Close to Home (26 page)

“Want to listen to some of his songs?”

“Who? Neil Byrd?”

“No. Luke.”

“Sure.”

Banks paused the Tim Buckley CD, put the tape in, and they both sat in silence sipping their drinks and listening.

“He's good,” said Brian, when the tape had finished. “Very good. I wish I'd been that good at his age. Still raw, but with a bit of hard work and a lot of practice…”

“Do you think he had a future in music, then?”

“It's possible. On the other hand, you see plenty of bands with no talent get to the top and some really terrific musicians struggle just to make a living, so who can say? He's got what it takes in its raw form, though. In my humble opinion. Was he with a band?”

“Not that I know of.”

“He'd be a steal for some up-and-coming group. He's got talent, for a start, and they could milk the Neil Byrd connection for all it was worth. Did you notice the voice? The similarities. Like Tim and Jeff.”

“Yes,” said Banks. “I did.” He started the Tim Buckley CD again. It was “Song to the Siren,” which always sent shivers up his spine. “How's the CD going?” he asked.

“Haven't bloody started it yet, have we? Our manager's still haggling over the contracts. Hence that crappy pile of junk you saw outside.”

“I was expecting a Jag or a red sports car.”

“Soon, Dad. Soon. By the way, we've changed our name.”

“Why?”

“The manager thought Jimson Weed was a bit too sixties.”

“He's right.”

“Yeah, well, we're The Blue Lamps now.”

“The police.”

“No, that's another band. The Blue Lamps.”

“I was thinking of
Dixon of Dock Green
.”

“Come again?”

“
The Blue Lamp
. It was a film. Fifties. It's where George Dixon made his debut before it became a TV series. A blue lamp used to be the sign of a police station. Still is in some
places. I'm not sure you want to be going around associating yourself with that.”

“The stuff you know. Anyway, our manager thinks it's okay, more modern—you know, White Stripes, Blue Lamps—but I'll tell him what you said. Our sound's hardened up a bit too, got a bit more grungy and less slick. I get to play some real down and dirty guitar solos. You must come and hear us again. We've come a long way since that last gig you were at.”

“I'd love to, but I thought you sounded just fine then.”

“Thanks.”

“I saw your grandparents the other day.”

“Yeah? How are they?”

“Same as ever. You should visit them more often.”

“Oh, you know how it is.”

“No. I don't know.”

“They don't like me, Dad. Not since I screwed up my degree and joined the band. Whenever I see them, it's always ‘Tracy's doing this and Tracy's doing that.' They don't care how well
I
do.”

“You know that's not true,” said Banks, who suspected it probably was. After all, weren't they the same way with him? It was all Roy, Roy, Roy, no matter what Banks achieved. He'd had a hard enough time reconciling himself to his son's chosen career, just the same way his mother and father had with him. The only difference was that he had come to terms with Brian's choice, whereas his own parents hadn't even come to terms with
his
career, let alone their grandson's. “Anyway, I'm sure they'd love to see you.”

“Yeah. Okay. I'll try to go and see them when I've got time.”

“How's your mother?”

“Fine, I suppose.”

“Seen her lately?”

“Not for a few weeks.”

“How's she doing with the…you know…It must be due soon.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Look, Dad, is there anything to eat? I haven't had any dinner yet, and I'm starving.”

Banks thought. He'd eaten a prawn sandwich earlier in the Queen's Arms and wasn't particularly hungry. He knew there was nothing substantial in the fridge or the freezer. He looked at his watch. “There's a Chinese take-away down in Helmthorpe. They should still be open, if you like.”

“Cool,” said Brian, finishing off his lager. “What are we waiting for?”

Banks sighed and reached for his jacket again. So much for quality time.

 

Michelle could have walked to Rivergate, it wasn't that far, but it also wasn't a particularly pleasant walk, and the rain was still pouring down, so she decided to treat herself to a taxi from the station.

The first inkling she got that something was wrong in the flat was when she heard the creaking door of her
Mystery
screen-saver and saw the lights going on and off in the creepy-looking mansion as the full moon slowly crossed the starlit sky. She knew she had turned her computer off after she'd checked her e-mail that morning. She always did; she was compulsive about it. Also, someone had pulled some of the books out of one of the boxes that she hadn't got around to unpacking. They weren't damaged or anything, just piled up on the floor beside the box.

Michelle jogged the mouse and the computer returned to its regular display. Only it was open at Michelle's file of notes about the Marshall case, and she knew she hadn't opened that since the previous night. There was nothing secret about her speculations, nothing she had thought would even interest anyone else, so she hadn't bothered with password protection. In the future, she would know better.

With the hairs prickling at the back of her neck, Michelle stood still and strained her ears for any odd sounds in the flat. Nothing except the clock ticking and the humming of
the refrigerator. She took her old side-handled baton from her uniform days out of the closet by the door. Gripping that made her feel a little more courageous as she went to explore the rest of the flat.

The kitchen light was on, and a couple of items that she knew she had put back in the fridge that morning—milk, butter, eggs—lay on the countertop. The butter had melted into a shapeless lump and it oozed over her fingers when she picked it up.

Her bathroom cabinet stood open, and the various pills and potions she kept there were not in their usual order. Her bottle of aspirin sat on the edge of the sink, top off and cotton wool missing. Even as the chills went up her spine, Michelle wondered what the hell all this was about. If someone had searched the place, though she couldn't imagine why anyone would want to, then why not just leave it in a mess? Clearly, whoever had done this had done it to scare her—and they were succeeding.

She went into the bedroom cautiously, gripping the side-handled baton more tightly, expecting the worst. Nobody jumped out of the wardrobe at her, but what she saw there made her drop her baton and put her hands to her mouth.

There was no mess. Perhaps some of her drawers weren't completely closed, the way she had left them, but there was no mess. It was much, much worse.

Spread out neatly at the center of the bed lay Melissa's dress. When Michelle reached out to pick it up, she found it had been cut cleanly into two halves.

Michelle staggered back against the wall, half the dress clutched to her chest, hardly able to believe what was happening. As she did so, her eye caught the writing on the dressing-table mirror:
FORGET GRAHAM MARSHALL
,
BITCH
.
REMEMBER MELISSA
.
YOU COULD JOIN HER
.

Michelle cried out, covered her face with the dress and slid down the wall to the floor.

N
orman Wells sat in the interview room with his folded arms resting on the top of his paunch and his lips pressed tight together. If he was scared, he wasn't showing it. But then, he didn't know how much the police already knew about him.

Banks and Annie sat opposite him, files spread out in front of them. Banks felt well-rested after a day off. He had stayed up late Saturday night eating Chinese food and talking with Brian, but on Sunday, after Brian left, he had done nothing but read the papers, go for a walk from Helmthorpe to Rawley Force and back by himself, stopping for a pub lunch and fiddling with the
Sunday Times
crossword. In the evening, he had thought of ringing Michelle Hart in Peterborough but decided against it. They hadn't parted on the best of terms, so let her contact him first, if she wanted to. After a small Laphroaig and a cigarette outside, enjoying the mild evening air around sunset, he had listened to Ian Bostridge's
English Song Book
CD, gone to bed before half past ten, and slept as soundly as he could remember in a long time.

“Norman,” said Banks. “You don't mind if I call you Norman, do you?”

“It's my name.”

“Detective Inspector Cabbot here has been doing a bit of digging around in your background, and it turns out you've been a naughty boy, haven't you?”

Wells said nothing. Annie pushed a file toward Banks, and he opened it. “You used to be a schoolteacher, am I right?”

“You know I did, or you wouldn't have dragged me in here away from my business.”

Banks raised his eyebrows. “It's my understanding that you came here of your own free will when asked to help us with our inquiries. Am I wrong?”

“Do you think I'm an idiot?”

“I don't follow.”

“And there's no need to play the thickie with me. You know what I mean. If I hadn't come willingly, you'd have found some way to bring me here, whether I wanted to come or not. So just get on with it. It might not seem much to you, but I have a business to run, customers who rely on me.”

“We'll try to see that you get back to your shop as soon as possible, Norman, but first I'd like you to answer a few questions for me. You taught at a private school in Cheltenham, right?”

“Yes.”

“How long ago?”

“I left seven years ago.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I grew tired of teaching.”

Banks glanced at Annie, who frowned, leaned over and pointed at some lines on the typed sheet of paper in front of Banks. “Norman,” Banks went on, “I think I ought to inform you that Detective Inspector Cabbot spoke to your old headmaster, Mr. Fulwell, earlier this morning. He was reticent to discuss school business at first, but when she informed him that we were conducting a possible murder investigation, he was a little more forthcoming. We know all about you, Norman.”

The moment of truth. Wells seemed to deflate and shrink in his chair. His plump lower lip pushed up and all but obscured the upper, his chin disappeared into his neck and his arms seemed to wrap more tightly around his lower chest. “What do you want from me?” he whispered.

“The truth.”

“I had a nervous breakdown.”

“What caused it?”

“The pressures of the job. You've no idea what teaching's like.”

“I don't imagine I have,” Banks admitted, thinking that the last thing he'd want to do was stand up in front of thirty or forty scruffy, hormonally challenged teenagers and try to get them interested in Shakespeare or the War of Jenkins's Ear. Anyone with that skill deserved his admiration. And a medal, too, for that matter. “What particular pressures led you to decide to leave?”

“It was nothing specific. Just a general sort of breakdown.”

“Stop beating about the bush, Norman,” Annie cut in. “Does the name Steven Farrow mean anything to you?”

Wells paled. “Nothing happened. I never touched him. False accusations.”

“According to the headmaster, Norman, you were infatuated with this thirteen-year-old boy. So much so that you neglected your duties, became an embarrassment to the school, and on one occasion—”

“Enough!” Wells slammed his fist down on the metal table. “You're just like everyone else. You poison the truth with your lies. You can't stare beauty in the eye, so you have to destroy it, poison it for everyone else.”

“Steven Farrow, Norman,” Annie repeated. “Thirteen years old.”

“It was pure. A pure love.” Wells rubbed his teary eyes with his forearm. “But you wouldn't understand that, would you? To people like you, anything other than a man and a woman is dirty, abnormal,
perverted
.”

“Try us, Norman,” said Banks. “Give us a chance. You loved him?”

“Steven was beautiful. An angel. All I wanted was to be close to him, to be with him. What could be wrong with that?”

“But you touched him, Norman,” said Annie. “He told—”

“I never touched him! He was lying. He turned on me. He wanted money. Can you believe it? My little angel wanted
money
. I would have done anything for him, made any sacrifice. But something so vulgar as
money…
I blame them, of course, not Steven. They poisoned him against me. They made him turn on me.” Wells wiped his eyes again.

“Who did, Norman?”

“The others. The other boys.”

“What happened?” Banks asked.

“I refused, of course. Steven went to the headmaster and…I was asked to leave, no questions asked, no scandal. All for the good of the school, you see. But word got around. On the scrap heap at thirty-eight. One foolish mistake.” He shook his head. “That boy broke my heart.”

“Surely you couldn't expect them to keep you on?” Banks said. “In fact, you're bloody lucky they didn't bring in the police. And you know how we feel about pedophiles.”

“I am not a child molester! I would have been content just…just to be with him. Have you ever been in love?”

Banks said nothing. He sensed Annie glance at him.

Wells leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. “You can't choose the object of your desire. You know you can't. It may be a cliché to say that love is blind, but like many clichés, it's not without a grain of truth. I didn't
choose
to love Steven. I simply couldn't help myself.”

Banks had heard this argument before from pedophiles—that they weren't responsible for their desires, that they didn't
choose
to love little boys—and he had at least a modicum of sympathy for their predicament. After all, it wasn't only pedophiles who fell in love with the wrong people. But he didn't feel enough sympathy to condone their actions. “I'm sure you are aware,” he said, “that it's illegal for a thirty-eight-year-old man to initiate a sexual relationship with a thirteen-year-old boy, and that it's inappropriate for a teacher to be involved in any way with a pupil, even if that
pupil did happen to be over the age of consent, which Steven wasn't.”

“There was no sexual relationship. Steven lied. They made him do it. I never touched him.”

“That's as may be,” said Banks. “You might not have been able to help your feelings, but you could have controlled your actions. I think you know right from wrong.”

“It's all so hypocritical,” Wells said.

“What do you mean?”

“Who says there can be no real love between youth and age? The Greeks didn't think so.”

“Society,” said Banks. “The law. And it's not the
love
we legislate against. The law's there to protect the innocent and the vulnerable from those predators who should know better.”

“Ha! It shows how little you know. Who do you think was the vulnerable one here, the innocent one? Steven Farrow? Do you think just because a boy is of a certain tender age that he is incapable of manipulating his elders, incapable of blackmail? That's very naive of you, if you don't mind my saying so.”

“Luke Armitage,” Annie cut in.

Wells leaned back and licked his lips. He was sweating profusely, Banks noticed, and starting to smell sour and rank. “I wondered when we'd be getting around to him.”

“That's why you're here, Norman. Did you think it was about Steven Farrow?”

“I'd no idea what it would be about. I haven't done anything wrong.”

“The Farrow affair's all water under the bridge. Hushed up. No charges, no serious damage done.”

“Except to me.”

“You were among the last people to see Luke Armitage on the day he disappeared, Norman,” Annie went on. “When we found out about your past, isn't it only natural that we should want to talk to you about him?”

“I know nothing about what happened to him.”

“But you were friends with him, weren't you?”

“Acquaintances. He was a customer. We talked about books sometimes. That's all.”

“He was an attractive boy, wasn't he, Norman? Like Steven Farrow. Did he remind you of Steven?”

Wells sighed. “The boy left my shop. I never saw him again.”

“Are you certain?” Banks asked. “Are you sure he didn't come back, or you didn't meet him somewhere else? Your house, perhaps?”

“I never saw him again. Why would he come to my house?”

“I don't know,” said Banks. “You tell me.”

“He didn't.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Did he come back to the shop? Did something happen there? Something bad. Did you kill him and then move him after dark? Maybe it was a terrible accident. I can't believe you meant to kill him. Not if you loved him.”

“I didn't
love
him. Society has seen to it that I'm quite incapable of loving anyone ever again. No matter what you think of me, I am not a fool. I
do
know wrong from right, Chief Inspector, whether I agree with the definition or not. I am capable of self-control. I am an emotional eunuch. I know that society regards my urges as evil and sinful, and I have no desire to spend the rest of my days in jail. Believe me, the prison of my own making is bad enough.”

“I suppose the money was an afterthought, was it?” Banks went on. “But why not? Why not make a little money out of what you'd done? I mean, you could do with it, couldn't you? Look at the dump you spend your days in. A crappy used-book business in a dank, cold dungeon can't be making much money, can it? An extra ten thousand quid would have set you up nicely. Not too greedy. Just enough.”

Wells had tears in his eyes again, and he was shaking his head slowly from side to side. “It's all I've got,” he said, his
voice catching in his throat, his whole body starting to shake now. “My books. My cat. They're all I've got. Can't you see that, man?” He pushed his florid, bulbous face toward Banks and banged his fist to his heart. “There's nothing else left here for me. Have you no humanity?”

“But it's still not very much, is it?” Banks pressed on.

Wells looked him in the eye and regained some of his composure. “Who are you to say that? Who are you to pronounce judgment on a man's life? Do you think I don't know I'm ugly? Do you think I don't notice the way people look at me? Do you think I don't know I'm the object of laughter and derision? Do you think I have no feelings? Every day I sit down there in my dank, cold dungeon, as you so cruelly refer to it, like some sort of pariah, some deformed monster in his lair, some…some
Quasimodo,
and I contemplate my sins, my desires, my dreams of love and beauty and purity deemed ugly and evil by a hypocritical world. All I have is my books, and the unconditional love of one of God's creatures. How
dare
you judge me?”

“No matter what you feel,” said Banks, “society has to protect its children, and for that we need laws. They may seem arbitrary to you. Sometimes they seem arbitrary to me. I mean, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen? Fourteen? Where do you draw the line? Who knows, Norman, maybe one day we'll be as enlightened as you'd like us to be and lower the age of consent to thirteen, but until then we have to have those lines, or all becomes chaos.” He was thinking of Graham Marshall as well as Luke Armitage as he spoke. Society hadn't done a very good job of protecting either of them.

“I have done nothing wrong,” said Wells, crossing his arms again.

The problem was, as Banks and Annie had already discussed, that the closed-circuit television cameras corroborated Wells's story. Luke Armitage had entered Norman's Used Books at two minutes to five and left—alone—at five twenty-four.

“What time did you close that day?” Banks asked.

“Half past five, as usual.”

“And what did you do?”

“I went home.”

“Number fifty-seven Arden Terrace?”

“Yes.”

“That's off Market Street, isn't it?”

“Close, yes.”

“Do you live alone?”

“Yes.”

“Do you own a car?”

“A second-hand Renault.”

“Good enough to get you out to Hallam Tarn and back?”

Wells hung his head in his hands. “I've told you. I did nothing. I haven't been near Hallam Tarn in months. Certainly not since the foot-and-mouth outbreak.”

Banks could smell his sweat even more strongly now, sharp and acrid, like an animal secretion. “What did you do after you went home?”

“Had my tea. Leftover chicken casserole, if you're interested. Watched television. Read for a while, then went to sleep.”

“What time?”

“I'd say I was in bed by half past ten.”

“Alone?”

Wells just glared at Banks.

“You didn't go out again that evening?”

“Where would I go?”

“Pub? Pictures?”

“I don't drink, and I don't socialize. I prefer my own company. And I happen to believe that there hasn't been a decent picture made in the last forty years.”