Close To Home (aka The Summer That Never Was)

“Yes,” said Annie. “Very funny.” But her thoughts were elsewhere. Barlow might not have given her the answers she was hoping for, but he had certainly given her plenty to think about.

“Well, if it isn’t our two lovebirds,” said Ben Shaw, opening the door to Banks and Michelle. “What the fuck do you two want?”

“A few words,” said Banks.

“And why should I want a few words with you?”

“Des Wayman,” said Michelle.

Shaw squinted at her, then shut the door, slid off the chain and opened it, walking away from them, leaving Banks to shut the door behind them and follow.

The house was far neater than Banks had expected. He had pegged Shaw as an alcoholic living alone, and that usually meant chaos. At least Shaw probably hired a cleaning lady, and his personal habits seemed tidy enough. The only booze in sight was a half-empty bottle of Bell’s on the living room table, a full glass beside it. Shaw sat down and took a slug without offering his guests anything. Well, Banks thought, why should he?

Grieg’s Peer Gynt Suite was playing on the radio, another surprise for Banks. He wouldn’t have guessed Shaw to be a man of classical tastes. Or maybe it didn’t matter what was on as long as there was sound.

“So what porkies has Mr. Wayman been telling today?”

“Stop pissing around,” said Banks. “You told Wayman and a mate to work me over and get me out of the picture. It backfired.”

“If he told you that, he’s lying.”

“He told me, sir,” said Michelle, “and with all due respect, I think he was telling the truth.”

“All due respect? You don’t know the meaning of the term.” Shaw lit a cigarette and Banks felt a wave of pure need surge inside him. He was already feeling light-headed and edgy from not smoking, but this… this was ten times worse than he’d imagined. He took a grip. “Wayman’s nothing but criminal scum,” Shaw went on. “And you’d take his word over mine?”

“That’s neither here nor there,” Banks went on. “DI Hart has done a bit of digging into your Regan and Carter days with Jet Harris, and we were just wondering how much the two of you took in from Carlo Fiorino.”

“You bastard!” Shaw lurched forward to grab Banks’s lapel but he was already a bit unsteady with drink, and Banks pushed him back down into his chair. He paled, and a grimace of pain passed over his face.

“What is it?” asked Banks.

“Fuck you.” Shaw coughed and reached for more whiskey. “John Harris was worth ten of you. You’re not worth the piss stains on his underwear.”

“Come off it, Shaw, the two of you were as bent as the day is long. He might have had a good excuse for it, but you…? You couldn’t remove every scrap of evidence from the archives. All your arrests were for burglary, assault, fraud and the occasional domestic murder. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“What, smart-arse?”

“That all the time Carlo Fiorino was running prostitution, escort agencies, illegal gambling, protection, porn and drugs with absolute impunity. Sure, you had him or one of his henchmen brought in once or twice for questioning, just for the sake of appearances, but guess what – either the evidence disappeared or witnesses changed their statements.”

Shaw said nothing, just sipped more whiskey.

“Fiorino fed you his opposition,” Banks went on. “He had eyes and ears out on the street. He knew what jobs were going down. Small-fry, or competition. Either way it made you look good and deflected attention from his own operations, which included supplying Rupert Mandeville with as many bodies as he wanted for his ‘parties,’ male and female.”

Shaw slammed the tumbler down on the table so hard, the whiskey slopped over the side. “All right,” he said. “You want the truth? I’ll tell you. I’m not stupid. I worked with John for too many years not to have my suspicions, but – know what? – I never took a fucking penny in my life. And maybe I blinkered myself, maybe I even protected him, but we did our jobs. We brought down the bad guys. I loved the man. He taught me everything. He even saved my life once. He had charisma, did John. He was the kind of bloke everybody noticed when he walked in the room. He’s a fucking hero around these parts, or hadn’t you noticed?”

“And that’s why you’ve been doing everything in your power to scupper DI Hart’s investigation into Graham Marshall’s murder? To protect your old pal’s memory. To protect Jet Harris’s reputation. To do that you get someone to break into her flat, try to run her down, have me beaten up.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

He looked at Michelle, then back at Banks, a puzzled expression on his face. “I certainly never had anyone intimidate DI Hart in any way. I wasn’t worried about her. It was you I was worried about.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’re the loose cannon. It was you I needed to keep an eye on. It was different for you. Personal. You knew the victim. I could tell the first time I saw you that you weren’t going to let go.” He shook his head and looked at Michelle again. “No,” he said. “If anyone had a go at you, DI Hart, it wasn’t down to me.”

Banks and Michelle exchanged glances, then Banks moved on. “Are you asking us to believe that you worked with Harris all those years and you hadn’t a clue what he was up to?”

“I’m saying I had my suspicions, but I buried them. For the sake of the force. For John’s sake. Listen, squash a bug like Fiorino and another one takes his place. You can no more stop prostitution, porn and drugs than you can stop sex and drinking. They’re always going to be there. Policing was different then. Sometimes you had to rub shoulders with some pretty nasty bedfellows to do the job.”

“And what about Graham Marshall?”

Shaw looked surprised. “What about him?”

“Did you know what really happened to him? Have you been covering that up all these years, too?”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” Shaw’s voice was little more than a whisper now.

“Well, let me tell you a story,” said Banks. “We can’t prove it, but this is what DI Hart and I believe happened. Donald Bradford most likely killed Graham. He owned the kind of knife that was used, and Graham trusted him. All Bradford had to do was drive down Wilmer Road around the time Graham would be heading for the other side and tell him something else had come up, to get in the car. That’s why he took his bag of newspapers with him. He thought he would be going back to finish his round later.”

“What possible motive could Bradford have?”

“That’s where it gets complicated, and that’s where your boss comes in. Donald Bradford distributed pornographic magazines and blue films for Carlo Fiorino. Fiorino had quite a network of newsagents working for him. I’m surprised you didn’t know about it, you being a vigilant copper and all.”

“Sod you, Banks.” Shaw scowled and topped up his glass.

“Somehow or other,” Banks went on, “Graham Marshall became involved in this operation. Maybe he found some of Bradford’s stock by accident, showed interest. I don’t know. But Graham was a street-smart kid – he grew up around the Krays and their world, and his father was a small-time muscle man – and he had an eye for the main chance. Maybe he worked for Bradford to earn extra money – which he always seemed to have – or maybe he blackmailed him for it. Either way, he was involved.”

“You said yourself you can’t prove any of this.”

“Graham came to the attention of one of Fiorino’s most influential customers, Rupert Mandeville,” Banks went on. “I know he posed for some nude photos because I found one at his house. Whether it went any further than that, I don’t know, but we can tie him to the Mandeville house, and we know what went on there. Underage sex, drugs, you name it. Mandeville couldn’t afford to come under scrutiny. He was an important person with political goals to pursue. Graham probably asked for more money or he’d tell the police. Mandeville panicked, especially as this came hot on the heels of Geoff Talbot’s visit. He got Fiorino to fix it, and Jet Harris scuppered the murder investigation. You knew that, knew there was something wrong, so you’ve been trying to erase the traces to protect Harris’s reputation. How am I doing?”

“You’re arguing against your own logic, Banks. What would it matter if he told the police if we were all as corrupt as you make out? Why go so far as to kill the kid if Bradford thought we could control the outcome