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“Day after tomorrow.”

“I'll get away as soon as I can,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow. In the meantime, don't say or do anything. Just carry on as normal. Okay?”

“Okay. And, Alan?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks. I mean it. I'm in a jam.” She paused, then added, “And I'm scared.”

“I'll be there.”

After Banks hung up, he refilled his glass, put the second Bill Evans set on and settled down to think over the repercussions of what he had realized earlier that evening, reading his diary, and of what he had just heard from Michelle.

L
auren Anderson lived in a small semi not too far from where Banks used to live with Sandra before their separation. He hadn't passed the end of his old street in a long time, and it brought back memories he would rather forget. He felt cheated, somehow. The memories should have been good—he and Sandra
had
had good times together, had been in love for many years—but everything seemed tainted by her betrayal, and now by her forthcoming marriage to Sean. And the baby, of course. The baby hurt a lot.

He spoke nothing of his thoughts to Annie, who sat beside him. She didn't even know he used to live there, as he had only met her after he moved to the Gratly cottage. Besides, she had made it clear that she wasn't interested in his old life with Sandra and the kids; that was one of the main things that had come between them and broken up their brief and edgy romance.

It was as fine a summer's day as they had seen in a while. They were in Banks's car this time, the way he preferred it, with the windows open listening to Marianne Faithfull singing “Summer Nights” on a greatest hits CD. That was back when her voice was rich and smooth, before the booze, drugs and cigarettes had taken their toll the same way it happened with Billie Holiday. It was also a hit around the time Graham disappeared and captured the mood of that sex-preoccupied adolescent summer.

“I can't believe you still listen to this stuff,” said Annie.

“Why not?”

“I don't know. It's just so…old.”

“So is Beethoven.”

“Clever clogs. You know what I mean.”

“I used to fancy her like crazy.”

Annie shot him a sidelong glance. “Marianne Faithfull?”

“Yes. Why not? She used to come on
Ready, Steady, Go!
and
Top of the Pops
every time she had a new record out, and she'd sit on a high stool with her guitar looking just like a schoolgirl. But she'd be wearing a low-cut dress, legs crossed, and that sweet voice would come out, and you'd just want to…”

“Go on.”

Banks stopped at a traffic light and smiled at Annie. “I'm sure you get the picture,” he said. “She just looked so innocent, so virginal.”

“But if the stories are true, she put herself about quite a bit, didn't she? Far from virginal, I'd say.”

“Maybe that was part of it, too,” Banks agreed. “You just knew she…
did
it. There were stories. Gene Pitney. Mick Jagger. The parties and all that.”

“Saint and sinner all in one package,” said Annie. “How perfect for you.”

“Christ, Annie, I was only a kid.”

“Quite a randy one, too, it seems.”

“Well, what did you think about at fourteen?”

“I don't know. Boys, maybe, but not in a sexual way. Having fun. Romance. Clothes. Makeup.”

“Maybe that's why I always fancied older women,” said Banks.

Annie nudged him hard in the ribs.

“Ouch! What did you do that for?”

“You know. Park here. Men,” she said, as Banks parked and they got out of the car. “When you're young you want older women, and when you're old you want younger women.”

“These days,” said Banks, “I take whatever I can get.”

“Charming.” Annie pressed the doorbell and a few seconds later saw the shape coming toward them through the frosted glass.

Lauren Anderson was dressed in jeans and a thin V-neck sweater, and she wore no makeup. Younger than Banks had expected, she was willowy, with full lips, a pale oval face and heavy-lidded pale-blue eyes, all framed by long auburn hair spilling down over her shoulders. As she stood in the doorway, she wrapped her arms around herself as if she were cold.

“Police,” Banks said, holding out his warrant card. “May we come in?”

“Of course.” Lauren stood aside.

“In here?” Banks asked, pointing toward what looked like the living room.

“If you like. I'll make some tea, shall I?”

“Lovely,” said Annie, following her into the kitchen.

Banks could hear them talking as he had a quick look around the living room. He was impressed by the two walls of bookshelves groaning under the weight of classics he had meant to read but never got around to. All the Victorians, along with the major Russians and French. A few recent novels: Ian McEwan, Graham Swift, A.S. Byatt. Quite a lot of poetry, too, from Heaney's
Beowulf
translation to the latest issue of
Poetry Review
lying on the low coffee table. There were plays, too: Tennessee Williams, Edward Albee, Tom Stoppard, the Elizabethans and Jacobeans. There was also a section devoted to art and one to classical mythology. Not to mention the rows of literary criticism, from Aristotle's
Poetics
to David Lodge on the vagaries of post-structuralism. Most of the music in the CD rack was classical, favoring Bach, Mozart and Handel.

Banks found a comfortable chair and sat down. In a short while, Annie and Lauren came in with the tea. Noting an ashtray on the table and getting a distinct whiff of stale smoke in the air, Banks asked if he might light up. Lauren
said sure and accepted one of his Silk Cut. Annie turned up her nose the way only an ex-smoker can do.

“It's a nice place,” Banks said.

“Thank you.”

“Do you live here alone?”

“I do now. I used to share it with one of the other teachers, but she got her own flat a few months ago. I'm not sure, but I think I like it better by myself.”

“I don't blame you,” said Banks. “Look, the reason we're here is that we heard you used to give Luke Armitage extra tutoring in English, and we wondered if you could tell us anything about him.”

“I'm not sure I can tell you anything about him, but, yes, I used to tutor Luke.” Lauren sat on the small sofa with her legs tucked under her, cup held in both hands. She blew on the tea. “He was so far ahead of the rest of his class, he must have been bored silly at school. He was far ahead of me most of the time.” She raised her hand and flicked some troublesome locks of hair out of her face.

“That good?”

“Well, his enthusiasm made up for what he lacked in formal training.”

“I gather he was a talented writer, too.”

“Very. Again, he needed discipline, but he was young, raw. He'd have gone far if…if…” She held her cup in one hand and rubbed her sleeve across her eyes. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I just can't get over it. Luke. Dead. Such a waste.”

Annie passed her a tissue from the box on one of the bookshelves. “Thank you,” she said, then blew her nose. She shifted on the sofa and Banks noticed her feet were bare and her toenails painted red.

“I know it's hard to accept,” said Banks, “but I'm sure you can understand why we need to know as much about him as possible.”

“Yes, of course. Though, as I said, I don't see how I can tell you much.”

“Alastair Ford said you're the kind who listens to people's problems.”

She snorted. “Alastair! He was probably trying to say I'm a prying bitch. Alastair runs a mile if anyone comes within vague hailing distance of whatever warped emotions he might possess.”

Banks had got the same impression himself, though he wouldn't have put it in quite those words. On early impressions, Lauren Anderson was turning out to be perhaps the most
normal
friend Luke had had. But the competition—Ford and Wells—wasn't very stiff.

“Did Luke ever talk about himself?”

“Not much,” said Lauren. “He could be very closed, could Luke.”

“Sometimes?”

“Sometimes he might let his guard drop a little, yes.”

“And what did he talk about then?”

“Oh, the usual. School. His parents.”

“What did he say about them?”

“He hated school. Not only were most things boring for him, but he didn't like the discipline, the formality.”

Banks thought of the boys who had tormented Luke in the market square. “What about bullying?”

“Yes, that too. But it wasn't serious. I mean, Luke was never beaten up or anything.”

“What was it, then?”

“Mostly teasing. Name-calling. A bit of jostling. Oh, I'm not saying he wasn't hurt by it. He was very sensitive. But he could handle it, in a way.”

“What do you mean?”

“It didn't really bother him. I mean, he knew the boys who were doing it were morons, that they couldn't help themselves. And he knew they were doing it because he was different.”

“Superior?”

“No, I don't think Luke ever believed himself to be superior to anyone else. He just knew he was different.”

“What did he have to say about his parents?”

Lauren paused for a moment before answering. “It was very private,” she said.

Annie leaned forward. “Ms. Anderson,” she said. “Luke's dead.”

“Yes. Yes, I know.”

“And we need to know everything.”

“But you surely can't think his parents had anything to do with his death?”

“What did he say about them?”

Lauren paused, then went on. “Not much. It was clear he wasn't very happy at home. He said he loved his mother, but he gave the impression that he didn't get along with his stepfather.”

Banks could well imagine it. Martin Armitage was a physical, dominating presence, used to getting his own way, and his interests seemed worlds away from those of his stepson. “Did you get the impression that his stepfather abused him in any way?” he asked.

“Good Lord, no,” said Lauren. “Nobody ever beat him or abused him in any way. It was just…they were so different. They'd nothing in common. I mean, Luke couldn't care less about football, for a start.”

“What was he going to do about his problems?”

“Nothing. What could he do? He was only fifteen. Maybe he'd have left home in a year or so, but we'll never know now, will we? For the time being he had to put up with it.”

“Kids put up with a lot worse,” said Banks.

“Indeed they do. The family was well-off and Luke never lacked for material comforts. I'm sure that both his mother and his stepfather loved him very much. He was a sensitive, creative boy with a boorish stepfather and an empty-headed mother.”

Banks wouldn't have said Robin Armitage was empty-headed, but perhaps Lauren was making the sort of assumption people often make about models. “What about Neil Byrd?” Banks went on. “Did Luke ever talk about him?”

“Hardly ever. He got very emotional when the subject
came up. Angry, even. Luke had a lot of unresolved issues. You just knew to back away.”

“Can you explain?”

Lauren's brow furrowed. “I think he was angry because he never knew his father. Angry because Neil Byrd abandoned him when he was just a baby and then went and committed suicide. Can you imagine how that would make you feel? You don't even mean enough to your father for him to stay alive and watch you grow up.”

“Was there anything in particular that might have been bothering him recently, anything he might have mentioned to you?”

“No. The last time I saw him, at the end of term, he was excited about the summer holidays. I assigned him some reading.”

“
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
and
Crime and Punishment
?”

Her eyes widened. “Those were two of the books. How do you know that?”

“It doesn't matter,” said Banks. “How did you go about tutoring him?”

“Usually I'd assign him some reading, maybe a novel or some poetry, and then we'd meet here and discuss it. Often we'd move out from there and discuss painting, history, Greek and Roman mythology. He was very advanced when it came to understanding literature. And he had an insatiable appetite for it.”

“Advanced enough for Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Verlaine?”

“Rimbaud was a mere boy himself. And young teens are often attracted to Baudelaire.”

“‘Le Poëte se fait voyant par un long, immense et raisonné dérèglement de tous les sens,'”
Banks quoted, in an accent he hoped wasn't too incomprehensible. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“Why, of course. It's Rimbaud's description of the method he used to make himself a
seer
. ‘A total disordering of all the senses.'”

“It was written on Luke's bedroom wall. Did it involve taking drugs?”

“Not that I know of. Not in Luke's case, anyway. It was about opening oneself to experience of all kinds. To be quite honest, I didn't approve of Luke's fascination with Rimbaud. In so many cases like that it's a fascination with the romantic ideal of the tortured boy-poet, not with the work itself.”

Not wanting to get lost in the realms of literary criticism, Banks moved on. “You felt very close to Luke, am I right?”

“In a way, I suppose. If you really
could
be close to him. He was slippery, chameleonlike, often moody, quiet and withdrawn. But I liked him and I believed in his talent, if that's what you mean.”

“If Luke had come to you for help, would you have given it?”

“That depends on the circumstances.”

“If he was running away from home, for example.”

“I'd do all I could to discourage him.”

“That sounds like the official line.”

“It's the one I'd follow.”

“You wouldn't harbor him?”

“Of course not.”

“Because we don't know where he went the day he disappeared. Not after about five-thirty, anyway. But he was last seen walking north on Market Street. That would eventually have brought him to your neighborhood, wouldn't it?”

“Yes, but…I mean…why would he come here?”

“Maybe he trusted you, needed your help with something.”

“I can't imagine what.”

“When were the two of you next due to meet?”