Close To Home (aka The Summer That Never Was)

“Yes. He’d have got to university easily, just like his sister.”

“What did he want to be when he grew up?”

“An astronaut or a pop star, but I’m sure he would have changed his mind about that. He was good at physics and chemistry. He’d probably have made a good teacher.” She paused. “What’s going to happen now, if you don’t mind me asking, Miss Hart? I mean, it was all so long ago. Surely you don’t think you can catch whoever did this? Not after all this time.”

“I don’t know,” said Michelle. “I certainly wouldn’t want to make any rash promises. But when something like this happens, we do our best to go over the ground again and see if we can find something someone missed the first time around. A fresh pair of eyes. It works sometimes. But if I’m to be completely honest with you, I’d have to say we’ll not be giving the case full priority in terms of manpower.”

“Believe me, love, there’s plenty of crime going on around here now without you police spending your time digging up the past as well.” She paused. “It’s just that… well, I think I would like to know, even after all this time. I thought about it a lot the other day, when they came back with the DNA results and said it definitely was our Graham. I thought I’d got resigned that we’d never know, but now, well, I’m not so sure. I mean, if you can just find out what happened to him, and why…” She looked at her husband. “I know he’d like his mind set at ease before… well, I’m sure you know what I mean.”

Michelle packed away her notebook in her briefcase. “Yes, I think I know what you mean,” she said. “And I promise I’ll do my best.”

“There is one question I’d like to ask,” said Mrs. Marshall.

“Yes?”

“Well, you know, the way things happened, we never… I mean, our Graham never had a proper funeral. Do you think we could do that? You know, the bones…”

Michelle thought for a moment. “We might need them for a few days longer,” she said, “for tests and suchlike. But I don’t see why not. Look, I’ll talk to the forensic anthropologist. I’m sure she’ll do her best to release the remains as soon as possible.”

“You are? Really? Oh, thank you so very much, Miss Hart. You don’t know how much it means to us. Do you have any children of your own?”

Michelle felt herself tense up the way she always did when people asked her that. Finally, she got the words out. “No. No, I don’t.”

Mrs. Marshall saw her to the door. “If there’s anything more I can tell you,” she said, “please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“I won’t,” said Michelle. “Thank you.” And she walked down the path in the rain to her car taking deep breaths, shaken, flooded with memories she’d been blocking out, memories of Melissa, and of Ted. Now Graham Marshall was more to her than just a pile of bones on a steel table; he was a bright, easygoing lad with a Beatle haircut who wanted to be an astronaut or a pop star. If only she could figure out where to begin.

Banks met Annie at The Woolpack, a quiet pub in the tiny village of Maltham, about halfway between Gratly and Harksmere. On his way home from Manchester Airport, he had debated whether to call her, and he decided in the end it would be a good idea. He wanted to talk to someone about what he had just learned, and Annie was the only person he had told about the incident with the pervert down by the river. It shocked him to realize that he hadn’t even told his ex-wife, Sandra, though they had been married for over twenty years.

It was drizzling when he pulled up in the market square car park shortly before nine o’clock. Annie’s purple Astra was nowhere in sight. He obeyed the sign and stepped on the disinfectant pad before entering the pub. Though there hadn’t been an outbreak near Maltham itself, incidences of foot-and-mouth disease had occurred in some of the surrounding areas, and as a consequence strict, sometimes unpopular, measures had been brought in by the ministry. Many footpaths had been closed and access to the countryside limited. Also, as local farmers used the village pubs and shops, many of the owners had placed disinfectant mats on their doorsteps.

Maltham itself wasn’t much of a place, though it did have a fine Norman church, and The Woolpack was one of those pubs that did good business mostly by virtue of its being on a busy road between tourist destinations. That meant most of the trade was transient, and during the day, so the few grizzled locals who stood around the bar turned as one and gawped when Banks entered. They did that every time. One of them must have recognized him and said something, because in no time at all they turned back to their pints and ignored him. Banks bought a pint of Black Sheep bitter and a packet of cheese and onion crisps and sat down near the door, as far from the bar as he could get. A couple of the other tables were taken, tourists renting local cottages, by the looks of them. Poor sods, they’d be going out of their minds with no footpaths to walk.

Christ, it was a long way from Greece, Banks thought. Hard to believe that at this time just two nights ago he had been drinking ouzo and nibbling dolmades with Alex in Philippe’s taverna. They had drunk well into the small hours, knowing it was to be their last evening together, telling stories and soaking up the scented warmth of the air and the rhythm of the sea lapping at the quayside beside them. In the morning, Banks had looked for Alex by the harbor to say good-bye as he caught the early ferry to Piraeus, but his friend was nowhere to be seen. Probably nursing his hangover, Banks had thought, aware of the pounding in his own head.

The door opened, the men gawped again – with a bit more interest this time – and Annie entered in tight jeans and a light blue sleeveless top, bag slung over her shoulder. She pecked Banks on the cheek and sat down. Smelling her delicate grapefruit-scented shampoo and soap, and aware of the vague outlines of her nipples under the thin cotton, Banks felt a momentary rush of desire for her, but he held himself in check. That part of their relationship was over; they had moved on to something different. Instead, he went back to the bar and bought her a pint.

“Look at that tan,” Annie said when he sat down again, her laugh lines crinkling. “It’s all right for some.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage a week in Blackpool before summer’s over,” said Banks.

“Dancing to the Wurlitzer in the Tower Ballroom? Donkey rides on the beach in the rain? Candy floss on the prom and a kiss-me-quick hat? I can hardly wait.” She leaned over and patted his arm. “It is good to see you again, Alan.”

“You, too.”

“So come on, then. Tell. How was Greece?”

“Magnificent. Magical. Paradisiacal.”

“Then what the bloody hell are you doing back in Yorkshire? You were hardly forthcoming on the phone.”

“Years of practice.”

Annie leaned back in her chair and stretched out her legs the way she did, crossing them at the slender ankles, where the thin gold chain hung, sipped some beer and almost purred. Banks had never met anyone else who could look so comfortable and at home in a hard chair.

“Anyway,” she said, “you’re looking well. Less stressed. Even half a holiday seems to have had some effect.”

Banks considered for a moment and decided that he did feel much better than he had when he had left. “It helped put things in perspective,” he said. “And you?”

“Swimmingly. Thriving. The job’s going well. I’m getting back into yoga and meditation. And I’ve been doing some painting again.”

“I kept you away from all that?”

Annie laughed. “Well, it’s not as if you twisted my arm, but when you’ve got as little time as people in our line of work have, then something has to go by the wayside.”

Banks was about to make a sarcastic reference to that something being him this time, but he bit his tongue. He wouldn’t have done that two weeks ago. The holiday really must have done him good. “Well,” he said, “I’m glad you’re happy. I mean it, Annie.”

Annie touched his hand. “I know you do. Now what brings you back here in such a hurry? I hope it’s not serious.”

“It is, in a way.” Banks lit a cigarette and went on to explain about the discovery of Graham Marshall’s bones.

Annie listened, frowning. When Banks had finished, she said, “I can understand why you’re concerned, but what can you do?”

“I don’t know,” Banks said. “Maybe nothing. If I were the local police, I wouldn’t want me sticking my nose in,