Close To Home (aka The Summer That Never Was)

recorded in his bed back at Mrs. Barraclough’s that night: “G and me went with Tina and Sharon under south pier!”

Somehow, he had worked his hand under her blouse and felt her firm little breast. She didn’t complain when after a while of that he wriggled under her bra and felt the warm, soft flesh itself, squeezing the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She took a sharp breath and went back to kissing him with her tongue. He got some of her hair in his mouth. He could smell bubble gum on her breath mingled with the seaweed and brine of the beach. Trams rolled by above them and waves crashed on the shore. Sometime later, getting brave, he slid his hand down her thigh and put it up inside her skirt. She would only let him touch her over the cloth of her knickers, freezing or firmly pulling his hand away when he tried to go farther, but that was the farthest he had ever been before, so it was all right with him. Graham said later that Tina let him go all the way with her, but Banks didn’t believe him.

And that was as sensational as it got.

They went out with Sharon and Tina twice more, once to the pictures to see Help! and once to the amusement arcades, Graham as usual supplying most of the cash, and their evenings ended the same way. No matter how much Banks tried and hinted, Sharon wouldn’t relinquish her treasure. She always stopped him at the threshold. It was a tease balanced only later with the delicious ritual of self-administered relief.

When it was time to leave, they exchanged names and addresses and said they’d write, but Banks never heard from Sharon again. As far as he knew, Graham hadn’t heard from Tina either before he disappeared. Now, looking back, Banks hoped she really had let him go all the way with her.

Remembering their holiday had made him also remember other things, and some of them started to ring alarm bells in his policeman’s mind. Quiet at first, then getting louder and louder.

But soon, it wasn’t an inner alarm bell, it was the telephone that was ringing. Banks picked it up.

“DCI Banks?” A woman’s voice, familiar, strained.

“Yes.”

“It’s DI Hart. Michelle.”

“I haven’t forgotten your name yet,” Banks said. “What can I do for you? Any news?”

“Are you busy?”

“Just after you left me in Starbucks, a missing persons case turned into a murder, so yes, I am.”

“Look, I’m sorry about that. I mean… This is so difficult.”

“Just tell me.”

Michelle paused for so long that Banks was beginning to think she would just hang up. She seemed to be good at putting an abrupt end to conversations. But she didn’t. After an eternity, she said, “Today I discovered that Ben Shaw’s notebooks and the Graham Marshall actions allocations are missing.”

“Missing?”

“I looked all over the files. I couldn’t find them. I got the records clerk to help, too, but even she couldn’t find them. There’s a gap in the notebooks from the fifteenth of August to the sixth of October, 1965.”

Banks whistled between his teeth. “And the actions?”

“Just for that case. Gone. I don’t know… I mean, I’ve never… There’s something else, too. Something that happened over the weekend. But I don’t want to talk about it over the phone.” She gave a nervous laugh. “I suppose I’m asking you for advice. I don’t know what to do.”

“You should tell someone.”

“I’m telling you.”

“I mean someone in your station.”

“That’s the problem,” she said. “I just don’t know who I can trust down here. That’s why I thought of you. I know you have a personal interest in the case, and it would be helpful for me to have another professional around. One I know I can trust.”

Banks thought it over for a moment. Michelle was right; he did have an interest in the case. And the way it sounded, she was out on a limb by herself down there. “I’m not sure what I can do to help,” he said, “but I’ll see if I can get away.” As he spoke the words, an image of himself charging down to Peterborough on a white steed, wearing armor and carrying a lance, mocked him. “Any news on the funeral service?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“I’ll get away as soon as I can,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow. In the meantime, don’t say or do anything. Just carry on as normal. Okay?”

“Okay. And, Alan?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks. I mean it. I’m in a jam.” She paused, then added, “And I’m scared.”

“I’ll be there.”

After Banks hung up, he refilled his glass, put the second Bill Evans set on and settled down to think over the repercussions of what he had realized earlier that evening, reading his diary, and of what he had just heard from Michelle.

Chapter 13

Lauren Anderson lived in a small semi not too far from where Banks used to live with Sandra before their separation. He hadn’t passed the end of his old street in a long time, and it brought back memories he would rather forget. He felt cheated, somehow. The memories should have been good – he and Sandra had had good times together, had been in love for many years – but everything seemed tainted by her betrayal, and now by her forthcoming marriage to Sean. And the baby, of course. The baby hurt a lot.

He spoke nothing of his thoughts to Annie, who sat beside him. She didn’t even know he used to live there, as he had only met her after he moved to the Gratly cottage. Besides, she had made it clear that she wasn’t interested in his old life with Sandra and the kids; that was one of the main things that had come between them and broken up their brief and edgy romance.

It was as fine a summer’s day as they had seen in a while. They were in Banks’s car this time, the way he preferred it, with the windows open listening to Marianne Faithfull singing “Summer Nights” on a greatest hits CD. That was back when her voice was rich and smooth, before the booze, drugs and cigarettes had taken their toll the same way it happened with Billie Holiday. It was also a hit around the time Graham disappeared and captured the mood of that sex-preoccupied adolescent summer.

“I can’t believe you still listen to this stuff,” said Annie.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. It’s just so… old.”

“So is Beethoven.”

“Clever clogs. You know what I mean.”

“I used to fancy her like crazy.”

Annie shot him a sidelong glance. “Marianne Faithfull?”

“Yes. Why not? She used to come on Ready, Steady, Go! and Top of the Pops every time she had a new record out, and she’d sit on a high stool with her guitar looking just like a schoolgirl. But she’d be wearing a low-cut dress, legs crossed, and that sweet voice would come out, and you’d just want to…”

“Go on.”

Banks stopped at a traffic light and smiled at Annie. “I’m sure you get the picture,” he said. “She just looked so innocent, so virginal.”

“But if the stories are true, she put herself about quite a bit, didn’t she? Far from virginal, I’d say.”

“Maybe that was part of it, too,” Banks agreed. “You just knew she… did it. There were stories. Gene Pitney. Mick Jagger. The parties and all that.”

“Saint and sinner all in one package,” said Annie. “How perfect for you.”