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

“Cool,” said Brian, finishing off his lager. “What are we waiting for?”

Banks sighed and reached for his jacket again. So much for quality time.

Michelle could have walked to Rivergate, it wasn’t that far, but it also wasn’t a particularly pleasant walk, and the rain was still pouring down, so she decided to treat herself to a taxi from the station.

The first inkling she got that something was wrong in the flat was when she heard the creaking door of her Mystery screen-saver and saw the lights going on and off in the creepy-looking mansion as the full moon slowly crossed the starlit sky. She knew she had turned her computer off after she’d checked her e-mail that morning. She always did; she was compulsive about it. Also, someone had pulled some of the books out of one of the boxes that she hadn’t got around to unpacking. They weren’t damaged or anything, just piled up on the floor beside the box.

Michelle jogged the mouse and the computer returned to its regular display. Only it was open at Michelle’s file of notes about the Marshall case, and she knew she hadn’t opened that since the previous night. There was nothing secret about her speculations, nothing she had thought would even interest anyone else, so she hadn’t bothered with password protection. In the future, she would know better.

With the hairs prickling at the back of her neck, Michelle stood still and strained her ears for any odd sounds in the flat. Nothing except the clock ticking and the humming of the refrigerator. She took her old side-handled baton from her uniform days out of the closet by the door. Gripping that made her feel a little more courageous as she went to explore the rest of the flat.

The kitchen light was on, and a couple of items that she knew she had put back in the fridge that morning – milk, butter, eggs – lay on the countertop. The butter had melted into a shapeless lump and it oozed over her fingers when she picked it up.

Her bathroom cabinet stood open, and the various pills and potions she kept there were not in their usual order. Her bottle of aspirin sat on the edge of the sink, top off and cotton wool missing. Even as the chills went up her spine, Michelle wondered what the hell all this was about. If someone had searched the place, though she couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to, then why not just leave it in a mess? Clearly, whoever had done this had done it to scare her – and they were succeeding.

She went into the bedroom cautiously, gripping the side-handled baton more tightly, expecting the worst. Nobody jumped out of the wardrobe at her, but what she saw there made her drop her baton and put her hands to her mouth.

There was no mess. Perhaps some of her drawers weren’t completely closed, the way she had left them, but there was no mess. It was much, much worse.

Spread out neatly at the center of the bed lay Melissa’s dress. When Michelle reached out to pick it up, she found it had been cut cleanly into two halves.

Michelle staggered back against the wall, half the dress clutched to her chest, hardly able to believe what was happening. As she did so, her eye caught the writing on the dressing-table mirror: FORGET GRAHAM MARSHALL, BITCH. REMEMBER MELISSA. YOU COULD JOIN HER.

Michelle cried out, covered her face with the dress and slid down the wall to the floor.

Norman Wells sat in the interview room with his folded arms resting on the top of his paunch and his lips pressed tight together. If he was scared, he wasn’t showing it. But then, he didn’t know how much the police already knew about him.

Banks and Annie sat opposite him, files spread out in front of them. Banks felt well-rested after a day off. He had stayed up late Saturday night eating Chinese food and talking with Brian, but on Sunday, after Brian left, he had done nothing but read the papers, go for a walk from Helmthorpe to Rawley Force and back by himself, stopping for a pub lunch and fiddling with the Sunday Times crossword. In the evening, he had thought of ringing Michelle Hart in Peterborough but decided against it. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms, so let her contact him first, if she wanted to. After a small Laphroaig and a cigarette outside, enjoying the mild evening air around sunset, he had listened to Ian Bostridge’s English Song Book CD, gone to bed before half past ten, and slept as soundly as he could remember in a long time.

“Norman,” said Banks. “You don’t mind if I call you Norman, do you?”

“It’s my name.”

“Detective Inspector Cabbot here has been doing a bit of digging around in your background, and it turns out you’ve been a naughty boy, haven’t you?”

Wells said nothing. Annie pushed a file toward Banks, and he opened it. “You used to be a schoolteacher, am I right?”

“You know I did, or you wouldn’t have dragged me in here away from my business.”

Banks raised his eyebrows. “It’s my understanding that you came here of your own free will when asked to help us with our inquiries. Am I wrong?”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“I don’t follow.”

“And there’s no need to play the thickie with me. You know what I mean. If I hadn’t come willingly, you’d have found some way to bring me here, whether I wanted to come or not. So just get on with it. It might not seem much to you, but I have a business to run, customers who rely on me.”

“We’ll try to see that you get back to your shop as soon as possible, Norman, but first I’d like you to answer a few questions for me. You taught at a private school in Cheltenham, right?”

“Yes.”

“How long ago?”

“I left seven years ago.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I grew tired of teaching.”

Banks glanced at Annie, who frowned, leaned over and pointed at some lines on the typed sheet of paper in front of Banks. “Norman,” Banks went on, “I think I ought to inform you that Detective Inspector Cabbot spoke to your old headmaster, Mr. Fulwell, earlier this morning. He was reticent to discuss school business at first, but when she informed him that we were conducting a possible murder investigation, he was a little more forthcoming. We know all about you, Norman.”

The moment of truth. Wells seemed to deflate and shrink in his chair. His plump lower lip pushed up and all but obscured the upper, his chin disappeared into his neck and his arms seemed to wrap more tightly around his lower chest. “What do you want from me?” he whispered.

“The truth.”

“I had a nervous breakdown.”

“What caused it?”

“The pressures of the job. You’ve no idea what teaching’s like.”

“I don’t imagine I have,” Banks admitted, thinking that the last thing he’d want to do was stand up in front of thirty or forty scruffy, hormonally challenged teenagers and try to get them interested in Shakespeare or the War of Jenkins’s Ear. Anyone with that skill deserved his admiration. And a medal, too, for that matter. “What particular pressures led you to decide to leave?”

“It was nothing specific. Just a general sort of breakdown.”

“Stop beating about the bush, Norman,” Annie cut in. “Does the name Steven Farrow mean anything to you?”

Wells paled. “Nothing happened. I never touched him. False accusations.”

“According to the headmaster, Norman, you were infatuated with this thirteen-year-old boy. So much so that you neglected your duties, became an embarrassment to the school, and on one occasion-”

“Enough!” Wells slammed his fist down on the metal table. “You’re just like everyone else. You poison the truth with your lies. You can’t stare beauty in the eye, so you have to destroy it, poison it for everyone else.”