Bad Boy (4 page)

“Where did you aim for?”

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

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

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

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

“No, sir.”

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

“No, sir, I wasn’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chambers nodded in agreement.

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

“But it’s protocol.”

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

“But they’re connected, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Despite its overgrown garden, the house appeared more impressive than it was, Tracy always thought as she walked up the path toward its solid sandstone facade and mullioned windows. Three bedrooms, one each; a shared bathroom and toilet, large high-ceiling living room with a drafty bay window, expensive to heat in winter, no double
glazing. The kitchen was large enough to double as a communal dining area, though it was rare that the three of them actually ate together.

Luckily Tracy, Rose and Erin got along well most of the time, though three more different personalities in one place you’d be hard pushed to find. Erin was sloppy and untidy, left a mess behind her everywhere she went. Rose was a bit of a bookworm, and though she kept her things generally tidy, she didn’t always seem to notice the general mess and was quite content living in her own world. And Tracy…well, she didn’t really know how to describe herself, except she felt angry a lot of the time these days, at nothing in particular, and a little dissatisfied with what life had to offer. No, if truth be told, more than just a little, but
a lot
dissatisfied. It wasn’t supposed to be like this at all, whatever
this
was. And her name wasn’t Tracy anymore; most people called her Francesca now.

Despite their differences, the three of them had fun, and somehow it worked, though Tracy found it was always she who ended up cleaning and tidying the mess simply because it got her down, not because tidiness was necessarily in her nature. They had talked about it more than once, and the others had promised to do better, but it remained a problem. At least Rose tried, when she noticed.

Rose was the newcomer, replacing Jasmine, who had left to get married four months ago. Tracy had known Erin since she first came to live in Eastvale, since they were little kids, neighbors from across the street. They were the same age, and had gone through comprehensive school and university together, both ending up living in Leeds, neither in exactly the sort of job they, or their parents, had envisioned.

Rose jumped up and stubbed out a cigarette when Tracy entered the living room. There was a no-smoking rule in the house, and Rose usually went outside into the back garden, so Tracy could tell immediately that something was wrong. An emotional crisis was the last thing she needed.

“What is it?” she asked.

Rose started pacing the carpet, something she’d never done before. “The police were here today, that’s what.”

“Police? What did they want?”

Rose stopped pacing for a moment and glanced at her. “Only to search the place, that’s all.”

“Search? They didn’t—”

“No. Relax. They were mostly interested in Erin’s room, and they seemed to be in a hurry.”

“But why? What were they looking for?”

“They wouldn’t say.”

Tracy ran her hand over her hair. “Christ,” she said, getting up and heading for the door to the kitchen. “I need a joint.”

“You can’t,” Rose called after her. “What are you talking about?”

“You can’t. I…I flushed it.”

“You flushed it! Rose, there was half an ounce of ace weed left, at least. What do you—”

“Well, they could’ve come back, couldn’t they, and gone through all the jars? You weren’t here. You don’t know what it’s like having the police crawling all over the house, asking questions. That way they have of looking at you like they don’t believe a word you’re saying.”

Oh, don’t I? thought Tracy. I lived with one for about twenty years. But Rose didn’t know that. Rose was part of the new scene. She had told Rose that her name was Francesca Banks because she thought Tracy was a chav name, and she said her father was a retired civil servant, an ex-pen-pusher, an old geezer, and her mother lived in London, half of which was true. And like the heiress who keeps her fortune a secret to make sure no one falls in love with her for the wrong reason, Tracy also never mentioned that her brother was Brian Banks of The Blue Lamps, whose latest CD was riding high in the charts, and who were hotly tipped for a Mercury Prize. Erin knew, of course, having been a childhood friend of the family, and she had agreed to keep Tracy’s secrets, to go along with the deception, because she thought it was cool and fun.

“Christ,” said Tracy, sitting down again. “Half an ounce of grass.” She put her head in her hands. “Do you have any idea how much that cost me?”

“Have a drink,” Rose offered cheerfully. “We’ve still got some gin left.”

“I don’t want any fucking gin.” If truth be told, Tracy didn’t much like alcohol or its effects at all. She drank merely because her friends did, and sometimes she overdid it, tottered around the city center in her high heels and puked in ginnels and snickets, ended up in the wrong bed, any bed. They all drank some sort of alcopop, colored liquids with a kick. But Tracy preferred a nice joint every now and then, and sometimes E. They seemed harmless-enough diversions.

“Look,” said Rose, “I’m really sorry, but I was scared. I mean, I was shaking like a leaf in case they found it while they were searching the place. You would have been, too. I was sure they noticed how nervous I was, thought I was hiding something. Soon as they left, I flushed it. I am sorry. But they could have come back. They could still come back.”

“Okay,” said Tracy, tired of the subject. “Okay, just forget it. Did they ask you any questions?”

“They were only interested in Erin, but it was just vague, general stuff, like about if she had any boyfriends, what she did, who else lived here.”

“Were they looking for her? Did they ask if you knew where she was?”

“No.”

“Did you mention me?”

“I had to, didn’t I? They could find out you live here easily enough.”

“What about Jaff?”

“Well, he is her boyfriend, isn’t he? I had to tell them who he was. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Christ. Did you give them his address?”

“I don’t know it, do I? All I know is he lives by the canal. Do you think it’s something to do with him?”

“Why would it be anything to do with him?”

“I don’t know,” said Rose. “I know you like him, but I’ve always thought he was a bit dodgy. The flash clothes and car, jewelry, that fancy Rolex watch. Where does he get all his money from? There’s just something about him that makes me think the police might be interested in him, that’s all, something not quite right. Drugs, I’ll bet.”

“Maybe,” said Tracy. She knew what Rose meant. She had had the
same suspicions about Jaff, but she also fancied him, and she didn’t care if he was a bit dodgy. He certainly always seemed to have some weed or blow with him. And the dodginess was part of his appeal for Tracy—that cheeky, devil-may-care bad-boy attitude he exuded. It turned her on. That was part of the problem. He was good-looking, bright, a real charmer, and
maybe
crooked. And he was
Erin’s
boyfriend.