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

“It’s still all theory,” said Shaw.

“Yes,” Banks admitted. “But you know it’s true. We’ve got the photo of Graham, taken at Mandeville’s house, Bradford’s connection with the porn business and the possible murder weapon, and the missing notebooks. Go ahead, see if it adds up any other way.”

Shaw sighed. “I just can’t believe John would do something like that. I know he gave Fiorino a lot of leeway, but I thought at the time that he got his reward in information. Fair exchange. That’s all I was trying to protect. A bit of tit for tat. All those years I knew him… and I still can’t fucking believe it.”

“Maybe you didn’t really know him at all,” said Banks. “No more than I knew Graham Marshall.”

Shaw looked over at Banks. His eyes were pink and redrimmed. Then he looked at Michelle. “What do you think about all this?”

“I think it’s true, sir,” Michelle said. “It’s the only explanation that makes sense. You didn’t want me to look too closely at the past because you were worried I’d find out something that might tarnish Harris’s reputation. You suspected he was bent, you knew he gave Fiorino a wide berth in exchange for information, and something about the Graham Marshall case bothered you. You didn’t want it stirring up again because you didn’t know what would come to the surface.”

“What next?” Shaw asked.

“There’ll have to be a report. I’m not going to bury this. I’ll report my findings and any conclusions that can be drawn to the ACC. After that, it’s up to him. There might be media interest.”

“And John’s memory?”

Michelle shrugged. “I don’t know. If it all comes out, if people believe it, then his reputation will take a bit of a knock.”

“The lad’s family?”

“It’ll be hard for them, too. But is it any better than not knowing?”

“And me?”

“Maybe it’s time to retire,” Banks said. “You must be long past due.”

Shaw snorted, then coughed. He lit another cigarette and reached for his drink. “Maybe you’re right.” His gaze went from Banks to Michelle and back. “I should have known it would mean big trouble the minute those bones were found. There wasn’t much, you know, in those notebooks. It was just like what you said. A hint here, a lead there.”

“But there was enough,” said Banks. “And let’s face it, you know as well as I do that in that sort of an investigation you first look close and hard at the immediate family and circle. If anybody had done that, they’d have found one or two points of interest, some lines of inquiry that just weren’t followed. You dig deepest close to home. Nobody bothered. That in itself seems odd enough.”

“Because John steered the investigation?”

“Yes. It must have been a much smaller division back then, wasn’t it? He’d have had close to absolute power over it.”

Shaw hung his head again. “Oh, nobody questioned Jet Harris’s judgment, that was for certain.” He looked up. “I’ve got cancer,” he said, glancing toward Michelle. “That’s why I’ve been taking so much time off. Stomach.” He grimaced. “There’s not much they can do. Anyway, maybe retirement isn’t such a bad idea.” He laughed. “Enjoy my last few months gardening or stamp collecting or something peaceful like that.”

Banks didn’t know what to say. Michelle said, “I’m sorry.”

Shaw looked at her and scowled. “You’ve no reason to be. It won’t make a scrap of difference to you whether I live or die. Come to think of it, your life will be a lot easier without me.”

“Even so…”

Shaw looked at Banks again. “I wish you’d never come back down here, Banks,” he said. “Why couldn’t you stay up in Yorkshire and shag a few sheep?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I? Don’t you be too sure I’m as corrupt as you think I am. Now if you’re not going to charge me or beat me up, why don’t the two of you just bugger off and leave me alone?”

Banks and Michelle looked at each other. There was nothing else to say to Shaw, so they left. Back in the car, Banks turned to Michelle and said, “Do you believe him?”

“About not being responsible for the burglary and the van?”

“Yes.”

“I think so. He seemed genuinely horrified by the idea. What reason has he to lie about it now?”

“It’s a serious crime. That’s reason enough. But I think you’re right. I don’t think he was behind it. He was just doing his best to protect Harris’s reputation.”

“Then are you thinking who I’m thinking?”

Banks nodded. “Rupert Mandeville.”

“Shall we pay him a visit?”

“You want me along?”

Michelle looked at Banks and said, “Yes. I feel we’re getting near the end. Graham Marshall was your friend. You deserve to be there. I’d just like to stop off at the station and check a few things out first.”

“He won’t tell us anything, you know.”

Michelle smiled. “We’ll see about that. It certainly won’t do any harm to yank his chain a bit.”

It didn’t take Annie long to drive to Harrogate and find the small terraced house off the Leeds Road. Vernon Anderson answered the door and, looking puzzled, invited her into his Spartan living room. She admired the framed Vermeer print over the fireplace and settled down in one of the two armchairs.

“I see you have an eye for a good painting,” Annie said.

“Art appreciation must run in the family,” said Vernon. “Though I confess I’m not as much of a reader as our Lauren is. I’d rather see a good film any day.”

On the low table under the window a couple of lottery tickets rested on a newspaper open at the racing page, some of the horses with red rings around their names.

“Any luck today?” Annie asked.

“You know what it’s like,” Vernon said with an impish grin. “You win a little, then you lose a little.” He sat on the sofa and crossed his legs.

Vernon Anderson didn’t look much like his sister, Annie noted. He had dark hair, short tight curls receding a little at the temples, and he was thickset, with a muscular upper body and rather short legs. With his long lashes, dimples and easy charm, though, she imagined he would be quite successful with the opposite sex. Not that any of those things did much for her. If there was any resemblance, it was in the eyes; Vernon’s were the same pale blue as Lauren’s. He wore jeans and a T-shirt advertising Guinness. And sandals over white socks.

“What’s all this about?”

“I’m looking into the kidnapping and murder of Luke Armitage,” Annie said. “Your sister was his teacher.”

“Yes, I know. She’s very upset about it.”

“Did you ever meet Luke?”

“Me? No. I’d heard of him, of course, of his father, anyway.”

“Martin Armitage?”

“That’s right. I’ve won a few bob on teams he played for over the years.” Vernon grinned.

“But you never met Luke?”

“No.”

“Did your sister tell you much about him?”

“She talked about school sometimes,” Vernon said. “She might have mentioned him.”

“In what context?”

“As one of her pupils.”

“But not how exceptional he was, and that she gave him private tutoring?”

“No.” Vernon’s eyes narrowed. “Where are we going here?”

“Lauren said she was visiting you the day Luke disappeared. That’d be a week ago last Monday. Is that true?”

“Yes. Look, I’ve already been through all this with the other detective, the one who came by a few days ago.”

“I know,” said Annie. “That was one of the locals helping us out. It’s not always possible to get away. I’m sorry to bother you with it, but do you think you could bear to go through it again with me?”