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“Oh, I know who he was and what happened. I just don't remember the details. He was a pop singer, wasn't he?”

“A pop singer? He'd have been disgusted to hear himself called that. He thought of himself more as a sort of modern troubadour, more of a poet than anything else.”

From singer-songwriter to footballer, Annie thought, the way Marilyn Monroe went from baseball player to playwright. There was clearly more to Robin Armitage than met the eye. “Please excuse my ignorance and refresh my memory,” she said.

Robin glanced out of the window, where a large thrush had found a worm on the lawn, then sat down beside her husband. He took her hand as she spoke. “You're probably thinking it seems like an odd combination,” she said. “But Neil was the first man not to treat me like a complete moron because of my looks. It's difficult being…well, you know, looking like I did. Most men are either too scared to approach you or they think you must be an easy lay. With Neil, it was neither.”

“How long were you together?”

“About five years. Luke was only two when Neil walked out on us. Just like that. No warning. He said he needed his solitude and couldn't afford to be burdened with a family any longer. That's exactly the way he put it:
Burdened
.”

“I'm sorry,” said Annie. “What happened? What about your career?”

“I was twenty-five when we met, and I'd been modeling since I was fourteen. It was hard to get my figure back after Luke, of course, and I was never
quite
the same as before, but I still got work, mostly TV commercials, a small and very forgettable part in a slasher film, part fifteen of some series or other. But why do you need to know all this? It can't have anything to do with Luke's disappearance. Neil's been dead for twelve years.”

“I agree with my wife,” said Martin. “As I said earlier, I can't see what relevance all this has.”

“I'm just trying to get as much background as I can,”
Annie explained. “You never know what might be important with missing persons, what might trigger them. Does Luke know who his father was?”

“Oh, yes. He doesn't remember Neil, of course, but I told him. I thought it important not to keep secrets from him.”

“How long has he known?”

“I told him when he was twelve.”

“And before that?”

“Martin is the only father he has known.”

So for seven years, Annie calculated, Luke had accepted Martin Armitage as his true father, then his mother had dropped the bombshell about Neil Byrd. “How did he react to the news?” she asked.

“He was confused, naturally,” said Robin. “And he asked a lot of questions. But other than that…I don't know. He didn't talk about it much afterward.”

Annie made a couple of notes as she digested this. She thought there must be more to it than Robin let on, but perhaps not. Kids can be surprisingly resilient. And unexpectedly sensitive.

“Do you still have any contact with any of Neil Byrd's friends or relatives?” Annie asked.

“Good Lord, no. Neil's parents both died young—it was one of the things that haunted him—and I don't move in those sort of circles anymore.”

“May I see Luke's room?”

“Of course.” Robin led Annie out into the hall, up a flight of worn stone stairs to the upper floor, where she turned to the left and opened the heavy oak door of the second room along.

Annie turned on the bedside light. It took her a few moments to register that the room was black except for the carpeted floor. It faced north, so it didn't get a lot of sun, and even with the bedside light on—there was no ceiling light—it looked gloomy. It was tidier than she had expected, though, and almost Spartan in its contents.

Luke, or someone, had painted a solar system and stars on
the ceiling. One wall was covered with posters of rock stars, and moving closer, Annie noted the names: Kurt Cobain, Nick Drake, Jeff Buckley, Ian Curtis, Jim Morrison. Most of them were at least vaguely familiar to her, but she thought Banks might know more about them than she did. No sports personalities, she noticed. On the opposite wall, written in silver spray paint, were the words
“Le Poëte se fait voyant par un long, immense et raisonné dérèglement de tous les sens.”
The words rang a bell, but she couldn't quite place them, and her French wasn't good enough to provide her with a clear translation. “Do you know what this means?” she asked.

“Sorry,” said Robin. “I never was any good at French in school.”

Annie copied the words down in her notebook. An electric guitar stood propped against a small amplifier under the mullioned window, a computer sat on a desk, and next to the wardrobe were a mini stereo system and a stack of CDs. She opened the violin case on top of the dresser and saw that it did, indeed, contain a violin.

Annie flipped through the CDs. Most of the bands she'd never heard of, such as Incubus, System of a Down and Slipknot, but she recognized some oldies like Nirvana and R.E.M. There was even some old Bob Dylan. Though Annie knew virtually nothing about the musical tastes of fifteen-year-old boys, she was certain they didn't usually include Bob Dylan.

There was nothing by Neil Byrd. Again, Annie wished Banks were here; he'd be able to read something into all this. The last CD she had bought consisted of chants by Tibetan monks, to help with her yoga and meditation.

Annie glanced at the contents of the bookcase: A lot of novels, including
Sons and Lovers, Catcher in the Rye
and
Le Grand Meaulnes,
alongside the more traditional adolescent fare of Philip Pullman and short story collections by Ray Bradbury and H. P. Lovecraft, a number of poetry anthologies, an oversize book on Pre-Raphaelite art, and that was about it.

Other than that, the room revealed remarkably little. There was no address book, at least none that Annie could find, and not very much of anything except the books, clothes and CDs. Robin told her that Luke carried a battered leather shoulder bag around with him, wouldn't go anywhere without it, and anything important to him would be in there, including his ultra-light laptop.

Annie did find some printed manuscripts in a drawer, short stories and poems, the most recent of which was dated a year ago, and she asked if she could borrow them to look at later. She could tell that Robin wasn't keen; mostly, it seemed, for the sake of Luke's precious privacy, but again, a little prodding in the right direction worked wonders. She didn't think the creative work would tell her much, anyway, but it might give her some insight into Luke's character.

There was nothing more to be gained from staying up there, and the black walls were beginning to oppress her, so she told Robin she had finished. They went back downstairs, where Martin Armitage was still sitting on the sofa.

“I understand you sent Luke to Eastvale Comprehensive instead of a public school, like Braughtmore,” Annie said.

“We don't believe in public schools,” said Martin, his West Yorkshire accent getting thicker as he spoke. “They're just breeding grounds for effete civil servants. There's nothing wrong with a comprehensive-school education.” Then he paused and smiled. Annie got the impression it was a gesture that had worked for him often with the media, the sudden flow of charm turned on like an electric current. “Well, maybe there's a lot wrong with it—at least that's what I keep hearing—but it was good enough for me, and it's good enough for most kids. Luke's intelligent and hardworking. He'll do fine.”

Judging from her body language—the folded arms and lips pressed together—Annie surmised that Robin didn't agree, that Luke's education had been a matter of some heated discussion.

“Is he happy at school?” she asked.

“He's never complained,” said Martin. “No more than any kid would. You know, he doesn't like his geography teacher, doesn't like games, and algebra's too hard. That sort of thing.”

“He's not a sports fan?”

“Unfortunately, no,” said Martin. “I've tried to get him interested, but…” He shrugged.

“What about the other boys at school? Even if he is, as you say, a bit of a loner, he must have
some
contact with his classmates?”

“I suppose so, but I've never seen any evidence of it.”

“He's never brought friends to the house?”

“Never.”

“Or asked permission to visit their houses?”

“No.”

“Does he go out a lot?”

“No more than any other boy his age,” said Martin. “Maybe even less.”

“We want Luke to have a normal life,” said Robin. “It's hard knowing what to allow and what not to. It's hard to know how much discipline to apply. If you don't give enough, then the child runs wild, and the parents get the blame. If you keep too strict control, he doesn't develop naturally, and he blames you for screwing him up. We do our best to be good parents and strike a fair balance.”

Annie, an outsider herself at school because she was brought up in an artists' commune, the “hippie chick” to the other kids, understood just how alienated Luke might feel, not through any fault of his parents. For a start, they lived in an out-of-the-way place like Swainsdale Hall, a grand place at that; secondly, they were minor celebrities; and thirdly, he sounded like an introverted personality anyway.

“I'm sure you do,” she said. “What did he do yesterday?” she asked.

“He went into the town center.”

“How did he get there?”

“Bus. There's a good service, at least until after teatime.”

“Did he have any particular reason to go to Eastvale yesterday?”

“Nothing in particular,” Robin answered. “He just loves hunting for secondhand books, and he wanted to look at some new computer stuff.”

“That's all?”

“As far as I know. It was nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Has he ever stopped out all night before?”

“No,” said Robin, putting her hand to her throat. “Never. That's why we're so worried. He wouldn't put us through this unless something…something awful's happened.”

She started to cry, and her husband held her, smoothing her silky spun-gold hair. “There, there, darling. Don't worry. They'll find him.” All the time his intense eyes were looking right at Annie, as if daring her to disagree. Not that she wanted to. A man used to having his own way. A man of action, too, Annie had no doubt, used to running ahead with the ball and slamming it into the back of the net.

“What about the rest of the family—uncles, aunts, grandparents?” she asked. “Was he close to anybody in particular?”

“Robin's family's down in Devon,” said Martin. “My parents are dead, but I've got a married sister living in Dorset and a brother in Cardiff. Of course, we rang everyone we could think of, but nobody's seen him.”

“Did he have any money with him?”

“Not much. A few pounds. Look, Inspector,” he said, “I do appreciate your questions, but you're on the wrong track. Luke has his mobile. If he wanted to go somewhere or do something that meant he wouldn't be coming home, or that he'd be late, then why wouldn't he give us a buzz?”

“Unless it was something he didn't want you to know about.”

“But he's only
fifteen,
” said Martin. “What on earth could he be up to that's so secret he wouldn't want his parents to know about it?”

Do you know where your children are? Do you know what your children are doing?
It was Annie's experience, both
through her own memories and as a policewoman, that there was
no one
more secretive than an adolescent, especially a sensitive, lonely adolescent, but Luke's parents just didn't seem to get this. Hadn't they been through it themselves? Or had so much else happened since their own childhoods that they had forgotten what it was like?

There were any number of reasons why Luke might have thought it necessary to go off for a while without telling his parents—children are often selfish and inconsiderate—but they couldn't seem to think of one. Still, it wasn't the first time Annie had come across such an astonishing gap between parental perception and reality. More often than she would have expected, she had found herself facing the parents of missing children who said they had simply no idea where young Sally could have gone or why she would want to go off anywhere and cause them such pain.

“Have there ever been any threats against you?” she asked.

“No,” said Martin. “Why do you ask?”

“Celebrities often attract the wrong sort of attention.”

Martin snorted. “We're hardly Beckham and Posh Spice. We're not much in the public eye these days. Not for the past five years or so, since we moved here. We both keep a very low profile.”

“Did it cross your mind that someone might have thought Luke was worth kidnapping?” she asked.

“Despite what you think,” Martin said, “we're actually not all that wealthy.” He gestured around. “The house, for a start…it just eats up money. We'd be very poor marks for a kidnapper, believe me.”

“The kidnapper might not know that.”

Robin and Martin looked at each other. Finally, Robin spoke. “No, I don't think so. As I said, we always wanted Luke to have a normal life, not like mine. We didn't want him surrounded by bodyguards and security. Maybe it was foolish of us, unrealistic, but it's worked until now. Nothing bad ever happened to him.”

“And I'm sure nothing has now,” said Annie. “Look, I re
alize it's probably second nature to you, but if anyone from the press comes around asking questions—”

“Don't worry,” said Martin Armitage. “They'll have me to deal with.”

“Very good, sir. And just to be on the safe side, do you think we could arrange to have any phone calls intercepted?”