Free Bad Boy by Peter Robinson Page B

Cabbot on camera in the background, talking to someone in uniform. Of all her father’s girlfriends since he split up with her mum, she had liked Annie the best.
    Jaff turned off the TV. “Damn,” he said, stubbing out the roach. “It’s exactly as I thought. They’ve found the gun.”
    “Gun?” echoed Tracy. But Jaff ignored her. “What gun?”
    The microwave beeped. They took their cartons of food and glasses of wine through to the conservatory, where “Librarian” played through extension speakers Banks had set up, and settled into the cushioned wicker chairs.
    “Nice,” said Jaff, scooping up a mouthful of chicken tikka with his naan. “I’m starving.” Tracy noticed that he had found a serviette in the kitchen and had tucked it into the neck of his shirt to catch any sauce that might drip while he ate. He might not care much about a clean and tidy flat, Tracy thought, but a dazzling white shirt was obviously important to him. And he looked good in it. He finished his wine in one long swig. “Go get the bottle, will you, babe?” he said to her. “Might as well polish it off.”
    Tracy laughed and shook her head at him—it was a long time since a man had given her orders like that—but she went to get the wine.
    “Well, it’s a fine mess you’ve gotten us into,” said Jaff when she came back.
    “What do you mean?” Tracy asked. “What mess? I haven’t doneanything. What’s Erin been up to? What gun are they talking about? What’s going on?”
    “You know, technically, one could argue that this is all your fault.” Tracy pointed her thumb at her own chest and laughed. “Moi?
    How do you work that out?”
    “What happened last week. Thursday night. That’s when it all started.”
    It was true that last week was when the trouble had begun, when Erin had left for home. She had always been insanely jealous about Jaff, and she had always suspected that Tracy had her sights set on him, which she hadn’t, really, though she did think he was fit.
    They’d been at a club in the city center that Thursday night, wasted on E and hash, and it was really late, nearly time to go home. Erin had gone to the loo, and Tracy was dancing a slow dance with Jaff, feeling his warmth, feeling the sexy, sensual edge of the drugs work on her, the hardness under his trousers pressing against her. She hadn’t even been thinking about it; it had just happened. All of a sudden, it seemed, they were kissing on the dance floor under the disco light, so romantic, tongue and everything; then someone grabbed Tracy’s arm and pulled her away. It was Erin, of course, and she was furious. She yelled at Tracy, hit her across the face, called her a slut and a slag, a slapper and a whore, then ran off.
    Jaff dashed after Erin, leaving Tracy alone on the dance floor, people staring at her. She started to feel nervous and paranoid then, her cheek burning, the good rush and the sexy glow all gone. She grabbed her bag and went after them, but they were nowhere in sight. They had disappeared down one of the alleys off Vicar Lane. Tired and disoriented, she had walked to the station and taken a taxi home, then crawled into bed, where she had slept only fitfully. Erin hadn’t been there when she got back, and she wasn’t there in the morning when Tracy got up to go to work, either, but Tracy thought nothing of that at the time. She assumed Erin must have made up with Jaff and stopped the night at his place. But she still wanted to talk to her, wanted to apologize and explain that it had just been the mood, the E, the music; blame it on the bossa nova, on Rio, or whatever.
    It was only when Tracy got back from work that Friday eveningthat Rose told her Erin had been by to pick up some things and had said she was going to stay at her parents’ house for a while. Tracy had rung Erin at home, but she wouldn’t talk to her except to say that she had split up with Jaff, and it was all Tracy’s fault.
    “It was only a kiss,” Tracy