Bad Boy

5

DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT GERVAISE OCCUPIED her predecessor Gristhorpe’s old office, as befitted her rank, but it was far less cluttered than it had been when the old man was in residence, Annie thought, far more spick-and-span, light and airy. A fresh coat of pale blue paint had worked wonders. The bookcases held works mostly relevant to the job, rather than the rows of leather-bound classics Gristhorpe had kept there, and the volumes were interspersed by the occasional cup or mounted award for dressage and fencing, along with silver-framed family photographs. A white MacBook sat open on her orderly desk, pushed slightly to one side. Street sounds drifted in through the open window-a car starting, schoolchildren calling out to one another across the market square, the sliding door of a large delivery van-along with the occasional breath of fresh air and the aroma of warm bread wafting up from Pete’s Bakery.

“Sit down, Annie,” said Gervaise. “I’ve already sent for tea. Earl Grey all right with you?”

“Fine,” said Annie. She crossed her legs and leaned back in the chair.

Gervaise toyed with a paper clip, unbending it slowly, her Cupid’s-bow lips pursed. “I like the blond highlights,” she said finally, turning her blue eyes on Annie. “What made you do that?”

“I don’t know. Blondes have more fun?” Annie was far from certain that she’d done the right thing. Having her hair cut short in the first place was one step toward a new look, but the highlights were quite another, and she was still feeling self-conscious about them.

“And are you? Having more fun?”

“Not at the moment, I must admit.”

“Me neither.” Gervaise paused and put the paper clip down. Annie noticed a bubble of blood on the tip of her index finger. “Look, Annie, we’ve had our ups and downs, you and me, but I like you, Annie. I want you to know that. Despite your often misguided loyalty to DCI Banks taking precedence over correct procedure, and even simple common sense at times, I like you. And I want to build on that. How are things?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a simple question. How are things? Your life? In general. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine, ma’am.”

“And would you tell me if they weren’t?”

“Probably not.”

“So I haven’t earned your trust yet?”

“It’s not a matter of…” Annie began. Then she stopped. “Of what? Go on.”

Annie shook her head.

“I suppose what I meant,” Gervaise went on, “was you and Alan. DCI Banks. In the short time I’ve been here, it could hardly have escaped my attention that the two of you have a somewhat special relationship, and-”

“There’s nothing untoward about it, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Annie said. “No romantic involvement. No impropriety whatsoever.”

“Whoa there.” Gervaise held her hand up, palm out. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much. But that’s by the by. I wasn’t referring to your sex life. Ah, here’s the tea. Come in, Sharon. Put the tray down here, please. Thank you.” The WPC who had brought the tea smiled, nodded and left the room.

“We’ll just let that mash awhile, shall we?” Gervaise said. “Then I’ll play mother. No, what I meant before was that you actually complement one another quite well in your work. I know things have a tendency to go awry once in a while, especially when DCI Banks is around, and some things don’t always look too good on paper, but your cases get solved, you get results. Both of you.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Gervaise leaned forward and linked her hands on the desk. The tiny bubble of blood smeared the knuckles on her left hand. Her diamond engagement ring sparkled as it caught the sunlight. “Let me tell you, quite frankly, that I’m worried about Alan. I’ve been worried about him ever since that business with MI5 last spring. There’s something…different about him. And one hears…rumors. I understand he split up with his girlfriend, too?”

“Yes. Sophia.” Annie had never really taken to Sophia, had always believed she could see right through her, see her for what she was-vain and shallow, used to being desired and celebrated as a muse by men. Sophia needed their adoration, she fed on it, and the attentions of an older, attractive man of Banks’s stature had flattered her ego. For a while. Until a better offer came along, someone who would write poems or songs for her, perhaps. But she couldn’t say that to Gervaise. It would sound like sour grapes, as if it were born out of envy and jealousy. Which it partly was. Since Banks had split up with Sophia and become uncommunicative, Annie had found herself frequently thinking of their short time together. He had been hers once. Could she have hung on to him? Should she have tried? Even taken a transfer to some other county force not too far away so that they wouldn’t have to work together? Because that had been the problem, she had discovered; she hadn’t been able to work alongside him and be romantically involved.

“Is there more to it than that?”

Annie snapped herself back to the present. “I’m sorry?”

“I asked if there was anything else that was worrying him. I’m not asking you to betray any sort of trust, you understand. I ask entirely out of concern for his welfare. And for yours, too, of course. For the team.”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Annie. “Not that I can think of. At least, there’s nothing he’s said anything to me about. It’s just…”

Gervaise leaned forward a fraction more. “What?”

“Oh, nothing. I had the same feeling, too, that’s all. That something else was going on. That he was haunted by something. Or that he’d reached the end of something. But he doesn’t confide in me. Maybe he’s gone away looking for new beginnings?”

“Then let’s hope he finds some. When exactly is he due back at work? It’s in my files somewhere. Monday, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

As Gervaise shuffled some papers on her desk, she noticed the blood, picked up a tissue and wiped it off. She pressed a couple of keys on her MacBook. “I’m just a bit concerned about him walking right into the middle of all this, especially as he knows the Doyles.”

“He’ll deal with it,” said Annie, with more conviction than she felt. “And he’s resilient. Whatever happens, he’ll come through. We shouldn’t worry about him too much.”

“I suppose we have enough to worry about as it is.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Do? As we’re told, of course. Which is to work in conjunction with Superintendent Chambers and his team, and not to step on his toes. I understand he’s bringing in a couple of PSD officers from Greater Manchester to conduct the investigation for him. Firearms Cadre Superintendent Trethowan will continue to manage the scene, the Doyle house.”

“And us?”

“Our job remains the gun found in the possession of Erin Doyle. Or should I say, found in her bedroom. As yet we have no proof who put it there.” Gervaise looked at her watch. “I think the preliminary report on the firearm from Birmingham should be with us before today’s over. I’ll be SIO on this and you will be my deputy. Which means that you and Winsome and Harry Potter will be doing most of the work, as you can imagine, things being what they are around here. You can have DC Masterson, too. She needs to get her feet wet. I’m guessing, but I think much of my time will be taken up by meetings and discussions of various kinds. Not to mention bloody paperwork. I don’t want any complaints about you from the family or from Superintendent Chambers. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes.”

“I trust you have appointed a Family Liaison officer?”

“Patricia Yu. She’d done the requisite courses and has over a year’s experience.”

“Very well. I’d like you to proceed very carefully with the investigation, and keep me posted. Regular reports.” She tapped her desk. “Here. In my office.”

“Yes,” said Annie. She stood up to leave. “And, Annie?”

Annie turned at the door and raised her eyebrows.

“Watch your back. I don’t trust Chambers any more than you do.” She paused. “And about DCI Banks. If anything…Well, you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I know,” said Annie.

IT WAS after lunchtime before Tracy got Jaff on the road to Eastvale. He had dragged his feet so much that she had offered to go and do the shopping alone, which would have suited her far better, but he wouldn’t have any of it. She wasn’t leaving his sight, he told her. “Such devotion,” she replied. He missed the sarcasm.

The roads and the Swainsdale villages were busy with tourist traffic, and nobody paid Vic’s silver-gray Ford Focus any special attention as they passed through Gratly, Helmthorpe or Fortford. Jaff drove cautiously, hovering just above the speed limit the whole way, like most of the other cars, except when he got stuck behind a tractor and slowed to a crawl, cursing so much that Tracy cracked up laughing. “It’s amazing,” she said. “Like you’ve never been in the country before.”

Jaff laughed with her. “I’ve been on worse roads than this, babe. But you’re right. Tractors and caravans. I’m with Jeremy Clarkson on that.”

When they got to Eastvale the sky had clouded over. They parked in the pay-and-display under the Swainsdale Centre and took the escalator up to the shops. The center itself was bustling with people. For a moment Tracy worried that she might bump into someone who recognized her, then she realized it didn’t matter if she did. Nobody knew what was going on with her and Jaff. Nobody knew they were lying low until a spot of bother passed over.

Sometimes Tracy wondered if anybody actually went out to work anymore. She knew the economy was bad, but it seemed strange to her that if people were unemployed, or simply hadn’t any money, they were in the shopping center all the time. Unless they just came there to sigh through the windows at things they couldn’t afford, which seemed stupid. Most of the people she saw were young enough to have jobs, if there were any. Some were mothers pushing their kids in prams, of course, or trailing them around by the hand, but others didn’t look much more than school-leaving age, and very few of the shoppers seemed old enough to be pensioners.

The two of them blended in easily to the crowd. They bought newspapers at W.H. Smith’s and picked up a couple of CDs and DVDs at HMV. Jaff bought three white shirts, a Boss sports jacket and a new pair of designer jeans. He eyed Tracy up and down. “You know, you could do with some new clothes, too, babe,” he said. “I can’t say that charity-shop look really does a lot for you.”

Tracy felt hurt. It was true that most of the clothes she was wearing came from charity shops, but no one had told her before that they didn’t look good on her. It wasn’t as if she bought granny’s castoffs or anything like that. But Jaff led her around the shops and she ended up with some Levi’s, a blue silk blouse, a burgundy pencil skirt with a matching top, and several expensive T-shirts of various colors. He also bought her a fitted kid-leather jacket to replace the ripped denim one she was wearing. Jaff said he hated it, so she threw it in a rubbish bin.

When Tracy tried the clothes on, she felt sophisticated, more like a Francesca than ever, and when she examined herself in the changing-room mirror she realized that she would probably look even better when she had washed the streaks out of her hair. She would do that when they got back to her dad’s cottage. She had her mother’s coloring-natural blond hair and dark eyebrows-and now that she had her hair cut short, in a sort of pixie-ish, spiky style, and was wearing good clothes, she resembled a professional young woman more than a student. The pencil skirt emphasized her slim waist and hips, and the top made the best of her small breasts. She liked what she saw, and it amazed her that Jaff had such immaculate taste, even regarding the clothes she should wear. He even bought her some sexy underwear and a nice leather Gucci shoulder bag to carry everything in, instead of the fraying canvas book bag she’d been using for ages. That followed the denim jacket into the rubbish bin.

Tracy needed to buy shampoo and conditioner, pink lipstick, the shade Jaff had said he liked, some nail-varnish remover, and a toothbrush and toothpaste. She had none of these things in her shoulder bag, which was all she had brought with her from Leeds, and had had to use her father’s toiletries that morning.

They went to Superdrug, where Tracy found what she needed. When she reached for her debit card, ready to pay, Jaff took hold of her hand “What do you think you’re doing?” he whispered. “Are you crazy or something?”

“I’ve got no cash left, Jaff,” Tracy protested. “I need these things. I’ve got to pay somehow.”

“Well, you can’t use your debit or credit cards,” he whispered, glancing around. “They can be traced. It’s like the first thing they do. Didn’t you know that? Aren’t you taking this seriously?”

“But you used yours. I saw you.”

“It’s corporate, and it can’t be traced to me.”

“But why…? Never mind.” Tracy realized that she hadn’t got used to thinking like a fugitive. Perhaps she wasn’t taking it seriously, more as a fun game, as make-believe. She wasn’t sure that she wanted to grasp the full reality of the situation, either, but for the moment she knew that she had to go along with Jaff. Soon, she was certain, everything would be settled, and they could all go back to the way things were, whatever that was, but for now she had to be up to the adventure. “Nobody’s looking for me,” she said.

“Doesn’t matter. They might be. They will be. It’s best to be cautious. Okay, babe? Here, it’s not very much. Take this.” Jaff gave her a lopsided grin and pulled a wad of cash from his pocket. He discreetly peeled off a couple of of twenty-pound notes and handed them to her. “This should cover it. Keep the change in case you see anything else you fancy. Don’t even think of using your plastic. If you need anything, come to me.”

Tracy took the money. She knew better than to ask where it had come from, just as she had known not to ask him why he was carrying an untraceable credit card. This whole shopping expediton was making her head spin, making her feel a bit scared and, perhaps, a bit excited.

Last of all, they went to the Tesco’s and bought lots of ready-to-cook meals, things they could just nuke in the microwave, like pizza, quiches, chicken Kievs and curries, mostly, along with eggs, bread, bacon, milk, chocolate bars and biscuits for when they got the munchies; more tins of baked beans; cheese and packaged meats for sandwiches. That would see them through until the end of the week, Tracy thought. They didn’t need to buy wine, Jaff said, because her father had more than enough quality stuff for them to be going on with.

Back at the car, they loaded their purchases in the boot. “That was fun,” Tracy said. “What do you want to do next?”

“I’m hungry,” said Jaff. “Want to go for a pub lunch or something?”

“Sure,” said Tracy. “We’ll stop somewhere on the way back.” She was standing by the car looking down over the terraced gardens and the river, which rushed along over rocks in little waterfalls below the steep castle walls to her right. She remembered walking there with her father when she was younger, holding his hand tight as they passed near the edge of the sheer drop, afraid of falling, asking him how the little flowers could grow out of the crumbling stone. He told her they were called rosebay willow herb and they could also grow after forest fires. She thought what a lovely name that was for something so strong and durable. Sometimes the wind was so wild that she thought it would blow them both away like autumn leaves, but he had said he wouldn’t ever let her go, and he never had. Not until now. When she turned to Jaff, she had tears in her eyes.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Just the wind. And the sun. I should have bought some sunglasses back at Superdrug. Look, there’s still an hour left on the meter. Would you like to go and have a look at where Erin lives? You know, the street on the news last night. We can see if there’s still anything going on there.”

“Is it near here?”

“Not far.”

“Okay. Sure,” said Jaff. “But let’s be careful.”

They left the shopping center by the York Road exit and crossed the cobbled market square, past the Queen’s Arms and left along Market Street. Tracy was wearing her new tight-fit Levi’s and a crisp white T-shirt that felt soft and sexy against her skin. She felt good. Jaff took hold of her hand. They passed the police station where her dad worked but, of course, she couldn’t say anything to Jaff. She saw a sudden image of the bed and the mess they had made back at the cottage. Whiskey stains and worse on her father’s sheets.

They hadn’t gone far when Jaff started to complain about the distance and how hungry he was, but Tracy just laughed at him again. “You’re a real city boy,” she said. “I’ll bet you don’t walk anywhere.”

“That’s what cars are for,” he said. “Is it much further?”

“Just past that next zebra crossing.”

Even before they got to Laburnum Way, careful to stay on the other side of Market Street, Tracy could tell that the police hadn’t finished there yet. The cul-de-sac wasn’t blocked off-the people who lived there could come and go as they pleased-but police cars and vans parked at awkward angles would make it difficult for anyone driving in and out, and would certainly discourage sightseers.

Erin’s house had police tape on the gate and over the door-Tracy could just see the blue-and-white pattern-and two uniformed officers stood on guard. As Tracy and Jaff gazed surreptitiously, just two young lovers passing by, some men came out of the front door wearing white coveralls and elastic covers for their hair and shoes. The SOCOs. Tracy realized she had met some of them, and she hoped that no one recognized her. But how could they, the way she looked now? Besides, she reminded herself, she wasn’t wanted for anything, and there was no way they’d know who Jaff was, even if they were looking for him. Nobody seemed to pay any attention to them. It was one thing to watch it on TV, Tracy thought, but quite another to see it like this, at close quarters, as it was happening.

“Jesus Christ,” said Jaff, picking up the pace a bit when he saw the SOCOs. “Is that where she lives? This looks serious.”

“They did find a gun,” Tracy reminded him. “They take that very seriously. And you don’t often get that sort of thing in a nice middle-class street like Laburnum Way.”

“I don’t suppose you do,” said Jaff. “It is a bit bay-window. But even so…Does it really take that many of them?”

Tracy could have told them that it did, and why, what each one of them did and how long they might be there, but she held her tongue. “How would I know? We can go back another way, if you like,” she said, leading him down a street to the left that linked up with York Road near the college. “It’s a bit longer, but we don’t have to walk past the police again. Anyway,” she said. “We don’t even know that anyone’s looking for you yet, do we?”

“They will be,” Jaff said. “If not now, then soon. Even if Erin keeps quiet, someone’s bound to talk. They’ll track down her other friends, people from the clubs, the restaurant where she works. We have to be careful.” He looked around and gave a little shudder. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get back to the car and find somewhere to eat outside town. I’ll feel safer away from here.”

BANKS WALKED along Fisherman’s Wharf in the morning sunshine eating fresh crab cakes in a piquant red sauce from a paper carton, the Golden Gate Bridge at his back. He watched the tour boat sailing over to Alcatraz and wondered if he should go. Maybe not, he decided, after all. Historic or not, it would be too much like a busman’s holiday. Touring a prison and being shut in a cell, even if Al Capone had once been there, held no real appeal for him. Not even for a minute. And he was supposed to be getting away from all that. Or so he had thought. He knew he couldn’t run away from his problems; that he would take them with him wherever he went. But a change of scene and time to think had, at least, seemed essential. A trip would give him new sensations, new experiences and, at best, it would inspire him. At worst, it would be just another collection of holiday snaps he would download to his computer and probably never look at again.

The horror of the bomb blast he had witnessed in London and the sense of guilt that he had been responsible for an innocent man’s death still kept him awake at night. He could smell the smoke, see the blood and hear the screams every time he laid his head down. And his car crashed in slow motion time after time. He stared at the body sprawled bleeding on the bonnet of his Porsche while government agents told him it was probably the best thing that could have happened for all concerned. He remembered the rain, blood and tears that streaked down his face on his long walk home in the dark. Could he have handled things differently? Should he have? Probably. But he hadn’t. What was done was done, and he couldn’t run away from it simply by taking a flight to America.

Then there was Sophia’s betrayal. The image of her sitting across the table from another man in the wine bar, and later on, at her front door, of the man’s hand resting proprietarily on the small of her back as she put her key in the lock, glanced quickly up and down the street, and invited him into her house, still lingered. Her subsequent silence had hurt even more. He had left phone messages, written letters, but he had heard nothing. It was like dropping a stone into a deep dark chasm and waiting for a splash or echo that never came. No cry in the dark. Nothing. She had said she needed time, space, and she was certainly sticking to that.

After nearly two months of silence, Banks received a banal, chatty e-mail from Sophia, which ended, “I’ve moved on. You should do the same. Have a good life.” It was sent from her BlackBerry, for God’s sake, or so it informed him at the bottom. Definitely not with a bang; much more of a whimper. At least that quickly put paid to any lingering hopes of romantic reconciliation he might have been harboring. After that, he felt mainly contempt for Sophia. He didn’t like feeling that way about someone he had once loved, so he was working on indifference. It was the closest he could come to forgiveness.

Banks leaned against the wooden railing of a pier and stared across the bay at Mount Tamalpais, the sleeping maiden. He could make out her shape easily enough-the long, flowing hair, the soft curve of her breasts, the flat belly and thighs. She had drowned while swimming to meet her lover, or she had lain down there in dejection after being spurned, and had wept her tears into the bay, depending on which version you believed. Banks glanced down into the ruffled blue water, then back toward the majestic bridge, more orange than gold to his eye. He felt a sense of inner peace that he hadn’t had before he came away, and he thought of that night in the desert.

It was the third or fourth day of his trip, and he was in Arizona. He had visited the Grand Canyon and Sedona, and he now planned on driving across the desert from Phoenix to Los Angeles, then up the coast to San Francisco. As he drove, he played desert music on the car stereo through his iPod adapter, or what he thought of as desert music: Captain Beefheart, Lucinda Williams’s Car Wheels on a Gravel Road and Dylan’s soundtrack from Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid. He also played a lot of Handel oratorios very loud. Somehow they seemed to chime with the sense of the place for him.

He had driven a meandering course on and off Interstate 10, stopping occasionally to visit various attractions. Here he had experienced the desert landscape the way he had always imagined it. Mile after mile of nothing but sagebrush, tumbleweed, clumps of prickly pear and and tall, gangly saguaro cacti; unrelenting dry heat. In the evening the long range of jagged peaks that never seemed to get any nearer caught the fading light, all earthy shades of terra cotta, red and brown.

That night he had found a motel off the beaten track. It wasn’t quite the Bates Motel, but it had a similar creepy, run-down atmosphere about it, fortunately without the big eerie house on the hill behind. The desk clerk was sixty if he was a day, a bald Mexican with a paunch, a Pancho Villa mustache and a case of five o’clock shadow so advanced it was probably six or seven o’clock on his face, though it still stopped short of a beard. When the clerk smiled, Banks noticed that he was missing his two upper front teeth. At least he didn’t resemble Norman Bates in the slightest, and there wasn’t a stuffed animal in sight. The room Banks took was clean and quiet, and the small friendly diner next door served a good steak, though he would probably have had to travel a long way for a decent bottle of wine to accompany it. Instead, he settled for a jug of cheap California burgundy.

Around two in the morning, unable to sleep, Banks got up and walked outside. The desert nights were cool, but in August that meant the temperature went down from about anywhere between 85 and 100 to 75 or so, still T-shirt weather for a British tourist. Even so, Banks found he needed his light wind cheater that night as he struck out from the motel across the road into open desert. The stars shone bright and clear, more than he had ever seen before, so close he felt he could reach out and grab a handful, along with a yellow sickle moon. Not for the first time Banks wished he could recognize more constellations than Orion and the Big Dipper. He could see the Milky Way and trails of distant nebulae between the stars. Was that the Crab Nebula overhead? In front of him he could just make out the saw-toothed silhouette of a mountain range in the far distance.

He hadn’t really known what to expect from his journey, but that night he realized there was something he wanted, something ineffable, inchoate, and suddenly it didn’t seem so unbelievable that he might get it from a place such as this. He felt an odd tingle of anticipation, as if he was on the verge of what he had been waiting for, his revelation, his epiphany.

Someone had once told him that there were places you could go that would change you, which was probably why so many kids in the sixties set off for India or Kathmandu. It might be a country, a culture, religion, or perhaps a certain kind of landscape-the ocean, mountains, a desert. It might be a place associated with a powerful childhood experience, or with a dream. Sometimes, perhaps, you just didn’t know. But it changed you.

Banks had been having a dream from time to time since his childhood, and it stayed with him. He was swimming underwater through waving fronds that tried to grab him and pull him down. The dark rocks below terrified him with their shifting shapes, and with the thought of what lurked in the depths between them, through underwater tunnels that led to other tunnels, narrower, deeper and darker. He was running out of air, his lungs straining, his strength failing, when he finally broke the water’s surface and found himself on the edge of paradise. The damn thing was that he couldn’t remember anything about it. It was a special place, he knew that much, one that had the power to change him and heal him, but all he remembered was the journey, the darkness, the fear and agony of his bursting lungs, and that blissful moment when water ceased to be water and became air, when darkness became light and the white sand led…somewhere green and pure.

For so long he seemed to have been struggling in the dark, and in that desert night, when the motel’s blinking red neon was nothing but a dot on the horizon, he found an epiphany of a kind. But it was nothing momentous. No road to Damascus, no lightning strike of revelation or enlightenment, as he had hoped for. First, he was aware only of the silence when he stopped, a silence unlike any he had ever known-nothing rustling, no animal sounds, no birdsong, no distant cars or lorries. Nothing. Just the smell of dry earth and the tall, still silhouettes of the saguaro cacti, arms reaching out and up, all around him.

The epiphany, when it came, was nothing more than a simple fleeting ripple of happiness that went through him as a light cool breeze might brush one’s skin on a hot day. He felt as if something had clicked into place, like the final number of a combination lock, the tumblers finding their positions. That was all. He wasn’t even sure whether it was something opening or closing, but he knew that he would be okay, that he was okay, that he could deal with things. His problems didn’t matter in the midst of the desert night-the myriad stars above and grains of sand under his feet. He would still hurt. He would still carry the burden of his past mistakes. He would still feel the deep ache of loss and betrayal and guilt and horror. Paradise would always remain just beyond his reach. But he would go on somehow. Perhaps not in the same way he had been, doing the job he did, but somehow. Future uncertain. Prospects unclear. End always near. He remembered thinking that he was a long, long way from home, but, oddly enough, he didn’t feel so far away at that moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry to interrupt your program,” Annie said.

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

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

“If they were ever here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Piercings?”

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

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

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

“Gone? Where?”

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

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

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

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

“No.”

“When did she go out?”

“Last night.”

“Did she come home?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jaff?”

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

“Erin and Francesca? This past week?”

“Yes. Before Erin went home.”

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

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

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

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

“Who did she talk to?”

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

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

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

“And had you?”

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

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

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

“Is he Asian?”

“Half Indian, or something.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

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

“And does he?”

“Seems to have.”

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

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

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

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

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

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