Peter Robinson - Bad Boy

It was only when Tracy got back from work that Friday evening that Rose told her Erin had been by to pick up some things and had said she was going to stay at her parents’ house for a while. Tracy had rung Erin at home, but she wouldn’t talk to her except to say that she had split up with Jaff, and it was all Tracy’s fault.

“It was only a kiss,” Tracy said to Jaff. “Don’t you think Erin over-reacted a bit?”

“Sure, but that doesn’t help me now, does it? Look what’s happened.”

“What’s wrong?” Tracy asked. “Nobody mentioned you.”

“Well, they wouldn’t, would they? They’d hardly want to tip me off.”

“But what’s wrong? What are you so worried about? What was Erin doing with a gun? Or was it her father’s? It sounds as if he’s been hurt.”

“Pour me some more wine and I’ll tell you all about it.” Tracy poured.

“The gun was mine,” Jaff said. “And now, thanks to dear Erin, the police have got it.”

“What?”

Jaff paused, then said, “The gun was mine. All right? That woman the reporter talked to was right. It was a gun wrapped in an old tea cloth.”

“Was it registered?”

“Of course it wasn’t. You can’t register a handgun in this country these days.”

“But why did Erin take it?”

Jaff ran his hand over his hair and sighed. “I don’t know. To spite me. To hurt me. She must have taken it after that night we had the row, the morning after, when I left her alone in the flat.”

“And you didn’t notice it was gone?”

“It’s not exactly something I look at every day. Besides, I told you, I was away on business all weekend. I only noticed when I checked after that piece we saw on the news back at the flat.”

“But where did you get it from? What do you need a gun for?”

Jaff put his hands to his ears. “Will you stop it with the third degree? Please? Too many questions. That doesn’t matter. You don’t need to know. I was doing a favor for a friend, that’s all. The point is that the police have got it now, and if I know Erin, she’ll be blabbing away to them in no time, if she hasn’t already. Hell hath no fury and all that. Do you think they’d know to look here for you?”

“Nobody’s looking for me, and no, they wouldn’t think to look here even if they were. We’re safe. Don’t worry. Besides, Erin would never tell them your name.”

“How do you know?”

“She just wouldn’t, that’s all.”

“Well, I appreciate your loyalty to her, especially after what happened, but they give out stiff enough penalties just for thinking about a gun these days. What would you do if PC Plod says he can make a nice deal with you if you tell him what you know?”

“She won’t tell. What are you going to do now?”

“I need time to think. I’ve got some contacts down south. Useful contacts, but these things take time. Right now, I’m going to roll another joint. Bring in the Highland Park, will you? The wine’s finished. And a fresh glass. This one’s got lees in it.”

Tracy went into the kitchen. She leaned against the fridge and put her head in her hands. The weed was misting up her brain. She needed to pull herself together. What was going on? What did she think she was doing? Here was good little Tracy, the apple of her daddy’s eye, practically breaking into his house, drinking his best booze, making a mess with a man she barely knew who had just told her that her best friend had stolen his gun and run away with it. How had she got mixed up in all this? It was all so confusing.

But she hadn’t been the apple of her daddy’s eye for quite a while, she realized. For a few years now, ever since she had graduated with a less than desirable 2/2 degree, it had all been about Brian. Brian. Brian. Brian. The Blue Lamps. My son the rock star. And Tracy, with her lousy degree and her dead-end job, could rot in hell as far as he was concerned. That was the truth of it. They exchanged texts occasionally, even phone calls, but she didn’t think he had visited her once since June.

She wouldn’t mind so much, but all the time they had been growing up, she had been the one who worked hard at school, who stayed in night after night to do her homework, who was called a swot by the other kids, who came top of the class, always got great exam results, was expected to go places. Brian was a lazy sod who did everything at the last minute, or copied it from one of his mates, and then dropped out to start a rock band. She had done everything right, so why did her father love Brian more? Well, screw him. She was having her own adventure now, and she was damn well going to see it through. She’d show him. She’d show them all.

Tracy thumped the fridge and picked up the Highland Park from the table where Jaff had left it. She took a long swig from the bottle, and it burned all the way down, then she grabbed two crystal glasses from the cupboard and tottered back into the conservatory.

THE WOMAN AT THE WINE TASTING WAS DEFINITELY smiling at Banks. He had seen her there yesterday, too, and had thought she was by herself. Right now she was talking to an elderly couple from Lansing, Michigan-he knew because he’d chatted with them yesterday-but she was definitely looking his way. Perhaps she needed rescuing.

Banks smiled back and walked over.

The man from Lansing, Michigan-Bob, Banks remembered, who worked in farm machinery-saw him coming. “Well, if it isn’t my old buddy, Al. What a pleasure to see you again.”

Banks said hello to Bob and his wife Betsy, waiting for them to introduce the mystery woman, who stood by rather shyly, he thought, eyes cast down, looking into her almost-empty wineglass. She had appeared tall from a distance, but when he got closer Banks saw she was probably only about five feet three or four. She was Asian, but Banks had no idea where exactly she might have come from, or what age she was. There was no gray in her glossy black hair, which hung down over her shoulders, and no lines around her almond eyes.

“This here’s Teresa,” said Bob. “All the way from Boston.”

Teresa looked up at Banks and held out her delicate hand. He shook it. Her skin was soft and silky, but her grip was firm and dry. She wore a couple of rings on her fingers and a silver bracelet that matched her hoop earrings.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Banks. “Likewise,” said Teresa.

“Can I get anyone another drink? I need one myself.”

Bob and Betsy declined, but Teresa handed him her glass and said, “Yes, I’ll have a sauvignon blanc, please.” The glass was warm from her palm, and Banks noticed a little semicircle of pink lipstick on the rim.

The hotel called it a wine tasting, but Banks thought it was more of an excuse to get a couple of glasses of alcohol under his belt before dinner, a bit of a social mixer and a cheap promotion for the wine-maker. It wasn’t that you actually had to discuss the wine’s forward leathery nose, or fill out a tasting card. It was definitely a nice gesture on the part of the hotel, as was the tarot reader, who sat poring over an arrangement of cards with a portly, bearded, anxious-looking man in baggy shorts sitting opposite her.

On the whole, Banks had decided, he liked America. Having spent plenty of time back in the pubs in England listening to his mates slag off the USA and its people, he found that while Americans were easy to ridicule and could often appear obnoxious abroad-which is something you could just as easily say about the British and the Germans-at home they were mostly a delight, from the family diners and roadside honky-tonks with local country bands to the city wine bars, hotels and fancy restaurants. And they understood the concept of a service industry. Like now. The woman at the bar collected his glasses, asked him what he wanted and handed him full fresh ones, smiling as she did so, saying she hoped he was enjoying the wine. Maybe she didn’t mean it, but Banks said he was. Sometimes a smile and a little politeness go a long way. Try that in your average English pub, he thought, where the concept of wine runs about as far as red or white and sweet or dry, and a grunt is the most likely response to a hello. He carried a pinot noir and the sauvignon blanc carefully back through the throng.