Close to Home (18 page)

“Haven't had a milk shake in years,” said Banks.

“Me, neither. What next?”

“Home. And you?”

“Dunno. The leads are hardly jumping out at me left, right and center.”

Banks thought for a moment. He hadn't told Shaw about the possible Kray connection because Shaw had behaved like a bastard. Besides, it wasn't his case. There was no reason to keep it from Michelle, though. It probably meant nothing, but at least it would give her something to do, the illusion of progress.

“I've heard rumors that Graham Marshall's dad was connected with the Krays in London just before the family moved up here.”

“Connected? In what way?”

“Strong-arm man. Enforcer. I don't know how true it is—you know how these things can be exaggerated—but it might be worth a bit of delving into.”

“How do you know this?”

Banks touched the side of his nose. “I've got my sources.”

“And how long have you known?”

“Just found out before I came here.”

“Yeah, and the Pope's Jewish.”

“The point is, what are you going to do about it?”

Michelle moved the froth in her cup around with a spoon. “I don't suppose it'd do any harm to set a few inquiries in motion. Might even get a trip to London out of it. You sure I won't come out looking like a complete moron?”

“I can't guarantee that. It's always a risk. Better than being the moron who missed the vital clue, though.”

“Thanks. That's
really
encouraging. I don't know very much about the Krays—before my time. I haven't even seen the film. I do remember the big funeral they gave one of them in the East End not so long ago, though.”

“That'd be Reggie. Couple of years ago. The whole East End came out for him. It was the same when Ronnie died in 1995. Very popular among East Enders, the Krays were. Loved their mother. There were three of them, an older brother called Charlie, but Ronnie and Reggie, the Twins, are the ones people focus on. They pretty much ran the East End during the fifties and sixties, and a fair bit of the West End, too, till they got put away. Ronnie was the crazy one. Paranoid schizophrenic. He ended up in Broadmoor. Reggie was Category ‘A' in Parkhurst. I suppose you could say that he was led astray by his more dominant twin brother, if you wanted to be charitable.”

“But what could they have to do with Graham Marshall's disappearance and murder?”

“Probably nothing,” Banks said. “They didn't operate outside London much, except for maybe a few clubs in cities like Birmingham or Leicester. But if Bill Marshall did work
for them, then there's always the chance he left them reason to bear a grudge, and the twins had a long reach.”

“And for that they'd kill his son?”

“I don't know, Michelle. These people have a very warped sense of justice. And don't forget, Ronnie was crazy. He was a sexual sadist, a serious pervert, among other things. He was the one who walked into The Blind Beggar and shot George Cornell right between the eyes in front of a roomful of witnesses. Know what was playing on the jukebox?”

“Tell me.”

“It was The Walker Brothers, ‘The Sun Ain't Gonna Shine Anymore.' And they say the needle got stuck on ‘anymore' when he was shot.”

“How melodramatic. I don't remember The Walker Brothers.”

“Not many people do. Want me to sing you a couple of verses?”

“I thought you said you never sing to women you've just met?”

“I did?”

“Don't you remember?”

“Nothing slips past you, does it?”

“Not much. I know you read Philip Larkin, too.”

“How?”

“You quoted him.”

“I'm impressed. Anyway, who knows how someone like Ronnie Kray thinks, if ‘think' is even the right word? He was seeing enemies all around him by then and coming up with more and more dramatic ways of hurting people. He loved to inspire fear and trembling, even in his own men. He was also a homosexual with a taste for teenage boys. They wouldn't have done Graham themselves, of course—they'd have got agoraphobia if they came this far north of London—but they could have sent someone to do it. Anyway, it's not only that.”

“What, then?”

“If Bill Marshall did work as a strong-arm man for the Krays, what was he doing up here? You know as well as I do
that people don't just walk away from that line of work. Maybe he got himself fixed up with someone local, a branch manager.”

“So you're saying he might have been up to the same tricks here, and that might have had something to do with Graham's death?”

“I'm just saying it's possible, that's all. Worth investigating.”

“There was a reference to a protection racket in the old crime logs,” Michelle said. “Someone called Carlo Fiorino. Ring any bells?”

“Vaguely,” said Banks. “Maybe his name was in the papers when I was a kid. Anyway, it's something to think about.”

“So why didn't it come up in the original investigation?”

“Didn't it?” said Banks. “Dunno. Want another coffee?”

Michelle looked into her empty cup. “Sure.”

Banks went and got two more coffees, and when he came back, Michelle was leafing through the book.

“Borrow it if you want,” he said. “I just picked it up to see if I could fill in a bit more background.”

“Thanks. I'd like to read it. Did Graham ever mention the Krays to you?”

“Yes, but I'm not sure that he ever said he or his dad knew them. I've also been thinking about the time frame. Graham and his parents came up here around July or August 1964. In July, there was a big brouhaha in the press over Ronnie's alleged homosexual relationship with Lord Boothby, who denied everything and sued the
Sunday Mirror
for libel. Ronnie followed suit, but all he got was an apology. Still, there was an upside in that the press had to lay off the Krays for a while after that. Nobody wanted any more libel suits. One day Ronnie was a thug and a gangster, the next, a sporting gentleman. It set the police investigation back, too. Everyone had to walk on eggs around them. Even so, they were arrested the next January for demanding money with menaces. There was no bail and they were tried at the Old Bailey.”

“What happened?”

“They got off. It was a flimsy enough case to start with. There was talk of jury tampering. See, back then, there was no majority verdict like we have today. All twelve had to agree, or there'd be a retrial, which would give the accused even more time to fix things. They dug up some dirt on one of the main prosecution witnesses and that was it, they were free.”

“But how does any of this relate to Graham?”

“I'm not saying it does, only that that was what was happening around 1964 and 1965, the period we're concerned with. The Krays were in the public eye a lot. The libel case and the trial were both big news, and after they got off they were fireproof for a long time. It was the start of their ascendancy as celebrities, the dark side of Swinging London, you might say. Soon they were being photographed with film stars, sporting figures and pop singers: Barbara Windsor, Sonny Liston, Judy Garland, Victor Spinetti—who was in
A Hard Day's Night, Help!
and
Magical Mystery Tour,
if you can handle another piece of trivia. In the summer of 1965, they had a fiddle involving selling stolen American securities and bonds for the Mafia, and they were squaring up for a big fight with their rivals, the Richardson gang.” Banks tapped the book. “It's all in there. I don't know if it means anything. But as your boss made clear this morning, it's none of my business.”

Michelle frowned. “Yeah, I know. I keep thinking he's looking over my shoulder even now, in here.”

“I don't want you to get into trouble for talking to me.”

“Don't worry. I wasn't followed. I'm only being paranoid.”

“It doesn't mean you're
not
being followed. Will you keep in touch, let me know if you come up with anything?”

“I shouldn't, but I will.”

“And if there's any way I can help…”

“Of course. If you remember anything Graham said or did that might be useful, I'd appreciate knowing.”

“You will. Look, Graham's mother mentioned a funeral, when the remains have been released. Any idea how long that might be?”

“I'm not sure. It shouldn't be long. I'll see how Dr. Cooper's doing tomorrow.”

“Would you? Good. I think I'd like to come down for it. Even Shaw can't complain about
that
. Will you let me know?”

“Of course. Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“That remark Shaw made about the budgie. What did he mean?”

Banks related the sad story of Joey's flight to freedom and certain death. By the end, Michelle was smiling. “That's so sad,” she said. “You must have been heartbroken.”

“I got over it. He wasn't exactly a wonder-budgie. He couldn't even talk. As everyone told me at the time, it wasn't Goldie the Eagle.”

“Goldie the Eagle?”

“Yes. Earlier the same year, 1965, Goldie the Eagle escaped from London Zoo. They got her back a couple of weeks later. It was a big story at the time.”

“But your Joey was never found?”

“No. He had no defenses. He must have thought he was home free, but he couldn't survive all the predators out there. He was in way over his plumage. Look,” Banks went on, “will you answer a question for me?”

Michelle nodded but looked wary and shuffled in her seat.

“Are you married?” Banks asked.

“No,” she said. “No, I'm not.” And she got up and walked out without even saying good-bye.

Banks was about to go after her when his mobile rang. Cursing, and feeling like a bit of a pillock, the way he always did when it went off in a public place, Banks answered the call.

“Alan? It's Annie. Hope I haven't called at a bad time.”

“No, not at all.”

“Only we could use a bit of extra help, if you've finished your business down there.”

“Pretty much,” said Banks, thinking that his partings with both members of the local constabulary he had met left a lot to be desired. “What's up?”

“Know that missing kid I told you about?”

“Luke Armitage?”

“That's the one.”

“What about him?”

“It looks as if it's just turned into a murder case.”

“Shit,” said Banks. “I'm on my way.”

S
trictly speaking, you know,” said Banks, “this is your case. It has been from the start. Are you sure you want me muscling in?”

“I wouldn't have rung you if I didn't, would I?” said Annie. “Besides, you know I'm not that kind of copper.”

“What kind of copper?”

“All territorial and bureaucratic. I don't go in for pissing matches. I'm all for cooperation, me, not competition.”

“Fair enough. Let's chalk my comment down to recent experience.”

“What do you mean?”

Banks told her about Detective Superintendent Shaw.

“Well,” Annie said. “Don't say I didn't warn you they wouldn't exactly welcome you with open arms.”

“Thanks.”

“My pleasure. Anyway, you can help me just as long as you give me the respect I deserve and don't treat me like a skivvy.”

“Have I ever?”

“This is a pretty good start.”

Banks's car was in the garage for servicing and wouldn't be ready until after lunch, so they had signed out a department car that morning, and Annie was driving, something Banks usually liked to do himself.

“I was thinking I could sort of get to like it,” said Banks. “There's a lot to be said for having a
chauffeuse
.”

Annie shot him a look. “Feel like getting out and walking the rest of the way?”

“No, thanks.”

“Well, behave yourself. Anyway,” she went on, “if you want to be all official about it, it's the Big Man's case. He's the SIO, and he's the one who suggested if I asked you nicely you might come back from leave early and give us the benefit of your considerable expertise.”

“The Big Man?”

“Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe.”

“Does he know you call him that?”

Annie grinned. “You should hear what we call
you
in the squad room.”

“I must say it's great to be home,” said Banks.

Annie glanced sideways at him. “How did things go, other than your run-in with the local constabulary?”

“All a bit embarrassing, really.” Banks told her about McCallum turning out to be an escaped mental patient who drowned before Graham disappeared.

“I'm so sorry, Alan,” she said, touching his knee. “After all those years feeling guilty and responsible…But you must be relieved, in a way…I mean, knowing it couldn't have been him, so it wasn't your fault?”

“I suppose I must. You know, apart from the police down there, you're the only other person I've ever told about what happened by the river that day.”

“You never told Sandra?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

Banks felt Annie retreat into silence beside him and knew he'd done again exactly the sort of thing that caused her to end their romantic relationship. It was as if she offered him something warm, soft and sensitive, yet the moment he reached out and touched it, she shot back into her hard, impenetrable shell.

Before either of them could think of anything else to say,
they arrived at the end of the Armitages' drive, where reporters clamored around them with pens, microphones and cameras. The officer on duty lifted the tape and let them through.

“Impressive,” said Banks, when the building's solid, symmetrical architecture came into view. “I've only seen the place from the riverside walk before.”

“Just wait until you meet the beautiful people inside.”

“Go easy, Annie, they've just lost their son.”

Annie sighed. “I know that. And I will. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I'm just not looking forward to this.”

“Who dealt with the identification?”

“Winsome did. Last night.”

“So you haven't seen the family since the boy's body was found?”

“No.”

“If you don't think I'm being patronizing, why don't you let me deal with them?”

“Be my guest. Honest. Given my track record with Martin Armitage, I'd be grateful to be an observer this time. Fresh approach and all that.”

“Okay.”

Josie answered the front door almost the moment they rang the bell and led the two of them into the living room, where Banks introduced himself.

“What is it now?” Martin Armitage asked, glaring at Annie. Neither he nor his wife looked as if they had had much sleep, and they probably hadn't.

“A murder investigation,” said Banks. “Or so it seems. And we need your help.”

“I don't see how we can help any more than we have done already. We cooperated with you, against the kidnapper's wishes, and look what happened.” He glanced toward Annie again, voice rising. “I hope you realize this is your fault, that Luke's death is
your
responsibility. If you hadn't followed me to the shelter and then come nosing around here, the kid
napper would have picked up the money and Luke would be home safe and sound.”

“Martin,” said Robin Armitage. “We've been over this again and again. Don't make a scene.”

“Don't make a scene! Good God, woman, this is your son we're talking about. She as good as killed him.”

“Calm down, Mr. Armitage,” said Banks. Martin Armitage wasn't quite as tall as Banks had imagined, but he was fit and bursting with energy. Not the kind of man to sit around waiting for results, but one who went out and made the result happen. That was the way he'd played football, too, Banks remembered. Armitage hadn't been content to hang around the goalmouth waiting for a midfielder to feed him the ball; he had created scoring opportunities himself, and the main criticism leveled at him was that he was greedy for the ball, more apt to shoot and miss than pass to someone in a better scoring position. He had also lacked self-control and attracted a high number of red and yellow cards. Banks remembered once seeing him lash out at a member of the other team who had taken the ball from him fairly in the penalty area. He'd given away a penalty over that, and it lost his side the game.

“This is a difficult enough job as it is,” said Banks, “without you making it worse. I'm sorry for your loss, but it's no good flinging blame about. We don't know how or why Luke died yet. We don't even know where or when. So until we've been able to answer some of those basic questions we're not in a position to jump to conclusions. I suggest you exercise the same restraint.”

“What else would you say?” said Martin. “You always stick together, you lot.”

“Can we get down to business?”

“Yes, of course,” said Robin, sitting on the sofa in jeans and a pale green blouse, long legs crossed, hands folded on her lap. Without makeup and with her famous gold-blond hair tied back in a ponytail, she still looked gorgeous, Banks thought, and the crow's-feet only enhanced her beauty. She
had the classic model's face—high cheekbones, small nose, pointed chin, perfect proportion, but she also had character and individuality in her features.

Banks had once worked on a case for the Met involving a modeling agency and he had been surprised that so many of these women who looked beautiful in magazines and on television lacked something in real life, their features perfect but bland, unformed and unfinished, like a blank canvas or an actor without a role. But Robin Armitage had presence.

“I'm sure you know,” said Banks, “that Luke's death changes everything. It changes the way we proceed in the investigation, and we're going to have to go over much of the same ground again. This may seem tedious and pointless to you, but believe me, it's necessary. I'm new to the case, but I took the time this morning to familiarize myself with the investigation so far, and I have to say that I've found nothing out of order, nothing I wouldn't have done had I been in charge myself.”

“Like I said,” Martin chipped in, “you lot stick together. I'll be complaining to the chief constable. He's a personal friend of mine.”

“That's your privilege, but he'll only tell you the same as I'm telling you. If everyone gave in to a kidnapper's demands without informing the police, it would be the most popular crime in the country.”

“But look what happened when we
did
inform the police. Our son is dead.”

“Something went wrong. This was an unusual case from the start; there are a number of inconsistencies.”

“What are you suggesting? That it
wasn't
a straightforward kidnapping?”

“There was nothing straightforward about it at all, Mr. Armitage.”

“I don't understand,” said Robin. “The phone call…the ransom demand…they were genuine, surely?”

“Yes,” said Annie, taking a cue from Banks. “But the ransom demand came an unusually long time after Luke disap
peared, the kidnapper didn't let you speak to your son, and the sum he asked for was ridiculously low.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” said Martin. “We're not made of money.”

“I know that,” Annie said. “But how would the kidnapper know? To all intents and purposes, footballers and models make millions, and you're living in a mansion.”

Martin frowned. “I suppose you've got a point. Unless…”

“Yes?” Banks picked up the questioning again.

“Unless it was someone close to us.”

“Can you think of anyone?”

“Of course not. I can't imagine any of our friends doing something like this. Are you insane?”

“Mrs. Armitage?”

Robin shook her head. “No.”

“We'll still need a list of people to talk to.”

“I'm not having you going around bullying our friends,” said Martin.

“Don't worry, we'll be discreet. And, don't forget, you're the one who suggested it might be someone close to you. Anyone have a grudge against either of you?”

“A few goalies, I suppose,” said Martin, “but nothing serious, no.”

“Mrs. Armitage?”

“I don't think so. Modeling can be a brutally competitive career, and I'm sure I stood on my share of toes on the catwalk, but nothing so…terrible…I mean, nothing to make anyone do something like this, especially so long after.”

“If you'd both like to think about it for a while, it would be a great help.”

“You said it was odd that he wouldn't let us talk to Luke,” Robin said.

“It's unusual, yes,” Annie answered.

“Do you think it was because…because Luke was already dead?”

“That's possible,” said Annie. “But we won't know until the pathologist has finished his job.”

“When will that be?”

“Perhaps by this evening or early tomorrow.” Dr. Burns, the police surgeon, had been unable to give an accurate estimate of time of death at the scene, so they would have to wait until Dr. Glendenning had finished his postmortem examination of Luke's body. Even then, they had learned not to expect miracles from medical science.

“Can you remember anything else about the caller?” Banks asked Martin Armitage.

“I've told you everything I know. I can't remember any more.”

“The voice definitely wasn't familiar?”

“No one I recognized.”

“And there was only the one call?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us that might be of help?”

Both Martin and Robin Armitage shook their heads. Banks and Annie got up. “We'll need to have a look at Luke's room next,” said Banks, “and then we'd like to talk to your housekeeper and her husband.”

“Josie and Calvin?” said Martin. “But why?”

“They might be able to help.”

“I can't see how.”

“Were they close to Luke?”

“Not especially. If truth be told, I always got the impression that they thought him a bit of a weirdo. They're wonderful people, salt of the earth, but sort of traditional in their views of people and behavior.”

“And Luke didn't fit the mold?”

“No. He might as well have come from outer space as far as they're concerned.”

“Was there any animosity?”

“Of course not. They are our employees, after all. What are you suggesting, that they had something to do with this?”

“I'm not suggesting anything, merely asking. Look, Mr.
Armitage, I can understand your feelings, honestly I can, but you must let us do our jobs the way we see fit. It's not going to help at all if you start challenging every move we make. I promise you we'll be as discreet as we can with all our inquiries. No matter what you think, we don't go around bullying people. But we also don't accept everything at face value. People lie for a variety of reasons, many of them irrelevant to the investigation, but sometimes it's because they did it, and it's for us to sort out the lies from the truth. You've already lied to us once yourself that we know of, when you rang DI Cabbot and told her you'd heard from Luke.”

“I did that to protect Luke.”

“I understand
why
you did it, but it was still a lie. Maybe you can see how complicated our job becomes when you take all the lies into account. The lies of the innocent, especially. As I said, we don't take things, or people, at face value, and like it or not, every murder investigation begins close to home, then moves outward. Now, if you don't mind, we'll take a look at Luke's room.”

 

Michelle had been joking when she told Banks she was getting paranoid, but she was beginning to think that every time she visited the archives, Mrs. Metcalfe rang Detective Superintendent Shaw. Here he was again, preceded by the dark chill of his shadow, on the threshold of the tiny room.

“Any progress?” he asked, leaning against the door.

“I'm not sure,” said Michelle. “I've been going over the old crime reports for 1965 looking for some sort of connection with Graham's disappearance.”

“And have you found any?”