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

“You’re not working on the case, are you?” asked Dave, eager to be given a change of subject.

“No,” said Banks. “But I’m interested in what happened. I mean, I am a copper, and Graham was a mate. Naturally, I’m curious.”

“Did you ever tell them about that bloke by the river?” Paul asked.

“It didn’t lead anywhere,” Banks said, explaining. “Besides, I think it’s a lot closer to home.”

“What do you mean?” Paul asked.

Banks didn’t want to tell them about the photograph. Apart from Michelle, he didn’t want anyone to know about that if he could help it. Maybe he was protecting Graham’s memory, but the idea of people seeing him like that was abhorrent to Banks. He also didn’t want to tell them about Jet Harris, Shaw and the missing notebooks. “Do you remember Donald Bradford?” he asked. “The bloke who ran the newsagent’s.”

“Dirty Don?” said Paul. “Sure. I remember him.”

“Why did you call him Dirty Don?”

“I don’t know.” Paul shrugged. “Maybe he sold dirty magazines. It’s just something my dad called him. Don’t you remember?”

Banks didn’t. But he found it interesting that Paul’s dad had known about Bradford’s interest in porn. Had his own father known? Had anyone told Proctor and Shaw all those years ago when they came to conduct the interviews? Was that why the notebooks and action allocations had to disappear, so that suspicion wouldn’t point toward Bradford? Next to the family, Donald Bradford should have come under the most scrutiny, but he had been virtually ignored. “Did Graham ever tell you where he got those magazines he used to show us inside the tree?”

“What magazines?” Dave asked.

“Don’t you remember?” Paul said. “I do. Women with bloody great bazookas.” He shuddered. “Gave me the willies even then.”

“I seem to remember you enjoyed them as much as the rest of us,” said Banks. “Do you really not remember, Dave?”

“Maybe I’m blanking it out for some reason, but I don’t.”

Banks turned to Paul. “Did he ever tell you where he got them?”

“Not that I remember. Why? Do you think it was Bradford?”

“It’s a possibility. A newsagent’s shop would be a pretty good outlet for things like that. And Graham always seemed to have money to spare.”

“He once told me he stole it from his mother’s purse,” said Dave. “I remember that.”

“Did you believe him?” Banks asked.

“Saw no reason not to. It shocked me, though, that he’d be so callous about it. I’d never have dared steal from my mother’s purse. She’d have killed me.” He put his hand to his mouth. “Oops, sorry about that. Didn’t mean it to come out that way.”

“It’s all right,” said Banks. “I very much doubt that Graham’s mother killed him for stealing from her purse.” On the other hand, Graham’s father, Banks thought, was another matter entirely. “I think there was more to it than that.”

“What?” Paul asked.

“I don’t know. I just think Graham had something going with Donald Bradford, most likely something involving porn. And I think that led to his death.”

“You think Bradford killed him?”

“It’s a possibility. Maybe he was helping distribute the stuff, or maybe he found out about it and was blackmailing Bradford. I don’t know. All I know is that there’s a connection.”

“Graham? Blackmailing?” said Dave. “Now, hold on a minute, Alan; this is our mate Graham we’re talking about. The one whose funeral we just went to. Remember? Stealing a few bob from his mum’s purse is one thing, but blackmail…?”

“I don’t think things were exactly as we thought they were back then,” said Banks.

“Come again?” said Dave.

“He means none of you knew I was queer, for a start,” said Paul.

Banks looked at him. “But we didn’t, did we? You’re right. And I don’t think we knew a hell of a lot about Graham, either, mate or not.” He looked at Dave. “For fuck’s sake, Dave, you don’t even remember the dirty magazines.”

“Maybe I’ve got a psychological block.”

“Do you at least remember the tree?” Banks asked.

“Our den? Of course I do. I remember lots of things. Just not looking at those magazines.”

“But you did,” said Paul. “I remember you once saying pictures like that must have been taken at Randy Mandy’s. Don’t you remember that?”

“Randy Mandy’s?” Banks asked. “What the hell’s that?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember, either,” said Paul, exasperated.

“Obviously I don’t,” said Banks. “What does it mean?”

“Randy Mandy’s? It was Rupert Mandeville’s place, that big house up Market Deeping way. Remember?”

Banks felt a vague recollection at the edge of his consciousness. “I think I remember.”

“It was just our joke, that’s all,” Paul went on. “We thought they had all sorts of sex orgies there. Like that place where Profumo used to go a couple of years earlier. Remember that? Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice-Davies?”

Banks remembered Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice-Davies. The newspapers had been full of risqué photographs and salacious “confessions” around the time of the Profumo scandal. But that was in 1963, not 1965.

“I remember now,” said Dave. “Rupert Mandeville’s house. Bloody great country mansion, more like. We used to think it was some sort of den of iniquity back then, somewhere all sorts of naughty things went on. Whenever we came across something dirty we always said it must have come from Randy Mandy’s. You must remember, Alan. God knows where we got the idea from, but there was this high wall and a big swimming pool in the garden, and we used to imagine all the girls we fancied swimming naked there.”

“Vaguely,” said Banks, who wondered if there was any truth in this. It was worth checking into, anyway. He’d talk to Michelle, see if she knew anything. “This Mandeville still around?”

“Wasn’t he an MP or something?” said Dave.

“I think so,” Paul said. “I remember reading about him in the papers a few years ago. I think he’s in the House of Lords now.”

“Lord Randy Mandy,” said Dave, and they laughed for old times’ sake.

Conversation meandered on for another hour or so and at least one round of double Scotches. Dave seemed to stick at a certain level of drunkenness, one he had achieved early on, and now it was Paul who began to show the effects of alcohol the most, and his manner became more exaggeratedly effeminate as time went on.

Banks could sense Dave getting impatient and embarrassed by the looks they were receiving from some of the other customers. He was finding it harder and harder to imagine that they had all had so much in common once, but then it had been a lot easier and more innocent: you supported the same football team, even if they weren’t very good; you liked pop music and lusted after Emma Peel and Marianne Faithfull; and that was enough. It helped if you weren’t a swot at school and if you lived on the same estate.

Perhaps the bonds of adolescence weren’t any more shallow than those of adulthood, Banks mused, but it had sure as hell been easier to make friends back then. Now, as he looked from one to the other – Paul growing more red-faced and camp, Dave, lips tight, barely able to keep his homophobia in check – Banks decided it was time to leave. They had lived apart for over thirty years and would continue to do so without any sense of loss.

When Banks said he had to go, Dave took his cue, and Paul said he wasn’t going to sit there by himself. The rain had stopped and the night smelled fresh. Banks wanted a cigarette but resisted. As they walked the short distance back to the estate, none of them said much, sensing perhaps that tonight marked the end of something. Finally, Banks got to his parents’ door, their first stop, and said good night. They all made vague lies about keeping in touch and then walked back to their own separate lives.