Close To Home (aka The Summer That Never Was)

Chapter 9

“Strictly speaking, you know,” said Banks, “this is your case. It has been from the start. Are you sure you want me muscling in?”

“I wouldn’t have rung you if I didn’t, would I?” said Annie. “Besides, you know I’m not that kind of copper.”

“What kind of copper?”

“All territorial and bureaucratic. I don’t go in for pissing matches. I’m all for cooperation, me, not competition.”

“Fair enough. Let’s chalk my comment down to recent experience.”

“What do you mean?”

Banks told her about Detective Superintendent Shaw.

“Well,” Annie said. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you they wouldn’t exactly welcome you with open arms.”

“Thanks.”

“My pleasure. Anyway, you can help me just as long as you give me the respect I deserve and don’t treat me like a skivvy.”

“Have I ever?”

“This is a pretty good start.”

Banks’s car was in the garage for servicing and wouldn’t be ready until after lunch, so they had signed out a department car that morning, and Annie was driving, something Banks usually liked to do himself.

“I was thinking I could sort of get to like it,” said Banks. “There’s a lot to be said for having a chauffeuse.”

Annie shot him a look. “Feel like getting out and walking the rest of the way?”

“No, thanks.”

“Well, behave yourself. Anyway,” she went on, “if you want to be all official about it, it’s the Big Man’s case. He’s the SIO, and he’s the one who suggested if I asked you nicely you might come back from leave early and give us the benefit of your considerable expertise.”

“The Big Man?”

“Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe.”

“Does he know you call him that?”

Annie grinned. “You should hear what we call you in the squad room.”

“I must say it’s great to be home,” said Banks.

Annie glanced sideways at him. “How did things go, other than your run-in with the local constabulary?”

“All a bit embarrassing, really.” Banks told her about McCallum turning out to be an escaped mental patient who drowned before Graham disappeared.

“I’m so sorry, Alan,” she said, touching his knee. “After all those years feeling guilty and responsible… But you must be relieved, in a way… I mean, knowing it couldn’t have been him, so it wasn’t your fault?”

“I suppose I must. You know, apart from the police down there, you’re the only other person I’ve ever told about what happened by the river that day.”

“You never told Sandra?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Banks felt Annie retreat into silence beside him and knew he’d done again exactly the sort of thing that caused her to end their romantic relationship. It was as if she offered him something warm, soft and sensitive, yet the moment he reached out and touched it, she shot back into her hard, impenetrable shell.

Before either of them could think of anything else to say, they arrived at the end of the Armitages’ drive, where reporters clamored around them with pens, microphones and cameras. The officer on duty lifted the tape and let them through.

“Impressive,” said Banks, when the building’s solid, symmetrical architecture came into view. “I’ve only seen the place from the riverside walk before.”

“Just wait until you meet the beautiful people inside.”

“Go easy, Annie, they’ve just lost their son.”

Annie sighed. “I know that. And I will. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’m just not looking forward to this.”

“Who dealt with the identification?”

“Winsome did. Last night.”

“So you haven’t seen the family since the boy’s body was found?”

“No.”

“If you don’t think I’m being patronizing, why don’t you let me deal with them?”

“Be my guest. Honest. Given my track record with Martin Armitage, I’d be grateful to be an observer this time. Fresh approach and all that.”

“Okay.”

Josie answered the front door almost the moment they rang the bell and led the two of them into the living room, where Banks introduced himself.

“What is it now?” Martin Armitage asked, glaring at Annie. Neither he nor his wife looked as if they had had much sleep, and they probably hadn’t.

“A murder investigation,” said Banks. “Or so it seems. And we need your help.”

“I don’t see how we can help any more than we have done already. We cooperated with you, against the kidnapper’s wishes, and look what happened.” He glanced toward Annie again, voice rising. “I hope you realize this is your fault, that Luke’s death is your responsibility. If you hadn’t followed me to the shelter and then come nosing around here, the kidnapper would have picked up the money and Luke would be home safe and sound.”

“Martin,” said Robin Armitage. “We’ve been over this again and again. Don’t make a scene.”

“Don’t make a scene! Good God, woman, this is your son we’re talking about. She as good as killed him.”

“Calm down, Mr. Armitage,” said Banks. Martin Armitage wasn’t quite as tall as Banks had imagined, but he was fit and bursting with energy. Not the kind of man to sit around waiting for results, but one who went out and made the result happen. That was the way he’d played football, too, Banks remembered. Armitage hadn’t been content to hang around the goalmouth waiting for a midfielder to feed him the ball; he had created scoring opportunities himself, and the main criticism leveled at him was that he was greedy for the ball, more apt to shoot and miss than pass to someone in a better scoring position. He had also lacked self-control and attracted a high number of red and yellow cards. Banks remembered once seeing him lash out at a member of the other team who had taken the ball from him fairly in the penalty area. He’d given away a penalty over that, and it lost his side the game.

“This is a difficult enough job as it is,” said Banks, “without you making it worse. I’m sorry for your loss, but it’s no good flinging blame about. We don’t know how or why Luke died yet. We don’t even know where or when. So until we’ve been able to answer some of those basic questions we’re not in a position to jump to conclusions. I suggest you exercise the same restraint.”

“What else would you say?” said Martin. “You always stick together, you lot.”

“Can we get down to business?”

“Yes, of course,” said Robin, sitting on the sofa in jeans and a pale green blouse, long legs crossed, hands folded on her lap. Without makeup and with her famous gold-blond hair tied back in a ponytail, she still looked gorgeous, Banks thought, and the crow’s-feet only enhanced her beauty. She had the classic model’s face – high cheekbones, small nose, pointed chin, perfect proportion, but she also had character and individuality in her features.

Banks had once worked on a case for the Met involving a modeling agency and he had been surprised that so many of these women who looked beautiful in magazines and on television lacked something in real life, their features perfect but bland, unformed and unfinished, like a blank canvas or an actor without a role. But Robin Armitage had presence.

“I’m sure you know,” said Banks, “that Luke’s death changes everything. It changes the way we proceed in the investigation, and we’re going to have to go over much of the same ground again. This may seem tedious and pointless to you, but believe me, it’s necessary. I’m new to the case, but I took the time this morning to familiarize myself with the investigation so far, and I have to say that I’ve found nothing out of order, nothing I wouldn’t have done had I been in charge myself.”

“Like I said,” Martin chipped in, “you lot stick together. I’ll be complaining to the chief constable. He’s a personal friend of mine.”

“That’s your privilege, but he’ll only tell you the same as I’m telling you. If everyone gave in to a kidnapper’s demands without informing the police, it would be the most popular crime in the country.”

“But look what happened when we did inform the police. Our son is dead.”

“Something went wrong. This was an unusual case from the start; there are a number of inconsistencies.”

“What are you suggesting? That it wasn’t a straightforward kidnapping?”

“There was nothing straightforward about it at all, Mr. Armitage.”

“I don’t understand,” said Robin. “The phone call… the ransom demand… they were genuine, surely?”

“Yes,” said Annie, taking a cue from Banks. “But the ransom demand came an unusually long time after Luke disappeared, the kidnapper didn’t let you speak to your son, and the sum he asked for was ridiculously low.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Martin. “We’re not made of money.”

“I know that,” Annie said. “But how would the kidnapper know? To all intents and purposes, footballers and models make millions, and you’re living in a mansion.”

Martin frowned. “I suppose you’ve got a point. Unless…”

“Yes?” Banks picked up the questioning again.

“Unless it was someone close to us.”

“Can you think of anyone?”

“Of course not. I can’t imagine any of our friends doing something like this. Are you insane?”

“Mrs. Armitage?”

Robin shook her head. “No.”

“We’ll still need a list of people to talk to.”

“I’m not having you going around bullying our friends,” said Martin.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be discreet. And, don’t forget, you’re the one who suggested it might be someone close to you. Anyone have a grudge against either of you?”

“A few goalies, I suppose,” said Martin, “but nothing serious, no.”

“Mrs. Armitage?”

“I don’t think so. Modeling can be a brutally competitive career, and I’m sure I stood on my share of toes on the catwalk, but nothing so… terrible… I mean, nothing to make anyone do something like this, especially so long after.”

“If you’d both like to think about it for a while, it would be a great help.”

“You said it was odd that he wouldn’t let us talk to Luke,” Robin said.

“It’s unusual, yes,” Annie answered.

“Do you think it was because… because Luke was already dead?”

“That’s possible,” said Annie. “But we won’t know until the pathologist has finished his job.”

“When will that be?”

“Perhaps by this evening or early tomorrow.” Dr. Burns, the police surgeon, had been unable to give an accurate estimate of time of death at the scene, so they would have to wait until Dr. Glendenning had finished his postmortem examination of Luke’s body. Even then, they had learned not to expect miracles from medical science.

“Can you remember anything else about the caller?” Banks asked Martin Armitage.

“I’ve told you everything I know. I can’t remember any more.”

“The voice definitely wasn’t familiar?”

“No one I recognized.”

“And there was only the one call?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us that might be of help?”

Both Martin and Robin Armitage shook their heads. Banks and Annie got up. “We’ll need to have a look at Luke’s room next,” said Banks, “and then we’d like to talk to your housekeeper and her husband.”

“Josie and Calvin?” said Martin. “But why?”

“They might be able to help.”

“I can’t see how.”

“Were they close to Luke?”

“Not especially. If truth be told, I always got the impression that they thought him a bit of a weirdo. They’re wonderful people, salt of the earth, but sort of traditional in their views of people and behavior.”

“And Luke didn’t fit the mold?”

“No. He might as well have come from outer space as far as they’re concerned.”

“Was there any animosity?”

“Of course not. They are our employees, after all. What are you suggesting, that they had something to do with this?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, merely asking. Look, Mr. Armitage, I can understand your feelings, honestly I can, but you must let us do our jobs the way we see fit. It’s not going to help at all if you start challenging every move we make. I promise you we’ll be as discreet as we can with all our inquiries. No matter what you think, we don’t go around bullying people. But we also don’t accept everything at face value. People lie for a variety of reasons, many of them irrelevant to the investigation, but sometimes it’s because they did it, and it’s for us to sort out the lies from the truth. You’ve already lied to us once yourself that we know of, when you rang DI Cabbot and told her you’d heard from Luke.”

“I did that to protect Luke.”

“I understand why you did it, but it was still a lie. Maybe you can see how complicated our job becomes when you take all the lies into account. The lies of the innocent, especially. As I said, we don’t take things, or people, at face value, and like it or not, every murder investigation begins close to home, then moves outward. Now, if you don’t mind, we’ll take a look at Luke’s room.”

Michelle had been joking when she told Banks she was getting paranoid, but she was beginning to think that every time she visited the archives, Mrs. Metcalfe rang Detective Superintendent Shaw. Here he was again, preceded by the dark chill of his shadow, on the threshold of the tiny room.

“Any progress?” he asked, leaning against the door.

“I’m not sure,” said Michelle. “I’ve been going over the old crime reports for 1965 looking for some sort of connection with Graham’s disappearance.”

“And have you found any?”

“Not directly, no.”

“I told you you were wasting your time.”

“Maybe not entirely.”

“What do you mean?”

Michelle paused. She had to be careful what she said because she didn’t want Shaw to know that Banks had tipped her off to the Kray connection. That would send him into a tantrum she could well do without. “I was reading over the reports and statements on a protection racket investigation in July 1965, and Graham’s dad’s name came up.”

“So? Where’s the connection?”

“A club on Church Street called Le Phonographe.”

“I remember that place. It was a discotheque.”

Michelle frowned. “I thought disco was in the seventies, not the sixties.”

“I’m not talking about the music, but the establishment itself. Clubs like Le Phonographe offered memberships and served meals, usually an inedible beef burger, if my memory serves me well, so they could sell alcohol legally after regular closing time. They’d stay open till three in the morning, or so. There’d be music and dancing, too, but it was usually Motown or soul.”

“You sound familiar with the place, sir.”

“I was young once, DI Hart. Besides, Le Phonographe was the sort of place you kept an eye on. It was a villains’ club. Owned by a nasty piece of work called Carlo Fiorino. Used to like to pretend he was Mafia, wore the striped, wide-lapel suits, pencil-thin mustache, spats and everything – very Untouchables – but his father was a POW who ended up staying on after the war and marrying a local farm girl out Huntingdon way. Plenty of local villains hung out there, and you could often pick up a tip or two. And I don’t mean for the three-thirty at Kempton Park.”

“So it was a criminal hangout?”

“Back then, yes. But petty. People who liked to think they were big players.”

“Including Bill Marshall?”

“Yes.”

“So you knew about Bill Marshall’s activities?”

“Of course we did. He was strictly a minor presence. We kept an eye on him. It was routine.”

“What was this Carlo Fiorino’s game?”

“Bit of everything. Soon as the new town expansion was well under way he turned Le Phonographe into a more up-market club, with decent grub, a better dance floor and a casino. He also owned an escort agency. We think he also got into drugs, prostitution and pornography, but he was always clever enough to stay one step ahead, and he played both sides against the middle. Most of the time.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Got himself shot in a drug war with the Jamaicans in 1982.”

“But he never did time?”

“Never got charged with anything, far as I remember.”

“Doesn’t that strike you as odd, sir?”

“Odd?” Shaw seemed to snap out of his reminiscing mood and become his grumpy old self again. He stuck his face so close to hers that she could smell his tobacco-mint-and-whiskey breath and see the lattice of purple veins throbbing in his bulbous nose. “I’ll tell you what’s bloody odd, DI Hart. It’s you asking these questions. That’s what’s odd. None of this can possibly have anything to do with what happened to Graham Marshall, and that’s a fact. You’re muckraking. I don’t know why, but that’s what you’re doing.”

“Sir, all I’m doing is trying to get a handle on the circumstances of the boy’s disappearance. Looking over the investigation and over other investigations around the same time seems a reasonable way of doing it to me.”

“It’s not your brief to look into the Marshall investigation, DI Hart, or any other, for that matter. Who do you think you are, Complaints and Discipline? Stick to your job.”

“But sir, Bill Marshall was one of the men interviewed in connection with this protection racket, all involved with Carlo Fiorino and Le Phonographe. Some of the city center shopkeepers filed a complaint, and Marshall was one of the people they named.”

“Was he charged?”

“No, sir. Only questioned. One of the original complainants ended up in hospital and the other witnesses backed off, retracted their statements. No further action.”

Shaw smirked. “Then it’s hardly relevant, is it?”

“But doesn’t it seem odd to you that no further action was taken? And that when Graham Marshall disappeared, his father never came under close scrutiny, even though he had recently been implicated in a criminal ring?”

“Why should he? Maybe he didn’t do it. Did that thought ever enter your head? And even if he was involved in some petty protection racket, it doesn’t make him a child killer, does it? Even by your standards that’s a long stretch of the imagination.”

“Was Bill Marshall a police informer?”

“He might have let slip the odd snippet of information. That’s how we played the game back then. Tit for tat.”

“Is that why he was protected from prosecution?”

“How the hell should I know? If you’ve read your paperwork, you’ll know I wasn’t on that case.” He took a deep breath, then seemed to relax and soften his tone. “Look,” he said, “policing was different back then. There was more give-and-take.”

Plenty of take, Michelle thought. She’d heard stories of the old days, of departments, of stations and even of whole counties run wild. But she didn’t say anything.

“So we bent the rules every now and then,” Shaw continued. “Grow up. Welcome to the real world.”

Michelle made a mental note about Bill Marshall’s possible role as a police informer. If he had informed on criminals here in Peterborough, she could only imagine what the Krays might have done if he’d tried anything like that with them and then disappeared. The South Pole wouldn’t have been far enough, let alone Peterborough. “From what I can piece together,” she went on, “the Graham Marshall investigation followed one line of inquiry and one only when it became clear that he hadn’t run away from home: a sex killing by a passing pervert.”

“Well? What’s so odd about that? It’s what the evidence pointed to.”

“Just seems a bit of a coincidence, that’s all, that some pervert should happen to be driving by a quiet street at that hour in the morning, just as Graham’s doing his paper rounds.”

“Wrong place at the wrong time. Happens often enough. Besides, do you think perverts don’t know about paper rounds? Don’t you think someone could have been watching, studying, stalking the Marshall kid, the way such perverts often do? Or didn’t they teach you that at Bramshill?”

“It’s possible, sir.”

“You think you can do better than us, do you?” said Shaw, his face turning red again. “Think you can out-detect Jet Harris?”

“I didn’t say that, sir. It’s just the advantage of hindsight, that’s all. A long perspective.”

“Look, we worked our bollocks off on that case, Jet Harris, Reg Proctor and me, not to mention dozens more DCs and uniforms. Have you any idea what that sort of investigation is like? The scope of it? How wide a net we cast? We were getting a hundred sightings a day from as far afield as Penzance and the Mull of fucking Kintyre. Now you come along with your fancy education and your Bramshill courses and you have the gall to tell me we were wrong.”

Michelle took a deep breath. “I’m not saying you were wrong, sir. Only you didn’t solve the case, did you? You didn’t even find a body. Look, I know you came up the hard way, and I respect that, but there are advantages to an education.”

“Yes. Accelerated promotion. They let you buggers run before you can toddle.”

“Policing has changed, sir, as you pointed out not so long ago. And crime has changed, too.”

“Sod that for a theory. Don’t spout your book-learning at me. A criminal’s a criminal. Only the coppers have got softer. Especially the ones at the top.”

Michelle sighed. Time to change tack. “You were a DC on the Graham Marshall investigation, sir. Can you tell me anything at all?”

“Look, if I’d known anything we’d have solved the bloody case, wouldn’t we, instead of having you point out how stupid we were?”

“I’m not trying to make anyone look stupid.”

“Aren’t you? That’s how it sounds to me. It’s easy to second-guess, given twenty-twenty hindsight. If Bill Marshall had anything to do with his son’s disappearance, believe me, we’d have had him. In the first place, he had an alibi-”

“Who, sir?”

“His wife.”

“Not the most reliable of alibis, is it?”

“She’d hardly give him an alibi for doing in her own son, now, would she? Tell me even you aren’t so twisted as to think Mrs. Marshall was involved.”

“We don’t know, sir, do we?” But Michelle remembered Mrs. Marshall, her sincerity and dignity, the need to bury her son after all these years. Certainly it was possible she was lying. Some criminals are very good actors. But Michelle didn’t think so. And she wouldn’t be getting any answers out of Bill Marshall. “Did the Marshalls own a car?”

“Yes, they did. But don’t expect me to remember the make and number. Look, Bill Marshall might have been a bit of a Jack-the-Lad, but he wasn’t a child molester.”

“How do you know that was the motive behind Graham’s abduction?”

“Have some brains, woman. Why else does a fourteen-year-old boy go missing without a trace? If you ask me, I’d still say he might have been one of Brady and Hindley’s victims, though we could never prove it.”

“But it’s way out of their area. A geographical profiler-”

“More benefits of a university education. Profilers? Don’t make me laugh. I’ve had enough of this. It’s about time you stopped nosing about down here and got back on the bloody job.” And he turned and stalked out.

Michelle noticed that her hand was shaking when he left, and she felt her breath held tight in her chest. She didn’t like confrontation with authority; she had always respected her bosses and the police hierarchy in general; an organization like the police couldn’t run efficiently without a quasi-military structure, she believed, orders given and obeyed, sometimes without question, if it came right down to it. But Shaw’s rage seemed out of proportion to the situation.

She got up and returned the files to their boxes and gathered together her notes. It was well after lunchtime and time for some fresh air, anyway. Perhaps she would make a few phone calls, find someone who’d been on the job during the Kray era and head down to London the next day.

Back in her office, she found a message slip on her desk informing her that Dr. Cooper had rung and wanted to know if she would drop by the mortuary sometime that afternoon. No time like the present, she thought, telling DC Collins where she was going and heading out to her car.

The search of Luke’s room didn’t reveal much except a cassette tape marked “Songs from a Black Room,” which Banks, with Robin’s permission, slipped in his pocket to listen to later. Luke’s desktop computer contained nothing of interest. There was hardly any e-mail, which was only to be expected, and most of the Web sites he visited were connected with music. He also did a fair bit of online purchasing, mostly CDs, also to be expected from someone living in so remote a spot.

Banks was surprised at the range of Luke’s musical tastes. There was the usual stuff, of course, the CDs Annie had told him about, but also among the grunge, metal, hip-hop and gothic, he found other oddities, such as Britten’s setting of Rimbaud’s Les Illuminations and Miles Davis’s In a Silent Way. There were also several indie CDs, including, Banks was thrilled to see, his son Brian’s band’s first recording, Blue Rain. Not your usual listening for a fifteen-year-old. But Banks was coming to believe that Luke Armitage had been far from a typical fifteen-year-old.

He had also read some of the stories and poems Annie had collected from her previous visit, and in his humble opinion they showed real promise. They didn’t tell him anything about what might have happened to Luke, or his feelings about his father or stepfather, but they revealed a young mind preoccupied with death, war, global destruction and social alienation.

Unlike Annie, Banks wasn’t surprised by the room’s decor. Brian hadn’t painted his room black, but he had stuck posters on the walls and surrounded himself with his favorite music. And the guitar, of course, always the guitar. Annie had no children, so Banks could imagine how the black room would seem more outlandish to her. The only thing that disturbed him was Luke’s apparent obsession with dead rock stars, and with the absence of anything to do with his famous father, Neil Byrd. Something was definitely out of kilter there.

Brian had gone on to make a career of music, and now his band was on the verge of recording its first CD for a major label. After getting over the initial shock that Brian wasn’t going to follow any safe paths in life, Banks had come to feel very proud of him, a leap of faith that his own parents hadn’t seemed able to make yet. Banks wondered if Luke had been any good. Maybe the tape would tell him. From what Annie had told him, and from his own first impressions, he doubted that Martin Armitage would have been thrilled by any signs of musical ability in his stepson; physical fitness and sports seemed to be his measures of success.

Josie and Calvin Batty lived in their own small apartment upstairs at the far eastern end of Swainsdale House. There, they had a sitting room, bedroom and a small kitchen, in addition to a WC and bathroom with a Power-Shower, all modernized by the Armitages, Josie told them as they stood with her in the kitchen while she boiled the kettle for tea. The whole place was brightly decorated in light colors, creams and pale blues, and made the best of the available light.

Josie looked as if she could be quite an attractive young woman if she made the effort, Banks thought. But as it was, her hair seemed lifeless and ill-cut, her clothes rather plain, shapeless and old-fashioned, and her complexion pale and dry. Her husband was short and thickset with dark, gypsyish coloring and heavy eyebrows that met in the middle.

“What exactly are your duties here?” Banks asked the two of them when they were settled in the living room opposite an enormous TV-and-VCR combination with a tray of tea and chocolate digestives in front of them.

“General, really. I do most of the washing, ironing, cleaning and cooking. Calvin does odd jobs, takes care of the cars and any heavy work, building repairs, garden, that sort of thing.”

“I imagine there must be a lot of that sort of thing,” Banks said, glancing at Calvin. “A big old house like this.”

“Aye,” Calvin grunted, dunking a biscuit in his tea.

“What about Luke?”

“What about him?” asked Josie.

“Did any of your duties involve taking care of him?”

“Calvin’d give him a lift to school sometimes, or bring him back if he happened to be in town. I’d make sure he was well fed if Sir and Madam had to go away for a few days.”

“Did they do that often?”

“Not often, no.”

“When was the last time he was left alone here?”

“Last month. They both went down to London for some fancy gala charity do.”

“What did Luke do when he was left alone in the house?”

“We didn’t spy on him,” said Calvin, “if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Not at all,” said Banks. “But did you ever hear anything? TV? Stereo? Did he ever have his friends over? That sort of thing.”

“Music were loud enough, but he didn’t have no friends to ask over, did he?” said Calvin.

“You know that’s not true,” said his wife.

“So he did entertain friends?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Did he, Mrs. Batty?”

“Not here.”

Banks took a deep breath. “Where, then?”

She hugged her gray cardie closer to her. “I shouldn’t be telling tales out of school.”

Annie leaned forward and spoke for the first time. “Mrs. Batty, this is a murder investigation. We need your help. We’re in the dark here. If you can help throw any light at all on what happened to Luke, please do so. This is way beyond telling tales or keeping promises.”

Josie looked at Banks, uncertain.

“DI Cabbot’s right,” he said. “All bets are off when it’s murder. Who was this friend?”

“Just someone I saw him with, that’s all.”

“Where?”

“In Eastvale. Swainsdale Centre.”

“When?”

“Recently.”

“Past week or two?”

“A bit longer.”

“A month?”

“Aye, about that.”

“How old? His age? Older? Younger?”

“Older. She wasn’t no fifteen-year-old, I can tell you that.”

“How old?”

“Hard to say when they’re that age.”

“What age?”

“Young woman.”

“How young? Late teens, early twenties?”

“Aye, around that.”

“Taller or shorter than him?”

“Shorter. Luke were a big lad for his age. Tall and skinny.”

“What did she look like?”

“Dark.”

“You mean she was black?”

“No, her skin was pale. She just dressed dark, like him.

And her hair was dyed black. She had red lipstick on and them studs and chains all over t’place. And she had a tattoo,” she added in a hushed tone, as if saving the greatest sin for last.

Banks glanced at Annie who, he happened to know from experience, had a butterfly tattoo just above her right breast. Annie gave him a look. “Where?” she asked Josie.

Josie touched her upper left arm, just below the shoulder. “There,” she said. “She was wearing one of them leather waistcoats over a T-shirt.”

“What was the tattoo?” Annie asked her.

“Couldn’t tell,” said Josie. “Too far away. I could just see there was a mark, like.”

This woman shouldn’t be too difficult to find if she lived in or near Eastvale, Banks thought. It was hardly Leeds or Manchester when it came to girls in black with studs, chains and tattoos. There was only one club, The Bar None, which catered to such a crowd, and then only two nights a week, the rest of the time being reserved for the techno-dance set. It was possible she was a student at the college, too, he thought. “Would you mind if we sent a sketch artist over to work on an impression with you this afternoon?” he asked.

“I suppose not,” said Josie. “If Sir and Madam don’t mind, like. Only I’m supposed to be doing t’upstairs.”

Banks looked at her. “I don’t think Mr. and Mrs. Armitage will mind,” he said.

“All right, then. But I can’t promise owt. Like I said, I didn’t get a close look.”

“Can you tell us anything more about her?” Banks asked.

“No. It was just a quick look. I were having a coffee and a KitKat at the food court when I saw them walk by and go into that there big music shop.”

“HMV?”

“That’s the one.”

“Did they see you?”

“No.”

“Did you tell anyone you’d seen them?”

“Not my place, is it. Besides…”

“Besides what?”

“It was a school day. He should have been in school.”

“What were they doing?”

“Just walking.”

“Close together?”

“They weren’t holding hands, if that’s what you mean.”

“Were they talking, laughing, arguing?”

“Just walking. I didn’t see them so much as look at one another.”

“But you knew they were together? How?”

“You just know, don’t you?”

“Had you seen them together before?”

“No. Only the once.”

“And you, Mr. Batty?”

“No. Never.”

“Not even when you picked him up from school?”

“She weren’t no schoolgirl,” said Josie. “Not like I ever saw.”

“No,” said Mr. Batty.

“What did you talk about when you gave Luke a lift?”

“Nowt, really. He wasn’t much of a one for small talk, and we’d nowt in common. I mean, he weren’t interested in sport or anything like that. I don’t think he watched telly much, either. He’d nothing to talk about.”

Only death and poetry and music, thought Banks. “So these journeys passed in silence?”

“I usually put the news on the radio.”

“How did he get on with his parents?”

“Wouldn’t know,” answered Josie.

“Hear any rows or anything?”

“There’s always rows between parents and kids, isn’t there?”

“So you did?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Who between? Luke and his mother?”

“Nay. Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth as far as she were concerned. Spoiled him rotten.”

“His stepfather, then?”

“Like I said, it were nowt out of t’ordinary.”

“Did you ever hear what was said, what they were arguing about?”

“Walls is too thick around here.”

Banks could believe that. “Did anything unusual happen lately?”

“What do you mean?” Josie asked.

“Something out of the routine.”

“No.”

“Seen any strangers hanging about?”

“Fewer than normal, since they can’t go for their country walks.”

“So you haven’t seen anyone?”

“Hanging about? No.”

“Mr. Batty?”

“Nobody.”

They were getting no further with the Battys. Banks wasn’t certain whether they were holding anything back or not, but he decided he might have another chat with them a little later on. Just as they were leaving, he turned around to Mr. Batty and said, “Ever been arrested, Mr. Batty?”

“No.”

“We can easily find out, you know.”

Batty glared at him. “All right. Once. It were a long time ago.”

“How long?”

“Twelve years. Public nuisance. I were drunk, all right? I used to drink a lot in those days. Then I met Josie. I don’t drink anymore.”

“What was all that about?” Annie asked when they were back in the car.

“What?”

“Asking him if he’d been arrested. You know an offense like that is hardly still going to be in records.”

“Oh, that,” said Banks, buckling up and settling back in the passenger seat while Annie started the ignition. “I just wanted to see whether he’s a good liar or not. People usually lie the first time when you ask them if they’ve ever been arrested.”

“And?”

“Well, there was a slightly different inflection on that last ‘no,’ the lie, but not different enough to convince me he’s not a good liar.”

“Bloody hell,” said Annie, heading off down the drive and spraying gravel, “a proper Sherlock Holmes I’ve got beside me.”

It was only a short drive down Longthorpe Parkway from police headquarters to the District Hospital, and early that Friday afternoon the traffic was light. Instinctively, Michelle found herself checking her rearview mirror to see if she was being followed. She wasn’t.

She parked in the official visitors’ area and made her way to pathology. The forensic anthropology department was small, just a couple of offices and one lab, and none of the staff was permanent. Dr. Cooper herself lectured in nearby Cambridge, in addition to her practical duties at the hospital. There certainly weren’t enough skeletons to justify a full-time forensic anthropology department – most counties didn’t even have one at all and had to hire the services of an expert when circumstances demanded – but there had been enough Anglo-Saxon and Viking remains found in East Anglia for a small, part-time department to be thought justified. For the most part, that was Wendy Cooper’s main area of interest, too – ancient remains, not skeletons of boys buried in 1965.

“Ah, DI Hart,” Dr. Cooper greeted her in her office, standing up and shaking hands. “Good of you to come.”

“Not at all. You said you had something to tell me?”

“Show you, actually. It’s not much, but it might help. Follow me.”

Curious, Michelle followed her into the lab, where Graham Marshall’s bones were still laid out on the table and Tammy Wynette was singing “Stand By Your Man” on Dr. Cooper’s portable cassette player. Though still a dirty brownish-yellow, like bad teeth, the bones were a hell of a lot cleaner than they had been a few days ago, Michelle noticed. Dr. Cooper and her assistant, nowhere in sight at the moment, had clearly been working hard. The body looked asymmetrical, though, Michelle noticed, and wondered what was missing. When she looked more closely, she could see it was the bottom rib on the left side. Hadn’t they been able to find it? But no, there it was on the bench Dr. Cooper led her toward.

“We couldn’t see it before because of the accumulated dirt,” Dr. Cooper explained, “but once we’d cleaned it up, it was plain as daylight. Look.”

Michelle bent closer and looked. She could see a deep, narrow notch in the bone. It was something she had come across before. She looked at Dr. Cooper. “Knife wound?”

“Very good. That’s what I’d say.”

“Pre- or postmortem?”

“Oh, pre. Cuts in green bone are different from cuts made in bones after death, when they’re more brittle. This is a clean, smooth cut. Definitely pre-mortem.”

“Cause of death?”

Dr. Cooper frowned. “I can’t say that for certain,” she said. “I mean, there could have been lethal poison in the system, or the victim might have drowned first, but what I can say, in my opinion, is that the wound would have been sufficient to cause death. If you follow the trajectory of the blade to its natural destination, it pierces the heart.”

Michelle paused a moment, looking at the rib in question, to take it all in. “Front or behind?” she asked.

“Does it matter?”

“If it was done from behind,” Michelle explained, “it could have been a stranger. If it happened from the front, someone had to get close enough to the boy to do it without his knowing what was going to happen.”

“Yes, I see,” said Dr. Cooper. “Good point. I never have managed to get the hang of thinking the way you police do.”

“Different training.”

“I suppose so.” Dr. Cooper picked up the rib. “Judging from the position of the cut on the bone – see, it’s almost on the inside – and by the straightness I’d say that it was done from in front, the classic upthrust through the rib cage and into the heart. Harder to be that accurate from behind. Much more awkward, far more likely to be at an angle.”

“So it had to be someone he would let get that close to him without being suspicious.”

“Close enough to pat him on the shoulder, yes. And whoever did it was right-handed.”

“What kind of knife?”

“That I can’t tell you, except that it was very sharp and the blade wasn’t serrated. It’s quite a deep cut, as you can see, so there’s plenty of scope for analysis and measurement. There’s someone I know who can probably tell you the date it was made and the company who made it, an expert. His name’s Dr. Hilary Wendell. If you like I can try to track him down, get him to have a look?”

“Could you?”

Dr. Cooper laughed. “I said I’d try. Hilary’s all over the place. And I mean all over. Including the United States, and Eastern Europe. He’s very well known. He even spent some time with the forensic teams in Bosnia and Kosovo.”

“You were there, too, weren’t you?”

Dr. Cooper gave a little shudder. “Yes. Kosovo.”

“Any idea when the coroner can release the bones for burial?”

“He can release them now as far as I’m concerned. I’d specify burial rather than cremation, though, just in case we need to exhume.”

“I think that’s what they have in mind. And some sort of memorial service. It’s just that I know the Marshalls are anxious for some sense of closure. I’ll give them a ring and say it’s okay to go ahead and make arrangements.”

“Funny thing, that, isn’t it?” said Dr. Cooper. “Closure. As if burying someone’s remains or sending a criminal to jail actually marks the end of the pain.”

“It’s very human, though, don’t you think?” said Michelle, for whom closure had simply refused to come, despite all the trappings. “We need ritual, symbols, ceremonies.”

“I suppose we do. What about this, though?” She pointed to the rib on the lab bench. “It could even end up being evidence in court.”

“Well,” said Michelle, “I don’t suppose the Marshalls will mind if they know Graham’s being buried with a rib missing, will they? Especially if it might help lead us to his killer. I’ll get their permission, anyway.”

“Fine,” said Dr. Cooper. “I’ll talk to the coroner this afternoon and try to track Hilary down in the meantime.”

“Thanks,” said Michelle. She looked again at the bones on the table, laid out in some sort of semblance of a human skeleton, and then glanced back at the single rib on the bench. Strange, she thought. It didn’t matter – they were only old bones – but she couldn’t help but feel this odd and deep sense of significance, and the words “Adam’s rib” came to mind. Stupid, she told herself. Nobody’s going to create a woman out of Graham Marshall’s rib; with a bit of luck, Dr. Hilary Wendell is going to tell us something about the knife that killed him.

A few dark clouds had blown in on a strong wind from the north, and it looked as if rain was about to spoil yet another fine summer’s day when Banks drove out in his own car to the crime scene late that afternoon, listening to Luke Armitage’s “Songs from a Black Room.”

There were only five short songs on the tape, and lyrically they were not sophisticated, about what you’d expect for a fifteen-year-old with a penchant for reading poetry he couldn’t understand. There were no settings of Rimbaud or Baudelaire here, only pure, unadulterated adolescent angst: “Everybody hates me, but I don’t care. / I’m safe in my black room, and the fools are out there.” But at least they were Luke’s own songs. When Banks was fourteen, he had got together with Graham, Paul and Steve to form a rudimentary rock band, and all they had managed were rough cover versions of Beatles and Stones songs. Not one of them had had the urge or the talent to write original material.

Luke’s music was raw and anguished, as if he were reaching, straining to find the right voice, his own voice. He backed himself on electric guitar, occasionally using special effects, such as fuzz and wah-wah, but mostly sticking to the simple chord progressions Banks remembered from his own stumbling attempts at guitar. The remarkable thing was how much Luke’s voice resembled his father’s. He had Neil Byrd’s broad range, though his voice hadn’t deepened enough to handle the lowest notes yet, and he also had his father’s timbre, wistful but bored, and even a little angry, edgy.

Only one song stood out, a quiet ballad with a melody Banks vaguely recognized, perhaps an adaptation of an old folk tune. The last piece on the tape, it was a love song of sorts, or a fifteen-year-old’s version of salvation:

He shut me out but you took me in.

He’s in the dark but you’re a bird on the wing.

I couldn’t hold you but you chose to stay.

Why do you care? Please don’t go away.

Was it about his mother, Robin? Or was it the girl Josie had seen him with in the Swainsdale Centre? Along with Winsome Jackman and Kevin Templeton, Annie was out showing the artist’s impression around the most likely places. Maybe one of them would get lucky.

The SOCOs were still at Hallam Tarn, the road still taped off, and a local TV van, along with a gaggle of reporters, barely kept their distance. As he pulled up by the side of the road, Banks even noticed a couple of middle-aged ladies in walking gear; sightseers, no doubt. Stefan Nowak was in charge, looking suave even in his protective clothing.

“Stefan,” Banks greeted him. “How’s it going?”

“We’re trying to get everything done before the rain comes,” Stefan said. “We’ve found nothing else in the water so far, but the frogmen are still looking.”

Banks looked around. Christ, but it was wild and lonely up there, an open landscape, hardly a tree in sight, with miles of rolling moorland, a mix of yellow gorse, sandy-colored tufts of grass and black patches where fires had raged earlier that summer. The heather wouldn’t bloom for another month or two, but the dark multi-branched stems spread tough and wiry all around, clinging close to the ground. The view was spectacular, even more dramatic under the lowering sky. Over in the west, Banks could see as far as the long flat bulk of the three peaks: Ingleborough, Whernside and Pen-y-ghent.

“Anything interesting?” he asked.

“Maybe,” said Stefan. “We tried to pin down the exact point on the wall where the body had been dropped over, and it matches the spot where these stones stick out here like steps. Makes climbing easy. Good footholds.”

“I see. It would have taken a bit of strength, though, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. He might have been a big lad for his age, but he was still only a kid, and pretty skinny.”

“Could one person have done it?”

“Certainly. Anyway, we’ve been looking for scuff marks. It’s also possible that the killer scratched himself climbing up.”

“You’ve found blood on the wall?”

“Minute traces. But hold your horses, Alan. We don’t even know if it’s human blood yet.”

Banks watched the SOCOs taking the wall apart stone by stone and packing it in the back of a van. He wondered what Gristhorpe would think of such destruction. Gristhorpe was building a drystone wall at the back of his house as a hobby. It went nowhere and fenced in nothing. Some of these walls had been standing for centuries without any sort of cement holding them together, but they were far more than mere random piles of rocks. Gristhorpe knew all about the techniques and the patience it took to find just the right stone to fit with the others, and here the men were demolishing it. Still, if it could lead them to Luke’s killer, Banks thought, that was worth a drystone wall or two. He knew Gristhorpe would agree.

“Any chance of footprints?”

Stefan shook his head. “If there was any sort of impression in the grass or the dust, you can be sure it’s gone now. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Do I ever? Tire tracks?”

“Again, too many, and it’s not a good road surface. But we’re looking. We’ve got a botanist coming up from York, too. There may be some unique plant life by the roadside, especially with it being close to a body of water. You never know. If you find someone with a bit of purple-speckled ragwort sticking to the bottom of his shoe, it just might be your man.”

“Wonderful.” Banks walked back to his car.

“Chief Inspector?” It was one of the reporters, a local man Banks recognized.

“What do you want?” he asked. “We’ve just told you lot all we know at the press conference.”

“Is it true what we’ve been hearing?” the reporter asked.

“What have you been hearing?”

“That it was a botched kidnapping.”

“No comment,” said Banks, muttering, “Shit,” under his breath as he got in his car, turned around in the next lay-by and set off home.

After tracking down a retired detective inspector who had worked out of West End Central and persuading him to talk to her in London the following day, Michelle had left the station and stopped off to rent the video of The Krays on her way home. She hoped the film would at least give her a general picture of their life and times.

She had been living in her riverside flat on Viersen Platz for two months now, but it still felt temporary, just another place she was passing through. Partly it was because she hadn’t unpacked everything – books, dishes, some clothes and other odds and ends – and partly it was the job, of course. Long hours made it difficult to keep house, and most of her meals were eaten on the run.

The flat itself was cozy and pleasant enough. A modern four-story building, part of the Rivergate Centre, it faced south, overlooking the river, got plenty of light for the potted plants she liked to keep on her small balcony, and was so close to the city center as to be practically in the shadow of the cathedral. She didn’t know why she hadn’t settled in more; it was one of the nicest places she had ever lived in, if a bit pricey. But what else did she have to spend her money on? She particularly liked to sit out on the balcony after dark, look at the lights reflected in the slow-moving river and listen to the trains go by. On weekends she could hear blues music from Charters Bar, an old iron barge moored opposite, by Town Bridge, and the customers sometimes made a bit too much noise at closing time, but that was only a minor irritant.

Michelle had no friends to invite for dinner, nor the time or inclination to entertain them, so she hadn’t even bothered to unpack her best chinaware. She had even let such basics as laundry, dusting and ironing slip, and as a consequence her flat had the air of someone who used to maintain a certain level of tidiness and cleanliness but had let things go. Even the bed was unmade since that morning.

She glanced at the answering machine, but no light flashed. It never did. She wondered why she bothered to keep the thing. Work, of course. After a quick blitz on the dishes in the sink and a run around with the Hoover, she felt ready to sit down and watch The Krays. But she was hungry. As usual, there was nothing in the fridge, at least nothing edible, so she went around the corner to the Indian take-away and got some prawn curry and rice. Sitting with a tray on her lap and a bottle of South African Merlot beside her, she pressed the remote and the video began.

When it had finished, Michelle didn’t feel she knew much more about the Kray twins than before it had begun. Yes, theirs was a violent world and you’d better not cross them. Yes, they seemed to have plenty of money and spend most of their time in ritzy clubs. But what exactly did they do? Apart from vague battles with the Maltese and meetings with American gangsters, the exact nature of their businesses was left unexplained. And, as far as the film was concerned, coppers might as well have not even existed.

She turned to the news, still feeling a little queasy from the violence. Or was it from the curry and wine? She didn’t really believe that the Krays had anything to do with Graham Marshall’s murder, no more than she believed Brady and Hindley had, and she could imagine how Shaw would laugh if he heard her suggest such a thing.

If Bill Marshall had any serious criminal aspirations, they hadn’t done him much good. He never got out of the council house, though the Marshalls had bought it for four thousand pounds in 1984.

Perhaps he swore off crime. Michelle had checked subsequent police records and found no further mention of him, so he had gone either straight or uncaught. She would guess at the former, given his standard of living. Graham’s disappearance must have shaken him, then. Maybe he sensed a connection to the world he had been involved in, so he severed all ties. She would have to find time to have an even closer look at the old crime reports, dig out old action books and the notebooks of the detectives involved. But that could wait until after the weekend.

She turned on her computer and tried to put her thoughts and theories into some kind of order, the way she usually did last thing at night, then she played a couple of games of Freecell and lost.

It got dark. Michelle turned off her computer, cleared away the detritus of her lonely dinner, found there wasn’t enough wine left in the bottle worth saving, so topped up her glass. As it so often did around bedtime, the depression seemed to close in on her like a dense fog. She sipped her wine and listened to rain tapping against her window. God, how she missed Melissa, even after all this time. She missed Ted, too, sometimes, but mostly she missed Melissa.

Her thoughts went back to the day it happened. It was a movie that ran in her mind, as if on a constant loop. She wasn’t there – that was a big part of the problem – but she could picture Melissa outside the school gates, her golden curls, little blue dress with the flowers on it, the other kids milling around, vigilant teachers nearby, then Melissa seeing what she thought was her father’s car pulling to a stop across the road, though they always picked her up on her side. Then she pictured Melissa waving, smiling, and, before anyone could stop her, running right out in front of the speeding lorry.

Before getting into bed, she took Melissa’s dress, the same dress she had died in, from her bedside drawer, lay down, held it to her face and cried herself to sleep.