Free The Summer That Never Was by Peter Robinson

discovery of Graham Marshall’s bones.
    Annie listened, frowning. When Banks had finished, she said, “I can understand why you’re concerned, but what can you do?”
    “I don’t know,” Banks said. “Maybe nothing. If I were the local police, I wouldn’t want me sticking my nose in, but when I heard, I just felt…I don’t know. It was a big part of my adolescence, Annie, Graham just disappearing like that, and I suppose it’s a big part of me now, always has been. I can’t explain, but there it is. I told you about the man by the river, the one who tried to push me in?”
    “Yes.”
    “If it was him, then maybe I can help them find him, if he’s still alive. I can remember what he looked like. Odds are there could be a photo on file.”
    “And if it wasn’t him? Is that it? Is this the guilt you talked about before?”
    “Partly,” said Banks. “I should have spoken up. But it’s more than that. Even if it’s nothing to do with the man by the river, someone killed Graham and buried his body. Maybe I can remember something, maybe there was something I missed at the time, being just a kid myself. If I can cast my mind back…Another?”
    Annie looked at her glass. Half full. And she was driving. “No,” she said. “Not for me.”
    “Don’t worry,” said Banks, catching her anxious glance as he went to the bar. “This’ll be my last for the evening.”
    “So when are you going down there?” Annie asked when he came back.
    “First thing tomorrow morning.”
    “And you’re going to do what, exactly? Present yourself at the local nick and offer to help them solve their case?”
    “Something like that. I haven’t thought it out yet. It’ll hardly be high-priority with the locals. Anyway, surely they’ll be interested in someone who was around at the time? They interviewed me back then, you know. I remember it clearly.”
    “Well, you said yourself they won’t exactly welcome you with open arms, not if you go as a copper trying to tell them how to do their jobs.”
    “I’ll practise humility.”
    Annie laughed. “You’d better be careful,” she said. “They might have you down as a suspect.”
    “It wouldn’t surprise me.”
    “Anyway, it’s a pity you’re not sticking around. We might be able to use your help up here.”
    “Oh? What’s on?”
    “Missing kid.”
    “Another?”
    “This one disappeared a bit more recently than your friend Graham.”
    “Boy or girl?”
    “Does it matter?”
    “You know it does, Annie. Far more girls are abducted, raped and killed than boys.”
    “A boy.”
    “How old?”
    “Fifteen.”
    That was almost Graham’s age when he disappeared, Banks thought. “Then the odds are good he’ll turn up none the worse for wear,” he said, though Graham hadn’t.
    “That’s what I told the parents.”
    Banks sipped his beer. There were some compensations to being back in Yorkshire, he thought, looking around the quiet, cosy pub, hearing the rain patter on the windows, tasting the Black Sheep and watching Annie shift in her chair as she tried to phrase her concerns.
    “He’s an odd kid,” she said. “Bit of a loner. Writes poetry. Doesn’t like sports. His room is painted black.”
    “What were the circumstances?”
    Annie told him. “And there’s another thing.”
    “What?”
    “He’s Luke Armitage.”
    “Robin’s boy? Neil Byrd’s son?”
    “Martin Armitage’s stepson. Do you know him?”
    “Martin Armitage? Hardly. Saw him play once or twice though. I must say I thought he was overrated. But I’ve got a couple of CDs by Neil Byrd. They did a compilation three or four years ago, and they’ve just brought out a collection of outtakes and live performances. He really was very good, you know. Did you meet the supermodel?”
    “Robin? Yes.”
    “Quite the looker, as I remember.”
    “Still is,” said Annie, scowling. “If you like that sort of thing.”
    “What sort of thing?”
    “Oh, you know…skinny, flawless,