Bad Boy

3

JAFF HAD A ONE-BEDROOM FLAT WITH A BALCONY ON Granary Wharf, down by the river Aire and the Leeds-Liverpool Canal. Tracy had never been inside before, but Erin had pointed out the converted warehouse with the restaurant on the ground floor as they had passed by one night. Very chic. People sat at tables on the quayside outside the cafés under umbrellas advertising Campari or Stella Artois, sipping wine and chatting in the softening evening light. Tracy pressed the intercom button next to his name.

Jaff answered and sounded pleased to hear that it was she. He buzzed her in and she took the lift to the third floor. Jaff welcomed her at the door and led her into the modest but open space of the living, dining and kitchen area, where light flooded through a window that led to the small balcony. The place was messy, with newspaper sections, magazines, CDs and empty cups and glasses scattered here and there, dirty dishes piled in the sink, and a few old wine or coffee stains on the fitted carpet. The color scheme, shades of blue and green, was a bit too dark and cold for Tracy’s taste. A number of framed photographs stood on a shelf above the television set, which was tuned to the BBC News at Six. A couple of the photos were of Jaff, clearly in exotic places, but there was one of a beautiful woman in a colorful sari. She had golden skin, long glossy black hair, high cheekbones, large eyes, a perfect, straight nose. To Tracy she looked like a model. One of Jaff’s old girlfriends, perhaps?

“Sorry about the mess,” Jaff said. “The cleaning lady doesn’t come till Thursday.”

Tracy smiled. “No need to apologize to me. It’s not as if I’m exactly the tidiest person in the world. Who’s that beautiful woman in the photograph over there?” she asked.

Jaff looked toward the shelf. “That’s my mother,” he said. “Don’t be…It can’t possibly be,” said Tracy.

“It is,” he said. “Honest. She was thirty-six when that was taken. Four years before she died.”

“Oh, Jaff. I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago. She was an amazing woman. Grew up in the slums of Dhaka and ended up one of the biggest Bollywood stars of her day.” As he spoke, staring at the photograph, he seemed choked with emotion. “Sorry,” he said, with a wan smile. “I still don’t find it easy to talk about her. Let’s go outside.”

“Okay,” said Tracy, following him. “I understand.”

It was clear from the cigarette smoldering in the ashtray and the half-full glass of lager that Jaff had been sitting on his balcony. Tracy sat in the opposite chair.

“Good to see you, babe,” Jaff said, touching her shoulder lightly. “I was going to ring you soon as the dust settled. Thing is, I had to go away for the weekend. Bit of business. Amsterdam and London. Just got back an hour or so ago. Drink?”

Tracy accepted, more out of politeness than anything else. Jaff went back inside to pour her a gin and tonic. Tracy gazed out over the city beyond the railway tracks. So much had changed since she had first arrived there at university more years ago now than she cared to remember. She could see several distant building sites where the giant cranes had remained stationary for months, since their funds had dried up, the ambitious towers only half-finished. The closer view only confirmed what she had felt before about the canal-side development being claustrophobic and ugly. It was too near to the railway lines, for a start, just at the back of City Station, and below the balcony was the canal, a ribbon of murky, stagnant water on which floated plastic bottles, fast-food wrappers and other things she would rather not think about. There was still plenty of activity. At the moment the area seemed to be one enormous building site. Everything was crammed together cheek by jowl. God only knew what the mishmash would look like when the builders had finished, if they ever did finish. Tracy doubted that the planners had ever thought of sketching out the whole picture.

It was a warm evening, but she kept her denim jacket on against the chill that always crept in at this time of year when darkness fell. Jaff came back outside with her drink and sat down. Tracy hadn’t stayed at the Headingley house long enough to get changed after work, and as usual, she felt quite scruffy compared to Jaff, who was wearing designer jeans and a loose white shirt hanging out at the waist. It stood in sharp contrast to his golden skin. Not for the first time, Tracy found herself admiring his long dark eyelashes, gelled black hair, smooth complexion, lean body, loam-brown eyes and the lithe way he moved. He was beautiful, she thought, like some exotic cat, but there was nothing at all effeminate about him. She also sensed that he could be a dangerous enemy, and there was a hardness in his eyes at odds with the humor and intelligence that also dwelled there. But that combination and contrast excited her, too.

He picked up his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” said Tracy. They clinked glasses. “Ever been to Amsterdam?”

“No. I’ve been to London, though. Used to live there.”

“Amsterdam’s a great city. All those canals. And the clubs. Melkweg. Paradiso. Mind-blowing. Enlightened, too. You can get hash brownies in the cafés, and there are places you can sit and smoke dope and listen to music.”

“Cool,” said Tracy. “Maybe someday.”

“For sure. So what brings you here? Is it just a social visit, or what?” Tracy leaned forward and frowned. “I’m not certain,” she said. “But I think something’s wrong. The police came around to our house today and searched the place, Erin’s room in particular.”

Jaff sat up. “Erin’s room? Police? Why?”

“I don’t know. I was at work. Rose was there, and she told me about it, but you know what she’s like. I’m not sure she got all the details right. Apparently they also asked questions about who her friends were, including boyfriends.”

“Did Rose say anything?”

“She says she mentioned your first name, but she doesn’t know the address, only that you live by the canal. She’s scared stiff, Jaff. There’s something else.”

“What?”

“I rang Erin at home and a strange voice answered. I thought it was a cop.”

“Why did you think that?”

Tracy couldn’t tell him why, that she had grown up listening to cops and recognized the tone, the thrust of the questions. As far as Jaff was concerned, she was called Francesca, and he knew nothing about her father. “It just sounded like a cop, that’s all. Trust me,” she said. “What’s it all about?”

Jaff looked at his watch and stood up. “Let’s see if there’s anything on the local news. It should have started by now.” Tracy followed him inside. He cleared away a pile of magazines, and they sat next to each other on the sofa. There was nothing of interest on until the headline recap at the end, before the weather, and then all they got was a little grainy, jerky video footage taken with a hand-held camera, or a mobile, and a voice-over that didn’t really explain what was going on, except that an armed police raid had taken place on a quiet leafy street in Eastvale. Laburnum Way. Tracy felt her jaw dropping in shock at the familiarity of it all as she watched. She recognized all the houses, knew almost everyone who lived on the street.

When it was over, they were not much the wiser. Erin’s name hadn’t been mentioned, nor any possible reason for a police search of the house in Leeds.

“What’s going on?” Tracy asked again.

Jaff turned off the TV and stood up. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I don’t like the look of it. An armed police raid? Why? It seems serious. What was Erin doing at home, anyway?”

“After last Thursday,” Tracy said, “she didn’t come back to the house that night. I thought she’d…you know…just stopped the night with you. On Friday, she came by to pick up a few things to go home for a while, so she said. Rose was there.”

Jaff paced. “She did stop with me on Thursday night. Well, she stopped here, at any rate. Crashed. Passed out on the sofa. Whatever you care to call it. We weren’t on speaking terms by then. It was late. We had a row.”

“Because of what happened earlier?”

“Partly. But it’s been brewing longer than that. She’s been getting too possessive. Too clingy. I hate that.”

“So what happened?”

“I had to leave early, drive down to London. She was asleep. I left her here.” He paused. Something seemed to dawn on him. “I left her here alone. Stay here a minute, please, would you?”

Tracy did as he asked while Jaff hurried into the bedroom. He came back moments later and seemed even more agitated than before.

“Shit! The stupid bitch.”

“What is it?” Tracy asked, picking up on his sense of alarm…

“I’ve got to get out of here. They could turn up any moment. The stupid, stupid woman. She doesn’t know what she’s done.”

“Why? What were they looking for at the house?”

Jaff turned and touched Tracy’s hair so gently that she felt a little shiver run up her spine. “You ask too many questions,” he said. “You sound like a policewoman yourself. You’re not, are you? I wouldn’t put it past them to plant such a pretty girl on me.”

“Don’t be silly.”

He smiled at her, flashing those so-white teeth. “Of course not.” Then he went back into the bedroom.

“Will you please tell me what’s going on?” Tracy called after him.

“I would,” he answered, popping his head around the door, “but I don’t know. I haven’t seen or heard anything of Erin since last Friday morning. And you know quite well what happened on Thursday night.”

Tracy felt herself blush with shame at the memory. “I’m sorry. It was all my fault.”

“Like I said, it had been building up for a while. That was just the last straw. It doesn’t matter. I should never have left her here alone. Now look what she’s gone and done. The stupid bitch. She took something of mine. Something…really important. Now I have to go and lie low for a while until I know what’s what. I just need to put a few things in a bag first. Will you wait here? Please?”

“Of course. If there’s anything I can do…”

Tracy walked back out to the balcony, leaned on the railing, sipped her gin and tonic and stared down into the oily canal. Laughter rose from a group of people under one of the umbrellas. The drink tasted good, better than she remembered. Why had Jaff asked her to wait? Did he want her to go with him, wherever he was going? To London? An adventure. The idea both excited and scared her. She couldn’t just take off with him, surely? But why not? What had she got to hang around Leeds for? What prospects? What future? Her lousy job in the bookshop? An absentee mother and a father who seemed incapable of growing up? Besides, she was beginning to feel at least partly responsible for whatever it was that had happened between Erin and Jaff, even though she had no idea what was upsetting him at the moment, what she had taken.

It didn’t take Jaff long to pack a hold-all. In less than five minutes he was back in the living room again. Tracy joined him. They checked that everything was switched off, that his cigarette was properly extinguished, and that the French doors leading to the balcony were securely locked.

“Where are you thinking of going?” Tracy asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” he said. “But I have to get away from here till things cool down. It’s not safe. If I were you, I’d just go home. It’s really nothing to do with you.”

“Look,” Tracy said hesitantly. “I wish I knew a bit more about what was going on, but I know somewhere we can go. I mean, if you want to.”

“You do? Where?”

“My dad’s place. I’ve got a key. He’s away on holiday till next Monday. That’s a whole week. We can at least stay for a few days until you figure out your next move. We’ll be safe there. Nobody will think to look for us.”

Jaff considered this for a moment, then said, “All right. If you’re sure. But I have to stop at Vic’s on the way to pick up a few things I need from him. We’ll borrow his car, too. He won’t mind. He can keep mine in his garage. That way nobody will be after us. Vic’s number won’t mean anything to the police. This sounds great. Where does your dad live?”

“Gratly.”

“Huh?”

“It’s in the Dales, a little cottage, very isolated.”

“Perfect,” Jaff said, then he patted her between the shoulder blades. “What are we waiting for, babe? Let’s go.”

THE SHADOWS were lengthening when Annie approached Laburnum Way. She knew that she shouldn’t be visiting Juliet Doyle on her own like this, that she was risking Chambers’s wrath, not to mention Gervaise’s and McLaughlin’s, but she had a few more questions for Juliet before Chambers cut off access entirely.

She should have gone home hours ago, or called at Banks’s cottage to water the plants and take in the post, but she had sat instead in the Half Moon on Market Street not far from Laburnum Way sipping a pint of Daleside bitter and picking at a vegetarian pasta after mustering up the willpower to order it instead of fish and chips. Anyway, she consoled herself, pub fish and chips were never anywhere near as good as those from the chippie. When she had finished, she decided that, being so close to Laburnum Way, she would drop in and see how things were. Erin was staying at a guest house near the castle. She hadn’t wanted to be anywhere near her mother. Banks’s potted plants could wait another day or two, and if he got any parcels they’d only be CDs or DVDs from Amazon, and they would wait safely in the wheely-bin storage area, where the postman usually left them.

There was still a strong police presence on Laburnum Way: patrol cars, unmarked vehicles, SOCO vans, uniformed officers on guard, mostly keeping the media at bay. A couple of local reporters, one from the paper and one from TV, recognized Annie and asked for comments, but she said nothing.

Harriet Weaver answered the door just moments after Annie had rung the bell. “Annie, isn’t it?” she said. “Alan’s friend. Please come in.” She closed the door for a moment and Annie heard the chain slide off. “You can’t be too careful with all those reporters creeping around the place,” Harriet said. “We’ve already had to take the phone off the hook.”

Annie followed her into the house and waited while Harriet put the chain back on and locked the dead bolt. They had met before a few times through Banks, but they didn’t know each other well. Harriet, Annie knew, was somewhere in her fifties and had recently retired from driving a mobile library in the Dale. Her husband, David, had something to do with computers, she remembered, and Banks thought him a crashing bore. Annie had never met him. They were also Sophia’s aunt and uncle, and Banks had met Sophia through them, at a dinner party at their house. He had told Annie that he and Sandra and the kids used to live next door, and Harriet had been one of the first to welcome them to the neighborhood over twenty years ago. Sophia had been visiting her aunt for years, probably since back when she was a student, or even still a schoolgirl. Annie found herself wondering if Banks had fancied her that long ago, too. He would only have been in his thirties. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. When she’d been seventeen she had gone out briefly with a man in his early thirties, until her father had found out. Anyway, there was no time for such speculation, she told herself, nor any point in it. She wondered how Harriet and her husband felt about the whole Banks-and-Sophia affair. Uncomfortable, probably. No need to bring it up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“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 passes 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 parents’ 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.

“Well, it’s a fine mess you’ve gotten us into,” said Jaff when she came back.

“What do you mean?” Tracy asked. “What mess? I haven’t done anything. What’s Erin been up to? What gun are they talking about? What’s going on?”

“You know, technically, one could argue that this is all your fault.” Tracy pointed her thumb at her own chest and laughed. “Moi?

How do you work that out?”

“What happened last week. Thursday night. That’s when it all started.”

It was true that last week was when the trouble had begun, when Erin had left for home. She had always been insanely jealous about Jaff, and she had always suspected that Tracy had her sights set on him, which she hadn’t, really, though she did think he was fit.

They’d been at a club in the city center that Thursday night, wasted on E and hash, and it was really late, nearly time to go home. Erin had gone to the loo, and Tracy was dancing a slow dance with Jaff, feeling his warmth, feeling the sexy, sensual edge of the drugs work on her, the hardness under his trousers pressing against her. She hadn’t even been thinking about it; it had just happened. All of a sudden, it seemed, they were kissing on the dance floor under the disco light, so romantic, tongue and everything; then someone grabbed Tracy’s arm and pulled her away. It was Erin, of course, and she was furious. She yelled at Tracy, hit her across the face, called her a slut and a slag, a slapper and a whore, then ran off.

Jaff dashed after Erin, leaving Tracy alone on the dance floor, people staring at her. She started to feel nervous and paranoid then, her cheek burning, the good rush and the sexy glow all gone. She grabbed her bag and went after them, but they were nowhere in sight. They had disappeared down one of the alleys off Vicar Lane. Tired and disoriented, she had walked to the station and taken a taxi home, then crawled into bed, where she had slept only fitfully. Erin hadn’t been there when she got back, and she wasn’t there in the morning when Tracy got up to go to work, either, but Tracy thought nothing of that at the time. She assumed Erin must have made up with Jaff and stopped the night at his place. But she still wanted to talk to her, wanted to apologize and explain that it had just been the mood, the E, the music; blame it on the bossa nova, on Rio, or whatever.

It was only when Tracy got back from work that Friday evening that Rose told her Erin had been by to pick up some things and had said she was going to stay at her parents’ house for a while. Tracy had rung Erin at home, but she wouldn’t talk to her except to say that she had split up with Jaff, and it was all Tracy’s fault.

“It was only a kiss,” Tracy said to Jaff. “Don’t you think Erin over-reacted a bit?”

“Sure, but that doesn’t help me now, does it? Look what’s happened.”

“What’s wrong?” Tracy asked. “Nobody mentioned you.”

“Well, they wouldn’t, would they? They’d hardly want to tip me off.”

“But what’s wrong? What are you so worried about? What was Erin doing with a gun? Or was it her father’s? It sounds as if he’s been hurt.”

“Pour me some more wine and I’ll tell you all about it.” Tracy poured.

“The gun was mine,” Jaff said. “And now, thanks to dear Erin, the police have got it.”

“What?”

Jaff paused, then said, “The gun was mine. All right? That woman the reporter talked to was right. It was a gun wrapped in an old tea cloth.”

“Was it registered?”

“Of course it wasn’t. You can’t register a handgun in this country these days.”

“But why did Erin take it?”

Jaff ran his hand over his hair and sighed. “I don’t know. To spite me. To hurt me. She must have taken it after that night we had the row, the morning after, when I left her alone in the flat.”

“And you didn’t notice it was gone?”

“It’s not exactly something I look at every day. Besides, I told you, I was away on business all weekend. I only noticed when I checked after that piece we saw on the news back at the flat.”

“But where did you get it from? What do you need a gun for?”

Jaff put his hands to his ears. “Will you stop it with the third degree? Please? Too many questions. That doesn’t matter. You don’t need to know. I was doing a favor for a friend, that’s all. The point is that the police have got it now, and if I know Erin, she’ll be blabbing away to them in no time, if she hasn’t already. Hell hath no fury and all that. Do you think they’d know to look here for you?”

“Nobody’s looking for me, and no, they wouldn’t think to look here even if they were. We’re safe. Don’t worry. Besides, Erin would never tell them your name.”

“How do you know?”

“She just wouldn’t, that’s all.”

“Well, I appreciate your loyalty to her, especially after what happened, but they give out stiff enough penalties just for thinking about a gun these days. What would you do if PC Plod says he can make a nice deal with you if you tell him what you know?”

“She won’t tell. What are you going to do now?”

“I need time to think. I’ve got some contacts down south. Useful contacts, but these things take time. Right now, I’m going to roll another joint. Bring in the Highland Park, will you? The wine’s finished. And a fresh glass. This one’s got lees in it.”

Tracy went into the kitchen. She leaned against the fridge and put her head in her hands. The weed was misting up her brain. She needed to pull herself together. What was going on? What did she think she was doing? Here was good little Tracy, the apple of her daddy’s eye, practically breaking into his house, drinking his best booze, making a mess with a man she barely knew who had just told her that her best friend had stolen his gun and run away with it. How had she got mixed up in all this? It was all so confusing.

But she hadn’t been the apple of her daddy’s eye for quite a while, she realized. For a few years now, ever since she had graduated with a less than desirable 2/2 degree, it had all been about Brian. Brian. Brian. Brian. The Blue Lamps. My son the rock star. And Tracy, with her lousy degree and her dead-end job, could rot in hell as far as he was concerned. That was the truth of it. They exchanged texts occasionally, even phone calls, but she didn’t think he had visited her once since June.

She wouldn’t mind so much, but all the time they had been growing up, she had been the one who worked hard at school, who stayed in night after night to do her homework, who was called a swot by the other kids, who came top of the class, always got great exam results, was expected to go places. Brian was a lazy sod who did everything at the last minute, or copied it from one of his mates, and then dropped out to start a rock band. She had done everything right, so why did her father love Brian more? Well, screw him. She was having her own adventure now, and she was damn well going to see it through. She’d show him. She’d show them all.

Tracy thumped the fridge and picked up the Highland Park from the table where Jaff had left it. She took a long swig from the bottle, and it burned all the way down, then she grabbed two crystal glasses from the cupboard and tottered back into the conservatory.