Close To Home (aka The Summer That Never Was)

Chapter 14

Early in the afternoon, Annie showed the artist’s impression of the mystery girl around the Swainsdale Centre and the bus station again. At the end of an hour, she was beginning to wonder whether the girl existed, or whether she was just a figment of Josie Batty’s puritan imagination.

She walked along York Road enjoying the sunshine, glancing in the shop windows as she walked. A stylish red leather jacket caught her eye in one of the more exclusive clothes shops, but she knew it would be way out of her price range. Even so, she went in and inquired. It was.

The market square was clogged with wandering tourists and cars trying to find a parking space. A large group of Japanese, along with their tour guide and translator, stood gazing up at the front of the Norman church, where several sculpted figures of saints were carved in a row high over the doors. Some of the tourists were catching the moment on videotape, though Annie didn’t remember the stone saints ever doing the cancan or anything that even remotely involved movement.

One of the cars, she noticed – partly because it screeched straight into a handicapped parking space and almost hit a young woman – was Martin Armitage’s BMW. What the hell was he doing here? And what the hell was he doing in a handicapped parking spot? Maybe she should arrange for him to get towed? But when she saw him jump out of the car, slam the door and head for the shops built into the side of the church, she knew what was going on.

Annie pushed her way through the tourist crowd by the church and got there just in time to see Armitage disappearing down the stairs into Norman’s Used Books. Shit. She dashed down right behind him, but he already had Wells by the throat, and judging by the blood pouring from the little man’s nose had punched him at least once. Wells was whimpering and trying to wriggle free. The bookshop was as dank as ever, but the day’s heat had permeated enough to make the air humid. Annie felt clammy the moment she entered. Familiar, the cat, was screeching and hissing somewhere in the dark recesses of the cavern.

“Mr. Armitage!” Annie called out as she grabbed his arm. “Martin! Stop it. This won’t get you anywhere.”

Armitage shook her off as if she were a troublesome insect. “This pervert killed my son,” he said. “If you lot can’t do it, I’ll get a bloody confession, even if I have to shake it out of him.” As if to prove his point, he started to shake Wells again and slap him back and forth across the face. Blood and saliva dribbled from Wells’s slack jaw.

Annie tried to wedge herself between them, knocking over a teetering pile of books as she did so. A cloud of dust rose up and the cat screeched even louder. Armitage was strong. He pushed Annie and she staggered back into a table. It broke and more books slid to the floor. She almost joined them there.

Gathering all her strength, Annie made one more attempt, launching herself toward the struggling men in the cramped space, but Armitage saw her coming and swung his fist beyond Wells’s head, connecting directly with Annie’s mouth. The blow stunned her and she fell back again, in pain this time, and put her hand to her mouth. It came away covered in blood.

Armitage was still shaking Wells and Annie feared the bookseller was going to choke to death, if he didn’t have a heart attack first. Armitage was paying her no mind now, and she managed to edge behind him to the door and dash up the steps. The police station was only yards away, across Market Street, and nobody asked her any questions when she rushed in the front door, blood streaming from her mouth.

Two burly PCs followed her back to the shop, and it took both of them to subdue Armitage, wrecking most of the place in the process. There were old books all over the floor, broken tables and clouds of dust in the air by the time they got the handcuffs on him and marched him outside up the stairs. Wells was bleeding, clutching his chest and looking distinctly unwell. Annie got his arm around her shoulder and helped him stumble up into the fresh air. Hearing the fracas, the Japanese tourists turned away from the church facade and pointed their camcorders at the five of them. Well, Annie thought, digging for a handkerchief deep in her purse, at least we’re bloody moving.

It had been a while since Banks had spent much time in his office, and the Dalesman calendar was still open at July’s photo of Skidby Windmill on the edge of the Yorkshire Wolds. He had the radio tuned in to Radio Three and was listening to an orchestral concert of music by Holst, Haydn and Vaughan Williams as he whittled away at the pile of paperwork on his desk. He had just settled into the lento moderato of Vaughan Williams’s Pastoral Symphony and yet another memo on cost effectiveness, when his phone rang.

“Alan, it’s Stefan.”

“Good news, I hope?”

“Depends on how you look at it. Your man Norman Wells is clean, as far as we can tell. We were pretty thorough, and I’m sure if there’d been any traces of Luke Armitage in his car or house we’d have found something.”

“You didn’t?”

“Nada.”

“Okay, well, I suppose that shows us where not to concentrate our attention. Anything positive?”

“The blood on the drystone wall.”

“I remember.”

“There was enough for DNA analysis. It’s definitely human, and it doesn’t match the victim’s.”

Banks whistled. “So there’s a good chance it could belong to whoever dropped Luke over the wall?”

“A pretty good chance, yes. But don’t get your hopes up too high. It could belong to anyone.”

“But you’ll be able to match it with any samples we can get?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. Thanks, Stefan.”

“My pleasure.”

Banks wondered whom he should ask to provide DNA samples. Norman Wells, of course, even though the forensic search of his house had turned up nothing incriminating. Alastair Ford, perhaps, just because he lived in a remote cottage and was connected to Luke through the violin lessons. And because he was weird. Lauren Anderson, because she gave Luke English tutoring after school hours and seemed to be close to him. Who else? Josie and Calvin Batty, perhaps. And the parents, Martin and Robin. They’d no doubt kick up a holy fuss and run crying to the chief constable, but that couldn’t be helped. DNA could be processed in two or three days now, but it was a very expensive proposition. Banks would just have to see how much he could get away with.

Then there was the mystery girl, of course. They would definitely need a sample from her if they ever found her, if she existed.

No sooner had the moderato pesante begun than his phone rang again. This time it was the duty constable. Someone to see him in connection with Luke Armitage. A young woman.

“Send her up,” said Banks, wondering if this could be the mystery woman. She must know that she was wanted by now, and if she did, then her failure to show up was suspicious in itself.

A minute or so later a uniformed constable tapped on Banks’s office door and ushered in the girl. Banks recognized Rose Barlow immediately. She strutted into his office all blue-jeaned leg, blond hair and attitude. Her visit would save him or Annie the trouble of seeking her out.

“I’m Rose,” she said. “Rose Barlow. You don’t remember me, do you?”

“I know who you are,” said Banks. “What can I do for you?”

Rose carried on snooping around the office, taking books off the shelf and riffling through the pages, putting them back, adjusting the calendar so it was square with the filing cabinet. She wore a short, sleeveless top so that, Banks presumed, the rose tattoo on her upper left arm and the collection of jewelry dangling from her navel showed to best advantage.

“It’s more a matter of what I can do for you,” she said, sitting down and giving him what he was sure she thought of as an enigmatic look. It came across as vacant. She must be a handful for her father, he thought. It seemed so often the case that the daughters of authority figures – vicars, head teachers, chief constables – were the first to rebel, and he could only think himself lucky that Tracy, a mere chief inspector’s daughter, seemed to have a good head on her shoulders. She must have got it from her mother, Banks thought, then veered away from thoughts of Sandra, showing now, no doubt, glowing with the joys of coming motherhood. Well, good luck to her and Sean; they’d need it.

“And what can you do for me?” Banks asked, deciding to let her get to her reason for coming before asking questions of his own.

She turned her nose up at the radio. “What’s that?”

“Vaughan Williams.”

“It’s boring.”

“Sorry you don’t like it. What can you do for me?”

“Do you know who killed Luke?”

“I thought you could do something for me?”

“Spoilsport. Why won’t you tell me?”

Banks sighed. “Rose. Miss Barlow. If we’d found Luke’s killer you’d have read about it in the papers by now. Now, tell me what you came to say. I’m busy.”

Rose didn’t like that, and Banks realized that letting his impatience show was a mistake. She probably got that sort of response from her father all the time, the way Tracy and Brian had often heard the same thing from Banks. Rose craved attention because she didn’t feel she got enough. Banks wondered if his children felt the same way. Did Tracy try so hard and do so well academically because she wanted attention? Did Brian stand up on stage in front of an audience night after night and bare his soul because he craved it, too? And had Luke Armitage craved the same thing? Perhaps. In his children’s cases, though, the response to the need was a pretty healthy, creative one. Banks wasn’t sure to what lengths Rose Barlow might go to get the attention she felt she deserved.

“I’m sorry,” he went on, “but I’m sure you understand that we’re in a hurry to find out who killed Luke, and if you know anything that might help us…”

Rose leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Why? Do you think he’s going to kill someone else? Do you think it’s a serial killer?”

“We’ve no reason to think anything of the sort.”

“Then relax, why don’t you?”

Banks felt his back teeth grinding as he tried to smile.

“Anyway,” Rose went on, “I was going to tell you. Have you talked to Miss Anderson yet?”

“Lauren Anderson? Yes.”

A mischievous glint lit Rose’s eyes. “And did she tell you about her and Luke?”

“She told us she gave him extra instruction in English because he was ahead of the rest of the class.”

Rose laughed. “Extra instruction. That’s a good one. And did she tell you where she gave this instruction?”

“At her house.”

Rose leaned back and folded her arms. “Exactly.”

“So?”

“Oh, come on. Surely you can’t be that naive? Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” said Banks, who was perfectly sure but wanted her to get there by herself.

“They were having it off, weren’t they?”

“You know that for a fact?”

“Stands to reason.”

“Why?”

“She’s nothing but a slut, that Miss Anderson, and a cradle-snatcher.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, she didn’t give anybody else private instruction in her home, did she?”

“I don’t know,” said Banks.

“Well, she didn’t.”

“Tell me, Rose,” Banks said, wishing he could have a cigarette, “what did you think of Luke? You knew him, didn’t you?”

“We were in the same class, yes.”

“Did you like him?”

Rose twirled some strands of hair. “He was all right, I suppose.”

“Pretty cool, huh?”

“Cool! More like sad, if you ask me.”

“Why?”

“He never talked to anybody – except high and mighty Miss Anderson, of course. It’s like he was better than the rest of us.”

“Maybe he was shy.”

“Just because he had a famous father. Well, I think his father’s music sucks, and he can’t have been much of a father if he went and killed himself, could he? He was nothing but a drug addict.”

Nice line in compassion, Rose, Banks thought, but he didn’t bother voicing his opinion. “So you didn’t like Luke?”

“I told you. He was all right. Just a bit weird.”

“But he was pretty good-looking, wasn’t he?”

Rose made a face. “Ugh! I wouldn’t have gone out with him if he was the last boy on earth.”

“I don’t think you’re telling me the truth, Rose, are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know very well what I mean. You and Luke. Earlier this year.”

“Who told you that?”

“Never you mind. How far did it go?”

“Go? That’s a laugh. It didn’t go anywhere.”

“But you wanted it to, didn’t you?”

Rose twisted in her chair. “He thought he was better than the rest of us.”

“So why did you spend time talking to him?”

“I don’t know. Just… I mean, he was different. The other boys, they only want one thing.”

“And Luke didn’t?”

“I never got to find out, did I? We just talked.”

“What about?”

“Music and stuff.”

“You never actually went out together?”

“No. I mean, we went to McDonald’s a couple of times after school, but that’s all.”

“Rose, do you have any evidence at all to support your accusation that Luke and Lauren Anderson were having an affair?”

“If you mean was I watching at her window, then no. But it’s obvious, isn’t it? Why else would she spend her spare time with someone like him?”

“But you spent time with him.”

“Yeah. Well… that was different.”

“Didn’t you try to be nice to him, to befriend him, when you talked to him in the hallways and the playground, and when you went to McDonald’s with him?”

Rose looked away and continued twirling her hair around her fingers. “Of course I did.”

“And what happened?”

“Nothing. He just sort of… like he got bored with me or something. Like I didn’t read all those stupid books he was always carrying around, and I didn’t listen to the same lousy music. I wasn’t good enough for him. He was a snob. Above the rest of us.”

“And because of this you assumed he was having sexual relations with a teacher. That’s a bit of a far stretch, isn’t it?”

“You didn’t see them together.”

“Did you see them kissing, touching, holding hands?”

“Of course not. They were too careful to do anything like that in public, weren’t they?”

“What then?”

“The way they looked at each other. The way she always left him alone in class. The way they talked. The way he made her laugh.”

“You were just jealous, weren’t you, Rose? That’s why you’re saying all this. Because you couldn’t get along with Luke, but Miss Anderson could.”

“I was not jealous! Certainly not of that ugly old bitch.”

For a moment, Banks wondered if there was anything in what Rose Barlow was telling him other than sour grapes. It may have been innocent, a true teacher-pupil relationship, but Banks had enough experience to know that anything involving two people of the opposite sex – or the same sex, for that matter – in close proximity could turn into something sexual, no matter what the difference in their ages. He had also read about such things in the newspapers. He would keep an open mind and have another talk with Lauren Anderson when he got back from Peterborough, push her a little harder and see if any cracks showed.

“What do you think of Miss Anderson?” he asked Rose.

“She’s all right, I suppose.”

“You just called her an ugly old bitch.”

“Well… I didn’t mean… I was angry… I mean, she’s okay as a teacher. All right?”

“Do you get on well with her in class?”

“Okay.”

“So if I ask any of the other pupils in the class, they’d tell me that you and Miss Anderson get along just fine?”

Rose reddened. “She picks on me sometimes. She put me in detention once.”

“What for?”

“Not reading some stupid Shakespeare play. So I was reading a magazine under the desk. So what? I can’t be bothered with all that boring English stuff.”

“So you had a few run-ins with her?”

“Yes. But that’s not why I’m here. That’s not why I’m telling you what I know.”

“I’m sure it’s not, Rose, but you have to admit it does give you a bit of a motive to cause trouble for Miss Anderson, especially if you also tried to get Luke to be your boyfriend.”

Rose jumped to her feet. “Why are you being so horrible to me? I come here to help you and give you important information and you treat me like a criminal. I’m going to tell my father about you.”

Banks couldn’t help smiling. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been reported to the head teacher,” he said.

Before Rose could respond, two things happened in quick succession. First, there came an urgent tap at his door and Annie Cabbot walked in, a handkerchief to her mouth covered with what looked like blood. But before Annie could speak, Kevin Templeton poked his head around the door behind her, his gaze resting on Rose for a few seconds too long for her comfort, and said to Banks, “Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but we think we’ve got a positive ID on you know who.”

Banks knew who he meant. The mystery girl. So she did exist.

“Better than that,” Templeton went on. “We’ve got an address.”

Michelle discovered from DC Collins that Shaw had gone home after lunch, complaining of a stomach upset. Collins’s tone was such as to suggest it might be more a matter of the number of whiskeys Shaw had downed at lunch. He had been taking quite a lot of time off lately. At least that left the coast clear for Michelle. She didn’t want to see Shaw, especially after what had happened in her flat on Saturday. Sometimes, when she let her guard down, it was him she saw in her imagination, going through her bedside drawers, cutting Melissa’s dress in half. It wasn’t such a stretch to imagine him driving the beige van that bore down on her as she crossed the road earlier, either; he had been out of the station at the time. And the whiskeys? Dutch courage?

It was time to stop idle speculation and follow up on what she had discovered from Mrs. Walker. Michelle picked up the telephone and an hour or so later, after a lot of false trails and time wasted on hold, she managed to reach one of the retired Carlisle police officers who had looked into Donald Bradford’s death: Ex-Detective Sergeant Raymond Scholes, now living out his retirement on the Cumbrian coast.

“I don’t know what I can tell you after all this time,” Scholes said. “Donald Bradford was just unlucky.”

“What happened?”

“Surprised a burglar. Someone broke into his house, and before Bradford could do anything he got beaten so badly he died of his injuries.”

Michelle felt a chill. The same thing might have happened to her on Saturday, if she’d been home earlier. “Ever catch the burglar?” she asked.

“No. He must have taken Bradford by surprise, though.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he was a pretty tough customer himself. I wouldn’t have fancied tackling him. Way it looks is the burglar must have heard him coming and hid behind the door, then bashed the back of Bradford’s head in with a cosh of some kind.”

“You never found a weapon?”

“No.”

“No clues? No prints?”

“Nothing usable.”

“No witnesses?”

“None that we could find.”

“What was taken?”

“Wallet, a few knickknacks, by the looks of it. Place was a bit of a mess.”

“Did it appear as if someone had been looking for something?”

“I never really thought about that. As I say, though, it was a mess. Turned upside down. Why the sudden interest?”

Michelle told him a little bit about Graham Marshall.

“Yes, I’ve read about that. Terrible business. I hadn’t realized there was a connection.”

“Was Bradford married?”

“No. He lived alone.”

Michelle could sense him pause, as if he was going to add something. “What?” she asked.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Bit of a laugh, really.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Well, afterward, you know, we had to have a look around the house and we found… well… at the time it seemed quite risqué, though by today’s standards…”

Out with it, man, Michelle found herself thinking. What are you talking about?

“What was it?” she asked.

“Pornographic magazines. A bundle of them. And some blue films. I won’t go into detail, but they covered quite the range of perversions.”

Michelle found herself gripping the receiver tighter. “Including pedophilia?”

“Well, there were some pretty young-looking models involved, I can tell you that. Male and female. Not kiddie-porn, though, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Michelle supposed there was a distinction to be made. In some ways, once you had pubic hair, breasts and all the rest, you didn’t qualify as “kiddie-porn,” but you still might only be fourteen years old. Gray area.

“What happened to all this stuff?”

“Destroyed.”

But not before you and your lads had a good look at it, I’ll bet, Michelle thought.

“We didn’t let anything slip at the time,” he went on, “because it didn’t seem… well, the bloke had just been killed, after all. There seemed no point in blackening his name with that sort of thing.”

“Understandable,” said Michelle. “Who claimed the body?”

“Nobody. Mr. Bradford had no immediate family. The local authorities took care of everything.”

“Thank you, Mr. Scholes,” she said. “You’ve been a great help.”

“Think nothing of it.”

Michelle hung up and nibbled the end of her pencil as she thought about what she’d heard. She hadn’t come to any conclusions yet, but she had a lot to discuss with Banks when he arrived.

PC Flaherty, who had tracked down the mystery girl’s address, had been asking around Eastvale College, thinking that a girl who looked like she did must be a student. As it turned out, she wasn’t, but her boyfriend was, and one of the people he spoke to remembered seeing her at a college dance. The boyfriend’s name was Ryan Milne and the girl was known as Elizabeth Palmer. They lived together in a flat above a hat shop on South Market Street, the direction in which Luke Armitage had been walking when he was last seen.

Annie insisted that she felt well enough to make the call. She was damned, she told Banks, if she was going to be excluded after all the footwork she’d done just because some over-testosteroned lout had punched her in the mouth. It was her pride that hurt more than anything. After she’d cleaned up the wound, it didn’t look too bad anyway. Some women, she went on to say, paid a fortune for collagen shots to make themselves look like she did. Banks decided he would make the call with her before setting off for Peterborough. He phoned and arranged to meet Michelle in a city center pub at nine o’clock, just to be on the safe side.

Martin Armitage was cooling off in the custody suite and Norman Wells was in Eastvale General Infirmary. No doubt there would be recriminations from Armitage’s pal the chief constable, but for the moment he could stay where he was. They could also charge him with assaulting a police officer. After they had visited the mystery girl.

Within twenty minutes of getting the address, Banks and Annie climbed the lino-covered stairs and knocked on the door. The building seemed so silent that Banks couldn’t imagine anyone being at home, but only seconds later a young woman opened the door. The young woman.

“DCI Banks and DI Cabbot,” Banks said, flashing his card. “We’d like a word.”

“You’d better come in then.” She stood aside.

One reason why it had taken so long to locate her was obvious to Banks: she didn’t look anywhere near as weird as the description Josie Batty had drawn of her, which was hardly surprising when you imagined that most young people probably looked weird to Josie Batty.

The pixyish facial features were right enough, the heart-shaped face, large eyes and small mouth, but that was about all. She was far prettier than Josie Batty had indicated to the police artist, and she had a pale, flawless complexion. She also had the sort of breasts adolescent boys, and many grown men, dream about, and her smooth cleavage was shown to advantage by the laced-up leather waistcoat she wore. The small tattoo on her upper arm was a simple double helix, and there was no sign of body-piercing anywhere except the silver spiderweb earrings dangling from her ears. Her short black hair was dyed and gelled, but there was nothing weird about that.

The flat was clean and tidy, not a filthy crack house full of sprawled drug-addled kids. It was an old room with a fireplace complete with poker and tongs, which must only have been for show, as a gas fire filled the hearth. Sunlight shone through the half-open window and the sounds and smells of South Market Street drifted up: car exhaust and horns, warm tar, fresh-baked bread, take-away curry and pigeons on the rooftops. Banks and Annie walked around the small room, checking it out, while the girl arranged beanbag cushions for them.

“Elizabeth, is it?” asked Banks.

“I prefer Liz.”

“Okay. Ryan not here?”

“He’s got classes.”

“When will he be back?”

“Not till after teatime.”

“What do you do, Liz?”

“I’m a musician.”

“Make a living at it?”

“You know what it’s like…”

Banks did, having a son in the business. But Brian’s success was unusual, and even that hadn’t brought in heaps of money. Not even enough for a new car. He moved on. “You know why we’re here, don’t you?”

Liz nodded. “About Luke.”

“You could have come forward and saved us a lot of trouble.”

Liz sat down. “But I don’t know anything.”

“Let us be the judge of that,” said Banks, pausing in his examination of her CD collection. He had noticed a cassette labeled “Songs from a Black Room” mixed in with a lot of other tapes.

“How was I to know you were looking for me?”

“Don’t you read the papers or watch television?” Annie asked.

“Not much. They’re boring. Life’s too short. Mostly I practice, listen to music or read.”

“What instrument?” Banks asked.

“Keyboards, some woodwinds. Flute, clarinet.”

“Did you study music professionally?”

“No. Just lessons at school.”

“How old are you, Liz?”

“Twenty-one.”

“And Ryan?”

“The same. He’s in his last year at college.”

“He a musician, too?”

“Yes.”

“Do you live together?”

“Yes.”

Annie sat down on one of the beanbags, but Banks went to stand by the window, leaning the backs of his thighs against the sill. The room was small and hot and seemed too crowded with three people in it.

“What was your relationship with Luke Armitage?” Annie asked.

“He’s… he was in our band.”

“Along with?”

“Me and Ryan. We don’t have a drummer yet.”

“How long have you been together?”

She chewed on her lip and thought for a moment. “We’ve only been practicing together since earlier this year, after we met Luke. But Ryan and me had been talking about doing something like this for ages.”

“How did you meet Luke?”

“At a concert at the college.”

“What concert?”

“Just a couple of local bands. Back in March.”

“How did Luke get into a college concert?” Banks asked. “He was only fifteen.”

Liz smiled. “Not to look at. Or to talk to. Luke was far more mature than his years. You didn’t know him.”

“Who was he with?”

“No one. He was by himself, checking out the band.”

“And you just started talking to him?”

“Ryan did, first.”

“And then?”

“Well, we found out he was interested in music, too, looking to get a band together. He had some songs.”

Banks pointed toward the tape. “Those? ‘Songs from a Black Room’?”

“No. Those are more recent.”

“How recent?”

“Past month or so.”

“Did you know he was only fifteen?”

“We didn’t find out until later.”

“How?”

“He told us.”

“He told you? Just like that?”

“No, not just like that. He had to explain why he couldn’t just do what he wanted, you know. He was living with his parents and going to school. He said he was sixteen at first but then told us later he’d lied because he was worried we’d think he was too young to be in the band.”

“And did you?”

“No way. Not someone with his talent. We might have had a few problems down the line, if things had got that far. Playing licensed premises, you know, stuff like that, but we figured we’d just deal with all that when we got there.”

“What about who his real father was? Did you know that?”

Liz looked away. “He didn’t tell us that until later, either. He didn’t seem to want anything to do with Neil Byrd and his legacy.”

“How did you find out?” Banks asked. “I mean, did Luke just come right out and tell you who his father was?”

“No. No. He didn’t like to talk about him. It was something on the radio while he was over here, a review of that new compilation. He got upset about it and then it just sort of slipped out. It made a lot of sense.”

“What do you mean?” Annie asked.

“That voice. His talent. There was something about it all that rang a bell.”

“What happened after you knew?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did it make a difference?”

“Not really.”

“Oh, come on, Liz,” said Banks. “You had Neil Byrd’s son in your band. You can’t expect us to believe that you weren’t aware that would make a big difference commercially.”

“Okay,” said Liz. “Sure, we were all aware of that. But the point is that we weren’t anywhere commercially at that time. We’re still not. We haven’t even played in public yet, for crying out loud. And now, without Luke… I don’t know.”

Banks moved away from the window and sat on a hard-backed chair against the wall. Annie shifted on her beanbag, as if trying to get comfortable. It was the first time he’d seen her look ill at ease in any sort of seat, then he realized she might have hurt herself falling over in the bookshop. She should be at the hospital getting checked out, especially the way on-the-job injury insurance worked these days, but there was no telling her. He didn’t blame her; he’d be doing the same himself.

“Who did the singing?” Banks asked.

“Mostly me and Luke.”

“What kind of music do you play?”

“What does it matter?”

“Let’s just say I’m interested. Humor me.”

“It’s hard to describe,” Liz answered.

“Try.”

She looked at him, as if trying to size up his musical knowledge. “Well, it’s all about the songs, really. We’re not trendy and we don’t go in for long solos and stuff. It’s more… have you heard of David Gray?”

“Yes.”

“Beth Orton?”

“Yes.”

If Liz was surprised by Banks’s familiarity with contemporary music, she didn’t show it. “Well, we’re not like them, but that’s sort of what we’re interested in. Having something to say, and maybe a bit jazzy and bluesy. I play quite a bit of flute as well as organ.”

“Did you know that Luke was taking violin lessons?”

“Yes. That would have been wonderful. We were looking to expand, bring in more musicians, but we were being very careful about it.” She looked Banks in the eye. “We were serious about making a real go of this, you know,” she said. “But without selling out or being commercial. We’re absolutely gutted by what’s happened. Not just as a band, I mean, but personally, too.”

“I understand, and I appreciate that,” said Banks. “Did you have any other sort of relationship with Luke? Other than musical?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you sleep with him?”

“With Luke?”

“Why not? He was a good-looking kid.”

“But that’s all he was. A kid.”

“You said he was wise beyond his years.”

“I know that, but I’m not a bloody cradle-snatcher. Besides, I’m perfectly happy with Ryan, thank you very much.” Liz’s face was red.

“So you were never Luke’s girlfriend?”

“No way. I told you. I was with Ryan when we met. It was all about the music.”

“So there’s no chance that Ryan caught the two of you in bed together and ended up killing Luke, then deciding he might as well cash in on it?”

“I don’t know how you can even suggest something as horrible as that.” Liz seemed close to tears and Banks was starting to feel like a shit. She seemed a good kid. But seemed wasn’t good enough. He remembered Rose Barlow’s visit, as well as her angry exit. Liz was younger than Lauren Anderson, and a far more likely candidate for Luke’s bedfellow, in Banks’s opinion. He didn’t know how strong Liz’s relationship with Ryan was, or how open.

“It happens,” Banks said. “You’d be surprised. Maybe it was an accident, you just couldn’t see any other way out.”

“I told you. Nothing like that happened. Luke was in the band, that’s all.”

“Did Luke ever confide in you at all,” Annie asked, easing off the pressure a little. “You know, tell you what was on his mind, what was worrying him?”

Liz paused, regaining her composure. She seemed to be looking at Annie’s swollen red lips but she didn’t ask about them. “He complained about school a lot,” she said finally.

“Ever say anything about his stepfather?”

“The rugby player?”

“Ex-footballer.”

“Whatever. No, not much. I don’t think Luke liked him very much.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Nothing in particular. Just the way he talked.”

“Did you ever meet Luke’s parents?”

“No. I don’t think he even told them about us, about the band.”

“How do you know?”

“Just my impression.”

It was probably true, Banks realized. According to Annie and to his own observations, the Armitages didn’t seem to have a clue what Luke was up to half the time. “Did he seem worried about anything?”

“Like what?”

“Anything at all,” Annie went on. “Did he mention if any threats had been made against him, for example, or if he thought someone was following him? Anything unusual, out of the ordinary?”

“No, nothing like that. Like I said, he didn’t like school and couldn’t wait to leave home. I’d say that’s pretty normal, wouldn’t you?”

Banks smiled. He’d been the same at that age. Later, too. And he had also left home at the first opportunity.

“When did you last see Luke?” Annie asked.

“About a week before he disappeared. Band practice.”

Annie looked around the small room and struggled to her feet. “Where do you practice?”

“Church basement, down the street. The vicar’s pretty broad-minded, a young bloke, and he lets us use their space if we don’t make too much noise.”

“And you haven’t seen Luke since?”

“No.”

“Has he ever been here?” Banks asked. “In this flat?”

“Sure. Plenty of times.” Liz stood up, as if she sensed they were leaving.

“Did he ever leave anything here?”

“Like what?”

“Any of his stuff. You know – notebooks, poems, stories, clothes, that sort of thing. We’re looking for anything that might help us understand what happened to him.”

“He never left any clothes here,” Liz said coldly, “but he sometimes left tapes of songs for us, if that’s what you mean. And some lyrics, maybe. But…”

“Could you collect them all together for us?”

“I suppose so. I mean, I don’t know what’s here or where everything is. Do you mean right now? Can’t you come back later?”

“Now would be best,” said Banks. “We’ll help you look, if you like.”

“No! I mean, no. It’s all right. I’ll find them.”

“Is there something here you don’t want us to see, Liz?”

“No, nothing. There’s only a few tapes and some poems, notes for songs. I don’t see how they can help you. Look… will I get these tapes and things back?”

“Why would you get them back?” Annie asked. “They were Luke’s property, weren’t they?”

“Technically, I suppose. But he brought them for us. The band. To share.”

“They’ll still most likely go to the family,” Banks told her.

“Luke’s family! But they don’t care. They can’t…”

“Can’t what, Liz?”

“I was going to say they can’t appreciate his talent. They’ll just throw them away. How could you let something like that happen?”

“Can’t be helped. It’s the law.”

Liz shifted from foot to foot, arms folded, as if she needed to go to the toilet. “Look, couldn’t you go away and come back, just for a while, give me just a bit of time to get everything together?”

“We can’t do that, Liz. I’m sorry.”

“So you’ll just take everything and give it to Luke’s parents, just like that? You won’t even give me time to make copies.”

“This is a murder investigation,” Annie reminded her.

“But still…” Liz sat down, close to tears again. “It doesn’t seem fair. It seems such a waste… I don’t know. His parents don’t care. We were so close.”

“So close to what?”

“To making something of ourselves.”

Banks felt sorry for her. He suspected that she wanted to hang on to Luke’s tapes and writings for selfish reasons, so that the band could one day ride on Luke’s and his father’s coattails to success. If they couldn’t do it with Luke’s voice and talent, at least they could try to do it with some of his material. That Luke had been murdered would also, no doubt, help boost the public interest. Banks didn’t think particularly ill of Liz for this. He’d probably have wanted the same if he were in her situation and felt passionate about a career in music. He didn’t think it lessened her genuine feelings for Luke. But there was something else that bothered him – the way she had reacted when he had offered to help look around. He glanced at Annie. It was one of those rare moments when each knew what the other was thinking.

“Mind if we have a little look around?” Annie asked.

“What? Why? I’ve told you. I’ll give you everything you want.” She got up and went over to the tapes, picking out three. “These for a start. The writings are in-”

“Why are you so jumpy, Liz?”

“I’m not jumpy.”

“Yes, you are. I think we should have a look around the place.”

“You can’t do that. You need a search warrant.”

Banks sighed. Again. “Are you certain you want that?” he asked. “Because we can get one.”

“Go do it then. Get one.”

Banks looked at Annie. “DI Cabbot, will you please go-”

Liz looked from one to the other, puzzled. “Not just her. Both of you go.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” said Banks. “One of us has to stay here to make sure you don’t interfere with anything. We’d hardly be doing our jobs if we disappeared and let drug dealers flush their stuff down the toilet, would we?”

“I’m not a drug dealer.”

“I’m sure you’re not. But there’s something you don’t want us to find. I’ll stay here while DI Cabbot gets the warrant, then she’ll come back with four or five constables and we’ll tear the place apart.”

Liz turned so pale Banks worried she might faint. He could tell she was sensitive, and he didn’t like bullying her, but he didn’t like what had happened to Luke, either. “What’s it to be, Liz? Will you give us consent to look around now, or do we do it the hard way?”

Liz looked up at him, big eyes brimming with tears. “I don’t have much choice, do I?”

“There’s always a choice.”

“You’d find it anyway. I told Ryan he was stupid to keep it.”

“Find what, Liz?”

“It’s in the cupboard by the door, under the sleeping bag.”

Banks and Annie opened the cupboard by the door and moved aside the sleeping bag. Underneath it was a battered leather shoulder bag, exactly the kind that Luke Armitage had been carrying when the bullies taunted him in the market square.

“I think you and Ryan have got quite a bit of explaining to do, don’t you?” said Banks.