13
Lauren Anderson lived in a small semi not too far from where Banks used to live with Sandra before their separation. He hadn’t passed the end of his old street in a long time, and it brought back memories he would rather forget. He felt cheated, somehow. The memories should have been good–he and Sandra had had good times together, had been in love for many years–but everything seemed tainted by her betrayal, and now by her forthcoming marriage to Sean. And the baby, of course. The baby hurt a lot.
He spoke nothing of his thoughts to Annie, who sat beside him. She didn’t even know he used to live there, as he had only met her after he moved to the Gratly cottage. Besides, she had made it clear that she wasn’t interested in his old life with Sandra and the kids; that was one of the main things that had come between them and broken up their brief and edgy romance.
It was as fine a summer’s day as they had seen in a while. They were in Banks’s car this time, the way he preferred it, with the windows open listening to Marianne Faithfull singing “Summer Nights” on a greatest-hits CD. That was back when her voice was rich and smooth, before the booze, drugs and cigarettes had taken their toll, the same way it happened with Billie Holiday. It was also a hit around the time Graham disappeared, and it captured the mood of that sex-preoccupied adolescent summer.
“I can’t believe you still listen to this stuff,” said Annie.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. It’s just so…old.”
“So is Beethoven.”
“Clever clogs. You know what I mean.”
“I used to fancy her like crazy.”
Annie shot him a sidelong glance. “Marianne Faithfull?”
“Yes. Why not? She used to come on Ready, Steady, Go and Top of the Pops every time she had a new record out, and she’d sit on a high stool with her guitar, looking just like a schoolgirl. But she’d be wearing a low-cut dress, legs crossed, and that sweet voice would come out, and you’d just want to…”
“Go on.”
Banks stopped at a traffic light and smiled at Annie. “I’m sure you get the picture,” he said. “She just looked so innocent, so virginal.”
“But if the stories are true, she put herself about quite a bit, didn’t she? Far from virginal, I’d say.”
“Maybe that was part of it, too,” Banks agreed. “You just knew she…did it. There were stories. Gene Pitney. Mick Jagger. The parties and all that.”
“Saint and sinner all in one package,” said Annie. “How perfect for you.”
“Christ, Annie, I was only a kid.”
“Quite a randy one, too, it seems.”
“Well what did you think about at fourteen?”
“I don’t know. Boys, maybe, but not in a sexual way. Having fun. Romance. Clothes. Makeup.”
“Maybe that’s why I always fancied older women,” said Banks.
Annie nudged him hard in the ribs.
“Ouch! What did you do that for?”
“You know. Park here. Men,” she said, as Banks parked and they got out of the car. “When you’re young you want older women, and when you’re old you want younger women.”
“These days,” said Banks, “I take whatever I can get.”
“Charming.” Annie pressed the doorbell and a few seconds later saw the shape coming towards them through the frosted glass.
Lauren Anderson was dressed in jeans and a thin V-neck jumper, and she wore no makeup. Younger than Banks had expected, she was willowy, with full lips, a pale oval face and heavy-lidded pale blue eyes, all framed by long auburn hair spilling down over her shoulders. As she stood in the doorway, she wrapped her arms around herself as if she were cold.
“Police,” Banks said, holding out his warrant card. “May we come in?”
“Of course.” Lauren stood aside.
“In here?” Banks asked, pointing towards what looked like the living room.
“If you like. I’ll make some tea, shall I?”
“Lovely,” said Annie, following her into the kitchen.
Banks could hear them talking as he had a quick look around the living room. He was impressed by the two walls of bookshelves groaning under the weight of classics he had meant to read but never got around to. All the Victorians, along with the major Russians and French. A few recent novels: Ian McEwan, Graham Swift, A. S. Byatt. Quite a lot of poetry, too, from Heaney’s Beowulf translation to the latest issue of Poetry Review lying on the low coffee table. There were plays, too: Tennessee Williams, Edward Albee, Tom Stoppard, the Elizabethans and Jacobeans. There was also a section devoted to art and one to classical mythology. Not to mention the rows of literary criticism, from Aristotle’s Poetics to David Lodge on the vagaries of post-structuralism. Most of the music in the CD rack was classical, favouring Bach, Mozart and Handel.
Banks found a comfortable chair and sat down. In a short while, Annie and Lauren came in with the tea. Noting an ashtray on the table and getting a distinct whiff of stale smoke in the air, Banks asked if he might light up. Lauren said sure and accepted one of his Silk Cut. Annie turned up her nose the way only an ex-smoker can do.
“It’s a nice place,” Banks said.
“Thank you.”
“Do you live here alone?”
“I do now. I used to share it with one of the other teachers, but she got her own flat a few months ago. I’m not sure, but I think I like it better by myself.”
“I don’t blame you,” said Banks. “Look, the reason we’re here is that we heard you used to give Luke Armitage extra tuition in English, and we wondered if you could tell us anything about him.”
“I’m not sure I can tell you anything about him, but, yes, I used to tutor Luke.” Lauren sat on the small sofa with her legs tucked under her, cup held in both hands. She blew on the tea. “He was so far ahead of the rest of his class he must have been bored silly at school. He was far ahead of me most of the time.” She raised her hand and flicked some troublesome locks of hair out of her face.
“That good?”
“Well, his enthusiasm made up for what he lacked in formal training.”
“I gather he was a talented writer, too.”
“Very. Again, he needed discipline, but he was young, raw. He’d have gone far if…if…” She held her cup in one hand and rubbed her sleeve across her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just can’t get over it. Luke. Dead. Such a waste.”
Annie passed her a tissue from the box on one of the bookshelves. “Thank you,” she said, then blew her nose. She shifted on the sofa and Banks noticed her feet were bare and her toenails painted red.
“I know it’s hard to accept,” said Banks, “but I’m sure you can understand why we need to know as much about him as possible.”
“Yes, of course. Though, as I said, I don’t see how I can tell you much.”
“Alastair Ford said you’re the kind who listens to people’s problems.”
She snorted. “Alastair! He was probably trying to say I’m a prying bitch. Alastair runs a mile if anyone comes within vague hailing distance of whatever warped emotions he might possess.”
Banks had got the same impression himself, though he wouldn’t have put it in quite those words. On early impressions, Lauren Anderson was turning out to be perhaps the most normal friend Luke had had. But the competition–Ford and Wells–wasn’t very stiff.
“Did Luke ever talk about himself?”
“Not much,” said Lauren. “He could be very closed, could Luke.”
“Sometimes?”
“Sometimes he might let his guard drop a little, yes.”
“And what did he talk about then?”
“Oh, the usual. School. His parents.”
“What did he say about them?”
“He hated school. Not only were most things boring for him, but he didn’t like the discipline, the formality.”
Banks thought of the boys who had tormented Luke in the market square. “What about bullying?”
“Yes, that too. But it wasn’t serious. I mean, Luke was never beaten up or anything.”
“What was it, then?”
“Mostly teasing. Name-calling. A bit of jostling. Oh, I’m not saying he wasn’t hurt by it. He was very sensitive. But he could handle it, in a way.”
“What do you mean?”
“It didn’t really bother him. I mean, he knew the boys who were doing it were morons, that they couldn’t help themselves. And he knew they were doing it because he was different.”
“Superior?”
“No, I don’t think Luke ever believed himself to be superior to anyone else. He just knew he was different.”
“What did he have to say about his parents?”
Lauren paused for a moment before answering. “It was very private,” she said.
Annie leaned forward. “Ms. Anderson,” she said. “Luke’s dead.”
“Yes. Yes, I know.”
“And we need to know everything.”
“But you surely can’t think his parents had anything to do with his death?”
“What did he say about them?”
Lauren paused, then went on. “Not much. It was clear he wasn’t very happy at home. He said he loved his mother, but he gave the impression that he didn’t get along with his stepfather.”
Banks could well imagine it. Martin Armitage was a physical, dominating presence, used to getting his own way, and his interests seemed worlds away from those of his stepson. “Did you get the impression that his stepfather abused him in any way?” he asked.
“Good Lord, no,” said Lauren. “Nobody ever beat him or abused him in any way. It was just…they were so different. They’d nothing in common. I mean, Luke couldn’t care less about football, for a start.”
“What was he going to do about his problems?”
“Nothing. What could he do? He was only fifteen. Maybe he’d have left home in a year or so, but we’ll never know now, will we? For the time being he had to put up with it.”
“Kids put up with a lot worse,” said Banks.
“Indeed they do. The family was well-off and Luke never lacked for material comforts. I’m sure that both his mother and his stepfather loved him very much. He was a sensitive, creative boy with a boorish stepfather and an empty-headed mother.”
Banks wouldn’t have said Robin Armitage was empty-headed, but perhaps Lauren was making the sort of assumption people often make about models. “What about Neil Byrd?” Banks went on. “Did Luke ever talk about him?”
“Hardly ever. He got very emotional when the subject came up. Angry, even. Luke had a lot of unresolved issues. You just knew to back away.”
“Can you explain?”
Lauren’s brow furrowed. “I think he was angry because he never knew his father. Angry because Neil Byrd abandoned him when he was just a baby and then went and committed suicide. Can you imagine how that would make you feel? You don’t even mean enough to your father for him to stay alive and watch you grow up.”
“Was there anything in particular that might have been bothering him recently, anything he might have mentioned to you?”
“No. The last time I saw him, at the end of term, he was excited about the summer holidays. I assigned him some reading.”
“A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and Crime and Punishment?”
Her eyes widened. “Those were two of the books. How do you know that?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Banks. “How did you go about tutoring him?”
“Usually I’d assign him some reading, maybe a novel or some poetry, and then we’d meet here and discuss it. Often we’d move out from there and discuss painting, history, Greek and Roman mythology. He was very advanced when it came to understanding literature. And he had an insatiable appetite for it.”
“Advanced enough for Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Verlaine?”
“Rimbaud was a mere boy himself. And young teens are often attracted to Baudelaire.”
“‘Le Poète se fait voyant par un long, immense et raisonné dérèglement de tous les sens,’” Banks quoted, in an accent he hoped wasn’t too incomprehensible. “Does that mean anything to you?”
“Why, of course. It’s Rimbaud’s description of the method he used to make himself a seer. ‘A total disordering of all the senses.’”
“It was written on Luke’s bedroom wall. Did it involve taking drugs?”
“Not that I know of. Not in Luke’s case, anyway. It was about opening oneself to experience of all kinds. To be quite honest, I didn’t approve of Luke’s fascination with Rimbaud. In so many cases like that it’s a fascination with the romantic ideal of the tortured boy-poet, not with the work itself.”
Not wanting to get lost in the realms of literary criticism, Banks moved on. “You felt very close to Luke, am I right?”
“In a way, I suppose. If you really could be close to him. He was slippery, chameleonlike, often moody, quiet and withdrawn. But I liked him and I believed in his talent, if that’s what you mean.”
“If Luke had come to you for help, would you have given it?”
“That depends on the circumstances.”
“If he was running away from home, for example.”
“I’d do all I could to discourage him.”
“That sounds like the official line.”
“It’s the one I’d follow.”
“You wouldn’t harbour him?”
“Of course not.”
“Because we don’t know where he went the day he disappeared. Not after about five-thirty, anyway. But he was last seen walking north on Market Street. That would eventually have brought him to your neighbourhood, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, but…I mean…why would he come here?”
“Maybe he trusted you, needed your help with something.”
“I can’t imagine what.”
“When were the two of you next due to meet?”
“Not until next term. I’m going home next week for the rest of the holidays. My father’s not been well lately and my mother’s finding it hard to cope.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Where’s home?”
“South Wales. Tenby. A sleepy little place, but it’s by the sea, lots of cliffs to walk on and think.”
“Are you sure Luke never came to see you the Monday before last?”
“Of course I’m sure. He had no reason to.”
“You were only his tutor, right?”
Lauren stood up and anger flashed in her eyes. “What do you mean? What are you trying to insinuate?”
Banks held his hand up. “Whoa. Wait a minute. I was only thinking that he might have considered you as a friend and mentor, someone he could go to if he was in trouble.”
“Well, he didn’t. Look, as it happens, I wasn’t even home the Monday before last.”
“Where were you?”
“Visiting my brother, Vernon.”
“And where does Vernon live?”
“Harrogate.”
“What time did you leave?”
“About five. Shortly after.”
“And what time did you get back?”
“I didn’t. As a matter of fact, I had a bit too much to drink. Too much to risk driving, at any rate. So I slept on Vernon’s sofa. I didn’t come back here until about lunchtime on Tuesday.”
Banks glanced at Annie, who put her notebook aside and pulled the artist’s impression out of her briefcase. “Have you ever seen this girl, Ms. Anderson?” she asked. “Think carefully.”
Lauren studied the drawing and shook her head. “No. I’ve seen the look, but the face isn’t familiar.”
“Not someone from school?”
“If she is, I don’t recognize her.”
“We think she might have been Luke’s girlfriend,” Banks said. “And we’re trying to find her.”
Lauren shot Banks a glance. “Girlfriend? But Luke didn’t have a girlfriend.”
“How do you know? You said he didn’t tell you everything.”
She fingered the collar of her V-neck. “But…but I’d have known.”
“I can’t see how,” said Banks. “What about Rose Barlow?”
“What about her?”
“I’ve heard she and Luke were pretty friendly.”
“Who told you that?”
“Were they?”
“I believe they went out once or twice earlier this year. Rose Barlow isn’t anywhere near Luke’s league. She’s strictly a plodder.”
“So it didn’t last.”
“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 a 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 all began. On a whim, Michelle entered the shop and found the sturdy, grey-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 ever 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 enquiry, 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 centre, 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 centre, 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 landlord, Cyril, who gave a polite grunt of agreement every now and then. Everybody was suffering: not only the farmers, but the pub landlords, bed-and-breakfast owners, local trades-men, 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 neighbours noticing. But then you could probably get away with murder in the town centre, 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 smokescreen, 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 towards 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.”
“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.
Annie touched his sleeve. “I know you’re not. Don’t think I’m so insensitive as not to know how hard it is for you, them finding Graham Marshall’s bones and all.” She grinned. “You go and pay your respects and have a piss-up with your old mates. You’ll have a lot to catch up on. When did you last see them?”
“Not since I went to London, when I was eighteen. We just sort of lost touch.”
“I know what you mean. It happens. I don’t know anyone I went to school with any more.”
Banks considered telling Annie about Michelle’s phone call but decided against it. Why complicate matters? Annie had enough on her plate. Besides, he wasn’t sure there was much he could do about Michelle’s concerns. If there had been some sort of cover-up, then it would have to be investigated by an outside force, not some maverick from North Yorkshire. Yet a part of him wanted to get involved, wanted to get to the bottom of Graham’s death, as well as Luke’s. They were linked in his mind in some odd way. Not technically, of course, but two very different boys from very different times had ended up dead before their time, and both had died violently. Banks wanted to know why, what it was about these two children that had attracted such cruel fates.