Close to Home

by Peter Robinson

  Banks was surprised at the range of Luke’s musical tastes. There was the usual stuff, of course, the CDs Annie had told him about, but also among the grunge, metal, hip-hop and gothic, he found other oddities, such as Britten’s setting of Rimbaud’s Les Illuminations and Miles Davis’s In a Silent Way. There were also several indie CDs, including, Banks was thrilled to see, his son Brian’s band’s first recording, Blue Rain. Not your usual listening for a fifteen-year-old. But Banks was coming to believe that Luke Armitage had been far from a typical fifteen-year-old.

  He had also read some of the stories and poems Annie had collected from her previous visit, and in his humble opinion they showed real promise. They didn’t tell him anything about what might have happened to Luke, or his feelings about his father or stepfather, but they revealed a young mind preoccupied with death, war, global destruction and social alienation.

  Unlike Annie, Banks wasn’t surprised by the room’s decor. Brian hadn’t painted his room black, but he had stuck posters on the walls and surrounded himself with his favorite music. And the guitar, of course, always the guitar. Annie had no children, so Banks could imagine how the black room would seem more outlandish to her. The only thing that disturbed him was Luke’s apparent obsession with dead rock stars, and with the absence of anything to do with his famous father, Neil Byrd. Something was definitely out of kilter there.

  Brian had gone on to make a career of music, and now his band was on the verge of recording its first CD for a major label. After getting over the initial shock that Brian wasn’t going to follow any safe paths in life, Banks had come to feel very proud of him, a leap of faith that his own parents hadn’t seemed able to make yet. Banks wondered if Luke had been any good. Maybe the tape would tell him. From what Annie had told him, and from his own first impressions, he doubted that Martin Armitage would have been thrilled by any signs of musical ability in his stepson; physical fitness and sports seemed to be his measures of success.

  Josie and Calvin Batty lived in their own small apartment upstairs at the far eastern end of Swainsdale House. There, they had a sitting room, bedroom and a small kitchen, in addition to a WC and bathroom with a Power-Shower, all modernized by the Armitages, Josie told them as they stood with her in the kitchen while she boiled the kettle for tea. The whole place was brightly decorated in light colors, creams and pale blues, and made the best of the available light.

  Josie looked as if she could be quite an attractive young woman if she made the effort, Banks thought. But as it was, her hair seemed lifeless and ill-cut, her clothes rather plain, shapeless and old-fashioned, and her complexion pale and dry. Her husband was short and thickset with dark, gypsyish coloring and heavy eyebrows that met in the middle.

  “What exactly are your duties here?” Banks asked the two of them when they were settled in the living room opposite an enormous TV-and-VCR combination with a tray of tea and chocolate digestives in front of them.

  “General, really. I do most of the washing, ironing, cleaning and cooking. Calvin does odd jobs, takes care of the cars and any heavy work, building repairs, garden, that sort of thing.”

  “I imagine there must be a lot of that sort of thing,” Banks said, glancing at Calvin. “A big old house like this.”

  “Aye,” Calvin grunted, dunking a biscuit in his tea.

  “What about Luke?”

  “What about him?” asked Josie.

  “Did any of your duties involve taking care of him?”

  “Calvin’d give him a lift to school sometimes, or bring him back if he happened to be in town. I’d make sure he was well fed if Sir and Madam had to go away for a few days.”

  “Did they do that often?”

  “Not often, no.”

  “When was the last time he was left alone here?”

  “Last month. They both went down to London for some fancy gala charity do.”

  “What did Luke do when he was left alone in the house?”

  “We didn’t spy on him,” said Calvin, “if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Not at all,” said Banks. “But did you ever hear anything? TV? Stereo? Did he ever have his friends over? That sort of thing.”

  “Music were loud enough, but he didn’t have no friends to ask over, did he?” said Calvin.

  “You know that’s not true,” said his wife.

  “So he did entertain friends?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Did he, Mrs. Batty?”

  “Not here.”

  Banks took a deep breath. “Where, then?”

  She hugged her gray cardie closer to her. “I shouldn’t be telling tales out of school.”

  Annie leaned forward and spoke for the first time. “Mrs. Batty, this is a murder investigation. We need your help. We’re in the dark here. If you can help throw any light at all on what happened to Luke, please do so. This is way beyond telling tales or keeping promises.”

  Josie looked at Banks, uncertain.

  “DI Cabbot’s right,” he said. “All bets are off when it’s murder. Who was this friend?”

  “Just someone I saw him with, that’s all.”

  “Where?”

  “In Eastvale. Swainsdale Centre.”

  “When?”

  “Recently.”

  “Past week or two?”

  “A bit longer.”

  “A month?”

  “Aye, about that.”

  “How old? His age? Older? Younger?”

  “Older. She wasn’t no fifteen-year-old, I can tell you that.”

  “How old?”

  “Hard to say when they’re that age.”

  “What age?”

  “Young woman.”

  “How young? Late teens, early twenties?”

  “Aye, around that.”

  “Taller or shorter than him?”

  “Shorter. Luke were a big lad for his age. Tall and skinny.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Dark.”

  “You mean she was black?”

  “No, her skin was pale. She just dressed dark, like him.

  And her hair was dyed black. She had red lipstick on and them studs and chains all over t’place. And she had a tattoo,” she added in a hushed tone, as if saving the greatest sin for last.

  Banks glanced at Annie who, he happened to know from experience, had a butterfly tattoo just above her right breast. Annie gave him a look. “Where?” she asked Josie.

  Josie touched her upper left arm, just below the shoulder. “There,” she said. “She was wearing one of them leather waistcoats over a T-shirt.”

  “What was the tattoo?” Annie asked her.

  “Couldn’t tell,” said Josie. “Too far away. I could just see there was a mark, like.”

  This woman shouldn’t be too difficult to find if she lived in or near Eastvale, Banks thought. It was hardly Leeds or Manchester when it came to girls in black with studs, chains and tattoos. There was only one club, The Bar None, which catered to such a crowd, and then only two nights a week, the rest of the time being reserved for the techno-dance set. It was possible she was a student at the college, too, he thought. “Would you mind if we sent a sketch artist over to work on an impression with you this afternoon?” he asked.

  “I suppose not,” said Josie. “If Sir and Madam don’t mind, like. Only I’m supposed to be doing t’upstairs.”

  Banks looked at her. “I don’t think Mr. and Mrs. Armitage will mind,” he said.

  “All right, then. But I can’t promise owt. Like I said, I didn’t get a close look.”

  “Can you tell us anything more about her?” Banks asked.

  “No. It was just a quick look. I were having a coffee and a KitKat at the food court when I saw them walk by and go into that there big music shop.”

  “HMV?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Did they see you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you tell anyone you’d seen them?”


  “Not my place, is it. Besides…”

  “Besides what?”

  “It was a school day. He should have been in school.”

  “What were they doing?”

  “Just walking.”

  “Close together?”

  “They weren’t holding hands, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Were they talking, laughing, arguing?”

  “Just walking. I didn’t see them so much as look at one another.”

  “But you knew they were together? How?”

  “You just know, don’t you?”

  “Had you seen them together before?”

  “No. Only the once.”

  “And you, Mr. Batty?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Not even when you picked him up from school?”

  “She weren’t no schoolgirl,” said Josie. “Not like I ever saw.”

  “No,” said Mr. Batty.

  “What did you talk about when you gave Luke a lift?”

  “Nowt, really. He wasn’t much of a one for small talk, and we’d nowt in common. I mean, he weren’t interested in sport or anything like that. I don’t think he watched telly much, either. He’d nothing to talk about.”

  Only death and poetry and music, thought Banks. “So these journeys passed in silence?”

  “I usually put the news on the radio.”

  “How did he get on with his parents?”

  “Wouldn’t know,” answered Josie.

  “Hear any rows or anything?”

  “There’s always rows between parents and kids, isn’t there?”

  “So you did?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Who between? Luke and his mother?”

  “Nay. Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth as far as she were concerned. Spoiled him rotten.”

  “His stepfather, then?”

  “Like I said, it were nowt out of t’ordinary.”

  “Did you ever hear what was said, what they were arguing about?”

  “Walls is too thick around here.”

  Banks could believe that. “Did anything unusual happen lately?”

  “What do you mean?” Josie asked.

  “Something out of the routine.”

  “No.”

  “Seen any strangers hanging about?”

  “Fewer than normal, since they can’t go for their country walks.”

  “So you haven’t seen anyone?”

  “Hanging about? No.”

  “Mr. Batty?”

  “Nobody.”

  They were getting no further with the Battys. Banks wasn’t certain whether they were holding anything back or not, but he decided he might have another chat with them a little later on. Just as they were leaving, he turned around to Mr. Batty and said, “Ever been arrested, Mr. Batty?”

  “No.”

  “We can easily find out, you know.”

  Batty glared at him. “All right. Once. It were a long time ago.”

  “How long?”

  “Twelve years. Public nuisance. I were drunk, all right? I used to drink a lot in those days. Then I met Josie. I don’t drink anymore.”

  “What was all that about?” Annie asked when they were back in the car.

  “What?”

  “Asking him if he’d been arrested. You know an offense like that is hardly still going to be in records.”

  “Oh, that,” said Banks, buckling up and settling back in the passenger seat while Annie started the ignition. “I just wanted to see whether he’s a good liar or not. People usually lie the first time when you ask them if they’ve ever been arrested.”

  “And?”

  “Well, there was a slightly different inflection on that last ‘no,’ the lie, but not different enough to convince me he’s not a good liar.”

  “Bloody hell,” said Annie, heading off down the drive and spraying gravel, “a proper Sherlock Holmes I’ve got beside me.”

  It was only a short drive down Longthorpe Parkway from police headquarters to the District Hospital, and early that Friday afternoon the traffic was light. Instinctively, Michelle found herself checking her rearview mirror to see if she was being followed. She wasn’t.

  She parked in the official visitors’ area and made her way to pathology. The forensic anthropology department was small, just a couple of offices and one lab, and none of the staff was permanent. Dr. Cooper herself lectured in nearby Cambridge, in addition to her practical duties at the hospital. There certainly weren’t enough skeletons to justify a full-time forensic anthropology department—most counties didn’t even have one at all and had to hire the services of an expert when circumstances demanded—but there had been enough Anglo-Saxon and Viking remains found in East Anglia for a small, part-time department to be thought justified. For the most part, that was Wendy Cooper’s main area of interest, too—ancient remains, not skeletons of boys buried in 1965.

  “Ah, DI Hart,” Dr. Cooper greeted her in her office, standing up and shaking hands. “Good of you to come.”

  “Not at all. You said you had something to tell me?”

  “Show you, actually. It’s not much, but it might help. Follow me.”

  Curious, Michelle followed her into the lab, where Graham Marshall’s bones were still laid out on the table and Tammy Wynette was singing “Stand By Your Man” on Dr. Cooper’s portable cassette player. Though still a dirty brownish-yellow, like bad teeth, the bones were a hell of a lot cleaner than they had been a few days ago, Michelle noticed. Dr. Cooper and her assistant, nowhere in sight at the moment, had clearly been working hard. The body looked asymmetrical, though, Michelle noticed, and wondered what was missing. When she looked more closely, she could see it was the bottom rib on the left side. Hadn’t they been able to find it? But no, there it was on the bench Dr. Cooper led her toward.

  “We couldn’t see it before because of the accumulated dirt,” Dr. Cooper explained, “but once we’d cleaned it up, it was plain as daylight. Look.”

  Michelle bent closer and looked. She could see a deep, narrow notch in the bone. It was something she had come across before. She looked at Dr. Cooper. “Knife wound?”

  “Very good. That’s what I’d say.”

  “Pre- or postmortem?”

  “Oh, pre. Cuts in green bone are different from cuts made in bones after death, when they’re more brittle. This is a clean, smooth cut. Definitely pre-mortem.”

  “Cause of death?”

  Dr. Cooper frowned. “I can’t say that for certain,” she said. “I mean, there could have been lethal poison in the system, or the victim might have drowned first, but what I can say, in my opinion, is that the wound would have been sufficient to cause death. If you follow the trajectory of the blade to its natural destination, it pierces the heart.”

  Michelle paused a moment, looking at the rib in question, to take it all in. “Front or behind?” she asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “If it was done from behind,” Michelle explained, “it could have been a stranger. If it happened from the front, someone had to get close enough to the boy to do it without his knowing what was going to happen.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Dr. Cooper. “Good point. I never have managed to get the hang of thinking the way you police do.”

  “Different training.”

  “I suppose so.” Dr. Cooper picked up the rib. “Judging from the position of the cut on the bone—see, it’s almost on the inside—and by the straightness I’d say that it was done from in front, the classic upthrust through the rib cage and into the heart. Harder to be that accurate from behind. Much more awkward, far more likely to be at an angle.”

  “So it had to be someone he would let get that close to him without being suspicious.”

  “Close enough to pat him on the shoulder, yes. And whoever did it was right-handed.”

  “What kind of knife?”

  “That I can’t tell you, except that it was very sharp and the blade wasn’t serrated. It’
s quite a deep cut, as you can see, so there’s plenty of scope for analysis and measurement. There’s someone I know who can probably tell you the date it was made and the company who made it, an expert. His name’s Dr. Hilary Wendell. If you like I can try to track him down, get him to have a look?”

  “Could you?”

  Dr. Cooper laughed. “I said I’d try. Hilary’s all over the place. And I mean all over. Including the United States, and Eastern Europe. He’s very well known. He even spent some time with the forensic teams in Bosnia and Kosovo.”

  “You were there, too, weren’t you?”

  Dr. Cooper gave a little shudder. “Yes. Kosovo.”

  “Any idea when the coroner can release the bones for burial?”

  “He can release them now as far as I’m concerned. I’d specify burial rather than cremation, though, just in case we need to exhume.”

  “I think that’s what they have in mind. And some sort of memorial service. It’s just that I know the Marshalls are anxious for some sense of closure. I’ll give them a ring and say it’s okay to go ahead and make arrangements.”

  “Funny thing, that, isn’t it?” said Dr. Cooper. “Closure. As if burying someone’s remains or sending a criminal to jail actually marks the end of the pain.”

  “It’s very human, though, don’t you think?” said Michelle, for whom closure had simply refused to come, despite all the trappings. “We need ritual, symbols, ceremonies.”

  “I suppose we do. What about this, though?” She pointed to the rib on the lab bench. “It could even end up being evidence in court.”

  “Well,” said Michelle, “I don’t suppose the Marshalls will mind if they know Graham’s being buried with a rib missing, will they? Especially if it might help lead us to his killer. I’ll get their permission, anyway.”

  “Fine,” said Dr. Cooper. “I’ll talk to the coroner this afternoon and try to track Hilary down in the meantime.”

  “Thanks,” said Michelle. She looked again at the bones on the table, laid out in some sort of semblance of a human skeleton, and then glanced back at the single rib on the bench. Strange, she thought. It didn’t matter—they were only old bones—but she couldn’t help but feel this odd and deep sense of significance, and the words “Adam’s rib” came to mind. Stupid, she told herself. Nobody’s going to create a woman out of Graham Marshall’s rib; with a bit of luck, Dr. Hilary Wendell is going to tell us something about the knife that killed him.