Close to Home (7 page)

 

Banks met Annie at The Woolpack, a quiet pub in the tiny village of Maltham, about halfway between Gratly and Harksmere. On his way home from Manchester Airport, he had debated whether to call her, and he decided in the end it would be a good idea. He wanted to talk to someone about what he had just learned, and Annie was the only person he had told about the incident with the pervert down by the river. It shocked him to realize that he hadn't even told his ex-wife, Sandra, though they had been married for over twenty years.

It was drizzling when he pulled up in the market square car park shortly before nine o'clock. Annie's purple Astra
was nowhere in sight. He obeyed the sign and stepped on the disinfectant pad before entering the pub. Though there hadn't been an outbreak near Maltham itself, incidences of foot-and-mouth disease had occurred in some of the surrounding areas, and as a consequence strict, sometimes unpopular, measures had been brought in by the ministry. Many footpaths had been closed and access to the countryside limited. Also, as local farmers used the village pubs and shops, many of the owners had placed disinfectant mats on their doorsteps.

Maltham itself wasn't much of a place, though it did have a fine Norman church, and The Woolpack was one of those pubs that did good business mostly by virtue of its being on a busy road between tourist destinations. That meant most of the trade was transient, and during the day, so the few grizzled locals who stood around the bar turned as one and gawped when Banks entered. They did that every time. One of them must have recognized him and said something, because in no time at all they turned back to their pints and ignored him. Banks bought a pint of Black Sheep bitter and a packet of cheese and onion crisps and sat down near the door, as far from the bar as he could get. A couple of the other tables were taken, tourists renting local cottages, by the looks of them. Poor sods, they'd be going out of their minds with no footpaths to walk.

Christ, it was a long way from Greece, Banks thought. Hard to believe that at this time just two nights ago he had been drinking ouzo and nibbling
dolmades
with Alex in Philippe's taverna. They had drunk well into the small hours, knowing it was to be their last evening together, telling stories and soaking up the scented warmth of the air and the rhythm of the sea lapping at the quayside beside them. In the morning, Banks had looked for Alex by the harbor to say good-bye as he caught the early ferry to Piraeus, but his friend was nowhere to be seen. Probably nursing his hangover, Banks had thought, aware of the pounding in his own head.

The door opened, the men gawped again—with a bit more interest this time—and Annie entered in tight jeans and a light blue sleeveless top, bag slung over her shoulder. She pecked Banks on the cheek and sat down. Smelling her delicate grapefruit-scented shampoo and soap, and aware of the vague outlines of her nipples under the thin cotton, Banks felt a momentary rush of desire for her, but he held himself in check. That part of their relationship was over; they had moved on to something different. Instead, he went back to the bar and bought her a pint.

“Look at that tan,” Annie said when he sat down again, her laugh lines crinkling. “It's all right for some.”

“I'm sure you'll manage a week in Blackpool before summer's over,” said Banks.

“Dancing to the Wurlitzer in the Tower Ballroom? Donkey rides on the beach in the rain? Candy floss on the prom and a kiss-me-quick hat? I can hardly wait.” She leaned over and patted his arm. “It is good to see you again, Alan.”

“You, too.”

“So come on, then. Tell. How was Greece?”

“Magnificent. Magical. Paradisiacal.”

“Then what the bloody hell are you doing back in Yorkshire? You were hardly forthcoming on the phone.”

“Years of practice.”

Annie leaned back in her chair and stretched out her legs the way she did, crossing them at the slender ankles, where the thin gold chain hung, sipped some beer and almost purred. Banks had never met anyone else who could look so comfortable and at home in a hard chair.

“Anyway,” she said, “you're looking well. Less stressed. Even half a holiday seems to have had some effect.”

Banks considered for a moment and decided that he did feel much better than he had when he had left. “It helped put things in perspective,” he said. “And you?”

“Swimmingly. Thriving. The job's going well. I'm getting back into yoga and meditation. And I've been doing some painting again.”

“I kept you away from all that?”

Annie laughed. “Well, it's not as if you twisted my arm, but when you've got as little time as people in our line of work have, then something has to go by the wayside.”

Banks was about to make a sarcastic reference to that something being him this time, but he bit his tongue. He wouldn't have done that two weeks ago. The holiday really must have done him good. “Well,” he said, “I'm glad you're happy. I mean it, Annie.”

Annie touched his hand. “I know you do. Now what brings you back here in such a hurry? I hope it's not serious.”

“It is, in a way.” Banks lit a cigarette and went on to explain about the discovery of Graham Marshall's bones.

Annie listened, frowning. When Banks had finished, she said, “I can understand why you're concerned, but what can you do?”

“I don't know,” Banks said. “Maybe nothing. If I were the local police, I wouldn't want me sticking my nose in, but when I heard, I just felt…I don't know. It was a big part of my adolescence, Annie, Graham just disappearing like that, and I suppose it's a big part of me now, always has been. I can't explain, but there it is. I told you about the man by the river, the one who tried to push me in?”

“Yes.”

“If it was him, then maybe I can help them find him, if he's still alive. I can remember what he looked like. Odds are there could be a photo on file.”

“And if it wasn't him? Is that it? Is this the guilt you talked about before?”

“Partly,” said Banks. “I
should
have spoken up. But it's more than that. Even if it's nothing to do with the man by the river,
someone
killed Graham and buried his body. Maybe I can remember something, maybe there was something I missed at the time, being just a kid myself. If I can cast my mind back…Another?”

Annie looked at her glass. Half full. And she was driving. “No,” she said. “Not for me.”

“Don't worry,” said Banks, catching her anxious glance as he went to the bar. “This'll be my last for the evening.”

“So when are you going down there?” Annie asked when he came back.

“First thing tomorrow morning.”

“And you're going to do what, exactly? Present yourself at the local nick and offer to help them solve their case?”

“Something like that. I haven't thought it out yet. It'll hardly be high priority with the locals. Anyway, surely they'll be interested in someone who was around at the time? They interviewed me back then, you know. I remember it clearly.”

“Well, you said yourself they won't exactly welcome you with open arms, not if you go as a copper trying to tell them how to do their jobs.”

“I'll practice humility.”

Annie laughed. “You'd better be careful,” she said. “They might have you down as a suspect.”

“It wouldn't surprise me.”

“Anyway, it's a pity you're not sticking around. We might be able to use your help up here.”

“Oh? What's on?”

“Missing kid.”

“Another?”

“This one disappeared a bit more recently than your friend Graham.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Does it matter?”

“You know it does, Annie. Far more girls are abducted, raped and killed than boys.”

“A boy.”

“How old?”

“Fifteen.”

That was almost Graham's age when he disappeared, Banks thought. “Then the odds are good he'll turn up none the worse for wear,” he said, though Graham hadn't.

“That's what I told the parents.”

Banks sipped his beer. There were some compensations to being back in Yorkshire, he thought, looking around the quiet, cozy pub, hearing the rain patter on the windows, tasting the Black Sheep and watching Annie shift in her chair as she tried to phrase her concerns.

“He's an odd kid,” she said. “Bit of a loner. Writes poetry. Doesn't like sports. His room is painted black.”

“What were the circumstances?”

Annie told him. “And there's another thing.”

“What?”

“He's Luke Armitage.”

“Robin's boy? Neil Byrd's son?”

“Martin Armitage's stepson. Do you know him?”

“Martin Armitage? Hardly. Saw him play once or twice, though. I must say I thought he was overrated. But I've got a couple of CDs by Neil Byrd. They did a compilation three or four years ago, and they've just brought out a collection of outtakes and live performances. He really
was
very good, you know. Did you meet the supermodel?”

“Robin? Yes.”

“Quite the looker, as I remember.”

“Still is,” said Annie, scowling. “If you like that sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?”

“Oh, you know…skinny, flawless, beautiful.”

Banks grinned. “So what's the problem?”

“Oh, nothing. It's just me. He'll probably turn up safe and sound.”

“But you're worried?”

“Just a teeny bit.”

“Kidnapping?”

“It crossed my mind, but there's been no ransom demand yet. We searched the house, of course, just in case, but there was no sign he'd been back home.”

“We did talk to the Armitages about security when they first moved to Swainsdale Hall, you know,” Banks said. “They installed the usual burglar alarms and such, but be
yond that they said they just wanted to live a normal life. Nothing much we could do.”

“I suppose not,” Annie agreed. She brought out her notebook and showed Banks the French words she had copied down from Luke's wall. “Make any sense of this? It's awfully familiar, but I can't put my finger on it.”

Banks frowned as he peered at the text. It looked familiar to him, too, but he couldn't place it, either.
Le Poëte se fait voyant par un long, immense et raisonné dérèglement de tous les sens.
He tried to decipher it word by word, reaching far back into his memory for his grammar school French. Hard to believe now that he had been quite good at it at one time, even got a grade two in his O-Levels. Then he remembered. “It's Rimbaud, I think. The French poet. Something about the total disordering of all the senses.”

“Of course!” said Annie. “I could kick myself. Robin Armitage told me Luke was into Rimbaud, Baudelaire and Verlaine and all that stuff. What about these?” She named the subjects of Luke's posters. “I mean, I've heard of some of them, Nick Drake, for example, and I know Kurt Cobain was in Nirvana and killed himself, but what about the others?”

Banks frowned. “They're all singers. Ian Curtis used to sing with Joy Division. Jeff Buckley was Tim Buckley's son.”

“Used to? Was? There's an ominous past tense to all this, isn't there?”

“Oh, yes,” said Banks. “They all either committed suicide or died under mysterious circumstances.”

“Interesting.” Annie's mobile buzzed. Excusing herself, she walked over to the front door before taking it out of her shoulder bag and stepping outside. When she came back two minutes later she looked puzzled.

“Not bad news, I hope?” said Banks.

“No, not at all. Quite the opposite.”

“Do tell.”

“That was Robin. Robin Armitage. Apparently, Luke just rang them.”

“And?”

“He says he just needed some space, that he'll be back home tomorrow.”

“Did he say where he was?”

“Wouldn't tell them.”

“What are you going to do?”

Annie finished her drink. “I think I'd better go down the station, scale down the manhunt. You know how expensive these things are. I don't want Red Ron on my back for wasting our time and money.”

“Scale down?”

“Yes. Call me overly suspicious, if you like, but I'm not going to call off the search completely until I see Luke Armitage, safe and sound at home, with my own eyes.”

“I wouldn't call that overly suspicious,” said Banks. “I'd call it very sensible.”

Annie leaned forward and pecked Banks on the cheek again. “It really is good to see you again, Alan. Stay in touch.”

“I will,” said Banks, and he watched her walk out the door, hint of Body Shop grapefruit soap wafting behind her, the soft pressure of her kiss lingering on his cheek.

O
n the surface, it had seemed a simple enough question to ask: Where were the Graham Marshall case files? In reality, it was like searching for the Holy Grail, and it had taken Michelle and her DC, Nat Collins, the best part of two days.

After first trying Bridge Street, in the city center, which served as Divisional Headquarters until Thorpe Wood opened in 1979, Michelle and DC Collins drove from station to station all across the Northern Division—Bretton, Orton, Werrington, Yaxley, Hampton—discovering that some of them were relatively new, and that the premises used in 1965 had long since been demolished and covered over by new housing estates or shopping centers. What complicated matters even more was that the original forces—Cambridge, Peterborough, Ely and Huntingdon—had amalgamated into the Mid-Anglia Constabulary in 1965, necessitating a major overhaul and restructuring, and had become the present-day Cambridgeshire Constabulary in 1974.

As one helpful duty constable after another suggested possibilities, Michelle had begun to despair of ever finding the old paperwork. About the only bright spot on the horizon was that the weather had improved that morning, and the sun was poking its lazy way through greasy rags of cloud. But that made the air humid, and Michelle was about to throw in the towel around lunchtime. She'd drunk a bit too much
wine the previous evening, too—something that was happening rather too often these days—and the fact that she didn't feel a hundred percent didn't help much either.

When she finally did track the paperwork down, having sent DC Collins to Cambridge to make inquiries there, she could have kicked herself. It was deep in the bowels of Divisional Headquarters, not more than thirty feet or so below her office, and the civilian records clerk, Mrs. Metcalfe, proved to be a mine of information and let her sign out a couple of files. Why hadn't Michelle thought to look there in the first place? Easy. She had only been at Thorpe Wood for a short time, and no one had given her the grand tour; she didn't know that the basement was the repository for much of the county force's old paperwork.

The noise level was high in the open-plan squad room, phones ringing, men laughing at dirty jokes, doors opening and closing, but Michelle was able to shut it all out as she put on her reading glasses and opened the first folder, which contained maps and photos of the Hazels estate, along with a summary of any relevant witness statements that helped pin down Graham's progress on the morning of August 22, 1965.

One useful hand-drawn map showed Graham's paper round in detail, listing all the houses he delivered to and, for good measure, what newspapers they took. The poor lad must have had a hell of a heavy load, as many of the Sunday papers were bulky with magazines and supplements.

At the eastern end of the estate, Wilmer Road separated the Hazels from an area of older houses, soon to be demolished. It was at the T-junction between Wilmer and Hazel Crescent that Graham had delivered his last newspaper, a
News of the World,
to Mr. and Mrs. Halloran, who lived in the corner house.

The next delivery was supposed to be to one of the houses across the road, but the Lintons there said they never received their
Observer
that day. Nobody else on the other side of Wilmer Road received a newspaper that morning, either.

The anonymous mapmaker had also calculated that it would have been around 6:30
A
.
M
. when Graham, who started at 6
A
.
M
., got to that part of his round—daylight at that time of year, but still very early in the morning for any sort of traffic, including pedestrian. It was a Sunday, after all, the traditional morning for a lie-in after the excesses of Saturday night, and most of the customers said they were still in bed when their papers arrived.

Michelle looked at the old black-and-white photos. They depicted a very different scene from the one she had visited yesterday, after she had talked to the Marshalls. In 1965, across Wilmer Road, there had been a grim row of old shops, all boarded up and ready for demolition, but today a modern DIY center stood next to the new estate, which had replaced the old houses. The derelict shops looked like just the sort of place a kid might want to explore. Michelle checked the file to see if they had been searched. Of course they had. Dogs brought in, too. Not a trace.

Michelle tucked some strands of blond hair, which had been tickling her cheek, behind her ears and chewed at the end of her pen as she read over transcripts of the initial interviews. Nearly everything was typed, of course, except some of the documents that were handwritten, and the results looked strange, with the uneven pressure of the keys and the occasional blob of a deformed
e
or
g
. Such distinguishing features used to be very handy for identifying which machine a note had been typed on, Michelle reflected, before the anonymity of laser printers. Some of the papers were carbon copies, faint and often hard to read. Occasionally, illegible amendments had been made in pen or pencil between the lines, the original words scratched out. All in all, not a promising start.

Detective Superintendent Benjamin Shaw, now one of the senior officers at Thorpe Wood, was named once or twice as a detective constable on the case. Michelle knew that Shaw had started his career in Peterborough and had recently returned from six years with the Lincolnshire Constabulary,
but it still surprised her to see his name in connection with something that happened so long ago. Maybe she could have a word with him, see if he had any theories that hadn't made it into the files.

It seemed that the first person to miss Graham Marshall was his employer, Donald Bradford, owner of the newsagent's shop. Bradford lived some distance away from the shop and employed a local woman to open up, not arriving himself until eight o'clock. According to Bradford's statement, when Graham hadn't returned by eight-fifteen that Sunday, half an hour late for his second round on a neighboring estate, Bradford drove around the Wilmer Road Estate in search of him. He found nothing. Whatever had happened to Graham, his papers and his canvas bag were missing, too. Michelle was willing to bet that some of those scraps of cloth found with the bones came from Graham's newspaper sack.

After that, Donald Bradford called at Graham's house to see if the lad had become ill and hurried home without stopping to report in. He hadn't. Graham's parents, now also worried, searched the estate for their son and found nothing. With news of the Manchester child abductions still fresh in the public eye, both Bradford and the Marshalls were soon concerned enough to call in the police, and a short while after that, the official investigation began. Preliminary inquiries were carried out in the immediate area, and Detective Superintendent Harris was put in charge first thing the following day, when still no trace had been found of Graham, and the cumbersome but efficient mechanics of a police investigation groaned into action.

Michelle stretched and tried to work out a crick in her neck without success. It was hot in the office and her tights were killing her. DC Collins, just back from Cambridge, took pity on her and said, “I'm just off to the canteen, ma'm. Bring you anything?”

“I'd love a diet Coke, please,” said Michelle. “And maybe a slice of chocolate gâteau, if they've got any left.” She reached for her handbag.

“It's all right,” said Collins. “Pay me when I get back.”

Michelle thanked him, adjusted her tights as discreetly as possible below her desk and turned back to the files. As far as she could gather from a cursory glance, there hadn't been any leads at all. Police had interviewed everyone on Graham's round, along with all his friends, family and schoolteachers. None of it led anywhere. Graham was described, among other things, as being bright, cheeky, quiet, polite, rude, sweet-natured, foul-mouthed, talented and secretive. Which pretty much covered every eventuality.

Nobody on Wilmer Road had seen or heard anything unusual that morning—no screams, shouts or sounds of a struggle—though one person said he had heard a car door bang around half past six. There were no convenient dog walkers, and even the most devout of churchgoers, being for the most part Methodists or Low Anglican, were still in the Land of Nod. All the evidence, especially the missing paper sack, suggested that Graham had most likely got in a car willingly, with someone he knew, someone local. But who? And why?

DC Collins returned with Michelle's diet Coke. “No gâteau, I'm afraid,” he said, “so I brought you a Danish instead.”

“Thanks,” said Michelle, who didn't like Danish but paid him anyway, nibbled at it awhile, then dropped the rest in her waste bin and went back to her files. The Coke tin was cold and wet, so she pressed it against her flushed cheek and enjoyed the icy sensation, then she did the same with her other cheek and her forehead.

The police at the time didn't neglect the possibility that Graham might have run away under his own steam, dumping the sack of papers somewhere and heading for the bright lights of London like so many young lads had in the mid-sixties, but they could find nothing at all to support this theory. His home life seemed happy enough, and none of his friends suggested that he was at all interested in running away from home. The sack was never found, either. Even so,
missing persons reports went out all over the country, and there were the usual sightings, none of which amounted to anything.

The interviews also turned up nothing, and police checks into the records of several estate dwellers drew a blank. Michelle could read a little excitement between the lines when police discovered that one of the deliveries on Graham's route was the house of a man who had served time for exposing himself in a local park, but subsequent interviews—no doubt involving some very rough business, knowing police methods of the time and Jet Harris's reputation as a tough guy—led nowhere, and the man was exonerated.

Michelle slipped off her reading glasses and rubbed her tired eyes. At first glance, she had to admit that it seemed very much as if Graham Marshall had disappeared into the void. But she knew one thing that the police hadn't known in 1965. She had seen his bones, and she knew that Graham had been murdered.

 

Annie Cabbot drove out to Swainsdale Hall mid-morning to tie up a few loose ends with the Armitages. The sun had come to the Yorkshire Dales at last, and wraiths of mist rose from the roadsides and the fields that stretched up the dale-sides. The grass was bright green after so much rain, and the limestone walls and buildings shone clean gray. The view from the front of Swainsdale Hall was magnificent, and Annie could see plenty of blue sky beyond Fremlington Edge, with only a few light fluffy clouds scudding by on the breeze.

The Armitages must be relieved, Annie thought as she got out of her car. Of course, they would be happier when Luke arrived back home, but at least they knew he was safe.

Josie answered the door and seemed surprised to see her. There was no sign of Miata this time, but Annie could hear the dog barking from the back of the house.

“Sorry I didn't phone ahead,” Annie said. “Are they in?”

Josie stood aside and let Annie walk through to the same large living room she had been in yesterday. Only Robin Armitage was there this time, sitting on the sofa flipping through a copy of
Vogue
. She jumped to her feet when Annie entered and smoothed down her skirt. “It's you again. What's happened? Is something wrong?”

“Calm down, Mrs. Armitage,” said Annie. “Nothing's happened. I came to see if you're all right.”

“All right? Of course I am. Why shouldn't I be? Luke's coming home.”

“May I sit down?”

“Please.”

Annie sat, but Robin Armitage stayed on her feet, pacing. “I'd have thought you'd be relieved,” Annie said.

“I am,” said Robin. “Of course I am. It's just that…well, I'll be a lot more settled when Luke's back home again. I'm sure you understand.”

“Have you heard from him again?”

“No. Only the once.”

“And he definitely said he's coming home today?”

“Yes.”

“I'd like to talk to him when he gets back, if that's all right.”

“Certainly. But why?”

“We like to follow up on these matters. Just routine.”

Robin stood up and folded her arms, making it clear that she wanted Annie to leave. “I'll let you know the minute he's back.”

Annie remained seated. “Mrs. Armitage, you told me yesterday that Luke said he needed some space. Do you know why?”

“Why?”

“Yes. You told me he's a normal teenager, and there's nothing wrong in the family, so why would he run off like that, worry the two of you half to death?”

“I hardly think that's relevant now, do you, Detective In
spector Cabbot?” Annie turned to see Martin Armitage standing in the doorway, briefcase in hand. “Why are you here? What is it?” Despite his commanding presence, he seemed edgy to Annie, like his wife, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he stood there, as if he had to go to the toilet.

“Nothing,” she said. “Just a friendly visit.”

“I see. Well, thank you for your efforts and your concern. We really do appreciate it, but I can see no point in your coming and badgering us with more questions now that Luke's safe and sound, can you?”

Interesting choice of words,
badgering,
Annie thought. Most families wouldn't see it that way, not with their son missing.

He glanced at his watch. “Anyway, I'm afraid I have to hurry off to a business meeting. It's been nice to see you again, Inspector, and thank you again.”

“Yes, thank you,” echoed Robin.

Dismissed
. Annie knew when she was beaten. “I was just leaving,” she said. “I only wanted to make sure everything was okay. I didn't mean to cause offense.”