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

Talbot answered the door and asked them in. Michelle introduced herself and Banks.

“Miserable day, isn’t it?” Talbot said. “One wonders if summer will ever arrive.”

“Too true,” said Banks.

“Coffee? Tea?”

“A cup of tea would be nice,” Michelle said. Banks agreed.

Michelle and Banks followed Talbot into the kitchen, which turned out to be a bright, high-ceilinged room with a central island surrounded by tall stools.

“We can talk here, if it’s all right with you,” Talbot said. “My wife keeps pestering me for a conservatory, but I don’t see the need. On a nice day we can always sit outside.”

Michelle looked out of the window and saw the well-manicured lawn and neat flower beds. Someone in the family was obviously a keen gardener. A copper beech provided some shade. It would indeed have been nice to sit outside, but not in the rain.

“You didn’t give me much of an idea what you wanted to talk about over the telephone,” Talbot said, looking over his shoulder as he dropped a couple of tea bags into the pot.

“That’s because it’s still a bit vague,” Michelle said. “How’s your memory?” She and Banks had agreed that, as it was her case and he had no official capacity, she would do most of the questioning.

“Not so bad for an old man.”

Talbot didn’t look that old, Michelle thought. He was carrying a few pounds too many, and his hair was almost white, but other than that his face was remarkably unlined and his movements smooth and fluid. “Remember when you served on the Cambridge Constabulary?” she asked.

“Of course. Mid-sixties, that’d be. Peterborough. It was called the Mid-Anglia Constabulary back then. Why?”

“Do you remember a case involving Rupert Mandeville?”

“Do I? How could I forget. That’s the reason I left Cambridgeshire. If it comes right down to it, it’s the reason I left the force not long after, too.”

“Could you tell us what happened?”

The kettle boiled and Talbot filled the pot with boiling water, then carried it on a tray along with three cups and saucers to the island. “Nothing happened,” he said. “That was the problem. I was told to lay off.”

“By whom?”

“The super.”

“Detective Superintendent Harris?”

“Jet Harris. That’s the one. Oh, it was all aboveboard. Not enough evidence, my word against theirs, anonymous informant, that sort of thing. You couldn’t fault his arguments.”

“Then what?”

Talbot paused. “It just didn’t feel right, that’s all. I can’t put it any other way than that. There’d been rumors for some time about things going on at the Mandeville house. Procurement, underage boys, that sort of thing. It was the start of what they called the permissive society, after all. Ever heard of Carlo Fiorino?”

“We have,” said Michelle.

Talbot poured the tea. “Rumor has it he was the supplier. Anyway, the problem was, Rupert Mandeville was too well-connected, and some of the people who attended his parties were in the government, or in other high-level positions. Real Profumo stuff. Of course, I was the naive young copper fresh from probation, proud to be in CID, thinking he could take on the world. Not a care had I for rank or sway. We were all equal in the eyes of God as far as I was concerned, though I wasn’t a religious man. Well, I soon learned the error of my ways. Had my eyes opened for me. When the super found out I’d been out there and caused a fuss, he had me in his office and told me in no uncertain terms that Mandeville was off-limits.”

“Did he say why?” Michelle asked.

“He didn’t need to. It’s not difficult to add up.”

“An operation like that, and one like Fiorino’s, would need police protection,” Banks said. “And Harris was it. Or part of it.”

“Exactly,” said Talbot. “Oh, he was clever, though. He never admitted it in so many words, and he got me transferred out of the county before my feet even touched the ground. Cumbria. I ask you! Well, I ran into one or two nice little gentleman’s agreements between local villains and constabulary up there, too, so I called it a day. I mean, I’m no saint, but it just seemed to me that no matter where I went I found corruption. I couldn’t fight it. Not from my position. So I resigned from the force. Best move I ever made.”

“And you told no one of your suspicions about Harris?” Michelle asked.

“What was the point? Who’d believe me? Jet Harris was practically a god around the place even then. Besides, there were implied threats of what might happen to me if I didn’t do as he said, and some of them were quite physical. I’m not a coward, but I’m no fool, either. I cut my losses.”

“Was anyone else involved?”

“Might have been,” said Talbot. “The chief constable himself might have been a regular at Mandeville’s parties, for all I know.”

“But no one you knew of?”

“No. I didn’t even know about Harris. Like I said, it just felt wrong. I just guessed from his attitude, his wording. It was only him and me in his office. Even by the time I got outside I was thinking I’d been reading too much into it.”

“What happened that day?”

“From the start?”

“Yes.”

“It was a warm Sunday morning, end of July or beginning of August.”

“It was the first of August,” Michelle said.

“Right. Anyway, I was by myself, not much on, I remember, when the phone call came and the switchboard patched it through to the office.”

“Do you remember anything about the voice?”

Talbot frowned. “It’s so long ago, I don’t…”

“Man? Woman?”

“It was a woman’s voice. I remember that much.”

“Did she sound upset?”

“Yes. That’s why I headed out there so impulsively. She said there’d been a party going on since the previous night, and she was convinced that some of the girls and boys were underage and people were taking drugs. She sounded frightened. She hung up very abruptly, too.”

“So you went?”

“Yes. I logged the details and drove out there like a knight in shining armor. If I’d had half the sense I have now, I’d at least have taken the time to organize a small raiding party, but I didn’t. God knows what I thought I was going to do when I got there.”

“Did you meet the woman who’d phoned?”

“Not that I know of. I mean, if she was there, she never came forward and admitted she was the one who phoned. But then she wouldn’t, would she?”

“Who opened the door?”

“A young man. He just opened it, glanced at my identification and wandered off. He didn’t seem interested at all. I thought he was on drugs, but I must admit I didn’t know much about them at the time. I’m not even sure we had a drugs squad back then.”

“What did you find inside?”

“It was more like the aftermath of a party, really. Some people were sleeping on sofas, a couple on the floor…”

“How many?”

“Hard to say. Maybe twenty or so.”

“What kind of people?”

“A mix. Young and old. Businessmen. Mods. One or two of the girls looked like swinging London types, miniskirts and what have you. There was a funny smell, too, I remember. At the time I didn’t know what it was, but I smelled it again later. Marijuana.”

“What did you do?”

“To be honest, I felt a bit out of my depth.” He laughed. “Like Mr. Jones in that Bob Dylan song, I didn’t really know what was happening. I wasn’t even sure if any of it was illegal. I mean, the girls and the men didn’t look underage to me, but what did I know? I talked to a few people, took names. A couple of the girls I’d seen before at Le Phonographe. I think they also worked for Fiorino’s escort agency.”