Close To Home (aka The Summer That Never Was)

“Methinks the lady did protest too much.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Just that her reaction to a simple question seemed extreme.”

“She did sound awfully close to Luke. Emotionally, I mean.”

“But she does have an alibi. Ask Winsome to check with the brother, Vernon, just to be certain, but I can’t imagine she’d risk lying about that. And it was a man’s voice on the ransom call.”

“I’m not suggesting she did it – she certainly seemed genuine in her regard for him – just that she might know more than she’s letting on about what Luke was up to.”

“You’re right,” said Banks. “We shouldn’t rule her out. Maybe you could get Winsome and young Kevin to run background checks on everyone we know who was connected with Luke, and that includes the Battys, Alastair Ford, Lauren Anderson and the mystery girl, if we ever find her.”

“What about Rose Barlow?”

“I don’t know,” Banks said. “We should have a word with her, though it seems that whatever went on between her and Luke ended months ago.”

“What about forensic checks on Ford’s house, and the Anderson woman’s?”

Banks shook his head. “We can’t afford to be sending expensive forensic teams to everyone’s house. With Wells we had good reason – his history, for a start. Besides, we know Luke has been in Lauren Anderson’s house.”

“But if there’s blood…?”

“We still can’t justify the expense at this point.”

“And Alastair Ford?”

“Check into his background first. We’ll keep that one up our sleeves in case we need it.”

“You’ll stay in touch?”

“I’ll leave my mobile on all the time. I’m not deserting you, Annie.” Banks still couldn’t help feeling a little guilty – and it wasn’t because he was leaving the case to Annie, but because he would be seeing Michelle again, and the idea appealed to him.

Annie touched his sleeve. “I know you’re not. Don’t think I’m so insensitive as not to know how hard it is for you, them finding Graham Marshall’s bones and all.” She grinned. “You go and pay your respects and have a piss-up with your old mates. You’ll have a lot to catch up on. When did you last see them?”

“Not since I went to London, when I was eighteen. We just sort of lost touch.”

“I know what you mean. It happens. I don’t know anyone I went to school with anymore.”

Banks considered telling Annie about Michelle’s phone call but decided against it. Why complicate matters? Annie had enough on her plate. Besides, he wasn’t sure there was much he could do about Michelle’s concerns. If there had been some sort of cover-up, then it would have to be investigated by an outside force, not some maverick from North Yorkshire. Yet a part of him wanted to get involved, wanted to get to the bottom of Graham’s death, as well as Luke’s. They were linked in his mind in some odd way. Not technically, of course, but two very different boys from very different times had ended up dead before their time, and both had died violently. Banks wanted to know why, what it was about these two children that had attracted such cruel fates.

Chapter 14

Early in the afternoon, Annie showed the artist’s impression of the mystery girl around the Swainsdale Centre and the bus station again. At the end of an hour, she was beginning to wonder whether the girl existed, or whether she was just a figment of Josie Batty’s puritan imagination.

She walked along York Road enjoying the sunshine, glancing in the shop windows as she walked. A stylish red leather jacket caught her eye in one of the more exclusive clothes shops, but she knew it would be way out of her price range. Even so, she went in and inquired. It was.

The market square was clogged with wandering tourists and cars trying to find a parking space. A large group of Japanese, along with their tour guide and translator, stood gazing up at the front of the Norman church, where several sculpted figures of saints were carved in a row high over the doors. Some of the tourists were catching the moment on videotape, though Annie didn’t remember the stone saints ever doing the cancan or anything that even remotely involved movement.

One of the cars, she noticed – partly because it screeched straight into a handicapped parking space and almost hit a young woman – was Martin Armitage’s BMW. What the hell was he doing here? And what the hell was he doing in a handicapped parking spot? Maybe she should arrange for him to get towed? But when she saw him jump out of the car, slam the door and head for the shops built into the side of the church, she knew what was going on.

Annie pushed her way through the tourist crowd by the church and got there just in time to see Armitage disappearing down the stairs into Norman’s Used Books. Shit. She dashed down right behind him, but he already had Wells by the throat, and judging by the blood pouring from the little man’s nose had punched him at least once. Wells was whimpering and trying to wriggle free. The bookshop was as dank as ever, but the day’s heat had permeated enough to make the air humid. Annie felt clammy the moment she entered. Familiar, the cat, was screeching and hissing somewhere in the dark recesses of the cavern.

“Mr. Armitage!” Annie called out as she grabbed his arm. “Martin! Stop it. This won’t get you anywhere.”

Armitage shook her off as if she were a troublesome insect. “This pervert killed my son,” he said. “If you lot can’t do it, I’ll get a bloody confession, even if I have to shake it out of him.” As if to prove his point, he started to shake Wells again and slap him back and forth across the face. Blood and saliva dribbled from Wells’s slack jaw.

Annie tried to wedge herself between them, knocking over a teetering pile of books as she did so. A cloud of dust rose up and the cat screeched even louder. Armitage was strong. He pushed Annie and she staggered back into a table. It broke and more books slid to the floor. She almost joined them there.

Gathering all her strength, Annie made one more attempt, launching herself toward the struggling men in the cramped space, but Armitage saw her coming and swung his fist beyond Wells’s head, connecting directly with Annie’s mouth. The blow stunned her and she fell back again, in pain this time, and put her hand to her mouth. It came away covered in blood.

Armitage was still shaking Wells and Annie feared the bookseller was going to choke to death, if he didn’t have a heart attack first. Armitage was paying her no mind now, and she managed to edge behind him to the door and dash up the steps. The police station was only yards away, across Market Street, and nobody asked her any questions when she rushed in the front door, blood streaming from her mouth.

Two burly PCs followed her back to the shop, and it took both of them to subdue Armitage, wrecking most of the place in the process. There were old books all over the floor, broken tables and clouds of dust in the air by the time they got the handcuffs on him and marched him outside up the stairs. Wells was bleeding, clutching his chest and looking distinctly unwell. Annie got his arm around her shoulder and helped him stumble up into the fresh air. Hearing the fracas, the Japanese tourists turned away from the church facade and pointed their camcorders at the five of them. Well, Annie thought, digging for a handkerchief deep in her purse, at least we’re bloody moving.

It had been a while since Banks had spent much time in his office, and the Dalesman calendar was still open at July’s photo of Skidby Windmill on the edge of the Yorkshire Wolds. He had the radio tuned in to Radio Three and was listening to an orchestral concert of music by Holst, Haydn and Vaughan Williams as he whittled away at the pile of paperwork on his desk. He had just settled into the lento moderato of Vaughan Williams’s Pastoral Symphony and yet another memo on cost effectiveness, when his phone rang.

“Alan, it’s Stefan.”

“Good news, I hope?”

“Depends on how you look at it. Your man Norman Wells is clean, as far as we can tell. We were pretty thorough, and I’m sure if there’d been any traces of Luke Armitage in his car or house we’d have found something.”