The Summer That Never Was (35 page)

“But they never thought we’d search their flat.”

“Why would they? They didn’t even know that anyone had seen Luke with Liz.”

“What about the vicar at that church where they practised?”

Annie rolled her eyes. “Winsome talked to him. Said he’s so otherworldly he hadn’t a clue who Luke Armitage was or that he’d disappeared.”

“Would Liz and Ryan have killed Luke for his stuff?” he asked.

“I don’t think so, sir. That’s the problem. Whichever way you look at it, they’d be far better off with Luke alive.
He
would have been the real draw. Without him, well…they’re simply doing the best they can.”

“So they had nothing to gain by killing him?”

“No. Not unless he was intending to walk out on them, for example, and take all his works with him. One of them could have lost it with him then. Or, as I suggested earlier, unless there was some sort of romantic relationship and Ryan found out.”

“A
crime passionel
? I suppose so. Wouldn’t be the first time. We can’t discount anything yet. Let’s just give them a bit of time, hope forensics turn up something, and have at them again in the morning.”

“Good idea, sir.” Annie finished her pint.

“Annie, before you go…?”

“Sir?”

“I don’t mean to pry, but you and Alan…?”

“Just colleagues, sir. And friends.”

Gristhorpe seemed pleased with her answer. “Aye,” he said. “Good. Good. Get some sleep, lass. I’ll see you bright and early in the morning.”

The pub was closer to the riverside than the city centre, though even that wasn’t very far. Banks parked by the Rivergate Centre and walked the rest of the way. It was a pleasant evening, not a leaf stirring in the warm air. The sunset painted the sky bright orange and crimson. Banks could see Venus low on the horizon, and the constellations were slowly taking shape overhead. He wished he could recognize them all, but he could only make out Hercules. That made him think of those dreadful spaghetti spectacles he used to love in the early sixties, with cheap special effects, Steve Reeves and a scantily clad Sylva Koscina.

Michelle was five minutes late, and Banks had already settled at a small corner table with a pint of bitter. The lounge was small and smoky, but most of the people stood at the bar, and the video-game machines were mercifully silent. Piped music played softly, some sort of modern pop stuff Banks didn’t recognize. Michelle was wearing tight black trousers and a green blouse tucked in at the waist. She carried a tan suede jacket slung over her shoulder. Banks had never seen her dressed so casually before. Hadn’t seen her looking as good, either. She’d had her hair done, he noticed: nothing drastic, just tidied up a bit, the fringe trimmed, highlights renewed. And she wore a little makeup, just enough to accentuate her green eyes and high cheekbones.

She seemed self-conscious of her appearance because she wouldn’t meet his eyes at first. Only when he had
offered a drink, and she asked for a dry white wine, did she favour him with a look and a shy smile.

“Thanks for coming,” Michelle said, when Banks placed the drink in front of her and sat down.

“My pleasure,” said Banks. “I’d have come tomorrow for the service, anyway, so another evening doesn’t make much difference.”

“I know you’re busy.”

“I’m covered. Besides, we had a lucky break just before I set off.” Banks told her about finding Luke Armitage’s bag at Liz Palmer’s flat.

“Poor kid,” said Michelle. “He wasn’t much older than Graham Marshall, was he?”

“A year or so.”

“Why would anyone want to kill a boy that age? What could he possibly have done?”

“I don’t know. I suppose that’s why we assume it’s a pedophile when the victim’s so young. We can easily imagine older people being killed for other motives, for greed or to cover up something, but it’s hard with kids. Anyway, it looked like a kidnapping, but I have my doubts. What about you? Any more news?”

Michelle gave him the gist of her conversation with retired DI Robert Lancaster in London, especially his remarks about Graham seeming streetwise beyond his years.

“So your ex-copper thought Graham had a future in crime, did he?” Banks said. “Interesting, that.”

“Why? Have you remembered something?”

“Nothing, really. Just that Graham never seemed short of money, and I’d no idea where he got it from.”

“There’s something else,” Michelle said. She seemed hesitant, Banks thought, unwilling to meet his eyes.

“Yes?”

“Someone was in my flat on Saturday, while I was down in London.”

“Anything taken?”

“Not as far as I can tell, just a few things out of place. But whoever it was had also been having a good look at my computer files.”

Banks got the impression that she wasn’t telling him everything, but he didn’t pursue it. If there was something she was omitting, it was probably for a good reason, such as personal embarrassment. She’d hardly want to tell him if someone had been going through her undies, would she? “Anything there?”

“Not much. Personal notes. Speculations.”

“About the case?”

“Some of it.”

“Did you report the break-in?”

“Of course not. Under the circumstances.”

“How did he get in?”

“Finessed the lock somehow.” Michelle smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ve had it changed. The locksmith assures me the place is as impregnable as a fortress now.”

“Anything else?”

“Maybe.”

“What does that mean?”

“Yesterday, as I was crossing the road near the Hazels estate, I was almost hit by a small van.”

“Almost?”

“Yes, no damage. I couldn’t be certain, but I thought it was deliberate.”

“Any idea who?”

“The number plate was obscured.”

“A guess?”

“Well, I hesitate to say it, but after the missing notebooks and actions, my mind can’t help but wander towards Shaw. Thing is, I can’t bring myself to believe it, that he would do something like that.”

Banks didn’t have much of a problem believing it. He’d known bent coppers before, and known them well enough to realize that they were capable of anything when cornered. Many coppers were also as skilled at picking
locks as burglars were. But why did Shaw feel cornered? And what was it he’d done? Banks remembered the quiet young man with the freckles, ginger hair and sticking-out ears, rather than the bloated, red-nosed bully Shaw had become. “Shaw was teamed up with DI Proctor, right?”

“Reg Proctor, yes. He took early retirement in 1975 and then died of liver cancer in 1978. He was only forty-seven.”

“Any rumours, hints of scandal?”

Michelle sipped some wine and shook her head. “Not that I could uncover. Seems to have had an exemplary career.”

Banks asked Michelle’s permission and lit a cigarette. “Shaw and Proctor were the detectives who came to our house,” he said. “They were obviously interviewing friends of Graham’s and people on the estate. There would no doubt have been other teams assigned other tasks, but for some reason, someone wanted rid of
Shaw’s
notes. Shaw himself?”

“He was only a DC at the time,” said Michelle.

“Right. What could he have to hide? There must have been something in his notebooks that incriminated someone else. Maybe Harris or Proctor.”

“The notebooks
could
have been missing since Harris retired in 1985,” Michelle said. “They could also have been taken before Proctor’s death in 1978, I suppose.”

“But why? Nobody’s had reason to look at them for years. Graham had been missing since 1965. Why mess with the paperwork unless there was some compelling reason? And what could that be, except that his body’s been found and the case is open again?”

“True enough,” said Michelle.

“The actions would show us how the investigation was managed,” Banks mused. “Most of them probably came from Jet Harris himself. They’d show the direction the investigation took, or didn’t take, the shape of it.”

“We keep getting back to this blinkered approach,” Michelle said. “DS Shaw even hinted they all knew Brady and Hindley did it.”

“That’s a load of bollocks,” said Banks.

“The timing’s right.”

“But that’s all that’s right. You might just as well say Reggie and Ronnie did it.”

“Maybe they did.”

Banks laughed. “It makes more sense than Brady and Hindley. They operated miles away. No, there’s something else going on. Something we can’t figure out because there are still too many missing pieces. Another?”

“I’ll go.”

Michelle walked to the bar and Banks sat wondering what the hell it was all about. So far, all they had was an investigation that had concentrated on only one possibility–the passing pedophile. Now they had Bill Marshall’s relationship with the Krays and with Carlo Fiorino and Le Phonographe, and the fact that Banks remembered Graham often had money enough to pay for their entertainment. And now the missing records. There were links–Graham, Bill Marshall, Carlo Fiorino–but where did it go after that? And how did Jet Harris fit in? It was possible that he’d been on the take, paid by Fiorino to head off trouble. Jet Harris, bent copper. That would go down well at headquarters. But how did it relate to Graham and his murder?

Michelle came back with the drinks and told him about Donald Bradford’s death and the pornography that had been found in his flat. “There might be no connection,” she said. “I mean, Bradford could have been the victim of a random break-in, and plenty of people have collections of pornography.”

“True,” Banks said. “But it’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed.”

“What if Bradford was using the newsagent’s shop as an outlet for distributing porn?” Banks suggested.

“And Graham delivered it?”

“Why not? He always seemed to be able to get his hands on it. That’s another thing I remember. A bit of
Danish submission with your
Sunday Times
, sir? Or how about some Swedish sodomy with your
News of the World
, madam? Gives a whole new meaning to the term Sunday supplement, doesn’t it?”

Michelle laughed. “Maybe he just found out about it.”

“Is that worth killing someone for?”

“Who knows? People have killed for less.”

“But all we’re assuming is that Bradford was a minor porn dealer.”

“He had to get it from a wholesaler, didn’t he? Maybe Bradford was working for someone with even more at stake?”

“Someone like Carlo Fiorino?” suggested Banks. “And Harris was on Fiorino’s payroll? It’s possible, but still speculation. And it doesn’t get us a lot further with the missing notebooks.”

“Unless Proctor and Shaw inadvertently hit on the truth during their interviews, and it was recorded in Shaw’s notebooks. I don’t know how we’d find out, though. It’s not as if we can talk to Harris or Proctor.”

“Maybe not,” said Banks. “But we might be able to do the next best thing. Were they married?”

“Harris was. Not Proctor.”

“Is his wife still alive?”

“As far as I know.”

“Maybe she’ll be able to tell us something. Think you can find her?”

“Piece of cake,” said Michelle.

“And let’s delve a little deeper into Donald Bradford’s domain, including the circumstances of his death.”

“Okay. But what about DS Shaw?”

“Avoid him as best you can.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult these days,” Michelle said. “He’s off sick half the time.”

“The booze?”

“That’s what I’d put my money on.”

“Are you going to the funeral tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Banks finished his drink. “Another?”

Michelle looked at her watch. “No. Really. I’d better go.”

“Okay. I suppose I should go, too.” Banks smiled. “I’m sure my mum’ll be waiting up for me.”

Michelle laughed. It was a nice sound. Soft, warm, musical. Banks realized he hadn’t heard her laugh before. “Can I give you a lift?” he asked.

“Oh, no. Thank you,” said Michelle, standing up. “I’m just around the corner.”

“I’ll walk with you, then.”

“You don’t need to. It’s quite safe.”

“I insist. Especially after what you’ve just told me.”

Michelle said nothing. They walked out into the mild darkness, crossed the road, and neared the riverside flats, close to where Banks had parked his car. Michelle had been right; it really was within spitting distance.

“This is right across the river from where they used to have the fair when I was a kid,” he said. “Funny, but I was just thinking about it as I was driving down.”

“Before my time,” said Michelle.

“Yes.” Banks walked her up to her door.

“Well,” she said, fumbling for her key, giving him a brief smile over her shoulder. “Goodnight, then.”

“I’ll just wait and make sure everything’s okay.”

“You mean until you’re sure there are no bogeymen waiting for me?”

“Something like that.”

Michelle opened her door, put on the lights, and did a quick check while Banks stood in the doorway and glanced around the living room. It seemed a bit barren, no real character, as if Michelle hadn’t put her stamp on it yet.

“All clear,” she said, emerging from the bedroom.

“Goodnight, then,” said Banks, trying to hide his disappointment that she didn’t even invite him in for a coffee. “And take care. See you tomorrow.”

“Yes.” She gave him a smile. “Tomorrow.” Then she closed the door gently behind him, and the sound of bolt slipping home seemed far louder than it probably was.

It was all very well for Gristhorpe to tell Annie to get a good night’s sleep, but she couldn’t. She had taken more Paracetamol and gone to bed early, but the pain had returned to her mouth with a vengeance. Every tooth ached, and now two of them felt loose.

The blow from Armitage had shaken her more than she had cared to admit to either Banks or Gristhorpe, because it had made her feel the same way she had felt when she was raped nearly three years ago: a powerless victim. She had sworn afterwards that she would never allow herself to feel that way again, but down in the cramped, dank space of Norman Wells’s book cellar, she had felt it, the deep, gut-wrenching fear of the female powerless against male strength and sheer brute force.