Bad Boy

2

RIGHT,” SAID ACC RON MCLAUGHLIN WHEN EVERYONE was seated in the boardroom of Western Area Headquarters. “We’ve got the house on Laburnum Way locked down. Erin Doyle is in custody, and Juliet Doyle is at the hospital by her husband’s bedside. I hardly need to tell you, ladies and gentlemen, that we appear to be looking at a cock-up of gigantic proportions.”

McLaughlin had called the meeting to make some sense out of what had just happened and to determine what should be done next, and by whom. The room was crowded and the atmosphere tense. Though no media had arrived at the station yet, Annie could sense the vibrations thrumming through the ether, hear the tom-toms beating in the distance and see the smoke signals curling into the sky.

In plain gray T-shirts and combats, the AFOs looked as if they had just come from the nearest fitness center. Annie saw that she was right about one of the team being female. She had seen the woman around County HQ at Newby Wiske on the few occasions she had been there, and they had exchanged brief and polite greetings, but she hadn’t known the woman was a trained AFO. Luckily, Western Area hadn’t had much use for their services lately. There were few enough women in the force, and Annie reckoned that this one must be very good if she was a member of the AFO team. Training was tough and standards were high. The female officer had closely cropped spiky dark hair over a heart-shaped face with large eyes, a small mouth and an olive complexion. She was short, with a barrel-shaped muscular upper body, as if she lifted a lot of weights. Annie caught her eye and gave her a smile of solidarity. She gave Annie a grim, shy smile of understanding back, then turned away.

One of the team members, a youngish-looking fellow whom Annie didn’t recognize, seemed paler than the rest and was chewing on the end of a Biro. The hand in which he held it was shaking, and it didn’t take a genius to work out that he was the shooter, the one who had dashed out of the house and thrown up in the herbaceous border. He didn’t look any older than eighteen, but Annie knew that he had to be in his mid-to-late twenties to have completed the training and psychological testing necessary to be an AFO.

“I think you all know the drill,” McLaughlin went on once everybody had a coffee in front of them. “I’m going to hand over to Superintendent Chambers from Professional Standards now, to get the ball rolling. Once we’ve got the general picture, we’ll try to make some decisions on how best to proceed. Reg?”

Chambers cleared his throat, leaned back in his chair and put his pen down on his notepad. The buttons on his waistcoat stretched tight across his chest and belly. Annie thought he had the faintly ridiculous air of a Dickensian character. She had once worked with Chambers for a few weeks herself, and had quickly come to understand why the Internal Affairs Department was always referred to as the “Rat Squad” on American television programs.

“Thank you, sir,” said Chambers. “Let’s just get a few facts straight, first of all, shall we? Who called in the FSU?” He had a Home Counties accent, which he seemed to think made him sound posh.

“I did,” said Gervaise. “We had information that an illegal firearm had been discovered in Erin Doyle’s bedroom at her parents’ house on Laburnum Way. Miss Doyle had remained there in the custody of her father while her mother reported the weapon to us.”

“Admirable.” Chambers jotted something down, then asked Gervaise, “Was there any reason to suspect that anyone in the house was in danger?”

“None,” said Gervaise.

“Or that the firearm was a threat to anyone at all?”

“A loaded firearm is always a threat. But there was no reason for us to assume that either Erin or Patrick Doyle intended to use the weapon, either on each other or on anybody else. They were both aware that the mother, Juliet Doyle, had gone to the police station to report finding it. They were expecting us.”

Chambers scratched the edge of his nose and coughed. “I understand that the daughter was quite upset and angry when the gun was discovered in her room?”

“Naturally,” said Gervaise.

“But you don’t think she was afraid of the consequences, was likely to use the weapon to effect an escape?”

Gervaise took her time before answering. “I don’t think she was even aware of the consequences,” she said finally. “Most people in her position aren’t. They don’t really think they’ve done anything wrong in simply giving house room to a gun, no matter how they came by it. After all, they haven’t used it. I doubt that she even realized she was committing a serious crime. She probably expected to be thanked for keeping it off the streets. If she even knew about it.”

“What do you mean?” Chambers demanded.

“I’m just pointing out that at this stage in our inquiries, we have absolutely no evidence whatsoever that Erin Doyle had any connection with the gun found by her mother on top of her wardrobe.”

“Are you suggesting that someone else put it there?”

“I am simply saying that we don’t know,” said Gervaise. Annie could tell she was holding back her irritation.

“I understand from Sergeant Haggerty on the reception desk that Mrs. Doyle asked to see Detective Chief Inspector Banks?” said Chambers, shooting Annie a sly glance. Annie knew that Chambers and Banks didn’t get on, had crossed swords on more than one occasion since the reorganization, in which Chambers’s department had been relocated to County HQ.

“DCI Banks is one of my best officers,” said Gervaise. “As it happens, he’s on holiday.”

“Gardening leave, is it?” Chambers asked with a smirk. “We all know he’s been off his medication lately.”

“A well-deserved holiday,” said Gervaise, tight-lipped. She looked over at Annie. “According to DI Cabbot, Mrs. Doyle did first ask for DCI Banks, yes. Your point is?”

Chambers turned to Annie. His eyes narrowed. “So it’s true?”

“Yes,” said Annie.

“Any idea why this was?”

“Apparently they used to be neighbors and have remained friends since DCI Banks left the neighborhood.”

“Why do you think she asked for him by name?”

“Because she knew him. I think she expected that he would accompany her back to the house, pick up the gun and bring it in to the station.”

“Rather than follow correct procedure?”

Annie shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I think that DCI Banks’s first priority would have been to defuse the situation,” she said, “and to make sure that no harm came to anyone.”

“And our priority-the correct procedure-wasn’t likely to achieve that?”

“With all due respect, it’s not my place to comment on procedure, but I’m certain that whatever DCI Banks would have done would have been well within acceptable bounds.”

“I wish I could share your confidence,” said Chambers, his upper lip curling.

“Well, we’ll never know, will we?” said Annie. “Because he wasn’t here, and it’s all mere speculation.”

“That will do, DI Cabbot,” said Chambers. Annie gave him a contemptuous look.

“So, in fact, what Erin and Patrick Doyle were expecting,” Chambers went on, “was for an old family friend to come knocking at their door, give their daughter a stern talking to, then disappear from their lives forever with the gun? Problem solved.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily say that,” Annie argued. “I don’t know what they were expecting. There are no grounds whatsoever for assuming that DCI Banks would in any way interfere with the law, or try to protect Erin Doyle from prosecution for any offense she might have committed.”

Chambers sneered. “Well, we’ll never know now, will we, DI Cabbot? He wasn’t here.” He had the kind of face that seemed to be wearing a perpetual expression of distaste, Annie had noticed, as if he had just smelled or swallowed something unpleasant. She also felt his eyes undress her every time he looked in her direction. His complexion was like the shiny pink plastic of a child’s doll, and his lips were fleshy, wet and red. Annie felt like sticking her tongue out at him, but she managed to restrain herself. That would be childish. Instead, she gave him a sweet smile and sipped some bitter, tepid coffee.

“This isn’t getting us anywhere, Reg,” cut in McLaughlin, who, Annie suspected, was well aware of Chambers’s shortcomings. “What might have happened under different circumstances isn’t our concern here. Certainly not at this point.”

“No, sir,” said Chambers, with a quick glare at Annie. “Forgive me. I was simply trying to get a general sense of events. Did anyone telephone the Doyle house, try to talk to the father and assess the situation?”

Gervaise paused. “We felt that a telephone call might cause too much consternation, given that Erin’s mother had already told us that her daughter was distraught, and that Erin and her father were expecting DCI Banks to be in touch.”

Chambers raised his eyebrows. “Though that is standard procedure before sending in the cavalry, isn’t it?”

“Let’s move on to the incident itself, Reg,” McLaughlin said.

“By all means.” Chambers turned to the young AFO. “Constable Warburton, would you care to tell us briefly, in your own words, what transpired at Laburnum Way? Just stick to the facts and keep it simple. Don’t embellish.”

“Yes, sir,” said Warburton, sitting to attention, if such a thing was possible. He went on to describe how the team had waited while the local police knocked on the door and announced themselves.

“But no one answered, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long would you say transpired between the first officers announcing themselves and your forced entry?”

“It’s hard to say, sir,” said Warburton. “Time can behave very strangely in circumstances like that.”

“I acknowledge that one’s perception of time can be affected by stress,” said Chambers, “but surely you can give me a rough estimate? Seconds? Minutes? Hours?”

“A few minutes at most, sir.”

“Minutes? Very well. A minute can be a long time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And during that time did you hear anything?”

“Hear anything?”

“Yes, from inside. Any sounds? An argument or anything like that.”

“I thought I heard voices at one point, sir. People talking.”

“Arguing?”

“Impossible to say, sir. They were muffled.”

“But could they have been raised?”

“I suppose they could. I couldn’t tell.”

“Very well. What happened next?”

“When it seemed apparent that no one was going to answer the door, we thought it necessary to force entry. That is, WPC Powell and I did. Anything could have happened since the first reports. The girl could have been holding her father at gunpoint. She could even have shot him.”

“Nobody’s arguing with your judgment, son,” said Chambers. “Though the press might take a slightly more jaundiced view of things.”

“I feel that I acted in accordance with the law, sir, and with my training. I’d do the same-”

“Yes, yes. All right. Spare us the self-justification, PC Warburton. What happened when you entered the house? You entered from the front with Constable Nerys Powell, am I correct?” Chambers glanced at PC Powell, and it was clear to Annie, even from such a short look, that he disapproved of the presence of a woman on the team. They both worked at County HQ. Perhaps they had clashed before.

“Yes, sir,” said Warburton. “We entered the building as instructed, WPC Powell and me.”

Nerys Powell gave him a sad smile of encouragement. “What happened next?”

“The hallway was very long and dark. It was daytime, but there was no direct source of light.”

“Did you have a torch?” McLaughlin asked. “Yes, sir, on my belt.”

“Did you switch it on?”

Warburton paused before answering. “No, sir,” he said. “There was just no time. It all happened so quickly. I did flick a light switch on the wall as we entered, but the bulb blew.”

“Tell me what happened next.”

Warburton drank some water and rubbed his face with both hands. “Just as we entered the hall, by the bottom of the stairs, a door at the far end opened, to the right. I knew from my briefing that this was the door to the kitchen, and the kitchen was where the… where Mr. Doyle and his daughter were said to be waiting. And the loaded firearm. I heard a creaking noise. Then there was a figure in the corridor, just a silhouette, really, and I could swear he was waving a sword or some such weapon at me, about to rush us. Like I said, it was still dark in there. Our eyes hadn’t had a chance to adjust, and we didn’t have time to get out our torches. But we knew there was a loaded weapon on the premises, and I…I just reacted as fast as I could, sir, the way any officer would.”

“So you fired?”

“I discharged my Taser, sir, yes. As we are instructed to do when faced with someone brandishing a sword or a knife.”

“Yet as far as you were concerned, the weapon you were there to recover was a firearm, and it had been found in the possession of Erin Doyle, not her father?”

“That’s correct, sir. But he could have taken possession of it.”

“And just decided to shoot a policeman for the hell of it? Stick to the facts, constable. You mentioned a sword, not a gun. And this sword was actually a walking-stick.”

Warburton swallowed. “Well, yes, sir. Strictly speaking. But I-”

“‘Strictly speaking?’ I’d be interested to know how else you would put it? Were you aware of any reason Mr. Doyle might have had for attacking you with a sword? Or even a walking stick, for that matter?”

“No, sir. We…I…simply reacted to the circumstances, did the right thing, as per training. There was no time to speculate. Perhaps he had decided to try to defend his daughter? Perhaps he’d realized since the mother went off to see the police that the girl would be sent to jail? Perhaps he felt under threat because things hadn’t turned out the way he had expected? I don’t know, sir. I just reacted.”

“Are those the thoughts that passed through your mind at the time, or are they explanations you have thought up since?”

“I can’t say I really had time to think of anything like that, sir. Not at the time. In action, you just sort of fall back on your training. It’s not like thinking, finding reasons. That’s for later.”

“Where did you aim for?”

“For the chest area, sir. The largest body mass. It’s not as if you’d expect a Taser to kill someone.”

“I know that, but it has happened… Don’t you know it’s now recommended that firearms officers aim Tasers for the arms or legs, not the chest?”

“Sir, it was dark, I felt threatened, and I didn’t want to risk missing.”

Chambers cleared his throat. “Do you have any idea why there was such a long delay inside the house that you were forced to break down the door?”

“No, sir.”

“Were you aware at that time that Mr. Doyle was expecting DCI Banks, an old friend, to turn up and sort things out?”

“No, sir, I wasn’t.”

“Did you know that he was walking with a stick after a recent knee operation?”

“I did not, sir.” Warburton turned to his immediate boss, Firearms Cadre Superintendent Mike Trethowan, who gave him an encouraging nod. Trethowan was an experienced superintendent of about fifty, with compact military bearing and a red complexion that Annie associated with high blood pressure. He always seemed cool enough, though, so she doubted that was the reason. Maybe he just burned easily in the sun. “That information was not in our briefing,” said Warburton.

Chambers turned to Gervaise. “I take it you didn’t know about this, either, Catherine?”

“No,” said Gervaise. “Juliet Doyle neglected to mention that her husband was walking with the aid of a stick. I think she was far too het up about her daughter.”

“Her reasons are irrelevant. This should have been an essential part of the briefing. Essential. You can’t send men into battle on dodgy intelligence. It can mean the difference between life and death.”

Gervaise crossed her arms. Annie was about to make a remark about Tony Blair not being worried about dodgy dossiers when it came to going to war with Iraq, but she decided it wouldn’t go down well at this point. She must be growing up, she thought, not sticking her tongue out, keeping her lips buttoned.

Chambers put his pen on his pad. It was covered in looping, spider-like scrawl, Annie noticed, quite a lot of which appeared to be doodles. “I think we should wrap this up now,” he said. “There are a lot of loose ends, a lot more questions to be asked. This is only the beginning.”

“There is one more thing,” said Gervaise. Chambers raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Gervaise ignored him and looked directly at ACC McLaughlin. “If we might have your permission to interview Erin Doyle, sir? Before the ground gets muddied.”

Chambers spluttered. “I don’t think that’s-”

McLaughlin cut Chambers off, then glanced from him to Gervaise and back. “I do see the problem,” he said. “Clearly the discharge of the Taser is an incident that needs to be investigated by you and your department, Reg. The Independent Police Complaints Commission will no doubt insist on that.”

Chambers nodded in agreement.

“But on the other hand,” McLaughlin went on, “we still have the matter of the firearm itself, the reason the AFO team were at the Doyle house to begin with. I think you’ll agree, Reg, that we’re dealing with a separate investigation here. We need to find out as much as we can about this weapon and where it came from as soon as possible, and I don’t think another force would be any better equipped to deal with that than our own. Do you?”

“But it’s protocol.”

“It’s protocol that someone else investigates the actions of Constables Warburton and Powell and the rest of the AFO team, true, but that same protocol hardly requires an outside force to investigate the firearm we were called to recover in the first place. We have yet to establish any irrefutable link with Erin Doyle.”

“But they’re connected, sir.”

“Of course they’re connected,” said McLaughlin. He turned to Gervaise. “Where is the firearm now?”

“On its way to Forensic Services in Birmingham, sir.” McLaughlin nodded.

“I insist on being present at all interviews connected with this business, and with any members of the AFO team or anyone else connected with the weapon discharge,” demanded Chambers.

“There you are, you see, Reg,” McLaughlin said, allowing himself a flicker of a smile. “You’re already calling it ‘this business.’ To me that simply confuses the issue. We have the matter of the discharge of a Taser by a police officer in the course of his duty, yes, but we also have the discovery of a loaded firearm in a young woman’s bedroom. I would like to know where that weapon came from, what its history is, whether it has ever been used in the commission of a crime, for example, and how it got into Erin Doyle’s bedroom in the first place. Now, I’m aware there’s a connection-the officers were there to pick up the firearm, after all-but as far as I know, the handgun wasn’t used in ‘this business,’ was it? Nobody got a gunshot wound at Laburnum Way, did they? As far as I can gather, the weapon we’re interested in remained wrapped in a tea cloth from the moment it was picked up by Constable Powell to the moment we shipped it off to Birmingham. The chain of evidence is quite clear on this.”

“Let’s face it,” Gervaise said, “as soon as the media get hold of this, they’ll have a field day. We’re all going to be under the microscope-not just for the Taser discharge, but for the loaded gun, too-and things are likely to get even more twisted than they are right now. There’ll be questions in the house, a Home Office inquiry, a government report-”

“Yes, yes,” said McLaughlin, rubbing his forehead. “I’m aware of all that, Catherine. I don’t need reminding, thank you very much. I’m also aware that my opinion cuts very little ice with Superintendent Chambers here. But I’m still in charge, and I can’t see any objection at all to your interviewing Erin Doyle as long as you stick to the matter of the firearm, and she has legal representation present. The sooner, the better.”

“And my request to be present?” cut in Chambers, salvaging as much dignity as he could from the situation.

Before McLaughlin could answer, there came a soft tap at the door. Annie knew that the ACC had specifically asked that they not be interrupted, so she wasn’t surprised when he barked out a gruff “What is it?” A grim-faced Harry Potter opened the door a crack and stuck his head through. “Sorry to disturb the meeting, ma’am,” he said, addressing Gervaise, “but the hospital thought you ought to know. Mr.

Doyle. Patrick Doyle. He died ten minutes ago. Sorry, ma’am.”

WHEN TRACY Banks got home from work at about half past five that evening, she was hot, tired and grumpy. The traffic on Otley Road had been jammed up almost as far back as The Original Oak, and it had taken her bus nearly an hour to crawl the short distance from town. It had been a difficult day at the bookshop, too. They had a big-name crime author coming to do an event that evening, and she had spent most of the day on the phone chasing down his backlist from a variety of recalcitrant publishers, books that had been promised for weeks but still hadn’t arrived. Still, that wasn’t her problem anymore. Bugger it, she thought. Let Shauna, the evening-shift manager, deal with it. After all, she would also get to go out with the writer and his entourage afterward for a slap-up meal and a bunch of free drinks at Maxi’s. All Tracy wanted now was a joint and a bit of peace and quiet. She hoped Erin was still at her parents’ place. Life had been a lot more relaxed without her over the weekend, and the last thing Tracy wanted was another row.

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. “Was 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.”

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.