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

Martin Armitage was cooling off in the custody suite and Norman Wells was in Eastvale General Infirmary. No doubt there would be recriminations from Armitage’s pal the chief constable, but for the moment he could stay where he was. They could also charge him with assaulting a police officer. After they had visited the mystery girl.

Within twenty minutes of getting the address, Banks and Annie climbed the lino-covered stairs and knocked on the door. The building seemed so silent that Banks couldn’t imagine anyone being at home, but only seconds later a young woman opened the door. The young woman.

“DCI Banks and DI Cabbot,” Banks said, flashing his card. “We’d like a word.”

“You’d better come in then.” She stood aside.

One reason why it had taken so long to locate her was obvious to Banks: she didn’t look anywhere near as weird as the description Josie Batty had drawn of her, which was hardly surprising when you imagined that most young people probably looked weird to Josie Batty.

The pixyish facial features were right enough, the heart-shaped face, large eyes and small mouth, but that was about all. She was far prettier than Josie Batty had indicated to the police artist, and she had a pale, flawless complexion. She also had the sort of breasts adolescent boys, and many grown men, dream about, and her smooth cleavage was shown to advantage by the laced-up leather waistcoat she wore. The small tattoo on her upper arm was a simple double helix, and there was no sign of body-piercing anywhere except the silver spiderweb earrings dangling from her ears. Her short black hair was dyed and gelled, but there was nothing weird about that.

The flat was clean and tidy, not a filthy crack house full of sprawled drug-addled kids. It was an old room with a fireplace complete with poker and tongs, which must only have been for show, as a gas fire filled the hearth. Sunlight shone through the half-open window and the sounds and smells of South Market Street drifted up: car exhaust and horns, warm tar, fresh-baked bread, take-away curry and pigeons on the rooftops. Banks and Annie walked around the small room, checking it out, while the girl arranged beanbag cushions for them.

“Elizabeth, is it?” asked Banks.

“I prefer Liz.”

“Okay. Ryan not here?”

“He’s got classes.”

“When will he be back?”

“Not till after teatime.”

“What do you do, Liz?”

“I’m a musician.”

“Make a living at it?”

“You know what it’s like…”

Banks did, having a son in the business. But Brian’s success was unusual, and even that hadn’t brought in heaps of money. Not even enough for a new car. He moved on. “You know why we’re here, don’t you?”

Liz nodded. “About Luke.”

“You could have come forward and saved us a lot of trouble.”

Liz sat down. “But I don’t know anything.”

“Let us be the judge of that,” said Banks, pausing in his examination of her CD collection. He had noticed a cassette labeled “Songs from a Black Room” mixed in with a lot of other tapes.

“How was I to know you were looking for me?”

“Don’t you read the papers or watch television?” Annie asked.

“Not much. They’re boring. Life’s too short. Mostly I practice, listen to music or read.”

“What instrument?” Banks asked.

“Keyboards, some woodwinds. Flute, clarinet.”

“Did you study music professionally?”

“No. Just lessons at school.”

“How old are you, Liz?”

“Twenty-one.”

“And Ryan?”

“The same. He’s in his last year at college.”

“He a musician, too?”

“Yes.”

“Do you live together?”

“Yes.”

Annie sat down on one of the beanbags, but Banks went to stand by the window, leaning the backs of his thighs against the sill. The room was small and hot and seemed too crowded with three people in it.

“What was your relationship with Luke Armitage?” Annie asked.

“He’s… he was in our band.”

“Along with?”

“Me and Ryan. We don’t have a drummer yet.”

“How long have you been together?”

She chewed on her lip and thought for a moment. “We’ve only been practicing together since earlier this year, after we met Luke. But Ryan and me had been talking about doing something like this for ages.”

“How did you meet Luke?”

“At a concert at the college.”

“What concert?”

“Just a couple of local bands. Back in March.”

“How did Luke get into a college concert?” Banks asked. “He was only fifteen.”

Liz smiled. “Not to look at. Or to talk to. Luke was far more mature than his years. You didn’t know him.”

“Who was he with?”

“No one. He was by himself, checking out the band.”

“And you just started talking to him?”

“Ryan did, first.”

“And then?”

“Well, we found out he was interested in music, too, looking to get a band together. He had some songs.”

Banks pointed toward the tape. “Those? ‘Songs from a Black Room’?”

“No. Those are more recent.”

“How recent?”

“Past month or so.”

“Did you know he was only fifteen?”

“We didn’t find out until later.”

“How?”

“He told us.”

“He told you? Just like that?”

“No, not just like that. He had to explain why he couldn’t just do what he wanted, you know. He was living with his parents and going to school. He said he was sixteen at first but then told us later he’d lied because he was worried we’d think he was too young to be in the band.”

“And did you?”

“No way. Not someone with his talent. We might have had a few problems down the line, if things had got that far. Playing licensed premises, you know, stuff like that, but we figured we’d just deal with all that when we got there.”

“What about who his real father was? Did you know that?”

Liz looked away. “He didn’t tell us that until later, either. He didn’t seem to want anything to do with Neil Byrd and his legacy.”

“How did you find out?” Banks asked. “I mean, did Luke just come right out and tell you who his father was?”

“No. No. He didn’t like to talk about him. It was something on the radio while he was over here, a review of that new compilation. He got upset about it and then it just sort of slipped out. It made a lot of sense.”

“What do you mean?” Annie asked.

“That voice. His talent. There was something about it all that rang a bell.”

“What happened after you knew?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did it make a difference?”

“Not really.”

“Oh, come on, Liz,” said Banks. “You had Neil Byrd’s son in your band. You can’t expect us to believe that you weren’t aware that would make a big difference commercially.”

“Okay,” said Liz. “Sure, we were all aware of that. But the point is that we weren’t anywhere commercially at that time. We’re still not. We haven’t even played in public yet, for crying out loud. And now, without Luke… I don’t know.”

Banks moved away from the window and sat on a hard-backed chair against the wall. Annie shifted on her beanbag, as if trying to get comfortable. It was the first time he’d seen her look ill at ease in any sort of seat, then he realized she might have hurt herself falling over in the bookshop. She should be at the hospital getting checked out, especially the way on-the-job injury insurance worked these days, but there was no telling her. He didn’t blame her; he’d be doing the same himself.

“Who did the singing?” Banks asked.

“Mostly me and Luke.”