Close To Home (aka The Summer That Never Was)

“What about the rest of the family – uncles, aunts, grandparents?” she asked. “Was he close to anybody in particular?”

“Robin’s family’s down in Devon,” said Martin. “My parents are dead, but I’ve got a married sister living in Dorset and a brother in Cardiff. Of course, we rang everyone we could think of, but nobody’s seen him.”

“Did he have any money with him?”

“Not much. A few pounds. Look, Inspector,” he said, “I do appreciate your questions, but you’re on the wrong track. Luke has his mobile. If he wanted to go somewhere or do something that meant he wouldn’t be coming home, or that he’d be late, then why wouldn’t he give us a buzz?”

“Unless it was something he didn’t want you to know about.”

“But he’s only fifteen,” said Martin. “What on earth could he be up to that’s so secret he wouldn’t want his parents to know about it?”

Do you know where your children are? Do you know what your children are doing? It was Annie’s experience, both through her own memories and as a policewoman, that there was no one more secretive than an adolescent, especially a sensitive, lonely adolescent, but Luke’s parents just didn’t seem to get this. Hadn’t they been through it themselves? Or had so much else happened since their own childhoods that they had forgotten what it was like?

There were any number of reasons why Luke might have thought it necessary to go off for a while without telling his parents – children are often selfish and inconsiderate – but they couldn’t seem to think of one. Still, it wasn’t the first time Annie had come across such an astonishing gap between parental perception and reality. More often than she would have expected, she had found herself facing the parents of missing children who said they had simply no idea where young Sally could have gone or why she would want to go off anywhere and cause them such pain.

“Have there ever been any threats against you?” she asked.

“No,” said Martin. “Why do you ask?”

“Celebrities often attract the wrong sort of attention.”

Martin snorted. “We’re hardly Beckham and Posh Spice. We’re not much in the public eye these days. Not for the past five years or so, since we moved here. We both keep a very low profile.”

“Did it cross your mind that someone might have thought Luke was worth kidnapping?” she asked.

“Despite what you think,” Martin said, “we’re actually not all that wealthy.” He gestured around. “The house, for a start… it just eats up money. We’d be very poor marks for a kidnapper, believe me.”

“The kidnapper might not know that.”

Robin and Martin looked at each other. Finally, Robin spoke. “No, I don’t think so. As I said, we always wanted Luke to have a normal life, not like mine. We didn’t want him surrounded by bodyguards and security. Maybe it was foolish of us, unrealistic, but it’s worked until now. Nothing bad ever happened to him.”

“And I’m sure nothing has now,” said Annie. “Look, I realize it’s probably second nature to you, but if anyone from the press comes around asking questions-”

“Don’t worry,” said Martin Armitage. “They’ll have me to deal with.”

“Very good, sir. And just to be on the safe side, do you think we could arrange to have any phone calls intercepted?”

“But why?” asked Robin.

“In case of ransom demands.”

She put her hand to her cheek. “But surely you don’t think…?”

“It’s just a precaution.”

“It’s an unlisted number,” Martin said.

“Even so.”

He held Annie’s gaze for a few beats before nodding. “Very well. If you must.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll arrange for the technician to drop by later this morning. Do you have a business office?”

“No,” said Martin. “Not at the moment.”

“You don’t have a business number?”

“No.” He paused, then went on as if he’d sensed an implied slight in Annie’s tone or manner. “Look, I might have been just a football player, but that doesn’t mean I’m thick, you know.”

“I didn’t-”

“I got my A-Levels, went to Leeds Polytechnic, as it was back then, and got a business diploma.”

So what did that make him? Annie wondered, unimpressed: the “thinking woman’s crumpet”? “I didn’t mean to imply anything,” she went on. “I’m simply trying to make sure we’ve got every eventuality covered.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin said. “It’s been a stressful night. It’s just, well, being who we are, Robin and I get that sort of thing a lot. People tend to patronize us.”

“I understand,” said Annie, standing up to leave. “I won’t keep you any longer.” She passed her card over to Robin, who was closest. “My mobile number’s on there, too.” She smiled and added, “When you can reach it.” Cell- phone coverage was spotty in the Dales, to say the least. “If you do hear anything at all, you won’t hesitate to call me, will you?”

“No,” said Robin. “Of course not. And if…”

“You’ll be the first to hear. Don’t worry, we’ll be looking for him, I can assure you. We’re really very good at this sort of thing.”

“If there’s anything I can do…” said Martin.

“Of course.” Annie gave them her best, most confident smile and left, not feeling confident at all.

Chapter 3

DI Michelle Hart locked up her dark gray Peugeot outside 58 Hazel Crescent and took the measure of the neighborhood. She’d been there twice before – once investigating a string of burglaries and another time because of vandalism. As council estates went these days, the Hazels, as the locals called it, wasn’t particularly bad. Built in the early sixties, before the “new town” expansion, its terraces of serviceable brick houses behind low walls and privet hedges were now home to a mixed crowd of unemployed people, teenage mothers, pensioners who couldn’t afford to move, and a growing Asian population, mostly from Pakistan or Bangladesh. There were even a few asylum seekers. Like every other estate, the Hazels also had its share of shiftless hooligans who took their greatest pleasure in vandalizing other people’s property, stealing cars and spraying graffiti over the walls.

It was still raining, and there was no sign of any gaps in the gray cloud cover. The drab street that curved through the heart of the estate was empty, all the kids indoors playing computer games or surfing the Web and their mothers wishing the sun would come out and bring a few moments’ peace and quiet.

Michelle knocked on the dark green door. Mrs. Marshall, a frail-looking woman, stooped and gray-haired, face lined with care, answered and led her into a small living room and bade her sit on a plum velour armchair. Michelle had met the Marshalls before, during the identification process, but hadn’t yet visited them at home. Everything in the room was so tidy and spotless that she felt a momentary twinge of guilt over her own unwashed breakfast dishes, unmade bed and the dust balls in the corner. Still, who was there to see them but her?

Bill Marshall, incapacitated by a stroke, looked at Michelle, blanket over his knees, walking stick by his side, slack-jawed, a little drool collecting at the corner of his mouth, one half of his face drooping lower than the other, as if it had melted like a Dali clock. He had been a big man, that much was obvious, but now his body had withered with disease. His eyes were alive, though, the whites a little cloudy, but the gray irises intense and watchful. Michelle said hello to him and thought she saw his head move just a fraction in greeting. Though he couldn’t speak, Mrs. Marshall had assured Michelle that he could understand everything they said.

Among the framed photographs on the mantelpiece above the electric fire, one was of a young boy, aged about thirteen or fourteen, hair in a “Beatle” cut popular in the early sixties, wearing a black polo neck, standing on a promenade with the sea in the background and a long pier off to one side. He was a good-looking kid, Michelle noticed, perhaps a little feminine, soft and delicate in his features, but he’d probably have grown up to be a real heartbreaker nonetheless.