“You think it was somebody he knew?”
“I didn’t say that, but it’s possible.”
Mrs. Marshall fiddled with her necklace. The idea clearly upset her. Whether it was the idea of an acquaintance being responsible, or whether she had suspected such a thing deep down, was impossible to say. “But we didn’t know anybody like that,” she said.
“Like what?”
“A pervert,” she whispered.
“We don’t know that it was a pervert.”
“I don’t understand. That’s what the police said. Who else could it be?”
“Jet Harris told you that?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone ever suggest, at any time, that Graham might have been abducted by someone he knew?”
“Heavens, no! Why would anyone do that?”
“Why, indeed?” said Michelle. “And you know nothing about any unsavory company Graham might have been keeping—perhaps on these occasions when he stayed out late or was gone all day?”
“No. He was with his friends. I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”
“It’s all right,” said Michelle. “I’m not sure that I understand it myself. I suppose all I really want to ask is whether Graham had any friends you disliked, or spent time with anyone you didn’t approve of.”
“Oh. No. They were all just regular lads. We knew their mums and dads. They were just like us.”
“No older boys? No one you thought was a bad influence?”
“No.”
“And Graham never seemed to have more money than you expected him to have?”
Mrs. Marshall’s expression sharpened and Michelle knew she’d gone too far. She also knew that she had touched a raw nerve.
“Are you suggesting our Graham was a thief?”
“Of course not,” Michelle backtracked. “I just wondered if he maybe did other odd jobs he didn’t tell you about, other than the paper round, perhaps when he should have been at school.”
Mrs. Marshall still eyed her suspiciously. Bill Marshall seemed to be taking everything in, his beady eyes moving from one to the other as they spoke, but they were the only things moving in his face. If only he could talk, Michelle thought. And then she realized that would be no use. He wouldn’t tell her anything.
“I suppose it’s just a mark of my frustration with the case,” Michelle admitted. “After all, it was so long ago.”
“Jet Harris always said it was them Moors Murderers, the ones who were tried the year after. He said we’d all probably have nightmares for the rest of our lives if we ever knew how many young lives they’d taken and where the bodies were buried.”
“He told you that, did he?” said Michelle. How very convenient. She was fast coming to the conclusion—or reaffirming what she had suspected earlier—that Detective Superintendent Harris had run the case with blinkers on, and Mrs. Marshall, like so many mothers, hadn’t a clue what her son was up to most of the time. She wondered if his father knew. Bill Marshall’s lopsided face gave away nothing, but Michelle fancied she could see wariness in his eyes. And something else. She couldn’t say with any certainty that it was guilt, but it looked like that to her. Michelle took a deep breath and plunged in.
“I understand your husband used to work for the Kray twins back in London.”
There was a short silence, then Mrs. Marshall said, “Bill didn’t work for them, as such. He used to spar with them down the gym. We knew them. Of course we did. We grew up in the same neighborhood. Everybody knew Reggie and Ronnie. Always polite to me, they were, no matter what anybody says about them, and I’ve heard some stories as would make your hair curl. But they were basically good lads. People don’t like it when others get a bit above their station, you know.”
Michelle could feel her jaw dropping. There was nothing more to be gained here, she realized, and if she was going to solve this case she was going to do so without the family’s help, and without Ben Shaw’s. And perhaps in peril of her life. “Remember Melissa. You could join her….” Promising again that she would be at the funeral, Michelle excused herself and hurried off.
That evening at home, Banks glanced through the evening paper over a Madras curry he’d bought earlier at Marks and Spencers, slipped Bill Evans’s Paris Concert into the CD player, poured himself a couple of fingers of Laphroaig and flopped down on the sofa with his 1965 Photoplay diary. He thought it was Oscar Wilde who had said, “I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read on the train,” but he could have been wrong. It was easy to attribute just about any witty saying to Oscar Wilde or Groucho Marx. Curious, though, he stirred himself and checked the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations and found that he was right this time.
Banks’s diary was far from sensational. As he flipped the pages once again, glancing at the pretty actresses he hardly remembered—Carol Lynley, Jill St. John, Yvette Mimieux—he was struck by how many records he had bought and films he had seen. Until, just a couple of weeks from Graham’s disappearance, Banks saw that his diary did, in fact, have its moments, and as he read the trivial or cryptic entries, he was able to fill in the rest with his memory and imagination.
For the first two weeks of August 1965, the Banks family had been on their annual holidays. There was nothing unusual in that; they went every year at the same time, his father’s annual factory shut-down fortnight. What was unusual that year was that they went to Blackpool—much further afield than their usual trip to Great Yarmouth or Skegness—and that they took Graham Marshall with them.
At fourteen, Banks was of an age when he found wandering around a seaside resort with his parents embarrassing, and riding the donkey on the beach or playing with a bucket and spade no longer held any appeal. As Graham’s dad had just started on a large building project—his work being far more seasonal than Arthur Banks’s—and it didn’t look as if the Marshalls would get a holiday that year, financial arrangements were made and Graham was allowed to accompany them.
Visit Blackpool! See the Famous Tower! Hear Reginald Dixon at the Mighty Organ! See the glorious Golden Mile! Go to a star-studded Variety Show on one of the Three Piers! Have hours of Family Fun at the Pleasure Beach!
It might as well have been the moon.
At some ridiculously early hour in the morning, because that was when they always set off on holiday, they would have piled their cases into the back of Arthur Banks’s Morris Traveller, a popular sort of estate car with a wood-frame rear, and headed north on their long journey, no doubt arriving tired and cranky, but in good time for tea, at Mrs. Barraclough’s boarding house. Bed, breakfast and evening meal at six o’clock on the dot, and woe betide you if you were late. Mrs. Barraclough was a large, forbidding presence, whom Banks remembered even now as dressed in a pinny, standing with her thick legs apart and her arms folded under her massive bosom.
Banks saw that he had recorded the weather every day at the top of his entry, and as holidays went, they had done quite well: nine days of at least partial sunshine out of fourteen, and only two and a half complete washouts. On the rainy days, Banks and Graham had hung about the amusement arcades on the Golden Mile, he noted, or on one of the piers, and played the one-armed bandits and pinball machines. One rainy Sunday afternoon they spent watching the old war films that always seemed to be showing on rainy Sunday afternoons, patriotic films with titles such as The Day Will Dawn, In Which We Serve and Went the Day Well?
On overcast days they would wander the prom, eating fish and chips from newspapers or boiled shrimp from paper bags and go hunting through the town’s few secondhand bookshops, Banks looking for Sexton Blake novelettes (he had bought one called The Mind Killers) or Ian Fleming novels, while Graham went after Famous Monsters magazines and Isaac Asimov stories.
One night they all went to the Tower Circus, and Banks noted in his diary that he found Charlie Cairoli’s act “very funny.” They also took in a variety show on the North Pier, with Morecambe and Wise providing the comedy and The Hollies
the music.
But most evenings after tea they spent watching television in the guests’ lounge. The TV was an old model, even for then, with a small screen, Banks remembered, and you turned it on by opening a sprung flap on the top, under which were the volume and contrast controls. Banks hadn’t recorded it in his diary, but no doubt there would have been some adult wanting to watch Sunday Night at the London Palladium instead of Perry Mason, which was only to be expected of adults. Luckily, Roy was sleeping on a camp bed in his parents’ room, so Banks and Graham would just go up to their room and read, listen to Radio Luxembourg on their transistors, or pore over the dirty magazines Graham seemed to get hold of in abundance.
Of course, they didn’t spend every minute of every day together. Graham had been moody at times, unusually quiet, and looking back, Banks suspected he had been preoccupied with some problem or other. At the time, though, he hadn’t given it a second thought, had simply gone his own way on occasion.
On his third day, wandering the streets alone looking for somewhere to sit down and have a cigarette, Banks discovered a coffee bar down a flight of stairs off the beaten track. He hadn’t thought of this in years, but the stark diary entry brought it back in all its richness and detail. He could even hear the hissing of the espresso machine and smell the dark-roasted coffee.
The place had a tropical ambience, with rough stucco walls, potted palms and soft calypso music playing in the background, but it was the girl behind the counter who drew him back there time after time. She was far too old for him, even if he did look older when he smoked and could pass for sixteen and get into “X” films. Probably over twenty, she would have an older boyfriend with a car and lots of money, a pretty girl like her, but Banks fell for her the way he had fallen for the factory girl, Mandy. Linda was her name.
That Linda was beautiful went without saying. She had long dark hair, sparkling blue eyes, an easy smile and lips he yearned to kiss. What he could see of the rest of her body when she came out from behind the counter was also the stuff that fantasies were made on: like Ursula Andress walking out of the sea in Dr. No. She was nice to him, too. She talked to him, smiled at him, and one day she even gave him a second cup of espresso for nothing. He loved to watch her working the machines behind the counter, nibbling her lower lip as she frothed the milk. Once or twice she caught him looking and smiled. He could feel himself blush to the roots of his being and he knew that she knew he was in love with her. This was one secret, and one place, he didn’t share with Graham.
As the holiday progressed, Banks and Graham did all the usual things, some with the rest of the family, and some by themselves. When it was warm enough, they spent time lounging with Banks’s mother and father on the beach in their swimming trunks among crowds of rough northerners with knotted hankies on their heads. They even went in the sea once or twice, but it was cold, so they didn’t stay long. Mostly they just lay there plugged into their radios, hoping to hear The Animals singing “We’ve Gotta Get Out of This Place” or The Byrds doing “Mr. Tambourine Man,” and surreptitiously eyeing the girls in their bathing suits.
In fact, reading over his diary, not only of the holiday but of the entire year, Banks was amazed at how much of his time was taken up with girls, with thoughts and dreams of sex. His hormones were running his life that year, no doubt about it.
The highlight of the week, though, was the two girls, and that was where Banks’s diary approached the sensational. One fine evening, Banks and Graham headed down to the Pleasure Beach opposite the South Pier. They took one of the open trams, sitting on the upper deck and thrilling at the lights with the wind in their hair.
The Pleasure Beach was a bustle of color and sound, from the rattling of the rides to the shrieks and screams of the passengers. As they were walking around trying to decide which ride to go on first, they noticed two girls about their own age who kept looking at them, whispering to each other and giggling, the way girls did. They weren’t Mods, but wore blouses and skirts of the more conservative length some parents still insisted on.
Eventually, Banks and Graham approached them and, Graham being the silent, moody type, Banks offered them cigarettes and started chatting them up. He couldn’t remember what he said, just something to make the girls laugh and think these boys were cool. The way it turned out, this time he linked up with the one he fancied most, though to be honest, they were both all right, not like the usual pairing, the good-looking one with the ugly friend.
Tina was short, with rather large breasts, a dark complexion and long wavy brown hair. Her friend, Sharon, was a slender blonde. The only flaw Banks noticed was a couple of spots under her makeup, and the bubble gum she was chewing. But there was nothing she could do about the spots—he knew he had a couple of embarrassing ones himself—and she soon took out the gum and threw it away.
They went on the Ghost Train first, and the girls got scared when phosphorescent skeletons jumped out and hung in front of the slow-moving cars. But what made them scream and lean closer into the chests of their companions were the cobwebs that occasionally brushed across their faces in the dark.
After the Ghost Train, they were holding hands, and Graham suggested they ride on the Big Dipper, a huge roller coaster, next. Tina was scared, but the others assured her it would be okay. Graham paid.
That was something Banks remembered as he read through his diary. He lit a cigarette, sipped some Laphroaig and thought about it for a moment as Bill Evans played on. Graham often paid. He always seemed to have plenty of money, always enough, even back in Peterborough, for ten Gold Leaf and a double-bill at the Gaumont. Maybe even some Kia-Ora and a choc ice from the woman who came around with the tray during the intermission. Banks never wondered or asked where he got it from at the time; he just assumed that Graham got plenty of pocket money from his dad in addition to his paper-round money. Looking back now, though, it seemed odd that a working-class kid, a bricklayer’s son, should always have so much ready cash to spend.
If the Ghost Train had set things up nicely, Banks thought, going back to the memory, the Big Dipper had the girls throwing their arms around Banks and Graham and burying their faces in their shoulders. Banks even stole a quick kiss from Sharon as they rose up toward one of the steepest descents, and she clung to him all the way down, hair streaming, shrieking blue murder.
Flushed and exhilarated, they walked out of the Pleasure Beach onto the prom. The illuminations didn’t start until later in the year, but there were still bracelets and necklaces of lights all over the front, like Christmas decorations, Banks had written, in a rare poetic moment, and the trams themselves were lit with bulbs so you could see their outlines coming from miles away.
After only token resistance, the girls agreed to a walk on the beach and the four of them inevitably settled under the South Pier, a well-established “courting” spot. Banks remembered as he read his vague and brief descriptions, how he lay with Sharon and kissed her, gently at first, then the two of them working their lips harder, trying a little tongue, feeling her body stir under him. He let his imagination go to work on the scanty details he had recorded in his bed back at Mrs. Barraclough’s that night: “G and me went with Tina and Sharon under south pier!”
Somehow, he had worked his hand under her blouse and felt her firm little breast. She didn’t complain when after a while of that he wriggled under her bra and felt the warm, soft flesh itself, squeezing the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She took a sharp breath and went back to kissing him with her tongue. He got some of her hair in his mouth. He could smell bubble gum on her breath mingled with the seaweed and brine of the beach. Trams rolled by above them and waves crashed on the shore. Sometime later, getting brave, he slid his hand down her thigh and put it up inside her skirt. She would only let him touch her over the cloth of her knickers, freezing or firmly pulling his hand away when he tried to go farther, but that was the farthest he had ever been before, so it was all right with him. Graham said later that Tina let him g
o all the way with her, but Banks didn’t believe him.
And that was as sensational as it got.
They went out with Sharon and Tina twice more, once to the pictures to see Help! and once to the amusement arcades, Graham as usual supplying most of the cash, and their evenings ended the same way. No matter how much Banks tried and hinted, Sharon wouldn’t relinquish her treasure. She always stopped him at the threshold. It was a tease balanced only later with the delicious ritual of self-administered relief.
When it was time to leave, they exchanged names and addresses and said they’d write, but Banks never heard from Sharon again. As far as he knew, Graham hadn’t heard from Tina either before he disappeared. Now, looking back, Banks hoped she really had let him go all the way with her.
Remembering their holiday had made him also remember other things, and some of them started to ring alarm bells in his policeman’s mind. Quiet at first, then getting louder and louder.
But soon, it wasn’t an inner alarm bell, it was the telephone that was ringing. Banks picked it up.
“DCI Banks?” A woman’s voice, familiar, strained.
“Yes.”
“It’s DI Hart. Michelle.”
“I haven’t forgotten your name yet,” Banks said. “What can I do for you? Any news?”
“Are you busy?”
“Just after you left me in Starbucks, a missing persons case turned into a murder, so yes, I am.”
“Look, I’m sorry about that. I mean…This is so difficult.”
“Just tell me.”
Michelle paused for so long that Banks was beginning to think she would just hang up. She seemed to be good at putting an abrupt end to conversations. But she didn’t. After an eternity, she said, “Today I discovered that Ben Shaw’s notebooks and the Graham Marshall actions allocations are missing.”
“Missing?”
“I looked all over the files. I couldn’t find them. I got the records clerk to help, too, but even she couldn’t find them. There’s a gap in the notebooks from the fifteenth of August to the sixth of October, 1965.”
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