Despite its overgrown garden, the house appeared more impressive than it was, Tracy always thought as she walked up the path toward its solid sandstone facade and mullioned windows. Three bedrooms, one each; a shared bathroom and toilet, large high-ceiling living room with a drafty bay window, expensive to heat in winter, no double glazing. The kitchen was large enough to double as a communal dining area, though it was rare that the three of them actually ate together.
Luckily Tracy, Rose and Erin got along well most of the time, though three more different personalities in one place you’d be hard pushed to find. Erin was sloppy and untidy, left a mess behind her everywhere she went. Rose was a bit of a bookworm, and though she kept her things generally tidy, she didn’t always seem to notice the general mess and was quite content living in her own world. And Tracy…well, she didn’t really know how to describe herself, except she felt angry a lot of the time these days, at nothing in particular, and a little dissatisfied with what life had to offer. No, if truth be told, more than just a little, but a lot dissatisfied. It wasn’t supposed to be like this at all, whatever this was. And her name wasn’t Tracy anymore; most people called her Francesca now.
Despite their differences, the three of them had fun, and somehow it worked, though Tracy found it was always she who ended up cleaning and tidying the mess simply because it got her down, not because tidiness was necessarily in her nature. They had talked about it more than once, and the others had promised to do better, but it remained a problem. At least Rose tried, when she noticed.
Rose was the newcomer, replacing Jasmine, who had left to get married four months ago. Tracy had known Erin since she first came to live in Eastvale, since they were little kids, neighbors from across the street. They were the same age, and had gone through comprehensive school and university together, both ending up living in Leeds, neither in exactly the sort of job they, or their parents, had envisioned.
Rose jumped up and stubbed out a cigarette when Tracy entered the living room. There was a no-smoking rule in the house, and Rose usually went outside into the back garden, so Tracy could tell immediately that something was wrong. An emotional crisis was the last thing she needed.
“What is it?” she asked.
Rose started pacing the carpet, something she’d never done before. “The police were here today, that’s what.”
“Police? What did they want?”
Rose stopped pacing for a moment and glanced at her. “Only to search the place, that’s all.”
“Search? They didn’t—”
“No. Relax. They were mostly interested in Erin’s room, and they seemed to be in a hurry.”
“But why? What were they looking for?”
“They wouldn’t say.”
Tracy ran her hand over her hair. “Christ,” she said, getting up and heading for the door to the kitchen. “I need a joint.”
“You can’t,” Rose called after her. “What are you talking about?”
“You can’t. I…I flushed it.”
“You flushed it! Rose, there was half an ounce of ace weed left, at least. What do you—”
“Well, they could’ve come back, couldn’t they, and gone through all the jars? You weren’t here. You don’t know what it’s like having the police crawling all over the house, asking questions. That way they have of looking at you like they don’t believe a word you’re saying.”
Oh, don’t I? thought Tracy. I lived with one for about twenty years. But Rose didn’t know that. Rose was part of the new scene. She had told Rose that her name was Francesca Banks because she thought Tracy was a chav name, and she said her father was a retired civil servant, an ex-pen-pusher, an old geezer, and her mother lived in London, half of which was true. And like the heiress who keeps her fortune a secret to make sure no one falls in love with her for the wrong reason, Tracy also never mentioned that her brother was Brian Banks of The Blue Lamps, whose latest CD was riding high in the charts, and who were hotly tipped for a Mercury Prize. Erin knew, of course, having been a childhood friend of the family, and she had agreed to keep Tracy’s secrets, to go along with the deception, because she thought it was cool and fun.
“Christ,” said Tracy, sitting down again. “Half an ounce of grass.” She put her head in her hands. “Do you have any idea how much that cost me?”
“Have a drink,” Rose offered cheerfully. “We’ve still got some gin left.”
“I don’t want any fucking gin.” If truth be told, Tracy didn’t much like alcohol or its effects at all. She drank merely because her friends did, and sometimes she overdid it, tottered around the city center in her high heels and puked in ginnels and snickets, ended up in the wrong bed, any bed. They all drank some sort of alcopop, colored liquids with a kick. But Tracy preferred a nice joint every now and then, and sometimes E. They seemed harmless-enough diversions.
“Look,” said Rose, “I’m really sorry, but I was scared. I mean, I was shaking like a leaf in case they found it while they were searching the place. You would have been, too. I was sure they noticed how nervous I was, thought I was hiding something. Soon as they left, I flushed it. I am sorry. But they could have come back. They could still come back.”
“Okay,” said Tracy, tired of the subject. “Okay, just forget it. Did they ask you any questions?”
“They were only interested in Erin, but it was just vague, general stuff, like about if she had any boyfriends, what she did, who else lived here.”
“Were they looking for her? Did they ask if you knew where she was?”
“No.”
“Did you mention me?”
“I had to, didn’t I? They could find out you live here easily enough.”
“What about Jaff?”
“Well, he is her boyfriend, isn’t he? I had to tell them who he was. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Christ. Did you give them his address?”
“I don’t know it, do I? All I know is he lives by the canal. Do you think it’s something to do with him?”
“Why would it be anything to do with him?”
“I don’t know,” said Rose. “I know you like him, but I’ve always thought he was a bit dodgy. The flash clothes and car, jewelry, that fancy Rolex watch. Where does he get all his money from? There’s just something about him that makes me think the police might be interested in him, that’s all, something not quite right. Drugs, I’ll bet.”
“Maybe,” said Tracy. She knew what Rose meant. She had had the same suspicions about Jaff, but she also fancied him, and she didn’t care if he was a bit dodgy. He certainly always seemed to have some weed or blow with him. And the dodginess was part of his appeal for Tracy—that cheeky, devil-may-care bad-boy attitude he exuded. It turned her on. That was part of the problem. He was good-looking, bright, a real charmer, and maybe crooked. And he was Erin’s boyfriend.
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. “Wa
s 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.”
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