Close to Home by Peter Robinson Page B

were carried out in the immediate area, and Detective Superintendent Harris was put in charge first thing the following day, when still no trace had been found of Graham, and the cumbersome but efficient mechanics of a police investigation groaned into action.
    Michelle stretched and tried to work out a crick in her neck without success. It was hot in the office and her tights were killing her. DC Collins, just back from Cambridge, took pity on her and said, “I’m just off to the canteen, ma’m. Bring you anything?”
    â€œI’d love a diet Coke, please,” said Michelle. “And maybe a slice of chocolate gâteau, if they’ve got any left.” She reached for her handbag.
    â€œIt’s all right,” said Collins. “Pay me when I get back.”
    Michelle thanked him, adjusted her tights as discreetly as possible below her desk and turned back to the files. As far as she could gather from a cursory glance, there hadn’t been any leads at all. Police had interviewed everyone on Graham’s round, along with all his friends, family and schoolteachers. None of it led anywhere. Graham was described, among other things, as being bright, cheeky, quiet, polite, rude, sweet-natured, foul-mouthed, talented and secretive. Which pretty much covered every eventuality.
    Nobody on Wilmer Road had seen or heard anything unusual that morning—no screams, shouts or sounds of a struggle—though one person said he had heard a car door bang around half past six. There were no convenient dog walkers, and even the most devout of churchgoers, being for the most part Methodists or Low Anglican, were still in the Land of Nod. All the evidence, especially the missing paper sack, suggested that Graham had most likely got in a car willingly, with someone he knew, someone local. But who? And why?
    DC Collins returned with Michelle’s diet Coke. “No gâteau, I’m afraid,” he said, “so I brought you a Danish instead.”
    â€œThanks,” said Michelle, who didn’t like Danish but paid him anyway, nibbled at it awhile, then dropped the rest in her waste bin and went back to her files. The Coke tin was cold and wet, so she pressed it against her flushed cheek and enjoyed the icy sensation, then she did the same with her other cheek and her forehead.
    The police at the time didn’t neglect the possibility that Graham might have run away under his own steam, dumping the sack of papers somewhere and heading for the bright lights of London like so many young lads had in the mid-sixties, but they could find nothing at all to support this theory. His home life seemed happy enough, and none of his friends suggested that he was at all interested in running away from home. The sack was never found, either. Even so,missing persons reports went out all over the country, and there were the usual sightings, none of which amounted to anything.
    The interviews also turned up nothing, and police checks into the records of several estate dwellers drew a blank. Michelle could read a little excitement between the lines when police discovered that one of the deliveries on Graham’s route was the house of a man who had served time for exposing himself in a local park, but subsequent interviews—no doubt involving some very rough business, knowing police methods of the time and Jet Harris’s reputation as a tough guy—led nowhere, and the man was exonerated.
    Michelle slipped off her reading glasses and rubbed her tired eyes. At first glance, she had to admit that it seemed very much as if Graham Marshall had disappeared into the void. But she knew one thing that the police hadn’t known in 1965. She had seen his bones, and she knew that Graham had been murdered.
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    Annie Cabbot drove out to Swainsdale Hall mid-morning to tie up a few loose ends with the Armitages. The sun had come to the Yorkshire Dales at last, and wraiths of mist rose from the roadsides and