Peter Robinson: Bad Boy

“When was this?”

“July the thirtieth.”

“Do you know what this Geoff does for a living?”

“He’s in sales and marketing. That’s all I know. And he’s got a company car. A BMW.”

“Sounds like a good catch,” said Gervaise. “What was Erin like when she came back home? What was her state of mind? You said she was upset.”

“Yes. She seemed distant, distracted. Quiet and withdrawn.”

“Is that like her?”

“No. She’s usually quite normal, when it comes to conversation and such. Always has been. Cheerful. Quick to smile. Gregarious, even. But this time she’s been acting like a hermit, staying in her room.”

“Did she ask you for any help at all?”

Juliet frowned. “What do you mean? What sort of help?”

“Financial, emotional, medical. Anything. Could she be in trouble?”

“You mean pregnant?”

“It’s a possibility,” said Gervaise. “Though that wasn’t what I meant specifically. Would she have been able to talk to you about something like that?”

“I’d like to think so.”

“How long has she been back here in Eastvale?”

“Since Friday morning. We kept her room. Always. Just as it was. Well, tidier.”

“Lots of parents do that,” Gervaise said. “It offsets the sense of loss when their children leave home. Sometimes it’s hard to let go.”

Annie knew that the superintendent had two children of her own, though it was hard to imagine it at the moment, as she perched there in her pinstripe skirt, buttoned-up jacket and crisp white blouse, all business.

“Yes,” said Juliet.

“Did you get the impression that this time it’s more than a passing visit?”

“Definitely.”

“And is this the first time she’s come to stay for any length of time since she left home?”

“Yes.”

Gervaise paused. “Now, about the gun you found on top of the wardrobe,” she went on.

“It was near the back, where you couldn’t possibly see it unless you stood on a chair or a stepladder. It was wrapped in a tea cloth. I suppose she thought it was safe up there. I mean, she doesn’t really think about housework or anything like that.”

“It would have been if it hadn’t been for your thoroughness,” said Gervaise. “You did the right thing coming to us, Mrs. Doyle.”

“I don’t know,” Juliet said, shaking her head. “My own daughter. I feel like such a…Judas. What will happen to her?”

Annie had deeply conflicted feelings toward Juliet Doyle at that moment. On the one hand, the poor woman was turning in her own daughter, and she must be going through hell. Whether Juliet was aware of it or not, Annie knew there was a mandatory five year sentence for possession of a handgun, and the courts tended to be strict in its application, though there had recently been some complaints about overly lenient judges. Perhaps they would take special circumstances into account for a young woman with no prior record, but however forgiving they were, Erin Doyle was looking at a prison sentence of some sort, rather than probation or community service. And she would come out with a criminal record. Juliet probably didn’t suspect this. Still, Annie reminded herself, as yet they had absolutely no evidence that Erin Doyle was guilty of anything.

“It’s a very serious matter,” Gervaise went on. “Guns are dangerous weapons, and the more we get off the streets the safer our towns and cities will be.”

It was the party line, Annie knew, and Gervaise was clearly trying to make Juliet feel more at ease with her betrayal, feel like a right-thinking citizen. But Annie sensed that Juliet Doyle was getting seriously worried now, and beginning to regret that she had come. She was probably thinking that she and her husband could have dealt with the whole mess themselves, disposed of the gun, chucked it in the river, given Erin a good talking to. In a way, Annie thought, she was right.

For a mother to take such a step was almost inconceivable to Annie, no matter how much police policy encouraged it, or how much, as an officer of the law and a campaigner against gun crime, she was supposed to applaud it. While a part of her admired Juliet’s sacrifice to duty, to the greater good, another part of her felt disgust for what the woman was doing. Though Annie had never raised a child herself, she didn’t think she would be capable of betraying her daughter. She was certain that her own mother would never have done such a thing, though she had died when Annie was very young. Her father would have given her a stern talking to and thrown the gun in the sea, but he would never have turned her in to the police, either. But, she reminded herself, Juliet Doyle had come here asking for Banks’s help. No doubt she had hoped that he would have been able to deal with the matter unofficially, off the record.

“What happens now?” Juliet asked.

Gervaise moved away from the edge of her desk and went to sit behind it. She didn’t seem quite so imposing there, and Annie felt the atmosphere lighten a little. “There are procedures to be followed,” Gervaise said. “Where is the gun now?”

“In the kitchen. Patrick has it. We didn’t think it would be a good idea for me to carry it in the street, and I must admit the idea made me very nervous.”

“And your daughter?”

“She’s with him. We agreed this was the best way. They would stay at the house. I would come here and talk to Alan, ask him to go back with me, but…”

“Yes, I understand that DCI Banks was a neighbor,” Gervaise said. “Don’t worry, we’re all professionals here. We’ll deal with this just as he would. I know it’s much more pleasant to have a familiar face around in a situation like this, but we all want the same thing. First of all, are you absolutely certain it’s a real gun? You have no idea how many people we get reporting replicas or ball-bearing guns.”

“Patrick said it is. He used to belong to a gun club, many years ago, after grammar school. I don’t know about such things.”

“Did he also happen to check if it’s loaded?”

“He says it is. He handled it very carefully.”

“Good,” said Gervaise. “Did he unload it?”

“No. He said it was best to leave it as it was, not to contaminate the evidence.”

Wonderful, thought Annie. Another one been watching too many episodes of CSI. A loaded gun. Now they would have to bring in the Firearms Support Unit for certain. It would have had more sense, and been much safer, if Patrick Doyle had unloaded the gun. Annie also knew that most people rarely act sensibly during crises. After all, how often do you find a loaded gun in your daughter’s bedroom?

“Did he happen to mention what kind of gun it is?” Gervaise asked.

“He said something about a semiautomatic. Can that be right?”

Annie knew very little about firearms, but she knew that a semiautomatic used a removable magazine to hold cartridges, rather than a cylinder. It usually held several rounds of ammunition, and it fired one shot each time you pulled the trigger.

“So when you left the house,” Gervaise went on, “your husband and daughter were in the kitchen and the gun was on the table?”

“Yes.”

“Still wrapped?”

“Patrick wrapped it up in the tea cloth again after he’d examined it, yes.”

“What state of mind was Erin in then?”

“She was upset, obviously. Angry. Tearful. Frightened.”

“Did you ask her who she’d got the gun from?”

“Of course. But she wouldn’t say.”

Gervaise pursed her lips and thought for a moment, then she glanced at Annie and stood up. “Thank you,” she said to Juliet Doyle. “I’m going to ring for someone to take care of you for the time being while we deal with the problem of the gun. That has to be our priority, you understand. We need to get that loaded gun out of your house and into safekeeping, and there are strict procedures we need to follow.” She picked up the telephone and talked to the officer on the front desk.