Peter Robinson: Bad Boy

Erin ignored Chambers and the solicitor. Annie could tell she was trying to get out what she had to say before she completely lost control. It didn’t matter whom she was talking to; she just had to have her say. “It was my fault. What happened to Dad.” She glanced at Chambers, then at her solicitor. “We heard the banging at the door, the calls for us to open up. Dad asked me to answer because his knee hurt, and he was starting to have chest pains from all the stress. Angina. I…I told him to fuck off. I said he could bloody well turn me in if he wanted to, I couldn’t stop him doing that, but I was fucked if I was going to answer the door to the Gestapo myself.” She put her hands to her face and started to cry. “I did it,” she said, between her fingers. “Oh, God forgive me. I killed him. I killed my dad. It was all my fault.”

Finally Irene Lightholm found her voice. “I think you can see,” she said, “that my client is upset over the death of her father. I take it that she hasn’t been charged with anything yet, and as far as I can tell, you don’t have enough evidence to charge her with anything. In that case, I think we should bring this interview to a close right now, and you should release my client on police bail.”

“I agree,” said Chambers. “This interview is terminated. Now.” Annie wondered if he realized he was agreeing with a defense solicitor. She ignored them both, walked around the desk, then bent over and put her arm around Erin’s shoulders. She expected resistance, a violent reaction, but she didn’t get it. Instead, Erin turned her face into Annie’s shoulder, grasped hold of her and sobbed her heart out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Jaff. I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He picked up his glass. “Cheers.”

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

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

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

“Cool,” said Tracy. “Maybe someday.”

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

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

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

“Did Rose say anything?”

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