Close To Home (aka The Summer That Never Was)

“And you told no one of your suspicions about Harris?” Michelle asked.

“What was the point? Who’d believe me? Jet Harris was practically a god around the place even then. Besides, there were implied threats of what might happen to me if I didn’t do as he said, and some of them were quite physical. I’m not a coward, but I’m no fool, either. I cut my losses.”

“Was anyone else involved?”

“Might have been,” said Talbot. “The chief constable himself might have been a regular at Mandeville’s parties, for all I know.”

“But no one you knew of?”

“No. I didn’t even know about Harris. Like I said, it just felt wrong. I just guessed from his attitude, his wording. It was only him and me in his office. Even by the time I got outside I was thinking I’d been reading too much into it.”

“What happened that day?”

“From the start?”

“Yes.”

“It was a warm Sunday morning, end of July or beginning of August.”

“It was the first of August,” Michelle said.

“Right. Anyway, I was by myself, not much on, I remember, when the phone call came and the switchboard patched it through to the office.”

“Do you remember anything about the voice?”

Talbot frowned. “It’s so long ago, I don’t…”

“Man? Woman?”

“It was a woman’s voice. I remember that much.”

“Did she sound upset?”

“Yes. That’s why I headed out there so impulsively. She said there’d been a party going on since the previous night, and she was convinced that some of the girls and boys were underage and people were taking drugs. She sounded frightened. She hung up very abruptly, too.”

“So you went?”

“Yes. I logged the details and drove out there like a knight in shining armor. If I’d had half the sense I have now, I’d at least have taken the time to organize a small raiding party, but I didn’t. God knows what I thought I was going to do when I got there.”

“Did you meet the woman who’d phoned?”

“Not that I know of. I mean, if she was there, she never came forward and admitted she was the one who phoned. But then she wouldn’t, would she?”

“Who opened the door?”

“A young man. He just opened it, glanced at my identification and wandered off. He didn’t seem interested at all. I thought he was on drugs, but I must admit I didn’t know much about them at the time. I’m not even sure we had a drugs squad back then.”

“What did you find inside?”

“It was more like the aftermath of a party, really. Some people were sleeping on sofas, a couple on the floor…”

“How many?”

“Hard to say. Maybe twenty or so.”

“What kind of people?”

“A mix. Young and old. Businessmen. Mods. One or two of the girls looked like swinging London types, miniskirts and what have you. There was a funny smell, too, I remember. At the time I didn’t know what it was, but I smelled it again later. Marijuana.”

“What did you do?”

“To be honest, I felt a bit out of my depth.” He laughed. “Like Mr. Jones in that Bob Dylan song, I didn’t really know what was happening. I wasn’t even sure if any of it was illegal. I mean, the girls and the men didn’t look underage to me, but what did I know? I talked to a few people, took names. A couple of the girls I’d seen before at Le Phonographe. I think they also worked for Fiorino’s escort agency.”

“You used your notebook?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to it?”

“Same as usual, I suppose.”

“You also found two men together?”

“Yes. I looked in some of the rooms, and in one bedroom I saw two men in bed together. Naked.”

“Were they doing anything?”

“Not when I opened the door. They were just… very close together. I’d never seen anything like that before. I mean, I knew about homosexuality, I wasn’t that naive, but I’d never actually seen it.”

“Did either of them look underage?”

“No. One I pegged at early twenties, the other older, maybe forty. But it didn’t matter how old you were back then.”

“So what did you do?”

“I… er… I arrested them.”

“Did they resist?”

“No. They just laughed, put their clothes on and went back to the station with me.”

“What happened then?”

“Jet Harris was waiting for me. He was furious.”

“He was at the station waiting for you? On a Sunday morning?”

“Yes. I suppose someone from Mandeville’s house must have phoned him.”

“Probably dragged him out of church,” Banks said.

“What did he do?” Michelle asked.

“He had a private talk with the two men, let them go and had his little chat with me. That was the end of it. No further action.”

“Just out of interest,” Michelle asked, “how old was Rupert Mandeville at the time?”

“Quite young. In his thirties. His parents had been killed in a plane crash not too long before, I remember, and he’d inherited a fortune, even after tax. I suppose he was just doing what many young people would have done if they’d gained their freedom and had unlimited funds.”

“Ever hear of Donald Bradford?” Michelle asked.

“The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Bill Marshall?”

“He was one of Fiorino’s muscle men. I ran into him a couple of times in Le Phonographe. Tough character. Thick as the proverbial pig shit.”

“Thank you, Mr. Talbot.”

“You’re welcome. Look, I can’t see as I’ve been any help, but…”

Banks placed the photograph of Graham Marshall in front of him. “Do you recognize that boy?”

Talbot paled. “My God, isn’t that the boy who…? His photograph was in the papers only a few weeks ago.”

“Did you see him at the Mandeville house?”

“No… I… but that’s the room. Mandeville’s living room. I remember the sheepskin rug and the fireplace. Does that mean what I think it means? That the boy’s death is somehow connected with Mandeville and Harris?”

“Somehow,” said Michelle. “We’re just not quite sure how yet.”

Talbot tapped the photo. “If we’d had something like that back then, we’d have had some evidence,” he said.

“Possibly,” said Banks. “If it ever saw the light of day.”

They stood up and Talbot showed them to the door. “You know,” he said, “I felt at the time that there was more going on than met the eye. I’ve always wondered what would have happened if I’d pushed it a bit harder, not let go too easily.”

“You’d have probably ended up under a field with Graham Marshall,” said Banks. “Bye, Mr. Talbot. And thank