“Police? What did they want?”
Rose stopped pacing for a moment and glanced at her. “Only to search the place, that’s all.”
“Search? They didn’t-”
“No. Relax. They were mostly interested in Erin’s room, and they seemed to be in a hurry.”
“But why? What were they looking for?”
“They wouldn’t say.”
Tracy ran her hand over her hair. “Christ,” she said, getting up and heading for the door to the kitchen. “I need a joint.”
“You can’t,” Rose called after her. “What are you talking about?”
“You can’t. I…I flushed it.”
“You flushed it! Rose, there was half an ounce of ace weed left, at least. What do you-”
“Well, they could’ve come back, couldn’t they, and gone through all the jars? You weren’t here. You don’t know what it’s like having the police crawling all over the house, asking questions. That way they have of looking at you like they don’t believe a word you’re saying.”
Oh, don’t I? thought Tracy. I lived with one for about twenty years. But Rose didn’t know that. Rose was part of the new scene. She had told Rose that her name was Francesca Banks because she thought Tracy was a chav name, and she said her father was a retired civil servant, an ex-pen-pusher, an old geezer, and her mother lived in London, half of which was true. And like the heiress who keeps her fortune a secret to make sure no one falls in love with her for the wrong reason, Tracy also never mentioned that her brother was Brian Banks of The Blue Lamps, whose latest CD was riding high in the charts, and who were hotly tipped for a Mercury Prize. Erin knew, of course, having been a childhood friend of the family, and she had agreed to keep Tracy’s secrets, to go along with the deception, because she thought it was cool and fun.
“Christ,” said Tracy, sitting down again. “Half an ounce of grass.” She put her head in her hands. “Do you have any idea how much that cost me?”
“Have a drink,” Rose offered cheerfully. “We’ve still got some gin left.”
“I don’t want any fucking gin.” If truth be told, Tracy didn’t much like alcohol or its effects at all. She drank merely because her friends did, and sometimes she overdid it, tottered around the city center in her high heels and puked in ginnels and snickets, ended up in the wrong bed, any bed. They all drank some sort of alcopop, colored liquids with a kick. But Tracy preferred a nice joint every now and then, and sometimes E. They seemed harmless-enough diversions.
“Look,” said Rose, “I’m really sorry, but I was scared. I mean, I was shaking like a leaf in case they found it while they were searching the place. You would have been, too. I was sure they noticed how nervous I was, thought I was hiding something. Soon as they left, I flushed it. I am sorry. But they could have come back. They could still come back.”
“Okay,” said Tracy, tired of the subject. “Okay, just forget it. Did they ask you any questions?”
“They were only interested in Erin, but it was just vague, general stuff, like about if she had any boyfriends, what she did, who else lived here.”
“Were they looking for her? Did they ask if you knew where she was?”
“No.”
“Did you mention me?”
“I had to, didn’t I? They could find out you live here easily enough.”
“What about Jaff?”
“Well, he is her boyfriend, isn’t he? I had to tell them who he was. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Christ. Did you give them his address?”
“I don’t know it, do I? All I know is he lives by the canal. Do you think it’s something to do with him?”
“Why would it be anything to do with him?”
“I don’t know,” said Rose. “I know you like him, but I’ve always thought he was a bit dodgy. The flash clothes and car, jewelry, that fancy Rolex watch. Where does he get all his money from? There’s just something about him that makes me think the police might be interested in him, that’s all, something not quite right. Drugs, I’ll bet.”
“Maybe,” said Tracy. She knew what Rose meant. She had had the same suspicions about Jaff, but she also fancied him, and she didn’t care if he was a bit dodgy. He certainly always seemed to have some weed or blow with him. And the dodginess was part of his appeal for Tracy-that cheeky, devil-may-care bad-boy attitude he exuded. It turned her on. That was part of the problem. He was good-looking, bright, a real charmer, and maybe crooked. And he was Erin’s boyfriend.
Perhaps the police visit was something to do with Jaff. If so, she needed to warn him, let him know what had happened. There was a good chance that she could get to him before the police did. What the hell had the silly bitch Erin gone and done? Whatever it was, it must have been in Eastvale, at her parents’ house, which was where Rose had said she had gone. Tracy just hoped that none of this would get through to her father, then she remembered that he was away somewhere in the world licking his wounds over a broken love affair, and she didn’t know exactly where he was, only that he wouldn’t be back until next week.
“Did they say anything else?” she asked.
Rose frowned. “Only that they had a warrant to search the house. They showed it to me, but I didn’t have a chance to read it. It could have said anything. One of them poked about in here while the others were gone, just in the drawers and under cushions and so on, but his heart didn’t seem in it. Like I said, they were mostly interested in Erin. They wouldn’t let me go up with them. They didn’t examine all the herb jars and stuff, thank God. I was terrified they’d take samples or sniff the basil.”
“I wonder why they didn’t,” Tracy said. “If they were looking for drugs, you’d think they’d have a good look at stuff like that, wouldn’t you? I mean, it’s hardly the most brilliant hiding place, a jar labeled ‘basil,’ is it?”
Rose shrugged. “They just didn’t. Maybe it was something else? I mean, this didn’t seem like a drugs raid. Not that I’d know what one was like, of course, but they didn’t have sniffer dogs, and they seemed to be in a bit of a hurry. It’s like they were looking for something in particular, in Erin’s room mostly. Why don’t you ring her at home? You’ve got her number, haven’t you?”
Tracy nodded. She knew the number by heart. She also knew that the phone at the Doyles’ house had call display and recorded the number of anyone who rang. Then she realized that didn’t matter. The police had already been here. They knew this was where Erin had a flat in Leeds. They would also know Tracy’s name, her real name, and that she lived here, too. It would hardly set off any alarms if someone from here phoned to ask about Erin. And maybe Mr. or Mrs. Doyle would be able to tell her something.
“You were here on Friday morning when she dropped by to pick up her things,” Tracy said. “What was she like? Is there anything she said that you’ve forgotten to tell me?”
“No. She was just pissed off, that’s all. Sulky. She didn’t say anything except when I asked her where she was going, then she just said she was going home for a few days and stormed out.”
That sounded like Erin in a snit, Tracy thought. She went into the hall, picked up the handset and dialed Erin’s home number. The phone rang, then someone answered it, and a man’s voice came on the line.
“Hello,” said Tracy. “Is that Mr. Doyle?”
“Who’s speaking?”
“Are you Mr. Doyle, Erin’s dad?”
“I’d like to know to whom I’m speaking. Please identify yourself.” Tracy hung up. It wasn’t Patrick Doyle. She knew a cop’s tone when she heard it. But why would a cop be answering the Doyles’ telephone? Where were Erin’s mother and father? A deep feeling of unease stirred inside her and started to seep like the damp chill of winter through her flesh. Something was wrong, perhaps seriously wrong, and it wasn’t only Erin who was involved. She grabbed her black denim jacket and shoulder bag from the stand in the hall and popped her head back around the living room door. “I’m going out for a while, Rose. Don’t worry. Just keep cool, right?”