“Quite a conundrum,” said Annie. “It’s good of you to put Juliet up.”
“Where else could she go tonight? She’s got a sister in Durham, so perhaps she’ll go and stay with her later. But for now…Do you have any idea how long all this will take? How long they’ll be shut out of their home?”
“I’m sorry,” said Annie, “I don’t.”
“Days? Weeks? Months?”
“I’ve known houses to be locked down for weeks,” Annie said, “but I doubt that will happen in this case. It looks fairly straightforward. Legally, I mean, as far as an investigation is concerned. I understand that it has far more of an impact emotionally.”
“But you’d say a few days, at least?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, look at me. I’m so sorry. I’ve been sitting here picking your brains, and I haven’t even offered you anything to drink. Cup of tea? Coffee? Something stronger?”
“A cup of tea would go down a treat,” said Annie. “I have to drive back to Harkside.”
“Just give me a minute. Make yourself at home.”
Annie relaxed on the sofa while Harriet went into the kitchen to make tea. The kettle must have boiled very quickly because she came back with a teapot and two cups and saucers on a tray in no time. Harriet had no sooner put the tray down on the low table than Juliet Doyle drifted in behind her wearing a long green dressing gown that trailed around her black slippers. Her eyes were puffy from sleeping pills or crying, or both, and her skin was pale and dry.
“Who is…” Then she saw Annie. “You.”
Annie stood up. “Yes,” she said. “I wanted to come and see how you were.”
“How do you think I am? Besides, if anyone should know, it’s you. It was supposed to be quite simple.”
“Look, I’m sorry about what happened,” Annie said, “but we have our procedures.” She knew it sounded lame the moment it came out and deserved the contempt it got.
“Your procedures got my husband killed.”
It wasn’t true, of course, Annie knew there were many contributing factors to Patrick Doyle’s death, the “perfect storm,” but there was no use in saying that here and now to his bereaved wife. As the day had progressed, Annie had found herself feeling more and more guilty, first as she had faced Erin Doyle, and now as she faced Erin’s mother. She had begun to resent Warburton and the entire AFO team for what they had done and for putting her in such an awkward position. An injured man with a bloody walking stick and a dicky heart, for crying out loud. How could anyone mistake that stick for a sword, even if the hall light had decided to burn out at the very moment they switched it on? But she bottled up her feelings and her guilt and carried on as best she could.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, then sat down and accepted her cup and saucer from Harriet.
“Sugar?”
“No. No, thanks.”
Harriet turned to Juliet. “Can I get you anything, love? Some tea?”
Juliet managed a flicker of a smile. “Maybe some hot chocolate, if you’ve got any.”
“Coming up.” She gave an anxious glance at Annie, who nodded, then left for the kitchen again.
Juliet Doyle sat down and wrapped her robe around her. “What do you want?” she asked.
“Nothing,” said Annie.
“I can’t believe it was just this morning,” Juliet said. “It seems so distant, so long ago.”
“Grief can do that.”
Juliet looked at her sharply. “How would you know? Besides, I don’t think I can even feel grief yet. I don’t know what I feel. Those drugs…” She laughed harshly. “My husband’s dead and I don’t even feel anything.”
“It’ll come,” Annie said. And when it does, you’ll wish it hadn’t, she thought.
“I suppose you’ve got more questions?”
“One or two. But I honestly did just want to see how you were doing, and how Harriet was coping. But as far as Erin’s future is concerned, you can help. She hasn’t been charged with anything yet.”
“What do you mean? How can I help?”
“The gun. Right now it’s a mystery. We know nothing about it—how it got on top of her wardrobe, how it fell into her possession, if it did. It’s something we’re going to be looking into very closely, and if you could help, that would go a long way toward influencing the CPS and any charges they might bring.”
“But I don’t know how it got there or where it came from,” Juliet protested. “Besides, why should I want to help Erin? She was partly responsible for…for what happened.”
“But she’s still your daughter.” Harriet came back with the steaming mug of hot chocolate and handed it to Juliet, then glanced at Annie again, who gave her the okay to stay with them. “You said you thought there was a boyfriend involved,” Annie went on. “Geoff. Do you know anything more about him?”
“No,” said Juliet. “Only what I told you. You can’t think he’s involved in this, too?”
“Well, it’s one explanation. I find it hard to believe that the gun was Erin’s.”
“But Geoff? He’s got a good job, a proper job. He sounds like a nice lad. He’s certainly been a positive influence on our Erin.”
“So you said before. Did she usually have problems?”
“Oh, Erin always has a boyfriend. The boys flock to her. Moths to a flame. But she always seems to be having boyfriend trouble, too. She certainly knows how to pick them.”
“I’ve been there myself,” Annie said, smiling. “So perhaps an ex-boyfriend is involved? Can you help me there? Any names?”
Juliet put her hand to her brow. “I can’t really think now,” she said. “My brain feels too soft. But I’ll try later. All right?”
“That’s all I’m asking,” said Annie. “It could really help Erin.” She put her empty cup down on the tray, stood up and smoothed the front of her skirt. “Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Weaver, and for your time, Mrs. Doyle. I really must go.”
“Harriet, please. You’re very welcome. I’ll see you out.”
Juliet Doyle sat gazing into space with the mug of hot chocolate at her lips. She didn’t say good-bye.
Harriet saw Annie to the door. “I’m sorry,” she said. “She’s very upset, as you can see.”
“I understand,” said Annie. “I honestly didn’t come to grill her.” She opened the door. The light was almost gone, and a chill breeze ruffled the evening air.
“You know, you could do a lot worse than ask Tracy Banks,” Harriet said.
Annie paused on the doorstep. “Tracy Banks?”
“Yes. Alan and Sandra’s young lass. They share a house in Leeds. Her, Erin and another girl. I don’t know her name. They did, anyway. Have done for ages. Didn’t you know that?”
“DCI Banks doesn’t tell me a lot about his family life,” Annie mumbled. “I wonder why Juliet didn’t mention it when she came to the station to see me.”
“Too upset, too agitated, I should imagine. Juliet’s quite highly strung under that capable and efficient surface. If I found a gun in my daughter’s bedroom, I have no idea how I’d react, what I’d do or say. I doubt that I’d be thinking very clearly.”
“True,” said Annie. “It’s a tough one.”
“Anyway, I’ve known both the families for years. Erin and Tracy have been friends since they were knee high to a grasshopper. Used to be inseparable.”
“Have they really?” Annie had to think very carefully how to play this one. She smiled. “Thanks very much. Maybe I’ll have a word with Tracy.”
She checked her watch as she headed down the path. It was too late to go to Leeds tonight, Annie thought, but she would go tomorrow after work, on her own time. Just a social call to see how Tracy was doing, make sure she wasn’t in any trouble, too, and if she was, see if there was any way of sorting it before Banks got back.
“PARK AT the other side of the garage, there,” Tracy said, pointing ahead. “It’s by the woods and nobody will see the car there. Not that anyone pass
es by here.” It was almost dark, and the headlights showed an impenetrable tangle of branches and tree trunks ahead, just beyond the cottage and its small garage.
“Fuck me, this is isolated,” said Jaff, coming to a halt. “Downright bloody creepy, if you ask me. How does your old man stand it out here? It’d drive me insane.”
“He likes being alone,” said Tracy. “Sad, isn’t it?” They got out of the car, and she stood for a moment listening. All she could hear was the sound of Gratly Beck trickling over the terraced falls, the occasional rustling of an animal in the woods and the distant call of a night bird. The waterfall was a sound she liked, and she remembered sitting out there on the wall chatting with her dad on summer evenings when she visited during term time, muted music playing in the distance, Billie Holiday or Miles Davis. She saw a couple of bats fly across the moon in the cloud-streaked sky. She didn’t mention them to Jaff because you never knew; some people were scared of bats, and he might be one of them. They had never bothered her.
Jaff trod out his cigarette end and heaved his hold-all out of the back of the car. Tracy wondered what was in it. It certainly looked heavy. “Shall we go in, then?” she said.
Jaff nodded.
Tracy felt in her pocket for her keys. She knew that her dad had installed a new security system over the summer, but he had told her the code in case of emergencies. As soon as she opened the front door, she tapped in the numbers she had memorized, the beeping stopped and the green light came on. She shut the door behind them and switched on the lamp on the small table to her left. Tracy had always thought it odd that the front door opened immediately into her father’s small home office, where he worked at the computer or sat quietly to read over files and reports. It used to be the living room, she remembered, until the reconstruction after the fire, when he had the entertainment room added on at the side and a conservatory built at the back. He probably spent more time in those rooms now, reading and listening to music. The builder had cut a doorway in the wall beside the fireplace, over to their left, which led to the entertainment room. Another door, to their right, led to the narrow wooden stairs up to the bedrooms, and the door straight ahead led into the kitchen, which was where Tracy first took Jaff. She knew there would be no food around the place, so they had picked up an Indian takeaway on the road out of Leeds. It would be cold by now, but Tracy could reheat it in the microwave.
Jaff took out his mobile and checked for a signal, then he turned to Tracy. “Have you got a mobile?” he asked.
“Course.”
He held out his hand. “Let me see it.”
“Why?”
“Just let me have a look at it. Please.”
Puzzled, Tracy searched through her bag till she found the mobile. She handed it to Jaff.
“Got an account with the provider?”
“Yes.”
“Thought so. Don’t you know they can trace you through this?” Tracy crossed her arms. “I can’t say I do. It’s not something I’ve ever really had to worry about.”
Jaff gave her an amused glance. “Well, you do now. We’re both fugitives.” He switched her phone off, then put it in his hold-all.
“Hey!” said Tracy, reaching her hand out. “Just a minute. I need that.”
Jaff held the bag behind his back. “No, you don’t. Radio silence. Any emergencies, we’ll use this one I picked up at Vic’s. It’s a burner. Okay?”
“A what?”
“Don’t you watch The Wire?”
“Well, actually, no. I tried it once, but I don’t like any of the characters. There’s no use watching something if you don’t have someone to cheer for.”
Jaff laughed. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it, though I can’t say I care, myself. Anyway, it’s disposable, a throwaway, pay-as-you-go. No contract, nothing in my name, or in Vic’s, for that matter.” Tracy felt annoyed about being separated from her mobile—her lifeline, as Erin had always teasingly called it—but there was something rather exciting in Jaff’s talking about radio silence and burners, and the fact that they were on the run, “fugitives,” as he had said, trying to avoid detection. She had never done anything like that before, had always been Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes, more or less. “I didn’t think it mattered,” she said. “There didn’t even used to be any coverage out here.”
“Trust me. There is now.” Jaff stretched out his arm and traced the line of her cheek down to her chin, which he cupped briefly between his thumb and forefinger and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “Your old man got any decent music?”
“Just old stuff, mostly,” Tracy said, giving a delicious little shudder at his kiss. “You know. Sixties pop. And jazz. Lots of opera, too.”
“Nothing wrong with a bit of Miles Davis or Puccini. Where does he keep it?”
Tracy led him into the entertainment room, with its large flat-screen TV at the far end, surround sound and shelves of CDs and DVDs. “He’s got the whole place wired for sound,” she said. “Bit of an anorak, really.”
“I think it’s cool,” said Jaff. As he flipped through the CDs and took them off the shelves in handfuls, he would glance quickly at the title, then make some comment about it being naff and toss it on the floor. Finally, he seemed to find something he liked and slipped the disc in the player. Tracy recognized the music: My Morning Jacket, Evil Urges. Erin had played it constantly back in Headingley. What on earth was her father doing with that? It must be something to do with his last girlfriend, Sophia, Tracy thought. Sophia had more modern tastes in music than he father, who seemed stuck in the sixties time warp when he wasn’t playing jazz or bloody opera.
“Anything to drink?” Jaff asked when they went back into the kitchen.
“Well, there’s some wine.” Tracy checked the fridge for beer, but it was empty, then she opened Banks’s drinks cabinet and gave a little curtsy. “And this. Tra-la!”
“Jesus,” said Jaff. “Likes his booze, doesn’t he, your old man? Good taste, too.” He picked up a bottle of Highland Park. “We’ll save that for later.” Then he went over to the wine rack on the floor by the door to the conservatory and knelt down. “Stonewell Shiraz, Saint-Émillion, Côtes de Nuits, Vacqueras, Amarone, Barolo, Ripasso, Châteauneuf du Pape. Not bad. Not bad at all. None of your cheap Asda specials here. We can have a real party. I think I’m starting to like your old man. What does he do for a living?”
“Retired civil servant. He goes on cruises. I think some of the wine belonged to my Uncle Roy,” Tracy said. “He was rich, but he died. Dad got the wine and some of his money.” She found Jaff a corkscrew in the drawer, and he opened a bottle of Châteauneuf du Pape while she put the takeaway in the microwave to heat up. Tracy wasn’t sure the wine would go well with vegetable samosas, chicken tikka masala and naans, but she was willing to try it. She noticed that Jaff had poured them both a large glass and was busy sitting at the pine breakfast nook rolling a joint. When he had finished, he licked it, put it in his mouth and lit it. Tracy smiled to herself. To think they were doing this in her father’s house! She went over to join him, and he offered the joint to her. She took a hit. It was strong stuff. It made her head spin, but in a nice way. She drank a mouthful of wine and nearly choked on it, but she got it down. “The curry won’t be long,” she said. “Want to go in the conservatory to eat? It’s nice out there and the music pipes through.”
“Sure,” said Jaff, sucking on the joint and passing it back to her. He edged off the bench, then he turned on the small television set that sat on one of the bookcases above the nook. “Let’s see if we can find some more news first.”
They caught the brief local broadcast after the News at Ten, and the day’s events in Eastvale were the lead item. This time, the reporter seemed to know a little more about what was going on. Jaff turned up the volume so they could hear what was being said over the music. First came the now familiar image of Laburnum Way crowded with vans and police cars. Apparently, an armed police unit had entered Number 12, Erin’s parent
s’ house, at ten forty-five that morning, and there had been an incident within the house involving the discharge of a weapon. One man, believed to be the owner of the house, had been taken on a stretcher to Eastvale General Infirmary. There was no further word yet on the weapon, on the condition of the wounded man, or on how or why it had happened, but the police said they would hold a press conference in the morning. Neither Erin nor Jaff were mentioned. One of the neighbors reported that she had seen an armed officer carrying what appeared to be a gun-shaped object wrapped in a tea cloth out of the house. Tracy thought she could see Detective Inspector Annie Cabbot on camera in the background, talking to someone in uniform. Of all her father’s girlfriends since he split up with her mum, she had liked Annie the best.
Jaff turned off the TV. “Damn,” he said, stubbing out the roach. “It’s exactly as I thought. They’ve found the gun.”
“Gun?” echoed Tracy. But Jaff ignored her. “What gun?”
The microwave beeped. They took their cartons of food and glasses of wine through to the conservatory, where “Librarian” played through extension speakers Banks had set up, and settled into the cushioned wicker chairs.
“Nice,” said Jaff, scooping up a mouthful of chicken tikka with his naan. “I’m starving.” Tracy noticed that he had found a serviette in the kitchen and had tucked it into the neck of his shirt to catch any sauce that might drip while he ate. He might not care much about a clean and tidy flat, Tracy thought, but a dazzling white shirt was obviously important to him. And he looked good in it. He finished his wine in one long swig. “Go get the bottle, will you, babe?” he said to her. “Might as well polish it off.”
Tracy laughed and shook her head at him—it was a long time since a man had given her orders like that—but she went to get the wine.
Bad Boy Page 6