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

Banks met Annie at The Woolpack, a quiet pub in the tiny village of Maltham, about halfway between Gratly and Harksmere. On his way home from Manchester Airport, he had debated whether to call her, and he decided in the end it would be a good idea. He wanted to talk to someone about what he had just learned, and Annie was the only person he had told about the incident with the pervert down by the river. It shocked him to realize that he hadn’t even told his ex-wife, Sandra, though they had been married for over twenty years.

It was drizzling when he pulled up in the market square car park shortly before nine o’clock. Annie’s purple Astra was nowhere in sight. He obeyed the sign and stepped on the disinfectant pad before entering the pub. Though there hadn’t been an outbreak near Maltham itself, incidences of foot-and-mouth disease had occurred in some of the surrounding areas, and as a consequence strict, sometimes unpopular, measures had been brought in by the ministry. Many footpaths had been closed and access to the countryside limited. Also, as local farmers used the village pubs and shops, many of the owners had placed disinfectant mats on their doorsteps.

Maltham itself wasn’t much of a place, though it did have a fine Norman church, and The Woolpack was one of those pubs that did good business mostly by virtue of its being on a busy road between tourist destinations. That meant most of the trade was transient, and during the day, so the few grizzled locals who stood around the bar turned as one and gawped when Banks entered. They did that every time. One of them must have recognized him and said something, because in no time at all they turned back to their pints and ignored him. Banks bought a pint of Black Sheep bitter and a packet of cheese and onion crisps and sat down near the door, as far from the bar as he could get. A couple of the other tables were taken, tourists renting local cottages, by the looks of them. Poor sods, they’d be going out of their minds with no footpaths to walk.

Christ, it was a long way from Greece, Banks thought. Hard to believe that at this time just two nights ago he had been drinking ouzo and nibbling dolmades with Alex in Philippe’s taverna. They had drunk well into the small hours, knowing it was to be their last evening together, telling stories and soaking up the scented warmth of the air and the rhythm of the sea lapping at the quayside beside them. In the morning, Banks had looked for Alex by the harbor to say good-bye as he caught the early ferry to Piraeus, but his friend was nowhere to be seen. Probably nursing his hangover, Banks had thought, aware of the pounding in his own head.

The door opened, the men gawped again – with a bit more interest this time – and Annie entered in tight jeans and a light blue sleeveless top, bag slung over her shoulder. She pecked Banks on the cheek and sat down. Smelling her delicate grapefruit-scented shampoo and soap, and aware of the vague outlines of her nipples under the thin cotton, Banks felt a momentary rush of desire for her, but he held himself in check. That part of their relationship was over; they had moved on to something different. Instead, he went back to the bar and bought her a pint.

“Look at that tan,” Annie said when he sat down again, her laugh lines crinkling. “It’s all right for some.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage a week in Blackpool before summer’s over,” said Banks.

“Dancing to the Wurlitzer in the Tower Ballroom? Donkey rides on the beach in the rain? Candy floss on the prom and a kiss-me-quick hat? I can hardly wait.” She leaned over and patted his arm. “It is good to see you again, Alan.”

“You, too.”

“So come on, then. Tell. How was Greece?”

“Magnificent. Magical. Paradisiacal.”

“Then what the bloody hell are you doing back in Yorkshire? You were hardly forthcoming on the phone.”

“Years of practice.”

Annie leaned back in her chair and stretched out her legs the way she did, crossing them at the slender ankles, where the thin gold chain hung, sipped some beer and almost purred. Banks had never met anyone else who could look so comfortable and at home in a hard chair.

“Anyway,” she said, “you’re looking well. Less stressed. Even half a holiday seems to have had some effect.”

Banks considered for a moment and decided that he did feel much better than he had when he had left. “It helped put things in perspective,” he said. “And you?”

“Swimmingly. Thriving. The job’s going well. I’m getting back into yoga and meditation. And I’ve been doing some painting again.”

“I kept you away from all that?”

Annie laughed. “Well, it’s not as if you twisted my arm, but when you’ve got as little time as people in our line of work have, then something has to go by the wayside.”

Banks was about to make a sarcastic reference to that something being him this time, but he bit his tongue. He wouldn’t have done that two weeks ago. The holiday really must have done him good. “Well,” he said, “I’m glad you’re happy. I mean it, Annie.”

Annie touched his hand. “I know you do. Now what brings you back here in such a hurry? I hope it’s not serious.”

“It is, in a way.” Banks lit a cigarette and went on to explain about the discovery of Graham Marshall’s bones.

Annie listened, frowning. When Banks had finished, she said, “I can understand why you’re concerned, but what can you do?”

“I don’t know,” Banks said. “Maybe nothing. If I were the local police, I wouldn’t want me sticking my nose in, but when I heard, I just felt… I don’t know. It was a big part of my adolescence, Annie, Graham just disappearing like that, and I suppose it’s a big part of me now, always has been. I can’t explain, but there it is. I told you about the man by the river, the one who tried to push me in?”

“Yes.”

“If it was him, then maybe I can help them find him, if he’s still alive. I can remember what he looked like. Odds are there could be a photo on file.”

“And if it wasn’t him? Is that it? Is this the guilt you talked about before?”

“Partly,” said Banks. “I should have spoken up. But it’s more than that. Even if it’s nothing to do with the man by the river, someone killed Graham and buried his body. Maybe I can remember something, maybe there was something I missed at the time, being just a kid myself. If I can cast my mind back… Another?”

Annie looked at her glass. Half full. And she was driving. “No,” she said. “Not for me.”

“Don’t worry,” said Banks, catching her anxious glance as he went to the bar. “This’ll be my last for the evening.”

“So when are you going down there?” Annie asked when he came back.

“First thing tomorrow morning.”

“And you’re going to do what, exactly? Present yourself at the local nick and offer to help them solve their case?”

“Something like that. I haven’t thought it out yet. It’ll hardly be high priority with the locals. Anyway, surely they’ll be interested in someone who was around at the time? They interviewed me back then, you know. I remember it clearly.”

“Well, you said yourself they won’t exactly welcome you with open arms, not if you go as a copper trying to tell them how to do their jobs.”

“I’ll practice humility.”

Annie laughed. “You’d better be careful,” she said. “They might have you down as a suspect.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Anyway, it’s a pity you’re not sticking around. We might be able to use your help up here.”

“Oh? What’s on?”

“Missing kid.”

“Another?”

“This one disappeared a bit more recently than your friend Graham.”