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

“Did he ever mention his parents?”

“Not to me.”

“What about his biological father? Neil Byrd?”

“Never heard of him.”

Banks looked around the room. “It’s a very isolated cottage you have here, Mr. Ford.”

“Is it? Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Isolation suits you?”

“It must do, mustn’t it?” Ford’s foot started tapping on the floor, his knee jerking, and not to the rhythm of the now barely audible Requiem .

“Do you ever have company?”

“Rarely. I play in a string quartet, and sometimes the other members come out here to rehearse. Other than that, I’m rather given to solitary pursuits. Look, I-”

“No girlfriends?”

“I told you, I’m not good at relationships.”

“Boyfriends?”

Ford raised an eyebrow. “I’m not good at relationships.”

“Yet you manage the teacher-student relationship.”

“I have a talent for teaching.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“In a way. Sometimes.”

Banks got up and walked over to the window. There was a fine view of the dale, looking back toward Eastvale in the distance. Banks thought he could just make out the castle on its hill.

“Did Luke Armitage ever come here?” he asked, turning to face Ford.

“No.”

“You’re certain?”

“Very few people come here. I would remember. Look, if you want to know about Luke, ask Lauren.”

“Lauren Anderson?”

“Yes. She knew him far better than I did. She’s a… well, you know, she’s the sort of person people talk to, about their problems and stuff.”

“Emotions.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know if Luke was close to anyone else?”

“You could try our head teacher’s daughter.”

Banks had a quick flash of that sudden flurry of blond hair and long leg he had noticed after his conversation with Gavin Barlow. “Rose Barlow?”

“That’s the one. Little minx.”

“Were she and Luke friends?”

“Thick as thieves.”

“When was this?”

“Earlier this year. February or March.”

“Where did you see them together?”

“At school.”

“Nowhere else?”

“I don’t go anywhere else. Except here. All I can say is I saw them talking sometimes in the corridors and playground, and they seemed close.”

Banks made a mental note to follow up on Rose Barlow. “Do you have a mobile phone?” he asked.

“Good Lord, what an odd question!”

“Do you?”

“No. I see no use for one, personally. I barely use the telephone I do have.”

“Where were you last Monday?”

“Here.”

“Were you in Eastvale at all last week?”

“I’ve already told you. I’ve hardly left the cottage.”

“What have you been doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Here. In the cottage. Alone. All this time.”

Ford got to his feet and the birdlike motions started up again. “Playing music. Listening. Reading. Dabbling in a little composition. Look, really it’s none of your business, you know, even if you are a policeman. The last time I noticed, we were still living in a free country.”

“It was just a simple question, Mr. Ford. No need to get upset.”

Ford’s voice took on a piercing edge. “I’m not getting upset. But you’re prying. I hate people prying. I can’t tell you anything. Go talk to Lauren. Leave me alone.”

Banks stared at him for a moment. Ford wouldn’t meet his gaze. “If I find out you’ve been lying to me, Mr. Ford, I’ll be back. Do you understand?”

“I’m not lying. I haven’t done anything. Leave me alone.”

Before leaving, Banks showed him the artist’s impression of the girl Josie Batty had seen with Luke. Ford hardly glanced at the sketch and said he didn’t recognize her. He was weird, without a doubt, Banks thought as he started his car, but you couldn’t arrest people just for being weird. The volume went way up again, and Banks could hear Verdi’s Lacrimosa chasing him all the way to Lyndgarth.

“Thank you for seeing to the release, love,” Mrs. Marshall said. “We’ll be holding the funeral service at Saint Peter’s the day after tomorrow. Joan’s coming back up for it, of course. I must say the vicar’s been very good, considering none of us were what you’d call regular churchgoers. You’ll be there?”

“Yes, of course,” said Michelle. “There’s just one thing.”

“What’s that, love?”

Michelle told her about the rib they needed for evidence.

Mrs. Marshall frowned and thought for a moment. “I don’t think we need worry about a little thing like a missing rib, need we? Especially if it might help you.”

“Thank you,” said Michelle.

“You look tired, love. Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Fine.” Michelle managed to dredge up a weak smile.

“Is there any more news?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Only more questions.”

“I can’t understand what else I have to tell you, but please go ahead.”

Michelle leaned back in her chair. This was going to be difficult, she knew. To find out about any mischief Graham might have been up to without suggesting that he got up to mischief – which his mother would never accept – was almost to do the impossible. Still, she could but try. “Was Graham ever away from home for any periods of time?”

“What do you mean? Did we send him away?”

“No. But you know what kids are like. Sometimes they just like to take off and not tell you where they’ve been. They worry you sick but they don’t seem to realize it at the time.”

“Oh, I know what you mean. I’m not saying our Graham was any different from the other kids that way. He missed his tea from time to time, and once or twice he missed his nine-o’clock curfew. And many’s the occasion we didn’t see hide nor hair of him from dawn till dusk. Not during term time, mind you. Just weekends and school holidays he could be a bit unreliable.”

“Did you have any idea where he’d been when he turned up late?”

“Playing with his pals. Sometimes he’d have his guitar with him, too. They were practicing, see. The group.”

“Where did they do that?”

“David Grenfell’s house.”

“Other than group practice, did he ever stay out late on other occasions?”

“Once in a while. He was just a normal boy.”

“How much pocket money did you give him?”

“Five shillings a week. It was all we could afford. But he had his paper round and that made him a bit extra.”

“And you bought all his clothes?”

“Sometimes he’d save up if there was something he really wanted. Like a Beatles jumper. You know, like the one he’s wearing in the photo there.”

“So he didn’t go short of anything?”

“No. Not so’s you’d notice. Why? What are you trying to get at?”

“I’m just trying to get a picture of his activities, Mrs. Marshall. It’ll help me try to work out what might have happened to him, who might have stopped and picked him up.”

“You think it was somebody he knew?”

“I didn’t say that, but it’s possible.”

Mrs. Marshall fiddled with her necklace. The idea clearly upset her. Whether it was the idea of an acquaintance being responsible, or whether she had suspected such a thing deep down, was impossible to say. “But we didn’t know anybody like that,” she said.

“Like what?”

“A pervert,” she whispered.

“We don’t know that it was a pervert.”

“I don’t understand. That’s what the police said. Who else could it be?”

“Jet Harris told you that?”

“Yes.”

“Did anyone ever suggest, at any time, that Graham might have been abducted by someone he knew?”