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“Jet Harris was waiting for me. He was furious.”

“He was at the station waiting for you? On a Sunday morning?”

“Yes. I suppose someone from Mandeville's house must have phoned him.”

“Probably dragged him out of church,” Banks said.

“What did he do?” Michelle asked.

“He had a private talk with the two men, let them go and had his little chat with me. That was the end of it. No further action.”

“Just out of interest,” Michelle asked, “how old was Rupert Mandeville at the time?”

“Quite young. In his thirties. His parents had been killed in a plane crash not too long before, I remember, and he'd inherited a fortune, even after tax. I suppose he was just doing what many young people would have done if they'd gained their freedom and had unlimited funds.”

“Ever hear of Donald Bradford?” Michelle asked.

“The name doesn't ring a bell.”

“Bill Marshall?”

“He was one of Fiorino's muscle men. I ran into him a couple of times in Le Phonographe. Tough character. Thick as the proverbial pig shit.”

“Thank you, Mr. Talbot.”

“You're welcome. Look, I can't see as I've been any help, but…”

Banks placed the photograph of Graham Marshall in front of him. “Do you recognize that boy?”

Talbot paled. “My God, isn't that the boy who…? His photograph was in the papers only a few weeks ago.”

“Did you see him at the Mandeville house?”

“No…I…but that's the room. Mandeville's living room. I remember the sheepskin rug and the fireplace. Does that mean what I think it means? That the boy's death is somehow connected with Mandeville and Harris?”

“Somehow,” said Michelle. “We're just not quite sure how yet.”

Talbot tapped the photo. “If we'd had something like that back then, we'd have had some evidence,” he said.

“Possibly,” said Banks. “If it ever saw the light of day.”

They stood up and Talbot showed them to the door. “You know,” he said, “I felt at the time that there was more going on than met the eye. I've always wondered what would have happened if I'd pushed it a bit harder, not let go too easily.”

“You'd have probably ended up under a field with Graham Marshall,” said Banks. “Bye, Mr. Talbot. And thank you.”

 

Gavin Barlow was in his study when Annie called, and he invited her to sit with him there while they talked. It was a light, airy room, with plenty of space, and the bookcases didn't feel as overwhelming as the ones in Gristhorpe's office. Barlow pushed his laptop aside on his desk and smiled. “It might be summer holidays for most,” he said, “but some of us still have work to do.”

“I won't take up much of your time,” Annie said. “It's about your daughter.”

“Rose? I'm afraid she's out.”

“Perhaps you can answer my questions, then.”

“I'll try. But look, if Rose is in any sort of trouble…”

“What?”

“I don't know. Maybe I should call my solicitor or something.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Just tell me what you've come to say.”

“Your daughter came to the station and made some pretty serious allegations about Lauren Anderson and Luke Armitage.”

“She did what?”

“And now it turns out that she was seeing Luke earlier this year. She even visited him at Swainsdale Hall on at least one occasion. Do you know anything about that?”

“Of course. It was a school project the students were asked to partner up on. To promote working together, task-sharing. Rose worked with Luke.”

“Her choice or his?”

“I don't know. I should imagine the teacher assigned them.”

“Lauren Anderson?”

“No, actually. It was a science project. It would have been Mr. Sawyer.”

“Do you know if Luke and Rose had any sort of romantic involvement?”

“Not as far as I know. Look, Ms. Cabbot, I'm not so naive
as to think that teenagers their age don't form liaisons. I've been a head teacher too long to think otherwise. I've even come across my share of teenage pregnancies. But I also know my own daughter, and believe me, I would have known if she'd been seeing Luke Armitage.”

“They were seen talking together in and around the school. Did she ever talk to you about Luke?”

“She might have mentioned him once or twice, yes. It was only natural. I mean, they were in the same class, he was a little odd, and something of a minor celebrity. At least his parents are.”

“Was she obsessed with him?”

“Don't be ridiculous!”

“Would you have approved if they had been going out together?”

Barlow pursed his lips. “I can't say that I would, no.”

“Why not?”

“She's my daughter, for crying out loud. You don't think I'd have wanted her going out with that…”

“That what, Mr. Barlow?”

“I was going to say that
boy
.”

“Oh, were you?”

“Yes. But I'll admit that, as a father, I thought Luke Armitage just a little too weird for my daughter.”

“How far would you have gone to stop them going out together?”

“Now, hold on a minute. I won't have you—”

“Where were you and Rose the night Luke disappeared? That's a week ago last Monday, in case you don't remember.”

“Here.”

“Both of you?”

“As far as I know. My wife will remember.”

“Why would Rose want to make trouble for Ms. Anderson?”

“I don't know.”

“How well does your daughter do at English?”

“It's not her best subject, or her favorite.”

“Was she jealous?”

“Of what?”

“Of the attention Luke got from Lauren Anderson?”

“Why don't you ask Lauren?”

“I will. But I'm asking you first.”

“And I'm telling you I don't know.”

They stared at each other, and Annie tried to weigh up whether he was telling the truth or not. She decided he was holding something back. “What is it, Mr. Barlow?” she asked. “If it's nothing to do with Luke's death, it will go no further than these walls, I promise.”

Barlow sighed and stared out of the window. The clouds had split in places and shafts of light lanced the distant hills. The laptop hummed on his desk.

“Mr. Barlow?”

He turned back to face her, and his facade of benevolent authority had disappeared. In its place was the look of a man with a burden. He stared at her a long time before speaking. “It was nothing,” he said finally, his voice little more than a whisper. “Really. Nothing.”

“Then tell me.”

“Ms. Anderson. Lauren. If you've seen her, you must have noticed she's an attractive woman, quite the Pre-Raphaelite beauty,” Barlow said. “I'm only as human as the next man, but everyone expects me to be above reproach.”

“You're a head teacher,” said Annie. “You're supposed to be
responsible
. What happened? Did you have an affair? Did Rose find out?”

“Oh, good Lord, no. Nothing like that. I might have flirted a bit, as one does, but Lauren wasn't interested in me. She made that quite clear.”

Annie frowned. “Then I don't understand.”

A thin smile twisted his lips. “Don't you? Sometimes things can seem other than they are, and any attempt to explain them away only makes you seem more guilty.”

“Can you elaborate on that?”

“Lauren came to see me in my office shortly after Christmas. A family problem. Her father had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's, and she was upset, needed some time off. I put an arm around her, just to comfort her, you understand, and Rose chose that moment to come barging in with some family matter. It's one of the disadvantages of being the head of the school your daughter attends. Rose was usually pretty good about observing the boundaries, but on this occasion…Well, she misread the situation and went running off.”

“I see,” said Annie. “Did she tell your wife?”

“No. No, thank God. I managed to talk to her. I'm not sure she quite believed in my innocence, but she agreed not to say anything.”

“And that's the root of her animosity toward Lauren Anderson?”

“I should imagine so. Maybe she had a crush on Luke Armitage, too, at one time, but believe me, I'd have known if there was more to it than that.”

“Are you sure there's nothing else?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“You
were
attracted to Lauren, though, weren't you? What did you call her? A Pre-Raphaelite beauty?”

“Yes. As I said, I'm only human. And she
is
a very attractive woman. You can't arrest a man for his thoughts. At least not yet. The damn thing is, I'd done nothing wrong, but because I wanted it, I felt as guilty as if I had, anyway.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Funny, isn't it?”

“Yes,” said Annie. “Very funny.” But her thoughts were elsewhere. Barlow might not have given her the answers she was hoping for, but he had certainly given her plenty to think about.

 

“Well, if it isn't our two lovebirds,” said Ben Shaw, opening the door to Banks and Michelle. “What the fuck do you two want?”

“A few words,” said Banks.

“And why should I want a few words with you?”

“Des Wayman,” said Michelle.

Shaw squinted at her, then shut the door, slid off the chain and opened it, walking away from them, leaving Banks to shut the door behind them and follow.

The house was far neater than Banks had expected. He had pegged Shaw as an alcoholic living alone, and that usually meant chaos. At least Shaw probably hired a cleaning lady, and his personal habits seemed tidy enough. The only booze in sight was a half-empty bottle of Bell's on the living room table, a full glass beside it. Shaw sat down and took a slug without offering his guests anything. Well, Banks thought, why should he?

Grieg's
Peer Gynt Suite
was playing on the radio, another surprise for Banks. He wouldn't have guessed Shaw to be a man of classical tastes. Or maybe it didn't matter what was on as long as there was sound.

“So what porkies has Mr. Wayman been telling today?”

“Stop pissing around,” said Banks. “You told Wayman and a mate to work me over and get me out of the picture. It backfired.”

“If he told you that, he's lying.”

“He told me, sir,” said Michelle, “and with all due respect, I think he was telling the truth.”

“
All due respect?
You don't know the meaning of the term.” Shaw lit a cigarette and Banks felt a wave of pure need surge inside him. He was already feeling light-headed and edgy from not smoking, but this…this was ten times worse than he'd imagined. He took a grip. “Wayman's nothing but criminal scum,” Shaw went on. “And you'd take his word over mine?”

“That's neither here nor there,” Banks went on. “DI Hart has done a bit of digging into your Regan and Carter days with Jet Harris, and we were just wondering how much the two of you took in from Carlo Fiorino.”

“You bastard!” Shaw lurched forward to grab Banks's
lapel but he was already a bit unsteady with drink, and Banks pushed him back down into his chair. He paled, and a grimace of pain passed over his face.

“What is it?” asked Banks.

“Fuck you.” Shaw coughed and reached for more whiskey. “John Harris was worth ten of you. You're not worth the piss stains on his underwear.”

“Come off it, Shaw, the two of you were as bent as the day is long. He might have had a good excuse for it, but you…? You couldn't remove every scrap of evidence from the archives. All your arrests were for burglary, assault, fraud and the occasional domestic murder. Doesn't that tell you something?”

“What, smart-arse?”

“That all the time Carlo Fiorino was running prostitution, escort agencies, illegal gambling, protection, porn and drugs with absolute impunity. Sure, you had him or one of his henchmen brought in once or twice for questioning, just for the sake of appearances, but guess what—either the evidence disappeared or witnesses changed their statements.”

Shaw said nothing, just sipped more whiskey.

“Fiorino fed you his opposition,” Banks went on. “He had eyes and ears out on the street. He knew what jobs were going down. Small-fry, or competition. Either way it made you look good and deflected attention from his own operations, which included supplying Rupert Mandeville with as many bodies as he wanted for his ‘parties,' male and female.”

Shaw slammed the tumbler down on the table so hard, the whiskey slopped over the side. “All right,” he said. “You want the truth? I'll tell you. I'm not stupid. I worked with John for too many years not to have my suspicions, but—know what?—I never took a fucking penny in my life. And maybe I blinkered myself, maybe I even protected him, but we did our jobs. We brought down the bad guys. I loved the man. He taught me everything. He even saved my life once. He had charisma, did John. He was the kind of bloke every
body noticed when he walked in the room. He's a fucking hero around these parts, or hadn't you noticed?”

“And that's why you've been doing everything in your power to scupper DI Hart's investigation into Graham Marshall's murder? To protect your old pal's memory. To protect Jet Harris's reputation. To do that you get someone to break into her flat, try to run her down, have me beaten up.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You know what I'm talking about.”

He looked at Michelle, then back at Banks, a puzzled expression on his face. “I certainly never had anyone intimidate DI Hart in any way. I wasn't worried about her. It was you I was worried about.”

“Why's that?”