12
Norman Wells sat in the interview room with his folded arms resting on the top of his paunch and his lips pressed tight together. If he was scared, he wasn’t showing it. But then, he didn’t know how much the police already knew about him.
Banks and Annie sat opposite him, files spread out in front of them. Banks felt well-rested after a day off. He had stayed up late Saturday night eating Chinese food and talking with Brian, but on Sunday, after Brian left, he had done nothing but read the papers, go for a walk from Helmthorpe to Rawley Force and back by himself, stopping for a pub lunch and fiddling with the Sunday Times crossword on the way. In the evening, he had thought of ringing Michelle Hart in Peterborough but decided against it. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms, so let her contact him first, if she wanted to. After a small Laphroaig and a cigarette outside, enjoying the mild evening air around sunset, he had listened to Ian Bostridge’s English Song Book CD, gone to bed before half past ten and slept as soundly as he could remember in a long time.
“Norman,” said Banks. “You don’t mind if I call you Norman, do you?”
“It’s my name.”
“Detective Inspector Cabbot here has been doing a bit of digging around in your background, and it turns out you’ve been a naughty boy, haven’t you?”
Wells said nothing. Annie pushed a file towards Banks, and he opened it. “You used to be a schoolteacher, am I right?”
“You know I did, or you wouldn’t have dragged me in here away from my business.”
Banks raised his eyebrows. “It’s my understanding that you came here of your own free will when asked to help us with our enquiries. Am I wrong?”
“Do you think I’m an idiot?”
“I don’t follow.”
“And there’s no need to play the thickie with me. You know what I mean. If I hadn’t come willingly, you’d have found some way to bring me here, whether I wanted to come or not. So just get on with it. It might not seem much to you, but I have a business to run, customers who rely on me.”
“We’ll try to see that you get back to your shop as soon as possible, Norman, but first I’d like you to answer a few questions for me. You taught at a private school in Cheltenham, right?”
“Yes.”
“How long ago?”
“I left seven years ago.”
“Why did you leave?”
“I grew tired of teaching.”
Banks glanced at Annie, who frowned, leaned over and pointed at some lines on the typed sheet of paper in front of Banks. “Norman,” Banks went on, “I think I ought to inform you that Detective Inspector Cabbot spoke to your old headmaster, Mr. Fulwell, earlier this morning. He was reticent to discuss school business at first, but when she informed him that we were conducting a possible murder investigation, he was a little more forthcoming. We know all about you, Norman.”
The moment of truth. Wells seemed to deflate and shrink in his chair. His plump lower lip pushed up and all but obscured the upper, his chin disappeared into his neck, and his arms seemed to wrap tighter around his lower chest. “What do you want from me?” he whispered.
“The truth.”
“I had a nervous breakdown.”
“What caused it?”
“The pressures of the job. You’ve no idea what teaching’s like.”
“I don’t imagine I have,” Banks admitted, thinking that the last thing he’d want to do was stand up in front of thirty or forty scruffy, hormonally challenged teenagers and try to get them interested in Shakespeare or the War of Jenkins’s Ear. Anyone with that skill deserved his admiration. And a medal, too, for that matter. “What particular pressures led you to decide to leave?”
“It was nothing specific. Just a general sort of breakdown.”
“Stop beating about the bush, Norman,” Annie cut in. “Does the name Steven Farrow mean anything to you?”
Wells paled. “Nothing happened. I never touched him. False accusations.”
“According to the headmaster, Norman, you were infatuated with this thirteen-year-old boy. So much so that you neglected your duties, became an embarrassment to the school, and on one occasion–”
“Enough!” Wells slammed his fist down on the metal table. “You’re just like everyone else. You poison the truth with your lies. You can’t stare beauty in the eye, so you have to destroy it, poison it for everyone else.”
“Steven Farrow, Norman,” Annie repeated. “Thirteen years old.”
“It was pure. A pure love.” Wells rubbed his teary eyes with his forearm. “But you wouldn’t understand that, would you? To people like you, anything other than a man and a woman is dirty, abnormal, perverted.”
“Try us, Norman,” said Banks. “Give us a chance. You loved him?”
“Steven was beautiful. An angel. All I wanted was to be close to him, to be with him. What could be wrong with that?”
“But you touched him, Norman,” said Annie. “He told–”
“I never touched him! He was lying. He turned on me. He wanted money. Can you believe it? My little angel wanted money. I would have done anything for him, made any sacrifice. But something so vulgar as money…? I blame them, of course, not Steven. They poisoned him against me. They made him turn on me.” Wells wiped his eyes again.
“Who did, Norman?”
“The others. The other boys.”
“What happened?” Banks asked.
“I refused, of course. Steven went to the headmaster and…I was asked to leave, no questions asked, no scandal. All for the good of the school, you see. But word got around. On the scrapheap at thirty-eight. One foolish mistake.” He shook his head. “That boy broke my heart.”
“Surely you couldn’t expect them to keep you on?” Banks said. “In fact, you’re bloody lucky they didn’t bring in the police. And you know how we feel about pedophiles.”
“I am not a child molester! I would have been content just…just to be with him. Have you ever been in love?”
Banks said nothing. He sensed Annie glance at him.
Wells leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. “You can’t choose the object of your desire. You know you can’t. It may be a cliché to say that love is blind, but like many clichés, it’s not without a grain of truth. I didn’t choose to love Steven. I simply couldn’t help myself.”
Banks had heard this argument before from pedophiles–that they weren’t responsible for their desires, that they didn’t choose to love little boys–and he had at least a modicum of sympathy for their predicament. After all, it wasn’t only pedophiles who fell in love with the wrong people. But he didn’t feel enough sympathy to condone their actions. “I’m sure you are aware,” he said, “that it’s illegal for a thirty-eight-year-old man to initiate a sexual relationship with a thirteen-year-old boy, and that it’s inappropriate for a teacher to be involved in any way with a pupil, even if that pupil did happen to be over the age of consent, which Steven wasn’t.”
“There was no sexual relationship. Steven lied. They made him do it. I never touched him.”
“That’s as may be,” said Banks. “You might not have been able to help your feelings, but you could have controlled your actions. I think you know right from wrong.”
“It’s all so hypocritical,” Wells said.
“What do you mean?”
“Who says there can be no real love between youth and age? The Greeks didn’t think so.”
“Society,” said Banks. “The law. And it’s not the love we legislate against. The law’s there to protect the innocent and the vulnerable from those predators who should know better.”
“Ha! It shows how little you know. Who do you think was the vulnerable one here, the innocent one? Steven Farrow? Do you think just because a boy is of a certain tender age that he is incapable of manipulating his elders, incapable of blackmail? That’s very naive of you, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Luke Armitage,” Annie cut in.
Wells leaned back and licked his lips. He was sweating profusely, Banks noticed, and starting to smell sour and rank. “I wondered when we’d be getting around to him.”
“That’s why you’re here, Norman. Did you think it was about Steven Farrow?”
“I’d no idea what it would be about. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“The Farrow affair’s all water under the bridge. Hushed up. No charges, no serious damage done.”
“Except to me.”
“You were among the last people to see Luke Armitage on the day he disappeared, Norman,” Annie went on. “When we found out about your past, isn’t it only natural that we should want to talk to you about him?”
“I know nothing about what happened to him.”
“But you were friends with him, weren’t you?”
“Acquaintances. He was a customer. We talked about books sometimes. That’s all.”
“He was an attractive boy, wasn’t he, Norman? Like Steven Farrow. Did he remind you of Steven?”
Wells sighed. “The boy left my shop. I never saw him again.”
“Are you certain?” Banks asked. “Are you sure he didn’t come back, or you didn’t meet him somewhere else? Your house, perhaps?”
“I never saw him again. Why would he come to my house?”
“I don’t know,” said Banks. “You tell me.”
“He didn’t.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“Did he come back to the shop? Did something happen there? Something bad. Did you kill him and then move him after dark? Maybe it was a terrible accident. I can’t believe you meant to kill him. Not if you loved him.”
“I didn’t love him. Society has seen to it that I’m quite incapable of loving anyone ever again. No matter what you think of me, I am not a fool. I do know wrong from right, Chief Inspector, whether I agree with the definition or not. I am capable of self-control. I am an emotional eunuch. I know that society regards my urges as evil and sinful, and I have no desire to spend the rest of my days in jail. Believe me, the prison of my own making is bad enough.”
“I suppose the money was an afterthought, was it?” Banks went on. “But why not? Why not make a little money out of what you’d done? I mean, you could do with it, couldn’t you? Look at the dump you spend your days in. A crappy used-book business in a dank, cold dungeon can’t be making much money, can it? An extra ten thousand quid would have set you up nicely. Not too greedy. Just enough.”
Wells had tears in his eyes again, and he was shaking his head slowly from side to side. “It’s all I’ve got,” he said, his voice catching in his throat, his whole body starting to shake now. “My books. My cat. They’re all I’ve got. Can’t you see that, man?” He pushed his florid, bulbous face toward Banks and banged his fist to his heart. “There’s nothing else left here for me. Have you no humanity?”
“But it’s still not very much, is it?” Banks pressed on.
Wells looked him in the eye and regained some of his composure. “Who are you to say that? Who are you to pronounce judgement on a man’s life? Do you think I don’t know I’m ugly? Do you think I don’t notice the way people look at me? Do you think I don’t know I’m the object of laughter and derision? Do you think I have no feelings? Every day I sit down there in my dank, cold dungeon, as you so cruelly refer to it, like some sort of pariah, some deformed monster in his lair, some…some Quasimodo, and I contemplate my sins, my desires, my dreams of love and beauty and purity deemed ugly and evil by a hypocritical world. All I have is my books, and the unconditional love of one of God’s creatures. How dare you judge me?”
“No matter what you feel,” said Banks, “society has to protect its children, and for that we need laws. They may seem arbitrary to you. Sometimes they seem arbitrary to me. I mean, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen? Fourteen? Where do you draw the line? Who knows, Norman, maybe one day we’ll be as enlightened as you’d like us to be and lower the age of consent to thirteen, but until then we have to have those lines, or all becomes chaos.” He was thinking of Graham Marshall as well as Luke Armitage as he spoke. Society hadn’t done a very good job of protecting either of them.
“I have done nothing wrong,” said Wells, crossing his arms again.
The problem was, as Banks and Annie had already discussed, that the closed-circuit television cameras corroborated Wells’s story. Luke Armitage had entered Norman’s Used Books at 4:58 and left–alone–at 5:24.
“What time did you close that day?” Banks asked.
“Half past five, as usual.”
“And what did you do?”
“I went home.”
“Fifty-seven Arden Terrace?”
“Yes.”
“That’s off Market Street, isn’t it?”
“Close, yes.”
“Do you live alone?”
“Yes.”
“Do you own a car?”
“A second-hand Renault.”
“Good enough to get you out to Hallam Tarn and back?”
Wells hung his head in his hands. “I’ve told you. I did nothing. I haven’t been near Hallam Tarn in months. Certainly not since the foot-and-mouth outbreak.”
Banks could smell his sweat even more strongly now, sharp and acrid, like an animal secretion. “What did you do after you went home?”
“Had my tea. Leftover chicken casserole, if you’re interested. Watched television. Read for a while, then went to sleep.”
“What time?”
“I’d say I was in bed by half past ten.”
“Alone?”
Wells just glared at Banks.
“You didn’t go out again that evening?”
“Where would I go?”
“Pub? Pictures?”
“I don’t drink, and I don’t socialize. I prefer my own company. And I happen to believe that there hasn’t been a decent picture made in the last forty years.”
“Did Luke Armitage visit your house at any time that evening?”
“No.”
“Has Luke Armitage ever visited your house?”
“No.”
“He’s never even stepped inside your front door, not just for a moment?”
“I talk to him in the shop sometimes. That’s all. He doesn’t even know where I live.”
“Did you ever give him a lift anywhere?”
“No. How could I do that? I walk to and from the shop every day. It’s not far, and it’s good exercise. Besides, you know what parking’s like around the market square.”
“So Luke has never been in your car?”
“Never.”
“In that case,” said Banks, “I’m sure you won’t mind if our forensic experts have a close look at your house and your car. We’d also like to take a DNA sample, just for comparison.”
Wells stuck his chin out. “What if I do mind?”
“We’ll keep you here until we get a search warrant. Remember, Norman, I wouldn’t like to say judges are swayed by such things, but Luke Armitage came from a wealthy and well-respected family, while you’re a disgraced schoolteacher eking out a living in a dingy used-book shop. And that shop was the last place we know Luke visited before he disappeared.”
Wells hung his head. “Fine,” he said. “Go ahead. Do what you will. I don’t care any more.”
After a sleepless night on Saturday, Michelle had spent Sunday getting over the shock of what had happened in her flat and trying to rein in her emotional response in favour of more analytical thought.
She hadn’t got very far.
That someone had gained entry and arranged things in order to frighten her was obvious enough. Why was another matter entirely. That the interloper knew about Melissa surprised her, though she supposed people could find out anything about her if they really wanted. But given that he knew, it would have been evident when he searched her bedside drawers that the little dress was Melissa’s, and that its desecration would cause her a great deal of anguish. In other words, it had been a cold, calculated assault.
The flats were supposed to be secure, but Michelle had been a copper long enough to know that a talented burglar could get around almost anything. Though it went against every grain of Michelle’s nature not to report the break-in to the police, in the end she decided against it. Mostly, this was because Graham Marshall’s name had been written in her own red lipstick on the dressing-table mirror. The intrusion was meant to frighten her off the case, and the only people who knew she was working on it, apart from the Marshalls themselves, were other police officers, or people connected with them, like Dr. Cooper. True, Michelle’s name had been in the papers once or twice when the bones had first been found, so technically everyone in the entire country could know she was on the case, but she felt the answers lay a lot closer to home.
The question was, “Was she going to be frightened off the case?” The answer was, “No.”
At least there hadn’t been much cleaning up to do. Michelle had, however, dumped the entire contents of her bathroom cabinet and would have to contact her doctor for new prescriptions. She had also dumped the contents of the fridge, which hadn’t been a big job at all. More important, she had found a locksmith in the Yellow Pages and arranged to have a chain and an extra deadbolt lock put on her door.
As a result of her weekend experience, Michelle felt drained and edgy on Monday morning and found herself looking at everyone in Divisional Headquarters differently, as if they knew something she didn’t, as if they were pointing at her and talking about her. It was a frightening feeling, and every time she caught someone’s eye she looked away. Creeping paranoia, she told herself, and tried to shake it off.
First, she had a brief meeting with DC Collins, who told her he was getting nowhere checking the old perv reports. Most of the people the police had interviewed at the time were either dead or in jail, and those who weren’t had nothing new to add. She phoned Dr. Cooper, who still hadn’t located her knife expert, Hilary Wendell, yet, then she went down to the archives to check out the old notebooks and action allocations.
These days, since the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, there were very strict rules regarding police notebooks. You couldn’t leave blank pages, for example. Each page was numbered, and if you missed one by mistake you had to draw a line through it and write “omitted in error.” Entries had to be preceded by date and time, underlined, and at the end of each day the officer had to draw a continuous line below the final entry. Most of this was to prevent officers from “verballing” suspects–attributing to them words they hadn’t used, confessions they hadn’t made–and to avoid any sort of revisions after the fact. Notes were made on the spot, often quickly, and accuracy was important because the notebooks might need to be used in court.
An officer’s notebooks could be invaluable when trying to reconstruct the pattern of an investigation, as could the action allocations, records made of all the instructions issued to investigating officers by the senior investigating officer. For example, if DC Higginbottom was asked to go and interview Joe Smith’s neighbour, that order, or “action,” would be recorded in the actions allocation book, and his record of the interview would be in his notebook. By looking at the actions, you could determine which areas of enquiry had been pursued and which had not, and by reading the notebooks, you could unearth impressions that might not have made it into final statements and formal reports.
Completed notebooks were first handed to a detective inspector, who would look them over and, if everything was acceptable, send them to the records clerk for filing. That meant they piled up over the years. Whoever said we were heading for a paperless world, Michelle thought, as she walked along the rows of shelving stacked to the ceiling with boxes, obviously wasn’t a copper.
Mrs. Metcalfe showed her where the notebooks were filed, and Michelle went first, by instinct, to Ben Shaw’s. But no matter how many times she flipped through the boxes, checked and rechecked the dates, in the end she had to admit that if there had been notebooks covering the period of major activity in the Graham Marshall case, from the day of his disappearance, 22nd August, 1965, over the next month or two, then they had vanished.
Michelle found it difficult to decipher Shaw’s handwriting in the notebooks she did find, but she could just about make out that his last entry was on 15th August, 1965, when he had been questioning a witness to a post-office robbery, and the next one was a new notebook started on 6th October of the same year.
Michelle asked for Mrs. Metcalfe’s help, but after half an hour even the poor records clerk had to admit defeat. “I can’t imagine where they’ve got to, love,” she said. “Except they might have got misfiled by my predecessor, or lost in one of the moves.”
“Could someone have taken them?” Michelle asked.
“I don’t see who. Or why. I mean, it’s only people like you who come down here. Other police.”
Exactly what Michelle had been thinking. She could have taken out anything she wanted during her visits, and Mrs. Metcalfe would have been none the wiser. Which meant that anyone else could, too. Someone had gained entry to her flat and tried to scare her off the case, and now she found that nearly two months’ worth, a crucial two months’ worth, of notebooks had somehow disappeared. Coincidence? Michelle didn’t think so.
Half an hour later, when they had run into the same problem with the action allocation book for the Graham Marshall case, Michelle knew in her bones that the actions and the notebooks were gone forever, destroyed, most likely. But why? And by whom? The discovery didn’t help her paranoia one bit. She was beginning to feel way out of her depth. What the hell should she do now?
After the interview, Banks felt the urge to get out of the station, away from the acrid stink of Norman Wells’s sweat, so he decided to head out Lyndgarth way and talk to Luke Armitage’s music teacher, Alastair Ford, while Annie continued to supervise the search for Luke’s mystery woman.
In Banks’s experience, music teachers were an odd lot indeed, partly, no doubt, because of the frustration of trying to instill the beauties of Beethoven and Bach into minds addled with Radiohead and Mercury Rev. Not that Banks had anything against pop music. In his day, the class had kept pestering their Music teacher, Mr. Watson, to play the Beatles. He relented once, but looked glum the whole time. His feet didn’t tap, and his heart wasn’t in it. When he played Dvorák’s New World symphony or Tchaikovsky’s Pathètique Symphony, however, it was another matter. He closed his eyes, swayed and conducted, hummed along as the main themes swelled. All the time the kids in the class were laughing at him and reading comics under their desks, but he was oblivious, in a world of his own. One day Mr. Watson failed to turn up for class. Rumour had it that he’d suffered a nervous breakdown and was “resting” in a sanitarium. He never returned to teaching, as far as Banks knew.
Yesterday’s rain had rinsed the landscape clean and brought out the bright greens of the lower daleside, dotted with purple clover, yellow buttercups and celandines. The limestone scar of Fremlington Edge glowed in the sunlight, and below it the village of Lyndgarth, with its small church and lopsided village green, like a handkerchief flapping in the wind, seemed asleep. Banks consulted his map, found the minor road he was looking for and turned right.
Ford’s cottage was about as isolated as Banks’s own, and when he parked behind the dark blue Honda, he understood why. It wasn’t the New World symphony but the beautiful “Recordare” for soprano and mezzo-soprano from Verdi’s Requiem blasting out of the open windows at full volume. If Banks hadn’t been playing the Stones’ Aftermath CD in the car, he would have heard it a mile away.
It took a bit of hammering at the door, but eventually the music quietened down and it was answered by the man Banks recognized from the Aeolian Quartet concert. Alastair Ford had a five o’clock shadow, a long, hooked nose and a bright gleam in his eyes. If he had any, his hair would probably have been sticking out in all directions, but he was quite bald. What was it about Luke Armitage? Banks wondered. This was the second person he’d met that day who had spent time with the boy and looked mad as a hatter. Maybe Luke attracted weirdos. Maybe it was because he was more than a little weird himself. However, Banks determined to keep an open mind. Whether Alastair Ford’s eccentricity had a dangerous edge remained to be seen.
“I’m as fond of Verdi as the next man,” said Banks, showing his warrant card, “but don’t you think it’s a bit too loud?”
“Oh, don’t tell me old farmer Jones has complained about the music again. He says it curdles his cows’ milk. Philistine!”
“I’m not here about the noise, Mr. Ford. Might I come in and have a word?”
“Now I’m curious,” said Ford, leading the way inside. His house was clean but lived-in, with little piles of sheet music here and there, a violin resting on a low table and the massive stereo system dominating the living room. “A policeman who knows his Verdi.”
“I’m no expert,” Banks said, “but I’ve recently bought a new recording, so I’ve listened to it a few times lately.”
“Ah, yes. Renée Fleming and the Kirov. Very nice, but I must admit I’m still rather attached to the von Otter and Gardiner. Anyway, I can’t imagine you’ve come here to discuss old Joe Green with me. What can I do for you?” Ford was birdlike in many ways, especially in his sudden, jerky movements, but when he sat down in the overstuffed armchair he fell still, fingers linked in his lap. He wasn’t relaxed, though. Banks could sense the man’s tension and unease, and he wondered what its cause was. Maybe he just didn’t like being questioned by the police.
“It’s about Luke Armitage,” said Banks. “I understand you knew him?”
“Ah, poor Luke. A remarkably talented boy. Such a great loss.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Around the end of term.”
“Are you sure you haven’t seen him since?”
“I’ve barely left the cottage since then, except to drive into Lyndgarth for groceries. Alone with my music after a term of teaching those philistines. What bliss!”
“I gather Luke Armitage wasn’t a philistine, though?”
“Far from it.”
“You were giving him violin lessons, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Here or at school?”
“At school. Tuesday evenings. We have a reasonably well-equipped music room there. Mind you, we ought to be grateful for anything these days. They’ll spend a fortune on sports equipment, but when it comes to music…”
“Did Luke ever talk to you about anything that was on his mind?”
“He didn’t talk a lot. Mostly he concentrated on his playing. He had remarkable powers of concentration, unlike so many of today’s youth. He wasn’t much of a one for small talk. We did chat about music, argued once or twice about pop music, which I gathered he was rather fond of.”
“Never about anything else?”
“Like what?”
“Anything that might have been bothering him, worrying him, anyone he might have been afraid of. That sort of thing.”
“I’m afraid not. Luke was a very private person, and I’m not the prying kind. Truth be told, I’m not very good at helping people with their emotional problems.” He ran his hand over his smooth head and smiled. “That’s why I prefer to live alone.”
“Not married?”
“Was. Many moons ago.”
“What happened.”
“Search me. What usually happens?”
Banks thought of Sandra. What usually happens? “So you just taught him the violin, that’s all?”
“Mainly, yes. I mean, he was in my class, too, at school. But I wouldn’t say I knew him or that we were friends or anything like that. I respected his talent, even if he did dabble in pop music, but that’s as far as it went.”
“Did he ever mention his parents?”
“Not to me.”
“What about his biological father? Neil Byrd?”
“Never heard of him.”
Banks looked around the room. “It’s a very isolated cottage you have here, Mr. Ford.”
“Is it? Yes, I suppose it is.”
“Isolation suits you?”
“It must do, mustn’t it?” Ford’s foot started tapping on the floor, his knee jerking, and not to the rhythm of the now barely audible Requiem.
“Do you ever have company?”
“Rarely. I play in a string quartet, and sometimes the other members come out here to rehearse. Other than that, I’m rather given to solitary pursuits. Look, I–”
“No girlfriends?”
“I told you, I’m not good at relationships.”
“Boyfriends?”
Ford raised an eyebrow. “I’m not good at relationships.”
“Yet you manage the teacher-student relationship.”
“I have a talent for teaching.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“In a way. Sometimes.”
Banks got up and walked over to the window. There was a fine view of the dale, looking back towards Eastvale in the distance. Banks thought he could just make out the castle on its hill.
“Did Luke Armitage ever come here?” he asked, turning to face Ford.
“No.”
“You’re certain?”
“Very few people come here. I would remember. Look, if you want to know about Luke, ask Lauren.”
“Lauren Anderson?”
“Yes. She knew him far better than I did. She’s a…well, you know, she’s the sort of person people talk to, about their problems and stuff.”
“Emotions.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know if Luke was close to anyone else?”
“You could try our head teacher’s daughter.”
Banks had a quick flash of that sudden flurry of blond hair and long leg he had noticed after his conversation with Gavin Barlow. “Rose Barlow?”
“That’s the one. Little minx.”
“Were she and Luke friends?”
“Thick as thieves.”
“When was this?”
“Earlier this year. February or March.”
“Where did you see them together?”
“At school.”
“Nowhere else?”
“I don’t go anywhere else. Except here. All I can say is I saw them talking sometimes in the corridors and playground, and they seemed close.”
Banks made a mental note to follow up on Rose Barlow. “Do you have a mobile phone?” he asked.
“Good Lord, what an odd question!”
“Do you?”
“No. I see no use for one, personally. I barely use the telephone I do have.”
“Where were you last Monday?”
“Here.”
“Were you in Eastvale at all last week?”
“I’ve already told you. I’ve hardly left the cottage.”
“What have you been doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Here. In the cottage. Alone. All this time.”
Ford got to his feet and the birdlike motions started up again. “Playing music. Listening. Reading. Dabbling in a little composition. Look, really it’s none of your business, you know, even if you are a policeman. The last time I noticed, we were still living in a free country.”
“It was just a simple question, Mr. Ford. No need to get upset.”
Ford’s voice took on a piercing edge. “I’m not getting upset. But you’re prying. I hate people prying. I can’t tell you anything. Go talk to Lauren. Leave me alone.”
Banks stared at him for a moment. Ford wouldn’t meet his gaze. “If I find out you’ve been lying to me, Mr. Ford, I’ll be back. Do you understand?”
“I’m not lying. I haven’t done anything. Leave me alone.”
Before leaving, Banks showed him the artist’s impression of the girl Josie Batty had seen with Luke. Ford hardly glanced at the sketch and said he didn’t recognize her. He was weird, without a doubt, Banks thought as he started his car, but you couldn’t arrest people just for being weird. The volume went way up again, and Banks could hear Verdi’s “Lacrimosa” chasing him all the way to Lyndgarth.
“Thank you for seeing to the release, love,” Mrs. Marshall said. “We’ll be holding the funeral service at St. Peter’s the day after tomorrow. Joan’s coming back up for it, of course. I must say, the vicar’s been very good, considering none of us were what you’d call regular churchgoers. You’ll be there?”
“Yes, of course,” said Michelle. “There’s just one thing.”
“What’s that, love?”
Michelle told her about the rib they needed for evidence.
Mrs. Marshall frowned and thought for a moment. “I don’t think we need worry about a little thing like a missing rib, need we? Especially if it might help you.”
“Thank you,” said Michelle.
“You look tired, love. Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Fine.” Michelle managed to dredge up a weak smile.
“Is there any more news?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Only more questions.”
“I can’t understand what else I have to tell you, but please go ahead.”
Michelle leaned back in her chair. This was going to be difficult, she knew. To find out about any mischief Graham might have been up to without suggesting that he got up to mischief–which his mother would never accept–was almost to do the impossible. Still, she could but try. “Was Graham ever away from home for any periods of time?”
“What do you mean? Did we send him away?”
“No. But you know what kids are like. Sometimes they just like to take off and not tell you where they’ve been. They worry you sick but they don’t seem to realize it at the time.”
“Oh, I know what you mean. I’m not saying our Graham was any different from the other kids that way. He missed his tea from time to time, and once or twice he missed his nine o’clock curfew. And many’s the occasion we didn’t see hide nor hair of him from dawn till dusk. Not during term time, mind you. Just weekends and school holidays he could be a bit unreliable.”
“Did you have any idea where he’d been when he turned up late?”
“Playing with his pals. Sometimes he’d have his guitar with him, too. They were practising, see. The group.”
“Where did they do that?”
“David Grenfell’s house.”
“Other than group practice, did he ever stay out late on other occasions?”
“Once in a while. He was just a normal boy.”
“How much pocket money did you give him?”
“Five shillings a week. It was all we could afford. But he had his paper round and that made him a bit extra.”
“And you bought all his clothes?”
“Sometimes he’d save up if there was something he really wanted. Like a Beatle jumper. You know, like the one he’s wearing in the photo there.”
“So he didn’t go short of anything?”
“No. Not so’s you’d notice. Why? What are you trying to get at?”
“I’m just trying to get a picture of his activities, Mrs. Marshall. It’ll help me try to work out what might have happened to him, who might have stopped and picked him up.”
“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 unsavoury 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 did used to spar with them down the gym. We knew them. Of course we did. We grew up in the same neighbourhood. 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 & Spencer, 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 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 bought and films he saw. 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.
In the first week of August 1965, the Banks family had set off for 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 farther 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 second-hand 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 costumes.
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 colour 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 one another 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 make-up, 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 towards 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. Some time 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 further, but that was the furthest he had ever been before, so it was all right with him. Graham said later that Tina let him go 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 before he disappeared, either. 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 15th August to 6th October, 1965.”
Banks whistled between his teeth. “And the actions?”
“Just for that case. Gone. I don’t know…I mean, I’ve never…There’s something else, too. Something that happened over the weekend. But I don’t want to talk about it over the phone.” She gave a nervous laugh. “I suppose I’m asking you for advice. I don’t know what to do.”
“You should tell someone.”
“I’m telling you.”
“I mean someone in your station.”
“That’s the problem,” she said. “I just don’t know who I can trust down here. That’s why I thought of you. I know you have a personal interest in the case, and it would be helpful for me to have another professional around. One I know I can trust.”
Banks thought it over for a moment. Michelle was right; he did have an interest in the case. And the way it sounded, she was out on a limb by herself down there. “I’m not sure what I can do to help,” he said, “but I’ll see if I can get away.” As he spoke the words, an image of himself charging down to Peterborough on a white steed, wearing armour and carrying a lance, mocked him. “Any news on the funeral service?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“I’ll get away as soon as I can,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow. In the meantime, don’t say or do anything. Just carry on as normal. Okay?”
“Okay. And Alan?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks. I mean it. I’m in a jam.” She paused, then added, “And I’m scared.”
“I’ll be there.”
After Banks hung up, he refilled his glass, put the second Bill Evans set on and settled down to think over the repercussions of what he had realized earlier that evening, reading his diary, and of what he had just heard from Michelle.