“I do know about that. Wouldn’t you?”
“If I had a kid and I found a gun in her room?”
“Yes.”
“Probably,” said Annie. “I don’t know. Somehow it goes against the grain. Tough one, though.”
“Not for me,” said Winsome. “I’d do it in a shot. No pun intended.”
“Your dad’s a cop, mine’s an artist.”
“What difference does that make?”
“I don’t know,” said Annie.
“But we’re both cops.”
“I just meant that I might try and deal with the situation on my own. You know, talk to her, try to understand. The way things are between mother and daughter now, any chance of anyone understanding anything has gone right out the window.”
“Sometimes it’s not the most important thing.”
“What is, then?”
“That no one gets shot.”
Annie gave a little shudder. “Fair enough. Maybe I’m overplaying the liberal mum. Maybe I’d just shop the little bastard and have done with it. That’s probably why I’m lucky I don’t have any children.”
“Yeah, I could just see you turning in your own kid. Softie.”
“Anyway,” Annie went on. “The house is still in lockdown and we’re waiting on ballistics. Should know more by this afternoon. The girl’s on bail-bed-and-breakfast arrest-and the mother’s stopping with a friend. And you know what happened to Patrick Doyle.”
“Yeah,” said Winsome. “It’s terrible.”
“Plus I had a visit last night from one of the AFOs involved. Wanted to know if I was on their side.”
“Are you?”
“I’d like to say I was on the side of truth and justice, but somehow with Chambers around, words like that turn to ashes in my mouth.”
“But you’re not going to lie for anyone, are you? You don’t even know them.”
Annie put her hand on Winsome’s forearm. “No, Winsome, I’m not going to lie for anybody. Christ knows, I wasn’t in the house, I don’t know much to start with, but when Chambers gets around to me, I’ll answer all his questions honestly to the best of my ability, and if I don’t know the answers, I’ll say so.”
“Can’t say fairer than that.”
“Who said fair had anything to do with it?”
“Cynic.”
“Yes, well…Don’t forget, I worked with Chambers once.”
Winsome gobbled up her burger and started picking at her chips. “Where do I start?” she asked, glancing up at Annie from her plate.
“You know DCI Banks’s daughter?”
“Tracy? Is that her name?”
“That’s right. Though she seems to have taken to calling herself Francesca these days.”
“That’s nothing. Kids often go through periods of dissatisfaction with the names their parents gave them,” said Winsome. “I know I did. I called myself Joan for years in school.”
“Tracy’s twenty-four. She’s not a kid.” Annie shot Winsome a glance. “You did, though? Really? Joan?”
“Yeah. I wanted an ordinary name. I hated Winsome. Didn’t you ever change your name?”
“No. Somehow or other, I’ve always been just Annie. So you know Tracy, then?”
“I’ve spoken with her at the station once or twice. Nice girl, or so she seemed. I can’t say I know her. Is there a problem?”
“Maybe. Not only has she changed her name,” Annie said, “but she’s changed her appearance, too.”
“So? People do. Look at you. You got your hair cut and highlighted. You used to dress like a hippie and-”
“All right. I get your point.” Annie touched her head self-consciously. “True enough. I’m not trying to make anything out of it in itself. You’re right. Sometimes people just like a change. It’s just that she also seems to have disappeared.”
“Seems to have?”
“Yes, well, this is where we enter the realm of total conjecture, or fantasy, as Madame Gervaise would say. Which is why I’m talking to you here and not to her at the station.”
“Because I’m more gullible?”
“No. Because I can’t think of anyone more level-headed. Hear me out, Winsome. You can tell me if you think I’m talking rubbish.” Annie pushed her empty plate away and drank some more beer. Her glass was close to empty, and she fancied another. Given what chaos the afternoon might bring, though, she decided to abstain and ordered a coffee and some sticky toffee pudding and custard instead. “Juliet Doyle, the mother of the girl who had the gun in her room, told me that her daughter Erin shares a house in Headingley with two other girls,” she began. “Rose Preston and Tracy Banks. The Leeds police searched the place on the afternoon of Erin’s arrest. Rose was present. Apparently, when Tracy got home from work that evening and Rose told her what happened, she went ballistic. She seemed most concerned about some bloke called Jaff, Erin’s boyfriend. Erin’s not talking, so we can’t get anything about him from her. Tracy took off almost immediately Rose gave her the news, and she hasn’t been seen or heard from since.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I paid a visit to the house yesterday evening and talked to Rose. I also called at this Jaff’s flat-nice place, down by the canal-but it was all locked up and there was nobody home. One of the neighbors told me the police had already been around asking questions. He seemed in a bit of a huff, kept his door on the chain, said he didn’t have to answer any more questions. He was right. There wasn’t a lot I could do, so I went home.”
“Some people are like that,” said Winsome.
“I rang DI Ken Blackstone in Leeds this morning, and guess what? He checked and told me they hadn’t sent anybody to Granary Wharf yesterday.”
Winsome frowned. “So what do you think’s going on?”
“I don’t know. This is where it becomes pure conjecture on my part. Rose got the impression that there was something between Jaff and Tracy, or so she told me. Tracy certainly seemed unduly concerned about this Jaff, at any rate. Whether she knew about the gun or not, I have no idea. I know this is all mere speculation, but given that both Tracy and Jaff seem to have disappeared from view, it’s my bet that they’ve gone off somewhere together, probably headed south. If the gun does belong to Jaff, then he’s obviously scared that Erin’s going to tell on him, or that the police are going to track him down through it, so it’s easy to see why he might want to make himself scarce.”
“So he’s on the run. Makes sense. You really think he’s used this gun?”
“Not recently, according to the preliminary ballistics report. The point right now is that he was probably the one who owned it, whatever the reason.”
“And Tracy’s part in all of this?”
Annie ate some more pudding, then washed it down with coffee. “Don’t know,” she said. “Either she is involved, and she’s gone with him, or she’s not involved but she’s gone with him.”
“Or she’s gone somewhere else. On her own.”
“Maybe,” said Annie. “But unlikely, don’t you think? The timing is just too coincidental.”
“Circumstantial is what it all is,” said Winsome. “But you’ve got a point. The thing is, I can’t believe Tracy’s mixed up in anything bad. Not the DCI’s daughter.”
“I agree she always seemed like a decent kid, but people change, Winsome, fall in with the wrong company, develop a chip on their shoulder, start to resent their lives or the way they perceive they’re being treated. Rebellion. It comes in many shapes and sizes, and not only when you’re a teenager. Twenty-four isn’t all that old. If she really fancies this Jaff bloke…Christ…”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just remembering my own bad boy phase.”
“Bad boy?”
“Yes. Don’t you know what bad boys are, Winsome?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever really had much experience of them.”
“A bad boy is unreliable, and sometimes he doesn’t show up at all, or if he does, he’s late and moody; he acts mean to you, and he leaves early. He always seems to have another iron in the fire, somewhere else to be. But always while you’re waiting for him you can’t really concentrate on anything else, and you have at least one eye on the door in case he’s the next one to walk in the room, even though you think he might be seeing someone else, and when you’re with him your heart starts to beat a little faster and your breath catches in your chest. You might be angry, but it won’t last, and you’re happy for a while when he gives all his attention to you, and then it starts all over again.”