashes, gelled black hair, smooth complexion, lean body, loam-brown eyes and the lithe way he moved. He was beautiful, she thought, like some exotic cat, but there was nothing at all effeminate about him. She also sensed that he could be a dangerous enemy, and there was a hardness in his eyes at odds with the humor and intelligence that also dwelled there. But that combination and contrast excited her, too.

He picked up his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” said Tracy. They clinked glasses. “Ever been to Amsterdam?”

“No. I’ve been to London, though. Used to live there.”

“Amsterdam’s a great city. All those canals. And the clubs. Melkweg. Paradiso. Mind-blowing. Enlightened, too. You can get hash brownies in the cafés, and there are places you can sit and smoke dope and listen to music.”

“Cool,” said Tracy. “Maybe someday.”

“For sure. So what brings you here? Is it just a social visit, or what?” Tracy leaned forward and frowned. “I’m not certain,” she said.
“But I think something’s wrong. The police came around to our house today and searched the place, Erin’s room in particular.”

Jaff sat up. “Erin’s room? Police? Why?”

“I don’t know. I was at work. Rose was there, and she told me about it, but you know what she’s like. I’m not sure she got all the details right. Apparently they also asked questions about who her friends were, including boyfriends.”

“Did Rose say anything?”

“She says she mentioned your first name, but she doesn’t know the address, only that you live by the canal. She’s scared stiff, Jaff. There’s something else.”

“What?”

“I rang Erin at home and a strange voice answered. I thought it was a cop.”

“Why did you think that?”

Tracy couldn’t tell him why, that she had grown up listening to cops and recognized the tone, the thrust of the questions. As far as Jaff was concerned, she was called Francesca, and he knew nothing about her father. “It just sounded like a cop, that’s all. Trust me,” she said. “What’s it all about?”

Jaff looked at his watch and stood up. “Let’s see if there’s anything on the local news. It should have started by now.” Tracy followed him inside. He cleared away a pile of magazines, and they sat next to each other on the sofa. There was nothing of interest on until the headline recap at the end, before the weather, and then all they got was a little grainy, jerky video footage taken with a hand-held camera, or a mobile, and a voice-over that didn’t really explain what was going on, except that an armed police raid had taken place on a quiet leafy street in Eastvale. Laburnum Way. Tracy felt her jaw dropping in shock at the familiarity of it all as she watched. She recognized all the houses, knew almost everyone who lived on the street.

When it was over, they were not much the wiser. Erin’s name hadn’t been mentioned, nor any possible reason for a police search of the house in Leeds.

“What’s going on?” Tracy asked again.

Jaff turned off the TV and stood up. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I don’t like the look of it. An armed police raid? Why? It seems serious. What was Erin doing at home, anyway?”

“After last Thursday,” Tracy said, “she didn’t come back to the house that night. I thought she’d…you know…just stopped the night with you. On Friday, she came by to pick up a few things to go home for a while, so she said. Rose was there.”

Jaff paced. “She did stop with me on Thursday night. Well, she stopped here, at any rate. Crashed. Passed out on the sofa. Whatever
you care to call it. We weren’t on speaking terms by then. It was late. We had a row.”

“Because of what happened earlier?”

“Partly. But it’s been brewing longer than that. She’s been getting too possessive. Too clingy. I hate that.”

“So what happened?”

“I had to leave early, drive down to London. She was asleep. I left her here.” He paused. Something seemed to dawn on him. “I left her here
alone
. Stay here a minute, please, would you?”

Tracy did as he asked while Jaff hurried into the bedroom. He came back moments later and seemed even more agitated than before.

“Shit! The stupid bitch.”

“What is it?” Tracy asked, picking up on his sense of alarm..

“I’ve got to get out of here. They could turn up any moment. The stupid, stupid woman. She doesn’t know what she’s done.”

“Why? What were they looking for at the house?”

Jaff turned and touched Tracy’s hair so gently that she felt a little shiver run up her spine. “You ask too many questions,” he said. “You sound like a policewoman yourself. You’re not, are you? I wouldn’t put it past them to plant such a pretty girl on me.”

“Don’t be silly.”

He smiled at her, flashing those so-white teeth. “Of course not.” Then he went back into the bedroom.

“Will you please tell me what’s going on?” Tracy called after him.

“I would,” he answered, popping his head around the door, “but I don’t know. I haven’t seen or heard anything of Erin since last Friday morning. And you know quite well what happened on Thursday night.”

Tracy felt herself blush with shame at the memory. “I’m sorry. It was all my fault.”

“Like I said, it had been building up for a while. That was just the last straw. It doesn’t matter. I should never have left her here alone. Now look what she’s gone and done. The stupid bitch. She took something of mine. Something…really important. Now I have to go and lie low for a while until I know what’s what. I just need to put a few things in a bag first. Will you wait here? Please?”

“Of course. If there’s anything I can do…”

Tracy walked back out to the balcony, leaned on the railing, sipped her gin and tonic and stared down into the oily canal. Laughter rose from a group of people under one of the umbrellas. The drink tasted good, better than she remembered. Why had Jaff asked her to wait? Did he want her to go with him, wherever he was going? To London? An adventure. The idea both excited and scared her. She couldn’t just take off with him, surely? But why not? What had she got to hang around Leeds for? What prospects? What future? Her lousy job in the bookshop? An absentee mother and a father who seemed incapable of growing up? Besides, she was beginning to feel at least partly responsible for whatever it was that had happened between Erin and Jaff, even though she had no idea what was upsetting him at the moment, what she had taken.

It didn’t take Jaff long to pack a hold-all. In less than five minutes he was back in the living room again. Tracy joined him. They checked that everything was switched off, that his cigarette was properly extinguished, and that the French doors leading to the balcony were securely locked.

“Where are you thinking of going?” Tracy asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” he said. “But I have to get away from here till things cool down. It’s not safe. If I were you, I’d just go home. It’s really nothing to do with you.”

“Look,” Tracy said hesitantly. “I wish I knew a bit more about what was going on, but I know somewhere we can go. I mean, if you want to.”

“You do? Where?”

“My dad’s place. I’ve got a key. He’s away on holiday till next Monday. That’s a whole week. We can at least stay for a few days until you figure out your next move. We’ll be safe there. Nobody will think to look for us.”

Jaff considered this for a moment, then said, “All right. If you’re sure. But I have to stop at Vic’s on the way to pick up a few things I need from him. We’ll borrow his car, too. He won’t mind. He can keep mine in his garage. That way nobody will be after us. Vic’s number won’t mean anything to the police. This sounds great. Where does your dad live?”

“Gratly.”

“Huh?”

“It’s in the Dales, a little cottage, very isolated.”

“Perfect,” Jaff said, then he patted her between the shoulder blades. “What are we waiting for, babe? Let’s go.”

THE SHADOWS
were lengthening when Annie approached Laburnum Way. She knew that she shouldn’t be visiting Juliet Doyle on her own like this, that she was risking Chambers’s wrath, not to mention Gervaise’s and McLaughlin’s, but she had a few more questions for Juliet before Chambers cut off access entirely.

She should have gone home hours ago, or called at Banks’s cottage to water the plants and take in the post, but she had sat instead in the Half Moon on Market Street not far from Laburnum Way sipping a pint of Daleside bitter and picking at a vegetarian pasta after mustering up the willpower to order it instead of fish and chips. Anyway, she consoled herself, pub fish and chips were never anywhere near as good as those from the chippie. When she had finished, she decided that, being so close to Laburnum Way, she would drop in and see how things were. Erin was staying at a guest house near the castle. She hadn’t wanted to be anywhere near her mother. Banks’s potted plants could wait another day or two, and if he got any parcels they’d only be CDs or DVDs from Amazon, and they would wait safely in the wheely-bin storage area, where the postman usually left them.

There was still a strong police presence on Laburnum Way: patrol cars, unmarked vehicles, SOCO vans, uniformed officers on guard, mostly keeping the media at bay. A couple of local reporters, one from the paper and one from TV, recognized Annie and asked for comments, but she said nothing.

Harriet Weaver answered the door just moments after Annie had rung the bell. “Annie, isn’t it?” she said. “Alan’s friend. Please come in.” She closed the door for a moment and Annie heard the chain slide off. “You can’t be too careful with all those reporters creeping around the place,” Harriet said. “We’ve already had to take the phone off the hook.”

Annie followed her into the house and waited while Harriet put the chain back on and locked the dead bolt. They had met before a few times through Banks, but they didn’t know each other well. Harriet, Annie knew, was somewhere in her fifties and had recently retired from driving a mobile library in the Dale. Her husband, David, had something to do with computers, she remembered, and Banks thought him a crashing bore. Annie had never met him. They were also Sophia’s aunt and uncle, and Banks had met Sophia through them, at a dinner party at their house. He had told Annie that he and Sandra and the kids used to live next door, and Harriet had been one of the first to welcome them to the neighborhood over twenty years ago. Sophia had been visiting her aunt for years, probably since back when she was a student, or even still a schoolgirl. Annie found herself wondering if Banks had fancied her that long ago, too. He would only have been in his thirties. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. When she’d been seventeen she had gone out briefly with a man in his early thirties, until her father had found out. Anyway, there was no time for such speculation, she told herself, nor any point in it. She wondered how Harriet and her husband felt about the whole Banks-and-Sophia affair. Uncomfortable, probably. No need to bring it up.