Peter Robinson: Bad Boy

Chambers turned to Gervaise. “I take it you didn’t know about this, either, Catherine?”

“No,” said Gervaise. “Juliet Doyle neglected to mention that her husband was walking with the aid of a stick. I think she was far too het up about her daughter.”

“Her reasons are irrelevant. This should have been an essential part of the briefing. Essential. You can’t send men into battle on dodgy intelligence. It can mean the difference between life and death.”

Gervaise crossed her arms. Annie was about to make a remark about Tony Blair not being worried about dodgy dossiers when it came to going to war with Iraq, but she decided it wouldn’t go down well at this point. She must be growing up, she thought, not sticking her tongue out, keeping her lips buttoned.

Chambers put his pen on his pad. It was covered in looping, spider-like scrawl, Annie noticed, quite a lot of which appeared to be doodles. “I think we should wrap this up now,” he said. “There are a lot of loose ends, a lot more questions to be asked. This is only the beginning.”

“There is one more thing,” said Gervaise. Chambers raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Gervaise ignored him and looked directly at ACC McLaughlin. “If we might have your permission to interview Erin Doyle, sir? Before the ground gets muddied.”

Chambers spluttered. “I don’t think that’s-”

McLaughlin cut Chambers off, then glanced from him to Gervaise and back. “I do see the problem,” he said. “Clearly the discharge of the Taser is an incident that needs to be investigated by you and your department, Reg. The Independent Police Complaints Commission will no doubt insist on that.”

Chambers nodded in agreement.

“But on the other hand,” McLaughlin went on, “we still have the matter of the firearm itself, the reason the AFO team were at the Doyle house to begin with. I think you’ll agree, Reg, that we’re dealing with a separate investigation here. We need to find out as much as we can about this weapon and where it came from as soon as possible, and I don’t think another force would be any better equipped to deal with that than our own. Do you?”

“But it’s protocol.”

“It’s protocol that someone else investigates the actions of Constables Warburton and Powell and the rest of the AFO team, true, but that same protocol hardly requires an outside force to investigate the firearm we were called to recover in the first place. We have yet to establish any irrefutable link with Erin Doyle.”

“But they’re connected, sir.”

“Of course they’re connected,” said McLaughlin. He turned to Gervaise. “Where is the firearm now?”

“On its way to Forensic Services in Birmingham, sir.” McLaughlin nodded.

“I insist on being present at all interviews connected with this business, and with any members of the AFO team or anyone else connected with the weapon discharge,” demanded Chambers.

“There you are, you see, Reg,” McLaughlin said, allowing himself a flicker of a smile. “You’re already calling it ‘this business.’ To me that simply confuses the issue. We have the matter of the discharge of a Taser by a police officer in the course of his duty, yes, but we also have the discovery of a loaded firearm in a young woman’s bedroom. I would like to know where that weapon came from, what its history is, whether it has ever been used in the commission of a crime, for example, and how it got into Erin Doyle’s bedroom in the first place. Now, I’m aware there’s a connection-the officers were there to pick up the firearm, after all-but as far as I know, the handgun wasn’t used in ‘this business,’ was it? Nobody got a gunshot wound at Laburnum Way, did they? As far as I can gather, the weapon we’re interested in remained wrapped in a tea cloth from the moment it was picked up by Constable Powell to the moment we shipped it off to Birmingham. The chain of evidence is quite clear on this.”

“Let’s face it,” Gervaise said, “as soon as the media get hold of this, they’ll have a field day. We’re all going to be under the microscope-not just for the Taser discharge, but for the loaded gun, too-and things are likely to get even more twisted than they are right now. There’ll be questions in the house, a Home Office inquiry, a government report-”

“Yes, yes,” said McLaughlin, rubbing his forehead. “I’m aware of all that, Catherine. I don’t need reminding, thank you very much. I’m also aware that my opinion cuts very little ice with Superintendent Chambers here. But I’m still in charge, and I can’t see any objection at all to your interviewing Erin Doyle as long as you stick to the matter of the firearm, and she has legal representation present. The sooner, the better.”

“And my request to be present?” cut in Chambers, salvaging as much dignity as he could from the situation.

Before McLaughlin could answer, there came a soft tap at the door. Annie knew that the ACC had specifically asked that they not be interrupted, so she wasn’t surprised when he barked out a gruff “What is it?” A grim-faced Harry Potter opened the door a crack and stuck his head through. “Sorry to disturb the meeting, ma’am,” he said, addressing Gervaise, “but the hospital thought you ought to know. Mr.

Doyle. Patrick Doyle. He died ten minutes ago. Sorry, ma’am.”

WHEN TRACY Banks got home from work at about half past five that evening, she was hot, tired and grumpy. The traffic on Otley Road had been jammed up almost as far back as The Original Oak, and it had taken her bus nearly an hour to crawl the short distance from town. It had been a difficult day at the bookshop, too. They had a big-name crime author coming to do an event that evening, and she had spent most of the day on the phone chasing down his backlist from a variety of recalcitrant publishers, books that had been promised for weeks but still hadn’t arrived. Still, that wasn’t her problem anymore. Bugger it, she thought. Let Shauna, the evening-shift manager, deal with it. After all, she would also get to go out with the writer and his entourage afterward for a slap-up meal and a bunch of free drinks at Maxi’s. All Tracy wanted now was a joint and a bit of peace and quiet. She hoped Erin was still at her parents’ place. Life had been a lot more relaxed without her over the weekend, and the last thing Tracy wanted was another row.

Despite its overgrown garden, the house appeared more impressive than it was, Tracy always thought as she walked up the path toward its solid sandstone facade and mullioned windows. Three bedrooms, one each; a shared bathroom and toilet, large high-ceiling living room with a drafty bay window, expensive to heat in winter, no double glazing. The kitchen was large enough to double as a communal dining area, though it was rare that the three of them actually ate together.

Luckily Tracy, Rose and Erin got along well most of the time, though three more different personalities in one place you’d be hard pushed to find. Erin was sloppy and untidy, left a mess behind her everywhere she went. Rose was a bit of a bookworm, and though she kept her things generally tidy, she didn’t always seem to notice the general mess and was quite content living in her own world. And Tracy…well, she didn’t really know how to describe herself, except she felt angry a lot of the time these days, at nothing in particular, and a little dissatisfied with what life had to offer. No, if truth be told, more than just a little, but a lot dissatisfied. It wasn’t supposed to be like this at all, whatever this was. And her name wasn’t Tracy anymore; most people called her Francesca now.

Despite their differences, the three of them had fun, and somehow it worked, though Tracy found it was always she who ended up cleaning and tidying the mess simply because it got her down, not because tidiness was necessarily in her nature. They had talked about it more than once, and the others had promised to do better, but it remained a problem. At least Rose tried, when she noticed.