The Summer That Never Was (29 page)

But most evenings after tea they spent watching television in the guests’ lounge. The TV was an old model, even for then, with a small screen, Banks remembered, and you turned it on by opening a sprung flap on the top, under which were the volume and contrast controls. Banks hadn’t recorded it in his diary, but no doubt there would have been some adult wanting to watch
Sunday Night at the London Palladium
instead of
Perry Mason
, which was only to be expected of adults. Luckily, Roy was sleeping on a camp bed in his parents’ room, so Banks and Graham would just go up to their room and read, listen to Radio Luxembourg on their transistors, or pore over the dirty magazines Graham seemed to get hold of in abundance.

Of course, they didn’t spend every minute of every day together. Graham had been moody at times, unusually quiet, and looking back, Banks suspected he had been preoccupied with some problem or other. At the time, though, he hadn’t given it a second thought, had simply gone his own way on occasion.

On his third day, wandering the streets alone looking for somewhere to sit down and have a cigarette, Banks discovered a coffee bar down a flight of stairs off the beaten track. He hadn’t thought of this in years, but the stark diary entry brought it back in all its richness and detail. He could even hear the hissing of the espresso machine and smell the dark-roasted coffee.

The place had a tropical ambience, with rough stucco walls, potted palms and soft calypso music playing in the background, but it was the girl behind the counter who
drew him back there time after time. She was far too old for him, even if he did look older when he smoked and could pass for sixteen and get into X films. Probably over twenty, she would have an older boyfriend with a car and lots of money, a pretty girl like her, but Banks fell for her the way he had fallen for the factory girl, Mandy. Linda was her name.

That Linda was beautiful went without saying. She had long dark hair, sparkling blue eyes, an easy smile and lips he yearned to kiss. What he could see of the rest of her body when she came out from behind the counter was also the stuff that fantasies were made on: like Ursula Andress walking out of the sea in
Dr. No
. She was nice to him, too. She talked to him, smiled at him, and one day she even gave him a second cup of espresso for nothing. He loved to watch her working the machines behind the counter, nibbling her lower lip as she frothed the milk. Once or twice she caught him looking and smiled. He could feel himself blush to the roots of his being and he knew that she knew he was in love with her. This was one secret, and one place, he didn’t share with Graham.

As the holiday progressed, Banks and Graham did all the usual things, some with the rest of the family, and some by themselves. When it was warm enough, they spent time lounging with Banks’s mother and father on the beach in their swimming trunks among crowds of rough Northerners with knotted hankies on their heads. They even went in the sea once or twice, but it was cold, so they didn’t stay long. Mostly they just lay there plugged into their radios hoping to hear the Animals singing “We’ve Gotta Get Out of This Place” or the Byrds doing “Mr. Tambourine Man,” and surreptitiously eyeing the girls in their bathing costumes.

In fact, reading over his diary, not only of the holiday but of the entire year, Banks was amazed at how much of his time was taken up with girls, with thoughts and dreams of sex. His hormones were running his life that year, no doubt about it.

The highlight of the week, though, was the two girls, and that was where Banks’s diary approached the sensational. One fine evening, Banks and Graham headed down to the Pleasure Beach opposite the South Pier. They took one of the open trams, sitting on the upper deck and thrilling at the lights with the wind in their hair.

The Pleasure Beach was a bustle of colour and sound, from the rattling of the rides to the shrieks and screams of the passengers. As they were walking around trying to decide which ride to go on first, they noticed two girls about their own age who kept looking at them, whispering to one another and giggling, the way girls did. They weren’t Mods, but wore blouses and skirts of the more conservative length some parents still insisted on.

Eventually, Banks and Graham approached them and, Graham being the silent, moody type, Banks offered them cigarettes and started chatting them up. He couldn’t remember what he said, just something to make the girls laugh and think these boys were cool. The way it turned out, this time he linked up with the one he fancied most, though to be honest they were both all right, not like the usual pairing, the good-looking one with the ugly friend.

Tina was short with rather large breasts, a dark complexion, and long, wavy brown hair. Her friend, Sharon, was a slender blonde. The only flaw Banks noticed was a couple of spots under her make-up, and the bubble-gum she was chewing. But there was nothing she could do about the spots–he knew he had a couple of embarrassing ones himself–and she soon took out the gum and threw it away.

They went on the Ghost Train first, and the girls got scared when phosphorescent skeletons jumped out and hung in front of the slow-moving cars. But what made them scream and lean closer into the chests of their companions were the cobwebs that occasionally brushed across their faces in the dark.

After the Ghost Train, they were holding hands, and Graham suggested they ride on the Big Dipper, a huge roller coaster, next. Tina was scared, but the others assured her it would be okay. Graham paid.

That was something Banks remembered as he read through his diary. He lit a cigarette, sipped some Laphroaig and thought about it for a moment as Bill Evans played on. Graham often paid. He always seemed to have plenty of money, always enough, even back in Peterborough, for ten Gold Leaf and a double-bill at the Gaumont. Maybe even some Kia-Ora and a choc ice from the woman who came around with the tray during the intermission. Banks never wondered or asked where he got it from at the time; he just assumed that Graham got plenty of pocket money from his dad in addition to his paper-round money. Looking back now, though, it seemed odd that a working-class kid, a bricklayer’s son, should always have so much ready cash to spend.

If the Ghost Train had set things up nicely, Banks thought, going back to the memory, the Big Dipper had the girls throwing their arms around Banks and Graham and burying their faces in their shoulders. Banks even stole a quick kiss from Sharon as they rose up towards one of the steepest descents, and she clung to him all the way down, hair streaming, shrieking blue murder.

Flushed and exhilarated, they walked out of the Pleasure Beach onto the prom. The Illuminations didn’t start until later in the year, but there were still bracelets and necklaces of lights all over the front, like Christmas decorations, Banks had written, in a rare poetic moment, and the trams themselves were lit with bulbs so you could see their outlines coming from miles away.

After only token resistance, the girls agreed to a walk on the beach and the four of them inevitably settled under the South Pier, a well-established “courting” spot. Banks remembered as he read his vague and brief descriptions how he lay with Sharon and kissed her, gently at first, then
the two of them working their lips harder, trying a little tongue, feeling her body stir under him. He let his imagination go to work on the scanty details he had recorded in his bed back at Mrs. Barraclough’s that night: “G and me went with Tina and Sharon
under south pier!”

Somehow, he had worked his hand under her blouse and felt her firm little breast. She didn’t complain when after a while of that he wriggled under her bra and felt the warm, soft flesh itself, squeezing the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She took a sharp breath and went back to kissing him with her tongue. He got some of her hair in his mouth. He could smell bubble gum on her breath mingled with the seaweed and brine of the beach. Trams rolled by above them and waves crashed on the shore. Some time later, getting brave, he slid his hand down her thigh and put it up inside her skirt. She would only let him touch her over the cloth of her knickers, freezing or firmly pulling his hand away when he tried to go further, but that was the furthest he had ever been before, so it was all right with him. Graham said later that Tina let him go all the way with her, but Banks didn’t believe him.

And that was as sensational as it got.

They went out with Sharon and Tina twice more, once to the pictures to see
Help!
and once to the amusement arcades, Graham as usual supplying most of the cash, and their evenings ended the same way. No matter how much Banks tried and hinted, Sharon wouldn’t relinquish her treasure. She always stopped him at the threshold. It was a tease balanced only later with the delicious ritual of self-administered relief.

When it was time to leave, they exchanged names and addresses and said they’d write, but Banks never heard from Sharon again. As far as he knew, Graham hadn’t heard from Tina before he disappeared, either. Now, looking back, Banks hoped she really
had
let him go all the way with her.

Remembering their holiday had made him also remember other things, and some of them started to ring alarm bells in his policeman’s mind. Quiet at first, then getting louder and louder.

But soon, it wasn’t an inner alarm bell, it was the telephone that was ringing. Banks picked it up.

“DCI Banks?” A woman’s voice, familiar, strained.

“Yes.”

“It’s DI Hart. Michelle.”

“I haven’t forgotten your name yet,” Banks said. “What can I do for you? Any news?”

“Are you busy?”

“Just after you left me in Starbucks, a missing-persons case turned into a murder, so yes, I am.”

“Look, I’m sorry about that. I mean…This is so difficult.”

“Just tell me.”

Michelle paused for so long that Banks was beginning to think she would just hang up. She seemed to be good at putting an abrupt end to conversations. But she didn’t. After an eternity, she said, “Today I discovered that Ben Shaw’s notebooks and the Graham Marshall actions allocations are missing.”

“Missing?”

“I looked all over the files. I couldn’t find them. I got the records clerk to help, too, but even she couldn’t find them. There’s a gap in the notebooks from 15th August to 6th October, 1965.”

Banks whistled between his teeth. “And the actions?”

“Just for that case. Gone. I don’t know…I mean, I’ve never…There’s something else, too. Something that happened over the weekend. But I don’t want to talk about it over the phone.” She gave a nervous laugh. “I suppose I’m asking you for advice. I don’t know what to do.”

“You should tell someone.”

“I’m telling you.”

“I mean someone in your station.”

“That’s the problem,” she said. “I just don’t know who I can trust down here. That’s why I thought of you. I know you have a personal interest in the case, and it would be helpful for me to have another professional around. One I know I can trust.”

Banks thought it over for a moment. Michelle was right; he did have an interest in the case. And the way it sounded, she was out on a limb by herself down there. “I’m not sure what I can do to help,” he said, “but I’ll see if I can get away.” As he spoke the words, an image of himself charging down to Peterborough on a white steed, wearing armour and carrying a lance, mocked him. “Any news on the funeral service?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“I’ll get away as soon as I can,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow. In the meantime, don’t say or do anything. Just carry on as normal. Okay?”

“Okay. And Alan?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks. I mean it. I’m in a jam.” She paused, then added, “And I’m scared.”

“I’ll be there.”

After Banks hung up, he refilled his glass, put the second Bill Evans set on and settled down to think over the repercussions of what he had realized earlier that evening, reading his diary, and of what he had just heard from Michelle.

13

L
auren Anderson lived in a small semi not too far from where Banks used to live with Sandra before their separation. He hadn’t passed the end of his old street in a long time, and it brought back memories he would rather forget. He felt cheated, somehow. The memories should have been good–he and Sandra
had
had good times together, had been in love for many years–but everything seemed tainted by her betrayal, and now by her forthcoming marriage to Sean. And the baby, of course. The baby hurt a lot.

He spoke nothing of his thoughts to Annie, who sat beside him. She didn’t even know he used to live there, as he had only met her after he moved to the Gratly cottage. Besides, she had made it clear that she wasn’t interested in his old life with Sandra and the kids; that was one of the main things that had come between them and broken up their brief and edgy romance.

It was as fine a summer’s day as they had seen in a while. They were in Banks’s car this time, the way he preferred it, with the windows open listening to Marianne Faithfull singing “Summer Nights” on a greatest-hits CD. That was back when her voice was rich and smooth, before the booze, drugs and cigarettes had taken their toll, the same way it happened with Billie Holiday. It was also a hit around the time Graham disappeared, and it captured the mood of that sex-preoccupied adolescent summer.

“I can’t believe you still listen to this stuff,” said Annie.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. It’s just so…old.”

“So is Beethoven.”

“Clever clogs. You know what I mean.”

“I used to fancy her like crazy.”

Annie shot him a sidelong glance. “Marianne Faithfull?”

“Yes. Why not? She used to come on
Ready, Steady, Go
and
Top of the Pops
every time she had a new record out, and she’d sit on a high stool with her guitar, looking just like a schoolgirl. But she’d be wearing a low-cut dress, legs crossed, and that sweet voice would come out, and you’d just want to…”

“Go on.”

Banks stopped at a traffic light and smiled at Annie. “I’m sure you get the picture,” he said. “She just looked so innocent, so virginal.”

“But if the stories are true, she put herself about quite a bit, didn’t she? Far from virginal, I’d say.”

“Maybe that was part of it, too,” Banks agreed. “You just knew she…
did
it. There were stories. Gene Pitney. Mick Jagger. The parties and all that.”

“Saint and sinner all in one package,” said Annie. “How perfect for you.”

“Christ, Annie, I was only a kid.”

“Quite a randy one, too, it seems.”

“Well what did you think about at fourteen?”

“I don’t know. Boys, maybe, but not in a sexual way. Having fun. Romance. Clothes. Makeup.”

“Maybe that’s why I always fancied older women,” said Banks.

Annie nudged him hard in the ribs.

“Ouch! What did you do that for?”

“You know. Park here. Men,” she said, as Banks parked and they got out of the car. “When you’re young you want older women, and when you’re old you want younger women.”

“These days,” said Banks, “I take whatever I can get.”

“Charming.” Annie pressed the doorbell and a few seconds later saw the shape coming towards them through the frosted glass.

Lauren Anderson was dressed in jeans and a thin V-neck jumper, and she wore no makeup. Younger than Banks had expected, she was willowy, with full lips, a pale oval face and heavy-lidded pale blue eyes, all framed by long auburn hair spilling down over her shoulders. As she stood in the doorway, she wrapped her arms around herself as if she were cold.

“Police,” Banks said, holding out his warrant card. “May we come in?”

“Of course.” Lauren stood aside.

“In here?” Banks asked, pointing towards what looked like the living room.

“If you like. I’ll make some tea, shall I?”

“Lovely,” said Annie, following her into the kitchen.

Banks could hear them talking as he had a quick look around the living room. He was impressed by the two walls of bookshelves groaning under the weight of classics he had meant to read but never got around to. All the Victorians, along with the major Russians and French. A few recent novels: Ian McEwan, Graham Swift, A. S. Byatt. Quite a lot of poetry, too, from Heaney’s
Beowulf
translation to the latest issue of
Poetry Review
lying on the low coffee table. There were plays, too: Tennessee Williams, Edward Albee, Tom Stoppard, the Elizabethans and Jacobeans. There was also a section devoted to art and one to classical mythology. Not to mention the rows of literary criticism, from Aristotle’s
Poetics
to David Lodge on the vagaries of post-structuralism. Most of the music in the CD rack was classical, favouring Bach, Mozart and Handel.

Banks found a comfortable chair and sat down. In a short while, Annie and Lauren came in with the tea. Noting an ashtray on the table and getting a distinct whiff of stale smoke in the air, Banks asked if he might light up.
Lauren said sure and accepted one of his Silk Cut. Annie turned up her nose the way only an ex-smoker can do.

“It’s a nice place,” Banks said.

“Thank you.”

“Do you live here alone?”

“I do now. I used to share it with one of the other teachers, but she got her own flat a few months ago. I’m not sure, but I think I like it better by myself.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Banks. “Look, the reason we’re here is that we heard you used to give Luke Armitage extra tuition in English, and we wondered if you could tell us anything about him.”

“I’m not sure I can tell you anything about him, but, yes, I used to tutor Luke.” Lauren sat on the small sofa with her legs tucked under her, cup held in both hands. She blew on the tea. “He was so far ahead of the rest of his class he must have been bored silly at school. He was far ahead of me most of the time.” She raised her hand and flicked some troublesome locks of hair out of her face.

“That good?”

“Well, his enthusiasm made up for what he lacked in formal training.”

“I gather he was a talented writer, too.”

“Very. Again, he needed discipline, but he was young, raw. He’d have gone far if…if…” She held her cup in one hand and rubbed her sleeve across her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just can’t get over it. Luke. Dead. Such a waste.”

Annie passed her a tissue from the box on one of the bookshelves. “Thank you,” she said, then blew her nose. She shifted on the sofa and Banks noticed her feet were bare and her toenails painted red.

“I know it’s hard to accept,” said Banks, “but I’m sure you can understand why we need to know as much about him as possible.”

“Yes, of course. Though, as I said, I don’t see how I can tell you much.”

“Alastair Ford said you’re the kind who listens to people’s problems.”

She snorted. “Alastair! He was probably trying to say I’m a prying bitch. Alastair runs a mile if anyone comes within vague hailing distance of whatever warped emotions he might possess.”

Banks had got the same impression himself, though he wouldn’t have put it in quite those words. On early impressions, Lauren Anderson was turning out to be perhaps the most
normal
friend Luke had had. But the competition–Ford and Wells–wasn’t very stiff.

“Did Luke ever talk about himself?”

“Not much,” said Lauren. “He could be very closed, could Luke.”

“Sometimes?”

“Sometimes he might let his guard drop a little, yes.”

“And what did he talk about then?”

“Oh, the usual. School. His parents.”

“What did he say about them?”

“He hated school. Not only were most things boring for him, but he didn’t like the discipline, the formality.”

Banks thought of the boys who had tormented Luke in the market square. “What about bullying?”

“Yes, that too. But it wasn’t serious. I mean, Luke was never beaten up or anything.”

“What was it, then?”

“Mostly teasing. Name-calling. A bit of jostling. Oh, I’m not saying he wasn’t hurt by it. He was very sensitive. But he could handle it, in a way.”

“What do you mean?”

“It didn’t really bother him. I mean, he knew the boys who were doing it were morons, that they couldn’t help themselves. And he knew they were doing it because he was different.”

“Superior?”

“No, I don’t think Luke ever believed himself to be superior to anyone else. He just knew he was different.”

“What did he have to say about his parents?”

Lauren paused for a moment before answering. “It was very private,” she said.

Annie leaned forward. “Ms. Anderson,” she said. “Luke’s dead.”

“Yes. Yes, I know.”

“And we need to know everything.”

“But you surely can’t think his parents had anything to do with his death?”

“What did he say about them?”

Lauren paused, then went on. “Not much. It was clear he wasn’t very happy at home. He said he loved his mother, but he gave the impression that he didn’t get along with his stepfather.”

Banks could well imagine it. Martin Armitage was a physical, dominating presence, used to getting his own way, and his interests seemed worlds away from those of his stepson. “Did you get the impression that his stepfather abused him in any way?” he asked.

“Good Lord, no,” said Lauren. “Nobody ever beat him or abused him in any way. It was just…they were so different. They’d nothing in common. I mean, Luke couldn’t care less about football, for a start.”

“What was he going to do about his problems?”

“Nothing. What could he do? He was only fifteen. Maybe he’d have left home in a year or so, but we’ll never know now, will we? For the time being he had to put up with it.”

“Kids put up with a lot worse,” said Banks.

“Indeed they do. The family was well-off and Luke never lacked for material comforts. I’m sure that both his mother and his stepfather loved him very much. He was a sensitive, creative boy with a boorish stepfather and an empty-headed mother.”

Banks wouldn’t have said Robin Armitage was empty-headed, but perhaps Lauren was making the sort of assumption people often make about models. “What
about Neil Byrd?” Banks went on. “Did Luke ever talk about him?”

“Hardly ever. He got very emotional when the subject came up. Angry, even. Luke had a lot of unresolved issues. You just knew to back away.”

“Can you explain?”

Lauren’s brow furrowed. “I think he was angry because he never knew his father. Angry because Neil Byrd abandoned him when he was just a baby and then went and committed suicide. Can you imagine how that would make you feel? You don’t even mean enough to your father for him to stay alive and watch you grow up.”

“Was there anything in particular that might have been bothering him recently, anything he might have mentioned to you?”

“No. The last time I saw him, at the end of term, he was excited about the summer holidays. I assigned him some reading.”

“
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and Crime and Punishment
?”

Her eyes widened. “Those were two of the books. How do you know that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Banks. “How did you go about tutoring him?”

“Usually I’d assign him some reading, maybe a novel or some poetry, and then we’d meet here and discuss it. Often we’d move out from there and discuss painting, history, Greek and Roman mythology. He was very advanced when it came to understanding literature. And he had an insatiable appetite for it.”

“Advanced enough for Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Verlaine?”

“Rimbaud was a mere boy himself. And young teens are often attracted to Baudelaire.”

“‘Le Poète se fait voyant par un long, immense et raisonné dérèglement de tous les sens,’” Banks quoted, in an accent he hoped wasn’t too incomprehensible. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“Why, of course. It’s Rimbaud’s description of the method he used to make himself a
seer
. ‘A total disordering of all the senses.’”

“It was written on Luke’s bedroom wall. Did it involve taking drugs?”

“Not that I know of. Not in Luke’s case, anyway. It was about opening oneself to experience of all kinds. To be quite honest, I didn’t approve of Luke’s fascination with Rimbaud. In so many cases like that it’s a fascination with the romantic ideal of the tortured boy-poet, not with the work itself.”

Not wanting to get lost in the realms of literary criticism, Banks moved on. “You felt very close to Luke, am I right?”

“In a way, I suppose. If you really
could
be close to him. He was slippery, chameleonlike, often moody, quiet and withdrawn. But I liked him and I believed in his talent, if that’s what you mean.”

“If Luke had come to you for help, would you have given it?”

“That depends on the circumstances.”

“If he was running away from home, for example.”

“I’d do all I could to discourage him.”

“That sounds like the official line.”

“It’s the one I’d follow.”

“You wouldn’t harbour him?”

“Of course not.”

“Because we don’t know where he went the day he disappeared. Not after about five-thirty, anyway. But he was last seen walking north on Market Street. That would eventually have brought him to your neighbourhood, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, but…I mean…why would he come here?”

“Maybe he trusted you, needed your help with something.”

“I can’t imagine what.”

“When were the two of you next due to meet?”

“Not until next term. I’m going home next week for the rest of the holidays. My father’s not been well lately and my mother’s finding it hard to cope.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Where’s home?”

“South Wales. Tenby. A sleepy little place, but it’s by the sea, lots of cliffs to walk on and think.”

“Are you sure Luke never came to see you the Monday before last?”

“Of course I’m sure. He had no reason to.”

“You were only his tutor, right?”

Lauren stood up and anger flashed in her eyes. “What do you mean? What are you trying to insinuate?”

Banks held his hand up. “Whoa. Wait a minute. I was only thinking that he might have considered you as a friend and mentor, someone he could go to if he was in trouble.”