Close To Home (aka The Summer That Never Was)

“You didn’t?”

“Nada.”

“Okay, well, I suppose that shows us where not to concentrate our attention. Anything positive?”

“The blood on the drystone wall.”

“I remember.”

“There was enough for DNA analysis. It’s definitely human, and it doesn’t match the victim’s.”

Banks whistled. “So there’s a good chance it could belong to whoever dropped Luke over the wall?”

“A pretty good chance, yes. But don’t get your hopes up too high. It could belong to anyone.”

“But you’ll be able to match it with any samples we can get?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. Thanks, Stefan.”

“My pleasure.”

Banks wondered whom he should ask to provide DNA samples. Norman Wells, of course, even though the forensic search of his house had turned up nothing incriminating. Alastair Ford, perhaps, just because he lived in a remote cottage and was connected to Luke through the violin lessons. And because he was weird. Lauren Anderson, because she gave Luke English tutoring after school hours and seemed to be close to him. Who else? Josie and Calvin Batty, perhaps. And the parents, Martin and Robin. They’d no doubt kick up a holy fuss and run crying to the chief constable, but that couldn’t be helped. DNA could be processed in two or three days now, but it was a very expensive proposition. Banks would just have to see how much he could get away with.

Then there was the mystery girl, of course. They would definitely need a sample from her if they ever found her, if she existed.

No sooner had the moderato pesante begun than his phone rang again. This time it was the duty constable. Someone to see him in connection with Luke Armitage. A young woman.

“Send her up,” said Banks, wondering if this could be the mystery woman. She must know that she was wanted by now, and if she did, then her failure to show up was suspicious in itself.

A minute or so later a uniformed constable tapped on Banks’s office door and ushered in the girl. Banks recognized Rose Barlow immediately. She strutted into his office all blue-jeaned leg, blond hair and attitude. Her visit would save him or Annie the trouble of seeking her out.

“I’m Rose,” she said. “Rose Barlow. You don’t remember me, do you?”

“I know who you are,” said Banks. “What can I do for you?”

Rose carried on snooping around the office, taking books off the shelf and riffling through the pages, putting them back, adjusting the calendar so it was square with the filing cabinet. She wore a short, sleeveless top so that, Banks presumed, the rose tattoo on her upper left arm and the collection of jewelry dangling from her navel showed to best advantage.

“It’s more a matter of what I can do for you,” she said, sitting down and giving him what he was sure she thought of as an enigmatic look. It came across as vacant. She must be a handful for her father, he thought. It seemed so often the case that the daughters of authority figures – vicars, head teachers, chief constables – were the first to rebel, and he could only think himself lucky that Tracy, a mere chief inspector’s daughter, seemed to have a good head on her shoulders. She must have got it from her mother, Banks thought, then veered away from thoughts of Sandra, showing now, no doubt, glowing with the joys of coming motherhood. Well, good luck to her and Sean; they’d need it.

“And what can you do for me?” Banks asked, deciding to let her get to her reason for coming before asking questions of his own.

She turned her nose up at the radio. “What’s that?”

“Vaughan Williams.”

“It’s boring.”

“Sorry you don’t like it. What can you do for me?”

“Do you know who killed Luke?”

“I thought you could do something for me?”

“Spoilsport. Why won’t you tell me?”

Banks sighed. “Rose. Miss Barlow. If we’d found Luke’s killer you’d have read about it in the papers by now. Now, tell me what you came to say. I’m busy.”

Rose didn’t like that, and Banks realized that letting his impatience show was a mistake. She probably got that sort of response from her father all the time, the way Tracy and Brian had often heard the same thing from Banks. Rose craved attention because she didn’t feel she got enough. Banks wondered if his children felt the same way. Did Tracy try so hard and do so well academically because she wanted attention? Did Brian stand up on stage in front of an audience night after night and bare his soul because he craved it, too? And had Luke Armitage craved the same thing? Perhaps. In his children’s cases, though, the response to the need was a pretty healthy, creative one. Banks wasn’t sure to what lengths Rose Barlow might go to get the attention she felt she deserved.

“I’m sorry,” he went on, “but I’m sure you understand that we’re in a hurry to find out who killed Luke, and if you know anything that might help us…”

Rose leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Why? Do you think he’s going to kill someone else? Do you think it’s a serial killer?”

“We’ve no reason to think anything of the sort.”

“Then relax, why don’t you?”

Banks felt his back teeth grinding as he tried to smile.

“Anyway,” Rose went on, “I was going to tell you. Have you talked to Miss Anderson yet?”

“Lauren Anderson? Yes.”

A mischievous glint lit Rose’s eyes. “And did she tell you about her and Luke?”

“She told us she gave him extra instruction in English because he was ahead of the rest of the class.”

Rose laughed. “Extra instruction. That’s a good one. And did she tell you where she gave this instruction?”

“At her house.”

Rose leaned back and folded her arms. “Exactly.”

“So?”

“Oh, come on. Surely you can’t be that naive? Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” said Banks, who was perfectly sure but wanted her to get there by herself.

“They were having it off, weren’t they?”

“You know that for a fact?”

“Stands to reason.”

“Why?”

“She’s nothing but a slut, that Miss Anderson, and a cradle-snatcher.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, she didn’t give anybody else private instruction in her home, did she?”

“I don’t know,” said Banks.

“Well, she didn’t.”

“Tell me, Rose,” Banks said, wishing he could have a cigarette, “what did you think of Luke? You knew him, didn’t you?”

“We were in the same class, yes.”

“Did you like him?”

Rose twirled some strands of hair. “He was all right, I suppose.”

“Pretty cool, huh?”

“Cool! More like sad, if you ask me.”

“Why?”

“He never talked to anybody – except high and mighty Miss Anderson, of course. It’s like he was better than