Close to Home

by Peter Robinson

  “Not to my knowledge. Though, as you pointed out, I wouldn’t necessarily be the one to know.”

  Banks and Annie stood up to leave. Lauren walked to the door with them.

  “Thanks for your time,” Banks said. “And if you do remember anything else, you’ll let us know, won’t you?”

  “Yes, of course. Anything I can do,” Lauren said. “I do hope you catch whoever did this. Luke had such a promising future ahead of him.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Banks, with more confidence than he felt. “We will.”

  Ever since she had rung Banks, Michelle had thought of confronting Shaw with what she had discovered. It would have been easy enough for any authorized person to remove the notebooks and actions from their file boxes. Michelle could have done it herself, so who would think to question an officer of Shaw’s rank? Certainly not Mrs. Metcalfe.

  But still she resisted the direct approach. The thing was, she had to be certain. Once something like that was out in the open, there was no taking it back. She had been down in the archives again first thing that morning on another fruitless search, which had at least convinced her that the objects she was looking for were missing. And they should have been there.

  What she needed to do now was think. Think about what it all meant. She couldn’t do that in the station with Shaw wandering around the place, so she decided to drive over to the Hazels estate and walk Graham’s route again.

  She parked in front of the row of shops opposite the estate and stood for a moment enjoying the feel of the sun on her hair. She looked at the newsagent’s shop, now run by Mrs. Walker. That was where it had all begun. On a whim, Michelle entered the shop and found the sturdy, gray-haired old lady arranging newspapers on the counter.

  “Yes, love,” the woman said with a smile. “What can I do for you?”

  “Are you Mrs. Walker?”

  “Indeed I am.”

  “I don’t know if you can do anything,” said Michelle, presenting her warrant card, “but you might have heard we found some bones not long ago and—”

  “The lad who used to work here?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I read about it. Terrible business.”

  “It is.”

  “But I don’t see how I can help you. It was before my time.”

  “When did you come here?”

  “My husband and I bought the shop in the autumn of 1966.”

  “Did you buy it from Mr. Bradford, the previous owner?”

  “As far as I know we did. The estate agent handled all the details, along with my husband, of course, bless his soul.”

  “Mr. Walker is deceased?”

  “A good ten years now.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No need to be. He went just like that. Never felt a thing. Brain aneurysm. We had a good life together, and I’m well provided for.” She looked around the shop. “I can’t say it’s exactly a gold mine, but it’s a living. Hard work, too. People say I should retire, sell up, but what would I do with my time?”

  “Did you know Graham Marshall at all?”

  “No. We moved here from Spalding, so we didn’t know anyone at first. We’d been looking for a nice little newsagent’s shop and this one came on the market at the right price. Good timing, too, what with the new town development starting in 1967, shortly after we got here.”

  “But you did meet Mr. Bradford?”

  “Oh, yes. He was very helpful during the transition. Showed us the ropes and everything.”

  “What was he like?”

  “I can’t say I knew him well. My husband had most dealings with him. But he seemed all right. Pleasant enough. A bit abrupt, maybe. A bit stiff and military in his bearing. I remember he was something important during the war, a member of some special unit or other in Burma. But he was helpful.”

  “Did you hear from him after you took over?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ever mention Graham?”

  “Oh, yes. That’s why he left. Partly, at any rate. He said his heart hadn’t been in the business since the boy disappeared, so he wanted to move away and try to forget.”

  “Do you know where he moved to?”

  “The North, or so he said. Carlisle.”

  “That’s certainly far enough away.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t suppose you had a forwarding address, did you?”

  “Didn’t you know? Mr. Bradford died. Killed in a burglary not weeks after he moved. Tragic, it was. In all the local papers at the time.”

  “Indeed?” said Michelle, curious. “No, I didn’t know.” It probably wasn’t relevant to her inquiry, but it was suspicious. One of the last people to see Graham alive had himself been killed.

  Michelle thanked Mrs. Walker and went back outside. She crossed the road and started walking along Hazel Crescent, the same route Graham would have taken all those years ago. It was an early morning in August 1965, she remembered; the sun was just up, but an overcast sky made it still fairly dark. Everybody was sleeping off Saturday night, and the churchgoers were not even up yet. Lights would have been on in one or two windows, perhaps—the insomniacs and chronic early risers—but nobody had seen anything.

  She reached Wilmer Road at the far end of the estate. Even now, years later and in mid-morning, there wasn’t much traffic, and most of it was for the DIY center, which hadn’t existed back in 1965. Michelle was almost certain that Graham knew his attacker and that he got in the car willingly, taking his canvas bag of papers with him. If someone had tried to force him into a car, he would have dropped the papers and struggled, and the abductor was unlikely to stick around and pick them up.

  But how could Graham be persuaded to go somewhere without finishing his paper round? A family emergency, perhaps? Michelle didn’t think so. His family only lived a few yards away, back on the estate; he could have walked there in less than a minute. There was no doubt that fourteen-year-old kids could act irresponsibly, so maybe he did just that and skived off somewhere for some reason.

  As Michelle stood in the street watching the people come and go from the DIY center, she thought again about the missing notebooks and actions, and was struck by a notion so obvious she could have kicked herself for not seeing it earlier.

  That the missing notebooks were Detective Superintendent Shaw’s disturbed her for a different reason now she realized what she should have seen the moment she discovered they were missing. Shaw was a mere DC, a junior, on the case, so what on earth could he have had to hide? He had no power; he wasn’t in charge, and he certainly hadn’t assigned the actions. He had simply been along taking notes of Detective Inspector Reg Proctor’s interviews; that was all.

  Michelle had focused on Shaw mostly because she disliked him and resented the way he had been treating her, but when it came right down to it, the person in charge of the case, the one who might possibly have had the most to hide in the event of a future investigation was not Shaw but that legend of the local constabulary: Detective Superintendent John Harris.

  Thinking about Jet Harris, and what he might possibly have had to hide, Michelle walked back to where she had left her car parked in front of the shops. Perhaps she was a little distracted by her thoughts, and perhaps she didn’t pay as much attention as she usually did to crossing the road, but on the other hand, perhaps the beige van with the tinted windows really did start up as she approached, and perhaps the driver really did put his foot on the accelerator when she stepped into the road.

  Either way, she saw it coming—fast—and just had time to jump out of the way. The side of the van brushed against her hip as she stumbled and fell face forward onto the warm Tarmac, putting out her arms to break her fall. Another car honked and swerved around her and a woman across the street came over to help her to her feet. By the time Michelle realized what was happening, the van was out of sight. One thing she did remember, though: the number plate was so covered in mud it was impossible to read.


  “Honestly,” the woman said, helping Michelle to the other side. “Some drivers. I don’t know what the place is coming to, I really don’t. Are you all right, love?”

  “Yes,” said Michelle, dusting herself off. “Yes, I’m fine, thanks very much. Just a bit shaken up.” And she was still trembling when she got in her own car. She gripped the steering wheel tightly to steady herself, took several deep breaths and waited until her heart rate slowed to normal before she set off back to the station.

  “Can you manage by yourself for a day or so?” Banks asked Annie over a lunchtime pint in the Queen’s Arms. Like most of the pubs in the area since the outbreak of foot-and-mouth, it was half-empty, and even the jukebox and video machines were mercifully silent. One of the local farmers, who had already had too much to drink, stood at the bar fulminating against the government’s mishandling of the outbreak to the bar owner, Cyril, who gave a polite grunt of agreement every now and then. Everybody was suffering, not only the farmers, but the pub owners, bed and breakfast owners, local tradesmen, the butcher, baker and candlestick maker, Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all. And, unlike the farmers, they didn’t get any compensation from the government. Only a week or so ago, the owner of a walking-gear shop in Helmthorpe had committed suicide because his business had gone down the tubes.

  Annie put her glass down. “Course I can,” she said. “What’s up?”

  “It’s Graham Marshall’s funeral tomorrow. There’ll likely be some old friends around. I’d like to go down this evening.”

  “No problem. Have you asked the boss?”

  “Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe has given me permission to be absent from school for two days. I just wanted to clear it with you before taking off.”

  “I’ve got plenty to keep me occupied. Talking about school, you told me you weren’t satisfied with your Alastair Ford interview yesterday?”

  Banks lit a cigarette. “No,” he said. “No, I’m not. Not at all.”

  “So is he a suspect?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe his coming hot on the heels of Norman Wells was just a bit too much for me. His house is very isolated, which makes it a good place to keep someone prisoner, or kill someone and dump the body in the middle of the night without any neighbors noticing. But then you could probably get away with murder in the town center, too, given most people’s powers of observation and unwillingness to get involved.”

  “Except for the CCTV.”

  “And a damn lot of good that’s done us. Anyway, Ford is a solitary. He jealously protects his privacy, probably feels superior to people who are content to make small talk and share their opinions. He may be homosexual—there was something distinctly odd about the way he responded to my question about boyfriends—but even that doesn’t make him a suspect. We don’t know the motive for Luke’s murder, and according to Dr. Glendenning there was no evidence of sexual assault, although a few days in the water might have taken care of any traces of that. You know, Annie, the more I think about it, the more the kidnapping seems as if it was just a smoke screen, but oddly enough, it might turn out to be the most important thing.”

  Annie frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, why? If somebody just wanted Luke dead, whatever the reason, then why come up with this elaborate and iffy kidnapping scheme and increase the risk of getting caught?”

  “Money?”

  “Well, yes, but you told me yourself whoever it was set his sights remarkably low. It wasn’t a professional job.”

  “That did bother me. It’s what made me think he knew about the Armitages’ finances. I mean, they could certainly manage ten grand to get Luke back, but hardly more, at least not at such short notice.”

  “But Luke was already dead.”

  “Yes. Perhaps he tried to escape.”

  “Perhaps. Or maybe we need to look a lot closer to home.”

  “The parents?”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it?” Banks said. “Maybe we’ve been looking at this all wrong. Maybe Martin Armitage killed Luke and set up the elaborate hoax of a kidnapping just to put us off the scent.”

  “Martin?”

  “Why not? He was gone for two hours the evening Luke disappeared, according to his statement, just driving around, or so he says. Maybe he found Luke and they had an argument and Luke ended up dead. An accident, even. Excessive roughness. That wouldn’t be unusual for Martin Armitage. According to Lauren Anderson and everything you’ve told me, Luke had a difficult relationship with his stepfather. Armitage is the antithesis of Neil Byrd in many ways. Byrd was sensitive, creative, artistic, and he also had many of the problems that seem to come with that territory—drugs, drink, an addictive personality, need for oblivion, experimentation, self-absorption, mood swings, depression. It can’t have been easy being Neil Byrd, as his songs tell us so many times, but he was aiming at some kind of exalted spiritual state, some sort of transcendence, and he believed he caught glimpses of it from time to time. They gave him enough faith to keep going, for a while, at least. I often thought some of the songs were also a cry for help, and Luke’s songs echo that in a weird way.”

  “And Martin Armitage?”

  “Physical, rational, powerful, clean-living. Football was his life. It got him out of the slums and made him a national figure. It also made him rich. I dare say he’s had his share of ale, but I doubt he tried anything more experimental. I don’t think he has the capability to understand or tolerate the artistic temperament his stepson seems to have inherited. Probably the kind who associates artistic interests with homosexuality. I’m sure he tried to be a loving father, treated the lad as his own, but Luke had Neil Byrd’s genes.”

  “And Robin?”

  “Now, there’s an interesting one,” Banks said. “You tell me. You’ve seen more of her than I have.”

  “She clearly had a wild youth. Sex, drugs, rock and roll. Early fame and fortune often seem to send people over the top. But however she did it, she came through, and with a son. I’d say she’s tougher than she looks, and no doubt she loved Luke but had no more idea how to deal with his problems than her husband had. I think boys like Luke invent secret worlds to exclude adults and protect themselves, even from their contemporaries. He probably spent most of his time in his room reading, writing or recording his songs. That black room.”

  “Do you think he had ambitions to follow in his father’s footsteps?”

  “Musically, perhaps. But I think his attitude toward his father was very complex and ambiguous. A mix of admiration and anger at abandonment.”

  “None of this seems to transform into a motive, though, does it?” said Banks. He stubbed out his cigarette. “What about Josie and Calvin Batty?”

  “As suspects?”

  “In general.”

  “Josie is the only person we’ve talked to so far who says she saw Luke with the tattooed girl.”

  “Norman Wells recognized the description.”

  “Yes,” Annie pointed out. “But not in connection with Luke. I’m not saying we stop looking for her, just that we don’t pin all our hopes on her. We still have to keep an open mind on this one.”

  “Agreed.”

  “By the way, Winsome ran a check on all cars reported stolen in the Eastvale area the night Luke disappeared. There are two possibilities, one abandoned near Hawes, in Wensleydale, and the other in Richmond.”

  “Then we’d better have Stefan’s team check them both for any signs of blood.”

  Annie made a note. “Okay.”

  The server brought their lunches over: a salad sandwich for Annie and lasagne and chips for Banks. He didn’t usually like pub lasagne—it was too soupy—but Cyril’s wife Glenys made a good one.

  “Talking about cars,” Banks said after pausing for a few mouthfuls. “How are forensics coming on with Norman Wells’s?”

  “Stefan called in a couple of hours ago. Nothing yet. Do you really expect anything?”

  “Maybe not. But it’s got to be done.”
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  “Do you think we should have detained him?”

  Banks took a sip of beer before answering. “We’ve nothing to hold him on,” he said. “And he does have his business to run. Besides, I don’t think Mr. Wells is going anywhere.”

  “What about Lauren Anderson?”

  “Methinks the lady did protest too much.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. Just that her reaction to a simple question seemed extreme.”

  “She did sound awfully close to Luke. Emotionally, I mean.”

  “But she does have an alibi. Ask Winsome to check with the brother, Vernon, just to be certain, but I can’t imagine she’d risk lying about that. And it was a man’s voice on the ransom call.”

  “I’m not suggesting she did it—she certainly seemed genuine in her regard for him—just that she might know more than she’s letting on about what Luke was up to.”

  “You’re right,” said Banks. “We shouldn’t rule her out. Maybe you could get Winsome and young Kevin to run background checks on everyone we know who was connected with Luke, and that includes the Battys, Alastair Ford, Lauren Anderson and the mystery girl, if we ever find her.”

  “What about Rose Barlow?”

  “I don’t know,” Banks said. “We should have a word with her, though it seems that whatever went on between her and Luke ended months ago.”

  “What about forensic checks on Ford’s house, and the Anderson woman’s?”

  Banks shook his head. “We can’t afford to be sending expensive forensic teams to everyone’s house. With Wells we had good reason—his history, for a start. Besides, we know Luke has been in Lauren Anderson’s house.”

  “But if there’s blood…?”

  “We still can’t justify the expense at this point.”

  “And Alastair Ford?”

  “Check into his background first. We’ll keep that one up our sleeves in case we need it.”

  “You’ll stay in touch?”

  “I’ll leave my mobile on all the time. I’m not deserting you, Annie.” Banks still couldn’t help feeling a little guilty—and it wasn’t because he was leaving the case to Annie, but because he would be seeing Michelle again, and the idea appealed to him.