“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?”
“Not until next term. I’m going home next week for the rest of the holidays. My father’s not been well lately and my mother’s finding it hard to cope.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Where’s home?”
“South Wales. Tenby. A sleepy little place, but it’s by the sea, lots of cliffs to walk on and think.”
“Are you sure Luke never came to see you the Monday before last?”
“Of course I’m sure. He had no reason to.”
“You were only his tutor, right?”
Lauren stood up and anger flashed in her eyes. “What do you mean? What are you trying to insinuate?”
Banks held his hand up. “Whoa. Wait a minute. I was only thinking that he might have considered you as a friend and mentor, someone he could go to if he was in trouble.”
“Well, he didn’t. Look, as it happens, I wasn’t even home the Monday before last.”
“Where were you?”
“Visiting my brother, Vernon.”
“And where does Vernon live?”
“Harrogate.”
“What time did you leave?”
“About five. Shortly after.”
“And what time did you get back?”
“I didn’t. As a matter of fact, I had a bit too much to drink. Too much to risk driving, at any rate. So I slept on Vernon’s sofa. I didn’t come back here until about lunchtime on Tuesday.”
Banks glanced at Annie, who put her notebook aside and pulled the artist’s impression out of her briefcase. “Have you ever seen this girl, Ms. Anderson?” she asked. “Think carefully.”
Lauren studied the drawing and shook her head. “No. I’ve seen the look, but the face isn’t familiar.”
“Not someone from school?”
“If she is, I don’t recognize her.”
“We think she might have been Luke’s girlfriend,” Banks said. “And we’re trying to find her.”
Lauren shot Banks a glance. “Girlfriend? But Luke didn’t have a girlfriend.”
“How do you know? You said he didn’t tell you everything.”
She fingered the collar of her V-neck. “But… but I’d have known.”
“I can’t see how,” said Banks. “What about Rose Barlow?”
“What about her?”
“I’ve heard she and Luke were pretty friendly.”
“Who told you that?”
“Were they?”
“I believe they went out once or twice earlier this year. Rose Barlow isn’t anywhere near Luke’s league. She’s strictly a plodder.”
“So it didn’t last.”
“Not to my knowledge. Though, as you pointed out, I wouldn’t necessarily be the one to know.”
Banks and Annie stood up to leave. Lauren walked to the door with them.
“Thanks for your time,” Banks said. “And if you do remember anything else, you’ll let us know, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course. Anything I can do,” Lauren said. “I do hope you catch whoever did this. Luke had such a promising future ahead of him.”
“Don’t worry,” said Banks, with more confidence than he felt. “We will.”
Ever since she had rung Banks, Michelle had thought of confronting Shaw with what she had discovered. It would have been easy enough for any authorized person to remove the notebooks and actions from their file boxes. Michelle could have done it herself, so who would think to question an officer of Shaw’s rank? Certainly not Mrs. Metcalfe.
But still she resisted the direct approach. The thing was, she had to be certain. Once something like that was out in the open, there was no taking it back. She had been down in the archives again first thing that morning on another fruitless search, which had at least convinced her that the objects she was looking for were missing. And they should have been there.
What she needed to do now was think. Think about what it all meant. She couldn’t do that in the station with Shaw wandering around the place, so she decided to drive over to the Hazels estate and walk Graham’s route again.
She parked in front of the row of shops opposite the estate and stood for a moment enjoying the feel of the sun on her hair. She looked at the newsagent’s shop, now run by Mrs. Walker. That was where it had all begun. On a whim, Michelle entered the shop and found the sturdy, gray-haired old lady arranging newspapers on the counter.
“Yes, love,” the woman said with a smile. “What can I do for you?”
“Are you Mrs. Walker?”
“Indeed I am.”
“I don’t know if you can do anything,” said Michelle, presenting her warrant card, “but you might have heard we found some bones not long ago and-”
“The lad who used to work here?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I read about it. Terrible business.”
“It is.”
“But I don’t see how I can help you. It was before my time.”
“When did you come here?”
“My husband and I bought the shop in the autumn of 1966.”
“Did you buy it from Mr. Bradford, the previous owner?”
“As far as I know we did. The estate agent handled all the details, along with my husband, of course, bless his soul.”
“Mr. Walker is deceased?”
“A good ten years now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No need to be. He went just like that. Never felt a thing. Brain aneurysm. We had a good life together, and I’m well provided for.” She looked around the shop. “I can’t say it’s exactly a gold mine, but it’s a living. Hard work, too. People say I should retire, sell up, but what would I do with my time?”
“Did you know Graham Marshall at all?”
“No. We moved here from Spalding, so we didn’t know anyone at first. We’d been looking for a nice little newsagent’s shop and this one came on the market at the right price. Good timing, too, what with the new town development starting in 1967, shortly after we got here.”
“But you did meet Mr. Bradford?”
“Oh, yes. He was very helpful during the transition. Showed us the ropes and everything.”
“What was he like?”
“I can’t say I knew him well. My husband had most dealings with him. But he seemed all right. Pleasant enough. A bit abrupt, maybe. A bit stiff and military in his bearing. I remember he was something important during the war, a member of some special unit or other in Burma. But he was helpful.”
“Did you hear from him after you took over?”
“No.”
“Did he ever mention Graham?”
“Oh, yes. That’s why he left. Partly, at any rate. He said his heart hadn’t been in the business since the boy disappeared, so he wanted to move away and try to forget.”
“Do you know where he moved to?”
“The North, or so he said. Carlisle.”
“That’s certainly far enough away.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t suppose you had a forwarding address, did you?”
“Didn’t you know? Mr. Bradford died. Killed in a burglary not weeks after he moved. Tragic, it was. In all the local papers at the time.”
“Indeed?” said Michelle, curious. “No, I didn’t know.” It probably wasn’t relevant to her inquiry, but it was suspicious. One of the last people to see Graham alive had himself been killed.
Michelle thanked Mrs. Walker and went back outside. She crossed the road and started walking along Hazel Crescent, the same route Graham would have taken all those years ago. It was an early morning in August 1965, she remembered; the sun was just up, but an overcast sky made it still fairly dark. Everybody was sleeping off Saturday night, and the churchgoers were not even up yet. Lights would have been on in one or two windows, perhaps – the insomniacs and chronic early risers – but nobody had seen anything.