Peter Robinson - Close To Home (aka The Summer That Never Was)

Before Michelle could formulate her next question, another woman walked into the room. She bore a strong facial resemblance to the boy in the photograph – the same small, straight nose, oval chin and well-defined cheekbones – only the feminine aspects were even more enhanced in her. She wore her gray-streaked hair long, tied in a ponytail, and was casually dressed in a dark blue T-shirt and jeans. She was a little too thin for comfort, or perhaps Michelle was jealous, always feeling herself to be five or ten pounds overweight, and the stress of recent events showed in her features, as it did in Mrs. Marshall’s.

“This is Joan, my daughter,” Mrs. Marshall said.

Michelle stood and shook Joan’s limp hand.

“She lives in Folkestone, teaches at a comprehensive school there,” Mrs. Marshall added with obvious pride. “She was going on her holidays, but when she heard… well, she wanted to be with us.”

“I understand,” said Michelle. “Were you and Graham close, Joan?”

“As close as any brother and sister with two years between them can be in their teens,” said Joan with a rueful smile. She sat on the floor in front of the television and crossed her legs. “Actually, I’m not being fair. Graham wasn’t like most other boys his age. He even bought me presents. He didn’t tease me or torment me. If anything, he was very protective.”

“From what?”

“Sorry?”

“What did he have to protect you from?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean anything in particular. You know, just in general. If anyone tried to bully me or anything like that.”

“Boys?”

“Well, I was only twelve when he disappeared, but yes, there were a couple of over-amorous local lads he sent packing.”

“Was Graham a tough lad?”

“Not really,” said Mrs. Marshall. “Mind you, he never backed away from a fight. When we moved and he first went to school here, there was a bit of bullying – you know, the way they always like to test the new kid – but in his first week our Graham took on the school bully. He didn’t win, but he put up a good fight, blacked an eye and bloodied a nose, so nobody bothered him after that.”

Michelle was wondering how difficult it would be for someone to abduct and murder Graham Marshall if he could put up a good fight. Might it have taken two people? Might he have been drugged or knocked unconscious first? Or was it someone he knew and went with willingly? “You said you moved up here?” Michelle went on. “Would that be from the East End?”

“It still shows, does it, after all these years? Once a Cockney, always a Cockney, I suppose. Not that I’m ashamed of it. Yes, we came from Bethnal Green. We moved around a fair bit because of Bill’s work. He’s a bricklayer. Or he was. We’d only been here a year or so when it happened. Graham had just finished third form at the local grammar school.”

“But you stayed on after.”

“Yes. There was plenty of work, what with the new town business. Plenty of building. And we like it here. It suits us.”

“Mrs. Marshall,” said Michelle, “I know it’s a long time ago, but can you tell me what sort of things Graham was interested in?”

“Interested in? Oh, the usual boys’ stuff. Football. Cricket. And pop music. He was pop-music crazy. We’ve still got his old guitar upstairs. Practiced chords for hours, he did. Mind you, he read a lot, too. Graham was the sort of lad who could amuse himself. He didn’t always need someone to entertain him. Loved to read about space. You know, science fiction, rockets to Mars, green-eyed monsters. Space-mad, he was.” She looked at the photograph and a faraway expression came over her features. “Just the day before he… well, there was some sort of rocket launch in America, and he was so excited, watching it on telly.”

“Did he have many friends?”

“He made quite a few around here,” Joan answered. She looked at her mother. “Who was there, Mum?”

“Let me remember. There was the Banks lad, of course, they were very close, and David Grenfell and Paul Major. And Steven Hill. Some others, maybe, but those five all lived on the estate, so they’d walk to school together, play cricket or football on the rec, listen to music together, swap records. That sort of thing. Some of their parents still live here. Those who are still left alive, that is.”

“Was Graham a popular boy?”

“I’d say so, yes,” said Mrs. Marshall. “He had an easygoing nature. I can’t see how he could possibly have offended anyone. I’m not saying he was perfect, mind you. He was a normal teenage lad, and he had his fair share of high spirits.”

“Was he a bright lad?”

“He did well at school, didn’t he, Mum?” said Joan.

“Yes. He’d have got to university easily, just like his sister.”

“What did he want to be when he grew up?”

“An astronaut or a pop star, but I’m sure he would have changed his mind about that. He was good at physics and chemistry. He’d probably have made a good teacher.” She paused. “What’s going to happen now, if you don’t mind me asking, Miss Hart? I mean, it was all so long ago. Surely you don’t think you can catch whoever did this? Not after all this time.”

“I don’t know,” said Michelle. “I certainly wouldn’t want to make any rash promises. But when something like this happens, we do our best to go over the ground again and see if we can find something someone missed the first time around. A fresh pair of eyes. It works sometimes. But if I’m to be completely honest with you, I’d have to say we’ll not be giving the case full priority in terms of manpower.”

“Believe me, love, there’s plenty of crime going on around here now without you police spending your time digging up the past as well.” She paused. “It’s just that… well, I think I would like to know, even after all this time. I thought about it a lot the other day, when they came back with the DNA results and said it definitely was our Graham. I thought I’d got resigned that we’d never know, but now, well, I’m not so sure. I mean, if you can just find out what happened to him, and why…” She looked at her husband. “I know he’d like his mind set at ease before… well, I’m sure you know what I mean.”

Michelle packed away her notebook in her briefcase. “Yes, I think I know what you mean,” she said. “And I promise I’ll do my best.”

“There is one question I’d like to ask,” said Mrs. Marshall.

“Yes?”

“Well, you know, the way things happened, we never… I mean, our Graham never had a proper funeral. Do you think we could do that? You know, the bones…”

Michelle thought for a moment. “We might need them for a few days longer,” she said, “for tests and suchlike. But I don’t see why not. Look, I’ll talk to the forensic anthropologist. I’m sure she’ll do her best to release the remains as soon as possible.”

“You are? Really? Oh, thank you so very much, Miss Hart. You don’t know how much it means to us. Do you have any children of your own?”

Michelle felt herself tense up the way she always did when people asked her that. Finally, she got the words out. “No. No, I don’t.”

Mrs. Marshall saw her to the door. “If there’s anything more I can tell you,” she said, “please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“I won’t,” said Michelle. “Thank you.” And she walked down the path in the rain to her car taking deep breaths, shaken, flooded with memories she’d been blocking out, memories of Melissa, and of Ted. Now Graham Marshall was more to her than just a pile of bones on a steel table; he was a bright, easygoing lad with a Beatle haircut who wanted to be an astronaut or a pop star. If only she could figure out where to begin.