The Summer That Never Was (38 page)

Wayman shrugged, perhaps sensing he’d gone too far. “Well, maybe I’m not exactly what you’d call an undercover officer, but I’ve done your boss a little favour from time to time. You know, like giving him the nod where the stuff from the Curry’s warehouse job was stashed. That sort of thing.”

“So you’re Shaw’s snitch?”

“I’ve been happy to help out now and then. He’ll see me all right. So do us a favour and bugger off, then just maybe I won’t tell your boss you’ve been round upsetting me.”

“Do you own a beige van?” Michelle asked.

“What? I don’t own a van at all. Dark blue Corsa, if you must know.”

“Ever done time for burglary?”

“You’ve read my form. Did you notice anything about burglary?”

Michelle hadn’t. So Wayman most likely wasn’t responsible for the damage to her flat and the attempt on her life. Somehow, she sensed he didn’t have the subtlety to do what had been done with the dress, even if his employer had told him about Melissa. He clearly wasn’t the only villain on Shaw’s payroll. Michelle sensed DC Collins paying rapt attention beside her. She glanced at him and he raised his eyebrows. “Look,” she said, wishing she could sit down. Her shoes were killing her. But it wasn’t worth catching something. “You’re in a lot of trouble, Des. GBH is bad enough in itself, but against a copper, well…you don’t need me to tell you…”

For the first time, Wayman looked worried. “But I didn’t know he was a copper, did I? Do you think I’d have done something like that if I’d known who he was? You must think I’m crazy.”

“But you did it, didn’t you?”

“Where’s this going?”

“Up to you, Des.”

“What do you mean?”

Michelle spread her hands. “I mean it’s up to you where it goes from here. It could go to the station, to the lawyers, to court, eventually. Or it could end here.”

Wayman swallowed. “End? How? I mean…I don’t…”

“Do I have to spell it out?”

“You promise?”

“Only if you tell me what I want to know.”

“It goes no further?”

Michelle looked at DC Collins, who looked lost. “No,” she said. “This bloke you and your friend assaulted last night, what did Shaw tell you about him?”

“That he was a small-time villain from up North looking to get himself established on our patch.”

“And what did Detective Superintendent Shaw ask you to do?”

“Nip it in the bud.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Shaw didn’t want to know. I mean, he’d just asked me to handle the situation, do something about it. He didn’t tell me how, and he didn’t want to know.”

“But it usually meant violence?”

“Most people understand a thump on the nose.”

“That’s your understanding of the situation?”

“If you like.”

“So that’s what you did?”

“Yes.”

“How did you find out he was in town?”

“I’ve been keeping an eye out. I recognized his car from when he was down here last week.”

“And how did you know where he was that evening?”

“I got a call on my mobile in the Pig and Whistle.”

“From who?”

“Who do you think?”

“Go on.”

“He said our mutual friend was drinking in a pub down the street, and if an opportunity presented itself…
well, I was to have a quiet word, like.”

“But how did he…? Never mind.” Michelle realized that Shaw must have been using his whole network of informers to keep an eye on the comings and goings in the Graham Marshall investigation. But why? To hide the truth, that the great local hero Jet Harris was a murderer?

“So what did you do?”

“We waited outside and followed the two of you back to the riverside flats. We were a bit worried because we thought he might be going in to get his end away, like, no disrespect, and we might not get back to the Pig and Whistle till they’d stopped serving, so it was all sweetness and joy when he came straight down those stairs and into the street. We didn’t muck about.”

“And the beating was your idea?”

“Like I said, it gets the point across. Anyway, we wouldn’t have hurt him too much. We didn’t even get a chance to finish. Some interfering bastard walking his dog started making a lot of noise. Not that we couldn’t have dealt with him, too, but the bloody dog was waking the whole street up.”

“And that’s everything?” Michelle asked.

“Scout’s honour.”

“When were you ever a scout?”

“Boys’ Brigade, as a matter of fact. What’s going to happen now? Remember what you promised.”

Michelle looked at DC Collins. “What’s going to happen now,” she said, “is that we’re going to go away, and you’re going to the Lord Nelson to drink yourself into a stupor. And if you ever cross my path again, I’ll make sure they put you somewhere that’ll make the Middle East look like an alcoholic’s paradise. That clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.” But Wayman was smiling. The prospect of a drink in the present, Michelle thought, by far outdid any fears for the future. He wouldn’t change.

“Do you think you can tell me what all that was about?” asked DC Collins when they got outside.

Michelle took a deep breath and smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Of course, Nat. I’m sorry for keeping you in the dark so long, but I think you’ll understand when you hear what I have to say. And I’ll tell you over a pie and a pint. My treat.” She looked around. “But not in the Lord Nelson.”

17

“G
lad you could come, Alan,” said Mrs. Marshall, sticking out her black-gloved hand. “My, my. You’ve been in the wars.”

Banks touched his lip. “It’s nothing,” he said.

“I hope you’ll come back to the house for drinks and sandwiches.”

They were standing outside the chapel in the light drizzle after Graham’s funeral. It had been tasteful enough, as such things went, Banks thought, though there was something odd about a funeral service for someone who has been dead over thirty years. They had the usual readings, including Psalm 23, and Graham’s sister gave a short eulogy throughout which she verged on tears.

“Of course,” Banks said, shaking Mrs. Marshall’s hand. Then he saw Michelle walking down the path under her umbrella. “Excuse me a moment.”

He hurried along after Michelle. During the service, he had caught her eye once or twice and she had looked away. He wanted to know what was wrong. She had said earlier that she wanted to talk to him. Was it about last night? Was she having regrets? Did she want to tell him she’d made a mistake and didn’t want to see him again? “Michelle?” He put his hand gently on her shoulder.

Michelle turned to face him. When she looked him in the eye, she smiled and lifted the umbrella so it covered his head too. “Shall we walk awhile?”

“Fine,” said Banks. “Everything okay?”

“Of course it is. Why do you ask?”

So there was nothing wrong. Banks could have kicked himself. He’d got so used to feeling that his every move, every meeting, was so fragile, partly because they
had
been like walking on eggs with Annie, that he was turning normal behaviour into perceived slights. They were police officers in public–in a bloody chapel, for crying out loud. What did he expect her to do? Make doe eyes at him? Walk over to his pew and sit on his knee and whisper sweet nothings in his ear?

“This morning, in the station, I wanted to tell you that I enjoyed last night, but I could hardly say that in the cop shop, could I?”

She reached over and touched his sore lip. “I enjoyed it, too.”

“Are you coming back to the house?”

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t like that sort of thing.”

“Me, neither. I’d better go, though.”

“Of course.”

They walked down one of the narrow gravel paths between graves, carved headstones dark with rain. Yews overhung the path and rain dripped from their leaves onto the umbrella, tapping harder than the drizzle. “You said you wanted to talk to me.”

“Yes.” Michelle told him about Dr. Wendell’s tentative identification of the Fairbairn-Sykes commando knife and Harris’s wartime record.

Banks whistled between his teeth. “And you say Jet Harris was a commando?”

“Yes.”

“Bloody hell. That’s a real can of worms.” Banks shook his head. “It’s hard to believe that Jet Harris might have killed Graham,” he said. “It just doesn’t make any sense. I mean, what possible motive could he have had?”

“I don’t know. Only what we speculated about yesterday, that he was somehow connected with Fiorino and the
porn racket and Graham fell foul of them. Even so, it’s hard to imagine someone in Harris’s position doing a job like that himself. And we don’t really have any hard evidence; it’s all just circumstantial. Anyway, he’s not the only candidate. I remembered Mrs. Walker–you know, the woman in the newsagent’s–said something about Donald Bradford being in a special unit in Burma. I checked. Turns out it was a commando unit.”

“Bradford, too? That complicates things.”

“Well, at least we know that Bradford had some sort of involvement with pornography. We don’t even have any evidence that Harris was bent yet,” said Michelle. “Only Shaw’s behaviour. Which brings me to our interview with Des Wayman.”

“What did he have to say for himself?”

Michelle told him about Wayman’s assertion that Shaw was behind last night’s attack. “He’d deny he ever said it if we challenged him, and I’m sure Shaw will deny it, too.”

“But we know it’s true,” said Banks. “That gives us an edge. It was a stupid move on Shaw’s part. It means he’s worried, getting desperate. What about the burglary at your flat, the van that tried to run you down?”

Michelle shook her head. “Wayman knows nothing about that. Shaw must have got someone else, maybe someone a bit brighter. My impression is that Wayman is okay for the strong-arm stuff but couldn’t think his way out of a paper bag.”

“Like Bill Marshall?”

“Yes.”

“You think we should have a chat with Shaw?”

“Soon. It’d be nice to know a bit more about Harris first.”

“I’ll call you later.”

“Okay.” Michelle turned and carried on walking down the path.

“Where are you going now?” Banks asked.

She slowed, turned and smiled at him. “You’re a very nosy fellow,” she said. “And you know what happens to nosy
fellows, don’t you?” Then she walked on, leaving Banks to gape after her. He could swear he saw her shoulders shaking with laughter.

“Okay, Liz, are you going to tell us the truth now?” Annie asked once the interview room was set up and the tapes turned on.

“We didn’t do anything wrong, Ryan and me,” Liz said.

“I have to remind you that you’re entitled to a lawyer. If you can’t afford one we’ll get a duty solicitor for you.”

Liz shook her head. “I don’t need a lawyer. That’s like admitting I did it.”

“As you like. You know we found drugs in your flat, don’t you?”

“There wasn’t much. It was only…you know, for Ryan and me.”

“It’s still a crime.”

“Are you going to arrest us for that?”

“Depends on what you have to tell me. I just want you to know that you’re in trouble already. You can make it better by telling me the truth, or you can make it worse by continuing with your lies. What’s it to be, Liz?”

“I’m tired.”

“The sooner we’re done with this, the sooner you can go home. What’s it to be?”

Liz nibbled at her trembling lower lip.

“Maybe it would help,” said Annie, “if I told you we found traces of Luke’s blood under your bathroom sink.”

Liz looked at her, wide-eyed. “But we didn’t kill Luke. Honest we didn’t!”

“Tell me what happened. Convince me.”

Liz started crying. Annie passed her some tissues and waited till she calmed down. “Did Luke call at your flat the day he disappeared?” she asked.

After a long silence, Liz said, “Yes.”

“Good,” breathed Annie. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“But we didn’t do him any harm.”

“Okay. We’ll get to that. What time did he arrive?”

“Time? I don’t know. Early in the evening. Maybe sixish.”

“So he must have come straight from the market square?”

“I suppose so. I don’t know where he’d been. He was a bit upset, I remember, because he said some of the kids from the school had pushed him around in the square, so maybe he had come straight from there.”

“What happened in the flat?”

Liz looked down at her chewed fingernails.

“Liz?”

“What?”

“Was Ryan there?”

“Yes.”

“All the time? Even when Luke arrived?”

“Yes.”

So that put paid to Annie’s theory that Ryan had interrupted something between Liz and Luke. “What did the three of you do?”

Liz paused, then took a deep breath. “First we had something to eat,” she said. “It must’ve been around tea time.”

“Then what?”

“We just talked, went through a few songs.”

“I thought you did your rehearsals in the church basement.”

“We do. But Ryan’s got an acoustic guitar. We just played around with a couple of arrangements, that’s all.”

“And then?”

Again, Liz fell silent and her eyes filled with tears. She rubbed the back of her hand across her face and said, “Ryan rolled a joint. Luke…he’d…like he was a virgin, you know, when it came to drugs. I mean we’d offered to share before but he always said no.”

“Not that night?”

“No. That night he said yes. The first time. It was like he…you know…
wanted
to lose his virginity. I don’t know why. I suppose he just felt it was time.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing much at first. I think he was disappointed. A lot of people are the first time.”

“So what did you do?”

“We smoked some more and it seemed to work. It was pretty strong stuff, opiated hash. He got all giggly at first, then he went sort of introspective.”

“So what went wrong?”

“It was when Ryan put that Neil Byrd CD on. You know, that new compilation,
The Summer That Never Was
.”

“He did
what
?” Annie could imagine what effect something like that might have on Luke if he was under the influence of strong cannabis. Maybe it wasn’t a seriously dangerous drug, but it could cause paranoia in people, and it intensified and exaggerated emotions. Annie knew; she’d smoked it more than once in her teenage years. Reining in her temper, she asked, “How did Luke react to the music?”

“He freaked. He just freaked. Ryan was thinking it would be a neat idea to do a Neil Byrd song, you know, with Luke singing. I mean, it’d get a lot of attention.”

“Didn’t you realize how confused Luke was about his real father? Didn’t you know he
never
listened to Neil Byrd’s music?”

“Yes, but we thought this was a good time to try it,” Liz protested. “We thought his mind was, you know, open to new things, mellow from the dope, that it was more likely he’d see how
beautiful
his father’s work was.”

“When he was disoriented, ultra-sensitive?” Annie shook her head in disbelief. “You’re a lot more stupid than I thought you were. Stupid or so selfish and blinkered it amounts to much the same thing.”

“But that’s not fair! We didn’t mean any harm.”

“Fine,” said Annie. “Let’s just say you were guilty of poor judgement and move on. What happened next?”

“Nothing at first. It seemed as if Luke was just listening to the song. Ryan was playing the chords along with it, trying a little harmony. All of a sudden Luke just went
crazy. He knocked the guitar out of Ryan’s hand and went over to the CD player and took the CD out and started trying to break it in two.”

“What did you do?”

“Ryan struggled with him, but Luke was, like,
possessed
.”

“What about the blood?”

“In the end Ryan just punched him. That was where the blood came from. Luke ran into the bathroom. I was just behind him, to see if he was all right. There wasn’t much blood, it was only like a nosebleed. Luke looked in the mirror and started going crazy again and banging the mirror with his fists. I tried to calm him down, but he pushed past me and left.”

“And that was it?”

“Yes.”

“Neither of you went after him?”

“No. We figured he just wanted to be by himself.”

“A disturbed fifteen-year-old having a bad drug experience? Oh, come on, Liz. Surely you can’t be
that
stupid?”

“Well
we
were stoned, too. I’m not saying we were, like, the most
rational
we could be. It just seemed…I don’t know.” She lowered her head and sobbed.

Though she believed Liz’s story, Annie found it hard to dredge up any sympathy. Legally, however, any charges that could be brought against them were minor. If reckless negligence could be proven, then they could, at a stretch, be convicted of manslaughter, but even though they had given Luke drugs, Annie reminded herself, she still didn’t know how he had died, or why.

“Do you know where he went after he left your flat?” Annie asked.

“No,” said Liz between sobs. “We never saw him again. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Did you or Ryan give Luke any Valium, to calm him down, perhaps?”

Liz frowned and looked at Annie through her tears. “No. We didn’t do stuff like that.”

“So you never had any Valium in the house?”

“No.”

“And there’s nothing more you can tell me?”

“I’ve told you everything.” She looked up at Annie with red eyes. “Can I go home now? I’m tired.”

Annie stood up and called for a uniformed officer. “Yes,” she said. “But don’t wander too far. We’ll be wanting to talk to you again.”

When Liz had been escorted away, Annie closed the interview-room door behind her and sat down again and held her throbbing head in her hands.

“Another drink, Alan?”

Banks’s beer glass was half-full, and he had just arranged to go out drinking that evening with Dave Grenfell and Paul Major, so he declined Mrs. Marshall’s offer and ate another potted meat sandwich instead. Besides, the beer was a neighbour’s homebrew, and it tasted like it.

“You know, I’m glad we did this,” Mrs. Marshall went on. “The service. I know it probably seems silly to some people, after all this time, but it means a lot to me.”

“It doesn’t seem silly,” said Banks, looking around the room. Most of the guests were family and neighbours, some of whom Banks recognized. Dave’s and Paul’s parents were there, along with Banks’s own. Pachelbel’s “Canon” played in the background. Graham would have hated it, Banks thought. Or probably not. If he’d lived, his tastes would no doubt have changed, as Banks’s had. Even so, what he really wanted to listen to was “Ticket to Ride” or “Summer Nights” or “Mr. Tambourine Man.”

“I think it meant a lot to all of us,” he said.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Marshall said tearfully. “Are you sure you won’t have some more?”

“No, thank you.”

Mrs. Marshall wandered off. Banks noticed Bill Marshall in his armchair by the fireplace, a blanket over his knees despite the muggy day. The windows were all open, but it
was still too stuffy in the house. Banks saw Paul talking to a couple he didn’t recognize, probably old neighbours, and Dave was chatting with Graham’s sister Joan. His own parents were talking to Mr. and Mrs. Grenfell. Feeling the call of nature, Banks set his glass down on the sideboard and went upstairs.

When he had finished in the toilet, he noticed that the door to Graham’s old room was open, and he was surprised to see that the space-rocket wallpaper he remembered from years back was still on the walls. Drawn by the odd sight, he wandered into the small bedroom. Of course, everything else had changed. The bed had gone, along with the small glass-fronted bookcase Banks remembered, mostly full of science fiction. The only familiar object stood in a case leaning against the wall. Graham’s guitar. So they had kept it all these years.