Robin turned back to Annie. “Actually, I’m surprised you don’t know already, given the inordinate amount of interest the gutter press took in the whole affair at the time. It’s Neil Byrd. I thought most people knew about Neil and me.”
“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.”