Close To Home (aka The Summer That Never Was)

Ever since she had rung Banks, Michelle had thought of confronting Shaw with what she had discovered. It would have been easy enough for any authorized person to remove the notebooks and actions from their file boxes. Michelle could have done it herself, so who would think to question an officer of Shaw’s rank? Certainly not Mrs. Metcalfe.

But still she resisted the direct approach. The thing was, she had to be certain. Once something like that was out in the open, there was no taking it back. She had been down in the archives again first thing that morning on another fruitless search, which had at least convinced her that the objects she was looking for were missing. And they should have been there.

What she needed to do now was think. Think about what it all meant. She couldn’t do that in the station with Shaw wandering around the place, so she decided to drive over to the Hazels estate and walk Graham’s route again.

She parked in front of the row of shops opposite the estate and stood for a moment enjoying the feel of the sun on her hair. She looked at the newsagent’s shop, now run by Mrs. Walker. That was where it had all begun. On a whim, Michelle entered the shop and found the sturdy, gray-haired old lady arranging newspapers on the counter.

“Yes, love,” the woman said with a smile. “What can I do for you?”

“Are you Mrs. Walker?”

“Indeed I am.”

“I don’t know if you can do anything,” said Michelle, presenting her warrant card, “but you might have heard we found some bones not long ago and-”

“The lad who used to work here?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I read about it. Terrible business.”

“It is.”

“But I don’t see how I can help you. It was before my time.”

“When did you come here?”

“My husband and I bought the shop in the autumn of 1966.”

“Did you buy it from Mr. Bradford, the previous owner?”

“As far as I know we did. The estate agent handled all the details, along with my husband, of course, bless his soul.”

“Mr. Walker is deceased?”

“A good ten years now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need to be. He went just like that. Never felt a thing. Brain aneurysm. We had a good life together, and I’m well provided for.” She looked around the shop. “I can’t say it’s exactly a gold mine, but it’s a living. Hard work, too. People say I should retire, sell up, but what would I do with my time?”

“Did you know Graham Marshall at all?”

“No. We moved here from Spalding, so we didn’t know anyone at first. We’d been looking for a nice little newsagent’s shop and this one came on the market at the right price. Good timing, too, what with the new town development starting in 1967, shortly after we got here.”

“But you did meet Mr. Bradford?”

“Oh, yes. He was very helpful during the transition. Showed us the ropes and everything.”

“What was he like?”

“I can’t say I knew him well. My husband had most dealings with him. But he seemed all right. Pleasant enough. A bit abrupt, maybe. A bit stiff and military in his bearing. I remember he was something important during the war, a member of some special unit or other in Burma. But he was helpful.”

“Did you hear from him after you took over?”

“No.”

“Did he ever mention Graham?”

“Oh, yes. That’s why he left. Partly, at any rate. He said his heart hadn’t been in the business since the boy disappeared, so he wanted to move away and try to forget.”

“Do you know where he moved to?”

“The North, or so he said. Carlisle.”

“That’s certainly far enough away.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t suppose you had a forwarding address, did you?”

“Didn’t you know? Mr. Bradford died. Killed in a burglary not weeks after he moved. Tragic, it was. In all the local papers at the time.”

“Indeed?” said Michelle, curious. “No, I didn’t know.” It probably wasn’t relevant to her inquiry, but it was suspicious. One of the last people to see Graham alive had himself been killed.

Michelle thanked Mrs. Walker and went back outside. She crossed the road and started walking along Hazel Crescent, the same route Graham would have taken all those years ago. It was an early morning in August 1965, she remembered; the sun was just up, but an overcast sky made it still fairly dark. Everybody was sleeping off Saturday night, and the churchgoers were not even up yet. Lights would have been on in one or two windows, perhaps – the insomniacs and chronic early risers – but nobody had seen anything.

She reached Wilmer Road at the far end of the estate. Even now, years later and in mid-morning, there wasn’t much traffic, and most of it was for the DIY center, which hadn’t existed back in 1965. Michelle was almost certain that Graham knew his attacker and that he got in the car willingly, taking his canvas bag of papers with him. If someone had tried to force him into a car, he would have dropped the papers and struggled, and the abductor was unlikely to stick around and pick them up.

But how could Graham be persuaded to go somewhere without finishing his paper round? A family emergency, perhaps? Michelle didn’t think so. His family only lived a few yards away, back on the estate; he could have walked there in less than a minute. There was no doubt that fourteen-year-old kids could act irresponsibly, so maybe he did just that and skived off somewhere for some reason.

As Michelle stood in the street watching the people come and go from the DIY center, she thought again about the missing notebooks and actions, and was struck by a notion so obvious she could have kicked herself for not seeing it earlier.

That the missing notebooks were Detective Superintendent Shaw’s disturbed her for a different reason now she realized what she should have seen the moment she discovered they were missing. Shaw was a mere DC, a junior, on the case, so what on earth could he have had to hide? He had no power; he wasn’t in charge, and he certainly hadn’t assigned the actions. He had simply been along taking notes of Detective Inspector Reg Proctor’s interviews; that was all.

Michelle had focused on Shaw mostly because she disliked him and resented the way he had been treating her, but when it came right down to it, the person in charge of the case, the one who might possibly have had the most to hide in the event of a future investigation was not Shaw but that legend of the local constabulary: Detective Superintendent John Harris.

Thinking about Jet Harris, and what he might possibly have had to hide, Michelle walked back to where she had left her car parked in front of the shops. Perhaps she was a little distracted by her thoughts, and perhaps she didn’t pay as much attention as she usually did to crossing the road, but on the other hand, perhaps the beige van with the tinted windows really did start up as she approached, and perhaps the driver really did put his foot on the accelerator when she stepped into the road.

Either way, she saw it coming – fast – and just had time to jump out of the way. The side of the van brushed against her hip as she stumbled and fell face forward onto the warm Tarmac, putting out her arms to break her fall. Another car honked and swerved around her and a woman across the street came over to help her to her feet. By the time Michelle realized what was happening, the van was out of sight. One thing she did remember, though: the number plate was so covered in mud it was impossible to read.

“Honestly,” the woman said, helping Michelle to the other side. “Some drivers. I don’t know what the place is coming to, I really don’t. Are you all right, love?”

“Yes,” said Michelle, dusting herself off. “Yes, I’m fine, thanks very much. Just a bit shaken up.” And she was