Close To Home (aka The Summer That Never Was)

Chapter 15

The Bridge Fair came every March. As a young boy, Banks would go with his parents. He remembered sitting on his father’s knee in the Dodgem car, clinging on for dear life, remembered the feel of the rough nap and the raw-wool smell of his dad’s jacket, the sparks flashing off the high poles. He remembered strolling around holding his mother’s hand, eating candy floss or toffee apples while she nibbled at brandy snap and his father ate a hot dog smothered in fried onions. He would hear his father curse as he tried to throw biased darts at playing cards and his mother laugh as she tried to toss Ping-Pong balls into goldfish bowls.

But when Banks was fourteen, he wouldn’t be seen dead at the fair with his parents; he went with his mates, and Saturday night was the big night.

Why was it, he thought, as he drove past the small roadside fair that had sparked his memory, that they always seemed to be playing old rock and roll music at fairgrounds, even in the sixties? Whenever he thought of nights at the fair with Paul, Graham, Steve and Dave, it was always Freddy Cannon’s “Palisades Park” that played in his mind, or Eddie Cochran’s “Summertime Blues” as the Waltzers spun and the bright lights blazed in the dark, not The Beatles or The Rolling Stones.

His favorite ride was the Caterpillar, but you had to go on that one with a girl. As the train went faster and faster in undulating circles, the canvas cover, like a shop’s awning, would slowly unfurl until it covered up the whole ride – hence the name Caterpillar – and you were in the dark, riding fast with your girl. On his own, he liked the Waltzers and the Speedway best, but all rides were better shared with girls when you were fourteen.

For Banks and his friends, the fair began before it opened. He remembered passing the stretch of common ground with Graham one wet afternoon – it must have been 1965, because that was the only year Graham was around for the spring fair – and watching the brightly colored lorries roll in, watching the suspicious and unsmiling fair-workers unload sections of track and cars and begin the magical process of fitting the whole thing together. For the next two days, Banks would come back to check the progress, watch the men put the last section of the carousel into place, set up the booths, the stalls and the shies, and sure enough, everything was ready on opening night.

You had to go after dark. There was no point if the bright-colored lights didn’t flash and spin and if the music wasn’t loud, if the smell of fried onions and spun sugar didn’t waft through the night air to mingle with the discernible whiff of violence. For the fairs were where you went to pick a fight or settle your scores, and you could always see trouble brewing a mile off. First the looks, the whispers, the casual bumps, then someone running, others in pursuit, a scuffle and muffled cries, the fair-workers always somehow outside or beyond it all, stepping between the spokes as the Waltzers got faster and faster, collecting money, impressing the girls with their daredevil nonchalance.

And the girls… Well, the girls were all on parade at the fair, all bubble gum, miniskirts and eye shadow. “If you didn’t get shagged on Saturday night, you didn’t get shagged at all,” as the old rugby song went. Well, Banks didn’t get shagged, but he sometimes got kissed. That night it was Sylvia Nixon, a pretty little blonde from the girls’ school down the street. They’d been eyeing each other shyly all night, standing up on the boards right beside the rides, watching the riders scream and yell and cling on tight. She was with her quiet friend, June, that was the problem. Which Graham, bless his soul, helped solve. Soon they were off on the Caterpillar, and Banks felt that delicious anticipation as the cover started to close over them.

But something odd happened later.

Banks was persuading the girls to come with them to the park the next day if the weather was fine. There were plenty of sheltered, well-hidden areas where you could lie in the grass or stand up against a tree and snog. He was almost there, just overcoming the last, perfunctory shreds of resistance, when Graham said, “Sorry, I can’t go tomorrow.” When Banks asked him why, he just smiled vaguely and answered with his characteristic evasiveness, “I’ve got something else to do, that’s all.” The girls weren’t too thrilled with that, and Banks never got to go out with Sylvia Nixon again.

A fight broke out somewhere near the Dodgems, Banks remembered, and a couple of older men broke it up. But his chief memory, apart from kissing Sylvia on the Caterpillar and Graham’s weak reason for missing the next day’s rendezvous, was that Graham paid. Again. He had Benson amp; Hedges, too: ten of them, king-size, in the golden packet.

As Banks turned off the A1 to Peterborough, he racked his brains trying to remember if he had ever asked Graham where he got his money, but he didn’t think he had. Maybe he didn’t want to know. Kids are selfish, and as long as they’re having a good time they don’t feel the need to question where it’s coming from, or at whose expense it might be. But there weren’t many places a kid Graham’s age could get his hands on so much ready cash. The paper round wouldn’t cover it, but an occasional dip in the till might. Or perhaps he stole it from his mother’s purse?

The trouble was that it didn’t seem to matter so much, just as long as Graham had the money. That he was generous went without saying. But what had he done to get it, and where, and whom, had he got it from?

Now, Banks also found himself wondering what it was that Graham had to do that Sunday that was so much more important than snogging with Sylvia Nixon’s friend June in the park. And he remembered other occasions, too, right up until the day of his disappearance, when Graham simply wasn’t there. No reason, no excuse, no explanation.

Annie’s face was starting to ache when she went to interview Liz Palmer. She’d taken a couple of paracetamol earlier, but the effect was wearing off. She took another two and probed a loose tooth with her tongue. Wonderful. The last thing she needed was a trip to the dentist’s. That bastard Armitage. His high-priced lawyer had been down the station like a shot, and as soon as the custody officer had drawn up the papers charging Armitage with criminal assault, he’d been bound over to appear in front of the magistrate the following day and sent off home. Annie would have liked to see him cooling his heels in the custody suite at least overnight, but no such luck. He’d probably walk on the charges, too. People like him usually did.

Because the Luke Armitage murder was a high-profile case, Gristhorpe and DC Winsome Jackman were interviewing Ryan Milne at the same time next door. So far, since they had picked him up at the college, Milne had been about as forthcoming as Liz.

Annie took DC Kevin Templeton with her into interview room 2, made sure Liz was clear about her rights and started the tape recorders. As yet, Annie explained, no charges had been brought and nobody was under arrest. She simply wanted an explanation as to how Luke Armitage’s shoulder bag had got into Liz’s hall cupboard. The bag and its contents were already with forensics.

“You told me you last saw Luke at band practice in the church basement about a week before he disappeared, right?” Annie began.

Liz nodded. She slumped in her chair and worked at a fingernail, looking a lot younger than her twenty-one years.

“Did he have the shoulder bag with him?”

“He always had it with him.”

“Then what was it doing in your cupboard?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“How long has it been there?”

“Must’ve been since band practice.”

“He came to the flat first?”

“Yes.”

Annie glanced at Kevin Templeton and sighed. “Problem is, Liz,” she went on, “that the market square CCTV cameras caught Luke before he disappeared a week ago last Monday, and he had the bag with him then.”

“It must’ve been a new one.”

“No,” Annie said. “It was the same one.” She couldn’t be certain of that, of course – perhaps Luke had left his bag at Liz’s and bought a new one – but she thought it unlikely Luke would have left all his things there, too. After all, it wasn’t the bag itself that counted, but the possessions it contained: his notebook, his laptop computer, portable CD player, tapes and CDs.

Liz frowned. “Well, I don’t see how…”

“Me, neither. Unless you’re not telling us the truth.”

“Why would I lie?”

“Oh, come off it,” Kevin Templeton butted in. “Luke’s dead. I’d say that’s a pretty good reason to lie, wouldn’t you?”

Liz jerked forward. “I didn’t kill him! You can’t think I killed him.”

“I don’t know what we’re supposed to think,” said Annie, spreading her hands. “But I’m sure you can see our problem. Luke and his bag go missing, then Luke turns up dead, and we find his bag in your cupboard. Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“I’ve told you, I don’t know when he put it there.”

“Where were you that afternoon?”

“What afternoon?”

“The Monday Luke disappeared.”

“I don’t know. Home, I suppose.”

“Are you sure he didn’t call at the flat, then perhaps forget his bag when he went off somewhere else?” Annie knew she was giving Liz an out, but it seemed the only way to get her talking.

“I didn’t see him.”

“Did he have a key?”

“No.”

“So you couldn’t have gone out for a minute and he let himself in?”

“I don’t see how.”

So much for that line of questioning. “Liz, you’re not making our job any easier. I’ll ask you again: How did Luke’s bag find its way into your hall cupboard?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“And I don’t believe you.”

“Well, that’s your problem.”

“No, Liz. It’s your problem. And it’s going to be a very big one if you don’t tell us the truth soon.”

“Maybe it was Ryan,” Kevin Templeton suggested.

Liz looked confused. “Ryan? What do you mean?”

“Well,” Templeton went on, “let me tell you what I think happened.” Annie gave him the nod. “I think Luke went to your flat after he’d been in the market square-”

“No. I told you. He didn’t come that day.”

“Let me finish.”

“But it’s not true! You’re making it up.”

“Be quiet,” Annie said. “Listen to what DC Templeton has to say.”

Liz flopped back in her chair. “Whatever.”

“Luke came to your place after he’d been in the market square. It was late afternoon. Ryan was out and the two of you thought you had time for a roll on the bed. He was a good-looking kid, fit, looked older than his age-”

“No! That didn’t happen. It wasn’t like that!”

“But Ryan came home and caught you at it. The two of them got in a scuffle and one way or another Luke ended up dead. I’m sure Ryan didn’t mean to kill him, but you had a body on your hands. What could you do? You waited until dark and then you loaded Luke’s body into the car and took it to Hallam Tarn, where Ryan hoisted him up the wall and dropped him over. He should have sunk the way dead bodies do, at least for a while, until they start to decompose and the gases build up and carry them to the surface, but he didn’t. His T-shirt snagged on an old tree root. Bad luck. Ryan wasn’t to know that. And nobody should have been in a position to find Luke because the whole area was quarantined due to foot-and-mouth restrictions. But a man from the Ministry had to take water samples. Bad luck, again. Ryan wasn’t to know that, either.” Templeton smiled, showing his white teeth, and folded his arms. “How am I doing so far, Liz?”

“It’s all lies. Nothing like that happened. You’re just making it up to get us in trouble. I’ve heard about the police doing things like this before.”

“You’re already in trouble,” Annie said. “We’re trying to help you out, find an explanation for what happened. Maybe it did happen the way DC Templeton suggested. Maybe it was an accident? If it was, we can help. But you have to tell us the truth.”

“Look, I don’t know how that bag got there,” Liz said. “We hadn’t seen Luke since the last band practice.”

“You’re not making it easy for us,” Annie said.

“I can’t help it! What do you want me to do? Make something up just to satisfy you?”

“I want the truth.”

“I’ve told you the truth.”

“You’ve told us nothing, Liz.”

“Look,” said Templeton, “we can check, you know. Our forensics people are very good.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean they’ll go through your flat with the proverbial fine-tooth comb, and if there’s any evidence of wrongdoing, even a drop of Luke’s blood, they’ll find it.”

“He’s right,” Annie said. “There’s the poker, for a start. I noticed it when we were talking to you. You don’t see them very often these days. If there’s any trace of Luke’s blood or hair on it, we’ll find it. And if there are any traces on the carpet, between the floorboards, down the sink, we’ll find them.”

Liz crossed her arms and bit her lip. Annie could tell she’d touched a nerve. What was it? The mention of blood? Did Liz know they’d find traces of Luke’s blood in the flat? “What is it, Liz?” she asked. “Something to tell me?”

Liz shook her head.

“Ryan’s being interviewed just next door,” Templeton said. “I’ll bet he’s telling them it was all your fault, that you killed Luke and he had to get rid of the body for you.”

“Ryan wouldn’t do that.”

“Even if it were true?” Annie asked.

“But it’s not true. We didn’t kill anyone. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Until we believe you,” Annie said. “And until you come up with a satisfactory explanation of how Luke’s bag got into your cupboard.”

“I don’t know.”

“What about the ransom demands?”

“What about them?”

“Whose idea was that? Was it Ryan’s? Did he see it as an easy opportunity to make some money now that Luke was dead anyway? Or did he do it to confuse us?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Annie stood up and Templeton followed suit. “Right,” Annie said, switching off the tapes. “I’m fed up of this. Have her taken to the custody suite, Kev, and arrange for the taking of intimate samples. Maybe we’ll be lucky and get a DNA match with the blood on the wall. And get a search warrant. We’ll have forensics in her flat within an hour. Then we’ll talk to the super and find out what Ryan had to say for himself.”

“Right, ma’m,” said Templeton.

“And don’t bloody call me ma’m,” Annie added under her breath.

Liz stood up. “You can’t do this! You can’t keep me here.”

“Just watch us,” said Annie.

Banks tapped on his parents’ front door and walked in. It was early evening, and he had plenty of time to spare before his nine o’clock meeting with Michelle. His parents had finished washing the dishes and were settling down to watch Coronation Street, just as they had all those years ago, the night the police came to call about Graham, the night Joey flew away.

“It’s all right, don’t get up,” Banks said to his mother. “I’m not stopping long. I have to go out. I just came by to drop off my overnight bag first.”

“You’ll have a cup of tea, though, won’t you, dear?” his mother insisted.

“Maybe he wants something stronger,” his father suggested.

“No, thanks, Dad,” said Banks. “Tea will be fine.”

“Up to you,” said Arthur Banks. “The sun’s well over the yardarm. I’ll have that bottle of ale while you’re up, love.”

Ida Banks disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Banks and his father to their uneasy silence.

“Any progress?” Banks senior finally asked.

“On what?”

“Your old pal. Graham Marshall.”

“Not much,” said Banks.

“That why you’re here again?”

“No,” Banks lied. “It’s not my case. It’s the funeral tomorrow.”

Arthur Banks nodded.

Banks’s mother popped her head around the kitchen door. “I knew I had something to tell you, Alan. I’ve got a head like a sieve these days. I was talking to Elsie Grenfell yesterday, and she said her David’s coming down for the service tomorrow. And that Major lad’s supposed to be here as well. Won’t it be exciting, seeing all your old pals again?”

“Yes,” said Banks, smiling to himself. Some things, like the Coronation Street ritual – and thank the Lord there was still ten minutes to go before the program started – never changed. Paul Major had always been “that Major lad” to Ida Banks, even though she knew full well that his name was Paul. It was meant to indicate that she didn’t quite approve of him. Banks couldn’t imagine why. Of all of them, Paul Major had been the most goody-goody, the one most likely to become a chartered accountant or a banker.

“What about Steve?” Banks asked. “Steve Hill?”

“I haven’t heard anything about him for years,” Ida Banks said, then disappeared back into the kitchen.

It wasn’t surprising. The Hills had moved off the estate many years ago, when Steve’s dad got transferred to Northumberland. Banks had lost track of them and didn’t know where they lived now. He wondered if Steve had even heard about the finding of Graham’s bones.

“I don’t suppose it came to anything, what we were talking about in the Coach last time you were here?” Arthur Banks said.

“About the Krays and Mr. Marshall? Probably not. But it was useful background.”

Arthur Banks coughed. “Had over half the Metropolitan Police in their pockets, the Krays did, in their time.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Mrs. Banks came through with the tea and her husband’s beer on a rose-patterned tray. “Our Roy phoned this afternoon,” she said, beaming. “He said to say hello.”

“How is he?” Banks asked.

“Thriving, he said. He’s jetting off to America for some business meetings, so he just wanted us to know he’d be away for a few days in case we were worried or anything.”

“Oh, good,” said Banks who, much to his mother’s chagrin, he imagined, never jetted anywhere – unless Greece counted. Just like brother Roy to let his mother know what a high-powered life he was leading. He wondered what kind of shady dealings Roy was up to in America. None of his business.

“There was a program on telly the other night about that police corruption scandal a few years back,” Banks’s father said. “Interesting, some of the things your lot get up to.”

Banks sighed. The defining event of Arthur Banks’s life was not the Second World War, which he had missed fighting in by about a year, but the miners’ strike of 1982, when Maggie Thatcher broke the unions and brought the workers to their knees. Every night he had been glued to the news and filled with the justified outrage of the workingman. Over the years, Banks knew, his father had never been able to dispel the image of policemen in riot gear waving rolls of overtime fivers to taunt the starving miners. Banks had been working undercover in London then, mostly on drugs cases, but he knew that in his father’s mind he was one of them. The enemy. Would it never end? He said nothing.

“So where are you going tonight, love?” Ida Banks asked. “Are you seeing that policewoman again?”

She made it sound like a date. Banks felt a brief wave of guilt for thinking of it that way himself, then he said, “It’s police business.”

“To do with Graham?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you said that wasn’t your case,” his father chipped in.

“It’s not, but I might be able to help a bit.”

“Helping police with their inquiries?” Arthur Banks chuckled. It turned into a coughing fit until he spat into a handkerchief.

Fortunately, before anyone could say another word, the Coronation Street theme music started up and all conversation ceased.

It wasn’t often that Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe visited the Queen’s Arms, but after they had finished the interviews and put Ryan Milne and Liz Palmer under lock and key for the night, he suggested to Annie that they discuss the results over a bite to eat. Hungry and thirsty, Annie thought it a good idea.

Gristhorpe, like a true gentleman, insisted on going to the bar to get their drinks, though Annie would have been happy to go herself. Instead, she sat down and made herself comfortable. Gristhorpe still intimidated her a little, though she didn’t know why, but she felt easier with him in an environment like the Queen’s Arms than in his book-lined office, so she was doubly glad he had suggested the pub. She definitely had a loose tooth, though, so she would have to be careful how she ate.

Gristhorpe returned with a pint of bitter for her and a half of shandy for himself. They glanced over the menu chalked on the blackboard, and Annie went for a vegetarian lasagne, which ought to be easy on her tooth, while Gristhorpe settled on fish and chips. The old man was looking healthier than he had in quite a while, Annie thought. The first few times she had seen him after his accident he had seemed pale, gaunt and drawn, but now he had a bit more flesh on his bones and a warm glow to his pockmarked face. She supposed that accidents and illness took a lot more out of you the older you got, and that recovery took longer. But how old was he? He couldn’t have been all that much over sixty.

“How’s your mouth feeling?” he asked.

“The pain seems to have gone for now, sir, thanks for asking.”

“You should have gone to the hospital.”

“It was nothing. Just a glancing blow.”

“Even so… these things can have complications. How’s Wells?”

“Last I heard still in the infirmary. Armitage gave him a real going-over.”

“He always was a hothead, that one. Even as a football player. Now what about the Palmer girl? Anything interesting there?”

Annie recounted what little she had got from Liz Palmer, then Gristhorpe sipped some shandy and told her about Ryan Milne’s interview. “He said he knew nothing about the bag, just like his girlfriend. He told me he was out that day and didn’t see Luke at all.”

“Did you believe him, sir?”

“No. Winsome went at him a bit – she’s very good in interviews, that lass, a real tigress – but neither of us could shake him.”

“So what are they hiding?”

“Dunno. Maybe a night in the cells will soften them up a bit.”

“Do you think they did it, sir?”

“Did it?”

“Killed Luke and dumped the body.”

Gristhorpe pursed his lips, then said, “I don’t know, Annie. Milne’s got an old banger, so they had the means of transport. Like you, I suggested some sort of romantic angle, something going on between Luke and Liz, but Milne didn’t bite, and to be quite honest I didn’t notice any signs I’d hit the nail on the head.”

“So you don’t think there was any romantic angle?”

“Luke was only fifteen, and Liz Palmer is what?”

“Twenty-one.”

“As I remember, the last thing a twenty-one-year-old woman would want is a fifteen-year-old boyfriend. Now maybe if she were forty-one…”

Annie smiled. “A toyboy?”

“I’ve heard it called that. But I still think fifteen’s too young.”

“I don’t know,” said Annie. “The head teacher’s daughter told DCI Banks she thought Luke was having it off with his English teacher, and she’s pushing thirty.”

“Lauren Anderson?”

“That’s the one.”

“Stranger things have happened. What does Alan think?”

“That little Miss Barlow had reasons of her own for causing trouble for Miss Anderson.” Annie sipped some beer. Nectar. “But I wouldn’t say it’s out of the question that Luke was having relations with someone older than himself. Everything I’ve heard about him indicates he seemed much older than his age, both physically and mentally.”

“How about emotionally?”

“That I don’t know.”

“Well, that’s the one that counts,” Gristhorpe mused. “That’s what causes people to get out of their depth. They can understand something intellectually, accomplish something physically, but the emotional aspect can hit them like a sledgehammer if they’re not mature enough. Teenagers are particularly vulnerable.”

Annie agreed. She’d had enough experience with troubled teens in her job to know it was true, and Luke Armitage had been a complex personality, a mass of conflicting desires and unresolved problems. Add to that his creativity, his sensitivity, and Luke was probably as volatile to handle as nitroglycerine.

“Does the Anderson woman have a jealous boyfriend?” Gristhorpe asked.

“Not according to Winsome. She did a bit of digging. Only bit of dirt on Ms. Anderson is that her brother Vernon’s got a record.”

Gristhorpe raised his bushy eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Nothing really nasty. Just dodgy checks.”

“I’ve written a few of those in my time, according to my bank manager. What about the other teacher, Alastair Ford?”

“Kevin Templeton says there are rumors he’s gay, but only rumors. As far as anyone knows he has no sex life at all.”

“Any evidence that Luke Armitage was gay, too?”

“None. But there’s no evidence he was straight, either. Ford has a temper, though, like Armitage, and he’s been seeing a psychiatrist for several years now. Definitely the unstable kind.”

“Not to be ruled out, then?”

“No.”

“And Norman Wells?”

“Looking less likely, isn’t he?”

When their food arrived, both were hungry enough to stop talking for a while and eat, then Gristhorpe slowed down. “Any ideas of your own about how Luke’s bag ended up where it did, Annie?” he asked.

Annie finished her mouthful of lasagne, then said, “I think Luke went there after his run-in with the three bullies in the market square. What happened after that, I don’t know, but either he died there or something happened that made him run off without his bag, which I don’t think he’d do under any normal circumstances.”

“So something happened there?”

“Yes. Certainly.”

“What about his mobile?”

“One of those tiny models you can just flip open and shut. Probably couldn’t find it among all the stuff if he kept it in his bag, so he carried it in his pocket. Anyway, it hasn’t been found yet.”

“Has it been used?”

“Not since the ransom call. Hasn’t even been switched on. I checked again with the company.”

“Anything valuable in the bag?”

“Stefan’s going through it. From what I saw, though, I don’t think so. I mean, the laptop was worth a bob or two, but I don’t think theft was the motive here. That is…”

“Yes, Annie?”

“Well, there was nothing valuable to you or me, nothing of any real material value, but I got the impression that Liz, at least, is ambitious, and there’s a chance they could ride a lot farther and a lot faster on Luke Armitage’s coattails – or rather Neil Byrd’s coattails.”

“I think I must be a bit of an old fogey,” said Gristhorpe, scratching the side of his hooked nose, “but I can’t say I’ve ever heard of Neil Byrd. I know who he was to Luke and what happened to him, of course, but that’s about as far as it goes.”

“Alan – DCI Banks – knows a lot more about it than I do, sir, but Byrd was quite famous in his time. The record company is still bringing out CDs of previously unreleased stuff, greatest hits and live concerts, so there’s still a thriving Neil Byrd industry out there, a dozen years after his death. Luke inherited some of his father’s talent, and if Liz and Ryan wanted to milk the connection, I’m sure there are plenty of song ideas and fragments on the laptop and in his notebooks.”

“But he was only a kid, Annie. Surely he can’t have had that much to say?”

“It’s not what you say, sir, it’s how you say it. Teenage angst, mostly, from what I’ve heard. But it’s the name that’s the point. And, not to be too ghoulish about it, the circumstances. Dead son of famous rock suicide. With a promotion like that, the songs wouldn’t need to be that good. It’d get Liz’s band known, get them a name, and that’s more than half the battle in the music business.”

“But legally all Luke’s stuff belongs to his family now. Wouldn’t they sue if these people got as far as making a record of Luke’s songs?”

“Maybe, but it’d be too late then, wouldn’t it? And you know what they say: no publicity’s bad publicity. A lawsuit would only further Liz’s and Ryan’s career. It’s just a thought, sir.”

Gristhorpe finished his last chip and pushed his plate aside, taking a sip of shandy. “So what you’re saying is that, whether the two of them killed Luke or not, they somehow found themselves with a gold mine of material, and they thought they might as well hang on to it until they could use it?”

“As I said, sir, it’s only an idea. If they’d been a bit more cautious, they’d have got rid of the bag and we’d be none the wiser.”

“But they never thought we’d search their flat.”

“Why would they? They didn’t even know that anyone had seen Luke with Liz.”

“What about the vicar at that church where they practiced?”

Annie rolled her eyes. “Winsome talked to him. Said he’s so otherworldly he hadn’t a clue who Luke Armitage was or that he’d disappeared.”

“Would Liz and Ryan have killed Luke for his stuff?” he asked.

“I don’t think so, sir. That’s the problem. Whichever way you look at it, they’d be far better off with Luke alive. He would have been the real draw. Without him, well… they’re simply doing the best they can.”

“So they had nothing to gain by killing him?”

“No. Not unless he was intending to walk out on them, for example, and take all his works with him. One of them could have lost it with him then. Or, as I suggested earlier, unless there was some sort of romantic relationship and Ryan found out.”

“A crime passionnel? I suppose so. Wouldn’t be the first time. We can’t discount anything yet. Let’s just give them a bit of time, hope forensics turn up something, and have at them again in the morning.”

“Good idea, sir.” Annie finished her pint.

“Annie, before you go…?”

“Sir?”

“I don’t mean to pry, but you and Alan…?”

“Just colleagues, sir. And friends.”

Gristhorpe seemed pleased with her answer. “Aye,” he said. “Good. Good. Get some sleep, lass. I’ll see you bright and early in the morning.”

The pub was closer to the riverside than the city center, though even that wasn’t very far. Banks parked by the Rivergate Centre and walked the rest of the way. It was a pleasant evening, not a leaf stirring in the warm air. The sunset painted the sky bright orange and crimson. Banks could see Venus low on the horizon, and the constellations were slowly taking shape overhead. He wished he could recognize them all, but he could only make out Hercules. That made him think of those dreadful historical spectacles he used to love in the early sixties, with cheap special effects, Steve Reeves, and a scantily clad Sylva Koscina.

Michelle was five minutes late, and Banks had already settled at a small corner table with a pint of bitter. The lounge was small and smoky, but most of the people stood at the bar, and the video machines were mercifully silent. Piped music played softly, some sort of modern pop stuff Banks didn’t recognize. Michelle was wearing tight black trousers and a green blouse tucked in at the waist. She carried a tan suede jacket slung over her shoulder. Banks had never seen her dressed so casually before. Hadn’t seen her looking as good, either. She’d had her hair done, he noticed; nothing drastic, just tidied up a bit, the fringe trimmed, highlights renewed. And she wore a little makeup, just enough to accentuate her green eyes and high cheekbones.

She seemed self-conscious about her appearance because she wouldn’t meet his eyes at first. Only when he had offered a drink and she asked for a dry white wine did she favor him with a look and a shy smile.

“Thanks for coming,” Michelle said, when Banks placed the drink in front of her and sat down.

“My pleasure,” said Banks. “I’d have come tomorrow for the service, anyway, so another evening doesn’t make much difference.”

“I know you’re busy.”

“I’m covered. Besides, we had a lucky break just before I set off.” Banks told her about finding Luke Armitage’s bag at Liz Palmer’s flat.

“Poor kid,” said Michelle. “He wasn’t much older than Graham Marshall, was he?”

“A year or so.”

“Why would anyone want to kill a boy that age? What could he possibly have done?”

“I don’t know. I suppose that’s why we assume it’s a pedophile when the victim’s so young. We can easily imagine older people being killed for other motives, for greed or to cover up something, but it’s hard with kids. Anyway, it looked like a kidnapping, but I have my doubts. What about you? Any more news?”

Michelle gave him the gist of her conversation with retired DI Robert Lancaster in London, especially his remarks about Graham seeming streetwise beyond his years.

“So your ex-copper thought Graham had a future in crime, did he?” Banks said. “Interesting, that.”

“Why? Have you remembered something?”

“Nothing, really. Just that Graham never seemed short of money, and I’d no idea where he got it from.”

“There’s something else,” Michelle said. She seemed hesitant, Banks thought, unwilling to meet his eyes.

“Yes?”

“Someone was in my flat on Saturday, while I was down in London.”

“Anything taken?”

“Not as far as I can tell, just a few things out of place. But whoever it was had also been having a good look at my computer files.”

Banks got the impression that she wasn’t telling him everything, but he didn’t pursue it. If there was something she was omitting, it was probably for a good reason, such as personal embarrassment. She’d hardly want to tell him if someone had been going through her undies, would she? “Anything there?”

“Not much. Personal notes. Speculations.”

“About the case?”

“Some of it.”

“Did you report the break-in?”

“Of course not. Under the circumstances.”

“How did he get in?”

“Finessed the lock somehow.” Michelle smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ve had it changed. The locksmith assures me the place is as impregnable as a fortress now.”

“Anything else?”

“Maybe.”

“What does that mean?”

“Yesterday, as I was crossing the road near the Hazels estate, I was almost hit by a small van.”

“Almost?”

“Yes, no damage. I couldn’t be certain, but I thought it was deliberate.”

“Any idea who?”

“The number plate was obscured.”

“A guess?”

“Well, I hesitate to say it, but after the missing notebooks and actions, my mind can’t help but wander toward Shaw. Thing is, I can’t bring myself to believe it, that he would do something like that.”

Banks didn’t have much of a problem believing it. He’d known bent coppers before, and known them well enough to realize that they were capable of anything when cornered. Many coppers were also as skilled at picking locks as burglars were. But why did Shaw feel cornered? And what was it he’d done? Banks remembered the quiet young man with the freckles, ginger hair and sticking-out ears, rather than the bloated, red-nosed bully Shaw had become. “Shaw was teamed up with DI Proctor, right?”

“Reg Proctor, yes. He took early retirement in 1975 and then died of liver cancer in 1978. He was only forty-seven.”

“Any rumors, hints of scandal?”

Michelle sipped some wine and shook her head. “Not that I could uncover. Seems to have had an exemplary career.”

Banks asked Michelle’s permission and lit a cigarette. “Shaw and Proctor were the detectives who came to our house,” he said. “They were obviously interviewing friends of Graham’s and people on the estate. There would no doubt have been other teams assigned to other tasks, but for some reason, someone wanted rid of Shaw’s notes. Shaw, himself?”

“He was only a DC at the time,” said Michelle.

“Right. What could he have to hide? There must have been something in his notebooks that incriminated someone else. Maybe Harris or Proctor.”

“The notebooks could have been missing since Harris retired in 1985,” Michelle said. “They could also have been taken before Proctor’s death in 1978, I suppose.”

“But why? Nobody’s had reason to look at them for years. Graham had been missing since 1965. Why mess with the paperwork unless there was some compelling reason? And what could that be except that his body’s been found and the case is open again?”

“True enough,” said Michelle.

“The actions would show us how the investigation was managed,” Banks mused. “Most of them probably came from Jet Harris himself. They’d show the direction the investigation took, or didn’t take, the shape of it.”

“We keep getting back to this blinkered approach,” Michelle said. “DS Shaw even hinted they all knew Brady and Hindley did it.”

“That’s a load of bollocks,” said Banks.

“The timing’s right.”

“But that’s all that’s right. You might just as well say Reggie and Ronnie did it.”

“Maybe they did.”

Banks laughed. “It makes more sense than Brady and Hindley. They operated miles away. No, there’s something else going on. Something we can’t figure out because there are still too many missing pieces. Another?”

“I’ll go.”

Michelle walked to the bar and Banks sat wondering what the hell it was all about. So far, all they had was an investigation that had concentrated on only one possibility – the passing pedophile. Now they had Bill Marshall’s relationship with the Krays and with Carlo Fiorino and Le Phonographe, and the fact that Banks remembered Graham often had money enough to pay for their entertainment. And now the missing records. There were links – Graham, Bill Marshall, Carlo Fiorino – but where did it go after that? And how did Jet Harris fit in? It was possible that he’d been on the take, paid by Fiorino to head off trouble. Jet Harris, bent copper. That would go down well at headquarters. But how did it relate to Graham and his murder?

Michelle came back with the drinks and told him about Donald Bradford’s death and the pornography that had been found in his flat. “There might be no connection,” she said. “I mean, Bradford could have been the victim of a random break-in, and plenty of people have collections of pornography.”

“True,” Banks said. “But it’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed.”

“What if Bradford was using the newsagent’s shop as an outlet for distributing porn?” Banks suggested.

“And Graham delivered it?”

“Why not? He always seemed to be able to get his hands on it. That’s another thing I remember. A bit of Danish submission with your Sunday Times, sir? Or how about some Swedish sodomy with your News of the World, madam? Gives a whole new meaning to the term ‘Sunday supplement,’ doesn’t it?”

Michelle laughed. “Maybe he just found out about it.”

“Is that worth killing someone for?”

“Who knows? People have killed for less.”

“But all we’re assuming is that Bradford was a minor porn dealer.”

“He had to get it from a wholesaler, didn’t he? Maybe Bradford was working for someone with even more at stake?”

“Someone like Carlo Fiorino?” suggested Banks. “And Harris was on Fiorino’s payroll? It’s possible, but still speculation. And it doesn’t get us a lot further with the missing notebooks.”

“Unless Proctor and Shaw inadvertently hit on the truth during their interviews, and it was recorded in Shaw’s notebooks. I don’t know how we’d find out, though. It’s not as if we can talk to Harris or Proctor.”

“Maybe not,” said Banks. “But we might be able to do the next best thing. Were they married?”

“Harris was. Not Proctor.”

“Is his wife still alive?”

“As far as I know.”

“Maybe she’ll be able to tell us something. Think you can find her?”

“Piece of cake,” said Michelle.

“And let’s delve a little deeper into Donald Bradford’s domain, including the circumstances of his death.”

“Okay. But what about DS Shaw?”

“Avoid him as best you can.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult these days,” Michelle said. “He’s off sick half the time.”

“The booze?”

“That’s what I’d put my money on.”

“Are you going to the funeral tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Banks finished his drink. “Another?”

Michelle looked at her watch. “No. Really. I’d better go.”

“Okay. I suppose I should go, too.” Banks smiled. “I’m sure my mum’ll be waiting up for me.”

Michelle laughed. It was a nice sound. Soft, warm, musical. Banks realized he hadn’t heard her laugh before. “Can I give you a lift?” he asked.

“Oh, no. Thank you,” said Michelle, standing up. “I’m just around the corner.”

“I’ll walk with you, then.”

“You don’t need to. It’s quite safe.”

“I insist. Especially after what you’ve just told me.”

Michelle said nothing. They walked out into the mild darkness, crossed the road and neared the riverside flats, close to where Banks had parked his car. Michelle had been right; it really was within spitting distance.

“This is right across the river from where they used to have the fair when I was a kid,” he said. “Funny, but I was just thinking about it as I was driving down.”

“Before my time,” said Michelle.

“Yes.” Banks walked her up to her door.

“Well,” she said, fumbling for her key, giving him a brief smile over her shoulder. “Good night, then.”

“I’ll just wait and make sure everything’s okay.”

“You mean until you’re sure there are no bogeymen waiting for me?”

“Something like that.”

Michelle opened her door, put on the lights and did a quick check while Banks stood in the doorway and glanced around the living room. It seemed a bit barren, no real character, as if Michelle hadn’t put her stamp on it yet.

“All clear,” she said, emerging from the bedroom.

“Good night, then,” said Banks, trying to hide his disappointment that she didn’t even invite him in for a coffee. “And take care. See you tomorrow.”

“Yes.” She gave him a smile. “Tomorrow.” Then she closed the door gently behind him, and the sound of the bolt slipping home seemed far louder than it probably was.

It was all very well for Gristhorpe to tell Annie to get a good night’s sleep, but she couldn’t. She had taken more paracetamol and gone to bed early, but the pain had returned to her mouth with a vengeance. Every tooth ached, and now two of them felt loose.

The blow from Armitage had shaken her more than she had cared to admit to either Banks or Gristhorpe because it had made her feel the same way she had felt when she was raped nearly three years ago: a powerless victim. She had sworn afterward that she would never allow herself to feel that way again, but down in the cramped, dank space of Norman Wells’s book cellar, she had felt it, the deep, gut-wrenching fear of the female powerless against male strength and sheer brute force. Annie got up, went downstairs and poured herself a glass of milk with shaking hands, sitting at the kitchen table in the dark as she sipped it. She remembered the very first time Banks had been to her house. They had sat in the kitchen and eaten dinner together while the light faded. All the while Annie had been wondering what she would do if he made a move. She had impulsively invited him into her home, after all, offering to cook dinner instead of going to a restaurant or a pub, as he had suggested. Had she known right then, when she did that, what was going to happen? She didn’t think so.

As the evening wore on, their mood had got more and more mellow, thanks partly to liberal quantities of Chianti. When she had gone outside into the backyard with Banks, who wanted a cigarette, and when he had put his arm around her, she had felt herself tremble like a teenager as she had blurted out all the reasons about why they shouldn’t do what they were about to do.

Well, they had done it. And now she had ended the affair. Sometimes she regretted that and wondered why she had done it. Partly it was because of her career, of course. Working in the same station as the DCI you’re screwing was bad policy. But maybe that was just an excuse. Besides, it didn’t have to be that way. She could have worked in another station, somewhere where the opportunities were just as good, if not better than at Western Area Headquarters.

It was true that Banks still seemed tied to his past, to his marriage, but she could have handled that. It was also something that would have waned in time. Everyone had emotional baggage, including Annie herself. No, she thought, the reasons for what she did were within herself, not the job, not Banks’s past. Intimacy had felt like a threat to her, and the closer she had got to Banks, the more she had felt suffocated and tried to pull away.

Would it be like that with every man she met? Was it to do with the rape? Possibly, she thought. Or at least partly. She wasn’t sure she would ever completely get over that. What happened that night had certainly damaged her deeply. She didn’t think she was beyond repair, just that she had a long way to go. She still had occasional nightmares, and though she had never told Banks this, sex had sometimes been an effort for her, had even hurt at times. Sometimes the simple act of penetration, however consensual and gentle, had brought back the surge of panic and the feeling of sheer powerlessness she had first experienced that night. Sex certainly had its dark side, Annie knew. It could be demonic, close to violence, pushing you into dangerous and vaguely imagined desires and dark areas, beyond taboo. It was no wonder, then, she thought, that the idea of sex was so often mentioned in the same breath as violence. Or that sex and death were so intimately linked in the words and works of so many writers and artists.

Annie finished her milk and tried to laugh off her morbid thoughts. Still, they seemed to be the only kind she had at night, alone and unable to sleep. She put the kettle on for tea and went into the living room to browse through her small video collection. In the end, she settled on Doctor Zhivago, which had always been one of her favorite films, and when the tea was ready, she lounged on the sofa in the dark with her steaming mug, legs tucked under her, and gave herself up to the haunting theme music and the epic story of love in a time of revolution.

Banks walked down the stairs and tried to shake off his sense of disappointment. It was just as well, he told himself; the last thing he needed right now was to make a fool of himself over yet another woman. And Michelle had her own demons, whatever they were. Everyone did, it seemed. You couldn’t get to a certain age without attracting a lot of clutter. But why did it always have to get in the way? Why couldn’t you just shrug it off and get on with life? Why was misery so easy to embrace and joy so bloody elusive?

Just around the corner from the flats, he stopped to light a cigarette. Before he got his lighter out of his pocket, he felt something thud into him from behind. He staggered forward and turned to face whoever had hit him. He got only a quick glimpse of a pug nose and piggy eyes before a blow to the face upset both his vision and his balance. Another blow knocked him to the ground. Next he felt a sharp pain in his ribs and a kick to his stomach made him retch.

Then he heard a dog barking and a man’s voice shouting beyond the walls of pain, felt rather than saw his attacker hesitate, and heard him whisper, “Go back where you came from, or there’ll be more of that,” before he ran off into the night.

Banks got to his knees and felt sick, head hanging on his chest. Christ, he was getting too old for this kind of thing. He tried to stand, but his legs still felt too wobbly. Then a hand grasped his elbow and he managed to get to his feet.

“Are you all right, mister?” Banks swayed and took a couple of deep breaths. That felt a little better. His head was still spinning, but his vision had cleared. A young man stood beside him, Jack Russell terrier on a leash. “Only I was just taking Pugwash here for a walk and I saw two blokes setting on you.”

“Two? Are you certain?”

“Yes. They ran off toward the city center.”

“Thank you,” said Banks. “That was very brave of you. You saved my bacon.”

“Is there anything else I can do? Call you a taxi or something?”

Banks paused to get his thoughts in some sort of order, then he looked toward the flats. “No,” he said. “No, thanks. I’ve a friend lives just over there. I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re certain.”

“Yes. And thanks again. Not many people bother to get involved these days.”

The young man shrugged. “No problem. Come on, Pug-wash.” And they wandered off, the man casting a couple of backward glances as he went.

Still a bit wobbly, Banks made his way back to Michelle’s flat and pressed the intercom. A few moments later her voice crackled into the night air. “Yes? Who is it?”

“It’s me, Alan,” said Banks.

“What is it?”

“I’ve had a little accident. I wonder if…”

But before he could finish, Michelle buzzed him in, and he made his way up to her door. She was already standing there, looking concerned, and she came forward to help him toward the sofa. Not that it was necessary, but he thought it was a nice gesture.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Someone jumped me. Thank God for dog walkers or I’d probably be in the river by now. Funny, isn’t it? I thought I was going to end up in the Nene all those years ago and I almost ended up there tonight.”

“You’re rambling,” Michelle said. “Sit down.”

Banks still felt a bit dizzy and nauseated when he sat down. “Just give me a few minutes,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

Michelle handed him a glass. “Drink,” she said.

He drank. Cognac. A good one, too. As the fiery liquor spread through his limbs he started to feel even better. His mind came into sharper focus, and he was able to assess the damage. Not much, really. His ribs felt tender, but he didn’t feel as if anything was broken. He looked up and saw Michelle standing over him.

“How do you feel now?”

“Much better, thank you.” Banks sipped some more Cognac. “Look,” he said, “I’d better call a taxi. I don’t feel very much like driving in this condition, especially not after this.” He held up the glass. Michelle tipped in more from the Courvoisier VSOP bottle, and poured herself a generous measure, too.

“Okay,” she said. “But you must let me see to your nose first.”

“Nose?” Banks realized his nose and upper lip felt numb. He put his hand up, and it came away bloody.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” Michelle said, leading him toward the bathroom, “but I’d better clean you up and put something on it before you go. There’s a small cut on your lip, too. Whoever hit you must have been wearing a ring or something.”

The bathroom was small, almost too small for two people to stand without touching. Banks stood with the backs of his legs against the toilet bowl as Michelle used a damp facecloth to wipe away the blood, then looked in the cabinet and came up with some TCP liquid antiseptic. She put a small swab of cotton wool over the top of the bottle and tipped it up, then carefully applied it to his lip. It stung, and the acrid smell made him gasp. Michelle took the cotton wool away.

“It’s all right,” he said.

She dropped one bloodstained swab into the waste bin and prepared another. Banks watched her face close to his, the look of concentration as she applied the cotton wool, tip of her tongue nipped between her teeth. She caught his eye, blushed and looked away. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said. She was so close he could feel the warmth of her body, smell the Cognac on her breath.

“Go on,” she said. “You were going to say something.”

“It’s just like Chinatown,” Banks said.

“What do you mean?”

“The film, Chinatown. Haven’t you seen it?”

“What happens?”

“Jack Nicholson gets his nose cut by Roman Polanski, and Faye Dunaway, well… she does what you’re doing now.”

“Puts TCP on it?”

“Well, I don’t think it was TCP – I don’t think they have that in America – but the idea’s the same. Anyway, it’s a very sexy scene.”

“Sexy?” Michelle paused. Banks could see her flushed skin, feel the heat from her cheeks. The bathroom seemed to be getting smaller.

“Yes,” said Banks.

She dabbed at him again. Her hand was trembling. “I don’t see how putting TCP on a cut could be sexy,” she said. “I mean, what happens?”

She was so close to him now that he could feel her breast touching ever so lightly against his arm. He could have leaned the top half of his body farther back, bent at the knees, but he stood his ground. “First, they kiss,” he said.

“But wouldn’t it hurt?”

“It was just his nose that got cut. Remember?”

“Of course. How silly of me.”

“Michelle?”

“What? What is it?”

Banks took her trembling hand by the wrist and moved it away from his mouth, then he put his other hand under her chin and cupped it gently so she was looking at him, her brilliant green eyes questioning but holding his gaze, not looking away now. He could feel his heart thudding in his chest and his knees wobbling as he pulled her closer to him and felt her yield.