Peter Robinson - In A Dry Season

A knock at the door interrupted this train of thought. Sergeant Hatchley walked in. “Coffee break?”

Banks looked up and dragged himself back from a long distance. “What? Oh, yes.”

“You all right, sir? You look a bit pale.”

“Fine. Just thinking, that’s all.”

“Can be painful, thinking. That’s why I try to avoid it.”

They walked across Market Street to the Golden Grill for toasted tea cakes and coffee. Rain had finally come to the Dales, and the place was almost empty. Doris, the proprietor, claimed they were only the fourth and fifth customers to pass through her door that day.

“Does that put us in line for summat special, like?” Hatchley asked. “Maybe a free cuppa?”

She slapped his arm and laughed. “Get away with you.”

“Worth a try,” said Hatchley to Banks. “Never ask, never get. I used to know a bloke years back who claimed he asked every girl he met if she’d go to bed with him. Said he only got slapped in the face nine times out of ten.”

Banks laughed, then he asked, “Have you heard anything on that nationwide inquiry you put out yet?”

“Something came in this morning, as a matter of fact,” said Hatchley. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Lass called Brenda Hamilton. Bit of a tart, by all accounts. Not a prossie by trade, but she wasn’t averse to opening her legs for anyone who looked like he had a bob or two to spare. Anyway, she was found dead in a barn.”

“MO?”

“Strangled and stabbed. In that order.”

“It certainly sounds promising.”

Hatchley shook his head. “Don’t get your hopes up. There’s a couple of problems.”

“What problems?”

“Location and time frame. It happened near Hadleigh, Suffolk, in August 1952. I only mentioned it because it was the same MO.”

Banks chewed on his tea cake and thought it over. “Any suspects?”

“Naturally, the farmer who owned the barn came in for a close look, but he had a watertight alibi. I’d have sent for more details, but… well, it’s not likely to be connected with our business, is it?”

Banks shrugged. “Wouldn’t do any harm to ask a few more questions.”

“Maybe not. But that’s seven years after Gloria Shackleton was killed. It’s a long gap for the kind of killer we’re looking at. It also happened in another part of the country.”

“There could be reasons for that.”

“And I doubt there’d be any American Air Force personnel around by then, would there? I mean the war was long over. Most of them went off to the Pacific after VE-Day and the rest buggered off home as soon as they could.”

“You’re probably right, Jim, but let’s be thorough. Get onto East Anglia and ask them for more details. I’ll ask DS Cabbot to contact the USAFE people again and see if she can find out anything.”

“Will do.”

Back in his office, Banks put off phoning Annie at Harkside, smoking a cigarette instead and staring out of the window. A warm slow rain fell on the market square, darkening the cobbles and the ancient market cross. It wasn’t bringing much relief; the air was still sticky and humid. But slowly the clouds were gathering, the humidity increasing. One day soon it would break and the heavens would open. There were only a couple of cars parked in the square, and the few people in evidence ambled around under umbrellas looking gloomily at the shops. Radio Three was playing a program of British light music, and Banks recognized the signature theme of “Children’s Favourites.”

The reason he was avoiding talking to Annie was that Sunday had gone badly after Sandra’s visit. Both Banks and Annie had been on edge, conversation awkward, and she had eventually left just after lunch, forgoing the afternoon walk, claiming she had things to see to back in Harkside. They hadn’t spoken to each other since.

At the time, Banks had not been sorry to see her go. He was more upset than he had let on by Sandra’s visit, and it annoyed him that he felt that way. After all, she had a new boyfriend. Sean . Why did she have to turn up just then, when everything was going so well? What gave her the right to burst in and act so shocked that he was seeing someone, knocking everyone’s feelings out of kilter? How would she like it if he just dropped in on her and Sean, without even phoning first? And he had wanted to talk to her, especially after his little heart-to-heart with Brian. Now God only knew when he would get the chance again.

He also realized that Sandra had been upset by what she saw, too. The withering coolness and sarcastic tone were her way of reacting to her own discomfort. He still had feelings for her. You can’t just lose your feelings that quickly for someone you loved for so long. Love lost or rejected may first turn to hate, but only over time does it become indifference.

Finally, he plucked up the courage and picked up the phone. “How’s it going?” he asked.

“Fine.”

“You sound distracted.”

“No, I’m not. Just a bit busy. Really. It’s fine.”

Banks took a deep breath. “Look, if it’s about Sunday, I’m sorry. I had no idea Sandra was going to turn up. I also didn’t think it would have so much of an effect on you.”

“Well, you don’t always know about these things till they happen, do you? As I said, I’m fine. Except I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. What’s on your mind?”

“Okay, if that’s how you want to play it. Get onto your military contacts again and see if you can find out anything about US Air Force presence in Suffolk in 1952.”

“What about it?”

“Find out if there were any bases left, for a start. And if there were, which was the nearest one to Hadleigh. If there was one, I’d also like a list of personnel.”

“Right.”

“Can you do it today?”

“I’ll try. Tomorrow at the latest.”

“Annie?”

“What?”

“Can’t we get together and talk about things?”

“There’s nothing to talk about. Really. Look, you know I’m off home on holiday in a couple of days. I’ve got a lot to do before I go. Maybe when I get back. Okay? In the meantime, I’ll get that information to you as soon as I can. Good-bye.”

Feeling more depressed than ever after that pointless conversation, Banks glanced at the pile of paper beside the computer on his desk: SOCO search results, postmortem, forensic odontology. None of it contradicted what they had previously estimated; nor did any of it tell him anything more.

What would have happened if Gwen had done as she should and reported finding Gloria’s body? A good copper might have asked around and not simply tried to pin the murder on Matthew. And maybe not. Too late for asking questions now; they were all dead except Vivian. Poor Gloria. She saw Matthew as her penance . Somehow that told Banks more about her than anything else.

And what if Vivian’s ending was the real lie? The ultimate irony. What if Gwen herself had committed the murder?

Vivian Elmsley put her book down as the train pulled out of Wakefield Westgate on Thursday. It would only be a few more minutes to Leeds now, and built up the whole way: a typical Northern industrial landscape of shabby red brick housing estates, low-rise office buildings, sparkling new shopping centers, factory yards full of stacked pallets wrapped in polythene, kids fishing in the canal, stripped to the waist. The only untypical thing was the sticky sunlight that seemed to encase everything like sugar water.

The publisher’s rep was supposed to meet Vivian at the station and accompany her to the Metropole Hotel, where she would be staying until Sunday. She had book-signings in Bradford, York and Harrogate, as well as in Leeds, but it made no sense to move everything lock, stock and barrel from one hotel to another every day. The cities were close enough together. The rep would drive her around.