“And Martin Armitage?”
“Physical, rational, powerful, clean-living. Football was his life. It got him out of the slums and made him a national figure. It also made him rich. I dare say he’s had his share of ale, but I doubt he tried anything more experimental. I don’t think he has the capability to understand or tolerate the artistic temperament his stepson seems to have inherited. Probably the kind who associates artistic interests with homosexuality. I’m sure he tried to be a loving father, treated the lad as his own, but Luke had Neil Byrd’s genes.”
“And Robin?”
“Now, there’s an interesting one,” Banks said. “You tell me. You’ve seen more of her than I have.”
“She clearly had a wild youth. Sex, drugs, rock and roll. Early fame and fortune often seem to send people over the top. But however she did it, she came through, and with a son. I’d say she’s tougher than she looks, and no doubt she loved Luke but had no more idea how to deal with his problems than her husband had. I think boys like Luke invent secret worlds to exclude adults and protect themselves, even from their contemporaries. He probably spent most of his time in his room reading, writing or recording his songs. That black room.”
“Do you think he had ambitions to follow in his father’s footsteps?”
“Musically, perhaps. But I think his attitude toward his father was very complex and ambiguous. A mix of admiration and anger at abandonment.”
“None of this seems to transform into a motive, though, does it?” said Banks. He stubbed out his cigarette. “What about Josie and Calvin Batty?”
“As suspects?”
“In general.”
“Josie is the only person we’ve talked to so far who says she saw Luke with the tattooed girl.”
“Norman Wells recognized the description.”
“Yes,” Annie pointed out. “But not in connection with Luke. I’m not saying we stop looking for her, just that we don’t pin all our hopes on her. We still have to keep an open mind on this one.”
“Agreed.”
“By the way, Winsome ran a check on all cars reported stolen in the Eastvale area the night Luke disappeared. There are two possibilities, one abandoned near Hawes, in Wensleydale, and the other in Richmond.”
“Then we’d better have Stefan’s team check them both for any signs of blood.”
Annie made a note. “Okay.”
The server brought their lunches over: a salad sandwich for Annie and lasagne and chips for Banks. He didn’t usually like pub lasagne – it was too soupy – but Cyril’s wife Glenys made a good one.
“Talking about cars,” Banks said after pausing for a few mouthfuls. “How are forensics coming on with Norman Wells’s?”
“Stefan called in a couple of hours ago. Nothing yet. Do you really expect anything?”
“Maybe not. But it’s got to be done.”
“Do you think we should have detained him?”
Banks took a sip of beer before answering. “We’ve nothing to hold him on,” he said. “And he does have his business to run. Besides, I don’t think Mr. Wells is going anywhere.”
“What about Lauren Anderson?”
“Methinks the lady did protest too much.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Just that her reaction to a simple question seemed extreme.”
“She did sound awfully close to Luke. Emotionally, I mean.”
“But she does have an alibi. Ask Winsome to check with the brother, Vernon, just to be certain, but I can’t imagine she’d risk lying about that. And it was a man’s voice on the ransom call.”
“I’m not suggesting she did it – she certainly seemed genuine in her regard for him – just that she might know more than she’s letting on about what Luke was up to.”
“You’re right,” said Banks. “We shouldn’t rule her out. Maybe you could get Winsome and young Kevin to run background checks on everyone we know who was connected with Luke, and that includes the Battys, Alastair Ford, Lauren Anderson and the mystery girl, if we ever find her.”
“What about Rose Barlow?”
“I don’t know,” Banks said. “We should have a word with her, though it seems that whatever went on between her and Luke ended months ago.”
“What about forensic checks on Ford’s house, and the Anderson woman’s?”
Banks shook his head. “We can’t afford to be sending expensive forensic teams to everyone’s house. With Wells we had good reason – his history, for a start. Besides, we know Luke has been in Lauren Anderson’s house.”
“But if there’s blood…?”
“We still can’t justify the expense at this point.”
“And Alastair Ford?”
“Check into his background first. We’ll keep that one up our sleeves in case we need it.”
“You’ll stay in touch?”
“I’ll leave my mobile on all the time. I’m not deserting you, Annie.” Banks still couldn’t help feeling a little guilty – and it wasn’t because he was leaving the case to Annie, but because he would be seeing Michelle again, and the idea appealed to him.
Annie touched his sleeve. “I know you’re not. Don’t think I’m so insensitive as not to know how hard it is for you, them finding Graham Marshall’s bones and all.” She grinned. “You go and pay your respects and have a piss-up with your old mates. You’ll have a lot to catch up on. When did you last see them?”
“Not since I went to London, when I was eighteen. We just sort of lost touch.”
“I know what you mean. It happens. I don’t know anyone I went to school with anymore.”
Banks considered telling Annie about Michelle’s phone call but decided against it. Why complicate matters? Annie had enough on her plate. Besides, he wasn’t sure there was much he could do about Michelle’s concerns. If there had been some sort of cover-up, then it would have to be investigated by an outside force, not some maverick from North Yorkshire. Yet a part of him wanted to get involved, wanted to get to the bottom of Graham’s death, as well as Luke’s. They were linked in his mind in some odd way. Not technically, of course, but two very different boys from very different times had ended up dead before their time, and both had died violently. Banks wanted to know why, what it was about these two children that had attracted such cruel fates.
Chapter 14
Early in the afternoon, Annie showed the artist’s impression of the mystery girl around the Swainsdale Centre and the bus station again. At the end of an hour, she was beginning to wonder whether the girl existed, or whether she was just a figment of Josie Batty’s puritan imagination.
She walked along York Road enjoying the sunshine, glancing in the shop windows as she walked. A stylish red leather jacket caught her eye in one of the more exclusive clothes shops, but she knew it would be way out of her price range. Even so, she went in and inquired. It was.
The market square was clogged with wandering tourists and cars trying to find a parking space. A large group of Japanese, along with their tour guide and translator, stood gazing up at the front of the Norman church, where several sculpted figures of saints were carved in a row high over the doors. Some of the tourists were catching the moment on videotape, though Annie didn’t remember the stone saints ever doing the cancan or anything that even remotely involved movement.
One of the cars, she noticed – partly because it screeched straight into a handicapped parking space and almost hit a young woman – was Martin Armitage’s BMW. What the hell was he doing here? And what the hell was he doing in a handicapped parking spot? Maybe she should arrange for him to get towed? But when she saw him jump out of the car, slam the door and head for the shops built into the side of the church, she knew what was going on.