the numbers she had memorized, the beeping stopped and the green light came on. She shut the door behind them and switched on the lamp on the small table to her left. Tracy had always thought it odd that the front door opened immediately into her father’s small home office, where he worked at the computer or sat quietly to read over files and reports. It used to be the living room, she remembered, until the reconstruction after the fire, when he had the entertainment room added on at the side and a conservatory built at the back. He probably spent more time in those rooms now, reading and listening to music. The builder had cut a doorway in the wall beside the fireplace, over to their left, which led to the entertainment room. Another door, to their right, led to the narrow wooden stairs up to the bedrooms, and the door straight ahead led into the kitchen, which was where Tracy first took Jaff. She knew there would be no food around the place, so they had picked up an Indian takeaway on the road out of Leeds. It would be cold by now, but Tracy could reheat it in the microwave.
Jaff took out his mobile and checked for a signal, then he turned to Tracy. “Have you got a mobile?” he asked.
“Course.”
He held out his hand. “Let me see it.”
“Why?”
“Just let me have a look at it. Please.”
Puzzled, Tracy searched through her bag till she found the mobile. She handed it to Jaff.
“Got an account with the provider?”
“Yes.”
“Thought so. Don’t you know they can trace you through this?” Tracy crossed her arms. “I can’t say I do. It’s not something I’ve ever really had to worry about.”
Jaff gave her an amused glance. “Well, you do now. We’re both fugitives.” He switched her phone off, then put it in his hold-all.
“Hey!” said Tracy, reaching her hand out. “Just a minute. I need that.”
Jaff held the bag behind his back. “No, you don’t. Radio silence. Any emergencies, we’ll use this one I picked up at Vic’s. It’s a burner. Okay?”
“A what?”
“Don’t you watch The Wire?”
“Well, actually, no. I tried it once, but I don’t like any of the characters. There’s no use watching something if you don’t have someone to cheer for.”
Jaff laughed. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it, though I can’t say I care, myself. Anyway, it’s disposable, a throwaway, pay-as-you-go. No contract, nothing in my name, or in Vic’s, for that matter.” Tracy felt annoyed about being separated from her mobile-her lifeline, as Erin had always teasingly called it-but there was something rather exciting in Jaff’s talking about radio silence and burners, and the fact that they were on the run, “fugitives,” as he had said, trying to avoid detection. She had never done anything like that before, had always been Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes, more or less. “I didn’t think it mattered,” she said. “There didn’t even used to be any coverage out here.”
“Trust me. There is now.” Jaff stretched out his arm and traced the line of her cheek down to her chin, which he cupped briefly between his thumb and forefinger and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “Your old man got any decent music?”
“Just old stuff, mostly,” Tracy said, giving a delicious little shudder at his kiss. “You know. Sixties pop. And jazz. Lots of opera, too.”
“Nothing wrong with a bit of Miles Davis or Puccini. Where does he keep it?”
Tracy led him into the entertainment room, with its large flat-screen TV at the far end, surround sound and shelves of CDs and DVDs. “He’s got the whole place wired for sound,” she said. “Bit of an anorak, really.”
“I think it’s cool,” said Jaff. As he flipped through the CDs and took them off the shelves in handfuls, he would glance quickly at the title, then make some comment about it being naff and toss it on the floor. Finally, he seemed to find something he liked and slipped the disc in the player. Tracy recognized the music: My Morning Jacket, Evil Urges. Erin had played it constantly back in Headingley. What on earth was her father doing with that? It must be something to do with his last girlfriend, Sophia, Tracy thought. Sophia had more modern tastes in music than he father, who seemed stuck in the sixties time warp when he wasn’t playing jazz or bloody opera.
“Anything to drink?” Jaff asked when they went back into the kitchen.
“Well, there’s some wine.” Tracy checked the fridge for beer, but it was empty, then she opened Banks’s drinks cabinet and gave a little curtsy. “And this. Tra-la!”
“Jesus,” said Jaff. “Likes his booze, doesn’t he, your old man? Good taste, too.” He picked up a bottle of Highland Park. “We’ll save that for later.” Then he went over to the wine rack on the floor by the door to the conservatory and knelt down. “Stonewell Shiraz, Saint-Emillion, Cotes de Nuits, Vacqueras, Amarone, Barolo, Ripasso, Chateauneuf du Pape. Not bad. Not bad at all. None of your cheap Asda specials here. We can have a real party. I think I’m starting to like your old man. What does he do for a living?”
“Retired civil servant. He goes on cruises. I think some of the wine belonged to my Uncle Roy,” Tracy said. “He was rich, but he died. Dad got the wine and some of his money.” She found Jaff a corkscrew in the drawer, and he opened a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape while she put the takeaway in the microwave to heat up. Tracy wasn’t sure the wine would go well with vegetable samosas, chicken tikka masala and naans, but she was willing to try it. She noticed that Jaff had poured them both a large glass and was busy sitting at the pine breakfast nook rolling a joint. When he had finished, he licked it, put it in his mouth and lit it. Tracy smiled to herself. To think they were doing this in her father’s house! She went over to join him, and he offered the joint to her. She took a hit. It was strong stuff. It made her head spin, but in a nice way. She drank a mouthful of wine and nearly choked on it, but she got it down. “The curry won’t be long,” she said. “Want to go in the conservatory to eat? It’s nice out there and the music pipes through.”
“Sure,” said Jaff, sucking on the joint and passing it back to her. He edged off the bench, then he turned on the small television set that sat on one of the bookcases above the nook. “Let’s see if we can find some more news first.”
They caught the brief local broadcast after the News at Ten, and the day’s events in Eastvale were the lead item. This time, the reporter seemed to know a little more about what was going on. Jaff turned up the volume so they could hear what was being said over the music. First came the now familiar image of Laburnum Way crowded with vans and police cars. Apparently, an armed police unit had entered Number 12, Erin’s parents’ house, at ten forty-five that morning, and there had been an incident within the house involving the discharge of a weapon. One man, believed to be the owner of the house, had been taken on a stretcher to Eastvale General Infirmary. There was no further word yet on the weapon, on the condition of the wounded man, or on how or why it had happened, but the police said they would hold a press conference in the morning. Neither Erin nor Jaff were mentioned. One of the neighbors reported that she had seen an armed officer carrying what appeared to be a gun-shaped object wrapped in a tea cloth out of the house. Tracy thought she could see Detective Inspector Annie 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 done anything. What’s Erin been up to? What gun are they talking about? What’s going on?”
