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“He's…he
was
in our band.”

“Along with?”

“Me and Ryan. We don't have a drummer yet.”

“How long have you been together?”

She chewed on her lip and thought for a moment. “We've only been practicing together since earlier this year, after we met Luke. But Ryan and me had been talking about doing something like this for ages.”

“How did you meet Luke?”

“At a concert at the college.”

“What concert?”

“Just a couple of local bands. Back in March.”

“How did Luke get into a college concert?” Banks asked. “He was only fifteen.”

Liz smiled. “Not to look at. Or to talk to. Luke was far more mature than his years. You didn't know him.”

“Who was he with?”

“No one. He was by himself, checking out the band.”

“And you just started talking to him?”

“Ryan did, first.”

“And then?”

“Well, we found out he was interested in music, too, looking to get a band together. He had some songs.”

Banks pointed toward the tape. “Those? ‘Songs from a Black Room'?”

“No. Those are more recent.”

“How recent?”

“Past month or so.”

“Did you know he was only fifteen?”

“We didn't find out until later.”

“How?”

“He told us.”

“He told you? Just like that?”

“No, not just like that. He had to explain why he couldn't just do what he wanted, you know. He was living with his parents and going to school. He said he was sixteen at first but then told us later he'd lied because he was worried we'd think he was too young to be in the band.”

“And did you?”

“No way. Not someone with his talent. We might have had a few problems down the line, if things had got that far. Playing licensed premises, you know, stuff like that, but we figured we'd just deal with all that when we got there.”

“What about who his real father was? Did you know that?”

Liz looked away. “He didn't tell us that until later, either. He didn't seem to want anything to do with Neil Byrd and his legacy.”

“How did you find out?” Banks asked. “I mean, did Luke just come right out and tell you who his father was?”

“No. No. He didn't like to talk about him. It was something on the radio while he was over here, a review of that new compilation. He got upset about it and then it just sort of slipped out. It made a lot of sense.”

“What do you mean?” Annie asked.

“That voice. His talent. There was
something
about it all that rang a bell.”

“What happened after you knew?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did it make a difference?”

“Not really.”

“Oh, come on, Liz,” said Banks. “You had Neil Byrd's
son
in your band. You can't expect us to believe that you weren't aware that would make a big difference commercially.”

“Okay,” said Liz. “Sure, we were all aware of that. But the point is that we weren't
anywhere
commercially at that time. We're still not. We haven't even played in public yet, for crying out loud. And now, without Luke…I don't know.”

Banks moved away from the window and sat on a hard-backed chair against the wall. Annie shifted on her beanbag, as if trying to get comfortable. It was the first time he'd seen her look ill at ease in any sort of seat, then he realized she might have hurt herself falling over in the bookshop. She should be at the hospital getting checked out, especially the way on-the-job injury insurance worked these days, but there was no telling her. He didn't blame her; he'd be doing the same himself.

“Who did the singing?” Banks asked.

“Mostly me and Luke.”

“What kind of music do you play?”

“What does it matter?”

“Let's just say I'm interested. Humor me.”

“It's hard to describe,” Liz answered.

“Try.”

She looked at him, as if trying to size up his musical knowledge. “Well, it's all about the songs, really. We're not trendy and we don't go in for long solos and stuff. It's more…have you heard of David Gray?”

“Yes.”

“Beth Orton?”

“Yes.”

If Liz was surprised by Banks's familiarity with contemporary music, she didn't show it. “Well, we're not
like
them,
but that's sort of what we're interested in. Having something to say, and maybe a bit jazzy and bluesy. I play quite a bit of flute as well as organ.”

“Did you know that Luke was taking violin lessons?”

“Yes. That would have been wonderful. We were looking to expand, bring in more musicians, but we were being very careful about it.” She looked Banks in the eye. “We were serious about making a real go of this, you know,” she said. “But without selling out or being commercial. We're absolutely gutted by what's happened. Not just as a band, I mean, but personally, too.”

“I understand, and I appreciate that,” said Banks. “Did you have any other sort of relationship with Luke? Other than musical?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you sleep with him?”

“With Luke?”

“Why not? He was a good-looking kid.”

“But that's all he was. A kid.”

“You said he was wise beyond his years.”

“I know that, but I'm not a bloody cradle-snatcher. Besides, I'm perfectly happy with Ryan, thank you very much.” Liz's face was red.

“So you were never Luke's girlfriend?”

“No way. I told you. I was with Ryan when we met. It was all about the music.”

“So there's no chance that Ryan caught the two of you in bed together and ended up killing Luke, then deciding he might as well cash in on it?”

“I don't know how you can even suggest something as horrible as that.” Liz seemed close to tears and Banks was starting to feel like a shit. She seemed a good kid. But
seemed
wasn't good enough. He remembered Rose Barlow's visit, as well as her angry exit. Liz was younger than Lauren Anderson, and a far more likely candidate for Luke's bedfellow, in Banks's opinion. He didn't know how strong Liz's relationship with Ryan was, or how open.

“It happens,” Banks said. “You'd be surprised. Maybe it was an accident, you just couldn't see any other way out.”

“I told you. Nothing like that happened. Luke was in the band, that's all.”

“Did Luke ever confide in you at all,” Annie asked, easing off the pressure a little. “You know, tell you what was on his mind, what was worrying him?”

Liz paused, regaining her composure. She seemed to be looking at Annie's swollen red lips but she didn't ask about them. “He complained about school a lot,” she said finally.

“Ever say anything about his stepfather?”

“The rugby player?”

“Ex-footballer.”

“Whatever. No, not much. I don't think Luke liked him very much.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Nothing in particular. Just the way he talked.”

“Did you ever meet Luke's parents?”

“No. I don't think he even told them about us, about the band.”

“How do you know?”

“Just my impression.”

It was probably true, Banks realized. According to Annie and to his own observations, the Armitages didn't seem to have a clue what Luke was up to half the time. “Did he seem worried about anything?”

“Like what?”

“Anything at all,” Annie went on. “Did he mention if any threats had been made against him, for example, or if he thought someone was following him? Anything unusual, out of the ordinary?”

“No, nothing like that. Like I said, he didn't like school and couldn't wait to leave home. I'd say that's pretty normal, wouldn't you?”

Banks smiled. He'd been the same at that age. Later, too. And he had also left home at the first opportunity.

“When did you last see Luke?” Annie asked.

“About a week before he disappeared. Band practice.”

Annie looked around the small room and struggled to her feet. “Where do you practice?”

“Church basement, down the street. The vicar's pretty broad-minded, a young bloke, and he lets us use their space if we don't make too much noise.”

“And you haven't seen Luke since?”

“No.”

“Has he ever been here?” Banks asked. “In this flat?”

“Sure. Plenty of times.” Liz stood up, as if she sensed they were leaving.

“Did he ever leave anything here?”

“Like what?”

“Any of his stuff. You know—notebooks, poems, stories, clothes, that sort of thing. We're looking for anything that might help us understand what happened to him.”

“He never left any clothes here,” Liz said coldly, “but he sometimes left tapes of songs for us, if that's what you mean. And some lyrics, maybe. But…”

“Could you collect them all together for us?”

“I suppose so. I mean, I don't know what's here or where everything is. Do you mean right now? Can't you come back later?”

“Now would be best,” said Banks. “We'll help you look, if you like.”

“No! I mean, no. It's all right. I'll find them.”

“Is there something here you don't want us to see, Liz?”

“No, nothing. There's only a few tapes and some poems, notes for songs. I don't see how they can help you. Look…will I get these tapes and things back?”

“Why would you get them back?” Annie asked. “They were Luke's property, weren't they?”

“Technically, I suppose. But he brought them for us. The band. To share.”

“They'll still most likely go to the family,” Banks told her.

“Luke's family! But they don't care. They can't…”

“Can't what, Liz?”

“I was going to say they can't appreciate his talent. They'll just throw them away. How could you let something like that happen?”

“Can't be helped. It's the law.”

Liz shifted from foot to foot, arms folded, as if she needed to go to the toilet. “Look, couldn't you go away and come back, just for a while, give me just a bit of time to get everything together?”

“We can't do that, Liz. I'm sorry.”

“So you'll just take everything and give it to Luke's parents, just like that? You won't even give me time to make copies.”

“This is a murder investigation,” Annie reminded her.

“But still…” Liz sat down, close to tears again. “It doesn't seem fair. It seems such a waste…I don't know. His parents don't care. We were so close.”

“So close to what?”

“To
making
something of ourselves.”

Banks felt sorry for her. He suspected that she wanted to hang on to Luke's tapes and writings for selfish reasons, so that the band could one day ride on Luke's and his father's coattails to success. If they couldn't do it with Luke's voice and talent, at least they could try to do it with some of his material. That Luke had been murdered would also, no doubt, help boost the public interest. Banks didn't think particularly ill of Liz for this. He'd probably have wanted the same if he were in her situation and felt passionate about a career in music. He didn't think it lessened her genuine feelings for Luke. But there was something else that bothered him—the way she had reacted when he had offered to help look around. He glanced at Annie. It was one of those rare moments when each knew what the other was thinking.

“Mind if we have a little look around?” Annie asked.

“What? Why? I've told you. I'll give you everything you want.” She got up and went over to the tapes, picking out three. “These for a start. The writings are in—”

“Why are you so jumpy, Liz?”

“I'm not jumpy.”

“Yes, you are. I think we should have a look around the place.”

“You can't do that. You need a search warrant.”

Banks sighed.
Again
. “Are you certain you want that?” he asked. “Because we can get one.”

“Go do it then. Get one.”

Banks looked at Annie. “DI Cabbot, will you please go—”

Liz looked from one to the other, puzzled. “Not just
her
. Both of you go.”

“It doesn't work like that,” said Banks. “One of us has to stay here to make sure you don't interfere with anything. We'd hardly be doing our jobs if we disappeared and let drug dealers flush their stuff down the toilet, would we?”

“I'm not a drug dealer.”

“I'm sure you're not. But there's something you don't want us to find. I'll stay here while DI Cabbot gets the warrant, then she'll come back with four or five constables and we'll tear the place apart.”

Liz turned so pale Banks worried she might faint. He could tell she was sensitive, and he didn't like bullying her, but he didn't like what had happened to Luke, either. “What's it to be, Liz? Will you give us consent to look around now, or do we do it the hard way?”

Liz looked up at him, big eyes brimming with tears. “I don't have much choice, do I?”

“There's always a choice.”

“You'd find it anyway. I told Ryan he was stupid to keep it.”

“Find what, Liz?”

“It's in the cupboard by the door, under the sleeping bag.”

Banks and Annie opened the cupboard by the door and moved aside the sleeping bag. Underneath it was a battered leather shoulder bag, exactly the kind that Luke Armitage had been carrying when the bullies taunted him in the market square.

“I think you and Ryan have got quite a bit of explaining to do, don't you?” said Banks.

T
he Bridge Fair came every March. As a young boy, Banks would go with his parents. He remembered sitting on his father's knee in the Dodgem car, clinging on for dear life, remembered the feel of the rough nap and the raw-wool smell of his dad's jacket, the sparks flashing off the high poles. He remembered strolling around holding his mother's hand, eating candy floss or toffee apples while she nibbled at brandy snap and his father ate a hot dog smothered in fried onions. He would hear his father curse as he tried to throw biased darts at playing cards and his mother laugh as she tried to toss Ping-Pong balls into goldfish bowls.

But when Banks was fourteen, he wouldn't be seen dead at the fair with his parents; he went with his mates, and Saturday night was the big night.

Why was it, he thought, as he drove past the small roadside fair that had sparked his memory, that they always seemed to be playing old rock and roll music at fairgrounds, even in the sixties? Whenever he thought of nights at the fair with Paul, Graham, Steve and Dave, it was always Freddy Cannon's “Palisades Park” that played in his mind, or Eddie Cochran's “Summertime Blues” as the Waltzers spun and the bright lights blazed in the dark, not The Beatles or The Rolling Stones.

His favorite ride was the Caterpillar, but you had to go on
that one with a girl. As the train went faster and faster in undulating circles, the canvas cover, like a shop's awning, would slowly unfurl until it covered up the whole ride—hence the name Caterpillar—and you were in the dark, riding fast with your girl. On his own, he liked the Waltzers and the Speedway best, but all rides were better shared with girls when you were fourteen.

For Banks and his friends, the fair began before it opened. He remembered passing the stretch of common ground with Graham one wet afternoon—it must have been 1965, because that was the only year Graham was around for the spring fair—and watching the brightly colored lorries roll in, watching the suspicious and unsmiling fair-workers unload sections of track and cars and begin the magical process of fitting the whole thing together. For the next two days, Banks would come back to check the progress, watch the men put the last section of the carousel into place, set up the booths, the stalls and the shies, and sure enough, everything was ready on opening night.

You had to go after dark. There was no point if the bright-colored lights didn't flash and spin and if the music wasn't loud, if the smell of fried onions and spun sugar didn't waft through the night air to mingle with the discernible whiff of violence. For the fairs were where you went to pick a fight or settle your scores, and you could always see trouble brewing a mile off. First the looks, the whispers, the casual bumps, then someone running, others in pursuit, a scuffle and muffled cries, the fair-workers always somehow outside or beyond it all, stepping between the spokes as the Waltzers got faster and faster, collecting money, impressing the girls with their daredevil nonchalance.

And the girls…Well, the girls were all on parade at the fair, all bubble gum, miniskirts and eye shadow. “If you didn't get shagged on Saturday night, you didn't get shagged at all,” as the old rugby song went. Well, Banks didn't get shagged, but he sometimes got kissed. That night it was Sylvia Nixon, a pretty little blonde from the girls'
school down the street. They'd been eyeing each other shyly all night, standing up on the boards right beside the rides, watching the riders scream and yell and cling on tight. She was with her quiet friend, June, that was the problem. Which Graham, bless his soul, helped solve. Soon they were off on the Caterpillar, and Banks felt that delicious anticipation as the cover started to close over them.

But something odd happened later.

Banks was persuading the girls to come with them to the park the next day if the weather was fine. There were plenty of sheltered, well-hidden areas where you could lie in the grass or stand up against a tree and snog. He was almost there, just overcoming the last, perfunctory shreds of resistance, when Graham said, “Sorry, I can't go tomorrow.” When Banks asked him why, he just smiled vaguely and answered with his characteristic evasiveness, “I've got something else to do, that's all.” The girls weren't too thrilled with that, and Banks never got to go out with Sylvia Nixon again.

A fight broke out somewhere near the Dodgems, Banks remembered, and a couple of older men broke it up. But his chief memory, apart from kissing Sylvia on the Caterpillar and Graham's weak reason for missing the next day's rendezvous, was that Graham paid. Again. He had Benson & Hedges, too: ten of them, king-size, in the golden packet.

As Banks turned off the A1 to Peterborough, he racked his brains trying to remember if he had ever asked Graham where he got his money, but he didn't think he had. Maybe he didn't want to know. Kids are selfish, and as long as they're having a good time they don't feel the need to question where it's coming from, or at whose expense it might be. But there weren't many places a kid Graham's age could get his hands on so much ready cash. The paper round wouldn't cover it, but an occasional dip in the till might. Or perhaps he stole it from his mother's purse?

The trouble was that it didn't seem to matter so much, just as long as Graham had the money. That he was generous
went without saying. But what had he done to get it, and where, and
whom,
had he got it from?

Now, Banks also found himself wondering what it was that Graham had to do that Sunday that was so much more important than snogging with Sylvia Nixon's friend June in the park. And he remembered other occasions, too, right up until the day of his disappearance, when Graham simply wasn't there. No reason, no excuse, no explanation.

 

Annie's face was starting to ache when she went to interview Liz Palmer. She'd taken a couple of paracetamol earlier, but the effect was wearing off. She took another two and probed a loose tooth with her tongue. Wonderful. The last thing she needed was a trip to the dentist's. That bastard Armitage. His high-priced lawyer had been down the station like a shot, and as soon as the custody officer had drawn up the papers charging Armitage with criminal assault, he'd been bound over to appear in front of the magistrate the following day and sent off home. Annie would have liked to see him cooling his heels in the custody suite at least overnight, but no such luck. He'd probably walk on the charges, too. People like him usually did.

Because the Luke Armitage murder was a high-profile case, Gristhorpe and DC Winsome Jackman were interviewing Ryan Milne at the same time next door. So far, since they had picked him up at the college, Milne had been about as forthcoming as Liz.

Annie took DC Kevin Templeton with her into interview room 2, made sure Liz was clear about her rights and started the tape recorders. As yet, Annie explained, no charges had been brought and nobody was under arrest. She simply wanted an explanation as to how Luke Armitage's shoulder bag had got into Liz's hall cupboard. The bag and its contents were already with forensics.

“You told me you last saw Luke at band practice in the church basement about a week before he disappeared, right?” Annie began.

Liz nodded. She slumped in her chair and worked at a fingernail, looking a lot younger than her twenty-one years.

“Did he have the shoulder bag with him?”

“He always had it with him.”

“Then what was it doing in your cupboard?”

“I've no idea.”

“How long has it been there?”

“Must've been since band practice.”

“He came to the flat first?”

“Yes.”

Annie glanced at Kevin Templeton and sighed. “Problem is, Liz,” she went on, “that the market square CCTV cameras caught Luke before he disappeared a week ago last Monday, and he had the bag with him then.”

“It must've been a new one.”

“No,” Annie said. “It was the same one.” She couldn't be certain of that, of course—perhaps Luke
had
left his bag at Liz's and bought a new one—but she thought it unlikely Luke would have left all his things there, too. After all, it wasn't the bag itself that counted, but the possessions it contained: his notebook, his laptop computer, portable CD player, tapes and CDs.

Liz frowned. “Well, I don't see how…”

“Me, neither. Unless you're not telling us the truth.”

“Why would I lie?”

“Oh, come off it,” Kevin Templeton butted in. “Luke's dead. I'd say that's a pretty good reason to lie, wouldn't you?”

Liz jerked forward. “
I
didn't kill him! You can't think I killed him.”

“I don't know what we're supposed to think,” said Annie, spreading her hands. “But I'm sure you can see our problem. Luke and his bag go missing, then Luke turns up dead, and we find his bag in your cupboard. Bit of a coincidence, don't you think?”

“I've told you, I don't know when he put it there.”

“Where were you that afternoon?”

“What afternoon?”

“The Monday Luke disappeared.”

“I don't know. Home, I suppose.”

“Are you sure he didn't call at the flat, then perhaps forget his bag when he went off somewhere else?” Annie knew she was giving Liz an out, but it seemed the only way to get her talking.

“I didn't see him.”

“Did he have a key?”

“No.”

“So you couldn't have gone out for a minute and he let himself in?”

“I don't see how.”

So much for that line of questioning. “Liz, you're not making our job any easier. I'll ask you again: How did Luke's bag find its way into your hall cupboard?”

“I told you, I don't know.”

“And I don't believe you.”

“Well, that's your problem.”

“No, Liz. It's
your
problem. And it's going to be a very big one if you don't tell us the truth soon.”

“Maybe it was Ryan,” Kevin Templeton suggested.

Liz looked confused. “Ryan? What do you mean?”

“Well,” Templeton went on, “let me tell you what I think happened.” Annie gave him the nod. “I think Luke went to your flat after he'd been in the market square—”

“No. I told you. He didn't come that day.”

“Let me finish.”

“But it's not true! You're making it up.”

“Be quiet,” Annie said. “Listen to what DC Templeton has to say.”

Liz flopped back in her chair. “Whatever.”

“Luke came to your place after he'd been in the market square. It was late afternoon. Ryan was out and the two of you thought you had time for a roll on the bed. He was a good-looking kid, fit, looked older than his age—”

“No! That didn't happen. It wasn't like that!”

“But Ryan came home and caught you at it. The two of them got in a scuffle and one way or another Luke ended up dead. I'm sure Ryan didn't mean to kill him, but you had a body on your hands. What could you do? You waited until dark and then you loaded Luke's body into the car and took it to Hallam Tarn, where Ryan hoisted him up the wall and dropped him over. He should have sunk the way dead bodies do, at least for a while, until they start to decompose and the gases build up and carry them to the surface, but he didn't. His T-shirt snagged on an old tree root. Bad luck. Ryan wasn't to know that. And nobody should have been in a position to find Luke because the whole area was quarantined due to foot-and-mouth restrictions. But a man from the Ministry had to take water samples. Bad luck, again. Ryan wasn't to know that, either.” Templeton smiled, showing his white teeth, and folded his arms. “How am I doing so far, Liz?”

“It's all lies. Nothing like that happened. You're just making it up to get us in trouble. I've heard about the police doing things like this before.”

“You're already in trouble,” Annie said. “We're trying to help you out, find an explanation for what happened. Maybe it did happen the way DC Templeton suggested. Maybe it
was
an accident? If it was, we can help. But you
have to tell us the truth
.”

“Look, I don't know how that bag got there,” Liz said. “We hadn't seen Luke since the last band practice.”

“You're not making it easy for us,” Annie said.

“I can't help it! What do you want me to do? Make something up just to satisfy you?”

“I want the truth.”

“I've told you the truth.”

“You've told us nothing, Liz.”

“Look,” said Templeton, “we can check, you know. Our forensics people are very good.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean they'll go through your flat with the proverbial
fine-tooth comb, and if there's any evidence of wrongdoing, even a drop of Luke's blood, they'll find it.”

“He's right,” Annie said. “There's the poker, for a start. I noticed it when we were talking to you. You don't see them very often these days. If there's any trace of Luke's blood or hair on it, we'll find it. And if there are any traces on the carpet, between the floorboards, down the sink, we'll find them.”

Liz crossed her arms and bit her lip. Annie could tell she'd touched a nerve. What was it? The mention of blood? Did Liz know they'd find traces of Luke's blood in the flat? “What is it, Liz?” she asked. “Something to tell me?”

Liz shook her head.

“Ryan's being interviewed just next door,” Templeton said. “I'll bet he's telling them it was all your fault, that you killed Luke and he had to get rid of the body for you.”

“Ryan wouldn't do that.”

“Even if it were true?” Annie asked.

“But it's
not
true. We didn't kill anyone. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Until we believe you,” Annie said. “And until you come up with a satisfactory explanation of how Luke's bag got into your cupboard.”