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

They carried the drinks back to the table, where Paul sat glancing around the room. “Remember the old jukebox?” he said.

Banks nodded. The Wheatsheaf used to have a great jukebox for a provincial pub outside the city center, he remembered, and they spent almost as much money on that as they did on beer. The sixties of familiar, if sentimental, memory was in full bloom then, when they were sixteen: Procol Harum’s “A Whiter Shade of Pale,” the Flowerpot Men singing “Let’s go to San Francisco,” The Beatles’ “Magical Mystery Tour.”

“What do you listen to now, Alan?” Dave asked Banks.

“Bit of everything, I suppose,” Banks said. “Jazz, classical, some of the old rock stuff. You?”

“Nothing much. I sort of lost interest in music in the seventies, when we had the kids. Never really got it back. Remember Steve, though, the kind of stuff he used to make us listen to on Sunday afternoons? Dylan and all that.”

Banks laughed. “He was ahead of his time, was Steve. Where the hell is he, anyway? Surely he must have heard, someone must have been in touch with him.”

“Hadn’t you heard?” Paul said.

Banks and Dave both stared at him. “What?”

“Shit. I thought you must know. I’m sorry. Steve’s dead.”

Banks felt a shiver up his spine. The Big Chill. It was one thing to get to an age when the generation ahead started dying off, but another thing entirely to face the mortality of your own generation. “What happened?” he asked.

“Lung cancer. About three years ago. I only know ’cos his mum and dad kept in touch with mine, like. Christmas cards, that sort of thing. I hadn’t actually seen him for years. Apparently he had a couple of kids, too.”

“Poor sod,” said Dave.

After a brief silence, they raised their glasses and drank a toast to the memory of Steve, early Dylan fan. Then they toasted Graham again. Two down, three to go.

Banks looked closely at each of his old friends and saw that Dave had lost most of his hair and Paul was gray and had put on a lot of weight. He started to feel gloomy, and even the memory of Michelle naked beside him failed to dispel the gloom. His lip burned and his left side ached from where his assailant had kicked him. He felt like getting pissed, but he knew when he felt that way that it never worked. No matter how much he drank he never reached the state of oblivion he aimed for. Even so, he didn’t have to watch what he drank. He wasn’t driving anywhere that night. He had thought he might try to get in touch with Michelle later, depending on how the evening went, but they hadn’t made any firm arrangements. Both needed time to absorb what had happened between them, Banks sensed. That was okay. He didn’t feel that she was backing off or anything, no more than he was. Besides, she had a lot to do. Things were moving fast.

Banks looked at his cigarette smoldering in the ashtray and thought of Steve. Lung cancer. Shit. He reached forward and stubbed it out even though it was only half smoked. Maybe it would be his last. That thought made him feel a bit better, yet even that feeling was fast followed by a wave of sheer panic at how unbearable his life would be without cigarettes. The coffee in the morning, a pint of beer in the Queen’s Arms, that late evening Laphroaig out by the beck. Impossible. Well, he told himself, let’s just take it a day at a time.

Banks’s mobile rang, startling him out of his gloomy reverie. “Sorry,” he said. “I’d better take it. Might be important.”

He walked out into the street and sheltered from the rain under a shop awning. It was getting dark and there wasn’t much traffic about. The road surface glistened in the lights of the occasional car, and puddles reflected the blue neon sign of a video rental shop across the street. “Alan, it’s Annie,” said the voice at the other end.

“Annie? What’s happening?”

Annie told Banks about the Liz Palmer interview, and he could sense anger and sadness in her account.

“You think she’s telling the truth?”

“Pretty certain,” said Annie. “The Big Man interviewed Ryan Milne at the same time and the details check out. They haven’t been allowed to get together and concoct a story since they’ve been in custody.”

“Okay,” said Banks. “So where does that leave us?”

“With a distraught and disoriented Luke Armitage wandering off into the night alone,” Annie said. “The thoughtless bastards.”

“So where did he go?”

“We don’t know. It’s back to the drawing board. There’s just one thing…”

“Yes.”

“The undigested diazepam that Dr. Glendenning found in Luke’s system.”

“What about it?”

“Well, he didn’t get it at Liz and Ryan’s flat. Neither of them has a prescription and we didn’t find any in our search.”

“They could have got it illegally, along with the cannabis and LSD, then got rid of it.”

“They could have,” said Annie. “But why lie about it?”

“That I can’t answer. What’s your theory?”

“Well, if Luke was freaking out the way it seems he was, then someone might have thought it was a good idea to give him some Valium to calm him down.”

“Or to keep him quiet.”

“Possibly.”

“What next?”

“We need to find out where he went. I’m going to talk to Luke’s parents again tomorrow. They might be able to help now that we know a bit more about his movements. I’ll be talking to Lauren Anderson, too, and perhaps Gavin Barlow.”

“Why?”

“Maybe there was still something going on between Luke and Rose, and maybe her father didn’t approve.”

“Enough to kill him?”

“Enough to make it physical. We still can’t say for certain that anyone murdered Luke. Anyway, I’d like to know where they both were the night Luke disappeared. Maybe it was Rose he went to see.”

“Fair enough,” said Banks. “And don’t forget that Martin Armitage was out and about that night, too.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t.”

“What’s happened with him, by the way?”

“He appeared before the magistrates this afternoon. He’s out on bail till the preliminary hearing.”

“What about Norman Wells?”

“He’ll mend. When will you be back?”

“Tomorrow or the day after.”

“Getting anywhere?”

“I think so.”

“And what are you up to tonight?”

“School reunion,” said Banks, walking back into the pub. An approaching car seemed to be going way too fast, and Banks felt a momentary rush of panic. He ducked into a shop doorway. The car sped by him, too close to the curb, and splashed water from the gutter over his trouser bottoms. He cursed.

“What is it?” Annie asked.

Banks told her, and she laughed. “Have a good time at your school reunion,” she said.

“I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.” He ended the call and returned to his seat. Dave and Paul had been making uneasy small talk in his absence, and Dave seemed glad to see him come back.

“So you’re a copper,” said Paul, shaking his head when Banks sat down again. “I still can’t get over it. If I’d had to guess, I’d have said you’d end up a teacher or a newspaper reporter or something like that. But a copper…”

Banks smiled. “Funny how things turn out.”

“Very queer, indeed,” muttered Dave. His voice sounded as if the beer was having an early effect.

Paul gave him a sharp glance, then tapped Banks’s arm. “Hey,” he said, “you’d have had to arrest me back then, wouldn’t you? For being queer .”

Banks sensed the tension escalating and moved on to the subject he’d been wanting to talk about from the start: Graham. “Do either of you remember anything odd happening around the time Graham disappeared?” he asked.