Bad Boy

by Peter Robinson

  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 solicitor. 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.

  3

  JAFF 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.

  “Let’s go inside,” Harriet said, leading Annie into a cozy living room with an upholstered three-piece suite and a large-screen TV. “I was just doing the dishes,” she went on. “David’s out on a rush job and Juliet’s upstairs lying down. As you can imagine, she’s exhausted, poor thing. It’s been a terrible day. A wretched ordeal.”

  “So you know what’s happened?” Annie said.

  “More or less. Most of it, anyway. Juliet hasn’t said much. I think she must still be in shock. But what can I do for you?”

  “First of all, I’m not supposed to be here,” Annie said. “The Independent Police Complaints Commission will be working with our Professional Standards Department on setting up a separate inquiry into Patrick Doyle’s death.”

  “That makes sense. I’ve heard about that sort of thing. Anyway, don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

  “Oh, it’s all right. Plenty of my colleagues probably saw me come here, though I doubt they’d think anything of it. I just wanted you to know that I’m here unofficially. Really, I just wanted to see how things are, how Juliet’s doing. And you, of course. I feel partly responsible, you see. I was the first one to see Juliet this morning, and I was out in the street, in front of the house, when it happened.”

  “That hardly makes it your fault, dear,” said Harriet. “I’m sure you did your best for her. Anyway, as I told you, she’s exhausted. It’s been a long confusing day for them. With Patrick gone and Erin not talking to her, poor Juliet doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going. The doctor’s given her a mild sedative.” She shook her head slowly. “It’s going to take them a long time to come to terms with this. Juliet blames Erin for Patrick’s death, and I’m sure Erin must blame herself, too, to some extent, but she must also feel betrayed by Juliet. I mean, her own mother informing on her…”