The Summer That Never Was (31 page)

“And Martin Armitage?”

“Physical, rational, powerful, clean-living. Football was his life. It got him out of the slums and made him a national figure. It also made him rich. I dare say he’s had his share of ale, but I doubt he tried anything more experimental. I don’t think he has the capability to understand or tolerate the artistic temperament his stepson seems to have inherited. Probably the kind who associates artistic interests with homosexuality. I’m sure he tried to be a loving father, treated the lad as his own, but Luke had Neil Byrd’s genes.”

“And Robin?”

“Now, there’s an interesting one,” Banks said. “You tell me. You’ve seen more of her than I have.”

“She clearly had a wild youth. Sex, drugs, rock and roll. Early fame and fortune often seem to send people over the top. But however she did it, she came through, and with a son. I’d say she’s tougher than she looks, and no doubt she loved Luke but had no more idea how to deal with his problems than her husband had. I think boys like Luke invent secret worlds to exclude adults and protect themselves, even from their contemporaries. He probably spent most of his time in his room reading, writing or recording his songs. That black room.”

“Do you think he had ambitions to follow in his father’s footsteps?”

“Musically, perhaps. But I think his attitude towards his father was very complex and ambiguous. A mix of admiration and anger at abandonment.”

“None of this seems to transform into a motive, though, does it?” said Banks. He stubbed out his cigarette. “What about Josie and Calvin Batty?”

“As suspects?”

“In general.”

“Josie is the only person we’ve talked to so far who says she saw Luke with the tattooed girl.”

“Norman Wells recognized the description.”

“Yes,” Annie pointed out. “But not in connection with Luke. I’m not saying we stop looking for her, just that we don’t pin all our hopes on her. We still have to keep an open mind on this one.”

“Agreed.”

“By the way, Winsome ran a check on all cars reported stolen in the Eastvale area the night Luke disappeared. There are two possibilities, one abandoned near Hawes, in Wensleydale, and the other in Richmond.”

“Then we’d better have Stefan’s team check them both for any signs of blood.”

Annie made a note. “Okay.”

The server brought their lunches over: a salad sandwich for Annie and lasagne and chips for Banks. He didn’t usually like pub lasagne–it was too soupy–but Cyril’s wife Glenys made a good one.

“Talking about cars,” Banks said after pausing for a few mouthfuls. “How are forensics coming on with Norman Wells’s?”

“Stefan called in a couple of hours ago. Nothing yet. Do you really expect anything?”

“Maybe not. But it’s got to be done.”

“Do you think we should have detained him?”

Banks took a sip of beer before answering. “We’ve nothing to hold him on,” he said. “And he does have his business to run. Besides, I don’t think Mr. Wells is going anywhere.”

“What about Lauren Anderson?”

“Methinks the lady did protest too much.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Just that her reaction to a simple question seemed extreme.”

“She did sound awfully close to Luke. Emotionally, I mean.”

“But she does have an alibi. Ask Winsome to check with the brother, Vernon, just to be certain, but I can’t imagine she’d risk lying about that. And it was a man’s voice on the ransom call.”

“I’m not suggesting she
did
it–she certainly seemed genuine in her regard for him–just that she might know more than she’s letting on about what Luke was up to.”

“You’re right,” said Banks. “We shouldn’t rule her out. Maybe you could get Winsome and young Kevin to run background checks on everyone we know who was connected with Luke, and that includes the Battys, Alastair Ford, Lauren Anderson and the mystery girl, if we ever find her.”

“What about Rose Barlow?”

“I don’t know,” Banks said. “We should have a word with her, though it seems that whatever went on between her and Luke ended months ago.”

“What about forensic checks on Ford’s house, and the Anderson woman’s?”

Banks shook his head. “We can’t afford to be sending expensive forensic teams to everyone’s house. With Wells we had good reason–his history, for a start. Besides, we know Luke has been in Lauren Anderson’s house.”

“But if there’s blood…?”

“We still can’t justify the expense at this point.”

“And Alastair Ford?”

“Check into his background first. We’ll keep that one up our sleeves in case we need it.”

“You’ll stay in touch?”

“I’ll leave my mobile on all the time. I’m not deserting you, Annie.” Banks still couldn’t help feeling a little guilty–and it wasn’t because he was leaving the case to Annie, but because he would be seeing Michelle again, and the idea appealed to him.

Annie touched his sleeve. “I know you’re not. Don’t think I’m so insensitive as not to know how hard it is for you, them finding Graham Marshall’s bones and all.” She grinned. “You go and pay your respects and have a piss-up with your old mates. You’ll have a lot to catch up on. When did you last see them?”

“Not since I went to London, when I was eighteen. We just sort of lost touch.”

“I know what you mean. It happens. I don’t know anyone I went to school with any more.”

Banks considered telling Annie about Michelle’s phone call but decided against it. Why complicate matters? Annie had enough on her plate. Besides, he wasn’t sure there was much he could do about Michelle’s concerns. If there had been some sort of cover-up, then it would have to be investigated by an outside force, not some maverick
from North Yorkshire. Yet a part of him wanted to get involved, wanted to get to the bottom of Graham’s death, as well as Luke’s. They were linked in his mind in some odd way. Not technically, of course, but two very different boys from very different times had ended up dead before their time, and both had died violently. Banks wanted to know why, what it was about these two children that had attracted such cruel fates.

14

E
arly in the afternoon, Annie showed the artist’s impression of the mystery girl around the Swainsdale Centre and the bus station again. At the end of an hour, she was beginning to wonder whether the girl existed, or whether she was just a figment of Josie Batty’s puritan imagination.

She walked along York Road enjoying the sunshine, glancing in the shop windows as she walked. A stylish red leather jacket caught her eye in one of the more exclusive clothes shops, but she knew it would be way out of her price range. Even so, she went in and enquired. It was.

The market square was clogged with wandering tourists and cars trying to find parking space. A large group of Japanese, along with their tour guide and translator, stood gazing up at the front of the Norman church, where several sculpted figures of saints were carved in a row high over the doors. Some of the tourists were catching the moment on videotape, though Annie didn’t remember the stone saints ever doing the cancan or anything that even remotely involved movement.

One of the cars, she noticed–partly because it screeched straight into a handicapped parking space and almost hit a young woman–was Martin Armitage’s BMW. What the hell was he doing here? And what the hell was he doing in a handicapped parking spot? Maybe she should arrange for him to get towed? But when she saw
him jump out of the car, slam the door and head for the shops built into the side of the church, she knew what was going on.

Annie pushed her way through the tourist crowd by the church and got there just in time to see Armitage disappearing down the stairs into Norman’s Used Books. Shit. She dashed down right behind him, but he already had Wells by the throat and, judging by the blood pouring from the little man’s nose, had punched him at least once. Wells was whimpering and trying to wriggle free. The bookshop was as dank as ever, but the day’s heat had permeated enough to make the air humid. Annie felt clammy the moment she entered. Familiar, the cat, was screeching and hissing somewhere in the dark recesses of the cavern.

“Mr. Armitage!” Annie called out as she grabbed his arm. “Martin! Stop it. This won’t get you anywhere.”

Armitage shook her off as if she were a troublesome insect. “This pervert killed my son,” he said. “If you lot can’t do it, I’ll get a bloody confession, even if I have to shake it out of him.” As if to prove his point, he started to shake Wells again and slap him back and forth across the face. Blood and saliva dribbled from Wells’s slack jaw.

Annie tried to wedge herself between them, knocking over a teetering pile of books as she did so. A cloud of dust rose up and the cat screeched even louder. Armitage was strong. He pushed Annie and she staggered back into a table. It broke and more books slid to the floor. She almost joined them there.

Gathering all her strength, Annie made one more attempt, launching herself towards the struggling men in the cramped space, but Armitage saw her coming and swung his fist beyond Wells’s head, connecting directly with Annie’s mouth. The blow stunned her and she fell back again, in pain this time, and put her hand to her mouth. It came away covered in blood.

Armitage was still shaking Wells and Annie feared the bookseller was going to choke to death, if he didn’t have a
heart attack first. Armitage was paying her no mind now, and she managed to edge behind him to the door and dash up the steps. The police station was only yards away, across Market Street, and nobody asked her any questions when she rushed in the front door, blood streaming from her mouth.

Two burly PCs followed her back to the shop, and it took both of them to subdue Armitage, wrecking most of the place in the process. There were old books all over the floor, broken tables and clouds of dust in the air by the time they got the handcuffs on him and marched him outside up the stairs. Wells was bleeding, clutching his chest and looking distinctly unwell. Annie got his arm around her shoulder and helped him stumble up into the fresh air. Hearing the fracas, the Japanese tourists turned away from the church facade and pointed their camcorders at the five of them. Well, Annie thought, digging for a handkerchief deep in her purse, at least we’re bloody
moving
.

It had been a while since Banks had spent much time in his office, and the
Dalesman
calendar was still open at July’s photo of Skidby Windmill on the edge of the Yorkshire Wolds. He had the radio tuned in to Radio 3 and was listening to an orchestral concert of music by Holst, Haydn and Vaughan Williams as he whittled away at the pile of paperwork on his desk. He had just settled into the “Lento moderato” of Vaughan Williams’s
Pastoral Symphony
and yet another memo on cost-effectiveness, when his phone rang.

“Alan, it’s Stefan.”

“Good news, I hope?”

“Depends on how you look at it. Your man Norman Wells is clean, as far as we can tell. We were pretty thorough, and I’m sure if there’d been any traces of Luke Armitage in his car or house we’d have found something.”

“You didn’t?”

“Nada.”

“Okay, well I suppose that shows us where
not
to concentrate our attention. Anything positive?”

“The blood on the drystone wall.”

“I remember.”

“There was enough for DNA analysis. It’s definitely human, and it doesn’t match the victim’s.”

Banks whistled. “So there’s a good chance it could belong to whoever dropped Luke over the wall?”

“A pretty good chance, yes. But don’t get your hopes up too high. It
could
belong to anyone.”

“But you’ll be able to match it with any samples we can get?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. Thanks, Stefan.”

“My pleasure.”

Banks wondered whom he should ask to provide DNA samples. Norman Wells, of course, even though the forensic search of his house had turned up nothing incriminating. Alastair Ford, perhaps, just because he lived in a remote cottage and was connected to Luke through the violin lessons. And because he was weird. Lauren Anderson, because she gave Luke English tuition after school hours and seemed to be close to him. Who else? Josie and Calvin Batty, perhaps. And the parents, Martin and Robin. They’d no doubt kick up a holy fuss and run crying to the chief constable, but that couldn’t be helped. DNA could be processed in two or three days now, but it was a very expensive proposition. Banks would just have to see how much he could get away with.

Then there was the mystery girl, of course. They would definitely need a sample from her if they ever found her, if she existed.

No sooner had the “Moderato pesante” begun than his phone rang again. This time it was the duty constable. Someone to see him in connection with Luke Armitage. A young woman.

“Send her up,” said Banks, wondering if
this
could be the mystery woman. She must know that she was wanted by now, and if she did, then her failure to show up was suspicious in itself.

A minute or so later a uniformed constable tapped on Banks’s office door and ushered in the girl. Banks recognized Rose Barlow immediately. She strutted into his office all blue-jeaned leg, blond hair and attitude. Her visit would save him or Annie the trouble of seeking her out.

“I’m Rose,” she said. “Rose Barlow. You don’t remember me, do you?”

“I know who you are,” said Banks. “What can
I
do for
you
?”

Rose carried on snooping around the office, taking books off the shelf and rifling through the pages, putting them back, adjusting the calendar so it was square with the filing cabinet. She wore a short, sleeveless top so that, Banks presumed, the rose tattoo on her upper left arm and the collection of jewellery dangling from her navel showed to best advantage.

“It’s more a matter of what I can do for you,” she said, sitting down and giving him what he was sure she thought of as an enigmatic look. It came across as vacant. She must be a handful for her father, he thought. It seemed so often the case that the daughters of authority figures–vicars, head teachers, chief constables–were the first to rebel, and he could only think himself lucky that Tracy, a mere chief inspector’s daughter, seemed to have a good head on her shoulders. She must have got it from her mother, Banks thought, then veered away from thoughts of Sandra, showing now, no doubt, glowing with the joys of coming motherhood. Well, good luck to her and Sean; they’d need it.

“And what can you do for me?” Banks asked, deciding to let her get to her reason for coming before asking questions of his own.

She turned her nose up at the radio. “What’s that?”

“Vaughan Williams.”

“It’s boring.”

“Sorry you don’t like it. What can you do for me?”

“Do you know who killed Luke?”

“I thought you could do something for me?”

“Spoilsport. Why won’t you tell me?”

Banks sighed. “Rose. Miss Barlow. If we’d found Luke’s killer you’d have read about it in the papers by now. Now, tell me what you came to say. I’m busy.”

Rose didn’t like that, and Banks realized that letting his impatience show was a mistake. She probably got that sort of response from her father all the time, the way Tracy and Brian had often heard the same thing from Banks. Rose craved attention because she didn’t feel she got enough. Banks wondered if his children felt the same way. Did Tracy try so hard and do so well academically because she wanted attention? Did Brian stand up on stage in front of an audience night after night and bare his soul because he craved it, too? And had Luke Armitage craved the same thing? Perhaps. In his children’s cases, though, the response to the need was a pretty healthy, creative one. Banks wasn’t sure to what lengths Rose Barlow might go to get the attention
she
felt she deserved.

“I’m sorry,” he went on, “but I’m sure you understand that we’re in a hurry to find out who killed Luke, and if you know anything that might help us…”

Rose leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Why? Do you think he’s going to kill someone else? Do you think it’s a serial killer?”

“We’ve no reason to think anything of the sort.”

“Then relax, why don’t you?”

Banks felt his back teeth grinding as he tried to smile.

“Anyway,” Rose went on, “I was going to tell you. Have you talked to Miss Anderson yet?”

“Lauren Anderson? Yes.”

A mischievous glint lit Rose’s eyes. “And did she tell you about her and Luke?”

“She told us she gave him extra tuition in English because he was ahead of the rest of the class.”

Rose laughed. “
Extra tuition
. That’s a good one. And did she tell you where she gave this tuition?”

“At her house.”

Rose leaned back and folded her arms. “Exactly.”

“So?”

“Oh, come on. Surely you can’t be
that
naive? Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” said Banks, who was perfectly sure but wanted her to get there by herself.

“They were having it off, weren’t they?”

“You know that for a fact?”

“Stands to reason.”

“Why?”

“She’s nothing but a slut, that Miss Anderson, and a cradle-snatcher.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, she didn’t give anybody
else
private tuition in her home, did she?”

“I don’t know,” said Banks.

“Well she
didn’t
.”

“Tell me, Rose,” Banks said, wishing he could have a cigarette, “what did you think of Luke? You knew him, didn’t you?”

“We were in the same class, yes.”

“Did you like him?”

Rose twirled some strands of hair. “He was all right, I suppose.”

“Pretty cool, huh?”

“
Cool!
More like sad, if you ask me.”

“Why?”

“He never talked to anybody–except high-and-mighty Miss Anderson, of course. It’s like he was better than us all.”

“Maybe he was shy.”

“Just because he had a famous father. Well, I think his father’s music sucks, and he can’t have been much of a
father if he went and killed himself, could he? He was nothing but a drug addict.”

Nice line in compassion, Rose, Banks thought, but he didn’t bother voicing his opinion. “So you didn’t like Luke?”

“I told you. He was all right. Just a bit weird.”

“But he was pretty good-looking, wasn’t he?”

Rose made a face. “Ugh! I wouldn’t have gone out with him if he was the last boy on Earth.”

“I don’t think you’re telling me the truth, Rose, are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know very well what I mean. You and Luke. Earlier this year.”

“Who told you that?”

“Never you mind. How far did it go?”

“Go? That’s a laugh. It didn’t go anywhere.”

“But you wanted it to, didn’t you?”

Rose twisted in her chair. “It’s like he was better than the rest of us.”

“So why did you spend time talking to him?”

“I don’t know. Just…I mean, he was different. The other boys, they only want one thing.”

“And Luke didn’t?”

“I never got to find out, did I? We just talked.”

“What about?”

“Music and stuff.”

“You never actually went out together?”

“No. I mean, we went to McDonald’s a couple of times after school, but that’s all.”

“Rose, do you have any evidence at all to support your accusation that Luke and Lauren Anderson were having an affair?”

“If you mean was I watching at her window, then no. But it’s obvious, isn’t it? Why else would she spend her spare time with someone like him?”

“But
you
spent time with him.”

“Yeah. Well…that was different.”

“Didn’t you try to be nice to him, to befriend him, when you talked to him in the hallways and the playground, and when you went to McDonald’s with him?”

Rose looked away and continued twirling her hair around her fingers. “Of course I did.”

“And what happened?”

“Nothing. He just sort of…like he got
bored
with me or something. Like I didn’t read all those stupid books he was always carrying around, and I didn’t listen to the same lousy music. I wasn’t good enough for him. He was a snob. Above the rest of us.”