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Perhaps the bonds of adolescence weren't any more shallow than those of adulthood, Banks mused, but it had sure as hell been easier to make friends back then. Now, as he looked from one to the other—Paul growing more red-faced and camp, Dave, lips tight, barely able to keep his homo
phobia in check—Banks decided it was time to leave. They had lived apart for over thirty years and would continue to do so without any sense of loss.

When Banks said he had to go, Dave took his cue, and Paul said he wasn't going to sit there by himself. The rain had stopped and the night smelled fresh. Banks wanted a cigarette but resisted. As they walked the short distance back to the estate, none of them said much, sensing perhaps that tonight marked the end of something. Finally, Banks got to his parents' door, their first stop, and said good night. They all made vague lies about keeping in touch and then walked back to their own separate lives.

 

Michelle was eating warmed-up chicken casserole, sipping a glass of sauvignon blanc and watching a television documentary on ocean life when her telephone rang late that evening. She was irritated by the interruption, but thinking it might be Banks, she answered it.

“Hope I didn't disturb you,” Banks said.

“No, not at all,” Michelle lied, putting her half-eaten food aside and turning down the volume with the remote control. “It's good to hear from you.” And it was.

“Look, it's a bit late, and I've had a few drinks,” he said, “so I'd probably better not drop by tonight.”

“You men. You take a girl to bed once, and then it's back to your mates and your beer.”

“I didn't say I'd had
too
much to drink,” Banks replied. “In fact, I think I'll phone for a taxi right now.”

Michelle laughed. “It's all right. I'm only teasing. Believe me, I could do with an early night. Besides, you'll only get in trouble with your mother. Did you find out anything from your old pals?”

“A bit.” Banks told her about Bradford's “Dirty Don” epithet and the rumors they used to hear about the Mandeville house.

“I've heard of that place recently,” Michelle said. “I don't
know if Shaw mentioned it, or if I read about it in some old file, but I'll check up on it tomorrow. Who'd have thought it? A house of sin. In Peterborough.”

“Well, I suppose, strictly speaking, it's outside the city limits,” said Banks. “But going by the photo I found in Graham's guitar and the information you got from Jet Harris's ex-wife, I think we'd better look into anything even remotely linked with illicit sex around the time of Graham's murder, don't you?”

“That's it!” Michelle said. “The connection.”

“What connection?”

“The Mandeville house. It was something to do with illicit sex. At least it was illicit back then. Homosexuality. There was a complaint about goings-on at the Mandeville house. I read about it in the old logs. No further action taken.”

“Tomorrow might turn into a busy day, then,” said Banks.

“All the more reason to get an early night. Can you stick around to help, or do you have to head back up north?”

“One more day won't do any harm.”

“Good. Why don't you come to dinner tomorrow?”

“Your place?”

“Yes. If I can tempt you away from your mates in the boozer, that is.”

“You don't have to offer dinner to do that.”

“Believe it or not, I'm quite a good cook if I put my mind to it.”

“I don't doubt it for a moment. Just one question.”

“Yes?”

“I thought you told me you hadn't seen
Chinatown
.”

Michelle laughed. “I remember saying no such thing. Good night.” And she hung up, still laughing. She noticed the photo of Ted and Melissa from the corner of her eye and felt a little surge of guilt. But it soon passed, and she felt that unfamiliar lightness again, a buoyancy of spirit. She was tired, but before calling it a night, she went into the kitchen, pulled out a box of books and flipped through them before
putting them on her shelves. Poetry for the most part. She loved poetry. Including Philip Larkin. Then she hefted out a boxful of her best china and kitchenware. Looking around at the mostly empty cabinets, she tried to choose the best place for each item.

A
ll the way to Swainsdale Hall Annie worried about what she was going to say to the Armitages. Their son had lived a good part of his life unknown to them, mixed with people they didn't know and wouldn't approve of, especially Martin. But don't all kids? Annie had grown up in an artists' commune near St. Ives, and some of the people she had mixed with would have made Martin Armitage's hair stand on end. Even so, she hadn't told her father about the wild group she took up with one summer, whose idea of fun was a Saturday-afternoon shoplifting expedition in town.

The view over Swainsdale looked gloomy that morning in the low cloud and impending rain, dull gradations of gray and green. Even the patches of yellow rapeseed on the far hillsides looked jaundiced. As Annie rang the doorbell, she felt a surge of anxiety at the thought of seeing Martin Armitage again. It was foolish, she knew; he wasn't going to assault her—not in front of his wife—but she still had an aching jaw, two loose teeth and an upcoming dentist's appointment by which to remember their last meeting.

Josie opened the door and the dog sniffed Annie's crotch as she walked in. Josie collared it and took it away. Only Robin Armitage sat on the large living room sofa in jeans and a navy-blue top, flipping through a copy of
Vogue
. Annie breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe Martin was out. She'd have to talk to him, but a little procrastination
wouldn't do any harm. Robin wore no makeup and seemed to have grown older since Luke's death. She looked as if a strong gust of wind would blow her away. She stood up when Annie entered, gave her a thin smile and bade her sit down. She asked Josie to bring in some coffee.

“Is your husband not home?” Annie asked.

“He's in his study. I'll ask Josie to send for him when she brings the coffee. Are you making any progress?”

“Some,” said Annie. “That's why I wanted to talk to you both again, ask you a few questions.”

“Are you all right? Your mouth still looks bruised.”

Annie put her hand up to her jaw. “I'm fine.”

“I'm really sorry for what happened. I know Martin is absolutely guilt-stricken.” She managed a weak smile. “It'll take him all his courage to come down and face you again.”

“No hard feelings,” Annie said, which wasn't exactly the truth, but there was no point taking it out on Robin.

Josie came in with the coffee and digestive biscuits on a tray and Robin asked her to call Mr. Armitage down. When he walked into the living room a couple of minutes later, Annie felt a wave of panic. It passed, but it left her heart pounding and her mouth dry. This was ridiculous, she told herself, but her body couldn't help but respond that way to whatever aura of violence Martin Armitage emanated. It just seemed closer to the surface in him than in most people.

Naturally, he was contrite and embarrassed. “Please accept my apologies,” he said. “I don't know what came over me. I've never laid a finger on a woman before.” Robin patted his knee.

“It's all right,” said Annie, eager to move on.

“Of course, if there are any medical expenses…”

“Don't worry about it.”

“How's Mr. Wells?”

Annie had talked with the hospital and discovered that, while Norman Wells's physical injuries were healing well, the psychological damage went a lot deeper. He seemed, they said, to be suffering from depression. He couldn't
sleep, but he didn't want to get out of bed, had no interest in food and seemed unconcerned about his future. Hardly surprising, Annie thought, given what the poor sod had been through over the past week or so. And now the newspapers had got hold of the story, there'd be no more bookshop for Wells. Once everyone knew what he had been accused of, nobody would go down there, or if they did, it would only be to cause damage. Norman Wells would become a pariah.

“He'll be fine,” Annie said. “Actually, I have a few more questions for the both of you.”

“I can't imagine what more we can tell you,” said Robin. “But please go ahead.”

“First of all, do either you or your husband have a prescription for Valium or any other form of diazepam?”

Robin frowned. “Martin doesn't, but I do. Nerves.”

“Have you noticed any missing lately?”

“No.”

“Would you?”

“Of course.” Robin reached for her handbag on the sofa beside her and took out a small plastic container. “Here they are,” she said. “Look. Almost full. Why do you ask?”

Annie looked, then dunked her digestive biscuit in her coffee. Though she had to eat it carefully, avoiding the loose teeth, it tasted good, and it gave her a moment to phrase her response to avoid using images that might upset Robin. “It's just that the pathologist found traces in Luke's system,” she said—it sounded better than “stomach contents.” “We were wondering where he got it from.”

“Luke? Valium? Certainly not from us.”

“And I assume he didn't have a prescription of his own?”

Martin and Robin looked at each other, frowning. “Of course not,” said Robin. “Someone else must have given him it.”

“Is that what killed him?” Martin Armitage asked.

“No,” said Annie. “It's just another complication I'd like to get out of the way, that's all.”

“I'm sorry we can't help you,” said Robin.

Annie struggled to phrase her next question, too. Talking to these two was like walking on eggs, but it had to be done. “Mrs. Armitage—Robin—you know Luke was confused about his biological father, don't you?”

“Neil? Well, yes, I suppose…But, I mean, Luke never knew him.”

“Surely you knew he must have wondered what happened, why his father didn't want him?”

“It wasn't like that. Neil just couldn't cope. He was a child himself in so many ways.”

“And a drug addict.”

“Neil wasn't an addict. He used drugs, but they were just a sort of tool for him, a means to an end.”

Annie didn't bother arguing that that was what they were for most people; it would be easier if she took Neil Byrd's exalted artistic status in her stride, especially when talking to Robin. “But you knew Luke couldn't listen to his music, didn't you?”

“I never asked him to. I don't listen to it myself anymore.”

“Well, he couldn't,” Annie said. “Any reference to Neil Byrd or his music upset him. Did he ever talk to either of you about any friends of his called Liz and Ryan?”

“Not to me, no,” said Robin. “Martin?”

Martin Armitage shook his head.

“He was in a band with them. Didn't you know?”

“No,” said Robin. “He didn't tell us.”

“Why would he keep it from you?”

Robin paused and looked at her husband, who shifted in his seat and spoke, “Probably because we'd already had arguments about that sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?”

“I thought Luke was devoting far too much of his time to poetry and music, and that he ought to get more involved in team sports, get more exercise. He was starting to look pasty-faced from spending all his time indoors.”

“How did he react to this?”

Martin looked at Robin, then back at Annie. “Not well.
We had a bit of an argument about it. He insisted he was the best judge of how to spend his time.”

“Why didn't you tell me any of this earlier?”

“Because it didn't seem relevant. It still doesn't.” Martin sat forward and stared at her with that intense, disconcerting look of his. “Someone kidnapped Luke and murdered him, and all you can do is ask questions about Neil Byrd and my relationship with Luke.”

“I think I'm the best judge of what questions I should be asking, Mr. Armitage,” said Annie, aware of her heart pounding again. Surely they could all hear it. “Did you agree with your husband?” she asked Robin.

“Sort of. But I didn't want to stand in the way of Luke's creative development. If I'd known about the band, I would have been concerned. I wouldn't have wanted him getting into that kind of life. Believe me, I've seen it at first hand. I've been there.”

“So you wouldn't have been thrilled, either, if you'd known that Luke was playing in a group?”

“No.”

“Was drug use a concern?”

“We warned him about drugs, of course, and he swore he didn't take them.”

“He didn't,” Annie said. “At least not until the day he disappeared.”

Robin's eyes widened. “What are you saying? You know how he died?”

“No. No, we don't know that yet. All we know is that he was with two friends, that he took some drugs and they played him his father's music. Luke got upset and left. We still don't know where he went after that.”

Robin put her coffee cup down in the saucer. Some of the coffee spilled. She didn't notice. “I can't believe it,” she said.

“Who are these people?” Martin butted in.

“And what will you do if I tell you, Mr. Armitage?” Annie said. “Go and beat them up?”

Armitage's chin jutted out as he spoke. “It's no less than they deserve if what you say is true. Giving my son drugs.”

“Mr. Armitage,” Annie said. “What did you do when you went out for two hours the night Luke disappeared?”

“I told you. I just drove around looking for him.”

“Drove where?”

“Eastvale.”

“Any particular areas or streets?”

“I don't remember. I just drove around. Why is it important?”

Annie's chest felt tight, but she forged ahead. “Did you find him?”

“Of course I didn't. What are you talking about? If I'd found him, he'd be here safe and sound right now, wouldn't he?”

“I've seen a demonstration of your temper, Mr. Armitage.” There, it was out. “I also know from talking to several people that you and your stepson didn't get along very well.”

“What are you suggesting?”

Armitage's tone chilled Annie, but it was too late to stop now. “That if anything happened that evening…Some sort of…accident…then it's better to tell me now than have me find out by some other means.”

“Accident? Let me get this straight. Are you asking me if I found Luke, picked him up in my car, then lost my temper and killed him?”

“I'm asking you if you did see him that night, yes, and if anything happened between you that I should know about.”

Armitage shook his head. “You really are a piece of work, DI Cabbot. First you act rashly and probably cause my son's death, then you accuse
me
of killing him. For your information, I did exactly what I told you. I drove around Eastvale looking for Luke. It was probably pointless, I know, but I had to do something. I needed to act. I couldn't just sit around and wait. I didn't find him. All right?”

“Fine,” said Annie.

“And I resent your accusation.”

“I haven't accused you of anything.”

Martin Armitage stood up. “It shows how little progress you've made, scraping the bottom of the barrel like this. Will that be all? I'm going back to my study now.”

Annie felt relieved when Armitage had left the room.

“That was cruel,” said Robin. “Martin loved Luke like his own son, did his best for the boy, even if they didn't always agree. Luke was no angel, you know. He could be difficult.”

“I'm sure he could,” said Annie. “All teenagers can. And I'm sorry I had to ask those questions. Police work can be uncomfortable at times, but the solution often lies close to home, and we'd be derelict in our duty if we didn't pursue such lines of inquiry. Did you know that Luke had a girlfriend?”

“Certainly not.”

“He never said anything to you?”

“I don't even believe he had a girlfriend.”

“Everyone says he was mature for his age, and he was a good-looking boy, too. Why shouldn't he?”

“He just never…”

“It might have been someone he didn't feel he could bring home to meet his parents. Maybe even Liz Palmer, the girl in the group.”

“You think that's why he was killed? Because of this
girl?
”

“We don't know. It's just one possibility we've been looking at. What about Lauren Anderson?”

“Miss Anderson? But she was his English teacher. You can't think…”

“I don't know. It's not as if these things don't happen. Rose Barlow?”

“Rose? The head teacher's daughter? Well, she came round to the house once, but it was all perfectly innocent.”

“Rose Barlow came to your house? Why didn't you tell me?”

“But it was ages ago.”

“February? March?”

“Around that time. Yes. How do you know?”

“Because somebody else noticed Luke and Rose were spending time together then, thought maybe they were going out together.”

“I don't think so,” said Robin. “It was something to do with a school project.”

“Did she visit often?”

“Only the once.”

“And she never came back?”

“No.”

“Did Luke ever talk about her?”

“Except to say that he'd ended up doing most of the project himself, no. Look, I don't understand all this, all your questions. Don't you think he just wandered off and someone kidnapped him?”

“No,” said Annie. “I don't think that's what happened at all.”

“Then what?”

Annie stood up to leave. “Give me a little more time,” she said. “I'm getting there.”

 

Michelle had made three important discoveries before lunch that day, and it seemed a nice goal to set oneself. Who was it, she tried to remember, who had made it a point to believe six impossible things before breakfast? Was it Alice in
Through the Looking Glass
?

Well, the things Michelle had discovered were far from impossible. First, she had gone back to the log book for the summer of 1965 and found the reference to the Mandeville house. On the first of August that year, an anonymous informant had telephoned the station with allegations of underage sex and homosexuality. The possibility of drug-taking was also mentioned. A young DC called Geoff Talbot had gone out to make inquiries and had arrested two men he said he found naked together in a bedroom there. After that, noth
ing more appeared on the case except a note that all charges were dropped and an official apology issued to Mr. Rupert Mandeville, who, she discovered from an Internet search, had served as a Conservative Member of Parliament from 1979 to 1990 and was granted a life peerage in 1994.