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“It's nearly teatime,” Banks said, smiling. “And my mother would never forgive me if I didn't turn up for tea. She thinks I need fattening up.”

Mrs. Marshall smiled. “Better go then. Mustn't cross your mother. By the way, they can't release the body yet, but Miss Hart said she'd let me know when we can have the funeral. You will come, won't you?”

“Of course,” said Banks. When he looked over to say good-bye to Mr. Marshall, he had a sudden flash of the big, muscular man he used to be, the sense of physical menace he had somehow conveyed. Back then, Banks remembered with a shock, he had been
afraid
of Graham's dad. He never had any real reason to feel that way, but he had.

 

She should have packed it in long ago, Michelle realized, but she was loath to give up without finding at least some trace of Banks's mystery man, if any existed. Besides, the material itself gave her an interesting picture of the times, and she found herself becoming quite fascinated by it all.

It hadn't been a bumper crime year for Peterborough in 1965, but the fast-growing city had its share of some of the more newsworthy national problems, Michelle was fast discovering. Mods and rockers clashed at some city center pubs, cannabis was beginning to insinuate its way into the lifestyles of the young and rebellious—despite what Banks had said—and the pornography trade was blossoming in the shape of tons of German, Danish and Swedish magazines covering every perversion you could imagine, and some you couldn't. Why not Norwegian or Finnish, too? Michelle wondered. Weren't they into porn? Burglary and armed robbery were as common as ever, and the only thing that seemed new today was the increase in car theft.

Far fewer people owned cars in 1965, Michelle realized, and that made her think again about Banks's statement. Banks said he had been assaulted by a dirty, scruffy “Rasputin-like” stranger on the riverside near the city center. But Graham Marshall had been abducted, along with a heavy canvas bag full of newspapers, two months later, from a council estate several miles away. The MOs were different.
It didn't look as if Graham had put up a struggle, for example, which he certainly would have done, as Banks had, if he'd been attacked by this frightening stranger and felt that he had been fighting for his life. Besides, the man who assaulted Banks had been on foot, and Graham hadn't walked all the way to his burial site. It was possible that the mysterious stranger had a car somewhere, but not very likely. Given Banks's description, Michelle would have guessed the man was homeless and poor, perhaps a tramp.
The passing tramp.
Cliché of so many detective stories.

The problem was that she still couldn't see any logical connection between the event Banks had described and the disappearance of Graham Marshall. She thought that Banks's sense of guilt might, over the years, have warped his judgment in the matter. It happened; she'd seen it before. But could it have happened that way? Who was this man?

There was a good chance, Michelle realized, that she might not find out anything about him in the police files. Not everyone had a file, despite what the antipolice groups seemed to think. She might have to dig in the newspaper morgue or perhaps the local mental hospital archives. The man sounded disturbed, and there was a chance he had sought treatment at some time. Of course, there was also every possibility that he wasn't a local. Michelle had no idea exactly where the River Nene started, but she thought it was somewhere down Northampton way, and she knew that it flowed all the way to The Wash. Maybe he was walking the riverbank from town to town.

She flipped through file after file and tossed them aside in frustration. Finally, as her eyes were starting to tire, she struck gold.

T
he Coach and Horses, about a hundred yards along the main road, had changed over the years, Banks noticed, but not as much as some pubs. The large public bar had always housed a diverse group, mixed generations drinking there together, and today it was no different, though the racial mix had changed. Now, among the white faces, there were Pakistanis and Sikhs, and, according to Arthur Banks, a group of Kosovan asylum-seekers, who lived on the estate, also drank there.

Noisy machines with flashing lights had replaced the old bar-billiards area, the scarred wooden benches had been replaced with padded ones, perhaps the wallpaper had been redone and the light fixtures modernized, but that was about all. The brewery had forked out for this minor face-lift sometime in the eighties, Banks's father had told him, hoping to pull in a younger, freer-spending crowd. But it didn't take. The people who drank at The Coach and Horses had, for the most part, been drinking there most of their lives. And their fathers before them. Banks had drunk his first legal pint there, with his father on his eighteenth birthday, though he had been knocking them back with his mates at The Wheatsheaf, about a mile away, since he was sixteen. The last time he had been in The Coach and Horses, he had played one of the earliest pub video games, that silly machine where you bounced the tennis ball back and forth across a green phosphorous screen.

Though there were few young people to be seen there, The Coach and Horses still managed to be a warm and lively place, Banks noticed as he walked in with his father just after eight o'clock that night, his mother's steamed pudding and custard—the
proper
food he was supposed to be eating—still weighing heavy in his stomach. His father had managed the walk without too much puffing and wheezing, which he put down to having stopped smoking two years ago. Banks had tapped his own jacket pocket rather guiltily for his cigarettes as they went out of the door.

This was Arthur Banks's local. He had been coming here almost every day for forty years, and so had his cronies, Harry Finnegan, Jock McFall and Norman Grenfell, Dave's father. Here, Arthur was respected. Here, he could escape the clutches of his ailments and the shame of his redundancy, at least for an hour or two, as he drank, laughed and told lies with the men with whom he felt most comfortable. For The Coach and Horses was, by and large, a
men's
pub, despite the occasional couple and groups of women dropping by after work. When Arthur took Ida out for a drink, as he did on Fridays, they went to The Duck and Drake or The Duke of Wellington, where Ida Banks caught up on the local gossip and they took part in trivia quizzes and laughed at people making fools of themselves in the karaoke sessions.

But there was none of that at The Coach and Horses, and the piped sixties pop music was turned down low enough so that old men could hear one another talk. At the moment, The Kinks were singing “Waterloo Sunset,” one of Banks's favorites. After Banks and his father had settled themselves at the table, pints in front of them, and introductions had been made, Arthur Banks first lamented Jock McFall's absence due to hospitalization for a prostate operation, then Norman Grenfell started the ball rolling.

“We were just saying, before you got here, Alan, what a terrible thing it is about the Marshall boy. I remember you and our David used to play with him.”

“Yes. How is Dave, by the way?”

“He's doing fine,” said Norman. “He and Ellie still live in Dorchester. The kids have grown up now, of course.”

“They're still together?” Ellie Hatcher was, Banks remembered, Dave's first real girlfriend; they must have started going out together around 1968.

“Some couples stick it out,” muttered Arthur Banks.

Banks ignored the remark and asked Norman to pass on his regards to Dave next time they spoke. Unlike Jock and Harry, Banks remembered, both of whom had worked with Arthur at the sheet-metal factory, Norman had worked in a clothing shop on Midgate, where he could sometimes get his mates a discount on a duffel coat, a pair of jeans or Tuf shoes. Norman drank halves instead of pints and smoked a pipe, which made him different, almost genteel, compared to the rough factory workers. He also had a hobby—he read and collected everything to do with steam trains and had an entire room of his small house devoted to clockwork models—and that set him even farther apart from the beer, sport and telly crowd. Yet Norman Grenfell had always been as much a part of the group as Jock or Harry or Arthur himself, though he didn't share that ineffable bond that workingmen have, of having toiled under the same lousy conditions for the same lousy bosses and faced the same dangers day in, day out, for the same lousy pay. Maybe, Banks wondered, Graham had been a bit like that, too: set apart by his background, by his being a newcomer, by his London
cool,
yet still a part of the gang. The quiet one. The George Harrison of the group.

“Well,” Banks said, raising his glass, “here's to Graham. In the long run, I suppose it's best they found him. At least his parents can lay his bones to rest now.”

“True enough,” said Harry.

“Amen,” said Norman.

“Didn't Graham's father use to drink here?” Banks asked.

Arthur Banks laughed. “He did. He was a rum customer, Bill Marshall, isn't that right, Harry?”

“A rum customer, indeed. And a couple of bricks short of a full hod, too, if you ask me.”

They all laughed.

“In what way was he rum?” Banks asked.

Harry nudged Banks's father. “Always the copper, your lad, hey?”

Arthur's brow darkened. Banks knew damn well that his father had never approved of his choice of career, and that no matter how well he did, how successful he was, to his father he would always be a traitor to the working class, who traditionally feared and despised coppers. As far as Arthur Banks was concerned, his son was employed by the middle and upper classes to protect their interests and their property. Never mind that most coppers of Arthur's own generation came from the working classes, unlike today, when many were middle-class university graduates and management types. The two of them had never resolved this problem, and Banks could see even now that his father was bothered by Harry Finnegan's little dig.

“Graham was a friend of mine,” Banks went on quickly, to diffuse the tension. “I was just wondering, that's all.”

“Is that why you're down here?” Norman asked.

“Partly, yes.”

It was the same question Mrs. Marshall had asked him. Perhaps people assumed that because he was a policeman, and because he knew Graham, he would be assigned to this particular case. “I don't know how much I can help,” Banks said, glancing sideways at his father, who was working on his beer. He had never told either of his parents about what had happened down by the river, and he wasn't about to do so now. It might come out, of course, if his information led anywhere, and now he had an inkling of what the many witnesses who lied to avoid disclosing a shameful secret had to be anxious about. “It's just that, well, I've thought about Graham and what happened on and off over the years, and I just thought I ought to come and try to help, that's all.”

“I can understand that,” said Norman, relighting his pipe. “I think it's been a bit of a shock to the system for all of us, one way or another.”

“You were saying about Graham's father, Dad?”

Arthur Banks glanced at his son. “Was I?”

“You said he was strange. I didn't know him well. I never really talked to him.”

“Course not,” said Arthur. “You were just a kid.”

“That's why I'm asking you.”

There was a pause, then Arthur Banks looked over at Harry Finnegan. “He was shifty, wouldn't you say so, Harry?”

“He was indeed. Always an eye for a fiddle, and not above a bit of strong-arm stuff. I wouldn't have trusted him as far as I could throw him. And he was a big talker, too.”

“What do you mean?” Banks asked.

“Well,” his father said. “You know the family came up from London?”

“Yes.”

“Bill Marshall worked as a bricklayer, and he was a good one, too, but when he'd had a drink or two he'd start letting things slip about some of his other activities in London.”

“I still don't understand.”

“He was a fit bloke, Bill. Strong. Big hands, powerful upper body. Comes from carrying those hods around the building sites.”

“He used to get into fights?”

“You could say that.”

“What your dad's saying,” explained Harry, leaning forward, “is that Bill Marshall let slip he used to act as an enforcer for gangsters down the Smoke. Protection rackets, that sort of thing.”

The Smoke?
Banks hadn't heard that term for London for years. “He did?” Banks shook his head. It was hard to imagine the old man in the chair as having been some sort of gang enforcer, but it might help explain the fear Banks remembered feeling in his presence all those years ago, the threat of violence. “I'd never have—”

“How could you?” his father cut in. “Like I said, you were just a kid. You couldn't understand things like that.”

The music had changed, Banks noticed. Herb Alpert and his bloody Tijuana Brass, just finishing, thank God. Banks had hated them back then and he hated them now. Next came The Bachelors, “Marie.” Mum and Dad music. “Did you tell the police?” he asked.

The men looked at one another, then Arthur looked back at Banks, his lip curling. “What do
you
think?”

“But he could—”

“Listen. Bill Marshall might have been a big talker, but he had nothing to do with his son's disappearance.”

“How can you know that?”

Arthur Banks snorted. “You police. All the bloody same, you are. Just because a man might be a bit dodgy in one area, you're ready to fit him up with anything.”

“I've never fitted anyone up in my life,” said Banks.

“What I'm saying is that Bill Marshall might have been a bit of a wild man, but he didn't go around killing young lads, especially not his own son.”

“I didn't say I thought he did it,” Banks said, noticing that the others were watching him and his father now, as if they were the evening's entertainment.

“Then what
did
you mean?”

“Look, Dad,” Banks said, reaching for a cigarette. He had been determined not to smoke in front of his father, mostly because of the old man's health, but not smoking in The Coach and Horses was as pointless as swimming in the no-pissing section of a swimming pool, if such a section were ever to exist. “If there was any truth in what Bill Marshall said about his criminal background in London, then isn't it possible that something he'd done there came back to haunt him?”

“But nobody hurt
Bill
.”

“Doesn't matter, Dad. These people often have more devious ways of getting back at their enemies. Believe me. I've come across more than a few of them in my time. Did he ever mention any names?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean in London. The people he worked for. Did he ever mention any names?”

Harry Finnegan gave a nervous laugh. Arthur shot him a glance and he shut up. “As a matter of fact,” said Arthur, pausing dramatically, “he did.”

“Who?”

“The Twins. Reggie and Ronnie Kray.”

“Bloody hell!”

Arthur Banks's eyes shone with triumph. “
Now
do you see why we just thought he had a big mouth on him?”

 

For the second time that day, Annie turned up at Swainsdale Hall, only this time she felt the butterflies in the pit of her stomach. People like Martin Armitage were difficult enough to deal with in the first place, and he wouldn't like what she had to say. Still, she thought, for all his tough bluster he hadn't done much but kick a ball around most of his life. Robin was another matter. Annie sensed that she might feel relieved to have someone else to share her fears with, and that underneath her accommodating exterior and her air of vulnerability, there was a strong woman who was capable of standing up to her husband.

Josie answered the door, as usual, holding a barking Miata by the collar. Annie wanted to talk to Josie and her husband, Calvin, but they could wait. For the moment, the fewer people who knew what was going on, the better. Robin and Martin were both out in the garden sitting at a wrought-iron table under a striped umbrella. It was a warm evening, and the back garden faced south, so there was plenty of honey-tinted sunlight and dark shadows cast by tree branches. Annie felt like reaching for her sketch pad. Beyond the high drystone wall that marked the property boundary, the daleside stretched up in a patchwork of uneven fields, green until the sere bareness of the higher slopes, where it rose more steeply to merge into the wild stretch of heather moorland that separated the Dales.

Neither Martin nor Robin seemed to be enjoying the beautiful evening or the long cool drinks that sat in front of them. Both seemed pale, tense and preoccupied, and the mobile perched on the table like an unexploded bomb.

“What are you doing here?” Martin Armitage said. “I told you Luke was on his way home and I'd be in touch when he got here.”

“I take it he's not arrived yet?”

“No.”

“Heard from him again?”

“No.”

Annie sighed and sat down without being invited.

“I didn't ask you to—”

Annie raised her hand to quiet Martin down. “Look,” she said, “there's no point pissing about any more. I know what's going on.”

“I don't understand what you mean.”

“Come off it, Mr. Armitage. I followed you.”

“You did what?”

“I followed you. After I left this morning I waited in a lay-by and followed you to the shepherd's shelter. What were you doing there?”