“I’m just trying to get as much background as I can,” Annie explained. “You never know what might be important with missing persons, what might trigger them. Does Luke know who his father was?”

“Oh, yes. He doesn’t remember Neil, of course, but I told him. I thought it important not to keep secrets from him.”

“How long has he known?”

“I told him when he was twelve.”

“And before that?”

“Martin is the only father he has known.”

So for seven years, Annie calculated, Luke had accepted Martin Armitage as his true father, then his mother had dropped the bombshell about Neil Byrd. “How did he react to the news?” she asked.

“He was confused, naturally,” said Robin. “And he asked a lot of questions. But other than that…I don’t know. He didn’t talk about it much afterward.”

Annie made a couple of notes as she digested this. She thought there must be more to it than Robin let on, but perhaps not. Kids can be surprisingly resilient. And unexpectedly sensitive.

“Do you still have any contact with any of Neil Byrd’s friends or relatives?” Annie asked.

“Good Lord, no. Neil’s parents both died young—it was one of the things that haunted him—and I don’t move in those sort of circles anymore.”

“May I see Luke’s room?”

“Of course.” Robin led Annie out into the hall, up a flight of worn stone stairs to the upper floor, where she turned to the left and opened the heavy oak door of the second room along.

Annie turned on the bedside light. It took her a few moments to register that the room was black except for the carpeted floor. It faced north, so it didn’t get a lot of sun, and even with the bedside light on—there was no ceiling light—it looked gloomy. It was tidier than she had expected, though, and almost Spartan in its contents.

Luke, or someone, had painted a solar system and stars on 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 Poëte 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 were 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.