Close To Home (aka The Summer That Never Was)

where she had studied business and management techniques before deciding on the police as a career. On those rare occasions when she did have time to go out, late in the seventies, she liked to dance. For that, reggae or two- tone was her music of choice: Bob Marley, The Specials, Madness, UB40.

Michelle had always hated nostalgia snobs, as she called them, and in her experience, the sixties ones were the worst of the lot. She suspected that Banks was one. To hear them talk, you’d think paradise had been lost or the seventh seal broken now that so many of the great rock icons were dead, geriatric, or gaga, and nobody wore beads and caftans anymore, and you’d also think that drug-taking was an innocent way to spend a few hours relaxing, or a means of reaching some exalted spiritual state, instead of a waste of lives and a source of money for evil, unscrupulous dealers.

The archives office was quiet except for the buzzing of the fluorescent light. Silence is a rare thing in a police station, where everyone is pushed together in open-plan offices, but down here Michelle could even hear her watch ticking. After five. Time for a break soon, some fresh air perhaps, and then back down to it.

Reading the crime reports for August, she sensed rather than heard someone approaching the office, and when she looked up, she saw it was Detective Superintendent Benjamin Shaw.

Shaw’s bulk filled the doorway and blocked some of the light from coming in. “What you up to, DI Hart?” he asked.

“Just checking the old logs, sir.”

“I can see that. What for? You won’t find anything there, you know. Not after all this time.”

“I was just having a general look around, trying to get some context for the Marshall case. Actually, I was wondering if-”

“Context? Is that one of those fancy words they taught you at polytechnic? Bloody time-wasting sounds more like it.”

“Sir-”

“Don’t bother to argue, Inspector. You’re wasting your time. What do you expect to find in the dusty old files, apart from context?”

“I was talking to one of Graham Marshall’s friends earlier,” she said. “He told me he was approached by a strange man on the riverbank about two months before the Marshall boy disappeared. I was just trying to see if any similar incidents were on file.”

Shaw sat on the edge of the desk. It creaked and tilted a little. Michelle worried that the damn thing would break under his weight. “And?” he asked. “I’m curious.”

“Nothing so far, sir. Do you remember anything odd like that?”

Shaw frowned. “No. But who is this ‘friend’?”

“He’s called Banks, sir. Alan Banks. Actually, it’s Detective Chief Inspector Banks.”

“Is it, indeed? Banks? The name sounds vaguely familiar. I take it he didn’t report the incident at the time?”

“No, sir. Too scared of what his parents might say.”

“I can imagine. Look, about this Banks chap,” he went on. “I think I’d like a little word with him. Can you arrange it?”

“I’ve got his phone number, sir. But…” Michelle was about to tell Shaw that it was her case and that she didn’t appreciate his poaching her interviews, but she decided it wouldn’t be diplomatic to alienate one of her senior officers at such an early stage of her career in Peterborough. Besides, he might be helpful, having been involved in the original investigation.

“But what?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Good.” Shaw stood up. “We’ll have him in, then. Soon as possible.”

“I know it must seem odd after all these years,” Banks said, “but I’m Alan Banks, and I’ve come to offer my condolences.”

“Alan Banks. Well, I never!” The look of suspicion on Mrs. Marshall’s face was immediately transformed into one of pleasure. She opened the door wide. “Do come in and make yourself at home.”

It was over thirty-six years since Banks had set foot in the Marshall house, and he had a vague memory that the furniture had been made of much darker wood then, heavier and sturdier. Now the sideboard and television stand looked as if they were made of pine. The three-piece suite seemed much bigger, and a huge television dominated one corner of the room.

Even all those years ago, he remembered, he hadn’t been inside Graham’s house often. Some parents kept an open house for their children’s friends, the way his own did, and Dave’s and Paul’s, but the Marshalls were always a bit distant, stand-offish. Graham never spoke about his mum and dad much, either, Banks remembered, but that hadn’t struck him as at all unusual at the time. Kids don’t, except to complain if they’re not allowed to do something or discovered in some deception and have their pocket money stopped. As far as Banks knew, Graham Marshall’s home life was every bit as normal as his own.

His mother had told him that Mr. Marshall had been disabled by a stroke, so he was prepared for the frail, drooling figure staring up at him from the armchair. Mrs. Marshall looked tired and careworn herself, which was hardly surprising, and he wondered how she kept the place so spick-and-span. Maybe the social helped out, as he doubted she could afford a daily.

“Look, Bill, it’s Alan Banks,” said Mrs. Marshall. “You know, one of our Graham’s old friends.”

It was hard to read Mr. Marshall’s expression through the distortions of his face, but his gaze seemed to relax a little when he found out who the visitor was. Banks said hello and sat down. He spotted the old photo of Graham, the one his own father had taken with his Brownie on Blackpool promenade. He had taken one of Banks, too, also wearing a black polo-neck “Beatle” jumper, but without the matching hairstyle.

Mr. Marshall was sitting in the same spot he had always sat in, like Banks’s own father. Back then, he had always seemed to be smoking, but now he looked as if he could hardly lift a cigarette to his lips.

“I understand you’re an important policeman now,” Mrs. Marshall said.

“I don’t know about important, but I’m a policeman, yes.”

“You don’t have to be so modest. I bump into your mum at the shops from time to time and she’s very proud of you.”

That’s more than she lets on to me, Banks thought. “Well,” he said, “you know what mothers are like.”

“Have you come to help with the investigation?”

“I don’t know that I can,” said Banks. “But if they want any help from me, I’d be happy to give it.”

“She seems very nice. The girl they sent round.”

“I’m sure she’ll be just fine.”

“I told her I can’t imagine what she can do that Jet Harris and his boys didn’t do back then. They were very thorough.”

“I know they were.”

“But he just seemed to have… vanished. All these years.”

“I’ve often thought about him,” Banks said. “I realize I didn’t actually know him for very long, but he was a good friend. I missed him. We all missed him.”

Mrs. Marshall sniffed. “Thank you. I know he appreciated the way you all accepted him when we were new here. You know how difficult it can be to make friends sometimes. It’s just so hard to believe that he’s turned up after all this time.”

“It happens,” said Banks. “And don’t give up on the investigation. There’s a lot more science and technology in police work these days. Look how quickly they identified the remains. They couldn’t have done that twenty years ago.”

“I just wish I could be of some use,” said Mrs. Marshall, “but I don’t remember anything out of the ordinary at all. It just came like a lightning bolt. Out of the blue.”

Banks stood up. “I know,” he said. “But if there’s anything to be discovered, I’m sure DI Hart will discover it.”

“Are you going already?”