Close to Home - The Summer That Never Was by Peter Robinson

Author:Peter Robinson [Robinson, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9780771076015
Google: GXrtUwgc9V8C
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Goodreads: 13534241
Publisher: McClelland & Stewart
Published: 2002-12-02T05:00:00+00:00

Michelle sat back in her seat and watched the fields drift by under a grey sky, rain streaking the dirty window. Every time she took a train she felt as if she was on holiday. This evening, the train was full. Sometimes she forgot just how close Peterborough was to London–only eighty miles or so, about a fifty-minute train ride–and how many people made the journey every day. That was, after all, what the new-town expansion had been about. Basildon, Bracknell, Hemel Hempstead, Hatfield, Stevenage, Harlow, Crawley, Welwyn Garden City, Milton Keynes, all in a belt around London, even closer than Peterborough, catchment areas for an overflowing capital, where it was fast becoming too expensive for many to live. She hadn’t been around back then, of course, but she knew that the population of Peterborough had risen from about 62,000 in 1961 to 134,000 in 1981.

Unable to concentrate on The Profession of Violence, which she had to remember to post back to Banks, she thought back to her lunch with ex–Detective Inspector Robert Lancaster. He had quite a few years on Ben Shaw, but they were both very much cut from the same cloth. Oh, no doubt about it, Shaw was ruder, more sarcastic, a far more unpleasant personality, but underneath they were the same kind of copper. Not necessarily bent–Michelle took Lancaster’s word on that–but not above turning a blind eye if it was to their advantage, and not above fraternizing with villains. As Lancaster had also pointed out, he had grown up shoulder to shoulder with criminals like the Krays and smaller fry like Billy Marshall, and when it came to future career choices it was often very much a matter of there but for the grace of God go I.

It was interesting what he said about Graham Marshall, she thought. Interesting that he should even remember the boy at all. She had never considered that it might have been Graham’s own criminal activities that got him killed, and even now she found it hard to swallow. Not that fourteen-year-olds were immune to criminal activity. Far from it, especially these days. But if Graham Marshall had been involved in something that was likely to get him killed, wouldn’t somebody have known and come forward? Surely Jet Harris or Reg Proctor would have picked up the scent?

The real problem, though, was how she could gather any more information about Graham. She could go through the statements again, read the investigating detectives’ notebooks and check all the actions allocated, but if none of them focused on Graham himself as a possible line of enquiry, then she would get no further.

The train slowed down for no apparent reason. It was an InterCity, not a local train, so Michelle went to the buffet car and bought herself a coffee. The paper cup was far too hot, even when she used three or four serviettes to hold it. If she took the top off, it would spill when the train started moving again, so she tore a small hole in the plastic top and decided to wait a little while till it cooled.

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