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

“I don’t know why,” Lauren said, looking into Annie’s eyes, “but you’re lying to me. There is no ‘Liz.’”

“Yes there is. I can introduce you.”

“No.”

“What is it, Lauren? Jealous?”

“Luke meant a lot to me. You know he did. He was so talented.”

“It was more than that, though, wasn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You were lovers, weren’t you?”

Lauren hesitated for a moment, then said, “What if we were? Are you going to arrest me for that?”

“No. I’m going to arrest you for murder.”

Lauren jerked upright. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m serious, all right. You see, Liz and her boyfriend live about five minutes’ walk away from here, and Luke was distraught when he left their flat. I asked myself: Where would he go? Maybe it took me too long to come up with the right answer, the only possible answer, but that was because of the clever smokescreen you put up. The kidnapping. We thought we were looking for a man or someone closer to home. But Luke couldn’t have gone home because the last bus had gone and we checked all the taxis. We suspected his music teacher, Alastair Ford, too. But Luke couldn’t have gone to his house because it’s so remote, and he had no means of getting there. That leaves you, Lauren. Luke didn’t have a wide circle of friends and acquaintances. Also, he was very upset. You’re the one he talked to about his emotional problems. How long had you been lovers, Lauren?”

Lauren sighed. “Near the end of term. It just happened. It was so… so natural. I wasn’t trying to seduce him or anything like that.” Annie could see tears clouding her eyes. “We were looking at some pictures. Pre-Raphaelites. He remarked on my resemblance to one of the models.”

“Elizabeth Siddal, Dante Gabriel Rosetti’s first wife. You do look a lot like her, Lauren. Or a lot like the paintings of her. A typical Pre-Raphaelite beauty, as someone said.”

“You know?”

“I should have made the connection sooner,” Annie said. “My father’s an artist, and I do a bit of painting myself. I’ve picked up a thing or two over the years.”

“But how could you have known?”

“We found Luke’s shoulder bag at the other flat, too. I read over his recent writings and found a lot of classical references I didn’t understand. One thing I did understand is that they were of a sexual nature, very intimate, and they stressed a kind of Pre-Raphaelite look. There were also references to Ophelia, but I don’t think it was Shakespeare Luke had in mind. It was John Everett Millais. He painted Ophelia and used Elizabeth Siddal as a model. She caught pneumonia lying in a tepid bath every day posing as Ophelia floating down the river. Very romantic. But what I don’t understand is why. Why did you do it, Lauren? Why did you kill him? Was he going to leave you?”

“You don’t understand anything. I didn’t kill him. You’ve got no proof. I’ve got an alibi. Talk to Vernon.”

“I’ve already talked to Vernon,” said Annie, “and I’d trust him about as far as I could throw him. Your brother lied for you, Lauren. Only natural. But I’m willing to bet that he’s the one who helped you get rid of the body. You couldn’t have done it all by yourself. And he’s the one who hatched the kidnapping scheme. That had all the hallmarks of an afterthought. It wasn’t the reason for Luke’s disappearance and death. Your brother thought he’d try and cash in on it and he’s small-time enough to ask for only ten thousand. Besides, you’d probably talked about Luke and told him the family wasn’t quite as wealthy as people assumed. He’s a gambler, Lauren. And a loser. He needs the money. I talked to his bookie. Your brother’s in debt up to his eyeballs. Did you even know what he’d done after he’d helped you?”

Lauren looked down into her lap. Her fingers were twined together, grasping so tightly, all the knuckles were white. She shook her head. “I don’t believe Vernon would do anything like that.”

“But you must have suspected, after you heard about the kidnap demand?”

“It confused me. I didn’t know what was going on. Maybe I had my suspicions, I don’t know. I was too upset to think about it.”

“The thing is,” Annie went on, “that our scene-of-crime officers found minute traces of blood on the wall where Luke was shoved over into Hallam Tarn. Minute, but enough to provide a DNA profile. I think that profile would match you or your brother. I’m also certain that when our men come in here and go over your place, they’ll find traces of Luke’s blood. Now, that might not be conclusive in itself, as we know Luke was punched in the nose before he came here, but it’s all starting to add up, Lauren.”

Lauren looked at Annie, her eyes red-rimmed and almost unbearably sad. “I didn’t kill him,” she said, in a small, distant voice. “I would never have harmed Luke. I loved him.”

“What happened, Lauren?”

Lauren reached for her cigarettes and lit one. Then she eyed Annie sadly and began her story.

“Do you think I might have a word alone with your husband?” Banks asked Mrs. Marshall at her house that evening.

“Bill? I don’t know what he can tell you,” she said. “You know he can’t talk.”

“There might be one or two little things.” Banks looked at the invalid who, judging by the hard expression in his eyes, certainly knew he was being talked about. “Can he write?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Marshall. “But he can’t hold a pencil properly. He can only grasp it in his fist and scribble a few letters.”

“That’ll do,” said Banks. “Can you get me a pad and pencil, if it’s no trouble?”

Mrs. Marshall brought Banks a lined pad and a pencil from the sideboard drawer.

“Come on,” said Michelle, taking her arm and leading her toward the kitchen. “Let’s go make some tea. I’ve got a few things to tell you.” Banks and Michelle had agreed on a sanitized version of events to tell Mrs. Marshall. If the media dug too deeply and the story hit the news, then she might find out more than she wanted about her son’s life and death, but that was for the future. Now, maybe it was enough for Michelle to tell her that Donald Bradford killed Graham because he found out something about Bradford’s illegal activities.

When they had gone into the kitchen and closed the door, Banks put the pad and pencil on Bill Marshall’s knee and settled in front of him, gazing into the expressionless eyes. “I think you know why I want to talk to you,” he said.

Bill Marshall made no sign that he understood.

“You used to spar with Reggie and Ronnie Kray in your younger days,” he said. “Then, when you came up here, you fell in with Carlo Fiorino and did a few strong-arm jobs for him. Am I right? Can you nod or write something down?”

Bill Marshall did nothing.

“Okay, so that’s how you want to play it,” Banks said. “Fine. I’m not saying you had anything to do with Graham’s death. You didn’t. You’d never have done anything like that. But you knew who did it, didn’t you?”

Bill Marshall just stared at Banks.

“See, the trouble with people like you, Bill, is they insist on working outside the law. You’ve no use for coppers, have you? Never have had, I shouldn’t think. Just like my own dad. Want to know what I think happened? Well, I’ll tell you anyway. I think Donald Bradford just wasn’t cut out to be a killer of young boys. I don’t think he had much choice in the matter, though. Fiorino pushed him into it. After all, Graham was his responsibility, and Graham was in a position to do a lot of serious damage. There was just too much at stake. Not just the empire as it existed then, but the future. The city was expanding, becoming a new town. Soon it would double in population. What an opportunity for a man like Fiorino. He supplied what people always seemed to want, for a good price. Are you with me so far?”