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

For the first time, Wayman looked worried. “But I didn’t know he was a copper, did I? Do you think I’d have done something like that if I’d known who he was? You must think I’m crazy.”

“But you did it, didn’t you?”

“Where’s this going?”

“Up to you, Des.”

“What do you mean?”

Michelle spread her hands. “I mean it’s up to you where it goes from here. It could go to the station, to the lawyers, to court eventually. Or it could end here.”

Wayman swallowed. “End? How? I mean… I don’t…”

“Do I have to spell it out?”

“You promise?”

“Only if you tell me what I want to know.”

“It goes no further?”

Michelle looked at DC Collins, who looked lost. “No,” she said. “This bloke you and your friend assaulted last night, what did Shaw tell you about him?”

“That he was a small-time villain from up north looking to get himself established on our patch.”

“And what did Detective Superintendent Shaw ask you to do?”

“Nip it in the bud.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Shaw didn’t want to know. I mean, he’d just asked me to handle the situation, do something about it. He didn’t tell me how, and he didn’t want to know.”

“But it usually meant violence?”

“Most people understand a thump on the nose.”

“That’s your understanding of the situation?”

“If you like.”

“So that’s what you did?”

“Yes.”

“How did you find out he was in town?”

“I’ve been keeping an eye out. I recognized his car from when he was down here last week.”

“And how did you know where he was that evening?”

“I got a call on my mobile in the Pig and Whistle.”

“From who?”

“Who do you think?”

“Go on.”

“He said our mutual friend was drinking in a pub down the street, and if an opportunity presented itself… well, I was to have a quiet word, like.”

“But how did he… Never mind.” Michelle realized that Shaw must have been using his whole network of informers to keep an eye on the comings and goings in the Graham Marshall investigation. But why? To hide the truth, that the great local hero Jet Harris was a murderer?

“So what did you do?”

“We waited outside and followed the two of you back to the riverside flats. We were a bit worried because we thought he might be going in to get his end away, like, no disrespect, and we might not get back to the Pig and Whistle till they’d stopped serving, so it was all sweetness and joy when he came straight down those stairs and into the street. We didn’t muck about.”

“And the beating was your idea?”

“Like I said, it gets the point across. Anyway, we wouldn’t have hurt him too much. We didn’t even get a chance to finish. Some interfering bastard walking his dog started making a lot of noise. Not that we couldn’t have dealt with him, too, but the bloody dog was waking the whole street up.”

“And that’s everything?” Michelle asked.

“Scout’s honor.”

“When were you ever a scout?”

“Boys’ Brigade, as a matter of fact. What’s going to happen now? Remember what you promised.”

Michelle looked at DC Collins. “What’s going to happen now,” she said, “is that we’re going to go away, and you’re going to the Lord Nelson to drink yourself into a stupor. And if you ever cross my path again, I’ll make sure they put you somewhere that’ll make the Middle East look like an alcoholic’s paradise. That clear?”

“Yes, ma’m.” But Wayman was smiling. The prospect of a drink in the present, Michelle thought, by far outdid any fears for the future. He wouldn’t change.

“Do you think you can tell me what all that was about?” asked DC Collins when they got outside.

Michelle took a deep breath and smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Of course, Nat. I’m sorry for keeping you in the dark so long, but I think you’ll understand when you hear what I have to say. And I’ll tell you over a pie and a pint. My treat.” She looked around. “But not in the Lord Nelson.”

Glad you could come, Alan,” said Mrs. Marshall, sticking out her black-gloved hand. “My, my. You’ve been in the wars.”

Banks touched his lip. “It’s nothing,” he said.

“I hope you’ll come back to the house for drinks and sandwiches.”

They were standing outside the chapel in the light drizzle after Graham’s funeral. It had been tasteful enough, as such things went, Banks thought, though there was something odd about a funeral service for someone who has been dead over thirty years. They had the usual readings, including the Twenty-third Psalm, and Graham’s sister gave a short eulogy throughout which she verged on tears.

“Of course,” Banks said, shaking Mrs. Marshall’s hand. Then he saw Michelle walking down the path under her umbrella. “Excuse me a moment.”

He hurried along after Michelle. During the service, he had caught her eye once or twice and she had looked away. He wanted to know what was wrong. She had said earlier that she wanted to talk to him. Was it about last night? Was she having regrets? Did she want to tell him she’d made a mistake and didn’t want to see him again? “Michelle?” He put his hand gently on her shoulder.

Michelle turned to face him. When she looked him in the eye, she smiled and lifted the umbrella so it covered his head, too. “Shall we walk awhile?”

“Fine,” said Banks. “Everything okay?”

“Of course it is. Why do you ask?”

So there was nothing wrong. Banks could have kicked himself. He’d got so used to feeling that his every move, every meeting, was so fragile, partly because they had been like walking on eggs with Annie, that he was turning normal behavior into perceived slights. They were police officers in public – in a bloody chapel, for crying out loud. What did he expect her to do? Make doe eyes at him? Walk over to his pew and sit on his knee and whisper sweet nothings in his ear?

“This morning, in the station, I wanted to tell you that I enjoyed last night, but I could hardly say that in the cop shop, could I?”

She reached over and touched his sore lip. “I enjoyed it, too.”

“Are you coming back to the house?”

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t like that sort of thing.”

“Me, neither. I’d better go, though.”

“Of course.”

They walked down one of the narrow gravel paths between graves, carved headstones dark with rain. Yews overhung the path and rain dripped from their leaves onto the umbrella, tapping harder than the drizzle. “You said you wanted to talk to me.”

“Yes.” Michelle told him about Dr. Wendell’s tentative identification of the Fairbairn-Sykes commando knife and Harris’s wartime record.

Banks whistled between his teeth. “And you say Jet Harris was a commando?”

“Yes.”

“Bloody hell. That’s a real can of worms.” Banks shook his head. “It’s hard to believe that Jet Harris might have killed Graham,” he said. “It just doesn’t make any sense. I mean, what possible motive could he have had?”

“I don’t know. Only what we speculated about yesterday, that he was somehow connected with Fiorino and the porn racket and Graham fell foul of them. Even so, it’s hard to imagine someone in Harris’s position doing a job like that himself. And we don’t really have any hard evidence; it’s all just circumstantial. Anyway, he’s not the only candidate. I remembered Mrs. Walker – you know, the woman in the newsagent’s – said something about Donald Bradford being in a special unit in Burma. I checked. Turns out it was a commando unit.”