Peter Robinson - Bad Boy

“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?”