Bad Boy

by Peter Robinson

  Patrick Doyle’s death had thrown a spanner in the works, not only because it had occurred during a sanctioned police operation, but because a Taser was involved. One piece of information that had come to light at the hospital was that Patrick Doyle had suffered a heart attack two years ago. Though he had been responding well to medication, and his recent ECGs and echoes had all been good, there remained some minor damage to the heart that would never repair itself. They should have known that before sending Warburton and Powell in with Tasers. That’s what the media would say, too, when they got hold of the story. The Taser debate sold a lot of newspapers.

  In addition to the local press and TV, there were reporters from the major national dailies—Mail, Sun, Guardian, Telegraph, Express, Times, Independent, Mirror—and one or two feature writers looking for something a bit more in-depth—gun crime, today’s youth, or police-related deaths.

  The small room was buzzing with speculation and excitement when Annie and Gervaise entered that Tuesday morning and stood by the door to observe ACC McLaughlin in action. The space wasn’t so large that anyone needed a microphone, but the conference had been set up so that the proceedings could be recorded on digital video, and there were also a couple of TV cameras discreetly positioned in the back corners.

  Annie surveyed the room and noticed the backs of a few familiar heads, including some she had seen at Laburnum Way yesterday. She leaned against the back wall by the door and sipped coffee from the mug she had brought with her as the reporters settled down and McLaughlin began his prepared statement.

  “Yesterday morning at ten forty-five A.M.,” he began, “police were called to an address on Laburnum Way, where a loaded firearm had been reported. Unable to gain permission to enter from the occupants of the house, the Authorised Firearms Officers effected entry, and during the ensuing operation a man was injured by Taser fire. He later died of complications in Eastvale General Infirmary. A loaded gun was recovered from the scene. Now, I’m sure you have many questions, and I’m sure you also understand that my replies have to be necessarily restricted at this point in the investigation.”

  Hands went up all over the room, and the man from the Daily Mail got the first question. “I understand that a Mr. Patrick Doyle was the registered owner of the house in question. Was he present at the time of the police assault? Was he the one who died? If so, how did it happen?”

  “I must object to your use of the word ‘assault’ as unnecessarily inflammatory,” McLaughlin said. “The officers were dealing with a potentially very dangerous situation. But let me do my best to give you a clear and succinct answer, seeing as you know most of it already. Mr. Patrick Doyle was indeed the registered owner of 12 Laburnum Way. He was on the premises at the time the AFOs entered. He was injured by the discharge of a Taser and has sadly since died of unrelated injuries in Eastvale General Infirmary.”

  Reactions buzzed about the room and more hands went up. McLaughlin picked a local reporter next, Annie noticed. “Yes, Ted.”

  Ted Whitelaw from the Eastvale Gazette stood up. “You said ‘unrelated injuries.’ Was Mr. Doyle’s death directly caused by the Taser discharge, or wasn’t it?”

  “That we can’t say at the moment,” said McLaughlin.

  “Can’t or won’t?” someone shouted.

  McLaughlin ignored the lone voice. “Mr. Doyle’s body is awaiting a postmortem examination,” he went on calmly, “and until that has been carried out, we won’t be able to say with any degree of certainty exactly what caused his death.”

  “But isn’t it likely?” Whitelaw persisted. “We all know that Tasers can kill.”

  “This is neither the time nor place to enter into a debate on Tasers,” said McLaughlin. “We’ll have to await the postmortem results before we know any more.”

  “I understand that Taser deaths are often related to drug use or pre-existing heart conditions,” Whitelaw went on. “Did Mr. Doyle have a heart condition? Did he use drugs?”

  “Patrick Doyle had a heart attack two years ago,” said McLaughlin, “but according to his doctor, he was in excellent shape.”

  “Were the armed officers who entered his house aware of this heart attack?”

  “They had not been advised of his condition, no,” said McLaughlin. “Why was that?”

  “It’s not for me to speculate. That remains to be determined.”

  “Was it because you didn’t know about it?”

  McLaughlin said nothing.

  “So would you say the Taser could have been responsible for his death?” Whitelaw pressed on.

  “This was a very unfortunate incident, and it will be investigated thoroughly. Now, you’ve had more than your fair share of questions, Ted. It’s time to sit down.”

  Whitelaw sat, smirked and began scribbling on his pad.

  “You said the incident would be investigated thoroughly,” said the Daily Mirror man. “Can you tell us who by?”

  “The actions of the officers involved will be investigated by Superintendent Chambers, from the Professional Standards Department, who will be working with an outside team brought in by the Independent Police Complaints Commission, according to protocol.”

  “But it will be a police investigation, won’t it?” asked the woman from the Guardian.

  “The last time I checked, Maureen,” said McLaughlin, “the police were the best qualified organization in the country to carry out such an investigation. Whom do you suggest we bring in? The librarian? A local antiques dealer? The little old lady down the street who takes in all the stray cats?” His Scottish accent grew more pronounced with his sarcasm.

  The woman smiled. “I was merely pointing out that it’s simply another case of the police investigating their own,” she said, then sat down.

  McLaughlin searched around for another raised hand. He didn’t have far to look. “Yes. You, Len.”

  It was Len Jepson from the Yorkshire Post. “My question is a simple one,” he began. “Why was a team of Authorised Firearms Officers breaking down the door of a pebble-dash semi in a nice middle-class street in Eastvale on a quiet Monday morning?”

  A ripple of laughter went around the room.

  “As I said in my statement, we had reliable reports that there was a loaded firearm on the premises,” said McLaughlin,” and when our duty officers got no response to their requests for peaceful entry, the AFOs were called in. It’s standard procedure, Len. You should know that.”

  “How many AFOs were involved?” asked a reporter from the Independent.

  “Four. Two at the front and two at the back, as per usual. SOP.” Another hand. “Yes, Carol.”

  “You mentioned in your statement earlier that a loaded gun was recovered from the house. Had it been used?”

  “The weapon had not been recently discharged.”

  “Who does it belong to?”

  “That we don’t know.”

  “Where is it now?” asked another voice.

  “It’s been sent to the Forensic Science Services in Birmingham for further examination.”

  “Any idea how it came to be in the house?”

  “That matter is under investigation.”

  “Was it anything to do with Erin Doyle?”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t make any further comment at present.” More hands. McLaughlin picked the woman from the Darlington & Stockton Times. “Jessica?”

  “You’ve been singled out before for your rather, shall we say, left wing views on some subjects of public concern, such as racial profiling, overcrowded prisons and the use of police force. Can you tell our readers what your personal thoughts on this matter are?”

  McLaughlin managed a tight smile. Some people, Annie knew, called him “Red” Ron, and he pretended not to like it, though she thought he was secretly rather proud. His father, who had worked on the Glasgow shipyards after the war, had been a strong trade unionist, and some of the old socialist ideals had rubbed off on his son. “My personal opinions on the matter in hand are har
dly relevant,” McLaughlin said. “The point at issue here is that a life has been tragically lost, and a family is in mourning. I ask you all to respect their grief.”

  “Do you respect it?” someone called out. “Isn’t it true that you’ve been interrogating and harassing the Doyle family since yesterday morning?”

  “I can’t discuss the details of the ongoing investigation at this stage, but I can assure you that there has been no harassment on our part.”

  More grumbles and shuffling, then another voice spoke out. This time it was Luke Stafford of the Sun. “What part did Erin Doyle play in all this?” he asked. “Patrick Doyle’s daughter. Was the gun hers?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss such the detail of an ongoing investigation.”

  “So you think it was? She was seen by a neighbor being led out of the house in handcuffs,” Stafford went on. “And isn’t it true that she was mixing with some pretty bad company in Leeds? Drug dealers and such scum?”

  Annie could see that this was the first McLaughlin had heard of it. It was the first she had heard of it, too. They must have sent a reporter to dig around. “I can’t comment on that, Mr. Stafford,” said McLaughlin, “but if you have any information pertinent to our investigation, I hope you’ll do your duty as a citizen and come forward with it.” Then he stood up. “I’m afraid that’s all for now, ladies and gentlemen. This conference is over.”

  Annie could tell that the crowd wasn’t happy with the way things had gone. They had wanted blood and had got merely the scent of it. God only knew what they would write now.

  McLaughlin was also clearly not happy. On his way out of the door, he leaned toward Annie and Gervaise and said between gritted teeth, “Just what the hell was all that about? What do we know about Erin Doyle’s life in Leeds?”

  “Nothing yet, sir,” said Gervaise. “We’ve hardly started our investigation yet.”

  “The newspapers obviously have. I suggest you get a move on with it. Let’s bloody well find out what’s going on before the red tops get there, shall we? I want results, and I want them fast. I also want them first.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Gervaise. When McLaughlin had gone, she turned to Annie and said, “In my office in an hour.”

  This could be interesting, Annie thought. She had planned on going down to Leeds on her own after work to talk to Tracy Banks, anyway, but now the Leeds connection was an official part of the investigation. She should tell Gervaise that Erin Doyle and Tracy Banks shared a house; there was no doubt that she would find out soon enough, anyway. But Annie also thought that she owed it to Banks to keep his daughter out of trouble, if she was in any trouble, if that was at all possible. She decided to tread cautiously and keep her own counsel for the moment, at least until she had a better grasp of exactly what it was they were investigating.

  OF COURSE, the inevitable had happened. Tracy and Jaff had stayed up most of the night, first drinking Banks’s Highland Park and smoking joints in the conservatory, laughing and playing Animal Collective, Fleet Foxes, and My Morning Jacket, then ransacking the DVD collection for something to watch. They had settled on one of the Jason Bourne films, basically just a long chase punctuated by close-combat fights and shoot-outs. Again, Jaff had chucked the DVDs he didn’t like on the floor, which was getting quite littered by then. Tracy remembered the jewel cases crunching and splintering under their feet as they stumbled toward the stairs. After that, things had got very blurry.

  When Tracy awoke at about half past ten in the morning, she was lying naked under the duvet in her old bedroom, and Jaff was nowhere in sight. Her head ached, but if she tried, she could piece together most of what had transpired..

  They had taken the bottle of whiskey upstairs to her father’s bedroom, and there she had tumbled onto the bed with Jaff. Soon he was kissing her and his hands were groping all over her body. She had struggled a bit and thought at one point she might have told him to stop because she didn’t feel well. She remembered that she felt weird about doing it in her father’s bed, and her stomach didn’t feel too good after all the whiskey and wine. But Jaff was urgent. Soon he’d got her blouse off, and his hand wandered down the front of her jeans. Then they were coming off, too, and…well, that was when she was sick.

  She had managed to turn away just in time and do it over the edge of the bed. She had thought that would stop him, put him off, especially when she had to go and rinse her mouth and brush her teeth. But when she had come back, jeans all zipped up, blouse straight and buttoned, he had been lying there on his back stark naked, smiling and huge, and he had started all over again. Her head had still been spinning, and she hadn’t been able to find the will or the strength to stop him. Not that she had really wanted to. She didn’t want to be thought a tease, and she was quite flattered by his attentions. She had also felt a little bit better by then, and she had quite liked it; after all, she had fantasized about sex with Jaff often enough, had even kissed him on the dance floor. A lot of girls, Tracy knew, would have swapped places with her in the blink of an eye. And she was doing it in her father’s bedroom.

  Tracy couldn’t really remember what it had been like, but she recalled that Jaff hadn’t taken long, despite the amount he’d had to drink. It had all been over in a matter of moments. Jaff had then fallen fast asleep, or passed out. When Tracy had been sure that he wasn’t going to wake up for a while, she had crept out of her father’s room and gone to the other bedroom, the one she used to sleep in when she visited. And that was where she woke up to bright sunshine and bird-song. She had forgotten to close the curtains. For a moment she panicked, not knowing where she was, then she realized. She also remembered what she had done and where her clothes were.

  Tracy wandered back into Banks’s bedroom and got dressed. Jaff was nowhere to be seen, and the house was silent. After using the bathroom and taking some of Banks’s paracetamol, Tracy went downstairs, calling Jaff’s name softly. She found him in the conservatory curled up in one of the wicker chairs, a half-full glass of whiskey and an overflowing ashtray on the table by his side. He looked almost angelic, she thought—long eyelashes, moist lips slightly parted, making breathy, snuffling sounds. She felt like kissing him, but she didn’t want to disturb him.

  Tracy made some tea and toast in the kitchen as quietly as she could, then she decided to set about tidying up. First, she took a bowl of water and a cloth upstairs to clean the sick off the bedroom floor—thank God it was wood and not a carpet—feeling herself flush with embarrassment—how could she?—then she moved down to the entertainment room. Not sure where to begin there, she wandered back into the kitchen to refill her cup with tea.

  That was when she thought of her mobile, and she realized that while Jaff was asleep, she could probably get it back. It could be ages before he found out what she had done. Jaff had put it in his hold-all, she remembered. He was probably right about it being dangerous to use. She had heard about people being traced through their mobile signals—her dad had mentioned it more than once—and Jaff seemed to know what he was talking about. It would be nice just to have it with her, though. It would be a great comfort. And she would keep it switched off. Surely that could do no harm? Surely Jaff couldn’t possibly object to that, even if he did find out?

  Tracy was just about to go over and open Jaff’s hold-all on the breakfast table when he emerged in the conservatory doorway, stretching, yawning and rubbing his eyes. Ah, well, Tracy thought, maybe later.

  “Morning,” she said. “Cup of tea?”

  Jaff grunted. Clearly not a morning person. Tracy made tea anyway. He drank it with milk and two sugars, pulled a face and told her he preferred coffee. She made coffee.

  When he had poured his first cup, he said, “I’m starving. Is there anything left to eat?”

  Tracy had checked both the fridge and freezer, not to mention the cupboards. There were a couple of tins of baked beans and some soup, but that was it. They ate cold baked beans from the cans.

  “After this, we’
ve got to go shopping if we plan on staying here,” Tracy said. “There’s absolutely nothing left to eat. We have to go to Eastvale.”

  “How long did you say your old man’s going to be away?”

  “Until next Monday. We’re all right for a bit. Have you had a chance to think things out yet?”

  “Sort of.”

  “And?”

  “I reckon we should stay here as long as it’s safe,” Jaff said. “Say till the end of the week. We’ll let things quiet down a bit. It’s nice and isolated here, nobody to come around asking awkward questions. And nobody will think to look for me here. Even if someone does come, you can talk to them, tell them everything’s okay and send them packing. After all, it’s your dad’s house. You’ve got every right to be here, haven’t you? There’s even some decent music and movies. Not to mention the booze. I reckon we’ve lucked out.”

  “But we can’t stay here forever,” Tracy argued, vague images in her mind of the further damage Jaff might do to her father’s home. She’d enjoyed last night’s careless abandon and wild freedom, but it couldn’t go on indefinitely.

  “I know that, babe.” Jaff ambled over and ran his hand over her hair, her cheek, her breast. “I just need to put a few plans into operation, that’s all. I know people. I’ve got an old college mate down in Clapham who can get us fixed up with new passports, no questions asked, but I need a few days to make some calls and set things up. These things don’t come cheap. I’m just saying we’ve got a good hide-away for now, and that’s all we need. Soon as I’m organized, we can go down to London, then get out of the country. Once we’re over the Channel, we’re home free.”

  “Not these days,” said Tracy. “There’s Interpol and Europol and God knows what other pols. I’ve seen programs on telly.”

  “You worry too much. Don’t be a drag, babe. All I’m saying is that if you know how to disappear, you can do it over there.”

  “And you know?”

  Jaff kissed her. “Trust me. And maybe you should get a different lipstick while we’re in Eastvale. Pink, maybe. I don’t like that dark red color. Same goes for the nail varnish. It looks slutty. Get something lighter. Is there anything you can do about your hair? I liked it better without the colored streaks.”