The Summer That Never Was by Peter Robinson Read Free Book Online Page A

the ceiling. One wall was covered with posters of rock stars, and moving closer, Annie noted the names: Kurt Cobain, Nick Drake, Jeff Buckley, Ian Curtis, Jim Morrison. Most of them were at least vaguely familiar to her, but she thought Banks might know more about them than she did. No sports personalities, she noticed. On the opposite wall, written in silver spray paint, were the words “Le Poète se fait voyant par un long, immense et raisonné dérèglement de tous les sens.” The words rang a bell, but she couldn’t quite place them, and her French wasn’t good enough to provide her with a clear translation. “Do you know what this means?” she asked.
    “Sorry,” said Robin. “I never was any good at French in school.”
    Annie copied the words down in her notebook. An electric guitar stood propped against a small amplifier under the mullioned window, a computer sat on a desk and next to the wardrobe was a mini stereo system and a stack of CDs. She opened the violin case on top of the dresser and saw that it did, indeed, contain a violin.
    Annie flipped through the CDs. Most of the bands she’d never heard of, such as Incubus, System of a Down and Slipknot, but she recognized some oldies like Nirvana and REM. There was even some old Bob Dylan. Though Annie knew virtually nothing about the musical tastes of fifteen-year-old boys, she was certain they didn’t usually include Bob Dylan.
    There was nothing by Neil Byrd. Again, Annie wished Banks were here; he’d be able to read something into all this. The last CD she had bought consisted of chants by Tibetan monks, to help with her yoga and meditation.
    Annie glanced at the contents of the bookcase: A lot of novels, including Sons and Lovers , Catcher in the Rye and Le Grand Meaulnes , alongside the more traditional adolescent fare of Philip Pullman and short-story collections by Ray Bradbury and H. P. Lovecraft; a number of poetry anthologies; an oversize book on Pre-Raphaelite art; and that was about it.
    Other than that, the room revealed remarkably little. There was no address book, at least none that Annie could find, and not very much of anything except the books, clothes and CDs. Robin told her that Luke carried a battered leather shoulder bag around with him, wouldn’t go anywhere without it, and anything important to him would be in there, including his ultra-light laptop.
    Annie did find some printed manuscripts in a drawer, short stories and poems, the most recent of which was dated a year ago, and she asked if she could borrow them to look at later. She could tell that Robin wasn’t keen, mostly, it seemed, for the sake of Luke’s precious privacy, but again, a little prodding in the right direction worked wonders. She didn’t think the creative work would tell her much, anyway, but it might give her some insight into Luke’s character.
    There was nothing more to be gained from staying up there, and the black walls were beginning to oppress her, so she told Robin she was finished. They went back downstairs, where Martin Armitage was still sitting on the sofa.
    “I understand you sent Luke to Eastvale Comprehensive instead of a public school like Braughtmore,” Annie said.
    “We don’t believe in public schools,” said Martin, his West Yorkshire accent getting thicker as he spoke. “They’re just breeding grounds for effete civil servants. There’s nothing wrong with a comprehensive-school education.”Then he paused and smiled. Annie got the impression it was a gesture that had worked for him often with the media, the sudden flow of charm turned on like an electric current. “Well, maybe there’s a lot wrong with it–at least that’s what I keep hearing–but it was good enough for me, and it’s good enough for most kids. Luke’s intelligent and hard-working. He’ll do fine.”
    Judging from her body language–the folded arms and lips pressed together–Annie surmised that Robin didn’t agree, that Luke’s education had been a