“I’m presently unemployed, if it’s any of your business. And I can handle the drink. I’m not an alcoholic, you know.”
“Of course not.” Annie paused for a moment. “Did you ever get any hints that Lauren’s relationship with Luke might have been a bit more than the normal teacher-pupil one?”
“I certainly did not.”
“She never talked about him in an affectionate way?”
“I’ve had quite enough of this,” Vernon said. “It’s one thing checking up on times, but quite another to suggest that my sister had some sort of affair with this boy.” He stood up. “Look, I’ve told you what you want to know. Now why don’t you just go and leave me alone.”
“What’s wrong, Mr. Anderson?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You seem a bit agitated, that’s all.”
“Well, wouldn’t you feel agitated if someone came into your house and started flinging accusations around?”
“What accusations? I’m simply trying to make certain that your sister didn’t see Luke Armitage the night he was killed. Can’t you see how important this is, Vernon? If she did see him, he might have told her something. She might have had some idea of where he was going, who he was seeing.”
“I’m sorry. I still can’t help. Lauren was here all night.”
Annie sighed. “All right, then. Just one more thing before I leave you in peace.”
“What?”
“I understand you have a criminal record.”
Vernon reddened. “I wondered when that would come out. Look, it was a long time ago. I forged my boss’s signature on a check. I’m not proud of it. It was a stupid thing to do, okay, but I was desperate. I paid the price.”
“Well, that’s all right, then, isn’t it,” said Annie, who was thinking it was amazing what people would do when they were desperate. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Anderson.”
Vernon said nothing, just slammed the door behind her. Annie had noticed a bookie’s on the main road, just around the corner from Vernon’s street. She glanced at her watch. Time for a quick call before it closed. In her experience, bookies’ shops were always full of smoke, so she took a deep breath and went inside.
If this was the face of evil, then it was remarkably bland, Banks thought as he and Michelle were ushered into Rupert Mandeville’s presence by a young man who looked more like a clerk than a butler. In fact, Mandeville reminded Banks of the old prime minister, Edward Heath, who came to lead the party in opposition in 1965. Casually dressed in white cricket trousers, a cream shirt open at the collar, and a mauve V-neck pullover, he had the same slightly startled, slightly befuddled look about him as Heath, the same silver hair and pinkish skin. Why was it, Banks wondered, that every politician he had ever seen had skin like pink vinyl? Were they born that way?
The sheepskin rug was gone, replaced by a carpet with a complex Middle Eastern design, but the fireplace was the same one as in Graham’s photograph. Being in the room where the picture had been taken all those years ago made Banks shiver. What else had happened here? Had Graham been involved in sex acts, too? With Mandeville? He realized that he would probably never know. Reconstructing the past after so long was as faulty and unreliable a process as memory itself.
At least they now had some idea how Mandeville knew about the progress of Michelle’s investigation, even if they couldn’t prove anything. According to a local reporter Michelle had rung from the station, Mandeville had spies everywhere; it was how he had managed to survive so long in such a ruthless world as politics. It was also rumored that he had close contacts within the police force, though no names were mentioned. That must have been how he knew so much about the investigation into Graham’s death, and the threat that it was beginning to pose for him.
Mandeville was courtesy personified, pulling out a chair for Michelle and offering refreshments, which they refused. “It’s been many years since I had a visit from the police,” he said. “How can I help you?”
“Would Geoff Talbot’s visit have been the one you’re thinking about?” Michelle asked. It was still her case, Banks knew, and he was only present because she had invited him; therefore, she got to ask the questions.
“I can’t say I remember the young man’s name.”
“You ought at least to remember the month and year: August 1965.”
“So long ago. How time flies.”
“And the reason for the visit.”
“It was a mistake. An apology was offered, and accepted.”
“By Detective Superintendent Harris?”
“Again, I must confess I don’t remember the person’s name.”
“Take my word for it.”
“Very well. Look, I sense a little hostility in your tone. Can you please either tell me why you’re here or leave?”
“We’re here to ask you some questions relating to the Graham Marshall investigation.”
“Oh, yes. That poor boy whose skeleton was uncovered some days ago. Tragic. But I don’t see how that has anything to do with me.”
“We’re just tying up a few loose ends, that’s all.”
“And I’m a loose end. How fascinating!” His glaucous eyes gleamed with mockery.
Banks took the photo from his briefcase and slid it across the table to Mandeville, who looked at it without expression.
“Interesting,” he said. “But, again…”
“Do you recognize the boy?” Michelle asked.
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Do you recognize the fireplace?”
Mandeville glanced toward his own Adam fireplace and smiled at her. “I’d be a liar if I said I don’t,” he said. “Though I hardly imagine it’s the only one of its kind in existence.”
“I think it’s unique enough for our purposes,” Michelle said.
“Photographs can be faked, you know.”
Michelle tapped the photo. “Are you saying this is a forgery?”
“Of course. Unless someone has been using my house for illicit purposes in my absence.”
“Let’s get back to 1965, when this photo was taken, in this room,” Michelle said. “You were quite famous for your parties, weren’t you?”
Mandeville shrugged. “I was young, wealthy. What else was I to do but share it around a bit? Maybe I was foolish, too.”
“Parties that catered to every taste, including drugs, prostitutes and underage sex partners, male and female.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“This boy was fourteen when that photo was taken.”
“And he was a friend of mine,” said Banks, catching Mandeville’s eye and holding his gaze.
“Then I’m sorry for your loss,” said Mandeville, “but I still don’t see what it has to do with me.”
“You had him killed,” said Michelle.
“I did what? I’d be careful, if I were you, young lady, going around making accusations like that.”
“Or what? You’ll have your chauffeur break into my flat again, or try to run me over?”
Mandeville raised his eyebrows. “I was actually going to warn you about the possibility of slander.”
“I did a bit of homework before I came out here,” Michelle said. “Checked into the background of your employees. Derek Janson, your chauffeur, served a prison sentence for burglary fifteen years ago. He came to be regarded as somewhat of an expert at picking locks. I’m sure he knows how to drive a van, too.”
“I know about Derek’s background,” Mandeville said. “It’s very difficult for ex-convicts to get employment. Surely you can’t fault me for doing my little bit for Derek’s rehabilitation? I happen to trust him completely.”
“I’m sure you do. When the investigation into Graham Marshall’s disappearance was reopened, after we found his remains and discovered that he had been murdered, you did everything in your power to put me off.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because he was using the photo to blackmail you, and you asked Carlo Fiorino to take care of him. You paid Fiorino well for his various services, so he obliged.”