“Did you believe him?” Banks asked.
“Saw no reason not to. It shocked me, though, that he’d be so callous about it. I’d never have dared steal from my mother’s purse. She’d have killed me.” He put his hand to his mouth. “Oops, sorry about that. Didn’t mean it to come out that way.”
“It’s all right,” said Banks. “I very much doubt that Graham’s mother killed him for stealing from her purse.” On the other hand, Graham’s father, Banks thought, was another matter entirely. “I think there was more to it than that.”
“What?” Paul asked.
“I don’t know. I just think Graham had something going with Donald Bradford, most likely something involving porn. And I think that led to his death.”
“You think Bradford killed him?”
“It’s a possibility. Maybe he was helping distribute the stuff, or maybe he found out about it and was blackmailing Bradford. I don’t know. All I know is that there’s a connection.”
“Graham? Blackmailing?” said Dave. “Now, hold on a minute, Alan; this is our mate Graham we’re talking about. The one whose funeral we just went to. Remember? Stealing a few bob from his mum’s purse is one thing, but blackmail…?”
“I don’t think things were exactly as we thought they were back then,” said Banks.
“Come again?” said Dave.
“He means none of you knew I was queer, for a start,” said Paul.
Banks looked at him. “But we didn’t, did we? You’re right. And I don’t think we knew a hell of a lot about Graham, either, mate or not.” He looked at Dave. “For fuck’s sake, Dave, you don’t even remember the dirty magazines.”
“Maybe I’ve got a psychological block.”
“Do you at least remember the tree?” Banks asked.
“Our den? Of course I do. I remember lots of things. Just not looking at those magazines.”
“But you did,” said Paul. “I remember you once saying pictures like that must have been taken at Randy Mandy’s. Don’t you remember that?”
“Randy Mandy’s?” Banks asked. “What the hell’s that?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t remember, either,” said Paul, exasperated.
“Obviously I don’t,” said Banks. “What does it mean?”
“Randy Mandy’s? It was Rupert Mandeville’s place, that big house up Market Deeping way. Remember?”
Banks felt a vague recollection at the edge of his consciousness. “I think I remember.”
“It was just our joke, that’s all,” Paul went on. “We thought they had all sorts of sex orgies there. Like that place where Profumo used to go a couple of years earlier. Remember that? Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice-Davies?”
Banks remembered Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice-Davies. The newspapers had been full of risqué photographs and salacious “confessions” around the time of the Profumo scandal. But that was in 1963, not 1965.
“I remember now,” said Dave. “Rupert Mandeville’s house. Bloody great country mansion, more like. We used to think it was some sort of den of iniquity back then, somewhere all sorts of naughty things went on. Whenever we came across something dirty we always said it must have come from Randy Mandy’s. You must remember, Alan. God knows where we got the idea from, but there was this high wall and a big swimming pool in the garden, and we used to imagine all the girls we fancied swimming naked there.”
“Vaguely,” said Banks, who wondered if there was any truth in this. It was worth checking into, anyway. He’d talk to Michelle, see if she knew anything. “This Mandeville still around?”
“Wasn’t he an MP or something?” said Dave.
“I think so,” Paul said. “I remember reading about him in the papers a few years ago. I think he’s in the House of Lords now.”
“Lord Randy Mandy,” said Dave, and they laughed for old times’ sake.
Conversation meandered on for another hour or so and at least one round of double Scotches. Dave seemed to stick at a certain level of drunkenness, one he had achieved early on, and now it was Paul who began to show the effects of alcohol the most, and his manner became more exaggeratedly effeminate as time went on.
Banks could sense Dave getting impatient and embarrassed by the looks they were receiving from some of the other customers. He was finding it harder and harder to imagine that they had all had so much in common once, but then it had been a lot easier and more innocent: you supported the same football team, even if they weren’t very good; you liked pop music and lusted after Emma Peel and Marianne Faithfull; and that was enough. It helped if you weren’t a swot at school and if you lived on the same estate.
Perhaps the bonds of adolescence weren’t any more shallow than those of adulthood, Banks mused, but it had sure as hell been easier to make friends back then. Now, as he looked from one to the other – Paul growing more red-faced and camp, Dave, lips tight, barely able to keep his homophobia in check – Banks decided it was time to leave. They had lived apart for over thirty years and would continue to do so without any sense of loss.
When Banks said he had to go, Dave took his cue, and Paul said he wasn’t going to sit there by himself. The rain had stopped and the night smelled fresh. Banks wanted a cigarette but resisted. As they walked the short distance back to the estate, none of them said much, sensing perhaps that tonight marked the end of something. Finally, Banks got to his parents’ door, their first stop, and said good night. They all made vague lies about keeping in touch and then walked back to their own separate lives.
Michelle was eating warmed-up chicken casserole, sipping a glass of sauvignon blanc and watching a television documentary on ocean life when her telephone rang late that evening. She was irritated by the interruption, but thinking it might be Banks, she answered it.
“Hope I didn’t disturb you,” Banks said.
“No, not at all,” Michelle lied, putting her half-eaten food aside and turning down the volume with the remote control. “It’s good to hear from you.” And it was.
“Look, it’s a bit late, and I’ve had a few drinks,” he said, “so I’d probably better not drop by tonight.”
“You men. You take a girl to bed once, and then it’s back to your mates and your beer.”
“I didn’t say I’d had too much to drink,” Banks replied. “In fact, I think I’ll phone for a taxi right now.”
Michelle laughed. “It’s all right. I’m only teasing. Believe me, I could do with an early night. Besides, you’ll only get in trouble with your mother. Did you find out anything from your old pals?”
“A bit.” Banks told her about Bradford’s “Dirty Don” epithet and the rumors they used to hear about the Mandeville house.
“I’ve heard of that place recently,” Michelle said. “I don’t know if Shaw mentioned it, or if I read about it in some old file, but I’ll check up on it tomorrow. Who’d have thought it? A house of sin. In Peterborough.”
“Well, I suppose, strictly speaking, it’s outside the city limits,” said Banks. “But going by the photo I found in Graham’s guitar and the information you got from Jet Harris’s ex-wife, I think we’d better look into anything even remotely linked with illicit sex around the time of Graham’s murder, don’t you?”
“That’s it!” Michelle said. “The connection.”
“What connection?”
“The Mandeville house. It was something to do with illicit sex. At least it was illicit back then. Homosexuality. There was a complaint about goings-on at the Mandeville house. I read about it in the old logs. No further action taken.”
“Tomorrow might turn into a busy day, then,” said Banks.
“All the more reason to get an early night. Can you stick around to help, or do you have to head back up north?”
“One more day won’t do any harm.”
“Good. Why don’t you come to dinner tomorrow?”