Bad Boy

by Peter Robinson

  Banks took one more look at the dark range of peaks on the horizon, then he turned and walked back to the blinking pinpoint of light. He slept like a baby until the blinding sunlight found him through a chink in the curtains at nine o’clock the following morning. After a huge breakfast of eggs and ham and hash browns at the diner, he checked out and headed for the interstate to Los Angeles with Vieux Farka Touré’s “Slow Jam” playing loudly through the car stereo.

  THE SATNAV got Annie to Leeds easily enough after work on Tuesday, but it had a difficult time negotiating the twists and turns of Headingley, once off Otley Road, and she found herself getting more and more frustrated. That it was the tail end of rush hour didn’t help, either, but she wanted to time her arrival for roughly that period between when people get home from work and before they go out again for the evening. She knew that Tracy Banks worked at Waterstone’s on Albion Street, in the city center, and that her hours were probably irregular, but she didn’t think the shop stayed open particularly late.

  The preliminary gun report hadn’t told them much except that they were dealing with a 9-mm Smith & Wesson automatic, over twenty years old, and the serial number had been filed down. There were ways of recovering it, of course, but they would take time. As yet, too, there was no record of a registered owner. It would also take some time to run the weapon through the National Firearms Forensic Intelligence Database and check it for fingerprints to run through IDENT1.

  If they wanted to know whether the gun had been used in the commission of a crime—which, of course, they did—it would have to be fired under controlled circumstances, and the bullet compared with the information in the Integrated Ballistics Identification System. If the result was positive, to be absolutely certain the bullet would then have to be compared with the actual bullet and/or cartridge casing fired during the crime. Rush or not, this would all take time. There was no explanation yet of how the gun had come into Erin Doyle’s possession, and Erin still wasn’t talking. A boyfriend was everyone’s natural assumption. Juliet Doyle had mentioned someone called “Geoff,” but Rose Preston had told the Leeds police that Erin’s boyfriend was called “Jaff.” An easy mistake to make if you didn’t see it written down. Whoever he was, they hadn’t got a line on him yet.

  When the satnav told Annie that she had reached her destination, she was still two streets away, but she managed to find her way easily enough with the aid of a simple A to Z.

  The house was the kind of property that had probably belonged to a moderately wealthy family between the wars, Annie guessed as she took in the weathered sandstone, gables and slate roof. The lawn, surrounded by a low wall, was overgrown, and weeds were poking between the flagstones of the path. When Annie got out of the car she noticed that it had just begun to rain, more of a fine drizzle really. So much for the late-summer sunshine. She knocked at the door and a young woman she didn’t recognize opened it. She was wearing oval glasses with black rims, a short skirt, black tights and a black T-shirt emblazoned with the logo “Scars on 45,” a rock band, Annie guessed. Her light brown hair was tied in a ponytail.

  Annie introduced herself and showed her warrant card. The girl said her name was Rose Preston and asked her in as if a visit from the police were the most natural thing in the world..

  “I was just having my dinner, if that’s all right,” Rose said.

  “Fine,” said Annie, following her into the living room, where Rose picked up a fork and a plate of pasta—probably microwaved—from the coffee table and sat with her legs folded under her on the armchair opposite the TV, where Emmerdale had just begun.

  “Sorry to interrupt your program,” Annie said.

  “Oh, that. It’s nothing. Just company while I eat.” Rose picked up the remote from the arm of the sofa, pointed it at the TV set and pressed. Chastity Dingle disappeared in the midst of an angry tirade directed toward Paddy.

  “I’d have thought you had more than enough company, sharing with two other girls,” Annie said, remembering her own student days.

  “If they were ever here.”

  “Anyway, that’s what I’ve come to see you about. I’m looking for Tracy Banks. Is she home yet?”

  Rose seemed confused. “Tracy Banks, did you say? There’s no one with that name lives here.”

  Annie confirmed the address with Rose again. She was certain it was the same one that Harriet Weaver had given her the previous evening, though she could have transposed a number. The area was full of student housing. “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “There’s Francesca Banks,” said Rose. “Maybe it’s her sister or something?”

  “Or her middle name?” Annie suggested. She didn’t think Tracy had a middle name, but it was possible. “She’s about five foot five, twenty-four, blond hair to her shoulders, dark eyebrows. Has a degree in history from the University of Leeds, comes from Eastvale, works at Waterstone’s. She grew up with Erin Doyle, the other girl who lives here.”

  “That sounds like Francesca,” Rose said. “Must be her middle name, then.”

  “But it must be a while since you’ve seen her,” Rose added. “What do you mean?”

  “She got her hair cut short a few weeks ago and put a few colored streaks in it. Pink. Purple. You know. Nothing permanent, but she looks different. She got a tattoo and a couple of piercings as well.”

  “Piercings?”

  “Yeah. Nothing drastic. Eyebrow and just below the lower lip.” Rose paused and smiled. “I mean, there may be others she hasn’t told me about, more intimate ones, but I don’t think so.”

  That didn’t sound like the Tracy Banks Annie knew, a bright, sensible, hard-working young woman with good prospects, working at a temporary job in a bookshop until something more like a career came along. Banks was always so proud of her. Still, people change, and fashions, especially among the young, don’t necessarily mean that much. Annie had worn some pretty weird clothes in her time, including torn jeans and a safety pin through her ear. Some of the nicest, most creative, intelligent people she had ever met had had green mo-hawks, ragged T-shirts and rings though their noses. Even so, it was a bit of a shock to hear about Tracy’s makeover. The new name, too. Francesca. What was all that about? Had she joined a cult or something?

  “Is she here?” Annie asked. “No, she’s gone.”

  “Gone? Where?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. Nobody ever tells me anything.”

  “Hold on a minute, Rose. What are you talking about?”

  Rose put her bowl down on the table. “I’m the new girl. Erin and Francesca have been friends for years. They grew up together. Jasmine left to get married, and I’m the new girl. I’ve only been here since just before Francesca had her hair done and all. I don’t think I fit in.”

  “Do you know where Tra—where Francesca is?”

  “No.”

  “When did she go out?”

  “Last night.”

  “Did she come home?”

  “No. I haven’t seen her since teatime yesterday, and I’ve been here all the time. I don’t have a job yet.”

  “So you’re saying she went out yesterday evening and hasn’t been back?”

  “Yes. She came home from work, as usual. I told her the police had been to search the place, then she got all panicky and dashed off.”

  “Is that unusual, or does she often stay out all night?”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, if you know what I mean.”

  “Did she take anything with her? An overnight bag, or something? You know, as if she were going away for a few days?”

  “No. Just her ripped denim jacket and her tatty shoulder bag. She didn’t even take a toothbrush. Mind you, the shoulder bag’s probably big enough to get the kitchen sink in if you wanted to. I don’t know what all she keeps in it.”

  “And you’re sure you’ve no idea where she went?”

  “What’s happening with Erin? Where is she?”

  “Erin’s fine. Sh
e’s being cared for. You heard about her father?”

  Rose nodded. “On the news tonight. It’s terrible. You shouldn’t use those things on people, you know. They’re for animals. Even that’s cruelty.”

  “I’m worried about Francesca,” said Annie. “Are you sure you have no idea where she went, where she might be?”

  “I think she might have gone to see Jaff.”

  “Jaff?”

  “Yes. Erin’s boyfriend. To be honest, I think there was something going on there, if you know what I mean. I don’t like to tell tales out of school, but I think maybe Francesca fancied him, too. You can tell about these things. There’s been a bit of friction between them lately.”

  “Erin and Francesca? This past week?”

  “Yes. Before Erin went home.”

  “So you think Erin might have been jealous of Francesca and this Jaff getting too close?”

  “I think so. I can’t be sure, but I think so. He’s very handsome. I know I’d be jealous all the time if he was my boyfriend. Some hope of that.”

  Annie leaned forward and clasped her hands on her knees. “This is very important, Rose. At what point did Tracy, or Francesca, start to panic and decide to go out?”

  “It was after she’d rung Erin’s house in Eastvale.”

  “Who did she talk to?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t talk to anyone, really. I just heard her ask if she was speaking to Mr. Doyle, then she hung up in a hurry and dashed off.”

  If Tracy had made the call to Erin’s house at around seven o’clock yesterday evening, Annie thought, then a police officer would have almost certainly answered the phone, as the Doyle house was already under lockdown. Patrick Doyle was dead, Juliet was at Harriet Weaver’s, and Erin herself was on police bail in a B-and-B near the castle. The officer who answered would have asked who was calling, and why. Something about that phone call had scared Tracy off. But why? What was she hiding? “Had you already talked to her about Jaff?” Annie asked, thinking that this was probably the “Geoff” to whom Juliet Doyle had referred.

  “Yes. She asked if I had mentioned him, or her, to the police.”

  “And had you?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  But maybe Jaff and Tracy had, Annie thought. “Is Jaff Erin’s boyfriend’s real name?” she asked.

  “It’s short for Jaffar. I don’t know his last name.”

  “Is he Asian?”

  “Half Indian, or something.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “Granary Wharf. But I don’t know the address. It’s an old converted warehouse with a restaurant on the ground floor. The three of us were walking past once, just when I’d decided to take the room. We’d been out celebrating with a drink somewhere nearby. Anyway, Erin pointed it out, like she was really proud, you know. Showing off that her boyfriend had money.”

  “And does he?”

  “Seems to have.”

  Granary Wharf was certainly a posh address. Even Annie had heard of it. Now was the time she should ring the station, she realized, and report her findings to Superintendent Gervaise. But if she did that, it would be out of her hands, beyond her control. If Banks’s daughter was in trouble, Annie wanted to see what she could do to nip it in the bud, if it wasn’t already too late, and she couldn’t do that with Gervaise holding her back. “Do you mind if I have a quick look at Francesca’s room while I’m here?” she asked.

  “No skin off my nose. It’s the second door on the left at the top of the landing.”

  Annie climbed the stairs and opened the door. It was a spacious enough room, painted mauve and furnished like the usual student bedsit, with a desk and chair, bookcases, chest of drawers full of underwear and T-shirts, and a closet built into the wall, where Tracy hung her dresses, skirts, tops and jeans..

  There were a compact CD player and a small stack of CDs—Florence and the Machine, Adele, Emmy the Great, Kaiser Chiefs, Arctic Monkeys, the Killers. Beside them stood a few books, mostly history, which had been Tracy’s subject at university, and a few modern novels: The Kite Runner, The Time Traveller’s Wife, The Thirteenth Tale. There was no sign of a computer or a mobile. If Tracy had a phone, as Annie was certain she must have, then she had taken it with her.

  Annie opened the drawer on the bedside table and found some personal items: tampons, condoms, an old prescription for a yeast infection and some cheap jewelry. When she went back downstairs Rose was on the living room couch, and the TV was on again. EastEnders. “Do you happen to know Francesca’s mobile number?” Annie asked.

  “Sure.” Rose picked up her own mobile from the low coffee table and read out a number. Annie called. No response. She thanked Rose, then said good night and set off home for Harkside.

  6

  BANKS SAT IN VESUVIO’S TAVERN, AT THE TABLE BESIDE the door, with his back to the window sipping his pint of Anchor Steam and examining the copy of The Maltese Falcon that he had just bought at City Lights next door. It was one of his favorite films, but he had never read the book. Hammett had written about San Francisco in the thirties, and apparently there were still places associated with him. Maybe Banks would offer to take Teresa to John’s Bar & Grill, where Sam Spade had enjoyed his chops. Banks had read about it in the guidebook and knew the restaurant was still in business, and not too far from their hotel.

  For now, though, he was visiting an old beatnik haunt on Columbus, and the man at the bar in the beret, talking to the frizzy-haired barmaid, looked as if he might have been there since Jack Kerouac’s time. The bar had a high ceiling and an upper balcony, empty at that time of day. A screen behind the bar flashed random surreal images, and the walls were covered with old framed newspaper articles about San Francisco’s history. Banks had walked all the way from Fisherman’s Wharf, through North Beach, with its Italian cafés and wedding-cake houses, and the cold beer was going down nicely.

  Los Angeles and his two-day drive up the Pacific Coast Highway were just memories now that he was in San Francisco, near the end of his trip. His thoughts drifted from the book he was reading to that night in the desert, as they often had, to that strange fleeting kiss of happiness. At first it had surprised him that he was a stranger to it, that it was something he barely remembered feeling before, except perhaps once or twice as a child. He had always possessed too restless a nature, and restlessness precludes lasting happiness. He had never stopped to smell the flowers or listen to the ocean. And if he wasn’t restless, he usually felt a kind of vague, mellow sadness punctuated by the occasional eruption of anger or irritation. There had been moments of bliss, of course, but they were infrequent and ephemeral, and he often wondered if such moments could ever be sustainable. Was that the nature of happiness? That it came and went like a breath of desert air? That it was something we might only define by its absence? Or was it just his nature? He would probably never know. And what did it really matter, anyway?

  Everything changes. Nothing changes. His revelation was that there was no revelation. To change his life in any significant way he would have to make a leap of faith and accept such new tenets, new versions of the truth, cultivate new patterns of behavior, bow to some authority, even. He would have to believe, and he didn’t think he could do that. He didn’t even think he wanted to.

  So he would go on uncomfortably inhabiting his own skin, taking happiness (like that all-so-brief desert breeze) where he could find it, beauty where it revealed itself to him, and try not to dwell too much on his failures and losses. The count was way too high—Kay, Linda, Sandra, Annie, Michelle, Sophia. And if he did get a little maudlin and sentimental once in a while, so be it. He could revel in the lovelorn wisdom of Dylan, Billie Holiday, Nick Cave and Leonard Cohen with the best of them, and drink fine wine or whiskey till he fell asleep on the sofa with finely wrought phrases about life’s sadness and irony, love lost or unrequited ringing in his ears. The rest of the time there were Beethoven, Schubert, Bill Evans, Miles and Trane
. And that was about as much revelation and enlightenment as he was likely to get in this lifetime, he decided.

  Banks stretched like a cat in the sunlight through the window and drank some Anchor Steam. A cigarette would have gone down nicely, too, but they were a thing of the past now, not just for him, but even for pubs like this. Kerouac and Ginsberg would be turning in their graves. Eastvale seemed light-years away, though Banks realized that he was actually starting to look forward to going home. He didn’t miss the job, but he missed Annie, Winsome, Gristhorpe, Hatchley, even Gervaise and Harry Potter. They were the closest he had to friends outside his parents and Brian and Tracy, whom he also missed. He missed his cottage by the beck and woods, his CDs and DVDs. To hell with Sophia, la belle dame sans merci. Let her grapple with her own demons. He had had enough. Everything comes around.

  But before he left for home tomorrow, he had a date with a beautiful, interesting woman called Teresa. He finished his pint and headed out on to Columbus, noticing the sign on the corner: Jack Kerouac Alley. He plugged in his iPod, which played a jaunty live version of The Grateful Dead’s “Scarlet Begonias” from Winterland, 1976, perfect for a beautiful day in San Francisco, then he walked down the hill and bore right, through the lower end of Chinatown, across Union Square toward his hotel.

  “CHRIST, WHAT on earth do you lot want this time?” Rose Preston said when she opened the door to let the two men in about an hour after Annie had left. She was just in the middle of watching Holby City, which she did like, and she really didn’t want to be disturbed.

  The two men exchanged puzzled glances.

  “Sorry,” Rose said. “It’s all right. Come in. I just hope it won’t take long, that’s all.”

  “Ah, watching Holby City, I see,” said the tallest of the two. He had big shoulders and a tanned, shiny bald head, whereas his colleague was slight and round-shouldered, with wispy ginger hair and a pale, almost albino, complexion. “I don’t mind that, myself, though it’s a little gruesome for my tastes sometimes. Still, I wish I got to see it more often. But with the hours on this job…Anyway, I’m DS Sandalwood, and this here’s my colleague, DC Watkins. Just pretend he’s not here.”