Free Close to Home by Peter Robinson Page B

sipped his beer. There were some compensations to being back in Yorkshire, he thought, looking around the quiet, cozy 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.
    â€œHe’s an odd kid,” she said. “Bit of a loner. Writes poetry. Doesn’t like sports. His room is painted black.”
    â€œWhat were the circumstances?”
    Annie told him. “And there’s another thing.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHe’s Luke Armitage.”
    â€œRobin’s boy? Neil Byrd’s son?”
    â€œMartin Armitage’s stepson. Do you know him?”
    â€œMartin 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?”
    â€œRobin? Yes.”
    â€œQuite the looker, as I remember.”
    â€œStill is,” said Annie, scowling. “If you like that sort of thing.”
    â€œWhat sort of thing?”
    â€œOh, you know…skinny, flawless, beautiful.”
    Banks grinned. “So what’s the problem?”
    â€œOh, nothing. It’s just me. He’ll probably turn up safe and sound.”
    â€œBut you’re worried?”
    â€œJust a teeny bit.”
    â€œKidnapping?”
    â€œIt 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.”
    â€œWe 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.”
    â€œI 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 Poëte 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.”
    â€œOf 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.”
    â€œUsed to? Was? There’s an ominous past tense to all this, isn’t there?”
    â€œOh, yes,” said Banks. “They all either committed suicide or died under mysterious circumstances.”
    â€œInteresting.” 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.
    â€œNot bad news, I hope?” said Banks.
    â€œNo, not at all. Quite the opposite.”
    â€œDo tell.”
    â€œThat was Robin. Robin Armitage. Apparently, Luke just rang them.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œHe says he just needed some space, that