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

“We couldn’t see it before because of the accumulated dirt,” Dr. Cooper explained, “but once we’d cleaned it up, it was plain as daylight. Look.”

Michelle bent closer and looked. She could see a deep, narrow notch in the bone. It was something she had come across before. She looked at Dr. Cooper. “Knife wound?”

“Very good. That’s what I’d say.”

“Pre- or postmortem?”

“Oh, pre. Cuts in green bone are different from cuts made in bones after death, when they’re more brittle. This is a clean, smooth cut. Definitely pre-mortem.”

“Cause of death?”

Dr. Cooper frowned. “I can’t say that for certain,” she said. “I mean, there could have been lethal poison in the system, or the victim might have drowned first, but what I can say, in my opinion, is that the wound would have been sufficient to cause death. If you follow the trajectory of the blade to its natural destination, it pierces the heart.”

Michelle paused a moment, looking at the rib in question, to take it all in. “Front or behind?” she asked.

“Does it matter?”

“If it was done from behind,” Michelle explained, “it could have been a stranger. If it happened from the front, someone had to get close enough to the boy to do it without his knowing what was going to happen.”

“Yes, I see,” said Dr. Cooper. “Good point. I never have managed to get the hang of thinking the way you police do.”

“Different training.”

“I suppose so.” Dr. Cooper picked up the rib. “Judging from the position of the cut on the bone – see, it’s almost on the inside – and by the straightness I’d say that it was done from in front, the classic upthrust through the rib cage and into the heart. Harder to be that accurate from behind. Much more awkward, far more likely to be at an angle.”

“So it had to be someone he would let get that close to him without being suspicious.”

“Close enough to pat him on the shoulder, yes. And whoever did it was right-handed.”

“What kind of knife?”

“That I can’t tell you, except that it was very sharp and the blade wasn’t serrated. It’s quite a deep cut, as you can see, so there’s plenty of scope for analysis and measurement. There’s someone I know who can probably tell you the date it was made and the company who made it, an expert. His name’s Dr. Hilary Wendell. If you like I can try to track him down, get him to have a look?”

“Could you?”

Dr. Cooper laughed. “I said I’d try . Hilary’s all over the place. And I mean all over. Including the United States, and Eastern Europe. He’s very well known. He even spent some time with the forensic teams in Bosnia and Kosovo.”

“You were there, too, weren’t you?”

Dr. Cooper gave a little shudder. “Yes. Kosovo.”

“Any idea when the coroner can release the bones for burial?”

“He can release them now as far as I’m concerned. I’d specify burial rather than cremation, though, just in case we need to exhume.”

“I think that’s what they have in mind. And some sort of memorial service. It’s just that I know the Marshalls are anxious for some sense of closure. I’ll give them a ring and say it’s okay to go ahead and make arrangements.”

“Funny thing, that, isn’t it?” said Dr. Cooper. “Closure. As if burying someone’s remains or sending a criminal to jail actually marks the end of the pain.”

“It’s very human, though, don’t you think?” said Michelle, for whom closure had simply refused to come, despite all the trappings. “We need ritual, symbols, ceremonies.”

“I suppose we do. What about this, though?” She pointed to the rib on the lab bench. “It could even end up being evidence in court.”

“Well,” said Michelle, “I don’t suppose the Marshalls will mind if they know Graham’s being buried with a rib missing, will they? Especially if it might help lead us to his killer. I’ll get their permission, anyway.”

“Fine,” said Dr. Cooper. “I’ll talk to the coroner this afternoon and try to track Hilary down in the meantime.”

“Thanks,” said Michelle. She looked again at the bones on the table, laid out in some sort of semblance of a human skeleton, and then glanced back at the single rib on the bench. Strange, she thought. It didn’t matter – they were only old bones – but she couldn’t help but feel this odd and deep sense of significance, and the words “Adam’s rib” came to mind. Stupid, she told herself. Nobody’s going to create a woman out of Graham Marshall’s rib; with a bit of luck, Dr. Hilary Wendell is going to tell us something about the knife that killed him.

A few dark clouds had blown in on a strong wind from the north, and it looked as if rain was about to spoil yet another fine summer’s day when Banks drove out in his own car to the crime scene late that afternoon, listening to Luke Armitage’s “Songs from a Black Room.”

There were only five short songs on the tape, and lyrically they were not sophisticated, about what you’d expect for a fifteen-year-old with a penchant for reading poetry he couldn’t understand. There were no settings of Rimbaud or Baudelaire here, only pure, unadulterated adolescent angst: “Everybody hates me, but I don’t care. / I’m safe in my black room, and the fools are out there.” But at least they were Luke’s own songs. When Banks was fourteen, he had got together with Graham, Paul and Steve to form a rudimentary rock band, and all they had managed were rough cover versions of Beatles and Stones songs. Not one of them had had the urge or the talent to write original material.

Luke’s music was raw and anguished, as if he were reaching, straining to find the right voice, his own voice. He backed himself on electric guitar, occasionally using special effects, such as fuzz and wah-wah, but mostly sticking to the simple chord progressions Banks remembered from his own stumbling attempts at guitar. The remarkable thing was how much Luke’s voice resembled his father’s. He had Neil Byrd’s broad range, though his voice hadn’t deepened enough to handle the lowest notes yet, and he also had his father’s timbre, wistful but bored, and even a little angry, edgy.

Only one song stood out, a quiet ballad with a melody Banks vaguely recognized, perhaps an adaptation of an old folk tune. The last piece on the tape, it was a love song of sorts, or a fifteen-year-old’s version of salvation:

He shut me out but you took me in.

He’s in the dark but you’re a bird on the wing.

I couldn’t hold you but you chose to stay.

Why do you care? Please don’t go away.

Was it about his mother, Robin? Or was it the girl Josie had seen him with in the Swainsdale Centre? Along with Winsome Jackman and Kevin Templeton, Annie was out showing the artist’s impression around the most likely places. Maybe one of them would get lucky.

The SOCOs were still at Hallam Tarn, the road still taped off, and a local TV van, along with a gaggle of reporters, barely kept their distance. As he pulled up by the side of the road, Banks even noticed a couple of middle-aged ladies in walking gear; sightseers, no doubt. Stefan Nowak was in charge, looking suave even in his protective clothing.

“Stefan,” Banks greeted him. “How’s it going?”

“We’re trying to get everything done before the rain comes,” Stefan said. “We’ve found nothing else in the water so far, but the frogmen are still looking.”

Banks looked around. Christ, but it was wild and lonely up there, an open landscape, hardly a tree in sight, with miles of rolling moorland, a mix of yellow gorse, sandy-colored tufts of grass and black patches where fires had raged earlier that summer. The heather wouldn’t bloom for another month or two, but the dark multi-branched stems spread tough and wiry all around, clinging close to the ground. The view was spectacular, even more dramatic under the lowering sky. Over in the west, Banks could see as far as the long flat bulk of the three peaks: Ingleborough, Whernside and Pen-y-ghent.