19
It didn’t take Annie long to drive to Harrogate and find the small terrace house off the Leeds Road. Vernon Anderson answered the door and, looking puzzled, invited her into his Spartan living room. She admired the framed Vermeer print over the fireplace and settled down in one of the two armchairs.
“I see you have an eye for a good painting,” Annie said.
“Art appreciation must run in the family,” said Vernon. “Though I confess I’m not as much of a reader as our Lauren is. I’d rather see a good film any day.”
On the low table under the window a couple of lottery tickets rested on a newspaper open at the racing page, some of the horses with red rings around their names.
“Any luck today?” Annie asked.
“You know what it’s like,” Vernon said with an impish grin. “You win a little, then you lose a little.” He sat on the sofa and crossed his legs.
Vernon Anderson didn’t look much like his sister, Annie noted. He had dark hair, short tight curls receding a little at the temples, and he was thickset, with a muscular upper body and rather short legs. With his long lashes, dimples and easy charm, though, she imagined he would be quite successful with the opposite sex. Not that any of those things did much for her. If there was any resemblance, it was in the eyes; Vernon’s were the same pale blue as Lauren’s. He wore jeans and a T-shirt advertising Guinness. And sandals over white socks.
“What’s all this about?”
“I’m looking into the kidnapping and murder of Luke Armitage,” Annie said. “Your sister was his teacher.”
“Yes, I know. She’s very upset about it.”
“Did you ever meet Luke?”
“Me? No. I’d heard of him, of course, of his father, anyway.”
“Martin Armitage?”
“That’s right. I’ve won a few bob on teams he played for over the years.” Vernon grinned.
“But you never met Luke?”
“No.”
“Did your sister tell you much about him?”
“She talked about school sometimes,” Vernon said. “She might have mentioned him.”
“In what context?”
“As one of her pupils.”
“But not how exceptional he was, and how she gave him private tuition?”
“No.” Vernon’s eyes narrowed. “Where are we going here?”
“Lauren said she was visiting you the day Luke disappeared. That’d be a week ago last Monday. Is that true?”
“Yes. Look, I’ve already been through all this with the other detective, the one who came by a few days ago.”
“I know,” said Annie. “That was one of the locals helping us out. It’s not always possible to get away. I’m sorry to bother you with it, but do you think you could bear to go through it again with me?”
Vernon folded his arms. “I suppose so. If you think it’s necessary.”
“If you don’t mind.”
“It’s just as I told the chap the other day. We had rather too much to drink and Lauren stayed over.” He patted the sofa. “It’s comfortable enough. Safer than trying to drive.”
“Admirable,” said Annie. People always seemed to make nervous comments about drinking and driving when police officers were around, as if that were the only crime they had time to pursue, all they were interested in. “Where were you drinking?”
“Where?”
“Which pub?”
“Oh, I see. We didn’t go to a pub. She came here for dinner and we had wine.”
“What kind?”
“Just an Australian Chardonnay. On sale at Sainsbury’s.”
“Did your sister visit you often?”
“Fairly often. Though I can’t see what that’s got to do with anything. Our father’s ill and mother’s not coping too well. We had a lot to talk about.”
“Yes. I know about the Alzheimer’s. I’m sorry to hear it.”
Vernon’s jaw dropped. “You know? Lauren told you?”
“It’s surprising the information you pick up sometimes on this job. Anyway, I just wanted to make sure I’d got all the times right, for the record, you know. You’d be amazed if you knew how much of our job is just paperwork.”
Vernon smiled. “Well, as I remember, she arrived at about six o’clock, and that was it. We ate at around half past seven.”
“What did you cook?”
“Venison in white wine. From Nigella Lawson.”
It didn’t sound very appetizing to a vegetarian such as Annie, but to each his own, she thought. “And no doubt there was a fair bit of wine to wash it down with?”
“A couple of bottles. That’s why Lauren ended up staying. That and the Grand Marnier.”
“Liqueurs, too. You were really pushing the boat out.”
“I’m afraid we both got a bit upset. Over father. Lauren had paid a brief visit home at half-term and he hadn’t recognized her. I know alcohol doesn’t help solve problems, but one does tend to reach for it in times of trouble.”
“Of course,” said Annie. “So you went to bed around what time?”
“Me? I’m not sure. It’s a bit of a blur. Probably around midnight.”
“And your sister?”
“I don’t know how late she stayed up.”
“But she did stay all night?”
“Of course.”
“How do you know?”
“I remember going to the toilet once. You have to go through the living room. She was asleep on the sofa then.”
“What time was that?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t look at my watch. Dark, though.”
“But she could have been gone for a few hours and returned, couldn’t she?”
“I’d have heard her.”
“Are you certain? If you’d had that much to drink you probably slept quite heavily.”
“Don’t forget, we both had too much to drink.”
“Did she receive any phone calls during the evening?”
“No.”
“What time did she leave?”
“About eleven o’clock the following morning.”
“It must have been a bit of a rough morning for you at work, after all that drink. Or did you take the day off?”
“I’m presently unemployed, if it’s any of your business. And I can handle the drink. I’m not an alcoholic, you know.”
“Of course not.” Annie paused for a moment, “Did you ever get any hints that Lauren’s relationship with Luke might have been a bit more than the normal teacher-pupil one?”
“I certainly did not.”
“She never talked about him in an affectionate way?”
“I’ve had quite enough of this,” Vernon said. “It’s one thing checking up on times, but quite another to suggest that my sister had some sort of affair with this boy.” He stood up. “Look, I’ve told you what you want to know. Now why don’t you just go and leave me alone.”
“What’s wrong, Mr. Anderson?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You seem a bit agitated, that’s all.”
“Well, wouldn’t you feel agitated if someone came into your house and started flinging accusations around?”
“What accusations? I’m simply trying to make certain that your sister didn’t see Luke Armitage the night he was killed. Can’t you see how important this is, Vernon? If she did see him, he might have told her something. She might have had some idea of where he was going, who he was seeing.”
“I’m sorry. I still can’t help. Lauren was here all night.”
Annie sighed. “All right, then. Just one more thing before I leave you in peace.”
“What?”
“I understand you have a criminal record.”
Vernon reddened. “I wondered when that would come out. Look, it was a long time ago. I forged my boss’s signature on a cheque. I’m not proud of it. It was a stupid thing to do, okay, but I was desperate. I paid the price.”
“Well, that’s all right, then, isn’t it,” said Annie, who was thinking it was amazing what people would do when they were desperate. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Anderson.”
Vernon said nothing, just slammed the door behind her. Annie had noticed a bookie’s on the main road, just around the corner from Vernon’s street. She glanced at her watch. Time for a quick call before it closed. In her experience, bookies’ shops were always full of smoke, so she took a deep breath and went inside.
If this were the face of evil, then it was remarkably bland, Banks thought as he and Michelle were ushered into Rupert Mandeville’s presence by a young man who looked more like a clerk than a butler. In fact, Mandeville reminded Banks of the old prime minister, Edward Heath, who came to lead the party in opposition in 1965. Casually dressed in white cricket trousers, a cream shirt, open at the collar, and a mauve V-neck pullover, he had the same slightly startled, slightly befuddled, look about him as Heath, the same silver hair and pinkish skin. Why was it, Banks wondered, that every politician he had ever seen had skin like pink vinyl? Were they born that way?
The sheepskin rug was gone, replaced by a carpet with a complex Middle Eastern design, but the fireplace was the same one as in Graham’s photograph. Being in the room where the picture had been taken all those years ago made Banks shiver. What else had happened here? Had Graham been involved in sex acts, too? With Mandeville? He realized that he would probably never know. Reconstructing the past after so long was as faulty and unreliable a process as memory itself.
At least they now had some idea how Mandeville knew about the progress of Michelle’s investigation, even if they couldn’t prove anything. According to a local reporter Michelle had rung from the station, Mandeville had spies everywhere; it was how he had managed to survive so long in such a ruthless world as politics. It was also rumoured that he had close contacts within the police force, though no names were mentioned. That must have been how he knew so much about the investigation into Graham’s death, and the threat that it was beginning to pose for him.
Mandeville was courtesy personified, pulling out a chair for Michelle and offering refreshments, which they refused. “It’s been many years since I had a visit from the police,” he said. “How can I help you?”
“Would Geoff Talbot’s visit have been the one you’re thinking about?” Michelle asked. It was still her case, Banks knew, and he was only present because she had invited him; therefore, she got to ask the questions.
“I can’t say I remember the young man’s name.”
“You ought at least to remember the month and year: August 1965.”
“So long ago. How time flies.”
“And the reason for the visit.”
“It was a mistake. An apology was offered, and accepted.”
“By Detective Superintendent Harris?”
“Again, I must confess I don’t remember the person’s name.”
“Take my word for it.”
“Very well. Look, I sense a little hostility in your tone. Can you please either tell me why you’re here or leave?”
“We’re here to ask you some questions relating to the Graham Marshall investigation.”
“Oh, yes. That poor boy whose skeleton was uncovered some days ago. Tragic. But I don’t see how that has anything to do with me.”
“We’re just tying up a few loose ends, that’s all.”
“And I’m a loose end. How fascinating!” His glaucous eyes gleamed with mockery.
Banks took the photo from his briefcase and slid it across the table to Mandeville, who looked at it without expression.
“Interesting,” he said. “But, again…”
“Do you recognize the boy?” Michelle asked.
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Do you recognize the fireplace?”
Mandeville glanced towards his own Adam fireplace and smiled at her. “I’d be a liar if I said I don’t,” he said. “Though I hardly imagine it’s the only one of its kind in existence.”
“I think it’s unique enough for our purposes,” Michelle said.
“Photographs can be faked, you know.”
Michelle tapped the photo. “Are you saying this is a forgery?”
“Of course. Unless someone has been using my house for illicit purposes in my absence.”
“Let’s get back to 1965, when this photo was taken, in this room,” Michelle said. “You were quite famous for your parties, weren’t you?”
Mandeville shrugged. “I was young, wealthy. What else was I to do but share it around a bit? Maybe I was foolish, too.”
“Parties that catered for every taste, including drugs, prostitutes and underage sex partners, male and female.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“This boy was fourteen when that photo was taken.”
“And he was a friend of mine,” said Banks, catching Mandeville’s eye and holding his gaze.
“Then I’m sorry for your loss,” said Mandeville, “but I still don’t see what it has to do with me.”
“You had him killed,” said Michelle.
“I did what? I’d be careful, if I were you, young lady, going around making accusations like that.”
“Or what? You’ll have your chauffeur break into my flat again, or try to run me over?”
Mandeville raised his eyebrows. “I was actually going to warn you about the possibility of slander.”
“I did a bit of homework before I came out here,” Michelle said. “Checked into the background of your employees. Derek Janson, your chauffeur, served a prison sentence for burglary fifteen years ago. He came to be regarded as somewhat of an expert at picking locks. I’m sure he knows how to drive a van, too.”
“I know about Derek’s background,” Mandeville said. “It’s very difficult for ex-convicts to get employment. Surely you can’t fault me for doing my little bit for Derek’s rehabilitation? I happen to trust him completely.”
“I’m sure you do. When the investigation into Graham Marshall’s disappearance was reopened, after we found his remains and discovered that he had been murdered, you did everything in your power to put me off.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because he was using the photo to blackmail you, and you asked Carlo Fiorino to take care of him. You paid Fiorino well for his various services, so he obliged.”
“This is absurd. You have no evidence for any of this.”
“We’ve got the photograph,” Banks said.
“As I said before, photographs can be faked.”
“They can be authenticated, too,” Banks said.
Mandeville stared at them, assessing the damage. Finally, he stood up, put his hands on the table palms down and leaned forward. “Well,” he said, “that’s quite a story the two of you have concocted. It’s a pity that none of it will stand up in court, or anywhere else, for that matter.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Michelle said. “But you still have to admit that it doesn’t look good. Some mud’s bound to stick.”
“I’m not without influence, you know.”
“Is that a threat?”
“I don’t stoop to threats.”
“No, you get someone else to do that for you.”
“What do you intend to do now?”
“Whatever I can to make sure you pay for what you did. For a start, we’ll have a nice chat with Mr. Janson.”
Mandeville walked over and leaned against the fireplace, smiling. “Derek won’t tell you anything.”
“You never know. We’re not without influence, either, especially with ex-cons. Then there’s Geoff Talbot’s notebook. Jet Harris didn’t bother to remove that from the archives. No reason to. There was no investigation.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Names,” said Banks. “Talbot made a note of the names of the people he talked to when he came up here. I’m sure if we dig around a bit, we’ll find one or two people who remember the old days: party-goers, perhaps, or club patrons.”
Mandeville’s face darkened and he went back to sit at the table. “I’m warning you,” he said. “If you attempt to spread these vicious lies about me, I’ll have your jobs.”
But Michelle was already out of the room, striding towards the front door.
Banks took the opportunity of a few seconds alone with Mandeville to lean in close, smile and lower his voice. “And if DI Hart so much as trips on a banana skin, I’ll be right back here to rip out your spine and shove it down your throat. Your lordship.”
He couldn’t swear to it, but judging by the change in Mandeville’s expression, he thought he got his point across.
It was already the evening of a long day, and the shadows were lengthening when Lauren Anderson led Annie into the book-lined living room. Classical music was playing, a violin concerto of some sort, but Annie didn’t recognize it. Banks would have done, she thought. Lauren was bare-foot, wearing ice-blue jeans and a white sleeveless top. Her shoulders were pale and freckled, like her face. Her mane of auburn hair was fastened behind her head by a leather barrette. “What do you want?” she asked. “Have you caught them?”
“I think so. But first sit down and listen to what I have to say. You can correct me if I’m wrong about anything.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You will in a minute. Sit down, Lauren.” Annie crossed her legs and leaned back in the armchair. She had worked out how to approach Lauren on the drive back from Harrogate, then made a couple of phone calls and picked up DC Winsome Jackman, whom she had instructed to stay outside in the car for the time being. She didn’t expect any trouble, and it would be easier for her to talk to Lauren alone. “We know where Luke was shortly before he was killed,” she began. “Did he ever mention a girl called Liz Palmer to you?”
“No. Why?”
“Are you sure? She meant a lot to Luke.”
Lauren shook her head. “No, that can’t be true. I don’t believe you.”
“Why not, Lauren? Why can’t it be true?”
“Luke…he didn’t…he wasn’t like that. He was devoted to art.”
“Oh, come off it, Lauren. He was just a randy adolescent, like any other. This Liz was a bit older than him and she–”
“No! Stop it. I won’t listen to this.”
“What’s the problem, Lauren?”
“I won’t have you tarnishing Luke’s memory.”
“Tarnishing? What’s so wrong about a fifteen-year-old boy losing his virginity to an older woman? It’s a time-honoured tradition, even if it is technically having sex with a minor. Who cares about a few petty rules and regulations? Especially if it’s the boy who’s underage and not the woman. At least we know now Luke got to enjoy the pleasures of sex before he died.”
“I don’t know why,” Lauren said, looking into Annie’s eyes, “but you’re lying to me. There is no ‘Liz.’”
“Yes there is. I can introduce you.”
“No.”
“What is it, Lauren? Jealous?”
“Luke meant a lot to me. You know he did. He was so talented.”
“It was more than that, though, wasn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You were lovers, weren’t you?”
Lauren hesitated for a moment, then said, “What if we were? Are you going to arrest me for that?”
“No. I’m going to arrest you for murder.”
Lauren jerked upright. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m serious all right. You see, Liz and her boyfriend live about five minutes’ walk away from here, and Luke was distraught when he left their flat. I asked myself, where would he go? Maybe it took me too long to come up with the right answer, the only possible answer, but that was because of the clever smokescreen you put up. The kidnapping. We thought we were looking for a man or someone closer to home. But Luke couldn’t have gone home because the last bus had gone and we checked all the taxis. We suspected his music teacher, Alastair Ford, too. But Luke couldn’t have gone to his house because it’s so remote, and he had no means of getting there. That leaves you, Lauren. Luke didn’t have a wide circle of friends and acquaintances. Also, he was very upset. You’re the one he talked to about his emotional problems. How long had you been lovers, Lauren?”
Lauren sighed. “Near the end of term. It just happened. It was so…so natural. I wasn’t trying to seduce him or anything like that.” Annie could see tears clouding her eyes. “We were looking at some pictures. Pre-Raphaelites. He remarked on my resemblance to one of the models.”
“Elizabeth Siddal, Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s first wife. You do look a lot like her, Lauren. Or a lot like the paintings of her. A typical Pre-Raphaelite beauty, as someone said.”
“You know?”
“I should have made the connection sooner,” Annie said. “My father’s an artist, and I do a bit of painting myself. I’ve picked up a thing or two over the years.”
“But how could you have known?”
“We found Luke’s shoulder-bag at the other flat, too. I read over his recent writings and found a lot of classical references I didn’t understand. One thing I did understand is that they were of a sexual nature, very intimate, and they stressed a kind of Pre-Raphaelite look. There were also references to Ophelia, but I don’t think it was Shakespeare Luke had in mind. It was John Everett Millais. He painted Ophelia and used Elizabeth Siddal as a model. She caught pneumonia, lying in a tepid bath every day posing as Ophelia floating down the river. Very romantic. But what I don’t understand is why. Why did you do it, Lauren? Why did you kill him? Was he going to leave you?”
“You don’t understand anything. I didn’t kill him. You’ve got no proof. I’ve got an alibi. Talk to Vernon.”
“I’ve already talked to Vernon,” said Annie, “and I’d trust him about as far as I could throw him. Your brother lied for you, Lauren. Only natural. But I’m willing to bet that he’s the one who helped you get rid of the body. You couldn’t have done it all by yourself. And he’s the one who hatched the kidnapping scheme. That had all the hallmarks of an afterthought. It wasn’t the reason for Luke’s disappearance and death. Your brother thought he’d try and cash in on it and he’s small-time enough to ask for only ten thousand. Besides, you’d probably talked about Luke and told him the family wasn’t quite as wealthy as people assumed. He’s a gambler, Lauren. And a loser. He needs the money. I talked to his bookie. Your brother’s in debt up to his eyeballs. Did you even know what he’d done after he’d helped you?”
Lauren looked down into her lap. Her fingers were twined together, grasping so tightly all the knuckles were white. She shook her head. “I don’t believe Vernon would do anything like that.”
“But you must have suspected, after you heard about the kidnap demand?”
“It confused me. I didn’t know what was going on. Maybe I had my suspicions, I don’t know. I was too upset to think about it.”
“The thing is,” Annie went on, “that our Scene-of-Crimes officers found minute traces of blood on the wall where Luke was shoved over into Hallam Tarn. Minute, but enough to provide a DNA profile. I think that profile would match you or your brother. I’m also certain that when our men come in here and go over your place, they’ll find traces of Luke’s blood. Now, that might not be conclusive in itself, as we know Luke was punched in the nose before he came here, but it’s all starting to add up, Lauren.”
Lauren looked at Annie, her eyes red-rimmed and almost unbearably sad. “I didn’t kill him,” she said, in a small, distant voice. “I would never have harmed Luke. I loved him.”
“What happened, Lauren?”
Lauren reached for her cigarettes and lit one. Then she eyed Annie sadly and began her story.
“Do you think I might have a word alone with your husband?” Banks asked Mrs. Marshall at her house that evening.
“Bill? I don’t know what he can tell you,” she said. “You know he can’t talk.”
“There might be one or two little things.” Banks looked at the invalid who, judging by the hard expression in his eyes, certainly knew he was being talked about. “Can he write?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Marshall. “But he can’t hold a pencil properly. He can only grasp it in his fist and scribble a few letters.”
“That’ll do,” said Banks. “Can you get me a pad and pencil, if it’s no trouble?”
Mrs. Marshall brought Banks a lined pad and a pencil from the sideboard drawer.
“Come on,” said Michelle, taking her arm and leading her towards the kitchen. “Let’s go make some tea. I’ve got a few things to tell you.” Banks and Michelle had agreed on a sanitized version of events to tell Mrs. Marshall. If the media dug too deeply and the story hit the news, then she might find out more than she wanted about her son’s life and death, but that was for the future. Now, maybe it was enough for Michelle to tell her that Donald Bradford killed Graham because he found out something about Bradford’s illegal activities.
When they had gone into the kitchen and closed the door, Banks put the pad and pencil on Bill Marshall’s knee and settled in front of him, gazing into the expressionless eyes. “I think you know why I want to talk to you,” he said.
Bill Marshall made no sign that he understood.
“You used to spar with Reggie and Ronnie Kray in your younger days,” he said. “Then, when you came up here, you fell in with Carlo Fiorino and did a few strong-arm jobs for him. Am I right? Can you nod or write something down?”
Bill Marshall did nothing.
“Okay, so that’s how you want to play it,” Banks said. “Fine. I’m not saying you had anything to do with Graham’s death. You didn’t. You’d never have done anything like that. But you knew who did it, didn’t you?”
Bill Marshall just stared at Banks.
“See, the trouble with people like you, Bill, is they insist on working outside the law. You’ve no use for coppers, have you? Never have had, I shouldn’t think. Just like my own dad. Want to know what I think happened? Well, I’ll tell you anyway. I think Donald Bradford just wasn’t cut out to be a killer of young boys. I don’t think he had much choice in the matter, though. Fiorino pushed him into it. After all, Graham was his responsibility, and Graham was in a position to do a lot of serious damage. There was just too much at stake. Not just the empire as it existed then, but the future. The city was expanding, becoming a new town. Soon it would double in population. What an opportunity for a man like Fiorino. He supplied what people always seem to want, for a good price. Are you with me so far?”
Marshall just glared at Banks. A little drool slid down his stubbly chin.
“Fiorino had no use for the law, either, unless it was in his pay, so he used other people to do his dirty work. Shortly after the killing, Bradford sold up and moved out. Fiorino didn’t like that. Didn’t like people escaping his control, being out of his line of sight. Especially if they knew as much as Bradford did and were fast becoming unstable and unreliable. Bradford was guilt-ridden by what he had done. Also, I think he took some of Fiorino’s goods with him, though that’s just a minor matter. What really counted was that Bradford was out of sight and untrustworthy. And he knew too much.”
Marshall still showed no reaction. Banks could hear muffled voices from the kitchen. “So what does he do when he has a problem with Bradford? Well, he could pay for a hit, I suppose, and that’s one option. But he knows you. That’s an easier one. He knows that whatever you do, you’ll do it yourself, you won’t go running to the police. So he tells you that Bradford killed your son, though not on his orders. He convinces you that Bradford was a pervert. He also gives you Bradford’s address. Easy. All he had to do next was leave the rest up to you. Am I right so far, Bill?”
Banks could tell by the anger and hatred in Bill Marshall’s eyes that he was right. “You went up to Carlisle, didn’t you? Probably told everyone you were looking for work. Then you broke into Donald Bradford’s flat and waited for him to come home. You knew Bradford was a tough customer, so you attacked him from behind with a cosh. I don’t blame you, Bill. The man murdered your son. I’d want to do the same to anyone who harmed either of my children. But you let your wife suffer all those years. You knew Graham was dead and you knew who killed him. Maybe you didn’t know where the body was, but I’ll bet you could have found out. Instead, you went up there and murdered Bradford and said nothing to your wife or your daughter. All these years they’ve lived not knowing what happened to Graham. That’s unforgivable, Bill.” Banks nodded towards the pad. “What do you have to say about that? Come on, tell me something.”
Marshall held his gaze for a while, then grasped the pencil, moved his hand with difficulty and scrawled on the pad. When he had done, he handed it to Banks. There were three words in capital letters: FUCK OFF COPPER.
“He came to me, like you said,” Lauren Anderson began. “He was in a terrible state. He was upset because…well, you know why. I tried to calm him down and we went to…We just lay down on the bed together and I held him. I’d already realized I had to end it. I just hadn’t been able to find the courage. But I knew that it couldn’t go on. Someone would find out eventually, and that would be it. My career, reputation…everything. A fifteen-year-old boy and a twenty-nine-year-old woman. Taboo. I thought I’d got him calm enough, so I started talking about it, you know, how we should probably cool things for a while.”
“Did he tell you he’d been smoking cannabis earlier?”
“Cannabis? No. He never told me that. But that must be why he seemed so disoriented and excitable. I’d never seen him like that before. He scared me.”
“How did he react when you told him you wanted to finish the affair?” Annie asked, remembering that it hadn’t been too long ago when she had told Banks the same thing.
“He didn’t want to accept it. He said he couldn’t bear to lose me.” Lauren started crying. “He said he’d kill himself.”
“What happened next?”
She dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “He stormed off to the bathroom. I gave him a couple of minutes, then I heard all the things falling out of the cupboard into the sink, glass breaking, so I went after him.”
“Was the bathroom door locked?”
“No.”
“He was after the Valium?”
“You know?”
“We know he took some Valium shortly before he died, yes.”
“I have a prescription. But I suppose you know that, too?”
Annie nodded. “I checked.”
“He had the bottle open, and he poured some tablets into his hand and swallowed them. I went to him and struggled with him over the bottle. We fought, pulling and pushing each other, and then he went down. Just like that. He was in his socks, and the floor tiles can be slippery. His feet just went from under him and he hit his head on the side of the bath. I did what I could. I tried to revive him, mouth to mouth. I checked for a pulse and listened for his heartbeat, and then I even tried holding a mirror to his mouth. But it was no use. He was dead. So much blood.”
“What did you do then?”
“I didn’t know what to do. I panicked. I knew if any of it came out I’d be finished. I didn’t know where to turn, so I called Vernon. He said he’d come right away and not to do anything until he got here. The rest you know.”
“What happened to Luke’s mobile?”
“It fell out of his pocket in the car. Vernon took it.”
That explained the call to Armitage’s mobile. Vernon had looked up Martin Armitage’s number on Luke’s phone. He wasn’t to know that Luke would be unlikely to call his stepfather for anything. He could easily have driven to Eastvale to make the call, to avoid suspicion. It wasn’t far.
“Did you know about the ransom demand?”
Lauren shook her head. “No. I’d never agree to anything like that. And as I said, I was too upset to think about it. If anything, I thought it must be some sort of cruel practical joke. I’m so sorry for what happened.” She reached out and grasped Annie’s wrist. “You’ve got to believe me. I’d never have harmed Luke. I loved him. Maybe if I hadn’t been so insensitive, so selfish, and not tried to end it when he was so upset, or just held him the way he wanted, it might not have happened. I’ve relived that moment over and over again ever since it happened. I can’t sleep. I don’t know how I’m going to go back to work. Nothing seems to matter any more.”
Annie stood up.
“What are you going to do now?”
“I’m going to call in my partner from the car outside, and we’re going to make sure you know your rights before we take you to the police station to make a formal statement. We’ll also be sending a message to Harrogate police to pick up your brother.”
“What’s going to happen to me?”
“I don’t know, Lauren,” Annie said. Again, she was feeling shitty about doing her job. Harden up, she told herself. Maybe Lauren Anderson didn’t deliberately kill Luke, but she was at least partly responsible for his death, along with Liz Palmer and Ryan Milne. All adults who should have known better than to tamper with the feelings of a confused and disturbed fifteen-year-old. All of whom were selfish and used Luke for their own ends. Even if that end, at least in Lauren’s case, was love. A romantic imagination and adolescent lust could be a dangerous combination.
But maybe, Annie thought, if she didn’t feel pity for a woman in Lauren’s position, then she would lose some of her humanity. One of the things working with Banks had taught her was how to do the job without becoming callous and cynical, the way she had been going before she met him. Lauren would probably get off quite lightly, Annie told herself. If Luke had died during a struggle, the object of which was to stop him taking an overdose of Valium, and if Lauren had not known of her brother’s botched ransom demand, then she wouldn’t get a very stiff sentence.
Lauren would lose her job, though, and like Norman Wells, she would become a pariah for some–the seductress and corrupter of youth. And the family would suffer–Robin and Martin–as it was all dragged into the open. Because this would be a high-profile trial, no doubt about it. Neil Byrd’s son, a famous model and a sports star. Not a chance of escaping the media circus. It was a damn shame they couldn’t prosecute Liz and Ryan, Annie thought as she walked Lauren, head hung low, out to the car. They were at least as much to blame for what happened as Lauren was, if not more so. But it wasn’t her judgement to make.
“Jet Harris bent? I can’t believe it,” said Arthur Banks in the Coach and Horses early that evening. Banks had dragged him out there to tell him the full story, and they sat over their pints in the dreary, half-empty pub. Banks felt a craving for nicotine rush through his cells like a desperate need for air, but he pushed it aside. One day at a time. One craving at a time. It passed. People said the cravings got less and less powerful as time went on. But others said you were never rid of the habit. He knew people who had started again after they’d been off for ten years. One day at a time.
Arthur Banks stared at his son in disbelief. “Is this going to come out?” he asked.
“Probably,” said Banks. “We don’t actually hand our reports to the press, but they have their ways. Depends on the media interest.”
“Oh, there’ll be media interest around here, all right. Jet Harris, homo and bent copper.” He eyed Banks warily. “You sure you’re not going to hush it up, then?”
“Dad,” said Banks. “We don’t go in for cover-ups. At least I don’t, and nor does DI Hart. This investigation has cost her a lot. She’s only been at the division a couple of months and here she is, debunking the legend. Imagine how popular that’s going to make her around the place.” It had nearly cost Michelle her life, too, Banks thought. She would be safe from now on, he was certain, and not because of his melodramatic threat. Now Mandeville knew there were more people involved, he could hardly scare or kill off everyone. He would just have to take his chances that time had hidden his secrets.
“Why are you telling me?” Arthur Banks asked.
Banks sipped some beer. “Dad, you and mum have never really given me a chance, you know, ever since I joined the force. You’ve always pointed out the negative side of the job. I just wanted you to know that some of us aren’t crooked, that some of us take our work seriously. Even if it never comes out in public, at least you’ll know the truth, and you’ll know I told you.”
Arthur Banks paused for a moment, looking his son in the eye, then he said, “And did you also find out what happened to your friend Graham after all these years?”
“Yes. Well, DI Hart did most of the work. I just filled in the blanks.” Banks leaned forward. “But yes, Dad, I found out. It’s what I do. I don’t go around waving rolls of fivers at striking miners, I don’t beat up suspects in the cells, I don’t botch investigations into murdered black youths and I don’t steal confiscated drugs and sell them back on the street. Mostly, I push paper. Sometimes I catch murderers. Sometimes I fail, but I always do my damnedest.”
“So who did it?”
Banks told him.
“Donald Bradford! You’d have thought that would’ve been the first place they’d look.”
“That’s what made us suspect some sort of misdirection.”
“And Rupert Mandeville. That’ll make a nice headline.”
“If we can pin anything on him. Remember, it was a long time ago, and he’s hardly likely to confess.”
“Even so…Your pal Graham was up to no good, wasn’t he?”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know. He always seemed a bit shifty to me, that’s all. Like his father.”
“Well, Graham wasn’t exactly walking the straight and narrow, but that’s no excuse for killing him.”
“Course not.” Banks senior fell silent for a moment, contemplating his son through narrowed eyes. Then he let slip a thin smile. “You’ve stopped smoking, haven’t you?”
“I wasn’t going to tell anyone.”
“There’s not much you can slip past your own father.”
“Dad, have you been listening to me? All I’ve been trying to demonstrate to you all these years,” Banks went on, “is that I’ve been doing a decent, honest day’s work, just like you did.”
“And Jet Harris, local legend, was a bent copper?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re going to expose him.”
“Something like that.”
“Well,” said Arthur Banks, rubbing his hands together. “That’s all right, then. You’ll be having another pint, I suppose? On me, this time.”
Banks looked at his watch. “Better make it a half,” he said. “I’ve got a date.”
Was it the age of my innocence,
Or was it the lost land of Oz?
Was it only a foolish illusion,
The summer that never was?
Did I walk through the fields with the child in my arms
And the golden wheat over my head?
Did I feel my heart breaking under the weight?
Was my sweet sleeping boychild a burden, like lead?
I remember him crying the day he was born
And his hand like a spider that wouldn’t let go
And he wouldn’t let go and he wouldn’t let go
And the pain tore my heart out and filled me with woe.
Can a dreamer take hold of reality
And become a responsible man?
Can a killer become a lover
Or is he forever damned?
You can’t follow me where I’m going now
And you can’t go the places I’ve been
Don’t listen to the demons I’ve listened to
Or look into the darkness I’ve seen
There’s a field and a boy and the tall golden wheat
And eternity held in a day
But it’s so hard to hold and it’s so hard to reach
And forever rushing away
Was it the age of my innocence,
Or was it the lost land of Oz?
Was it only a foolish illusion,
The summer that never was?
Banks lay in bed late that night listening to Neil Byrd’s CD on his Walkman after dinner with Michelle and a phone call from Annie. “The Summer That Never Was” was the first song on the CD, though the liner notes said it was the last song Byrd had recorded, just weeks before his suicide. As Banks listened to the subtle interplay of words and music, all set against acoustic guitar and stand-up bass, with flute and a violin weaving in and out, like Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks, he felt the despair and defeat of the singer. He didn’t understand the song, didn’t know what all the tortured phrases meant, only that they were tortured.
Here was a man at the end of his tether. And he was thinking of his child, or of his own childhood. Or both.
Banks couldn’t even begin to imagine what this had meant to Luke Armitage when, his mind disoriented with strong cannabis, he had heard it for the first time in Liz and Ryan’s flat. Annie was right. How callous could the bastards be? Or stupid. It no doubt never even entered their addled minds what damage they might be doing. All they could think of was opening up Luke’s mind to his father’s music to further their careers, and everyone knew that drugs opened the doors of perception.
Banks remembered the Rimbaud quote written in silver on Luke’s black wall: “Le Poète se fait voyant par un long, immense et raisonné dérèglement de tous les sens.”
Well, had Luke become a seer? What had he seen? Was he trying to kill himself with the diazepam, or was he just trying to stop the pain?
In Banks’s mind, Luke Armitage and Graham Marshall became one. They might have died in different ways for different reasons–not to mention in different times–but they were just two kids lost in a grown-up world where needs and emotions were bigger than theirs, stronger and more complex than they could comprehend. Graham had tried to play the big leagues at their own game and lost, while Luke had tried to find love and acceptance in all the wrong places. He had lost, too. Accident though his death was, according to Annie, it was a tragic accident made up of many acts, each one of which was like a door closing behind Luke as he moved towards his fate.
Banks put the CD player on the bedside table, turned over and tried to go to sleep. He didn’t think it would be easy. The song had left him with such a feeling of desolation and loneliness that he ached with need for someone to hold and found himself wishing he had stayed at Michelle’s after their love-making. He almost took out his mobile and rang her, but it was past two in the morning, way too late. Besides, how would she react if he showed such neediness so early in their relationship? She’d probably run a mile, like Annie. And quite rightly.
He could hear his father snoring in the next room. At least there had been a reconciliation of sorts between the two of them. Though Arthur Banks would never actually admit anything, his attitude had changed since their drink together that evening. Banks could tell that his father had been proud of him for his success in solving Graham’s murder–though he insisted Michelle had done most of the work–and for not trying to cover up Jet Harris’s role. Proud for perhaps the first time in his life.
How strange it was to be at home in his old bed. As he drifted towards sleep, he imagined his mother calling him for school in the morning: “Hurry up, Alan, or you’ll be late!” In his dream, he fastened his tie as he dashed downstairs for a quick bowl of cornflakes and a glass of milk before picking up his satchel and meeting the others out in the street. But when he walked out of the door, Dave and Paul and Steve and Graham all stood there waiting for him with the bat, the ball and the wickets. The sun shone in a bright blue sky and the air was warm and fragrant. There was no school. They were on holiday. They were going to play cricket on the rec. “It’s summer, you fool,” Graham said, and they all laughed at him. The summer that never was.