The Summer That Never Was (42 page)

After that, Michelle had enlisted DC Collins’s aid and discovered through local land registry records that Donald Bradford’s shop had been owned by a company linked to Carlo Fiorino, the late but unlamented local crime kingpin. The company had also owned Le Phonographe discotheque and several other newsagents’ shops in the Peterborough area. Ownership of Bradford’s shop went to the Walkers when he sold, but many of the other shops remained under Fiorino’s control well through the new-town expansion into the seventies.

What it all meant, Michelle wasn’t too sure, but it looked very much as if Carlo Fiorino had set up the perfect retail distribution chain for his wholesale porn business, and who knew what else besides? Drugs, perhaps? And maybe even some of those advertising cards in the newsagents’ windows weren’t quite so innocent after all.

All this she told to Banks as she drove through a steady drizzle down the A1 and the M1 to Barnet. As they talked, she kept a keen eye on her rear-view mirror. A grey Passat seemed to stay on their tail a bit too long and too close for comfort, but it finally turned off at Welwyn Garden City.

“Bradford must have got Graham involved somehow, through the magazines,” said Banks. “But it didn’t stop
there. He must have come to the attention of Fiorino and Mandeville, too. It helps to explain where all that extra money came from.”

“Look, I know he was your friend, Alan, but you have to admit that it looks as if he was up to some unsavoury stuff, as if he got greedy.”

“I admit it,” said Banks. “The photo must have been Graham’s insurance. Evidence. He could use it to blackmail Bradford into paying him more money, only he didn’t know what he’d got himself into. Word got back to Fiorino, and he signed Graham’s death warrant.”

“And who carried it out?”

“Bradford, most likely. He didn’t have an alibi. Or Harris. I mean, we can’t rule him out completely. Despite what his ex-wife told you, he could have kept the commando knife, and if he was being threatened with exposure as a homosexual, he might have been driven to kill. Remember, it wouldn’t only have meant his career back then, but jail, and you know how long coppers survive behind bars.”

“Jet Harris searched Graham Marshall’s house personally just after the boy disappeared,” said Michelle.

“Harris did that? Searched the house? How do you know?”

“Mrs. Marshall mentioned it the first time I went to talk to her. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now…a superintendent conducting a routine search?”

“He must have been after the photo.”

“Then why didn’t he find it?”

“He obviously didn’t look hard enough, did he?” said Banks. “Adolescents are naturally very secretive. Sometimes, by necessity, they have an uncanny knack for hiding things. And at the time, if that photo had been securely sellotaped to the inside of Graham’s guitar, nobody could know it was there without taking the guitar apart. It was only because the adhesive had dried out and the Sellotape had stiffened over the years that the photo broke free and I found it.”

“I suppose so,” Michelle said. “But does that make Harris a murderer?”

“I don’t know. It’s not proof. But he was in it. Deep.”

“I also rang Ray Scholes this morning,” Michelle said. “Remember, the detective who investigated Donald Bradford’s murder?”

“I remember.”

“It turns out there was a Fairbairn-Sykes knife among Bradford’s possessions.”

“What happened to it?”

“Forget it. It’s long gone. Sold to a dealer. Who knows how many times it’s changed hands since then?”

“Pity. But at least we know it was in his possession when he died.”

“You said the photo was evidence,” Michelle said, “But what of? How?”

“Well, there might have been fingerprints on it, but I think it was more dangerous because people would have known where it was taken. I doubt there are that many Adam fireplaces around, and probably none quite as distinctive as that one. The rug, too.”

“You’re thinking of the Mandeville house?”

“Sounds a likely place to me. I’m certain it was all connected: Fiorino’s porn business, his escort agency, the Mandeville parties, Graham’s murder. I think this is where we turn off.”

Michelle kept going.

“The junction’s coming up,” Banks said. “Here. Move over or you’ll miss it. Now!”

Michelle waited and made a last-minute lane change. Horns blared as she sped across two lanes of traffic to the off-ramp.

“Jesus Christ!” said Banks. “You could have got us killed.”

Michelle flashed him a quick grin. “Oh, don’t be such a pussycat. I knew what I was doing. This way we can be certain no one’s following us. Where now?”

When his heart rate slowed, Banks picked up the street guide and directed Michelle to the pleasant suburban semi where ex-DC Geoff Talbot enjoyed his retirement.

Talbot answered the door and asked them in. Michelle introduced herself and Banks.

“Miserable day, isn’t it?” Talbot said. “One wonders if summer will ever arrive.”

“Too true,” said Banks.

“Coffee? Tea?”

“A cup of tea would be nice,” Michelle said. Banks agreed.

Michelle and Banks followed Talbot into the kitchen, which turned out to be a bright, high-ceilinged room with a central island surrounded by tall stools.

“We can talk here, if it’s all right with you,” Talbot said. “My wife keeps pestering me for a conservatory, but I don’t see the need. On a nice day we can always sit outside.”

Michelle looked out of the window and saw the well-manicured lawn and neat flower beds. Someone in the family was obviously a keen gardener. A copper beech provided some shade. It would indeed have been nice to sit outside, but not in the rain.

“You didn’t give me much of an idea what you wanted to talk about over the telephone,” Talbot said, looking over his shoulder as he dropped a couple of teabags into the pot.

“That’s because it’s still a bit vague,” Michelle said. “How’s your memory?” She and Banks had agreed that, as it was her case and he had no official capacity, she would do most of the questioning.

“Not so bad for an old man.”

Talbot didn’t look that old, Michelle thought. He was carrying a few pounds too many, and his hair was almost white, but other than that his face was remarkably unlined and his movements smooth and fluid. “Remember when you served on the Cambridge Constabulary?” she asked.

“Of course. Mid-sixties, that’d be. Peterborough. It was called the Mid-Anglia Constabulary back then. Why?”

“Do you remember a case involving Rupert Mandeville?”

“Do I? How could I forget. That’s the reason I left Cambridgeshire. If it comes right down to it, it’s the reason I left the force not long after, too.”

“Could you tell us what happened?”

The kettle boiled and Talbot filled the pot with water, then carried it on a tray along with three cups and saucers to the island. “Nothing happened,” he said. “That was the problem. I was told to lay off.”

“By whom?”

“The super.”

“Detective Superintendent Harris?”

“Jet Harris. That’s the one. Oh, it was all above-board. Not enough evidence, my word against theirs, anonymous informant, that sort of thing. You couldn’t fault his arguments.”

“Then what?”

Talbot paused. “It just didn’t feel right, that’s all. I can’t put it any other way than that. There’d been rumours for some time about things going on at the Mandeville house. Procurement, underage boys, that sort of thing. It was the start of what they called the permissive society, after all. Ever heard of Carlo Fiorino?”

“We have,” said Michelle.

Talbot poured the tea. “Rumour has it he was the supplier. Anyway, the problem was, Rupert Mandeville was too well connected, and some of the people who attended his parties were in the government, or in other high-level positions. Real Profumo stuff. Of course, I was the naive young copper fresh from probation, proud to be in CID, thinking he could take on the world. Not a care had I for rank or sway. We were all equal in the eyes of God as far as I was concerned, though I wasn’t a religious man. Well, I soon learned the error of my ways. Had my eyes opened for me. When the super found out I’d been out there and caused a fuss, he had me in his office and told me in no uncertain terms that Mandeville was off-limits.”

“Did he say why?” Michelle asked.

“He didn’t need to. It’s not difficult to add up.”

“An operation like that, and one like Fiorino’s, would need police protection,” Banks said. “And Harris was it. Or part of it.”

“Exactly,” said Talbot. “Oh, he was clever, though. He never admitted it in so many words, and he got me transferred out of the county before my feet even touched the ground. Cumbria. I ask you! Well, I ran into one or two nice little gentleman’s agreements between local villains and constabulary up there, too, so I called it a day. I mean, I’m no saint, but it just seemed to me that no matter where I went I found corruption. I couldn’t fight it. Not from my position. So I resigned from the force. Best move I ever made.”

“And you told no one of your suspicions about Harris?” Michelle asked.

“What was the point? Who’d believe me? Jet Harris was practically a god around the place even then. Besides, there were implied threats of what might happen to me if I didn’t do as he said, and some of them were quite physical. I’m not a coward, but I’m no fool, either. I cut my losses.”

“Was anyone else involved?”

“Might have been,” said Talbot. “The chief constable himself might have been a regular at Mandeville’s parties, for all I know.”

“But no one you knew of?”

“No. I didn’t even
know
about Harris. Like I said, it just felt wrong. I just guessed from his attitude, his wording. It was only him and me in his office. Even by the time I got outside I was thinking I’d been reading too much into it.”

“What happened that day?”

“From the start?”

“Yes.”

“It was a warm Sunday morning, end of July or beginning of August.”

“It was 1st August,” Michelle said.

“Right. Anyway, I was by myself, not much on, I remember, when the phone call came and the switchboard patched it through to the office.”

“Do you remember anything about the voice?”

Talbot frowned. “It’s so long ago, I don’t…”

“Man? Woman?”

“It was a woman’s voice. I remember that much.”

“Did she sound upset?”

“Yes. That’s why I headed out there so impulsively. She said there’d been a party going on since the previous night, and she was convinced that some of the girls and boys were underage and people were taking drugs. She sounded frightened. She hung up very abruptly, too.”

“So you went?”

“Yes. I logged the details and drove out there like a knight in shining armour. If I’d had half the sense I have now, I’d at least have taken the time to organize a small raiding party, but I didn’t. God knows what I thought I was going to do when I got there.”

“Did you meet the woman who’d phoned?”

“Not that I know of. I mean, if she was there she never came forward and admitted she was the one who phoned. But then she wouldn’t, would she?”

“Who opened the door?”

“A young man. He just opened it, glanced at my identification and wandered off. He didn’t seem interested at all. I thought he was on drugs, but I must admit I didn’t know much about them at the time. I’m not even sure we had a drugs squad back then.”

“What did you find inside?”

“It was more like the aftermath of a party, really. Some people were sleeping on the sofa, a couple on the floor…”

“How many?”

“Hard to say. Maybe twenty or so.”

“What kind of people?”

“A mix. Young and old. Businessmen. Mods. One or two of the girls looked like swinging London types,
miniskirts and what-have-you. There was a funny smell, too, I remember. At the time I didn’t know what it was, but I smelled it again later. Marijuana.”

“What did you do?”

“To be honest, I felt a bit out of my depth.” He laughed. “Like Mr. Jones in that Bob Dylan song, I didn’t really know what was happening. I wasn’t even sure if any of it was illegal. I mean, the girls and the men didn’t
look
underage to me, but what did I know? I talked to a few people, took names. A couple of the girls I’d seen before at Le Phonographe. I think they also worked for Fiorino’s escort agency.”

“You used your notebook?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to it?”

“Same as usual, I suppose.”

“You also found two men together?”

“Yes. I looked in some of the rooms, and in one bedroom I saw two men in bed together. Naked.”

“Were they doing anything?”

“Not when I opened the door. They were just…very close together. I’d never seen anything like that before. I mean, I knew about homosexuality, I wasn’t that naive, but I’d never actually seen it.”

“Did either of them look underage?”

“No. One I pegged at early twenties, the other older, maybe forty. But it didn’t matter how old you were back then.”

“So what did you do?”

“I…er…I arrested them.”

“Did they resist?”

“No. They just laughed, put their clothes on and went back to the station with me.”

“What happened then?”

“Jet Harris was waiting for me. He was furious.”

“He was at the station waiting for you? On a Sunday morning?”

“Yes. I suppose someone from Mandeville’s house must have phoned him.”

“Probably dragged him out of church,” Banks said.

“What did he do?” Michelle asked.

“He had a private talk with the two men, let them go and had his little chat with me. That was the end of it. No further action.”

“Just out of interest,” Michelle asked, “how old was Rupert Mandeville at the time?”

“Quite young. In his thirties. His parents had been killed in a plane crash not too long before, I remember, and he’d inherited a fortune, even after tax. I suppose he was just doing what many young people would have done if they’d gained their freedom and had unlimited funds.”

“Ever hear of Donald Bradford?” Michelle asked.

“The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Bill Marshall?”