Peter Robinson - In A Dry Season

I found the gun in the same place Gloria had left it: behind the cocoa and tea in the kitchen cupboard. I put it in the shopping bag I had brought with me, put the cupboard back in order and left. I didn’t know how long it would take her to miss it, but the best I could hope for was that by the time she did she wouldn’t feel the need for it anymore and would realize what a favor I had done her.

We can be such fools for love, can’t we?

It was about eleven o’clock on Saturday morning when Banks and Annie arrived back at Vivian Elmsley’s building. Before Banks could even press the buzzer, the door opened and Vivian almost bumped into them.

“Going somewhere, Ms. Elmsley?” asked Banks.

“You?” She put her hand to her heart. “I didn’t think… so soon… I was just… you’d better come in.”

They followed her upstairs to the flat. She was carrying a large buff envelope, which she dropped on the hall table as she entered the room. Banks glanced at it, saw his name and the Eastvale station address on it.

She turned to face them as they entered her living room. “I suppose I should thank you for coming back,” she said. “You’ve saved me the postage.”

“What were you sending me?” Banks asked. “A confession?”

“Of sorts. Yes. I suppose you could call it that.”

“So you were lying yesterday?”

“Fiction’s my trade. Sometimes I can’t help it.”

“You should know the difference.”

“Between what?”

“Fiction and reality.”

“I’ve learned to leave that to the most arrogant among us. They’re the only ones who seem to think they know everything.” She turned, walked back to the hall and picked up the envelope. “Anyway,” she went on, handing it to Banks, “I’m sorry for being flippant. I’ve found this whole thing extremely difficult. I tend to hide behind language when I’m frightened. I’d like you to grant me the favor of taking this away with you and reading it. I had a copy made this morning. If you’re worried about my fleeing from justice, please don’t. I’m not going to run anywhere, I promise you.”

“Why the change of heart?”

“Conscience, would you believe? I thought I could live with it, but I can’t. The telephone calls didn’t help, either. In the early hours of the morning, I arrived at the end of a long struggle, and I decided to tell the truth. What you do with it once you know is up to you. I’d just rather do things this way than answer a lot of questions at the moment. I think it will help you understand. Of course, you’ll have questions eventually. I have to be in Leeds next week to do some book-signings, so you’ll soon have the opportunity. Will you allow me this much, at least?”

It was an unusual request, and if Banks were to go by the book, he wouldn’t let a murder suspect hand him a written “confession,” then go away and leave her to her own devices. But it was time for a judgment call. This had been an unusual case right from the start, and he believed that Vivian Elmsley wasn’t going anywhere. She was in the public eye, and he didn’t think she had anywhere to run, even if she wanted to. The other possibility was suicide. It was a risk, to be certain, but he decided to take it. If Vivian Elmsley wanted to kill herself rather than suffer through a criminal trial that cost the taxpayers thousands and drew the media like blood draws leeches, who was Banks to judge her? If Jimmy Riddle found out about it, of course, Banks’s career wouldn’t be worth a toss, but since when had he let thoughts of Jimmy Riddle get in his way?

“You mentioned telephone calls,” he said. “What do you mean?”

“Anonymous calls. Sometimes he says things, others he just hangs up.”

“What kind of things does he say?”

“Nothing, really. He just sounds vaguely threatening. And he calls me Gwen Shackleton.”

“Have you any idea who it might be?”

“No. It wouldn’t be too difficult for anyone to find out my real name, and my number’s in the directory. But why?”

“What about the accent? Is it American?”

“No. But it’s hard to say exactly what it is. The voice sounds muffled, as if he’s speaking through a handkerchief or something.”

Banks thought for a moment. “We can’t really do anything about it. I wouldn’t worry too much, though. In most cases people who make threatening phone calls don’t confront their victims. That’s why they use the phone in the first place. They’re afraid of personal contact.”

Vivian shook her head. “I don’t know. He didn’t sound like one of those heavy breathers or nutcases. It seemed more… personal.”

“Perhaps your line of work attracts one or two crackpot fans?” Banks suggested. “Someone who thinks he’s giving you an idea for a story, or helping you know what it’s like to experience fear. I honestly wouldn’t worry too much, but you should get in touch with your local police station as soon as possible. They’ll be able to help. Do you have any contacts there?”

“Yes. There’s Detective Superintendent Davidson. He helps me with my research.”

“Even better. Talk to him.” Banks held up the envelope. “We’ll do as you ask,” he said, “but how do we know this is the truth and not just more fiction?”

“You don’t. Actually, it’s a bit of both, but the parts you’ll be interested in are true. You’ll just have to take my word for it, won’t you?”

The day it happened began like any ordinary day; if any day could be deemed ordinary in those extraordinary times. I opened the shop, took in the ration coupons, apologized for shortages, made lunch and tea for Mother and settled down to an evening’s reading and the wireless. The Americans were having a farewell party up at the base that night, as they had heard they would be moving out in a matter of days. We had been invited, but neither Gloria nor I had felt like going. Somehow, that part of our lives seemed over. Charlie was dead and Gloria had made it clear to Brad, after their last fling on VE-Day, that she was sticking with Matthew and it would be best if they didn’t see each other anymore.

I’d like to say I felt some sort of premonition of disaster, some sense of foreboding, but I didn’t. I was distracted and found it hard to concentrate on Trollope’s The Last Chronicle of Barset , but I had a lot on my mind: Charlie’s death, Matthew’s illness, Gloria’s problems, Mother.

I wouldn’t normally have gone to Bridge Cottage so late in the evening except that Cynthia Garmen had dropped off some parachute silk on her way to Harkside. I hadn’t seen Gloria for two or three days and I thought she might appreciate a small gift; she had been very drawn and depressed since VE-Day and hadn’t been taking care of herself at all. I can’t say that I heard any small voice telling me to go; nor can I recollect any great feeling of apprehension, any involuntary shudder or burning of the ears. I couldn’t concentrate on my book, and Gloria was on my mind; it was as simple as that.

This is where my diary stops, but however much I have tried over the years to expunge the events from my memory, I haven’t been able to succeed.

It was just after ten o’clock and Mother had gone to bed. Distracted, I put my book aside and fingered the silky material. I thought the prospect of a new dress to make might cheer Gloria up. I was also feeling guilty over stealing the gun, I suppose, and I wanted to know whether she had noticed it missing yet. If she had, she certainly hadn’t said anything.

I assumed Matthew would still be at the Shoulder of Mutton, so I thought I would call in there first and persuade him to walk home with me. Even though he didn’t communicate, I believed that he knew who I was and knew that I loved him. I also think he felt comfortable being with me. As it turned out, he had been asked to leave a little earlier because he had had one of his little tantrums and broken a glass.