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

“Why?”

“I needed to be sure. That’s all. And it turned out to be a clue of sorts.”

“The low amount? Yes. But how did you know that wasn’t just the first installment?”

“With respect, sir, kidnappers don’t usually work on the installment plan. Not like blackmailers.”

“But how did you know?”

“I didn’t know, but it seemed a reasonable assumption.”

“You assumed.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Look, DI Cabbot. I’m not going to beat about the bush. I don’t like it when members of the public make complaints about officers under my command. I like it even less when a self-important citizen such as Martin Armitage complains to his golf-club crony, the chief constable, who then passes the buck down to me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. You don’t like it.”

“Now, while your actions weren’t exactly by the book, and while you might have lacked judgment in acting so impulsively, I don’t see anything serious enough in what you did to justify punishment.”

Annie began to feel relieved. A bollocking, that was all she was going to get.

“On the other hand…”

Annie’s spirits sank again.

“We don’t have all the facts in yet.”

“Sir?”

“We don’t know whether you were seen by the kidnapper or not, do we?”

“No, sir.”

“And we don’t know exactly when Luke Armitage died.”

“Dr. Glendenning’s doing the postmortem sometime today, sir.”

“Yes, I know. So what I’m saying is that until we have all the facts I’ll postpone judgment. Go back to your duties, detective inspector.”

Annie stood up before he changed his mind. “Yes, sir.”

“And, DI Cabbot?”

“Sir?”

“If you’re going to keep on using your own car on the job, get a bloody police radio fitted, would you?”

Annie blushed. “Yes, sir,” she mumbled, and left.

Michelle got off the InterCity train at King’s Cross at about half past one that afternoon and walked down the steps to the tube, struck, as she always was, by the sheer hustle and bustle of London, the constant noise and motion. Cathedral Square on a summer holiday weekend with a rock band playing in the marketplace didn’t even come close.

Unlike many of her contemporaries, Michelle had never worked on the Met. She had thought of moving there after Greater Manchester, after Melissa had died and Ted had left, but instead she had moved around a lot over the past five years and taken numerous courses, convincing herself that it was all for the good of her career. She suspected, though, that she had just been running. Somewhere a bit more out of the way had seemed the best option, at least for the time being, another low-profile position. And you didn’t get anywhere in today’s police force without switching back and forth a lot – from uniform to CID, from county to county. Career detectives like Jet Harris were a thing of the past.

A few ragged junkies sat propped against the walls of the busy underpass, several of them young girls, Michelle noticed, and too far gone even to beg for change. As she passed, one of them started to moan and wail. She had a bottle in her hand and she banged it hard against the wall until it smashed, echoing in the tiled passage and scattering broken glass all over the place. Like everyone else, Michelle hurried on.

The tube was crowded and she had to stand all the way to Tottenham Court Road, where Retired Detective Inspector Robert Lancaster had agreed to talk to her over a late lunch on Dean Street. It was raining when she walked out onto Oxford Street. Christ, she thought, not again! At this rate, summer would be over before it had begun. Michelle unfurled her umbrella and made her way through the tourists and hustlers. She turned off Oxford Street and crossed Soho Square, then followed Lancaster’s directions and found the place easily enough.

Though it was a pub, Michelle was pleased to see that it looked rather more upmarket than some establishments, with its hanging baskets of flowers outside, stained glass and shiny dark woodwork. She had dressed about as casually as she was capable of, in a mid-length skirt, a pink V-neck top and a light wool jacket, but she would still have looked overdressed in a lot of London pubs. This one, however, catered to a business luncheon crowd. It even had a separate restaurant section away from the smoke and video machines, with table service, no less.

Lancaster, recognizable by the carnation he told Michelle he would be wearing in his gray suit, was a dapper man with a full head of silver hair and a sparkle in his eye. Perhaps a bit portly, Michelle noticed as he stood up to greet her, but definitely well-preserved for his age, which she guessed at around seventy. His face had a florid complexion, but he didn’t otherwise look like a serious drinker. At least he didn’t have that telltale calligraphy of broken red and purple veins just under the surface, like Shaw.

“Mr. Lancaster,” she said, sitting down. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

“The pleasure’s mine entirely,” he said, traces of a Cockney accent still in his voice. “Ever since my kids flew the coop and my wife died, I’ll take any opportunity to get out of the house. Besides, it’s not every day I get to come down the West End and have lunch with a pretty girl like yourself.”

Michelle smiled and felt herself blush a little. A girl, he’d called her, when she had turned forty last September. For some reason, she didn’t feel offended by Lancaster’s particular brand of male chauvinism; it had such a quaint, old-fashioned feel to it that it seemed only natural on her part to accept the compliment and thank him with as much grace as possible. She’d soon find out if it got more wearing as their conversation continued.

“I hope you don’t mind my choice of eatery.”

Michelle looked around at the tables with their white linen cloths and weighty cutlery, the uniformed waitresses dashing around. “Not at all,” she said.

He chuckled, a throaty sound. “You wouldn’t believe what this place used to be like. Used to be a real villains’ pub back in the early sixties. Upstairs, especially. You’d be amazed at the jobs planned up there, the contracts put out.”

“Not anymore, I hope?”

“Oh, no. It’s quite respectable now.” He spoke with a tinge of regret in his voice.

A waitress appeared with her order book.

“What would you like to drink?” Lancaster asked.

“Just a fruit juice, please.”

“Orange, grapefruit or pineapple?” the waitress asked.

“Orange is fine.”

“And I’ll have another pint of Guinness, please,” Lancaster said. “Sure you don’t want something a bit stronger, love?”

“No, that’ll be just fine, thanks.” Truth was, Michelle had felt the effects of last night’s bottle of wine that morning, and she had decided to lay off the booze for a day or two. It was still manageable. She never drank during the day, anyway, only in the evening, alone in her flat with the curtains closed and the television on. But if she didn’t nip it in the bud, she’d be the next one with broken blood vessels in her nose.

“The food’s quite good here,” said Lancaster while the waitress was fetching their drinks. “I’d stay away from the lamb curry if I were you, though. Last time I touched it I ended up with a case of Delhi belly.”

Michelle had eaten a curry the previous evening, and though it hadn’t given her “Delhi belly,” it had made its presence felt during the night. She wanted something plain, something unencumbered with fancy sauces, something British .

The waitress returned with her Britvic orange and Lancaster’s Guinness and asked them for their orders.