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evening.”
    Annie raised her eyebrows. “A bit soon to bring us in on it, isn’t it, sir? Kids go missing all the time. Fifteen-year-olds in particular.”
    Gristhorpe scratched his chin. “Not ones called Luke Armitage, they don’t.”
    â€œLuke Armitage? Not…”
    â€œAye. Martin Armitage’s son. Stepson, to be accurate.”
    â€œOh, shit.” Martin Armitage was an ex-football player, who in his time had been one of the major strikers of the Premier League. Since retiring from professional sport, he had become something of a country gentleman. He lived with his wife and stepson Luke in Swainsdale Hall, a magnificent manor house perched on the daleside above Fortford. Armitage was known as a “Champagne” socialist because he professed to have left-wing leanings, gave to charities, especially those supporting and promoting children’s sporting activities, and chose to send his son to East-vale Comprehensive instead of to a public school.
    His wife, Robin Fetherling, had once been a celebrated model, well enough known in her field as Martin Armitage was in his, and her exploits, including drugs, wild parties and stormy public affairs with a variety of rock stars, had provided plenty of fodder twenty years ago or more, when Annie was a teenager. Robin Fetherling and Neil Byrd had been a hot item, the beautiful young couple of the moment, when Annie was at the University of Exeter. She had even listened to Neil Byrd’s records in her student flat, but she hadn’t heard his name, or his music, in years—hardly surprising, as she had neither the time nor the inclination to keep up with pop music these days. She remembered reading that Robin and Neil had had a baby out of wedlock about fifteen years ago. Luke . Then they split up, and Neil Byrd committed suicide while the child was still very young.
    â€œOh, shit, indeed,” said Gristhorpe. “I’d not like to think we give better service to the rich and famous than to the poor, Annie, but perhaps you could go and try to set the parents at ease. The kid’s probably gone gallivanting off withhis mates, run away to London or something, but you know what people’s imaginations can get up to.”
    â€œWhere did he disappear from, sir?”
    â€œWe don’t know for certain. He’d been into town yesterday afternoon, and when he didn’t come home for tea they started to get worried. At first they thought he might have met up with some mates, but when it got dark and he still wasn’t home they started to get worried. By this morning, they were frantic, of course. Turns out the lad carried a mobile with him, so they’re sure he would have rung if anything came up.”
    Annie frowned. “That does sound odd. Have they tried ringing him?”
    â€œNo signal. They say his phone’s switched off.”
    Annie stood up and reached for her umbrella. “I’ll go over there and talk to them now.”
    â€œAnd, Annie?”
    â€œYes, sir?”
    â€œYou hardly need me to tell you this, but try to keep as low a profile as possible. The last thing we want is the local press on the case.”
    â€œSoftly, softly, sir.”
    Gristhorpe nodded. “Good.”
    Annie walked toward the door.
    â€œNice boots,” said Gristhorpe from behind her.
    Â 
    Banks remembered the days surrounding Graham Marshall’s disappearance more clearly than he remembered most days that long ago, he realized as he closed his eyes and settled back in the airplane seat, though memory, he found, tended to take more of a cavalier view of the past than an accurate one; it conflated, condensed and transposed. It metamorphosed, as Alex had said last night.
    Weeks, months, years were spread out in his mind’s eye, but not necessarily in chronological order. The emotions and incidents might be easy enough to relocate and remember,but sometimes, as in police work, you have to