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“I don't know.”

“What about the ransom demands?”

“What about them?”

“Whose idea was that? Was it Ryan's? Did he see it as an easy opportunity to make some money now that Luke was dead anyway? Or did he do it to confuse us?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

Annie stood up and Templeton followed suit. “Right,” Annie said, switching off the tapes. “I'm fed up of this. Have her taken to the custody suite, Kev, and arrange for the taking of intimate samples. Maybe we'll be lucky and get a DNA match with the blood on the wall. And get a search warrant. We'll have forensics in her flat within an hour. Then we'll talk to the super and find out what Ryan had to say for himself.”

“Right, ma'm,” said Templeton.

“And don't bloody call me ma'm,” Annie added under her breath.

Liz stood up. “You can't do this! You can't keep me here.”

“Just watch us,” said Annie.

 

Banks tapped on his parents' front door and walked in. It was early evening, and he had plenty of time to spare before his nine o'clock meeting with Michelle. His parents had finished washing the dishes and were settling down to watch
Coronation Street,
just as they had all those years ago, the night the police came to call about Graham, the night Joey flew away.

“It's all right, don't get up,” Banks said to his mother. “I'm not stopping long. I have to go out. I just came by to drop off my overnight bag first.”

“You'll have a cup of tea, though, won't you, dear?” his mother insisted.

“Maybe he wants something stronger,” his father suggested.

“No, thanks, Dad,” said Banks. “Tea will be fine.”

“Up to you,” said Arthur Banks. “The sun's well over the yardarm. I'll have that bottle of ale while you're up, love.”

Ida Banks disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Banks and his father to their uneasy silence.

“Any progress?” Banks senior finally asked.

“On what?”

“Your old pal. Graham Marshall.”

“Not much,” said Banks.

“That why you're here again?”

“No,” Banks lied. “It's not my case. It's the funeral tomorrow.”

Arthur Banks nodded.

Banks's mother popped her head around the kitchen door. “I knew I had something to tell you, Alan. I've got a head like a sieve these days. I was talking to Elsie Grenfell yes
terday, and she said her David's coming down for the service tomorrow. And that Major lad's supposed to be here as well. Won't it be exciting, seeing all your old pals again?”

“Yes,” said Banks, smiling to himself. Some things, like the
Coronation Street
ritual—and thank the Lord there was still ten minutes to go before the program started—never changed. Paul Major had always been “that Major lad” to Ida Banks, even though she knew full well that his name was Paul. It was meant to indicate that she didn't quite approve of him. Banks couldn't imagine why. Of all of them, Paul Major had been the most goody-goody, the one most likely to become a chartered accountant or a banker.

“What about Steve?” Banks asked. “Steve Hill?”

“I haven't heard anything about him for years,” Ida Banks said, then disappeared back into the kitchen.

It wasn't surprising. The Hills had moved off the estate many years ago, when Steve's dad got transferred to Northumberland. Banks had lost track of them and didn't know where they lived now. He wondered if Steve had even heard about the finding of Graham's bones.

“I don't suppose it came to anything, what we were talking about in the Coach last time you were here?” Arthur Banks said.

“About the Krays and Mr. Marshall? Probably not. But it was useful background.”

Arthur Banks coughed. “Had over half the Metropolitan Police in their pockets, the Krays did, in their time.”

“So I've heard.”

Mrs. Banks came through with the tea and her husband's beer on a rose-patterned tray. “Our Roy phoned this afternoon,” she said, beaming. “He said to say hello.”

“How is he?” Banks asked.

“Thriving, he said. He's jetting off to America for some business meetings, so he just wanted us to know he'd be away for a few days in case we were worried or anything.”

“Oh, good,” said Banks who, much to his mother's chagrin, he imagined, never jetted anywhere—unless Greece
counted. Just like brother Roy to let his mother know what a high-powered life he was leading. He wondered what kind of shady dealings Roy was up to in America. None of his business.

“There was a program on telly the other night about that police corruption scandal a few years back,” Banks's father said. “Interesting, some of the things your lot get up to.”

Banks sighed. The defining event of Arthur Banks's life was not the Second World War, which he had missed fighting in by about a year, but the miners' strike of 1982, when Maggie Thatcher broke the unions and brought the workers to their knees. Every night he had been glued to the news and filled with the justified outrage of the workingman. Over the years, Banks knew, his father had never been able to dispel the image of policemen in riot gear waving rolls of overtime fivers to taunt the starving miners. Banks had been working undercover in London then, mostly on drugs cases, but he knew that in his father's mind he was one of them. The enemy. Would it never end? He said nothing.

“So where are you going tonight, love?” Ida Banks asked. “Are you seeing that policewoman again?”

She made it sound like a date. Banks felt a brief wave of guilt for thinking of it that way himself, then he said, “It's police business.”

“To do with Graham?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you said that wasn't your case,” his father chipped in.

“It's not, but I might be able to help a bit.”

“Helping police with their inquiries?” Arthur Banks chuckled. It turned into a coughing fit until he spat into a handkerchief.

Fortunately, before anyone could say another word, the
Coronation Street
theme music started up and all conversation ceased.

 

It wasn't often that Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe visited the Queen's Arms, but after they had finished the interviews and put Ryan Milne and Liz Palmer under lock and key for the night, he suggested to Annie that they discuss the results over a bite to eat. Hungry and thirsty, Annie thought it a good idea.

Gristhorpe, like a true gentleman, insisted on going to the bar to get their drinks, though Annie would have been happy to go herself. Instead, she sat down and made herself comfortable. Gristhorpe still intimidated her a little, though she didn't know why, but she felt easier with him in an environment like the Queen's Arms than in his book-lined office, so she was doubly glad he had suggested the pub. She definitely had a loose tooth, though, so she would have to be careful how she ate.

Gristhorpe returned with a pint of bitter for her and a half of shandy for himself. They glanced over the menu chalked on the blackboard, and Annie went for a vegetarian lasagne, which ought to be easy on her tooth, while Gristhorpe settled on fish and chips. The old man was looking healthier than he had in quite a while, Annie thought. The first few times she had seen him after his accident he had seemed pale, gaunt and drawn, but now he had a bit more flesh on his bones and a warm glow to his pockmarked face. She supposed that accidents and illness took a lot more out of you the older you got, and that recovery took longer. But how old was he? He couldn't have been all that much over sixty.

“How's your mouth feeling?” he asked.

“The pain seems to have gone for now, sir, thanks for asking.”

“You should have gone to the hospital.”

“It was nothing. Just a glancing blow.”

“Even so…these things can have complications. How's Wells?”

“Last I heard still in the infirmary. Armitage gave him a real going-over.”

“He always was a hothead, that one. Even as a football
player. Now what about the Palmer girl? Anything interesting there?”

Annie recounted what little she had got from Liz Palmer, then Gristhorpe sipped some shandy and told her about Ryan Milne's interview. “He said he knew nothing about the bag, just like his girlfriend. He told me he was out that day and didn't see Luke at all.”

“Did you believe him, sir?”

“No. Winsome went at him a bit—she's very good in interviews, that lass, a real tigress—but neither of us could shake him.”

“So what are they hiding?”

“Dunno. Maybe a night in the cells will soften them up a bit.”

“Do you think they did it, sir?”

“Did it?”

“Killed Luke and dumped the body.”

Gristhorpe pursed his lips, then said, “I don't know, Annie. Milne's got an old banger, so they had the means of transport. Like you, I suggested some sort of romantic angle, something going on between Luke and Liz, but Milne didn't bite, and to be quite honest I didn't notice any signs I'd hit the nail on the head.”

“So you don't think there was any romantic angle?”

“Luke was only fifteen, and Liz Palmer is what?”

“Twenty-one.”

“As I remember, the last thing a twenty-one-year-old woman would want is a fifteen-year-old boyfriend. Now maybe if she were forty-one…”

Annie smiled. “A toyboy?”

“I've heard it called that. But I still think fifteen's too young.”

“I don't know,” said Annie. “The head teacher's daughter told DCI Banks she thought Luke was having it off with his English teacher, and she's pushing thirty.”

“Lauren Anderson?”

“That's the one.”

“Stranger things have happened. What does Alan think?”

“That little Miss Barlow had reasons of her own for causing trouble for Miss Anderson.” Annie sipped some beer. Nectar. “But I wouldn't say it's out of the question that Luke was having relations with someone older than himself. Everything I've heard about him indicates he seemed much older than his age, both physically and mentally.”

“How about emotionally?”

“That I don't know.”

“Well, that's the one that counts,” Gristhorpe mused. “That's what causes people to get out of their depth. They can understand something intellectually, accomplish something physically, but the emotional aspect can hit them like a sledgehammer if they're not mature enough. Teenagers are particularly vulnerable.”

Annie agreed. She'd had enough experience with troubled teens in her job to know it was true, and Luke Armitage had been a complex personality, a mass of conflicting desires and unresolved problems. Add to that his creativity, his sensitivity, and Luke was probably as volatile to handle as nitroglycerine.

“Does the Anderson woman have a jealous boyfriend?” Gristhorpe asked.

“Not according to Winsome. She did a bit of digging. Only bit of dirt on Ms. Anderson is that her brother Vernon's got a record.”

Gristhorpe raised his bushy eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Nothing really nasty. Just dodgy checks.”

“I've written a few of those in my time, according to my bank manager. What about the other teacher, Alastair Ford?”

“Kevin Templeton says there are rumors he's gay, but only rumors. As far as anyone
knows
he has no sex life at all.”

“Any evidence that Luke Armitage was gay, too?”

“None. But there's no evidence he was straight, either. Ford has a temper, though, like Armitage, and he's been seeing a psychiatrist for several years now. Definitely the unstable kind.”

“Not to be ruled out, then?”

“No.”

“And Norman Wells?”

“Looking less likely, isn't he?”

When their food arrived, both were hungry enough to stop talking for a while and eat, then Gristhorpe slowed down. “Any ideas of your own about how Luke's bag ended up where it did, Annie?” he asked.

Annie finished her mouthful of lasagne, then said, “I think Luke went there after his run-in with the three bullies in the market square. What happened after that, I don't know, but either he died there or something happened that made him run off without his bag, which I don't think he'd do under any normal circumstances.”

“So
something
happened there?”

“Yes. Certainly.”

“What about his mobile?”

“One of those tiny models you can just flip open and shut. Probably couldn't find it among all the stuff if he kept it in his bag, so he carried it in his pocket. Anyway, it hasn't been found yet.”

“Has it been used?”

“Not since the ransom call. Hasn't even been switched on. I checked again with the company.”

“Anything valuable in the bag?”

“Stefan's going through it. From what I saw, though, I don't think so. I mean, the laptop was worth a bob or two, but I don't think theft was the motive here. That is…”

“Yes, Annie?”

“Well, there was nothing valuable to you or me, nothing of any real material value, but I got the impression that Liz, at least, is ambitious, and there's a chance they could ride a lot farther and a lot faster on Luke Armitage's coattails—or rather Neil Byrd's coattails.”

“I think I must be a bit of an old fogey,” said Gristhorpe, scratching the side of his hooked nose, “but I can't say I've ever heard of Neil Byrd. I know who he was to Luke and
what happened to him, of course, but that's about as far as it goes.”

“Alan—DCI Banks—knows a lot more about it than I do, sir, but Byrd was quite famous in his time. The record company is still bringing out CDs of previously unreleased stuff, greatest hits and live concerts, so there's still a thriving Neil Byrd industry out there, a dozen years after his death. Luke inherited some of his father's talent, and if Liz and Ryan wanted to milk the connection, I'm sure there are plenty of song ideas and fragments on the laptop and in his notebooks.”