Bad Boy by Peter Robinson Read Free Book Online Page B

going to answer the door to the Gestapo myself.” She put her hands to her face and started to cry. “I did it,” she said, between her fingers. “Oh, God forgive me. I killed him. I killed my dad. It was all my fault.”
    Finally Irene Lightholm found her voice. “I think you can see,” she said, “that my client is upset over the death of her father. I take it that she hasn’t been charged with anything yet, and as far as I can tell, you don’t have enough evidence to charge her with anything. In that case, I think we should bring this interview to a close right now, and you should release my client on police bail.”
    “I agree,” said Chambers. “This interview is terminated. Now.” Annie wondered if he realized he was agreeing with a defense solicitor. She ignored them both, walked around the desk, then bent over and put her arm around Erin’s shoulders. She expected resistance, a violent reaction, but she didn’t get it. Instead, Erin turned her face into Annie’s shoulder, grasped hold of her and sobbed her heart out.

3
    J AFF HAD A ONE-BEDROOM FLAT WITH A BALCONY ON Granary Wharf, down by the river Aire and the Leeds-Liverpool Canal. Tracy had never been inside before, but Erin had pointed out the converted warehouse with the restaurant on the ground floor as they had passed by one night. Very chic. People sat at tables on the quayside outside the cafés under umbrellas advertising Campari or Stella Artois, sipping wine and chatting in the softening evening light. Tracy pressed the intercom button next to his name.
    Jaff answered and sounded pleased to hear that it was she. He buzzed her in and she took the lift to the third floor. Jaff welcomed her at the door and led her into the modest but open space of the living, dining and kitchen area, where light flooded through a window that led to the small balcony. The place was messy, with newspaper sections, magazines, CDs and empty cups and glasses scattered here and there, dirty dishes piled in the sink, and a few old wine or coffee stains on the fitted carpet. The color scheme, shades of blue and green, was a bit too dark and cold for Tracy’s taste. A number of framed photographs stood on a shelf above the television set, which was tuned to the BBC News at Six. A couple of the photos were of Jaff, clearly in exotic places, but there was one of a beautiful woman in a colorful sari. She had golden skin, long glossy black hair, high cheekbones, large eyes, a perfect, straight nose. To Tracy she looked like a model. One of Jaff’s old girlfriends, perhaps?
    “Sorry about the mess,” Jaff said. “The cleaning lady doesn’t come till Thursday.”
    Tracy smiled. “No need to apologize to me. It’s not as if I’m exactly the tidiest person in the world. Who’s that beautiful woman in the photograph over there?” she asked.
    Jaff looked toward the shelf. “That’s my mother,” he said. “Don’t be…It can’t possibly be,” said Tracy.
    “It is,” he said. “Honest. She was thirty-six when that was taken. Four years before she died.”
    “Oh, Jaff. I’m sorry.”
    “It was a long time ago. She was an amazing woman. Grew up in the slums of Dhaka and ended up one of the biggest Bollywood stars of her day.” As he spoke, staring at the photograph, he seemed choked with emotion. “Sorry,” he said, with a wan smile. “I still don’t find it easy to talk about her. Let’s go outside.”
    “Okay,” said Tracy, following him. “I understand.”
    It was clear from the cigarette smoldering in the ashtray and the half-full glass of lager that Jaff had been sitting on his balcony. Tracy sat in the opposite chair.
    “Good to see you, babe,” Jaff said, touching her shoulder lightly. “I was going to ring you soon as the dust settled. Thing is, I had to go away for the weekend. Bit of business. Amsterdam and London. Just got back an hour or so ago. Drink?”
    Tracy accepted, more out of politeness than anything else. Jaff went back inside