The Summer That Never Was (44 page)

“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 anyway?”

Banks looked at Michelle before continuing. “That puzzled me for a while, too,” he said. “I can only conclude that he knew which police officer
not
to tell.”

“How do you mean?”

“Graham had definitely been to the Mandeville house. What if he saw someone there? Someone who shouldn’t have been there, like a certain detective superintendent?”

“That’s absurd. John wasn’t like that.”

“Wasn’t like what? Mandeville’s parties catered to all tastes. According to his wife, John Harris was homosexual. We don’t know if Mandeville or Fiorino found out and blackmailed him or if they set him up. Maybe that’s how he took his payoffs from Fiorino and Mandeville, in young boys. Or drugs. It doesn’t matter. Point is, I think Graham saw him there or knew he was connected in some way and made this clear to Bradford, too, that he’d go elsewhere with his story.”

Shaw turned pale. “John?
Homosexual
? I don’t believe that.”

“One of my old school friends has turned out to be gay,” said Banks. “And I didn’t know that, either. John Harris had two damn good reasons for keeping it a secret. It was illegal until 1967, and he was a copper. Even today you know how tough it is for coppers to come out. We’re all such bloody macho tough guys that gays terrify the crap out of us.”

“Bollocks. This is all pure speculation.”

“Not about John Harris,” Michelle said. “It’s what his ex-wife told me.”

“She’s a lying bitch, then. With all due respect.”

“Why would she lie?”

“She hated John.”

“Sounds like she had good reason to,” Banks said. “But back to Graham. He threatened to tell. I don’t know why. It could have been greed, but it could also have been because Mandeville wanted him to do more than pose for photos. I’d like to think that was where Graham drew the line, but we’ll probably never know. It also explains why he was preoccupied when we were on holiday in Blackpool just before he disappeared. He must have been worrying about what to do. Anyway, Graham knew he’d better go farther afield than the local nick. And he had the photo as evidence, a photo that could incriminate Rupert Mandeville. He compromised the whole operation. Mandeville’s
and
Fiorino’s. That was why he had to die.”

“So what happened?”

“The order went down to Donald Bradford to get rid of him. Bradford had to be at the shop by eight o’clock, as usual, that morning. That gave him an hour and a half to abduct Graham, kill him and dispose of the body. It takes a while to dig a hole that deep, so my guess is that he planned it in advance, picked the spot and dug the hole. Either that or he had help and another of Fiorino’s henchman buried the body. Either way, with Harris on
the payroll, Bradford could at least be certain that no one was looking too closely at his lack of an alibi.”

“Are you saying that John Harris ordered the boy’s death, because–”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’d say it was Fiorino, or Mandeville, but Harris had to know about it in order to misdirect the investigation. And that makes him just as guilty in my book.”

Shaw closed his eyes and shook his head. “Not John. No. Maybe he didn’t always play by the rules, maybe he did turn a blind eye to one or two things, but not murder. Not a dead kid.”

“You have to accept it,” Banks went on. “It’s the only thing that makes sense of later events.”

“What later events?”

“The botched investigation and the missing notebooks and actions. I don’t know who got rid of them–you, Harris or Reg Proctor, but one of you did.”

“It wasn’t me. All I’ve done was discourage DI Hart here from digging too deeply into the past.”

“And set Wayman on me.”

“You won’t get me to admit to that.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” said Banks. “So Harris took them himself when he left. That makes sense. It wasn’t his finest hour, and he wouldn’t want the evidence hanging around for anyone to see if Graham’s body ever did turn up. Insurance. Cast your mind back. You were there in the summer of 1965. You and Reg Proctor covered the estate. What did you find out?”

“Nobody knew anything.”

“I’ll bet that’s not true,” said Banks. “I’ll bet there were one or two references to ‘Dirty Don’ in your notebooks. One of my old mates remembered referring to him that way. And I’ll bet there was a rumour or two about porn.”

“Rumours, maybe,” said Shaw, looking away, “but that’s all they were.”

“How do you know?”

Shaw scowled at him.

“Exactly,” said Banks. “You only know because Harris told you so. Remember, you were just a young DC back then. You didn’t question your superior officers. If anything showed up in your interviews that pointed you in the right direction–Bradford, Fiorino, Mandeville–then Harris ignored it, dismissed it as mere rumour, a dead end. You just skimmed the surface, exactly as he wanted it. That’s why the action allocations are missing, too. Harris was in charge of the investigation. He’d have issued the actions. And we’d have found out what direction they all pointed in–the passing pedophile theory, later made more credible by Brady and Hindley’s arrest–and, what’s more important, what they pointed
away
from. The truth.”

“It’s still all theory,” said Shaw.

“Yes,” Banks admitted. “But you know it’s true. We’ve got the photo of Graham, taken at Mandeville’s house, Bradford’s connection with the porn business and the possible murder weapon, and the missing notebooks. Go ahead, see if it adds up any other way.”

Shaw sighed. “I just can’t believe John would do something like that. I know he gave Fiorino a lot of leeway, but I thought at the time that he got his reward in information. Fair exchange. That’s all I was trying to protect. A bit of tit-for-tat. All those years I knew him…and I still can’t fucking believe it.”

“Maybe you didn’t really know him at all,” said Banks. “No more than I knew Graham Marshall.”

Shaw looked over at Banks. His eyes were pink and red-rimmed. Then he looked at Michelle. “What do you think about all this?”

“I think it’s true, sir,” Michelle said. “It’s the only explanation that makes sense. You didn’t want me to look too closely at the past because you were worried I’d find out something that might tarnish Harris’s reputation. You suspected he was bent, you knew he gave Fiorino a wide
berth in exchange for information, and something about the Graham Marshall case bothered you. You didn’t want it stirring up again because you didn’t know what would come to the surface.”

“What next?” Shaw asked.

“There’ll have to be a report. I’m not going to bury this. I’ll report my findings and any conclusions that can be drawn to the ACC. After that, it’s up to him. There might be media interest.”

“And John’s memory?”

Michelle shrugged. “I don’t know. If it all comes out, if people believe it, then his reputation will take a bit of a knock.”

“The lad’s family?”

“It’ll be hard for them, too. But is it any better than not knowing?”

“And me?”

“Maybe it’s time to retire,” Banks said. “You must be long past due.”

Shaw snorted, then coughed. He lit another cigarette and reached for his drink. “Maybe you’re right.” His gaze went from Banks to Michelle and back. “I should have known it would mean big trouble the minute those bones were found. There wasn’t much, you know, in those notebooks. It was just like what you said. A hint here, a lead there.”

“But there was enough,” said Banks. “And let’s face it, you know as well as I do that in that sort of an investigation you first look close and hard at the immediate family and circle. If anybody had done that, they’d have found one or two points of interest, some lines of enquiry that just weren’t followed. You dig deepest close to home. Nobody bothered. That in itself seems odd enough.”

“Because John steered the investigation?”

“Yes. It must have been a much smaller division back then, wasn’t it? He’d have had close to absolute power over it.”

Shaw hung his head again. “Oh, nobody questioned Jet Harris’s judgement, that was for certain.” He looked up. “I’ve got cancer,” he said, glancing towards Michelle. “That’s why I’ve been taking so much time off. Stomach.” He grimaced. “There’s not much they can do. Anyway, maybe retirement isn’t such a bad idea.” He laughed. “Enjoy my last few months gardening or stamp-collecting or something peaceful like that.”

Banks didn’t know what to say. Michelle said, “I’m sorry.”

Shaw looked at her and scowled. “You’ve no reason to be. It won’t make a scrap of difference to you whether I live or die. Come to think of it, your life will be a lot easier without me.”

“Even so…”

Shaw looked at Banks again. “I wish you’d never come back down here, Banks,” he said. “Why couldn’t you stay up in Yorkshire and shag a few sheep?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I? Don’t you be too sure I’m as corrupt as you think I am. Now if you’re not going to charge me or beat me up, why don’t the two of you just bugger off and leave me alone?”

Banks and Michelle looked at one another. There was nothing else to say to Shaw, so they left. Back in the car, Banks turned to Michelle and said, “Do you believe him?”

“About not being responsible for the burglary and the van?”

“Yes.”

“I think so. He seemed genuinely horrified by the idea. What reason has he to lie about it now?”

“It’s a serious crime. That’s reason enough. But I think you’re right. I don’t think he was behind it. He was just doing his best to protect Harris’s reputation.”

“Then are you thinking who I’m thinking?”

Banks nodded. “Rupert Mandeville.”

“Shall we pay him a visit?”

“You want me along?”

Michelle looked at Banks and said. “Yes. I feel we’re getting near the end. Graham Marshall was your friend. You deserve to be there. I’d just like to stop off at the station and check a few things out first.”

“He won’t tell us anything, you know.”

Michelle smiled. “We’ll see about that. It certainly won’t do any harm to yank his chain a bit.”

19

I
t didn’t take Annie long to drive to Harrogate and find the small terrace house off the Leeds Road. Vernon Anderson answered the door and, looking puzzled, invited her into his Spartan living room. She admired the framed Vermeer print over the fireplace and settled down in one of the two armchairs.

“I see you have an eye for a good painting,” Annie said.

“Art appreciation must run in the family,” said Vernon. “Though I confess I’m not as much of a reader as our Lauren is. I’d rather see a good film any day.”

On the low table under the window a couple of lottery tickets rested on a newspaper open at the racing page, some of the horses with red rings around their names.

“Any luck today?” Annie asked.

“You know what it’s like,” Vernon said with an impish grin. “You win a little, then you lose a little.” He sat on the sofa and crossed his legs.

Vernon Anderson didn’t look much like his sister, Annie noted. He had dark hair, short tight curls receding a little at the temples, and he was thickset, with a muscular upper body and rather short legs. With his long lashes, dimples and easy charm, though, she imagined he would be quite successful with the opposite sex. Not that any of those things did much for her. If there was any resemblance, it was in the eyes; Vernon’s were the same pale
blue as Lauren’s. He wore jeans and a T-shirt advertising Guinness. And sandals over white socks.

“What’s all this about?”

“I’m looking into the kidnapping and murder of Luke Armitage,” Annie said. “Your sister was his teacher.”

“Yes, I know. She’s very upset about it.”

“Did you ever meet Luke?”

“Me? No. I’d heard of him, of course, of his father, anyway.”

“Martin Armitage?”

“That’s right. I’ve won a few bob on teams he played for over the years.” Vernon grinned.

“But you never met Luke?”

“No.”

“Did your sister tell you much about him?”

“She talked about school sometimes,” Vernon said. “She might have mentioned him.”

“In what context?”

“As one of her pupils.”

“But not how exceptional he was, and how she gave him private tuition?”

“No.” Vernon’s eyes narrowed. “Where are we going here?”

“Lauren said she was visiting you the day Luke disappeared. That’d be a week ago last Monday. Is that true?”

“Yes. Look, I’ve already been through all this with the other detective, the one who came by a few days ago.”

“I know,” said Annie. “That was one of the locals helping us out. It’s not always possible to get away. I’m sorry to bother you with it, but do you think you could bear to go through it again with me?”

Vernon folded his arms. “I suppose so. If you think it’s necessary.”

“If you don’t mind.”

“It’s just as I told the chap the other day. We had rather too much to drink and Lauren stayed over.” He patted the sofa. “It’s comfortable enough. Safer than trying to drive.”

“Admirable,” said Annie. People always seemed to make nervous comments about drinking and driving when police officers were around, as if that were the only crime they had time to pursue, all they were interested in. “Where were you drinking?”

“Where?”

“Which pub?”

“Oh, I see. We didn’t go to a pub. She came here for dinner and we had wine.”

“What kind?”

“Just an Australian Chardonnay. On sale at Sainsbury’s.”

“Did your sister visit you often?”

“Fairly often. Though I can’t see what that’s got to do with anything. Our father’s ill and mother’s not coping too well. We had a lot to talk about.”

“Yes. I know about the Alzheimer’s. I’m sorry to hear it.”

Vernon’s jaw dropped. “You know? Lauren told you?”

“It’s surprising the information you pick up sometimes on this job. Anyway, I just wanted to make sure I’d got all the times right, for the record, you know. You’d be amazed if you knew how much of our job is just paperwork.”

Vernon smiled. “Well, as I remember, she arrived at about six o’clock, and that was it. We ate at around half past seven.”

“What did you cook?”

“Venison in white wine. From Nigella Lawson.”

It didn’t sound very appetizing to a vegetarian such as Annie, but to each his own, she thought. “And no doubt there was a fair bit of wine to wash it down with?”

“A couple of bottles. That’s why Lauren ended up staying. That and the Grand Marnier.”

“Liqueurs, too. You were really pushing the boat out.”

“I’m afraid we both got a bit upset. Over father. Lauren had paid a brief visit home at half-term and he hadn’t recognized her. I know alcohol doesn’t help solve problems, but one does tend to reach for it in times of trouble.”

“Of course,” said Annie. “So you went to bed around what time?”

“Me? I’m not sure. It’s a bit of a blur. Probably around midnight.”

“And your sister?”

“I don’t know how late she stayed up.”

“But she did stay all night?”

“Of course.”

“How do you know?”

“I remember going to the toilet once. You have to go through the living room. She was asleep on the sofa then.”

“What time was that?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t look at my watch. Dark, though.”

“But she could have been gone for a few hours and returned, couldn’t she?”

“I’d have heard her.”

“Are you certain? If you’d had that much to drink you probably slept quite heavily.”

“Don’t forget, we
both
had too much to drink.”

“Did she receive any phone calls during the evening?”

“No.”

“What time did she leave?”

“About eleven o’clock the following morning.”

“It must have been a bit of a rough morning for you at work, after all that drink. Or did you take the day off?”

“I’m presently unemployed, if it’s any of your business. And I can handle the drink. I’m not an alcoholic, you know.”

“Of course not.” Annie paused for a moment, “Did you ever get any hints that Lauren’s relationship with Luke might have been a bit more than the normal teacher-pupil one?”

“I certainly did not.”

“She never talked about him in an affectionate way?”

“I’ve had quite enough of this,” Vernon said. “It’s one thing checking up on times, but quite another to suggest that my sister had some sort of affair with this boy.” He
stood up. “Look, I’ve told you what you want to know. Now why don’t you just go and leave me alone.”

“What’s wrong, Mr. Anderson?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You seem a bit agitated, that’s all.”

“Well, wouldn’t you feel agitated if someone came into your house and started flinging accusations around?”

“What accusations? I’m simply trying to make certain that your sister didn’t see Luke Armitage the night he was killed. Can’t you see how important this is, Vernon? If she did see him, he might have told her something. She might have had some idea of where he was going, who he was seeing.”

“I’m sorry. I still can’t help. Lauren was here all night.”

Annie sighed. “All right, then. Just one more thing before I leave you in peace.”

“What?”

“I understand you have a criminal record.”

Vernon reddened. “I wondered when that would come out. Look, it was a long time ago. I forged my boss’s signature on a cheque. I’m not proud of it. It was a stupid thing to do, okay, but I was desperate. I paid the price.”

“Well, that’s all right, then, isn’t it,” said Annie, who was thinking it was amazing what people would do when they were desperate. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Anderson.”

Vernon said nothing, just slammed the door behind her. Annie had noticed a bookie’s on the main road, just around the corner from Vernon’s street. She glanced at her watch. Time for a quick call before it closed. In her experience, bookies’ shops were always full of smoke, so she took a deep breath and went inside.

If this were the face of evil, then it was remarkably bland, Banks thought as he and Michelle were ushered into Rupert Mandeville’s presence by a young man who looked more like a clerk than a butler. In fact, Mandeville reminded Banks of the old prime minister, Edward
Heath, who came to lead the party in opposition in 1965. Casually dressed in white cricket trousers, a cream shirt, open at the collar, and a mauve V-neck pullover, he had the same slightly startled, slightly befuddled, look about him as Heath, the same silver hair and pinkish skin. Why was it, Banks wondered, that every politician he had ever seen had skin like pink vinyl? Were they born that way?

The sheepskin rug was gone, replaced by a carpet with a complex Middle Eastern design, but the fireplace was the same one as in Graham’s photograph. Being in the room where the picture had been taken all those years ago made Banks shiver. What else had happened here? Had Graham been involved in sex acts, too? With Mandeville? He realized that he would probably never know. Reconstructing the past after so long was as faulty and unreliable a process as memory itself.

At least they now had some idea how Mandeville knew about the progress of Michelle’s investigation, even if they couldn’t prove anything. According to a local reporter Michelle had rung from the station, Mandeville had spies everywhere; it was how he had managed to survive so long in such a ruthless world as politics. It was also rumoured that he had close contacts within the police force, though no names were mentioned. That must have been how he knew so much about the investigation into Graham’s death, and the threat that it was beginning to pose for him.

Mandeville was courtesy personified, pulling out a chair for Michelle and offering refreshments, which they refused. “It’s been many years since I had a visit from the police,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“Would Geoff Talbot’s visit have been the one you’re thinking about?” Michelle asked. It was still her case, Banks knew, and he was only present because she had invited him; therefore, she got to ask the questions.

“I can’t say I remember the young man’s name.”

“You ought at least to remember the month and year: August 1965.”

“So long ago. How time flies.”

“And the reason for the visit.”

“It was a mistake. An apology was offered, and accepted.”

“By Detective Superintendent Harris?”

“Again, I must confess I don’t remember the person’s name.”

“Take my word for it.”

“Very well. Look, I sense a little hostility in your tone. Can you please either tell me why you’re here or leave?”

“We’re here to ask you some questions relating to the Graham Marshall investigation.”

“Oh, yes. That poor boy whose skeleton was uncovered some days ago. Tragic. But I don’t see how that has anything to do with me.”

“We’re just tying up a few loose ends, that’s all.”

“And I’m a loose end. How fascinating!” His glaucous eyes gleamed with mockery.

Banks took the photo from his briefcase and slid it across the table to Mandeville, who looked at it without expression.

“Interesting,” he said. “But, again…”

“Do you recognize the boy?” Michelle asked.

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Do you recognize the fireplace?”

Mandeville glanced towards his own Adam fireplace and smiled at her. “I’d be a liar if I said I don’t,” he said. “Though I hardly imagine it’s the only one of its kind in existence.”

“I think it’s unique enough for our purposes,” Michelle said.

“Photographs can be faked, you know.”

Michelle tapped the photo. “Are you saying this is a forgery?”

“Of course. Unless someone has been using my house for illicit purposes in my absence.”

“Let’s get back to 1965, when this photo was taken, in this room,” Michelle said. “You were quite famous for your parties, weren’t you?”

Mandeville shrugged. “I was young, wealthy. What else was I to do but share it around a bit? Maybe I was foolish, too.”

“Parties that catered for every taste, including drugs, prostitutes and underage sex partners, male and female.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“This boy was fourteen when that photo was taken.”

“And he was a friend of mine,” said Banks, catching Mandeville’s eye and holding his gaze.

“Then I’m sorry for your loss,” said Mandeville, “but I still don’t see what it has to do with me.”

“You had him killed,” said Michelle.

“I did what? I’d be careful, if I were you, young lady, going around making accusations like that.”

“Or what? You’ll have your chauffeur break into my flat again, or try to run me over?”

Mandeville raised his eyebrows. “I was actually going to warn you about the possibility of slander.”

“I did a bit of homework before I came out here,” Michelle said. “Checked into the background of your employees. Derek Janson, your chauffeur, served a prison sentence for burglary fifteen years ago. He came to be regarded as somewhat of an expert at picking locks. I’m sure he knows how to drive a van, too.”

“I know about Derek’s background,” Mandeville said. “It’s very difficult for ex-convicts to get employment. Surely you can’t fault me for doing my little bit for Derek’s rehabilitation? I happen to trust him completely.”

“I’m sure you do. When the investigation into Graham Marshall’s disappearance was reopened, after we found his remains and discovered that he had been murdered, you did everything in your power to put me off.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because he was using the photo to blackmail you, and you asked Carlo Fiorino to take care of him. You paid Fiorino well for his various services, so he obliged.”

“This is absurd. You have no evidence for any of this.”

“We’ve got the photograph,” Banks said.

“As I said before, photographs can be faked.”

“They can be authenticated, too,” Banks said.

Mandeville stared at them, assessing the damage. Finally, he stood up, put his hands on the table palms down and leaned forward. “Well,” he said, “that’s quite a story the two of you have concocted. It’s a pity that none of it will stand up in court, or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Michelle said. “But you still have to admit that it doesn’t look good. Some mud’s bound to stick.”