Peter Robinson - Bad Boy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quite a conundrum,” said Annie. “It’s good of you to put Juliet up.”

“Where else could she go tonight? She’s got a sister in Durham, so perhaps she’ll go and stay with her later. But for now…Do you have any idea how long all this will take? How long they’ll be shut out of their home?”

“I’m sorry,” said Annie, “I don’t.”

“Days? Weeks? Months?”

“I’ve known houses to be locked down for weeks,” Annie said, “but I doubt that will happen in this case. It looks fairly straightforward. Legally, I mean, as far as an investigation is concerned. I understand that it has far more of an impact emotionally.”

“But you’d say a few days, at least?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, look at me. I’m so sorry. I’ve been sitting here picking your brains, and I haven’t even offered you anything to drink. Cup of tea? Coffee? Something stronger?”

“A cup of tea would go down a treat,” said Annie. “I have to drive back to Harkside.”

“Just give me a minute. Make yourself at home.”

Annie relaxed on the sofa while Harriet went into the kitchen to make tea. The kettle must have boiled very quickly because she came back with a teapot and two cups and saucers on a tray in no time. Harriet had no sooner put the tray down on the low table than Juliet Doyle drifted in behind her wearing a long green dressing gown that trailed around her black slippers. Her eyes were puffy from sleeping pills or crying, or both, and her skin was pale and dry.

“Who is…” Then she saw Annie. “You.”

Annie stood up. “Yes,” she said. “I wanted to come and see how you were.”

“How do you think I am? Besides, if anyone should know, it’s you. It was supposed to be quite simple.”

“Look, I’m sorry about what happened,” Annie said, “but we have our procedures.” She knew it sounded lame the moment it came out and deserved the contempt it got.

“Your procedures got my husband killed.”

It wasn’t true, of course, Annie knew there were many contributing factors to Patrick Doyle’s death, the “perfect storm,” but there was no use in saying that here and now to his bereaved wife. As the day had progressed, Annie had found herself feeling more and more guilty, first as she had faced Erin Doyle, and now as she faced Erin’s mother. She had begun to resent Warburton and the entire AFO team for what they had done and for putting her in such an awkward position. An injured man with a bloody walking stick and a dicky heart, for crying out loud. How could anyone mistake that stick for a sword, even if the hall light had decided to burn out at the very moment they switched it on? But she bottled up her feelings and her guilt and carried on as best she could.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, then sat down and accepted her cup and saucer from Harriet.

“Sugar?”

“No. No, thanks.”

Harriet turned to Juliet. “Can I get you anything, love? Some tea?”

Juliet managed a flicker of a smile. “Maybe some hot chocolate, if you’ve got any.”

“Coming up.” She gave an anxious glance at Annie, who nodded, then left for the kitchen again.

Juliet Doyle sat down and wrapped her robe around her. “What do you want?” she asked.

“Nothing,” said Annie.

“I can’t believe it was just this morning,” Juliet said. “It seems so distant, so long ago.”

“Grief can do that.”

Juliet looked at her sharply. “How would you know? Besides, I don’t think I can even feel grief yet. I don’t know what I feel. Those drugs…” She laughed harshly. “My husband’s dead and I don’t even feel anything.”

“It’ll come,” Annie said. And when it does, you’ll wish it hadn’t, she thought.

“I suppose you’ve got more questions?”

“One or two. But I honestly did just want to see how you were doing, and how Harriet was coping. But as far as Erin’s future is concerned, you can help. She hasn’t been charged with anything yet.”

“What do you mean? How can I help?”

“The gun. Right now it’s a mystery. We know nothing about it-how it got on top of her wardrobe, how it fell into her possession, if it did. It’s something we’re going to be looking into very closely, and if you could help, that would go a long way toward influencing the CPS and any charges they might bring.”