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

“True enough,” said Michelle.

“The actions would show us how the investigation was managed,” Banks mused. “Most of them probably came from Jet Harris himself. They’d show the direction the investigation took, or didn’t take, the shape of it.”

“We keep getting back to this blinkered approach,” Michelle said. “DS Shaw even hinted they all knew Brady and Hindley did it.”

“That’s a load of bollocks,” said Banks.

“The timing’s right.”

“But that’s all that’s right. You might just as well say Reggie and Ronnie did it.”

“Maybe they did.”

Banks laughed. “It makes more sense than Brady and Hindley. They operated miles away. No, there’s something else going on. Something we can’t figure out because there are still too many missing pieces. Another?”

“I’ll go.”

Michelle walked to the bar and Banks sat wondering what the hell it was all about. So far, all they had was an investigation that had concentrated on only one possibility – the passing pedophile. Now they had Bill Marshall’s relationship with the Krays and with Carlo Fiorino and Le Phonographe, and the fact that Banks remembered Graham often had money enough to pay for their entertainment. And now the missing records. There were links – Graham, Bill Marshall, Carlo Fiorino – but where did it go after that? And how did Jet Harris fit in? It was possible that he’d been on the take, paid by Fiorino to head off trouble. Jet Harris, bent copper. That would go down well at headquarters. But how did it relate to Graham and his murder?

Michelle came back with the drinks and told him about Donald Bradford’s death and the pornography that had been found in his flat. “There might be no connection,” she said. “I mean, Bradford could have been the victim of a random break-in, and plenty of people have collections of pornography.”

“True,” Banks said. “But it’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed.”

“What if Bradford was using the newsagent’s shop as an outlet for distributing porn?” Banks suggested.

“And Graham delivered it?”

“Why not? He always seemed to be able to get his hands on it. That’s another thing I remember. A bit of Danish submission with your Sunday Times, sir? Or how about some Swedish sodomy with your News of the World, madam? Gives a whole new meaning to the term ‘Sunday supplement,’ doesn’t it?”

Michelle laughed. “Maybe he just found out about it.”

“Is that worth killing someone for?”

“Who knows? People have killed for less.”

“But all we’re assuming is that Bradford was a minor porn dealer.”

“He had to get it from a wholesaler, didn’t he? Maybe Bradford was working for someone with even more at stake?”

“Someone like Carlo Fiorino?” suggested Banks. “And Harris was on Fiorino’s payroll? It’s possible, but still speculation. And it doesn’t get us a lot further with the missing notebooks.”

“Unless Proctor and Shaw inadvertently hit on the truth during their interviews, and it was recorded in Shaw’s notebooks. I don’t know how we’d find out, though. It’s not as if we can talk to Harris or Proctor.”

“Maybe not,” said Banks. “But we might be able to do the next best thing. Were they married?”

“Harris was. Not Proctor.”

“Is his wife still alive?”

“As far as I know.”

“Maybe she’ll be able to tell us something. Think you can find her?”

“Piece of cake,” said Michelle.

“And let’s delve a little deeper into Donald Bradford’s domain, including the circumstances of his death.”

“Okay. But what about DS Shaw?”

“Avoid him as best you can.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult these days,” Michelle said. “He’s off sick half the time.”

“The booze?”

“That’s what I’d put my money on.”

“Are you going to the funeral tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Banks finished his drink. “Another?”

Michelle looked at her watch. “No. Really. I’d better go.”

“Okay. I suppose I should go, too.” Banks smiled. “I’m sure my mum’ll be waiting up for me.”

Michelle laughed. It was a nice sound. Soft, warm, musical. Banks realized he hadn’t heard her laugh before. “Can I give you a lift?” he asked.

“Oh, no. Thank you,” said Michelle, standing up. “I’m just around the corner.”

“I’ll walk with you, then.”

“You don’t need to. It’s quite safe.”

“I insist. Especially after what you’ve just told me.”

Michelle said nothing. They walked out into the mild darkness, crossed the road and neared the riverside flats, close to where Banks had parked his car. Michelle had been right; it really was within spitting distance.

“This is right across the river from where they used to have the fair when I was a kid,” he said. “Funny, but I was just thinking about it as I was driving down.”

“Before my time,” said Michelle.

“Yes.” Banks walked her up to her door.

“Well,” she said, fumbling for her key, giving him a brief smile over her shoulder. “Good night, then.”

“I’ll just wait and make sure everything’s okay.”

“You mean until you’re sure there are no bogeymen waiting for me?”

“Something like that.”

Michelle opened her door, put on the lights and did a quick check while Banks stood in the doorway and glanced around the living room. It seemed a bit barren, no real character, as if Michelle hadn’t put her stamp on it yet.

“All clear,” she said, emerging from the bedroom.

“Good night, then,” said Banks, trying to hide his disappointment that she didn’t even invite him in for a coffee. “And take care. See you tomorrow.”

“Yes.” She gave him a smile. “Tomorrow.” Then she closed the door gently behind him, and the sound of the bolt slipping home seemed far louder than it probably was.

It was all very well for Gristhorpe to tell Annie to get a good night’s sleep, but she couldn’t. She had taken more paracetamol and gone to bed early, but the pain had returned to her mouth with a vengeance. Every tooth ached, and now two of them felt loose.

The blow from Armitage had shaken her more than she had cared to admit to either Banks or Gristhorpe because it had made her feel the same way she had felt when she was raped nearly three years ago: a powerless victim. She had sworn afterward that she would never allow herself to feel that way again, but down in the cramped, dank space of Norman Wells’s book cellar, she had felt it, the deep, gut-wrenching fear of the female powerless against male strength and sheer brute force. Annie got up, went downstairs and poured herself a glass of milk with shaking hands, sitting at the kitchen table in the dark as she sipped it. She remembered the very first time Banks had been to her house. They had sat in the kitchen and eaten dinner together while the light faded. All the while Annie had been wondering what she would do if he made a move. She had impulsively invited him into her home, after all, offering to cook dinner instead of going to a restaurant or a pub, as he had suggested. Had she known right then, when she did that, what was going to happen? She didn’t think so.

As the evening wore on, their mood had got more and more mellow, thanks partly to liberal quantities of Chianti. When she had gone outside into the backyard with Banks, who wanted a cigarette, and when he had put his arm around her, she had felt herself tremble like a teenager as she had blurted out all the reasons about why they shouldn’t do what they were about to do.

Well, they had done it. And now she had ended the affair. Sometimes she regretted that and wondered why she had done it. Partly it was because of her career, of course. Working in the same station as the DCI you’re screwing was bad policy. But maybe that was just an excuse. Besides, it didn’t have to be that way. She could have worked in another station, somewhere where the opportunities were just as good, if not better than at Western Area Headquarters.