Peter Robinson - Bad Boy

“No! You can’t do that. You don’t understand. You have to go now. He’s got…he won’t…”

“He won’t what, Tracy? He doesn’t have a choice.”

“He won’t like that. Can’t you just let us go? Please. We’ll leave here. I’ll tidy up, honest. Then we’ll just go. But please leave now.”

“I can’t do that, Tracy. You know I can’t.” Annie thought she saw a shadow flit beyond the frosted glass of the conservatory door. Quickly she moved forward and opened it. “Are you Jaff?” she said as she glimpsed the dark figure reaching into a large hold-all on the breakfast table.

“Be careful,” shouted Tracy. “He’s got-”

But Annie wasn’t listening. “Because if you are, I think it’s time-” Before she could finish the sentence she heard two dull pops and felt as if someone had punched her hard in the chest and shoulder, then her body started to turn cold and numb. Her legs wobbled and gave under her, then she became aware of falling backward, like floating through space, onto the table, which smashed beneath her weight. Shards of glass stuck in her back. Pottery crashed on the terra cotta tiles. Glasses broke. Someone screamed, far away. Annie tried to call out and reached up her arms to cling on to some sort of imaginary lifeline, but she couldn’t grasp it. Exhausted and fighting for breath, a great weight on her chest, she fell back on the broken glass and pottery and everything swirled from her mind like water down the drain. Her chest and throat felt wet and bubbly when she tried to breathe. Then the lights went out.

WHEN WINSOME got to Leeds, the house in Headingley was locked up tight, with no sign of Rose Preston or anybody else. A neighbor said she had seen Rose walking toward the bus stop with a suitcase the previous evening. After a few calls on her mobile, Winsome was able to track down Rose’s parents’ address in Oldham. It wasn’t far, but the traffic on the M62 was dreadful at that time of the evening, and it was going on for half past eight when she arrived at the small terraced house, just around the corner from Gallery Oldham, the shiny new arts center and library.

Rose answered the door herself, and on seeing Winsome’s warrant card she rolled her eyes and said, “What now?”

“I’d just like to talk to you for a few minutes, that’s all,” Winsome said.

Rose grabbed a light jacket from a hook by the door. “Okay,” she said. “I don’t suppose I’ve got much choice. But I’ve already told you lot everything I know. My parents are out, and I certainly don’t intend being alone with you, so let’s go to the pub round the corner.”

When they turned the corner, all Winsome could see was another hill with redbrick slate-roofed terrace houses on each side. But one of these had a sign outside, and it turned out to be the local pub. Winsome felt as if she were walking into someone’s living room when they stepped inside, but the interior was done out like a proper pub, complete with customers, bar, video machines, pool table, plush banquettes and iron-legged tables. It was on a split level and either took up two houses, or it had the same powers over dimension as Doctor Who’s TARDIS. Winsome was a secret Doctor Who fan. She would never tell her colleagues at work because they were sure to make fun of her-they all thought her so straight and logical-but she had always dreamed of being the doctor’s companion, of traveling the universe through space and time, meeting Shakespeare, battling monsters and egomaniacal madmen, arriving back on earth before she had even left.

She bought an orange juice for herself and a pint of lager and lime for Rose, and they sat down on one of the banquettes.

“Why were you so upset when I turned up?” Winsome asked. “And why would you be so afraid of being alone with me? Am I that scary looking?”

“No, it’s not you. I’m just being more careful, that’s all. I mean, it’s not because you’re…you know. It’s nothing to do with that.”

“Well, I’m glad to know it’s not because I’m tall,” said Winsome.

Rose managed a weak smile. “I meant because you’re black. You know I did. You’re teasing. Anyway, it’s nothing to do with that. I’ve just had it up to here with the police, if that’s what they really were.”

Winsome frowned. “What do you mean? Surely nobody’s given you a hard time during all this? What reason would they have?”

“Maybe not at first,” Rose said, sweeping back a stray tress and tucking it behind her ear. “I mean, it was a bit of a shock, the police coming around and searching the place and all that, right? But they were okay.”

“And DI Annie Cabbot? Didn’t she come by to see you?”

“Yeah. She was all right, too. Just wanted to chat about Erin and Francesca, you know.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Rose turned away. “The other two.”

“What other two?” Winsome had no idea that the Leeds police had sent anyone to interview Rose after the search of the house. Annie certainly hadn’t mentioned it. She had mentioned that two men had turned up at Jaff’s flat passing themselves off as police officers when nobody had, in fact, been sent out there. She could check with DI Ken Blackstone when she went to Leeds with Annie in the morning, of course, and she would. But for the moment it seemed a promising place to start her chat with Rose.

“Don’t you know?” Rose said. “Don’t you ever talk to each other?”

Winsome smiled. “Not very often, no. Especially if they’re from another county force. I mean, they’d be West Yorkshire, while Annie and I are North Yorkshire.”

“That’s what they said, more or less. But it still seems weird to me. All wrong. I had a feeling they weren’t real policemen right from the start. Anyway, they said their names were Sandalwood and Watkins, but I suppose they were lying about that, too. I don’t remember what they said their ranks were.”

“But they wore plainclothes?”

“Yes.”

“Did you get a good look at their warrant cards? Did you see if they said West or North Yorkshire?”

“No. They sort of pushed their way in. It all happened so quickly I didn’t really catch what was written on them. I don’t think they looked liked yours, though.”

“How were they dressed? Suits? Casual?”

“Casual. Jeans. Button-down shirts. One of them wore a tan wind cheater and the other had a sort of linen sports jacket on, light blue.”

“That’s good, Rose,” said Winsome, making notes. “You’ve got a good eye for detail.”

“I like to draw. You have to really look at things if you want to draw them.”

Winsome glanced up from her notebook. “Do you think you could draw them for me? Now. Could you do that? Head and shoulders.”

Rose nodded. Winsome went to the bar and asked the bartender for a few sheets of unlined paper. He managed to find some in the office and handed them to her without question. When she got back, she put them on the table and handed Rose a pencil from her briefcase. Rose’s hand moved deftly and confidently over the paper, sketching an outline, filling out the details. Finally she slid the pages over to Winsome. “That’s the best I can do from memory.”

Winsome didn’t recognize either of the men Rose had drawn, but that didn’t necessarily mean much, especially if they were from West Yorkshire. But somehow she doubted that they were. She didn’t think they were police officers at all. One of them was burly and overbearing, with hardly any neck and a shaved head perched atop his broad shoulders.

“He was the biggest,” Rose said. “And he had a tattoo on the back of his neck. It looked like a dagger or a cross, or something like that. I’m not sure exactly what it was. Some sort of symbol, anyway. It was small, but you could see it above his shirt collar.”