Peter Robinson - Not Dark Yet

Most of the journey she stared out of her window at the slowly darkening summer evening and listened to one of her three favourite symphonies. This time it was Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique , and as she listened and rocked gently to the train’s rhythm she thought about William Buckley, Vasile Lupescu, and her immigration fears. When the train arrived at York, she felt better. It still wasn’t quite dark. Midsummer evenings. The longest day wasn’t too far off. She breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped on to the platform and walked to the taxi rank. Home, Raymond, and peace at last, she thought, as the taxi made its way along the A59 past Kirk Hammerton towards the A1.

Over the weekend, Banks had given a great deal of thought as to how he might get Zelda to ‘loosen up.’ First of all, he ruled out an interview room, or even his office, as too formal. Moving on from there, he counted out the entire police station, which reeked of authority. She could never relax in such a place, and nor could he. In addition to the personal trauma Zelda had been through, Banks thought she was, like many Eastern Europeans since Stalin’s days, genetically terrified of the knock on the door in the middle of the night. And of the police in general. To them all cops were the FSB, KGB or Stasi, whatever, but Banks thought he had forged a bond with Zelda and that if he approached her in the right way, she would feel more at ease.

Finally he decided on a long walk interrupted by lunch at the Relton Arms with its spectacular views of Swainsdale below its spacious beer garden, and Zelda had agreed over the phone. There was plenty of room in the beer garden to get an isolated table, and perhaps with a little strenuous walking, the heat of the sun and a cold drink, Zelda might let her guard down. As Burgess had said, if they believed she had done something illegal they would have her in like a shot and interrogate her as long as the PACE rules allowed. But she hadn’t. She wasn’t a criminal, as far as Banks knew, but a victim, and perhaps a witness — to something, at any rate.

Zelda arrived in Banks’s driveway at the appointed time. He had taken that Monday off, leaving Annie and Gerry to deal with the Blaydon murder and its assorted spin-offs. He had watched the rape video once more over the weekend, still searching for the telling detail, something he might have missed, and all that had happened was that it had sickened him all over again. How on earth, he found himself wondering, could one human being do something like that to another? But he knew he was being naive; he, of all people, ought to have some idea. The thing was, he knew that men did it, but he had no idea why. Unless it was, as one serial rapist had told him: ‘Because I want to. And because I can.’ Could it be as simple as that?

Human beings did far worse things to one another than what he had just watched. Men routinely raped women during war, as a strategy to unman and humiliate their opponents and signal superiority. It had been going on ever since man climbed out of the primordial swamps, and it would probably go on until his presence on the planet was nothing but a vague memory lingering like an unpleasant smell with no one to smell it. But such thoughts were not for a day like today, and he tried to push them aside, knowing that they only led to that one dark and lonely place he had found himself inhabiting too often lately.

It was another glorious, sunny day, and a light, cooling breeze alleviated the heat to some extent, which was a godsend to walking in such weather. He hadn’t seen Zelda in a while, so there would be plenty to catch up on. She was wearing shorts, showing off her smooth tanned and tapered thighs, and a white shirt tied at her waist, sunglasses hooked over the top fastened button. Her dark hair hung in a ponytail down her back.

‘Will I do?’ she asked.

Banks looked at her feet and saw she was wearing short white socks and a sturdy pair of trainers. ‘You’ll do,’ he said. ‘Stylish but road ready.’

They walked through to the back of the house, where Banks strapped on his small rucksack.

‘What have you got in there?’ Zelda asked.

‘Just essentials. Chocolate, apples, bottled water, mobile, Ordnance Survey map, compass, Bluetooth headphones, a book, portable first aid kit.’

‘Which book?’

‘ Flashman at the Charge.’

‘We had a Flashman book at the orphanage once. Not that one. It was about the Indian mutiny. It was very funny. What’s this one about?’

‘The Charge of the Light Brigade.’

‘ “Onward, onward, rode the six hundred.” ’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Is it dangerous, this walk?’

‘Of course not.’

‘We are not likely to get lost?’

‘No. I’ve done it dozens of times before.’

‘Are you going to ignore me and listen to music or read your book?’

Banks laughed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I realise it might seem odd to be carrying these things, but I usually walk alone, and I always pack the same stuff. Fresh water and chocolate, of course, but the rest is automatic. Just habit. Sometimes I listen to music, but mostly I prefer the sounds of nature when I’m walking. And sometimes I like to have a rest and sit on the grass and read for a while.’

Zelda put on her sunglasses. ‘OK. Lead on.’ They headed out of the gate and over the stile on to the footpath up the slope to Tetchley Fell. Single file, with Banks leading the way.

Tetchley Fell could be a daunting climb, deceptively easy at first, but soon getting tougher with every step as the incline steepened. To get to the top, beyond about twenty-five feet of almost sheer limestone, you needed a few mountaineering skills and some basic equipment. But they weren’t going that far.

‘What did Ray have to say when you told him we were going for a walk?’ Banks asked over his shoulder.

‘ “Have a good time,” ’ said Zelda. ‘He’s been involved in a new painting project these past few days, and he doesn’t come up often for air.’

‘And you?’

‘Between projects. Resting, as they say.’

They walked over a patchwork of fields, saving their breath for the ever increasing gradient. Sometimes they disturbed a group of sheep, which scattered at their approach and stood at a distance, backs turned, as if somehow that would make any danger go away. After a few more stiles, they paused briefly and sat on a drystone wall to drink some water, eat an apple and look back at the view.

Already it was stunning, the huddled limestone houses of Helmthorpe below, its squat church tower, high street shops with racks of postcards out front and tourists browsing. Beyond the town, the river Swain meandered through the flatlands of the valley bottom, lush and green, speckled with blue, yellow, and purple wildflowers. Further out, the opposite valley side began its ascent, green at first, then culminating in the long grey-gold limestone edge of Crow Scar, like a skeleton’s teeth bared against the clear blue sky, where only a few wisps of white cloud twisted through the air like chiffon scarves.

‘It’s magnificent,’ Zelda said. Her cheeks were flushed with walking, and beads of sweat glistened above her upper lip and on her brow. Banks felt that he was sweating like a pig, and it took him a while to catch his breath. His ears were popping, too, though he didn’t think they had climbed high enough for that.

‘How’s work?’ he asked.

‘They closed down the department. The others were all serving police officers — NCA, anyway — so they got transferred somewhere else, but I was just a civilian consultant, so my job simply ceased to exist. Made redundant. Unemployed.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ Banks said. ‘I’m sorry. I’d have thought they would want to keep a worthwhile department like that going.’