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 amp; 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.”