Mandy’s. Don’t you remember that?”
“Randy Mandy’s?” Banks asked. “What the hell’s that?”
“Don’t tell me
“Obviously I don’t,” said Banks. “What does it mean?”
“Randy Mandy’s? It was Rupert Mandeville’s place, that big house up Market Deeping way. Remember?”
Banks felt a vague recollection at the edge of his consciousness. “I think I remember.”
“It was just our joke, that’s all,” Paul went on. “We thought they had all sorts of sex orgies there. Like that place where Profumo used to go a couple of years earlier. Remember that? Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice- Davies?”
Banks remembered Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice-Davies. The newspapers had been full of risque photographs and salacious “confessions” around the time of the Profumo scandal. But that was in 1963, not 1965.
“I remember now,” said Dave. “Rupert Mandeville’s house. Bloody great country mansion, more like. We used to think it was some sort of den of iniquity back then, somewhere all sorts of naughty things went on. Whenever we came across something dirty we always said it must have come from Randy Mandy’s. You must remember, Alan. God knows where we got the idea from, but there was this high wall and a big swimming pool in the garden, and we used to imagine all the girls we fancied swimming naked there.”
“Vaguely,” said Banks, who wondered if there was any truth in this. It was worth checking into, anyway. He’d talk to Michelle, see if she knew anything. “This Mandeville still around?”
“Wasn’t he an MP or something?” said Dave.
“I think so,” Paul said. “I remember reading about him in the papers a few years ago. I think he’s in the House of Lords now.”
“Lord Randy Mandy,” said Dave, and they laughed for old times’ sake.
Conversation meandered on for another hour or so and at least one round of double Scotches. Dave seemed to stick at a certain level of drunkenness, one he had achieved early on, and now it was Paul who began to show the effects of alcohol the most, and his manner became more exaggeratedly effeminate as time went on.
Banks could sense Dave getting impatient and embarrassed by the looks they were receiving from some of the other customers. He was finding it harder and harder to imagine that they had all had so much in common once, but then it had been a lot easier and more innocent: you supported the same football team, even if they weren’t very good; you liked pop music and lusted after Emma Peel and Marianne Faithfull; and that was enough. It helped if you weren’t a swot at school and if you lived on the same estate.
Perhaps the bonds of adolescence weren’t any more shallow than those of adulthood, Banks mused, but it had sure as hell been easier to make friends back then. Now, as he looked from one to the other – Paul growing more red-faced and camp, Dave, lips tight, barely able to keep his homophobia in check – Banks decided it was time to leave. They had lived apart for over thirty years and would continue to do so without any sense of loss.
When Banks said he had to go, Dave took his cue, and Paul said he wasn’t going to sit there by himself. The rain had stopped and the night smelled fresh. Banks wanted a cigarette but resisted. As they walked the short distance back to the estate, none of them said much, sensing perhaps that tonight marked the end of something. Finally, Banks got to his parents’ door, their first stop, and said good night. They all made vague lies about keeping in touch and then walked back to their own separate lives.
Michelle was eating warmed-up chicken casserole, sipping a glass of sauvignon blanc and watching a television documentary on ocean life when her telephone rang late that evening. She was irritated by the interruption, but thinking it might be Banks, she answered it.
“Hope I didn’t disturb you,” Banks said.
“No, not at all,” Michelle lied, putting her half-eaten food aside and turning down the volume with the remote control. “It’s good to hear from you.” And it was.
“Look, it’s a bit late, and I’ve had a few drinks,” he said, “so I’d probably better not drop by tonight.”
“You men. You take a girl to bed once, and then it’s back to your mates and your beer.”
“I didn’t say I’d had
Michelle laughed. “It’s all right. I’m only teasing. Believe me, I could do with an early night. Besides, you’ll only get in trouble with your mother. Did you find out anything from your old pals?”
“A bit.” Banks told her about Bradford’s “Dirty Don” epithet and the rumors they used to hear about the Mandeville house.
“I’ve heard of that place recently,” Michelle said. “I don’t know if Shaw mentioned it, or if I read about it in some old file, but I’ll check up on it tomorrow. Who’d have thought it? A house of sin. In Peterborough.”
“Well, I suppose, strictly speaking, it’s outside the city limits,” said Banks. “But going by the photo I found in Graham’s guitar and the information you got from Jet Harris’s ex-wife, I think we’d better look into anything even remotely linked with illicit sex around the time of Graham’s murder, don’t you?”
“That’s it!” Michelle said. “The connection.”
“What connection?”
“The Mandeville house. It was something to do with illicit sex. At least it was illicit back then. Homosexuality. There was a complaint about goings-on at the Mandeville house. I read about it in the old logs. No further action taken.”
“Tomorrow might turn into a busy day, then,” said Banks.
“All the more reason to get an early night. Can you stick around to help, or do you have to head back up north?”
“One more day won’t do any harm.”
“Good. Why don’t you come to dinner tomorrow?”
“Your place?”
“Yes. If I can tempt you away from your mates in the boozer, that is.”
“You don’t have to offer dinner to do that.”
“Believe it or not, I’m quite a good cook if I put my mind to it.”
“I don’t doubt it for a moment. Just one question.”
“Yes?”
“I thought you told me you hadn’t seen
Michelle laughed. “I remember saying no such thing. Good night.” And she hung up, still laughing. She noticed the photo of Ted and Melissa from the corner of her eye and felt a little surge of guilt. But it soon passed, and she felt that unfamiliar lightness again, a buoyancy of spirit. She was tired, but before calling it a night, she went into the kitchen, pulled out a box of books and flipped through them before putting them on her shelves. Poetry for the most part. She loved poetry. Including Philip Larkin. Then she hefted out a boxful of her best china and kitchenware. Looking around at the mostly empty cabinets, she tried to choose the best place for each item.
Chapter 18
All the way to Swainsdale Hall Annie worried about what she was going to say to the Armitages. Their son had lived a good part of his life unknown to them, mixed with people they didn’t know and wouldn’t approve of, especially Martin. But don’t all kids? Annie had grown up in an artists’ commune near St. Ives, and some of the people she had mixed with would have made Martin Armitage’s hair stand on end. Even so, she hadn’t told her father about the wild group she took up with one summer, whose idea of fun was a Saturday-afternoon shoplifting expedition in town.
The view over Swainsdale looked gloomy that morning in the low cloud and impending rain, dull gradations of gray and green. Even the patches of yellow rapeseed on the far hillsides looked jaundiced. As Annie rang the doorbell, she felt a surge of anxiety at the thought of seeing Martin Armitage again. It was foolish, she knew; he wasn’t going to assault her – not in front of his wife – but she still had an aching jaw, two loose teeth and an upcoming dentist’s appointment by which to remember their last meeting.
