In A Dry Season

ELEVEN

Banks and Annie drove out to the estate from Millgarth Police Headquarters. When Annie asked Banks why he always wanted to do the driving himself, he didn’t really know the answer. Being driven was one of the perks of his rank that he had never really capitalized on. Partly, he would always rather use his own car than sign one out because he didn’t want to have to put up with other coppers’ cigarette butts in the ashtrays, chocolate wrappers, used tissues and God knows what else all over the floor, not to mention the lingering germs and odors. Mostly, though, he needed to be in control, with his feet on the pedals, his hands on the steering wheel.

He also liked to control the music. It had always angered Sandra, the way he put on whatever CD he wanted to listen to, or turned on the television to a program he wanted to watch. She claimed he was selfish. He said he always knew what he wanted to listen to or watch and she didn’t; besides, why should he listen to music, or watch films he didn’t like? Another stand-off.

Banks parked in front of a strip of shops set back from the main road near Bramley Town End, and he and Annie strolled down the hill toward the street where Gwen and Matthew Shackleton had lived. Both were dressed casually; neither looked like a police officer. Sometimes, feelings against all forms of authority ran high on these estates. People spotted strangers quickly enough as it was, and they were naturally suspicious of anyone in a suit. Which was hardly surprising: On an estate like this, if you saw someone you knew wearing a suit, you assumed he had a court appearance coming up; and if you saw a stranger wearing one, it was either the cops or the social.

Banks had grown up on a similar estate in Peterborough. More modern than this one, but basically the same mix of grim and grimy terrace houses alongside the newer red brick maisonettes and tower blocks, all covered in graffiti. When he was a kid, the street was cobbled, and they would have bonfires there every Guy Fawkes Night. The whole estate would come out and share their fireworks and food. Potatoes baked in foil at the edges of the fire, and people passed around trays of homemade parkin and treacle-toffee. Neighbors would seize the opportunity to chuck their old furniture on the fire – a practice Banks’s mother said she thought was showing off. If Mrs. Green at number 16 threw her battered armchair on the bonfire, it was tantamount to telling everyone she could afford a new one.

Eventually, the council Tarmacked the street and put an end to the celebrations. Afterward, they had to have their bonfire on a large field half a mile away; strangers from other estates started muscling in, looking for trouble, and the older people began to stay home and lock their doors.

“How are we going to approach this?” Annie asked.

“We’ll play it by ear. I just want to get a look at the lie of the land.”

It was another hot day; people sat out on their doorsteps or had dragged striped deck chairs onto postage-stamp lawns, where the grass was parched pale brown for lack of rain. Banks couldn’t help but be aware of the suspicious eyes following their progress. From one garden, a couple of semi-naked teenage boys whistled at Annie and flexed the tattoos on their arms. Banks looked at her and saw her stick her hand behind her back and give them two fingers. They laughed.

They passed two girls, neither of whom looked older than fifteen. Each was pushing a pram with one hand and holding a cigarette with the other. One of them had short pink-and-white-dyed hair, green nail varnish, black lipstick and a nose-stud; the other had jet-black hair, a large butterfly tattoo on her shoulder and a red dot in the center of her forehead. Both wore high-heeled sandals, tight shorts and midriff-revealing tops; the one with the red dot also had a ring in her navel.

“Get her,” one of them sneered as Banks and Annie walked by. “Little Miss Hoity-Toity.”

“I’m beginning to think this wasn’t such a good idea, after all,” Annie said, when the girls had passed.

“Why not? What’s wrong?”

“Easy for you to ask. Nobody’s insulted you yet.”

“They’re only jealous.”

“What of? My good looks?”

“No. Your designer jeans. Ah, here it is.”

The address turned out to be on one of the narrower side streets. Most of the doors had scratched and weathered paintwork, and the whole street looked run-down. All the windows of the old Shackleton house were open, and loud music blasted from inside.

Next door, two men with huge beer bellies sat smoking and drinking Carlsberg Special Brew. An enormous woman sat on a tiny chair at an angle to them, hips and thighs flowing over the edge. She looked as if she might be their mother. Both men were stripped to the waist, skin white as lard despite the sun; the woman wore a bikini top and garish pink shorts. All three of them followed Banks and Annie with their narrowed piggy eyes, but nobody said anything.

Banks knocked on the door. A dog growled inside the house. The people next door laughed. Finally, the door jerked open and a young skinhead in a red T-shirt and torn jeans stuck his head out, holding the barking dog by its studded collar. It looked like a rottweiler to Banks.

Banks swallowed and stepped back a couple of paces. He wasn’t normally scared of dogs, but this one had wicked-looking teeth. Maybe Annie was right. What could they find out anyway, nearly fifty years after the fact?

“Who the fuck are you? What do you want?” the skinhead asked. The cords stood out on his neck. He couldn’t have been older than eighteen or nineteen. Banks thought he could hear a baby crying somewhere beyond the music in the depths of the house.

“Your mum and dad in?” Banks asked.

He laughed. “I should think so,” he said. “They never go anywhere. Trouble is, you’ll have a bloody long journey. They live in Nottingham.”

“So you live here?”

“Course I fucking do. Look, I haven’t got all day.” The dog was still straining at its collar, drool dripping from its jowls, but it had turned quieter now and seemed to be settling down, just growling rather than barking and snapping.

“I’d like some information,” said Banks.

“About what?”

“Look, can we come in?”

“You must be fucking joking, mate. One step over this threshold and Gazza here’ll have you singing soprano in the church choir before you know it.”

Banks looked at Gazza. He could believe it. He considered his options. Call Animal Control? The RSPCA? “Fine,” he said. “Then maybe you can tell us what we want to know out here?”

“Depends.”

“It’s the house I’m interested in.”

The kid looked Annie up and down, then looked back at Banks. “House-hunting are you, then? I’d’ve thought you two would be after something a bit more up-market than this fucking slum.”

“Not exactly house-hunting, no.”

“Who is it, Kev?” came a woman’s voice from inside.

Kev turned around and yelled back. “Mind yer own fucking business, yer stupid cunt! Or you’ll be sucking yer meals through a straw for a week.”

Banks sensed Annie stiffen beside him. He touched her gently on the forearm. The trio next door howled with laughter. The kid stuck his head farther round the door, so they could see him, and grinned at them, pleased with himself. He gave them the thumbs-up sign.

“How long have you lived here?” Banks asked.

“Two years. What’s it to you?”

“I’m interested in something that happened here fifty years ago. A suicide.”

“Suicide? Fifty years ago? What, fucking haunted, is it?” He stuck his head around the door again to talk to the people next door. “Hear that, lads? This is a fucking haunted house, this is. Maybe we could start charging an entry fee like those fucking stately homes.”

They all laughed. Including Banks.

The kid seemed so thrilled with his audience response that he repeated the comment. He then let go of the dog, which glanced uninterestedly at Banks and Annie and slunk off deeper into the house, no doubt toward a bowl of food. Maybe it wasn’t a rottweiler after all. Banks was about as good on dogs as he was on wildflowers, constellations and trees. Most of nature, come to think of it. But he would get better now he had the cottage by the edge of the woods. He had already learned to identify some of the birds – nuthatches, dunnocks and blue tits – and he had often heard a woodpecker knocking away at an ash trunk.

“Do you know who lived here before you?” he asked.

“Haven’t a clue, mate. But you can ask the wrinklies over the road. They’ve been here since the fucking ice age.” He pointed to the middle terrace house directly opposite. Mirror image. Banks could already see a figure peeking from behind moth-eaten curtains.

“Thanks,” he said. Annie followed him across the street.

“I smell pork,” said one of the doorstep trio as they went. The others laughed. Someone made a hawking sound and spat loudly.

After Banks and Annie had held their warrant cards up to the letter box for inspection, the dead bolt and the chain came off and a hunched man, probably somewhere in his early seventies, opened the door. He had a hollow chest, deep-set eyes, a thin, lined face and sparse black-and-gray hair larded back with lashings of Brylcreem. That glint of self-pitying malice peculiar to those who have been knocked on their arses too many times by life had not been entirely extinguished from his rheumy eyes; a few watts of indignant outrage, at least, remained.

Making sure he’d locked up behind him, he led them into the house. The windows were all shut tight and most of the curtains were closed. The living room had the atmosphere of a hot and stuffy funeral parlor; it smelled of cigarette smoke and dirty socks.

“What’s it all about, then?” The old man flopped down on a sagging brown corduroy settee.

“The past,” said Banks.

A woman walked through from the kitchen. About the same age as the man, she seemed a little better preserved. She certainly had a bit more flesh on her bones.

The old man reached for his cigarettes and lighter balanced on the threadbare arm of the settee, and he coughed when he lit up. What the future holds in store for us smokers if we don’t stop, Banks thought glumly, deciding against joining him just at the moment.

“Police, Elsie,” the man said.

“Come to do something about those hooligans?” she asked.

“No,” said the man, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. “They say it’s about the past.”

“Aye, well, there’s plenty of that about for everyone,” she said. “Like a cuppa?”

“Please,” said Banks. Annie nodded.

“Sit yerselves down then. I’m Mrs. Patterson, by the way. You can call me Elsie. And this is my Stanley.”

Stanley leaned forward and offered his hand. “Call me Stan,” he said, with a wink. Elsie went to make the tea. “I see you met that lot over the street?” Stan said with a jerk of his head.

“We did,” said Banks.

“He threatened to beat his wife,” Annie said. “Have you ever seen any evidence of that, Mr. Patterson? Any cuts or bruises?”

“Nay, lass,” said Stan. “He’s all wind and piss, is you Kev. Colleen’d kill him like as not if he ever laid a finger on her. And she’s not his wife, neither. Not that it seems to matter these days. It’s not even his kid.” He took a drag on his cigarette, which Banks noticed was untipped, and launched into a coughing fit. When he recovered, his face was red and his chest was heaving. “Sorry,” he said, thumping his chest. “All them years grafting in that filthy factory. Ought to bloody sue, I did.”

“How long have you lived here?” Banks asked.

“Forever. Or so it seems,” Stan said. “It were always a rough estate, even back then, but it weren’t really such a bad place when we first moved in. Lucky to get it, we were.” He smoked and coughed again.

Elsie came back with the tea. A cold drink would probably have made more sense, Banks thought, but you take what you’re offered.

“Stan was just saying you’ve lived here a long time,” Banks said to her.

She poured the tea into heavy white mugs. “Since we got married,” she said. “Well, we lived with Stan’s mum and dad in Pontefract for a few months, didn’t we, love, but this was our first home together.” She sat beside her husband.

“And our last, way things turned out,” Stan said.

“Well, whose fault were that?”

“Weren’t mine, woman.”

“You knew I wanted to move to that new Raynville Estate when they built it, didn’t you?”

“Aye,” said Stan. “When were that? In 1963? And where is it now? They’ve had to knock the bloody place down now, things got so bad.”

“There were other places we could have moved. Poplars. Wythers.”

“Wythers! Wythers is worse than this.”

“What year was it?” Banks butted in. “When you first came to live here?”

The Pattersons glared at one another for a moment, then Elsie stirred her tea. She sat up straight, knees pressed together, hands around the mug on her lap. In the distance, Banks could hear the music from the skinhead’s house: tortured guitars, heavy bass, a testosterone-pumped voice snarling lust and hatred. Christ, he hoped Brian’s band was better than that.

“In 1949,” Elsie said. “October 1949. I remember because I were three months gone with Derek at the time. He was our first. Remember, Stan,” she said, “you’d just got that job at Blakey’s Castings?”

“Aye,” said Stan, turning to Banks. “I were just twenty years old, and Elsie here were eighteen.”

Banks hadn’t even been born then. The war had been over four years and the country was going through a lot of changes, setting up the Welfare State in the wake of the Beveridge Report, setting up the whole system that had given Banks far more opportunities and chances of self-improvement than previous generations had. And to his parents’ dismay, he had become a copper instead of a business executive or managing director, the sort of position his father had always looked up to. Now, though, having felt very much like a business executive this past year, he was pleased to discover that he still thought he had made the right choice.

Banks tried to imagine the Pattersons as a young couple with hope in their hearts and a promising future before them crossing the threshold of their first home together. The image came in black and white, with a factory chimney in the background.

“Do you remember anything about your neighbors across the street?” Annie asked. “Directly opposite, where Kev and his family live now.”

Elsie spoke first. “Weren’t that those, you know, those… What’stheirnames… lived, Stanley? A bit stuck up. There were some trouble.”

“A suicide,” Banks prompted her.

“Aye. That’s right. Don’t you remember, Stanley? Shot himself. That tall skinny young fellow, used to walk with a stick, never said a word to anyone. What were his name?”

“Matthew Shackleton.”

“That’s right. We had police all over the place. They even came over and talked to us. By gum, that takes me back a bit. Matthew Shackleton. Don’t you remember, Stanley?”

“Aye,” said Stan hesitantly. “I think so.” He lit another cigarette and coughed. Then he glanced at his watch. Opening time.

“Did you know the Shackletons?” Banks asked.

“Not really,” Elsie said. “Acted like they’d gone down in the world, fallen on hard times, like. From the country somewhere, though I found out she were nowt better than a shopkeeper’s daughter. Not that there’s owt wrong with that, mind you. I’m no snob. I tried to be friendly, you know, like you do, seeing as we were the newcomers and all that. But nobody bothered with them. The time or two I did talk to her, she didn’t say owt about where they came from, except to mention that things had been different back in the village, like. Well, la-di-da, I thought.”

Well, Banks thought, from Hobb’s End to this Leeds council estate would have been quite a frightening journey into purgatory for Gwen and Matthew, unless they were in a purgatory of their own making already.

“How many of them lived there?”

“Just the two,” Elsie said. “I remember her saying her mother used to live with them and all, but she died a year or so before we moved here.”

“Aye,” Stan chirped in. “I remember them now. Just the two of them, weren’t there? Him and his wife. Tall, gangly lass, herself.”

“Nay,” said Elsie, “she were never his wife. He weren’t right in his head.”

“Who were she, then?”

“I don’t know, but she weren’t his wife.”

“How do you know?” Banks asked Elsie.

“They didn’t act like man and wife. I could tell.”

“Don’t be so bloody daft, woman,” Stan said. Then he looked at Banks and rolled his eyes. “She were his wife. Take it from me.”

“What was her name?” Banks asked.

“It’s on the tip of my tongue,” Elsie said.

“Blodwyn,” said Stan. “Summat Welsh, anyroad.”

“No, it weren’t. Gwynneth, that were it. Gwynneth Shackleton.”

“What did she look like?”

“Ordinary, really, apart from them beautiful eyes of hers,” said Elsie. “Like Stanley said, she were a bit taller than your average lass, and a bit clumsy, you know, the way some big people are. She were nearly as tall as Matthew.”

“How old, would you say?”

“She can’t have been that old, but she had a hard-done-by look about her. I don’t know how to say it, really. Old before her time. Tired, like.”

“Must’ve been from looking after her husband. He were an invalid. Battle fatigue. War wound.”

“He weren’t her husband.”

Stan turned to face her. “Did you ever see her stepping out with a young man?”

“Come to think on it, no, I don’t recall as I did.”

“There you are then. Goes to show.”

“Show what?”

“You’d’ve thought if she weren’t married she’d have had a boyfriend or two, girl like that, wouldn’t you? I’ll grant you she were no oil painting, but she were well enough shaped where it counts, and she were bonny enough.”

“Did they ever have many visitors?” Banks asked.

“Not as I noticed,” Elsie answered. “But I’m not one of your nose-at-the-window types, you know.”

“How about an attractive young woman with blond hair?” Annie said, turning to Stanley. “Might have looked like this.” She handed him the copy of Alice Poole’s photograph and pointed to Gloria.

“No,” said Stan. “Never seen anyone looked like her. And I think I’d remember.” He winked at Annie. “I’m not that old, tha knows. But the other one’s Gwynneth all right.” He pointed to the woman Alice had identified as Gwen Shackleton. “I can’t recall as they ever had any visitors, come to think on it.”

“Aye, you’re right there, Stanley,” she said. “They kept to themselves.”

“What happened after the suicide?” Banks asked.

“She went away.”

“Do you know where?”

“No. She never even said good-bye. One day she were there, the next she were gone. I’ll tell you what, though.”

“What?” asked Banks.

A wicked smile twisted her features. “I know who she is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Her. That Gwynneth Shackleton. That’s not her name now, of course, but it’s her, right enough. Done right well for herself, she has.”

“Who is she?”

“I’ve seen her on telly, seen her picture in Woman’s Own.”

“Yer barmy, woman,” Stan piped up.

“I’m telling you, Stanley: it’s her. Those eyes. The height. The voice. I don’t forget things like that. I’m surprised you can’t see it for yourself.”

Banks was trying hard to remain patient and beginning to think he was fighting a losing battle. “Mrs. Patterson. Elsie,” he said finally. “Do you think you could tell me who you think Gwen Shackleton is?”

“It’s that woman writes those books, isn’t it? Always being interviewed on telly. And she did that documentary about that little church in London, you know, like Alan Bennett did on Westminster Abbey. Used to live just down the road, did Alan Bennett. His dad were a butcher. Anyroad, you could see it were her, how tall she were. And those eyes.”

“What books?” Banks asked.

“Them detective books. Always on telly. With that good-looking What’sisname playing the inspector. Good they are, too. I’ve had her books out of the library. I must go through ten books a week. It’s her, I’m telling you.”

“She’s thinking of that Vivian Elmsley woman,” sighed Stan. “Swore the first time she saw her interviewed by that bloke who talks through his nose-”

“Melvyn Bragg.”

“Aye, him. Swore blind it were Gwen Shackleton.”

“You don’t agree?” Annie asked.

“Nay, I don’t know, lass. I’m not good at faces, not the way our Elsie is. She’s always telling me someone’s baby looks like his mum or dad but I’m buggered if I can see it. They all look like Winston Churchill to me. Or Edward G. Robinson. There is a resemblance, but…” He shook his head. “It’s so long ago. People change. And things like that don’t happen to people like us, do they, people from places like this? Someone across the street gets famous and writes books that get done on telly and all? I mean, life’s not like that, is it? Not here. Not for the likes of us.”

“What about Alan Bennett?” Elsie argued. “And she were well-read. You could tell that about her.”

In the brief silence that followed, Banks heard more music and laughter from across the street.

“You hear what it’s like?” Stan said. “Never a moment’s peace. Day and night, night and day, bloody racket. We keep our windows shut and curtains closed. You never know what’s going to happen next. We had a murder last week. Bloke down the street playing cards with some bloody Gyppos. Vinnie and Derek, our lads, they worry about us. They’d like us to go live in sheltered housing. We might just do it and all. Right now, I’d settle for three squares a day and a bit of peace and quiet.”

“Back to this woman,” said Banks, turning to Elsie. “Gwen Shackleton.”

“Aye?”

“How long did she stay on the estate after the suicide?”

“Oh, not long. I’d say as long as it took to get him buried and get everything sorted out with the authorities.”

“Were the police suspicious about what happened?”

“Police are always suspicious, aren’t they?” said Stan. “It’s their job.” He laughed and coughed. “Nay, lad, you ought to know that.”

Banks smiled. “Was Gwen in the house at the time of the suicide?” he asked.

Elsie paused and lowered her head. “That’s what they asked us back then,” she said. “I’ve thought and thought about it to this day, and I still don’t know. I thought I saw her get back from the shops – that was where she’d been, shopping up Town Street – before I heard the bang.” She frowned. “But, you see, I were so close to having our Derek, and I weren’t always seeing things right. I could have been wrong.”

“Did you tell the police this?”

“Yes. But nowt came of it. Or they’d have put her in jail, wouldn’t they?”

Now Banks definitely wanted to have a look at the Matthew Shackleton file. “We might as well be off,” he said to Annie, then turned to Stan and Elsie. “Thanks very much. You’ve been a great help.”

“Tell me summat,” said Stan. “I know getting information out of you lot’s like prizing a penny from a Scotsman’s arse, but I’m curious. This Gwen, were she his wife?”

Banks smiled. “His sister. We think.”

Elsie nudged her husband hard in the ribs. He started coughing. “See, Stanley. I told yer so, yer great lummox.”

Banks insisted they could find their own way out, and soon he and Annie walked gratefully in the fresh air. The people across the street were still enjoying their party, joined now by Kev and his dog, which was running wild across the tiny lawns, scratching on doors and ripping up what weeds had survived summer so far. Another woman, whom Banks assumed to be Colleen, was also there, holding her baby. She was a skinny girl, about seventeen, smiling, no bruises, but with a hard, defeated look about her.

As Banks and Annie neared the end of the street, an empty beer can skittered across the Tarmac behind them.

“What do you think about this Vivian Elmsley business?” Annie asked.

“I don’t know. I’m surprised that neither Elizabeth nor Alice mentioned it.”

“Maybe they didn’t know? Alice said she’s got very poor eyesight, and Elizabeth Goodall didn’t even know why you were visiting her, she pays so little attention to current affairs.”

“True,” said Banks. “And Ruby Kettering left Hobb’s End in 1940, when Gwen was only about fifteen. Definitely worth looking into.”

“So,” said Annie back in the car. “What next?”

“The local nick. I want to see Matthew Shackleton’s file.”

“I thought so. And then?”

“Back to Millgarth.”

“Have we time for a drink and a bite to eat later?”

“Sorry. I’ve got a date.”

She thumped him playfully. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. With a detective inspector. A male detective inspector called Ken Blackstone. You met him briefly. He gave us the address.”

“I remember him. The snappy dresser. Cute.” If Annie was disappointed, she didn’t show it. Banks explained his tenuous friendship with Ken and how he was in a mood for building bridges. Things seemed to be coming together for him – the cottage, an active investigation, Annie – and he realized that he had been neglecting his friends for too long.

“I see,” Annie said. “A boys’ night out, then?”

“I suppose so.”

She laughed. “I wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall at that one.”

Billy Joe was confined to base for a few weeks. They said his punishment would have been far more severe had not all the witnesses, even Seth’s friends, attested that he didn’t start the fight. Seth was fine, too. At first, I thought Billy Joe had broken the glass in his face, but it had simply fallen off the edge of the table when he had tried to put it back there before preparing to defend himself. All Billie Joe had done was punch Seth in the nose, and everyone agreed it was well deserved.

Gloria never said as much, but I think the incident put her off Billy Joe. She hated violence. Some girls like being fought over. I’ll never forget the primal blood lust in Cynthia Garmen’s eyes when two soldiers fought over her favors at one of the Harkside dances. She didn’t care who was hitting whom as long as someone was getting hit and blood was flowing. But Gloria wasn’t like that. Violence upset her.

It was while Billy Joe was confined to base that we first met Brad and Charlie.

We were walking out of the Lyceum. It was a miserable February night in 1944, not snowing, but freezing cold, with icicles hanging from the cinema’s eaves. We hadn’t been out for a few days and Gloria was getting depressed with the cold and the hard working conditions at the farm. She needed cheering up.

We had been to see Bette Davis and Paul Henreid in Now, Voyager, and we were both humming the theme song as we put our coats back on in the foyer before going out into the bitter cold evening.

Before Gloria could dig out her own cigarettes, a young man in a fleece-lined leather jacket walked over, put two cigarettes in his mouth, lit them, then handed one to her. It was the same thing they had done in the film. We doubled over laughing.

“Brad,” said the young man. “Brad Szikorski. And this is my pal Charlie Markleson.”

Gloria did a little mock curtsy. “Charmed to meet you, I’m sure.”

“We’re with the Four Hundred Forty-Eighth? Over at Rowan Woods?” Though they were statements, they sounded like questions. I had noticed this before with both Americans and Canadians. “I don’t mean to be forward,” said Brad, “but would you ladies care to honor us by joining us for a drink?”

We exchanged glances. I could tell Gloria wanted to go. Brad was tall and handsome, with a twinkle in his eye and a little Clark Gable mustache. I looked at Charlie, who was probably destined to be my companion for the evening, and I had to admit I quite liked what I saw. About the same age as Brad, he had intelligent eyes, if a little puppy-dog, and a rather pale, thin face. His nose was too big, and it had a bump in the middle, but then mine was nothing to write home about, either. He also seemed reserved and serious. All in all, he’d do. At least for a drink.

We walked across to the Black Swan. The village green was deserted and the ice crackled under our feet. Icicles hung from the branches and twigs of the chestnut trees and frost covered the bark. If it hadn’t been so cold, I could have imagined they were blossoms in May. Behind us, the illuminated sign over the Lyceum went off. Even in the blackout, cinemas, shops and a few other establishments were allowed a small measure of light, unless the air-raid siren went off. Ahead, St. Jude’s was partially lit, and close by stood the Black Swan, with its familiar timber-and-whitewash facade and sagging roof. We could hear the sounds of talking and laughter from inside, but heavy blackout curtains covered the mullioned windows.

The pub was crowded and we were lucky to get a table. Brad went to the bar for drinks while we took our coats off. A meager fire burned in the hearth, but with all the warm bodies in there, it was enough. Also, in the Black Swan, Brad and Charlie weren’t the only Americans; it seemed to be a popular place among the Rowan Woods crowd, and there were even some GIs from the army base near Otley. They were loud and they used hand gestures a lot; they also seemed to push and shove one another a lot, in a friendly way, as children do.

Brad came back bearing a tray of six drinks. We wondered who was going to join us. Gloria and I were both drinking gin, and when Brad and Charlie picked up their beer glasses, then poured the small measures of whiskey into them, our unspoken question was answered. Nobody. Just another American peculiarity.

We toasted one another and drank, then Brad did the thing with the cigarettes again, and Charlie did it for me.

“What do you do?” Gloria asked.

“I’m a pilot,” said Brad, “and Charlie here’s my navigator.”

“A pilot! How exciting. Where are you from?”

“California.”

Gloria clapped her hands together. “Hollywood!”

“Well, not exactly. A little place called Pasadena. You probably haven’t heard of it.”

“But you must know Hollywood?”

Brad smiled, revealing straight white teeth. They must have wonderful dentists over in America, I thought, and people must have enough money to be able to afford them. “As a matter of fact, yeah, I do,” he said. “I did a little stunt flying there in the movies before I came over here.”

“You mean you’ve actually been in pictures?”

“Well, you can’t really see it’s me, but, I mean, yeah, I guess so.” He named a couple of titles; we hadn’t heard of either of them. “That’s what I want to do when all this is over,” he went on. “Get back there and get in the movie business. My father’s in oil and he wants me to join him. I know there’s plenty of money there, but that’s not what I want. I want a shot at being a stunt man.”

If Gloria was disappointed that Brad didn’t want to be an oil millionaire or a movie star, she didn’t show it. As they chatted away excitedly about films and Hollywood, Charlie and I started our own hesitant conversation.

The beer and whiskey must have melted a little of his reserve, because he opened by asking me what I did. He regarded me seriously as I told him, his expression unchanging, nodding his head every now and then. Then he told me his father was a professor at Harvard, that he had completed his university degree in English just before the war, and when he went back he wanted to go to Harvard, too, to study law. He liked flying, he said, but he didn’t see it as a career.

The more we talked, the more we found we had in common – Jane Austen and Thomas Hardy, for example, and the poetry of T. S. Eliot. And Robert Frost and Edward Thomas. He hadn’t heard of many of our younger poets, so I offered to lend him some issues of Penguin New Writing, with poems by MacNeice, Auden and Day Lewis, and he said he would lend me Tate and Bishop’s American Harvest anthology, if I took special care with it. I told him that I would no more damage a book than I would a living human being and that made him smile for the first time.

“Have you got a husband?” I overheard Brad ask Gloria. “I mean, I don’t mean to… you know…”

“It’s all right. I did have. But he’s dead. Killed in Burma. At least I hope to God he was.”

I turned from Charlie. It was true that we had tried to convince ourselves of Matthew’s death, but there was still a lingering hope, at least in my mind, and I thought that was a terrible thing to say. I told her so.

She turned on me, eyes flashing. “Well, you should know better than anyone that I’m right, Gwen. You’re the one who reads the newspapers and listens to the news, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Look, I’m really sorry,” Brad cut in, but Gloria ignored him, kept staring at me.

“So you must know what they’re saying about the Japanese, about the way they treat their prisoners?” she went on.

I had to admit that I had read one or two rather grim stories alleging that the Japanese beat and starved prisoners to death, and according to Anthony Eden, torture and decapitation were favorite pastimes in their POW camps. The Daily Mail called them “monkey men,” claimed that they were “sub-human” and should be outlawed after they had been beaten back to their “savage land.” I didn’t know what to believe. If the stories were true, then I should probably agree with Gloria and hope to God Matthew was dead.

“I’ve got friends fighting in the Pacific,” said Charlie. “I hear it’s pretty rough out there. A lot of these stories are true.”

“Well, he’s dead, anyway,” said Gloria. “So nothing can hurt him now. Look, this is too depressing. Can we have another round of drinkies, please?”

Brad and Charlie drove us home in their Jeep. Charlie seemed a little embarrassed when Brad and Gloria started kissing passionately by the fairy bridge, but he managed to pluck up the courage to put his arm around me. We kissed dutifully and arranged to meet again soon to swap books. Brad told Charlie to drive on, that he’d walk back to the base alone later, and he followed Gloria into Bridge Cottage.

The Indian restaurant Ken Blackstone had chosen was a hole-in-the-wall on Burley Road with red tablecloths and a bead curtain in front of the kitchen. Every time the waiter walked through, the beads rattled. Sitar music droned from speakers high on the walls, and the aromas of cumin and coriander filled the air.

“Did you find what you were looking for in those incident reports?” Blackstone asked as they shared popadams, samosas and pakoras.

“I wasn’t after anything in particular,” Banks said. “Elsie Patterson was unsure as to whether she saw Gwen Shackleton enter the house with her shopping before or after she heard the shot. She even thought the shot might have been a car backfiring. And she was the only witness. Nobody else saw Gwen or Matthew that day. The other neighbors were at work, the local kids at school.”

“What did Gwen Shackleton say in her statement?”

Banks swallowed a mouthful of samosa. So far, the food was excellent, as Ken had promised; it was neither too greasy nor too needlessly hot, the way many Indian restaurants made it, mistaking chili peppers and cayenne for creative spicing. Banks thought he might like to try his hand at Indian cooking, have Annie over for a vegetarian curry. “She just said she found Matthew dead in the armchair when she got home from shopping.”

“Was there any real doubt? Was she ever a suspect?”

“I didn’t get that impression. Matthew Shackleton had a history of mental illness since the war. He was also an alcoholic. Functioning, more or less, but an alcoholic. According to the report, he had tried to kill himself once before, head in the gas oven that time. A neighbor smelled gas and saved him. The hospital suggested a period of psychiatric observation, which they carried out, then they sent him home again.”

“Why didn’t he use the gun that time?”

“No idea.”

“But it was just a matter of time?”

“Seems that way.”

“You disagree?”

“No. Though I suppose there’s always the possibility that he was helped on his way, that he had become an intolerable burden to his sister. Remember, Gwen had been taking care of both her mother and her brother. It’s not much of a life for a young woman, is it? Anyway, if Elsie Patterson really did see Gwen Shackleton go into the house before the shot was fired, it’s possible Gwen might have stood by and let him get on with it.”

“Still a crime.”

“Yes, but it happened over forty years ago, Ken. And we’d never prove it.”

“Not unless Gwen Shackleton confessed.”

“Why should she do that?”

“Years of accumulated guilt? The need to get it off her chest before her final confrontation with the Almighty? I don’t know. Who knows why people confess? They do, though.”

Their main courses arrived: aloo gobi, rogan josh, and king prawn, with pilao rice, lime chutney and chapatis. They ordered more lager.

Banks looked at Blackstone. Cute, Annie had said. Cute was the last thing that came to Banks’s mind. Elegant, yes; donnish, even. But cute? No matter where Blackstone was – student hangout, back-street pub, five-star restaurant, cop shop – he was always immaculately dressed in his Burtons’ best pinstripe or herringbone, monogrammed silk handkerchief poised over the edge of his top pocket, folds so aesthetic and delicate they might have been set by a Japanese flower arranger. Crisp white shirt, neat Windsor knot in his subdued tie. Thinning sandy hair curled around his ears and his wire-rimmed glasses balanced on the bridge of his straight nose.

“What about forensics?” Blackstone asked.

“Single shot in the mouth. Splattered his brains over the wall like blancmange. No evidence of a struggle. Empty whiskey bottle by the chair. The angle of the wound was also consistent with the suicide theory.”

“Note?”

“Yes. The genuine article, according to forensics.”

“So what’s bothering you?”

Banks ate some curry and washed it down before answering. Already a pleasant glow was spreading from his mouth and stomach throughout the rest of his body. The curry was just hot enough to produce a mild sweat, but not to burn his taste buds off. “Nothing, really. Outside of normal curiosity, I’m not really interested in whether Gwen Shackleton helped her brother commit suicide or not. But I would like to know if he murdered Gloria Shackleton.”

“Perhaps he couldn’t live with the guilt?”

“My first thought.”

“But now?”

“Oh, it’s still the most likely explanation. The only person who can tell us is Gwen Shackleton.”

“What happened to her? Is she still alive?”

“That’s another interesting thing. Elsie Patterson swears she’s Vivian Elmsley.”

Blackstone whistled and raised his thin, arched eyebrows. “The writer?”

“That’s the one.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible, I suppose. The Pattersons said they could tell Gwen was well-read, and everyone who remembers her said she always had her head stuck in a book. Annie’s going to ask around, but there’s only one way to find out for certain, isn’t there? We’ll have to talk to her. Like Gloria’s son, if he’s still alive, she certainly hasn’t been in touch with us, and we’ve had calls out all over the country for information. It’s hard to imagine that many people don’t know the story.”

“Which may mean that, if it is her, she has a reason for not wanting to be found?”

“Exactly. A guilty secret.”

“Wasn’t that the title of one of her books?”

Banks laughed. “Was it? I can’t say as I’ve read any.”

“I have,” said Blackstone. “Seen them on telly, too. She’s actually a very talented writer. Hasn’t a clue about how we really operate, of course, but then none of them do.”

“It’d make for some pretty boring books if they did.”

“True enough.”

Blackstone ordered a couple more pints of lager. He looked at his watch. “How about heading into town after this one?” he asked.

“Okay.”

“How are the kids?”

“Fine, I suppose. Well, at least Tracy is.”

“Brian?”

“Silly bugger’s just cocked up his finals and come out with a third.”

Blackstone, who had a degree in art history, frowned. “Any particular reason? You don’t blame yourself, do you? The breakup? Stress?”

Banks shook his head. “No, not really. I think he just sort of lost interest in the subject and found something he felt more passionate about.”

“The music?”

“Uh-huh. He’s in a band. They’re trying to make a go of it.”

“Good for him,” said Blackstone. “I would have thought you’d approve.”

“That’s the bloody problem, Ken, I do. Only when he first told me I said some things I regret. Now I can’t get in touch with him to explain. They’re out on the road somewhere.”

“Keep trying. That’s about all you can do.”

“I sounded just like my own parents. It brought back a lot of stuff, things I hadn’t really thought much about in years, like why I made some of the choices I did.”

“Any answers?”

Banks smiled. “On a postcard, please.”

“Any great change in your circumstances tends to make you introspective. It’s one of the stages you go through.”

“Been reading those self-help books again, Ken?”

Blackstone smiled. “Fruits of experience, mate. This DS you were asking me about on the phone, the one who was with you at Millgarth. What’s her name again?”

“Annie. Annie Cabbot.”

“Good-looking woman.”

“I suppose so.”

“You involved with her?”

Banks paused. If he told Ken Blackstone the truth, that would be one person too many who knew about them. But why keep it a secret? Why lie? Ken was a mate. He nodded briefly.

“Is it serious?”

“For crying out loud, Ken, I’ve only known her a week.”

Blackstone held his hand up. “Okay, okay. Is she the first one since Sandra?”

“Yes. Well, apart from a mistake one night. Yes. Why?”

“Just be careful, that’s all.”

“Come again?”

Blackstone leaned back in his chair. “You’re still vulnerable, that’s what I’m talking about. It takes a long time to get over a relationship as long-lasting and as deep as yours and Sandra’s.”

“I’m not sure how deep it went, Ken. I’m beginning to think I believed what I wanted to believe, missed the signposts to the real world.”

“Whatever. All I’m saying is that when someone goes through what you’re going through, he either ends up angry at women for a long time or he misses what he had. Or both. If he’s angry, then he probably just shags them and leaves them. But if he misses the relationship, then he looks for another one to replace it, and his judgment is not necessarily in the best of nick. If he’s both, then he gets into another relationship and fucks it up royally all around and wonders why everyone ends up in tears.”

Banks pushed his chair back and stood up. “Well, thanks for the amateur psychology, Ken, but if I’d wanted Claire fucking Rayner-”

Blackstone grabbed on to Banks’s sleeve. “Alan. Sit down. Please. I’m not suggesting you do anything except be aware of the pitfalls.” He smiled. “Besides, you’re bloody-minded enough to do what you want in any situation, I know that. All I’m saying is think about what you want and why you want it. Be aware of what’s going on. That’s all the wisdom I have to offer. You’ve always struck me as a bit of a romantic underneath it all.”

Banks hesitated, still half ready to leave and half ready to punch Blackstone. “What do you mean?”

“The kind of detective who cares just a bit too much about every victim. The kind of bloke who falls a little bit in love with every woman he sleeps with.”

Banks glanced at Blackstone through narrowed eyes. “I haven’t slept with that many women,” he said. “And as for-”

“Sit down, Alan. Please.”

Banks paused for a moment. When he felt the anger sluice away, he sat.

“What does she feel about it all?”

Banks reached for a cigarette. He felt uncomfortable, as if he were in the dentist’s chair and Blackstone were probing a particularly sensitive nerve. He had never been good at talking about his feelings, even with Jenny Fuller, who was a psychologist. It was something he had in common with most of his male friends, and it gave him a special solidarity with Yorkshiremen. He should have remembered that Ken Blackstone was a bit artsy, read Freud and that sort of thing. “I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t asked her. We haven’t really talked about it.”

Blackstone paused. Banks lit his cigarette. On a night like this one was shaping up to be, he might go over his allowance. “Alan,” Blackstone went on, “ten months ago you thought you had a stable marriage of more than twenty years’ standing, house, kids, the full Monty. Then, all of a sudden, the carpet’s pulled out from under you and you find you’ve got nothing of the kind. The emotional fallout from that sort of upset doesn’t go away overnight, mate, I can tell you. And believe me, I speak from experience. It takes years to get it out of your system. Enjoy yourself. Just don’t make it more than it is. You’re not ready to deal with that yet. Don’t confuse sex and love.” He slapped the table. “Shit, now I am starting to sound like Claire Rayner. I didn’t really want to get into this.”

“Why did you start it, then?”

Blackstone laughed. “God knows. Because I’ve been there, maybe? Bit of personal therapy? Like anything, it’s probably more about me than you. Maybe I’m just jealous. Maybe I wouldn’t mind sleeping with an attractive young DS myself. Lord knows, it’s been a bloody long time. Ignore me.”

Banks finished his pint and put the glass down slowly. “Look, I take your point, Ken, really I do, but to be honest, it’s the first time I’ve felt comfortable with a woman since Sandra left. Not comfortable, so much, that’s not the right word. Annie’s not a woman you necessarily feel comfortable with. She’s a little weird. Bit of a free spirit. Very private. Hell, though, it’s the first time I’ve really felt free enough to jump into something and say damn the consequences.”

Blackstone laughed and shook his head slowly. “Sounds like you’ve got it bad.” He looked at his watch. “What say we hit the fleshpots of Leeds and get irredeemably pissed?”

Banks smiled. “Most sensible thing you’ve said all night. Let’s do it.”

“And I’ve got a fine malt tucked away at home for afters.”

“Even better. Lead on.”

Winter finally gave way to a slow spring, with its snowdrops in Rowan Woods, then the bluebells, crocuses and daffodils. Brad and Charlie became our regular “beaux” and we saw far less of Billy Joe, who became very sulky after he found he had lost Gloria to a pilot.

The Americans always seemed more casual about rank, unlike the English. I suppose it is because our class system instilled it in us from birth, while Americans were all created equal, or so they say. It must be nice for them; it would probably be confusing for us. But it’s one thing for officers and enlisted men to eat, drink and billet together and quite another for a second Lieutenant to steal a mere sergeant’s girl.

I was worried that Billy Joe would start a fight, given his violent streak, but he soon found another girl and even started talking to us again when we met at dances and in pubs. He pestered Gloria on occasion to go back with him, or at least just to sleep with him again, but she was able to keep him at bay, even when she’d been drinking.

PX, of course, remained absolutely essential, so we made sure we still cultivated him. As none of us had actually gone out with him, anyway, we had no reason to think our new relationship with Brad and Charlie would have any effect on the friendship, and it didn’t seem to.

I won’t say that my affair with Charlie was a grand passion, but we became less awkward with the physical side of things as time went on, and he did become the first man I ever slept with. He was gentle, patient and sensitive, which was exactly what I needed, and I came to look forward to those times we spent in bed together at Bridge Cottage, courtesy of Gloria.

Our relationship remained more of an intellectual one; we passed books back and forth with abandon: Forster, Proust, Dostoevsky. Charlie wasn’t dull and dry, though; he loved to dance and was a great Humphrey Bogart fan. He took me to see Casablanca and The Maltese Falcon, even though he had seen them both before. He was also far more passionate about classical music than I was, and we sometimes went to concerts. Once, I remember, we went all the way to Huddersfield to see Benjamin Britten conduct his own Hymn to St. Cecilia.

In all the excitement we were probably guilty of neglecting the people who had been good to us in the worst days after Matthew’s disappearance, especially Michael Stanhope. We redeemed ourselves with him a little when he had an exhibition in Leeds. Charlie and I made a weekend of it and went to stay at the Metropole Hotel.

Charlie, who knew a lot more about painting than I did, praised the exhibition to the skies and I think Mr. Stanhope was rather taken with him. Even Gloria went to see Mr. Stanhope at his studio that summer and autumn far more often than she had before.

I tried not to dwell on the dangers inherent in Charlie’s job, and for his part, he never seemed to want to talk about them. The war receded into the distance during those hours we spent together reading or making love, though it was difficult to ignore the rest of the time. The Americans were carrying out precision daylight bombing raids over Germany, often without fighter cover, and their casualties were appalling. Instead of listening to the drone of the planes taking off after dark, I now heard them in the mornings. The Flying Fortresses were much louder than the RAF planes that had been there before. They would warm up the engines at about five o’clock, which was the time I usually awoke anyway, and I would lie there stealing an extra few minutes of warmth and imagine Charlie checking his maps and preparing himself for another raid.

Charlie told me that up around twenty thousand feet they were flying at temperatures of between minus 30 and minus 50 degrees Fahrenheit. I couldn’t imagine anything that cold. He had to wear long woolen underwear and electrically heated flying suits under his fleece-lined leather jacket. I had to laugh when he said it would take him half an hour to get undressed and into bed with me.

And so life went on. Books. Bed. Pictures. Dances. Concerts. Talk. Double summertime began on the second of April that year, giving us the long spring evenings to go for walks to pick wildflowers in Rowan Woods or idle down by the river. In May, when it was warmer, we would often sit on the banks of Harksmere and read Coleridge and Wordsworth out loud to one another. We had picnics of Spam- and potted-shrimp sandwiches on the terraces just off The Edge.

Mother liked Charlie, I could tell, though she didn’t say much. She never did. Matthew’s disappearance had taken most of the wind out of her sails. But Charlie brought her Lifesavers and Hershey bars, and she thanked him and ate them all.

After the excitement of the Normandy landing, we soon got back to reality: the summer of the doodlebugs. We only experienced one V-1 rocket in Hobb’s End, one which had badly lost its way.

I was standing on the fairy bridge chatting with Cynthia Garmen. It was a typical July day: muggy, with dark, leaden clouds and the threat of storm. We were talking about the Japanese defeat at Imphal, wishing Matthew could have been there to experience it, when we heard the awful sound in the sky, like a motorcycle without a silencer. All of a sudden it spluttered to a stop. Then there was a dreadful silence. We could see it by then, a dark, pointed shape beginning the silent arc of its descent.

Fortunately, it fell in one of the fields between Hobb’s End and Harkside without exploding, and by the time we had rushed down to see what was going on, the local ARP people already had the area cordoned off and were waiting for the UXB team to arrive.

The advance continued, and slowly things began to improve. The blackout was replaced by the “dim-out” in September, but most of us left the curtains up anyway and didn’t get around to taking them down until the following year. If by autumn, then, we were feeling flush with the possibility of victory, we had little idea of the grim winter to come.

By ten o’clock that night Annie was feeling so restless that even a large glass of wine didn’t help settle her down.

She knew what part of the problem was: Banks. When he told her he was going out boozing with a mate instead of going to dinner with her, she did feel pissed off with him. She felt disappointed that he would rather go drinking with someone else than be with her, especially at such an early and delicate stage in their relationship. True, it was she who had suggested they limit their time together to weekends, but it was also she who had broken the rule the other night. Why couldn’t he do the same tonight?

But at least she hadn’t wasted her time that evening.

The long trail that had started on Wednesday, over the telephone, was beginning to bear fruit.

At first, she had come to the conclusion that it was easier finding a fully dressed woman in The Sunday Sport than getting information out of the American Embassy. People were polite – insufferably so – but she was shunted from one minion to another for the best part of an hour and came out with nothing but an earache and a growing distaste for condescending and suspicious American men who called her “ma’am.”

By the end of the day, she had managed to discover that the personnel at Rowan Woods in late 1943 would have been members of the United States Eighth Air Force, and it was very unlikely that there would be any local records of who they were. One of the more helpful employees suggested that she try contacting the USAFE base in Ramstein and gave her the number.

When she got back from the Leeds council estate, even though it was early evening, she phoned Ramstein, where she discovered that all air force personnel records were kept at the National Personnel Records Center in St. Louis, Missouri. She checked the time difference and found that St. Louis was six hours behind Harkside. Which meant it would be afternoon there.

After a little more shunting around and a few abrupt requests to “please hold,” she was put through to a woman called Mattie, who just “adored” her accent. They chatted about the differences in weather – it was raining hard in St. Louis – and about other things for a short while, then Annie plucked up the courage to ask for what she wanted.

Expecting some sort of military smoke screen, she was pleasantly surprised when Mattie told her that there was no problem; the records were generally available to the public, and she would see what she could do. When Annie mentioned the initials “PX,” Mattie laughed and said that was the man who looked after the store. She also warned Annie that some of their records had been burned in a fire a few years ago, but if she still had Rowan Woods, she’d set the fax to send it out during the night. Annie should get it the next morning. Annie thanked her profusely and went home feeling absurdly pleased with herself.

But it didn’t last.

Sometimes when she felt irritable and restless like this, she would go for a drive, and that was exactly what she did. Without making a conscious decision, she took the road west out of Harkside, and when she reached the turnoff for Thornfield Reservoir, she turned right.

By then she had realized that Banks wasn’t the problem; she was. She was pissed off at herself for letting him get to her. She was behaving like some sort of silly love-struck schoolgirl. Vulnerable. Hurt. Let’s face it, Annie, she told herself, life has been pretty simple, pretty much regimented for some time now. No real highs; no real lows. Only herself to think of. Manageable, but diminished.

She had been hiding from life in a remote corner of Yorkshire, protecting her emotions from the harsh world she had experienced “out there.” Sometimes when you open yourself up to that life again, it can be confusing and painful, like when you open your eyes to bright light. Your emotions are tender and raw, more than usually sensitive to all its nuances, its little hurts and humiliations. So that was what was happening. Well, at least she knew that much. So much for cool, Annie, so much for detachment.

A misshapen harvest moon hung low in the western sky, bloated and flattened into a red sausage shape by the gathering haze. Otherwise the road was unlit, surrounded on both sides by tall dark trees. Her headlights caught dozens of rabbits.

She pulled into the car park and turned off the engine. Silence. As she got out and stood in the warm night air, she started to feel at peace. Her problems seemed to slip away; one way or another, she knew they would sort themselves out.

Annie loved being alone deep in the countryside at night, where you might hear only the very distant progress of a car, the rustles of small animals, see only the dark shapes of the trees and hills, perhaps a few pinpricks of light from farmhouses on distant hillsides. She loved the sea at night even more – the relentless rhythm of the waves, the hiss and suck, and the way the reflected moonlight sways and bends with the water’s swell and catches the crests of the waves. But the sea was fifty miles away. She would have to make do with the woods for now. The appeal was still to the deep, primitive part of her.

She took the narrow footpath toward Hobb’s End, walking carefully because of the gnarled tree roots that crossed it in places and the stones that thrust up out of the dirt. Hardly any moonlight penetrated the tree cover, but here and there she caught a slat or two of reddish-silver light between branches. She could smell the loamy, earthy smell of trees and shrubs. The slightest breeze butterfly-kissed the upper leaves.

When Annie reached the slope, she paused and looked down on the ruins of Hobb’s End. It was easy to make out the dark, skeletal shape, the spine and ribs, but somehow tonight, with the slight curve of the High Street and the dry riverbed, the ruins looked more like the decayed stubs of teeth in a sneering mouth.

Annie skipped down the slope and walked toward the fairy bridge. From there, she looked along the river and saw the blood-red moonlight reflected in the few little puddles of water that remained on its muddy bed. She walked on past the outbuilding where Gloria’s skeleton had been found, and the ruins of Bridge Cottage next to it. The ground around had all been dug up and was now taped off for safety. The SOCOs from headquarters had brought their own crime-scene tape. She headed down what was once the High Street.

As she went, Annie tried to visualize the scene from Michael Stanhope’s painting: children laughing and splashing in the river shallows; knots of local women gossiping outside a shop; the butcher’s boy in his blood-stained apron riding like the wind; the tall young woman arranging newspapers in a rack. Gwynneth Shackleton. That was who it was. Why hadn’t she realized it before? Somehow, the revelation that Stanhope had also painted Gwen Shackleton into his scene thrilled her.

She looked at the ruins to her right and saw where once was a detached cottage with a little garden, once a row of terrace houses opening directly onto the pavement. This was where the ginnel led off to the tanner’s yard; here was the Shackletons’ newsagent’s shop, here the butcher’s, and a little farther down stood the Shoulder of Mutton, where the sign had swayed and creaked in the wind.

So real did it all seem as she walked toward the flax mill that she began to fancy she could even hear long-silent voices whispering secrets. She passed the street that led to the old church and stood at the western end of the village, on that stretch of empty ground where the houses ended and the land rose toward the mill.

As she stood and breathed in the air deeply, she realized how much she wanted to know what had happened here, every bit as much as Banks did. Without her wishing for it, or asking for it, Hobb’s End and its history had imposed themselves on her, thrust themselves into her consciousness and become part of her life. It had happened at the same time that Banks had become part of her life, too. She knew that, whatever became of them, the two events would be united in her mind forever.

When she had challenged him on his obsession with it the other night, she hadn’t even attempted to explain hers. It wasn’t because of the war, but because she identified with Gloria. This was a woman who had struggled and dared to be a little different in a time that didn’t tolerate such behavior. She had lost her parents, then had either abandoned or been cast out by the father of her child, had come to a remote place, taken on a hard job and fallen in love. Then she had lost her husband in the war, or so she must have believed. If Gloria had been still alive when Matthew came back, then she would have had to face a stranger, most likely. Whatever else happened, someone strangled her, stabbed her nearly twenty times and buried her under an outbuilding. And nobody had tried to find out what happened to her.

Suddenly, Annie noticed a movement and saw a figure scuttle across the fairy bridge toward the car parks. Her blood froze. At that moment, she became a little girl frightened of the dark, and she could believe that witches, demons and hobgoblins haunted Hobb’s End. She was the whole length of the village away, so what she saw was nothing more than a fleeting silhouette.

Finding her voice, she called out. No answer came. The figure disappeared up the slope into the woods. Annie set off in pursuit. With every stride, the policewoman in her started to overcome the scared, superstitious girl.

Just when she had got back up the slope and was heading for the woods, she heard a car start ahead of her. There were two small car parks, separated by a high hedge, and whoever this was must have been parked in the other one, or Annie would have seen the car earlier.

She put on an extra burst of speed but could only get to the road in time to see the taillights disappearing. Even in the moonlight, all she could tell was that the car was dark in color. She stood there leaning forward, hands resting on her knees, getting her breath back and wondering who the hell could be in such a hurry to escape discovery.