Free The Summer That Never Was by Peter Robinson Page A

beautiful.”
    Banks grinned. “So what’s the problem?”
    “Oh, nothing. It’s just me. He’ll probably turn up safe and sound.”
    “But you’re worried?”
    “Just a teeny bit.”
    “Kidnapping?”
    “It crossed my mind, but there’s been no ransom demand yet. We searched the house, of course, just in case, but there was no sign he’d been back home.”
    “We did talk to the Armitages about security when they first moved to Swainsdale Hall, you know,” Banks said. “They installed the usual burglar alarms and such, but beyond that they said they just wanted to live a normal life. Nothing much we could do.”
    “I suppose not,” Annie agreed. She brought out her notebook and showed Banks the French words she had copied down from Luke’s wall. “Make any sense of this? It’s awfully familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
    Banks frowned as he peered at the text. It looked familiar to him, too, but he couldn’t place it, either. “Le Poète se fait voyant par un long, immense et raisonné dérèglement de tous les sens.” He tried to decipher it word by word, reaching far back into his memory for his grammar school French. Hard to believe now that he had been quite good at it at one time, even got a grade two in his O levels. Then he remembered. “It’s Rimbaud, I think. The French poet. Something about the total disordering of all the senses.”
    “Of course!” said Annie. “I could kick myself. Robin Armitage told me Luke was into Rimbaud, Baudelaire and Verlaine and all that stuff. What about these?” She named the subjects of Luke’s posters. “I mean, I’ve heard of some of them, Nick Drake, for example, and I know Kurt Cobain was in Nirvana and killed himself, but what about the others?”
    Banks frowned. “They’re all singers. Ian Curtis used to sing with Joy Division. Jeff Buckley was Tim Buckley’s son.”
    “Used to? Was? There’s an ominous past tense to all this, isn’t there?”
    “Oh, yes,” said Banks. “They all either committed suicide or died under mysterious circumstances.”
    “Interesting.” Annie’s mobile buzzed. Excusing herself, she walked over to the front door before taking it out of her shoulder bag and stepping outside. When she came back two minutes later she looked puzzled.
    “Not bad news, I hope?” said Banks.
    “No, not at all. Quite the opposite.”
    “Do tell.”
    “That was Robin. Robin Armitage. Apparently, Luke just rang them.”
    “And?”
    “He says he needed some space, that he’ll be back home tomorrow.”
    “Did he say where he was?”
    “Wouldn’t tell them.”
    “What are you going to do?”
    Annie finished her drink. “I think I’d better go down to the station, scale down the manhunt. You know how expensive these things are. I don’t want Red Ron on my back for wasting our time and money.”
    “Scale down?”
    “Yes. Call me overly suspicious, if you like, but I’m not going to call off the search completely until I see Luke Armitage safe and sound at home, with my own eyes.”
    “I wouldn’t call that overly suspicious,” said Banks. “I’d call it very sensible.”
    Annie leaned forward and pecked Banks on the cheek again. “It really is good to see you again, Alan. Stay in touch.”
    “I will,” said Banks, and he watched her walk out the door, hint of Body Shop grapefruit soap wafting behind her, the soft pressure of her kiss lingering on his cheek.

 
    4
    O n the surface, it had seemed a simple enough question to ask: where were the Graham Marshall case files? In reality, it was like searching for the Holy Grail, and it had taken Michelle and her DC, Nat Collins, the best part of two days.
    After first trying Bridge Street, in the city centre, which served as Divisional Headquarters until Thorpe Wood opened in 1979, Michelle and DC Collins drove from station to station all across the Northern Division–Bretton, Orton, Werrington, Yaxley, Hampton–discovering that some of them were relatively