Bad Boy

8

THIS IS NAOMI WORTHING,” SAID DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT Gervaise to the Serious Crimes team assembled in the boardroom late that afternoon. “She’s come up from Birmingham to tell us all about the gun we sent down. Many thanks for the quick work, Naomi.”

Naomi smiled at Gervaise. “Not a problem,” she said. “We got a lucky break.” She was a plump middle-aged woman with graying hair and a benevolent manner, hardly what Annie would have expected in a ballistics expert. She seemed more like Miss Marple than a member of the CSI cast. Her audience was small-only Gervaise, Annie, Winsome, Harry Potter and Geraldine Masterson, who was new to Major Crimes and dead keen to make a good impression.

“I’m not going to bore you with all the technical details,” Naomi began, “but basically we’re dealing with a 9-mm Smith and Wesson automatic, or, more correctly, semiautomatic. This particular model dates from the mid-eighties. It has a four-inch barrel, a sixteen round capacity, and it weighs just under two pounds unloaded. Any questions so far?”

“Isn’t Smith and Wesson an American company?” asked Annie.

“Yes. The pistol in question was manufactured in the USA,” replied Naomi. “Which perhaps makes it a little rarer around these parts than a Czech or a Russian model. I mean, you wouldn’t find one for sale in the local pub. And, of course, a Smith and Wesson would cost you a lot more money.”

“Are they readily available over here?”

“On and off. Though they’re certainly not as common at street level as the Eastern European models I mentioned. Look, if I can perhaps make a guess at where you’re going with this, Detective…?”

“Cabbot. DI Annie Cabbot.”

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t let the fact that this pistol is American in origin influence your search for its owner and user. The odds are that it has been floating around the UK since the nineties, if not before. It’s a very popular, simple and practical piece of equipment, and ammunition for it isn’t hard to come by.”

“Did you say ‘user,’ Naomi?” Gervaise asked.

Naomi turned to her. “Yes. That’s what I was about to get to. The reason I came up here, rather than simply filing a written report. Not that a trip to Eastvale isn’t always a pleasant prospect.”

“Do tell,” said Gervaise.

Naomi helped herself to coffee, added milk and sugar and opened her file folder. “There were two rounds missing from the magazine. Bullets and casings. That’s often the case with automatics, as you probably know. They eject the casing after firing. A clever criminal picks up his spent casings and disposes of them, but sometimes people are careless, or in a hurry, and leave them lying around.”

“Any idea when the shots were fired?” Annie asked.

Naomi shook her head. “We can’t ascertain when they were fired by examining the pistol,” she said. “Only that they were fired from that magazine.”

“But perhaps even from a different gun?”

“It’s possible, I suppose, but unlikely. Unfortunately, as I said, we don’t have the spent casings, so we can’t check them against the firing pin to make sure. Unless someone’s trying to pull a very elaborate trick, though, I would say there’s no reason to doubt that the bullets were fired from this pistol.”

“I see. Sorry, please go on.”

“Naturally, we then consulted the National Firearms Forensic Intelligence Database, which is a bit of a mouthful, so I’ll refer to it as the NFFID in future. There we discovered that a pistol of this description had been used to commit an unsolved murder in November 2004. This information, of course, is not conclusive. It merely refers to a case number and the general model and kind of ammunition consistent with that we found in the magazine, but it piqued our curiosity. The next step involved shooting the gun under controlled circumstances in order to obtain a sample of a used bullet we could then run through IBIS-that’s the Integrated Ballistics Identification System-don’t we just love acronyms? The result is that we found a definite link between this pistol and the 2004 crime. The next step we need to carry out, for absolute certainty, is to get hold of one of the actual bullets retrieved from the victim and do a physical examination, side by side, through a comparison microscope. This is the kind of thing you see on TV crime programs, lands and grooves. Looks very sexy on screen.”

“And where would you get hold of one of these bullets?” Annie asked.

“West Yorkshire. I’m not sure exactly where they are, but they should still be locked in an evidence room somewhere.”

“Where did the shooting take place?”

“Woodhouse Moor. Leeds.”

“I’m not sure where they keep their cold case exhibits,” said Gervaise, “but that’ll probably be Weetwood, on Otley Road. On the other hand, you might be better off trying the Homicide and Major Enquiries team first. We may be the largest single county force in the country, but West Yorkshire’s got a much bigger urban population than we have, and they’ve got all the specialists. We’ve got Wildlife Crime officers, and they have a Homicide squad. They’d probably be the ones to handle a case like that.”

“Thanks,” said Naomi. “I’ve dealt with them before. That’ll be my next stop.”

“So what can you tell us pending a physical comparison?”

Naomi sipped her milky coffee. “Not much more, I’m afraid. You’ll have to get the rest of the details from the investigating team. All I know is that on the fifth of November, 2004, a suspected drug dealer called Marlon Kincaid was shot to death near a bonfire site on Woodhouse Moor.”

“Any witnesses?” Annie asked.

“Not according to what little information I’ve got. As I say, though, the NFFID and IBIS files are skimpy on details. I’m sure the detectives involved will be able to tell you a lot more.”

“Bonfire Night, though,” said Annie. “Fireworks might be useful to cover up the noise of gunshots.”

“Indeed,” said Naomi. “Oh, there is one more thing. It may be important. We examined the pistol for fingerprints, of course, and we found only Patrick Doyle’s, the ones you sent us, on the grip and barrel, which is consistent with his checking to see if it was loaded. We did, however, find two clear sets of prints on the magazine itself, only one of them belonging to Patrick Doyle. People often forget that. They have to load it by hand, you see, and they hardly ever think of wearing gloves. The magazine remains protected inside the handle, and the prints are preserved. There are also several partials on the cartridges, and they also appear to match the mystery prints on the magazine.”

“Anything there?”

“We ran them through IDENT1, of course, but I’m afraid they’re not on file.”

“So no name and address?” said Gervaise. “No easy arrest?”

Naomi smiled. “Is there ever? No. I’m afraid you’ll have to sweat this one through. When you do come up with a suspect, of course…well, the prints are there for comparison. Even then, I’m afraid, all it means is that the person handled the magazine and the cartridges, not that he or she committed the murder.”

Gervaise looked at Annie. “I suppose we’d better start with Erin Doyle,” she said. “Can you get in touch with Vic Manson and deal with it, Annie?”

“Of course.”

Gervaise checked the time. “It’s getting a bit late now, but if you and Winsome could head down to Leeds first thing tomorrow and see what you can find out from the case files and the investigating officers, we might start getting somewhere.”

IT WAS almost seven o’clock by the time Annie got out of the station and into her car. The little purple Astra had finally given up the ghost earlier that summer, but she was quite pleased with the Megane she had bought as a replacement. Especially with the price.

Since the meeting, she had tracked down a sulky and passive Erin Doyle at her bed-and-breakfast by the castle and brought her back to the station, accompanied by the Family Liaison officer Patricia Yu, where her fingerprints had been taken. After all the paperwork and running back and forth, Annie felt like nothing more than a large glass of wine and a nice long bath when she got home. So numb was her mind that she had driven almost a mile in the wrong direction-toward her own cottage in Harkside-before remembering that she was supposed to go to Banks’s cottage to water his plants and pick up the pile of post from the floor.

For a moment Annie wavered, weighing the wine and the bath against a lengthy detour. Surely she could postpone the visit until tomorrow? The plants would survive, and the post was mostly bills and special offers on magazine subscriptions and cases of wine. But she felt guilty enough of her neglect already. He would be back soon, and if it seemed that she hadn’t discharged her duties she would feel even worse, no matter how forgiving he might be. She drove as far as the next roundabout and turned back the way she had come.

As she passed the police station she thought of Chambers, who had been strutting around all afternoon with Dumb and Dumber in tow, giving everyone the evil eye. Annie was down for her official interview the following morning, and she wasn’t looking forward to that at all. She knew how it would go. Chambers would get Dumb or Dumber, or both of them, to conduct the interview, because they were supposedly unbiased, while he would sit there ogling her as she squirmed, loving every minute of it, thinking he was setting the world to rights. She would have to remember to wear trousers or a long skirt and a loose top that came all the way up to her chin, maybe even her polo-neck jumper-the loose one, not the tight one.

She turned onto the main Helmthorpe road and left the town behind. She would drive home over the moors, she decided. She loved the purity of the bleak landscape in the soft evening light, the unfenced roads where sheep wandered, the broad sky and magnificent vistas. The heather would be in bloom, too, which was always a bonus, and sometimes you could just make out the pale moon in the milky-blue evening sky. When she got home, she would have the wine and bath.

Cheered by the prospect of an evening drive over the moors, and by her decision not to take the line of least resistance and go straight home, Annie turned left in Helmthorpe, by the school, and drove up the hill to Gratly. A hundred yards or so past the little stone bridge over the beck she turned right into Banks’s drive, a narrow dirt track with a few patches of gravel here and there. It led under a canopy of lime trees and came to a halt in front of the cottage. Beyond were the woods, and to Annie’s right, behind the low drystone wall, Gratly Beck ran over its terraced waterfalls, then on through the village and down into the center of Helmthorpe, on the valley bottom. It was a beautiful spot, and she had often envied Banks it.

Annie parked outside the small cottage. When she turned off the engine and got out of the car, she could hear birds singing in the woods and down the valley, over the beck. She could also hear music. It was some sort of modern rock-distorted guitar, thrashing drums and pounding bass. What was odd was that it seemed to be coming from the cottage. Just next to the garage she spotted a car she didn’t recognize. A Ford Focus, maybe a little the worse for wear and certainly in need of a good wash. There was a dent in the rear wing and rust around the wheel arches. She knew that Banks had been talking about trying to sell the Porsche all summer, but as far as she knew he hadn’t been able to get the right price. The Ford certainly hadn’t been there the last time she had called to water the plants.

Banks had complained to her that when you’re trying to sell a Porsche, people either assume that you’re loaded already, or that you really need the money. Consequently they think they can get away with a quick deal at a low price. He wasn’t loaded, but neither did he need the money. He just wanted to sell the car. Annie suspected it might be because it still reminded him too much of his brother, whom it had belonged to, even though Roy Banks had been dead for some time now. Banks had never really got used to it. But even if he had sold it, he wouldn’t have bought a banged-up Ford Focus. He’d have probably gone for a Volvo, or even an Audi, she thought. He wasn’t exactly a Top Gear kind of bloke-he had driven an old Cortina until it practically fell apart, for crying out loud-but he wouldn’t be seen dead driving a car like this. She had a quick peek into the garage and, indeed, the Porsche was still there.

Which raised a question: Whom did the Focus belong to? Annie made a note of the number, then she dug in her bag for Banks’s front door key and put it in the lock. When it was open, she stood on the threshold and shouted, “Hello! Hello! Is anybody there?” There was no pile of letters on the floor, so she knew that someone must have been in since she was last there.

Nothing happened at first, then the music got quieter and the door to the entertainment room to her left opened. Out walked Tracy, carefully shutting the door behind her.

“Tracy,” said Annie. “I didn’t know you had a Ford Focus.”

“I don’t,” said Tracy. “I just borrowed it from a friend.”

“I see.”

Tracy did look different, but not that much, Annie thought. It was the haircut, mostly, a little punkish. She wore little or no makeup, perhaps a trace of pink lipstick, and was dressed in a simple outfit of blue jeans and a light blue sleeveless V-neck top, leaving an inch or two of bare midriff. The piercings weren’t extreme, just a ring at the edge of one eyebrow and a stud under her lower lip, like thousands of other young women. She did look older than Annie remembered, though, and there was a certain sophistication about her she hadn’t noticed before. Tracy also seemed nervous.

“Is something wrong?” Annie asked.

“No. What could possibly be wrong? What do you want? Nothing’s happened to Dad, has it?”

“No,” said Annie, shutting the door behind her. “Nothing like that. I said I’d water his plants and pick up the post while he was away, that’s all. How about a cup of tea or coffee or something?”

“Cup of tea?”

Annie gestured toward the kitchen. “Yes. You know, the little bag you put in a pot and add water to. In there.”

“Oh, right. Sure.”

Annie followed Tracy to the kitchen, noticing how she wasn’t entirely steady on her feet. Her voice had seemed a little slurred, too, her eyes unfocused, and her concentration didn’t seem what it normally was. Annie suspected drugs, or perhaps it was just booze. “Anyway,” she said, “it’s a stroke of good fortune finding you here. I was getting a bit worried about you.”

“Worried? Why?”

“Surely you must know about Erin, your housemate?”

“There’s still some coffee left in the pot. I don’t know how long it’s been there. Will that be okay?”

“It’ll be fine,” said Annie. “Plenty of milk and sugar, please.”

Even the milk and sugar didn’t disguise the bitterness of the burned coffee oils, but Annie sipped politely and leaned against the kitchen doorjamb. “It’s a nice evening,” she said. “Shall we go into the conservatory? That’s where the plants are, too. I still have to water them, unless you’ve done it?”

“Plants?”

“Yes, the ones I came to water. Green things in pots.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah.”

Annie filled an empty jug by the sink and walked through to the conservatory. Tracy followed her. The room was a mess. Unwashed plates and cups sat on the low table along with half-full wineglasses, one on its side, sticky red wine drying on the glass surface. “Been having a party?” Annie asked.

“That. Oh, no. Just an accident. I was meaning to clean it up. Just haven’t got around to it yet.”

“Want some help?”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll do it later. Do you want to sit down?”

“I think I will, if that’s okay.” Annie set her water jug on the table and sat. “I was saying, about Erin-”

“That’s nothing to do with me,” Tracy said quickly, biting on a fingernail. “I saw it on the news.”

“But you already knew what had happened before that, didn’t you?”

“How? What do you mean?”

“Rose told you when you got home from work the other evening.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s right. She said the police had been round, or something like that. She didn’t seem to know much.”

“You don’t seem very clear about it yourself.”

“Like I said, it’s nothing to do with me, is it?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I just came to get a bit of peace and quiet, that’s all. What’s wrong with that? I’m entitled. It’s my dad’s house.”

Annie held her hand up. “All right. Hold your horses, Tracy. Nobody’s saying you’re not. Did you come straight here after you left the house in Headingley?”

“Of course I did. Where else would I go?”

“It’s just that I got the impression you were rather concerned about Erin’s boyfriend. Jaff.”

“Jaff? But how do you…?” Tracy let her sentence trail off. “I should have known. You’ve been spying on me for Dad, haven’t you?”

“I had no idea you were here,” said Annie. “As I told you, I came to bring in the post and water the plants.” She cast her eyes over the various pots and hanging baskets. “It looks as if they could do with it, too.”

“I’m not very good with plants. They all seem to shrivel up and die if I go near them.”

“So I see.” Annie paused, and Tracy showed no interest in prolonging the conversation. Annie picked up the jug and began to water the plants. “Where is he, Tracy?” she asked casually, over her shoulder.

“Who?”

“You know who. Jaff. Is he here?”

“Here? Why would he be here? I told you, I came for a bit of peace and quiet.”

“Maybe you fancy him? Maybe you thought you’d help him hide out for a while, until the spot of bother he’s in passes over.”

“Bother? What bother? I don’t understand.”

“It was his gun Erin had, wasn’t it?”

“I know nothing about any gun.”

“It was used in a murder six years ago, Tracy. A young lad by the name of Marlon Kincaid. Ring any bells? We need some answers here.”

“I don’t know what you’re on about.”

“Erin’s father’s dead. Did you know that?”

“Well, Jaff didn’t kill him. It was you lot who did that. The police.”

“Fair enough,” said Annie.

“Anyway, I liked him,” Tracy said in a soft voice. Annie thought she could see tears in her eyes. “He was always good to me, Mr. Doyle. I’m sorry he’s dead.”

“Look, I’m not here to throw blame about,” Annie said, “but I don’t think this is the answer, do you?”

“I haven’t done anything. You’d better go.”

“I know you haven’t done anything, but don’t you think it’s time you went back home? Maybe your friend needs you. Erin. Have you thought about her?”

Tracy bit her lower lip.

Annie stood up. “Okay, Tracy,” she said. “No more messing about. I know Jaff is here with you, and he’s wanted for questioning in the murder of Marlon Kincaid.”

“I’ve never heard of any Marlon Kincaid.”

“That’s probably a good thing. I’ll bet Jaff’s heard of him, though. Look, the only issue is, are you both going to come with me, peacefully, or do I have to send for a patrol car?”

“No! You can’t do that. You don’t understand. You have to go now. He’s got…he won’t…”

“He won’t what, Tracy? He doesn’t have a choice.”

“He won’t like that. Can’t you just let us go? Please. We’ll leave here. I’ll tidy up, honest. Then we’ll just go. But please leave now.”

“I can’t do that, Tracy. You know I can’t.” Annie thought she saw a shadow flit beyond the frosted glass of the conservatory door. Quickly she moved forward and opened it. “Are you Jaff?” she said as she glimpsed the dark figure reaching into a large hold-all on the breakfast table.

“Be careful,” shouted Tracy. “He’s got-”

But Annie wasn’t listening. “Because if you are, I think it’s time-” Before she could finish the sentence she heard two dull pops and felt as if someone had punched her hard in the chest and shoulder, then her body started to turn cold and numb. Her legs wobbled and gave under her, then she became aware of falling backward, like floating through space, onto the table, which smashed beneath her weight. Shards of glass stuck in her back. Pottery crashed on the terra cotta tiles. Glasses broke. Someone screamed, far away. Annie tried to call out and reached up her arms to cling on to some sort of imaginary lifeline, but she couldn’t grasp it. Exhausted and fighting for breath, a great weight on her chest, she fell back on the broken glass and pottery and everything swirled from her mind like water down the drain. Her chest and throat felt wet and bubbly when she tried to breathe. Then the lights went out.

WHEN WINSOME got to Leeds, the house in Headingley was locked up tight, with no sign of Rose Preston or anybody else. A neighbor said she had seen Rose walking toward the bus stop with a suitcase the previous evening. After a few calls on her mobile, Winsome was able to track down Rose’s parents’ address in Oldham. It wasn’t far, but the traffic on the M62 was dreadful at that time of the evening, and it was going on for half past eight when she arrived at the small terraced house, just around the corner from Gallery Oldham, the shiny new arts center and library.

Rose answered the door herself, and on seeing Winsome’s warrant card she rolled her eyes and said, “What now?”

“I’d just like to talk to you for a few minutes, that’s all,” Winsome said.

Rose grabbed a light jacket from a hook by the door. “Okay,” she said. “I don’t suppose I’ve got much choice. But I’ve already told you lot everything I know. My parents are out, and I certainly don’t intend being alone with you, so let’s go to the pub round the corner.”

When they turned the corner, all Winsome could see was another hill with redbrick slate-roofed terrace houses on each side. But one of these had a sign outside, and it turned out to be the local pub. Winsome felt as if she were walking into someone’s living room when they stepped inside, but the interior was done out like a proper pub, complete with customers, bar, video machines, pool table, plush banquettes and iron-legged tables. It was on a split level and either took up two houses, or it had the same powers over dimension as Doctor Who’s TARDIS. Winsome was a secret Doctor Who fan. She would never tell her colleagues at work because they were sure to make fun of her-they all thought her so straight and logical-but she had always dreamed of being the doctor’s companion, of traveling the universe through space and time, meeting Shakespeare, battling monsters and egomaniacal madmen, arriving back on earth before she had even left.

She bought an orange juice for herself and a pint of lager and lime for Rose, and they sat down on one of the banquettes.

“Why were you so upset when I turned up?” Winsome asked. “And why would you be so afraid of being alone with me? Am I that scary looking?”

“No, it’s not you. I’m just being more careful, that’s all. I mean, it’s not because you’re…you know. It’s nothing to do with that.”

“Well, I’m glad to know it’s not because I’m tall,” said Winsome.

Rose managed a weak smile. “I meant because you’re black. You know I did. You’re teasing. Anyway, it’s nothing to do with that. I’ve just had it up to here with the police, if that’s what they really were.”

Winsome frowned. “What do you mean? Surely nobody’s given you a hard time during all this? What reason would they have?”

“Maybe not at first,” Rose said, sweeping back a stray tress and tucking it behind her ear. “I mean, it was a bit of a shock, the police coming around and searching the place and all that, right? But they were okay.”

“And DI Annie Cabbot? Didn’t she come by to see you?”

“Yeah. She was all right, too. Just wanted to chat about Erin and Francesca, you know.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Rose turned away. “The other two.”

“What other two?” Winsome had no idea that the Leeds police had sent anyone to interview Rose after the search of the house. Annie certainly hadn’t mentioned it. She had mentioned that two men had turned up at Jaff’s flat passing themselves off as police officers when nobody had, in fact, been sent out there. She could check with DI Ken Blackstone when she went to Leeds with Annie in the morning, of course, and she would. But for the moment it seemed a promising place to start her chat with Rose.

“Don’t you know?” Rose said. “Don’t you ever talk to each other?”

Winsome smiled. “Not very often, no. Especially if they’re from another county force. I mean, they’d be West Yorkshire, while Annie and I are North Yorkshire.”

“That’s what they said, more or less. But it still seems weird to me. All wrong. I had a feeling they weren’t real policemen right from the start. Anyway, they said their names were Sandalwood and Watkins, but I suppose they were lying about that, too. I don’t remember what they said their ranks were.”

“But they wore plainclothes?”

“Yes.”

“Did you get a good look at their warrant cards? Did you see if they said West or North Yorkshire?”

“No. They sort of pushed their way in. It all happened so quickly I didn’t really catch what was written on them. I don’t think they looked liked yours, though.”

“How were they dressed? Suits? Casual?”

“Casual. Jeans. Button-down shirts. One of them wore a tan wind cheater and the other had a sort of linen sports jacket on, light blue.”

“That’s good, Rose,” said Winsome, making notes. “You’ve got a good eye for detail.”

“I like to draw. You have to really look at things if you want to draw them.”

Winsome glanced up from her notebook. “Do you think you could draw them for me? Now. Could you do that? Head and shoulders.”

Rose nodded. Winsome went to the bar and asked the bartender for a few sheets of unlined paper. He managed to find some in the office and handed them to her without question. When she got back, she put them on the table and handed Rose a pencil from her briefcase. Rose’s hand moved deftly and confidently over the paper, sketching an outline, filling out the details. Finally she slid the pages over to Winsome. “That’s the best I can do from memory.”

Winsome didn’t recognize either of the men Rose had drawn, but that didn’t necessarily mean much, especially if they were from West Yorkshire. But somehow she doubted that they were. She didn’t think they were police officers at all. One of them was burly and overbearing, with hardly any neck and a shaved head perched atop his broad shoulders.

“He was the biggest,” Rose said. “And he had a tattoo on the back of his neck. It looked like a dagger or a cross, or something like that. I’m not sure exactly what it was. Some sort of symbol, anyway. It was small, but you could see it above his shirt collar.”

Winsome studied the other sketch. This man was slighter, thinner, more ferret-like in his features, perhaps more intelligent, too, in a feral sort of way, with fine, unruly hair-ginger, Rose told her-a very pale complexion and cold eyes.

“He was the scariest,” Rose said, as if reading her thoughts. “Watkins. I mean, the other one looks big and mean, and he wasn’t very nice, but this one”-she tapped the sketch-“I’m glad he was out of the room most of the time. He gave me the creeps. He didn’t say much, but he’s the one I was really afraid of. And the other one told me he really likes hurting people.”

“Did they hurt you? Threaten you?”

“The big one, Sandalwood, shoved me down in the chair once and gave me a slap across the face. That hurt.”

“We wouldn’t do that, Rose. Not real police. I know people say things about us sometimes, and it’s easy to be cynical, but really…” She thought of her famous “dropkick” and went on. “I mean, if we’re dealing with hard cases who want to hurt us, maybe we’d get a bit physical, but not in a situation like this. Not with someone like you.”

“I told you I didn’t think they were real policemen. But there wasn’t much I could do, though, was there? I felt threatened by them. It was much safer just to go along with them and do what they said. I thought they were going to beat me up or kill me. Or…”

“What?”

“Well, he leered at me once, the big one, and I was scared he might be going to rape me or something.”

“Did he try anything like that?”

“No. He just laughed at me when he saw what I was thinking, like, and said not to worry about that, tempting as it was. I felt dirty.” She hugged herself. “Totally powerless. They could have done anything.”

Winsome noticed that her glass was almost empty. “Another?” she offered.

“I shouldn’t, but yes, please. Talking about it brings the feelings all back. Can I have a Bacardi Breezer this time?”

“Sure.” Winsome brought her the drink and a Diet Coke for herself. “What did they want to know?” she asked, sitting down again. “Did they ask about the gun Erin had?”

“No. They never mentioned it.”

“Did you know anything about it?”

“Not until I saw it on the news.”

“Did they ever mention someone called Marlon Kincaid?”

“No.”

“Did Erin or Francesca ever mention him?”

“No.”

“You’re certain?”

“Marlon Kincaid? It’s a funny name. I’d remember.”

“What other sort of questions did they ask you?”

“One of them had a good look round the place. Watkins. Upstairs and everything. The other one asked me the questions. He wanted to know if I knew where Jaff had gone-that’s Erin’s boyfriend. I told him I didn’t. Then he wanted to know about Francesca. He said someone had seen Jaff and her leaving the flat by the wharf together. I said I didn’t know where they were, which is true.”

“How did they know about Francesca, that she was with Jaff?”

“They didn’t. They were only guessing from what they’d heard at the flats. But they knew there were three of us living in the house, and they must have worked it out. They wanted to know who she was.”

“So you told them?”

“What else could I do?” Rose pleaded. “You weren’t there. You don’t know what it was like!”

A couple of the regulars were giving them curious looks. “Okay,” said Winsome. “Stay calm. It’s all right. I’m not blaming you.”

Rose sipped her drink. “I’m sorry.”

“Was the gun Jaff’s?”

“I don’t know. How would I know? I never even knew it existed. Erin certainly never mentioned anything like that.”

“What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. I never did trust him. Too flash for my liking.”

“Why would Erin take it, do you think?”

“I don’t know. To make him mad, maybe? She was pissed off at him. Something was going on between the three of them-Erin, Jaff and Francesca. I don’t know what it was, they didn’t tell me anything, but something wasn’t quite right.”

Winsome made a note, then asked, “What did they do next?”

“I can’t remember. Nothing. They wanted to know where Francesca was, where Jaff was, but I kept telling them I didn’t know. I was so scared they were going to hurt me anyway, but they just left.”

“You’re one lucky young woman,” said Winsome. “They must have believed that you didn’t know anything else and thought there was no percentage in harming you. They also weren’t worried about you being able to identify them. They were pros, by the sound of it.”

“Pros?”

“Yes. Professionals. Amateurs often hurt people. They’re careless, impulsive. Professionals are more careful. They know that can only bring trouble and attention, and that’s not what they want.”

“Yes, but professionals in what?”

Winsome paused. “That I don’t know,” she said. “But I’m going to have a very good crack at finding out. Now tell me more about this Jaff.”

“MY GOD! What have you done?” Tracy could only stand there staring down at Annie’s body lying across the broken table among the smashed glass and pottery. Annie’s face was ashen, covered in a sheen of sweat. There wasn’t much blood, just little smears around the two small holes in her yellow top. But that didn’t mean much. There would be internal bleeding. “You’ve killed her.”

“What choice did I have?” Jaff said from the doorway, the gun still in his hand. “She wasn’t going to just go away, you know. She knew.”

“But…” Tracy continued to stare down at Annie’s immobile form. For a moment she thought she could see her chest heave and make a gurgling sound with the effort of trying to breathe, but it could have been an illusion. “We have to call an ambulance.”

“Like hell we do. Besides, it’s too late. What we’ve got to do is get out of here fast.”

Jaff grabbed Tracy firmly by her upper arm and dragged her out of the conservatory into the kitchen. He tossed his gun back into the hold-all and hefted the bag onto his shoulder, while still holding her with his free hand. Tracy squirmed and tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but she couldn’t. He was wiry but strong. Her arm was starting to go numb. Finally he put the hold-all down and gave her a sharp, stinging slap across the face. “Stop it,” he said. “Pull yourself together. We’re leaving. Now.” Tracy grabbed her shoulder bag from the bench before he pushed her through the door into the living room. She stumbled and banged the side of her thigh against the sofa. It felt as if someone had kneed her hard right on the muscle. Jaff pushed her again and she tripped into the front door face first. Blood trickled from her nose. She thought it might be broken. He grabbed her jacket and thrust it toward her. “You might need this. The nights are getting cold.”

Tracy felt dazed as she stumbled outside. She wiped the back of her hand across her face. “Jaff, please let me call an ambulance. Nobody could have heard those shots. If she’s not dead already, she’ll die for sure if we just leave her here.”

“That’s her lookout.” Jaff fumbled for his car keys, letting go of Tracy for a moment. She walked around to the passenger side. Perhaps if she took off into the woods, made a dash for it? But no. He would give chase and find her, then he would kill her. Besides, if she did that, she would never even get a chance to try to save Annie, if that was even possible.

There was one thing she could do with her moment of freedom, while Jaff was at the driver’s side opening the door, and she was at the passenger side. She took out her mobile, keeping it low, hidden by the car and her body, and pressed 999. There was no way she could do it without Jaff hearing, so she had to be really quick. There was an ambulance station in Helmthorpe, she knew, so it shouldn’t take them too long. When she heard the answering voice, she put the phone to her mouth and said, “Ambulance. Newhope Cottage, Beckside Lane, Gratly. Come quickly. Please. Someone’s been shot-”

Before she could say any more, Jaff had dashed around the car and snatched the phone from her hand. In his anger he threw it to the ground and crushed it with his heel again and again until the pieces were scattered over the gravel. That was it, Tracy thought, her heart sinking even lower. Her lifeline. Gone. She was alone now. Alone with a killer. He shoved her into the passenger seat and started the car.

Tracy began to shake. She couldn’t get the image of Annie out of her mind: just lying there, pale, still and bleeding on the broken glass table. But at least she had made the 999 call, however dearly it had cost her. If there was any hope at all, that was it. Now she had to turn her mind to her own predicament, which it didn’t take a genius to work out was a lot worse than it had been only half an hour ago.

She had thought Jaff was going to kill her after he had discovered that her father was a policeman, but he had come up with another option: to keep her as a hostage until he had got to safety. He had told her he could use her as a bargaining tool in negotiations. She being a DCI’s daughter was a double-edged sword, he went on, and he intended to be the one who was wielding it.

But Annie’s shooting changed everything. He’d be far less concerned about killing a second person now, and far more worried about his own escape and safety. She could still be a bargaining tool, but she had just become more expendable than before, especially after making the phone call.

“What are you doing?” she said, snapping out of it when she saw Jaff was about to turn right at the end of the drive.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Jaff said. “Since your little act of rebellion with the mobile, that main road down there is going to be full of police cars and ambulances. I’m going the other way.”

Jaff turned right and headed for the open moors. The sun was still up, but the shadows were lengthening, and the light was turning softer, streaks of faint pastel coloring the pale blue sky. Soon it would dip below the hills and the sky would darken. Tracy thought she could hear a siren in the distance. God, she hoped she was right, hoped they were in time. “Don’t you realize how what you’ve done changes everything?” she said. “One of their own? They’ll pull out all the stops on this.”

“What the hell else was I supposed to do?” Jaff snapped. “Hold out my hands for the cuffs? Anyway, you should know,” he went on, giving her a sidelong glance. “Copper’s daughter. Traitorous bitch. But they don’t know what’s happening yet. They don’t know about me. She’d never have come by herself if she’d known the truth.”

“Maybe she had no reason to suspect you’d got hold of another gun, or that you’d shoot her,” Tracy said. “Maybe she did come to water the plants. But it didn’t take her long to suss out the situation. She knew more than you think. And that means others will probably know, too.”

“You can’t be certain of that.”

“I know how they work. Would you rather take the risk?” Jaff didn’t reply.

Tracy contemplated her position. Perhaps it was for the best that he had turned right at the end of her dad’s drive. She knew the moors; she had come out here with her father many times after his divorce, walked the hidden paths with him for hours, explored hidden clefts and gullies, the abandoned quarries and old lead mine workings. There were twelve miles of open moorland between Banks’s cottage and the next village of any significance. Jaff was like a fish out of water here, dependent on her to show him the way. It gave her an advantage, especially if she could find an excuse to get him to stop after dark.

She was still wondering how the hell she could get out of his clutches for as long as it took to disappear when, just two miles along the narrow, unfenced road, the car gave up the ghost.

Jaff tried to start it up again a few times, then cursed, got out and started kicking the tires. “Fucking Vic! Fucking idiot!” He kept repeating it like a mantra.

Though the sun had just set, there was still too much daylight left, but Tracy took advantage of Jaff’s tantrum by edging toward the drystone wall beside Topfleet Woods. Perhaps if she could escape into there, she could keep far enough ahead of him to double back down to Cobbersett, a tiny village on the daleside just to the west of Gratly. From there she could easily make it to Helmthorpe and get help. She doubted that Jaff would pursue her for very long through the woods if he thought the police were after him. He would want to go forward, not back. Nimbly, she hopped the wall and ran into the trees.

But Tracy underestimated both Jaff’s intentions and his speed. He had kept his eye on her. In no time at all, she could hear him behind her, and soon she felt a tight grip around her neck. She jerked to a halt, her head snapping back, and screamed in pain.

“Shut up, or so help me I’ll strangle you here and now,” said Jaff between gasps for breath. “You stupid bitch. You’re losing us time. Get back to the road. Get us the fuck out of here, not back where we came from.”

“Let go. I can’t breathe. You’re breaking my neck.”

“Promise you won’t run anymore.”

“I promise! I promise! Let go!”

Jaff let go. He caught his breath, hands on knees, while Tracy massaged the back of her neck. It obviously wasn’t broken, or she wouldn’t still be standing, but it certainly hurt like hell. Finally Jaff turned and started walking back to the car, cocky and confident enough simply to leave her to follow. She hated him at that moment more than anyone ever in her life, and she was tempted to take off again. But he was faster than she thought, and this time if he caught her, he would probably kill her. She paused and stooped to look for a stone she could smash his head in with, but there was nothing. He turned and looked at her, shook his head, then carried on walking again. Head hung low, still massaging her neck, she followed like a shameful Eve following Adam out of Paradise. Some paradise.

“We’ve got to get rid of the car,” Jaff said. “There’s a gate up ahead. You can help me push it there and through, then we’ll see if we can’t hide it on the other side.”

Tracy felt too defeated to respond. Her nose hurt, her neck hurt and her heart ached. So she followed him.