Close To Home (aka The Summer That Never Was)

“Christ, Annie, I was only a kid.”

“Quite a randy one, too, it seems.”

“Well, what did you think about at fourteen?”

“I don’t know. Boys, maybe, but not in a sexual way. Having fun. Romance. Clothes. Makeup.”

“Maybe that’s why I always fancied older women,” said Banks.

Annie nudged him hard in the ribs.

“Ouch! What did you do that for?”

“You know. Park here. Men,” she said, as Banks parked and they got out of the car. “When you’re young you want older women, and when you’re old you want younger women.”

“These days,” said Banks, “I take whatever I can get.”

“Charming.” Annie pressed the doorbell and a few seconds later saw the shape coming toward them through the frosted glass.

Lauren Anderson was dressed in jeans and a thin V-neck sweater, and she wore no makeup. Younger than Banks had expected, she was willowy, with full lips, a pale oval face and heavy-lidded pale-blue eyes, all framed by long auburn hair spilling down over her shoulders. As she stood in the doorway, she wrapped her arms around herself as if she were cold.

“Police,” Banks said, holding out his warrant card. “May we come in?”

“Of course.” Lauren stood aside.

“In here?” Banks asked, pointing toward what looked like the living room.

“If you like. I’ll make some tea, shall I?”

“Lovely,” said Annie, following her into the kitchen.

Banks could hear them talking as he had a quick look around the living room. He was impressed by the two walls of bookshelves groaning under the weight of classics he had meant to read but never got around to. All the Victorians, along with the major Russians and French. A few recent novels: Ian McEwan, Graham Swift, A.S. Byatt. Quite a lot of poetry, too, from Heaney’s Beowulf translation to the latest issue of Poetry Review lying on the low coffee table. There were plays, too: Tennessee Williams, Edward Albee, Tom Stoppard, the Elizabethans and Jacobeans. There was also a section devoted to art and one to classical mythology. Not to mention the rows of literary criticism, from Aristotle’s Poetics to David Lodge on the vagaries of post-structuralism. Most of the music in the CD rack was classical, favoring Bach, Mozart and Handel.

Banks found a comfortable chair and sat down. In a short while, Annie and Lauren came in with the tea. Noting an ashtray on the table and getting a distinct whiff of stale smoke in the air, Banks asked if he might light up. Lauren said sure and accepted one of his Silk Cut. Annie turned up her nose the way only an ex-smoker can do.

“It’s a nice place,” Banks said.

“Thank you.”

“Do you live here alone?”

“I do now. I used to share it with one of the other teachers, but she got her own flat a few months ago. I’m not sure, but I think I like it better by myself.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Banks. “Look, the reason we’re here is that we heard you used to give Luke Armitage extra tutoring in English, and we wondered if you could tell us anything about him.”

“I’m not sure I can tell you anything about him, but, yes, I used to tutor Luke.” Lauren sat on the small sofa with her legs tucked under her, cup held in both hands. She blew on the tea. “He was so far ahead of the rest of his class, he must have been bored silly at school. He was far ahead of me most of the time.” She raised her hand and flicked some troublesome locks of hair out of her face.

“That good?”

“Well, his enthusiasm made up for what he lacked in formal training.”

“I gather he was a talented writer, too.”

“Very. Again, he needed discipline, but he was young, raw. He’d have gone far if… if…” She held her cup in one hand and rubbed her sleeve across her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just can’t get over it. Luke. Dead. Such a waste.”

Annie passed her a tissue from the box on one of the bookshelves. “Thank you,” she said, then blew her nose. She shifted on the sofa and Banks noticed her feet were bare and her toenails painted red.

“I know it’s hard to accept,” said Banks, “but I’m sure you can understand why we need to know as much about him as possible.”

“Yes, of course. Though, as I said, I don’t see how I can tell you much.”

“Alastair Ford said you’re the kind who listens to people’s problems.”

She snorted. “Alastair! He was probably trying to say I’m a prying bitch. Alastair runs a mile if anyone comes within vague hailing distance of whatever warped emotions he might possess.”

Banks had got the same impression himself, though he wouldn’t have put it in quite those words. On early impressions, Lauren Anderson was turning out to be perhaps the most normal friend Luke had had. But the competition – Ford and Wells – wasn’t very stiff.

“Did Luke ever talk about himself?”

“Not much,” said Lauren. “He could be very closed, could Luke.”

“Sometimes?”

“Sometimes he might let his guard drop a little, yes.”

“And what did he talk about then?”

“Oh, the usual. School. His parents.”

“What did he say about them?”

“He hated school. Not only were most things boring for him, but he didn’t like the discipline, the formality.”

Banks thought of the boys who had tormented Luke in the market square. “What about bullying?”

“Yes, that too. But it wasn’t serious. I mean, Luke was never beaten up or anything.”

“What was it, then?”

“Mostly teasing. Name-calling. A bit of jostling. Oh, I’m not saying he wasn’t hurt by it. He was very sensitive. But he could handle it, in a way.”

“What do you mean?”

“It didn’t really bother him. I mean, he knew the boys who were doing it were morons, that they couldn’t help themselves. And he knew they were doing it because he was different.”

“Superior?”

“No, I don’t think Luke ever believed himself to be superior to anyone else. He just knew he was different.”

“What did he have to say about his parents?”

Lauren paused for a moment before answering. “It was very private,” she said.

Annie leaned forward. “Ms. Anderson,” she said. “Luke’s dead.”

“Yes. Yes, I know.”

“And we need to know everything.”

“But you surely can’t think his parents had anything to do with his death?”

“What did he say about them?”

Lauren paused, then went on. “Not much. It was clear he wasn’t very happy at home. He said he loved his mother, but he gave the impression that he didn’t get along with his stepfather.”

Banks could well imagine it. Martin Armitage was a physical, dominating presence, used to getting his own way, and his interests seemed worlds away from those of his stepson. “Did you get the impression that his stepfather abused him in any way?” he asked.

“Good Lord, no,” said Lauren. “Nobody ever beat him or abused him in any way. It was just… they were so different. They’d nothing in common. I mean, Luke couldn’t care less about football, for a start.”

“What was he going to do about his problems?”

“Nothing. What could he do? He was only fifteen. Maybe he’d have left home in a year or so, but we’ll never know now, will we? For the time being he had to put up with it.”