Michelle looked at her watch. After eight o’clock. Getting dark outside. She had spent a couple of hours shopping on Oxford Street after parting with Lancaster, and she felt a little guilty that she had spent over a hundred pounds on a dress. Perhaps she was turning into a shopaholic? Like the drinking, the spending had to stop. She’d never get a chance to wear the damn thing anyway, as it was a party dress, elegant, strapless and stylish, and she never went to any parties. What could she have been thinking of?
When the train started up again half an hour later, with no explanation for the delay, Michelle realized that if Graham had been involved in anything untoward, there was one person who might know something, even if he didn’t know he did: Banks. And thinking of him made her once again regret the way she had left him at Starbucks the other day. True, she had resented his intrusion into what she regarded as her private life, a life she kept very guarded indeed, but she had perhaps overreacted a tad. After all, he had only asked her if she was married; a perfectly innocent question in its way, and one you might ask a stranger over a coffee. It didn’t have to mean anything, but it was such a raw nerve point with her, such a no-go area, that she had behaved rudely, and now she regretted it.
Well, she wasn’t married; that was certainly the truth. Melissa had died because she and Ted got their wires crossed. She was on surveillance and thought he was picking up their daughter after school; he had an afternoon meeting and thought she was going to do it. Possibly no marriage could survive that amount of trauma – the guilt, blame, grief and anger – and theirs hadn’t. Almost six months to the day after Melissa’s funeral they had agreed to separate, and Michelle had begun her years of wandering from county to county trying to put the past behind her. Succeeding to a large extent, but still haunted, still in some ways maimed by what had happened.
She hadn’t had either the time or the inclination for men, and that was another thing about Banks that bothered her. He was the only man, beyond her immediate colleagues on the job, with whom she had spent any time in years, and she liked him, found him attractive. Michelle knew that she had been nicknamed the Ice Queen at more than one station over the past five years, but it had only amused her because it couldn’t be farther from the truth. She was, she knew, deep down, a warm and sensual person, as she had been with Ted, though that was a part of her nature she had neglected for a long time, perhaps even suppressed, out of punishment, being more preoccupied with self-blame.
She didn’t know if Banks was married or not, though she had noticed that he didn’t wear a ring. And he had asked her if she was married. In addition to being an intrusion, that had seemed like a come-on line at the time, too, and maybe it was. The problem was that part of her wanted him, against all her common sense and all the barriers she had built inside, and the result flustered and confused her almost beyond bearing. Banks might be one of the few people who could help her reconstruct Graham Marshall’s past, but could she bear to face Banks again in the flesh?
She would have no choice, she realized as the train pulled up and she reached for her briefcase. Graham Marshall’s memorial service would be taking place in a matter of days, and she had promised to call and let him know about it.
It was almost dark when Banks turned into the laneway that ran in front of his small cottage, and he was tired. Annie had left by the time he got back to headquarters after finishing his beer, so he stuck around for an hour or so picking away at the pile of paperwork, then decided to call it a day. Whatever it was she was after, she’d tell him after the weekend.
Memories of Luke’s postmortem hovered unpleasantly close to the surface of his consciousness, the way past cases also haunted him. Over the past few months, he had dreamed more than once of Emily Riddle and of the partially buried bodies he had seen in a cellar in Leeds, toes poking through the dirt. Was he going to have to add Luke Armitage to his list of nightmare images now? Was there never any end to it?
Someone had parked a car, an ancient clapped-out Fiesta, by the looks of it, in front of the cottage. Unable to get past the obstacle, Banks parked behind it and took out his house keys. There was no one inside the car, so it wasn’t a pair of lovers seeking seclusion. Maybe someone had dumped it there, he thought, with a flash of irritation. The dirt lane was little more than a cul-de-sac. It dwindled to a riverside footpath when it reached the woods about twenty feet beyond Banks’s cottage, and there was no way for a car to get through. Not everyone knew that, of course, and sometimes cars turned down it by mistake. He ought to consider putting up a sign, he thought, though he had always thought it obvious enough that the track was a private drive.
Then he noticed that the living room light was on and the curtains closed. He knew he hadn’t left the light on that morning. It could be burglars, he thought, moving carefully, though if it was, they were very incompetent ones, not only parking in a cul-de-sac, but not even bothering to turn their car around for a quick getaway. Still, he’d known far stupider criminals, like the would-be bank robber who had filled out the withdrawal slip with his real name before writing on the back: “Giv me yor munny, I’ve got a nife” and handing it to the teller. He didn’t get far.
The car was definitely a Fiesta, with rusted wheel arches. It would be lucky to pass its next MOT without major and expensive work, Banks thought as he gave it the once-over and memorized the number plate. This was no burglar. He tried to remember to whom he had given a key. Not Annie, at least not anymore. Certainly not Sandra. And just as he opened the door, it came to him. There was his son Brian stretched out on the sofa, with Tim Buckley playing low on stereo: “I Never Asked to Be Your Mountain.” When he heard Banks come in, he uncoiled his long length, sat up and rubbed his eyes.
“Oh. Hi, Dad, it’s you.”
“Hello, son. Who else were you expecting?”
“Nobody. I was just half asleep, I suppose. Dreaming.”
“Don’t you believe in telephones?”
“Sorry. It’s been a bit hectic lately. We’re doing some gigs around Teeside starting tomorrow night, so I thought I’d, you know, just drop in and say hello. I had a long drive. All the way from south London.”
“It’s good to see you.” Banks gestured with his thumb. “I’m surprised you made it in one piece. Is that pile of junk out there the car you borrowed two hundred quid off me for?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I hope you didn’t pay any more than that for it, that’s all.” Banks put his car keys down on the low table, took off his jacket and hung it on a hook behind the door. “I didn’t know you were a Tim Buckley fan,” he said, sitting down in the armchair.
“You’d be surprised. Actually, I’m not, really. Haven’t heard him much. Hell of a voice, though. You can hear it in his son’s. Jeff’s. He did a great version of this song at a memorial concert for his dad. Most of the time he refused to acknowledge Tim, though.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Read a book about them. Dream Brother. It’s pretty good. I’ll lend it to you if I can find it.”
“Thanks.” Mention of the Tim and Jeff Buckley relationship reminded Banks of Luke Armitage and the tape he still had in his pocket. Maybe he’d get Brian’s opinion. For the moment, though, a stiff drink was in order. A Laphroaig. “Can I get you anything to drink?” he asked Brian. “Drop of single malt, perhaps?”
Brian made a face. “Can’t stand the stuff. If you’ve got any lager, though…”
“I think I can manage that.” Banks poured himself the whiskey and found a Carlsberg in the back of the fridge. “Glass?” he called from the kitchen.
“Can’s fine,” Brian called back.
If anything, Brian seemed even taller than the last time Banks had seen him, at least five or six inches taller than his own five foot nine. He had inherited Banks’s constitutional thinness, by the looks of him, and wore the usual uniform of torn jeans and a plain T-shirt. He’d had his hair cut. Not just cut, but massacred, even shorter than Banks’s own close crop.
“What’s with the haircut?” Banks asked him.
“Kept getting in my eyes. So what are you up to these days, Dad? Still solving crime and keeping the world safe for democracy?”
“Less of your lip.” Banks lit a cigarette. Brian gave him a disgusted look. “I’m trying to stop,” Banks said. “It’s only my fifth all day.” Brian said nothing, merely raised his eyebrows. “Anyway,” Banks went on. “Yes, I’m working.”
“Neil Byrd’s son, Luke, right? I heard it on the news while I was driving up. Poor sod.”
“Right. Luke Armitage. You’re the musician in the family. What do you think of Neil Byrd?”
“He was pretty cool,” said Brian, “but maybe just a bit too folksy for me. Too much of a romantic, I guess. Like Dylan, he was a lot better when he went electric. Why?”
“I’m just trying to understand Luke’s relationship with him, that’s all.”
“He didn’t have one. Neil Byrd committed suicide when Luke was only three. He was a dreamer, an idealist. The world could never match up to his expectations.”
“If that were a reason for suicide, Brian, there’d be nobody left alive. But it had to have a powerful effect on the boy. Luke had a bunch of posters in his room. Dead rock stars. Seemed obsessed with them. Not his dad, though.”
“Like who?”
“Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, Ian Curtis, Nick Drake. You know. The usual suspects.”
“Covers quite a range,” said Brian. “I’ll bet you thought your generation had cornered the market in dying young, didn’t you? Jimi, Janis, Jim.” He nodded toward the stereo. “Present company.”
“I know some of these were more recent.”
“Well, Nick Drake was another one of your lot. And do you know how old I was when Ian Curtis was with Joy Division? I can’t have been more than six or seven.”
“But you have listened to Joy Division?”
“I’ve listened, yeah. Too depressing for me. Kurt Cobain and Jeff Buckley are a lot closer to home. But where’s all this going?”
“I honestly don’t know,” said Banks. “I’m just trying to get some sort of grip on Luke’s life, his state of mind. He was into some very weird stuff for a fifteen-year-old. And there was nothing in his room connected with his father.”
“Well, he’d feel pissed off, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t you? Only stands to reason. Your old man does a bunk when you’re just a baby and then offs himself before you can get to know him at all. Hardly makes you feel wanted, does it?”
“Want to listen to some of his songs?”
“Who? Neil Byrd?”
“No. Luke.”
“Sure.”
Banks paused the Tim Buckley CD, put the tape in, and they both sat in silence sipping their drinks and listening.
“He’s good,” said Brian, when the tape had finished. “Very good. I wish I’d been that good at his age. Still raw, but with a bit of hard work and a lot of practice…”
“Do you think he had a future in music, then?”
“It’s possible. On the other hand, you see plenty of bands with no talent get to the top and some really terrific musicians struggle just to make a living, so who can say? He’s got what it takes in its raw form, though. In my humble opinion. Was he with a band?”
“Not that I know of.”
“He’d be a steal for some up-and-coming group. He’s got talent, for a start, and they could milk the Neil Byrd connection for all it was worth. Did you notice the voice? The similarities. Like Tim and Jeff.”
“Yes,” said Banks. “I did.” He started the Tim Buckley CD again. It was “Song to the Siren,” which always sent shivers up his spine. “How’s the CD going?” he asked.
“Haven’t bloody started it yet, have we? Our manager’s still haggling over the contracts. Hence that crappy pile of junk you saw outside.”
“I was expecting a Jag or a red sports car.”
“Soon, Dad. Soon. By the way, we’ve changed our name.”
“Why?”
“The manager thought Jimson Weed was a bit too sixties.”
“He’s right.”
“Yeah, well, we’re The Blue Lamps now.”
“The police.”
“No, that’s another band. The Blue Lamps.”
“I was thinking of Dixon of Dock Green.”
“Come again?”
“The Blue Lamp. It was a film. Fifties. It’s where George Dixon made his debut before it became a TV series. A blue lamp used to be the sign of a police station. Still is in some places. I’m not sure you want to be going around associating yourself with that.”
“The stuff you know. Anyway, our manager thinks it’s okay, more modern – you know, White Stripes, Blue Lamps – but I’ll tell him what you said. Our sound’s hardened up a bit too, got a bit more grungy and less slick. I get to play some real down and dirty guitar solos. You must come and hear us again. We’ve come a long way since that last gig you were at.”
“I’d love to, but I thought you sounded just fine then.”
“Thanks.”
“I saw your grandparents the other day.”
“Yeah? How are they?”
“Same as ever. You should visit them more often.”
“Oh, you know how it is.”
“No. I don’t know.”
“They don’t like me, Dad. Not since I screwed up my degree and joined the band. Whenever I see them, it’s always ‘Tracy’s doing this and Tracy’s doing that.’ They don’t care how well I do.”
“You know that’s not true,” said Banks, who suspected it probably was. After all, weren’t they the same way with him? It was all Roy, Roy, Roy, no matter what Banks achieved. He’d had a hard enough time reconciling himself to his son’s chosen career, just the same way his mother and father had with him. The only difference was that he had come to terms with Brian’s choice, whereas his own parents hadn’t even come to terms with his career, let alone their grandson’s. “Anyway, I’m sure they’d love to see you.”
“Yeah. Okay. I’ll try to go and see them when I’ve got time.”
“How’s your mother?”
“Fine, I suppose.”
“Seen her lately?”
“Not for a few weeks.”
“How’s she doing with the… you know… It must be due soon.”
“Yeah, I guess so. Look, Dad, is there anything to eat? I haven’t had any dinner yet, and I’m starving.”
Banks thought. He’d eaten a prawn sandwich earlier in the Queen’s Arms and wasn’t particularly hungry. He knew there was nothing substantial in the fridge or the freezer. He looked at his watch. “There’s a Chinese take-away down in Helmthorpe. They should still be open, if you like.”
“Cool,” said Brian, finishing off his lager. “What are we waiting for?”
Banks sighed and reached for his jacket again. So much for quality time.
Michelle could have walked to Rivergate, it wasn’t that far, but it also wasn’t a particularly pleasant walk, and the rain was still pouring down, so she decided to treat herself to a taxi from the station.
The first inkling she got that something was wrong in the flat was when she heard the creaking door of her Mystery screen-saver and saw the lights going on and off in the creepy-looking mansion as the full moon slowly crossed the starlit sky. She knew she had turned her computer off after she’d checked her e-mail that morning. She always did; she was compulsive about it. Also, someone had pulled some of the books out of one of the boxes that she hadn’t got around to unpacking. They weren’t damaged or anything, just piled up on the floor beside the box.
Michelle jogged the mouse and the computer returned to its regular display. Only it was open at Michelle’s file of notes about the Marshall case, and she knew she hadn’t opened that since the previous night. There was nothing secret about her speculations, nothing she had thought would even interest anyone else, so she hadn’t bothered with password protection. In the future, she would know better.
With the hairs prickling at the back of her neck, Michelle stood still and strained her ears for any odd sounds in the flat. Nothing except the clock ticking and the humming of the refrigerator. She took her old side-handled baton from her uniform days out of the closet by the door. Gripping that made her feel a little more courageous as she went to explore the rest of the flat.
The kitchen light was on, and a couple of items that she knew she had put back in the fridge that morning – milk, butter, eggs – lay on the countertop. The butter had melted into a shapeless lump and it oozed over her fingers when she picked it up.
Her bathroom cabinet stood open, and the various pills and potions she kept there were not in their usual order. Her bottle of aspirin sat on the edge of the sink, top off and cotton wool missing. Even as the chills went up her spine, Michelle wondered what the hell all this was about. If someone had searched the place, though she couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to, then why not just leave it in a mess? Clearly, whoever had done this had done it to scare her – and they were succeeding.
She went into the bedroom cautiously, gripping the side-handled baton more tightly, expecting the worst. Nobody jumped out of the wardrobe at her, but what she saw there made her drop her baton and put her hands to her mouth.
There was no mess. Perhaps some of her drawers weren’t completely closed, the way she had left them, but there was no mess. It was much, much worse.
Spread out neatly at the center of the bed lay Melissa’s dress. When Michelle reached out to pick it up, she found it had been cut cleanly into two halves.
Michelle staggered back against the wall, half the dress clutched to her chest, hardly able to believe what was happening. As she did so, her eye caught the writing on the dressing-table mirror: FORGET GRAHAM MARSHALL, BITCH. REMEMBER MELISSA. YOU COULD JOIN HER.
Close To Home (aka The Summer That Never Was) Page 23