Peter Robinson: Bad Boy

“So you saw DCI Banks fiddling with the paper bag?” Gervaise went on.

“Yes.”

“And what did you do next?”

“Nothing, ma’am. I watched and waited.”

“Through the sights of your gun?” asked Chambers.

“Through my scope, yes.”

“The sniper’s rifle you just happened to be carrying with you?” He glanced down at his notes. “A Parker-Hale M85, if I’m not mistaken. Not exactly standard issue. Where did you get it?”

“It was my father’s, sir. I keep it locked in a special compartment in the boot of my car. I practice with it sometimes. In my opinion, the Park-”

“Is that where you’re supposed to keep your weapon, Officer Powell?” asked Trethowan. “In the boot of your car, like some American redneck?”

Nerys turned away. “No, sir. The Firearms Cadre has proper storage facilities, as do our transport vehicles, but-”

“Carry on,” said Trethowan. “We’ll deal with that infraction later.”

Nerys swallowed again, as if her mouth was dry. She still had a glass of water in front of her, Banks noticed, but this time she didn’t touch it. She probably didn’t want them to see her hand shaking. “I was watching them walk toward the car. DCI Banks pulled a face and flinched. I thought maybe he’d burned himself or something. That gave me an idea of what he might be about to try.”

“And?” asked Gervaise.

Nerys looked directly at Banks. Her gaze was unnerving. “In my opinion, he wouldn’t have succeeded, ma’am. His awkward movements had already alerted McCready that something was going on. DCI Banks was going to try and throw hot coffee in his face, but he must have burned himself getting the lid off, and he flinched. McCready noticed, knew something was wrong.”

“Is this true, Alan?” asked Gervaise.

Banks nodded.

“What did McCready do then?” Gervaise asked Nerys.

“He took the gun-the Baikal with the silencer-out of his hold-all. He’d had it in his hand all the time they were walking, but now he pulled it out into full view. One or two of the people around them in the car park noticed and screamed. I could see that if it went on like that, there was going to be a panic, and that would only make McCready more volatile. But at that moment, there weren’t many people in that particular area, certainly nobody really close.”

“Where did McCready point the gun?”

“First he pointed it at Tracy Banks. At her head. I surmised that he was threatening her father that he would shoot her if he tried anything.”

“And then?”

“McCready was edgy, ma’am. Erratic in his behavior. He said something to DCI Banks, and then pointed the gun directly at him.”

“By this time DCI Banks had turned around?”

“Yes. He was facing McCready, who was using Tracy as a shield.”

“And how did you respond?” Chambers cut in.

“I shot McCready, sir,” Nerys said dispassionately. “In the head. It was the best shot I could get. Luckily, he was quite a bit taller than DCI Banks’s daughter.”

“You killed him,” Chambers said.

“Yes, sir. A head shot is usually…” She noticed the storm brewing on Trethowan’s face, then turned back to Chambers. “Yes, sir.”

“Then you fled the scene.”

“Then I returned to Western Area Headquarters. I handed over my weapon to Detective Superintendent Gervaise, told her what happened, and you know the rest.”

“Why didn’t you remain at the scene?” Gervaise asked.

“There seemed no point. McCready was dead. DCI Banks and his daughter were safe. The services would be swarming with police in no time at all.”

“And you might have found it rather difficult to explain yourself?” suggested Chambers.

“Yes. I’ll admit that crossed my mind, too. And if other armed officers arrived on the scene, my presence could have caused a serious danger to the public.”

“How public-spirited of you,” said Chambers. “Do you know how long those officers spent questioning people, looking for clues to the identity of the shooter?”

“Do you want to add leaving the scene of the crime to the list of charges against me?” Nerys said.

Trethowan just shook his head. Chambers spluttered and tossed his pencil down. “I told you this would be a waste of time, Catherine,” he said to Gervaise. “She needs to be suspended from duty right now, without pay, and we need to bring in an outside team.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” said McLaughlin.

“I don’t think it was a waste of time, Reg,” said Trethowan. “Officer Powell’s cheap repartee aside. Not when one of my officers is involved in a serious incident such as this. And not if we can contain the fallout.”

“Nor do I, for what it’s worth,” said Banks, speaking up with a contemptuous glance toward Chambers. “I don’t think it was a waste of time at all. One thing you all seem to be forgetting in all this mud-slinging is that Officer Powell here saved my life. And my daughter’s.”

“IT’S A long time since I’ve been here,” said Tracy the following lunchtime in the Queen’s Arms.

Banks studied the drab decor. The red plush on the benches was worn, the stuffing coming out here and there, the dimpled copper tables were wobbly, and the wallpaper was peeling in places where it reached the ceiling. The whole place could do with a lick of paint, too. Still, it was familiar, and it was comfortable, and those were qualities, Banks felt, that both he and Tracy needed right now. It was also still hanging on, when so many pubs were closing down for good. And the food wasn’t bad.

Tracy picked at her chicken and chips in a basket, and Banks tucked into his giant Yorkshire pudding stuffed with roast beef and smothered in onion gravy. He had slept on his living room couch at the rented flat the previous night and let Tracy have the bed, but he hadn’t slept well. The jet lag was still with him, and he kept experiencing waves of tiredness and dizziness at the oddest of times. But he could live with that. It wasn’t so much different from when he’d had to work shifts.

“It’s a while since I’ve been here, too,” said Banks between mouthfuls. He sipped his Black Sheep bitter. The Queen’s Arms wasn’t overly busy for the time of day, and their table by the window was a little island unto itself. Sunshine filtered through the red and blue diamonds of stained glass. A couple of young lads were playing the noisy machines in the passage to the gents’, and the usual oldies played on the radio, or whatever it was Cyril had rigged up as his source of music instead of the old jukebox. “Substitute” by The Who, was playing at the moment. “I understand you called yourself Francesca,” Banks said.

Tracy blushed and stared down at her plate. “That was silly. I’m sorry.”

“We never gave you a middle name. I’m sorry for that.” Banks smiled. “We couldn’t afford one for you at the time.”

Tracy laughed, and he saw an image of the daughter he knew and loved behind the attitude and the new look. Not that he cared how she did her hair or dressed, as long as she was happy. But she hadn’t been happy; that was becoming apparent enough. “I don’t have one, either,” he went on. “When I was young I called myself Davy, after Davy Crockett. I must have seen The Alamo a hundred times.”

“You didn’t!”

“I did. You know,” Banks went on, glancing at her sideways as he cut off some more beef and Yorkshire pudding, “it doesn’t really matter about your exams. I mean, I know you’re disappointed, and I can’t do anything about that, but you don’t have to feel you let me or your mother down. You worked so hard. We’re proud of you. I honestly didn’t know you were beating yourself up so much about the results.”