In A Dry Season

TWELVE

“He asked me to marry him,” Gloria repeated.

“I still don’t believe you,” I said.

“Well, you can ask him yourself. It’s true.”

It was early in the new year, 1945, and I had dropped by Bridge Cottage one evening to see how Gloria was coping. She had had a terrible cold over Christmas – had even missed Alice Poole’s farewell party – and the doctor said she had almost caught pneumonia. Though she was weak and pale and had lost some weight, she seemed to be on the mend.

“You should have seen my nose when he asked me. It was red-raw.”

I laughed. It was good to laugh at something. Christmas that year had been a miserable affair not only because it was the coldest one I could remember, but because the advance that had seemed to be going so well earlier had bogged down in the Ardennes. It was all right for Alice. Her Eric had been wounded there and shipped home. But how long was this bloody war going to drag on? Couldn’t everyone see we had all had enough? Sometimes I felt that I had never even known life during peacetime.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“I told him I’d think about it, but he’d have to wait until the war was over, until we could find out for certain about Matt.”

“Do you love him?”

“In a way. Not… Oh, I mean I don’t really think I could ever love anyone like I loved Matt, but Brad and I get on well enough, in and out of bed. I like his company. And he’s good to me. When the war’s over, he wants to take me back to Hollywood with him.”

“It’ll be a new lease on life, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“And I’ll have someone I can visit out there.”

“You will.”

“But?”

“What do you mean?”

“I still sense a ‘but.’ You only told him you’d think about it.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Gwen. You know I can’t even consider getting married again until the war’s over, for a start. But I will think about it. Oh, look what PX brought me when I was ill. Isn’t he sweet?”

It was a box of chocolates. A bloody box of chocolates! I hadn’t even seen a single chocolate in years. Gloria held out the box. “Please, take one. Take them all, in fact. They’ll only make me fat.”

“What about me?” I asked, picking out the caramel.

“You could do with a bit of meat on your bones.”

I threw the screwed-up wrapper at her. “Cheeky.”

“Well, you could. What about Charlie?”

“Oh, he’s still depressed about Glenn Miller disappearing.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Has he asked you yet?”

I’m sure I blushed. “No,” I said. “We haven’t talked about marriage.”

“Books, that’s all you two ever talk about.”

“It’s not.”

She smiled. “I’m teasing, Gwen. I’m glad you’re happy. Honest, I am.”

“We still haven’t talked about marriage.”

“Well, there’s no hurry, I suppose. But you could do a lot worse. A lawyer! He’ll be rich, just you wait and see.”

“Money isn’t everything.”

“It certainly helps. Anyway, you can go to America, too, and be a rich lawyer’s wife. We can see each other all the time. Have lunch together.”

“Gloria, Boston is miles away from Los Angeles.”

“Is it? Well, at least we’ll be in the same country.”

And so we chatted on about love and marriage and what the future might offer us. Gloria soon recovered her health, and the round of dances, films and pub nights started all over again. February brought the prospect of victory closer and I actually began to believe that we were entering the last spring of the war.

Everything changed one gray afternoon in March, when a tall, gaunt stranger walked down the High Street toward me, struggling against the wind.

Banks really must have had a night on the tiles, Annie thought, pursing her lips and tapping her pen against the side of her thigh. It was after nine, and he wasn’t in his office yet. Was he still in Leeds? Had he and his friend picked up some women?

She fought back the acid-burn of jealousy that curdled in her stomach. Jealousy and suspicion had ruined relationships for her before. Just before Rob got killed she had suspected he was seeing someone else and had consequently treated him badly. She thought she had conquered her feelings by now, thought she had learned detachment, but perhaps she had only put her insecurity on mothballs, along with everything else, since she had transferred to North Yorkshire. It was a frightening thought. Until she had met Banks, she had imagined she was in control, doing just fine.

Annie remembered she was supposed to check on the Gwen Shackleton/Vivian Elmsley link. First, she phoned Ruby Kettering, who said – as expected – that it was so long ago she couldn’t even remember what Gwen looked or sounded like. Besides, Gwen would have only been fifteen then. Elizabeth Goodall told Annie that she had no idea who Vivian Elmsley was, and Alice Poole said that with her poor eyesight she couldn’t be relied upon to tell Queen Elizabeth from Prince Charles.

Next, Annie phoned Millgarth and asked to speak to DI Blackstone. He told her Banks was on his way back to Eastvale. She could have sworn he was suppressing laughter as he said it. They had probably been talking about her; images of Banks telling all the steamy details to his pal after a few pints made her face burn and her throat constrict. All of a sudden, her pleasure in wanting to tell him about her success with USAFE evaporated.

Men, Annie thought. Never anything but bloody big kids when you got right down to it. And that was the most charitable view.

The fax machine hummed into action. Annie hurried over to see if it was the information from Mattie in St. Louis. It was: a personnel breakdown of the 448th Bomber Group at Rowan Woods AAF base between December 19, 1943, and May 17, 1945, when they had left. There were a lot of names. Too many.

As she glanced over the list, Annie thought again about the Hobb’s End incident last night. It had rattled her more than she realized at first, and she had had a difficult time getting to sleep. She didn’t know why it should have affected her that way, apart from the misshapen red moon, the eerie atmosphere and the way the ruins had seduced her into believing in ghosts and goblins and things that go bump in the night. But ghosts and goblins don’t run away and drive off in cars. Now, in the light of day, what bothered her most of all was why someone should hide from her in the first place, and then why take off like a bat out of hell when she gave chase?

There might be a simple explanation, of course. Whoever it was may have been more afraid of her than she was of him: a mischievous kid, perhaps. Given everything else they had discovered since Adam Kelly found the Hobb’s End skeleton, however, Annie felt inclined to be more suspicious.

The answer still eluded her. There was nothing left at the site; the SOCOs had been over it thoroughly. Perhaps someone might think there was something there, though. Even so, how could anything buried there incriminate anyone living now? From what Annie had seen briefly of the figure last night, whoever it was hadn’t been old enough to have murdered Gloria Shackleton over fifty years ago. People in their seventies or eighties don’t usually move that fast.

So it remained a mystery. She wanted to talk to Banks about it, but he’d been off behaving like a silly kid getting pissed with his mates and telling tales about her sexual appetite and his ability to satisfy it. She hoped he had a hangover the size of China.

Debussy’s chamber music for harp and wind instruments got Banks back to Gratly safe and sane via the slow back roads. He thought of stopping in at Harkside on his way to see how Annie was doing, but decided against it. He didn’t want her to see him until he had at least managed a change of clothes. The ones he was wearing still stank of smoke and stale beer.

His head ached, despite the Paracetamol he had downed at Ken’s flat that morning, and his mouth tasted like the bottom of a birdcage. When he had awoken and looked around Ken’s living room, he had groaned at the detritus of a wild and foolish night: an empty bottle of Glenmorangie on the coffee table, alongside an empty bottle of claret and an overflowing ashtray. He didn’t think the whiskey bottle had been full when they got into it, but even a fifteen-year-old would have had more sense than to mix beer, wine and whiskey that way.

Still, he had enjoyed what he remembered of their rambling talk about women, marriage, divorce, sex and loneliness. And there was wonderful music. Ken was an aficionado of female jazz singers – a vinyl-freak, too – and the LP sleeves scattered over the floor attested to this: Ella Fitzgerald, June Christy, Dinah Washington, Helen Forrest, Anita O’Day, Keely Smith, Peggy Lee.

The last thing Banks remembered was drifting off to late-period Billie Holiday singing “Ill Wind,” her smoked-honey voice beautifully mingling with Ben Webster’s tenor sax. Then came oblivion.

He groaned and rubbed his stubbly face. All the hangover clichés ran through his mind, one after another: You’re getting too old for this sort of thing; Time you grew up; and I’ll never touch another drop as long as I live. It was a familiar litany of guilt and self-disgust. Last night would have to remain a one-off, a brief lapse, a necessary sacrifice to friendship.

As Banks emptied his pockets before dropping his jeans in the laundry basket – noticing how full it was getting – he found a slip of paper. On it was the name “Maria” followed by a Leeds telephone number.

He racked his brains but he couldn’t remember which one of the two girls they’d talked to in the Adelphi was Maria. Was it the petite blonde or the slender redhead with the freckles and the wide gap between her front teeth? He thought the blonde had been more interested in Ken, and he vaguely remembered them talking about the Pre-Raphaelites. If Maria was the redhead, she had a sort of Pre-Raphaelite look about her. Maybe that was how the subject had come up. No good. He couldn’t remember. It had been that kind of night. He screwed up the slip of paper, aimed it at the waste-bin, then stopped, straightened it out and put it in the top drawer of his bedside table. You never know.

After a shave, a shower and a change of clothes, Banks drove to Eastvale and arrived at his office just after ten o’clock. He hardly had time to turn on his computer when his door opened and in strode Chief Constable Jeremiah “Jimmy” Riddle himself, making one of his rare forays to Eastvale. Banks muttered a silent curse. Just what he needed, in his fragile state.

Banks looked up. “Sir?”

“Banks, you look bloody awful,” said Riddle. “What have you been doing, man? Drinking yourself silly?”

“Touch of flu, sir.”

“Flu, my arse. Anyway, that’s your problem, you want to go on poisoning your liver.”

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“It’s that skeleton case I gave you. Been all over the news lately. Attracting a lot of publicity. I hope you’re on top of things?”

“Definitely, sir.”

“Good. I want you to bring me up-to-date. I’ve got to go to London today to tape an interview for ‘Panorama.’ They’re putting together a special segment on the investigation of old cases, how DNA makes a difference, that sort of thing.” He brushed some imaginary fluff from the front of his uniform and glanced at his watch. “I need an angle. And you’d better make it quick. My train leaves in an hour and a half.”

Well, be thankful for small mercies, Banks told himself. “Where do you want me to begin, sir?” he asked.

“At the bloody beginning, man; where do you think?”

Banks told him what he and Annie had discovered so far from the SOCOs, from talking to Elizabeth Goodall and Alice Poole and from the visit to Leeds. When he had finished, Riddle ran his hand over his shiny bald scalp and said, “It’s not much to go on, is it? Memory of a couple of old biddies?”

“We’re not likely to get much better,” said Banks. “Not at this point. Too much time’s gone by. I suppose you could make a point about how unreliable people’s memories become over the years.”

Riddle nodded and made a note.

“Anyway, there’s a lot we’re still waiting on. We’ve got a report on Dr. Williams’s physical examination of the bones, but we’re still waiting the results of further tests both from him and our forensic odontologist. These things take time.”

“And cost money. It’d better be worth it, Banks. Don’t think I’m not keeping my eye on the bottom line on this one.”

“We also found a button, possibly military, close to the body. She may have been holding it when she was killed. There’s still a lot we don’t know yet.”

Riddle rubbed his chin. “Still,” he said, “there’s a good angle in what you’ve already told me. Nude paintings. Village scandals. Women playing around with Yanks. Yes. That’s good stuff. That’ll play. And give me a copy of the forensic anthropologist’s report to read on my way. I want to sound as if I know what I’m talking about.”

You’ve been trying to do that for years without much success, Banks wanted to say, but he held his tongue and phoned the input clerk for a photocopy. Riddle could pick it up on his way out, seeing as he was in such a hurry. “You mentioned DNA, sir,” he said. “You might mention that we think her son is still alive and it would be a great help if he could get in touch with us. That way we could verify the identity of the remains once and for all.”

Riddle stood up. “If I’ve got time, Banks. If I’ve got time.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob and half-turned. “By the way,” he said. “DS Cabbot. How’s she working out?”

She. So he did know. “Fine,” said Banks. “She’s a good detective. Wasted in a place like Harkside.”

A malicious smile flitted across Riddle’s face. “Ah, yes. Pity, really. I understand there was some trouble in her previous posting. Nice-looking girl, though, by all accounts?”

“Trouble, sir?”

“You should know all about that, Banks. Insubordination, failure to respect senior ranks.”

“I respect the rank, sir,” said Banks. “But not always the person who fills it.”

Riddle stiffened. “Well, I hope you’re enjoying yourself – for your sake, Banks – because this is about as good as it’s going to get for you around here.”

With that he walked out and slammed the door.

Banks thought about what he had just heard. So Jimmy Riddle knew who Annie Cabbot was and had assigned him to work with her anyway. Why? Riddle already thought Banks was a rampant cocksman, making trysts with exotic Asians in Leeds during police time and basically shagging everything in a skirt. Riddle had also mentioned some trouble. What could all that be about?

Most of all, though, why would Riddle think that working with Annie Cabbot would be hell on earth for Banks? Because, if one thing was certain, hell on earth was all Riddle had in store for him.

On his way to the coffee machine, Banks bumped into DS Hatchley and asked him to find out what he could about Francis Henderson, Gloria’s illegitimate child. It was probably a pointless exercise, but it was a loose end that nagged him.

Banks was still getting the hang of the station’s new voice-mail system, and was more often than not likely to forget about it or delete everything waiting for him, but that morning he got Annie’s message loud and clear. The ice in her tone was enough to freeze his eardrum. There was also a message from a Major Gargrave, in military personnel. Banks phoned him first, building up the courage to call Annie later.

“It’s about that query you made the other day,” said Major Gargrave. “Matthew Shackleton.”

“Yes?”

“Well, it’s all a bit embarrassing really.”

“He came back, didn’t he? We found a death certificate dated 1950. I was going to ask you about it.”

“Yes, well, these things happen sometimes, you know. When my assistant was returning the file, he found some papers wedged down between two folders. It was because of the irregularity of it all, you see.”

“And a filing error.”

“Yes.”

“When did he return?” Banks asked.

“It was his sister who reported his return, actually. March 1945. Place called Hobb’s End. Does that make any sense?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “Go on.”

“I’m afraid there’s not much more to tell, really. Sergeant Shackleton simply discharged himself from a London hospital and went home. The hospital said he’d been liberated from a Japanese POW camp in the Philippines and shipped home in pretty bad shape. No identification.”

“And that’s all?”

“Yes. It would seem so. Very odd.”

“Okay,” said Banks, “thanks very much for calling, Major.”

“No problem.”

After he hung up, Banks opened the window and let the sunshine in. He thought of lighting a cigarette but realized he didn’t really feel like one. Too many last night. His throat and lungs still felt raw. There was something that didn’t make sense in what the major had just told him; it was on the tip of his consciousness, but he couldn’t quite force it out. Too many dead brain cells in the way.

Back at his desk, Banks steeled himself and picked up the phone. He was as ready as he would ever be for Annie now. She answered on the third ring.

“You’re back, then,” was all she said.

“Yes.”

“Have a good time?”

“Pretty good, thanks.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

“I’d rather forget this morning, though.”

“You probably deserved it.”

“Probably.”

“I’ve got the info on the Rowan Woods personnel.”

“Wonderful.”

“It’s a long list, though. It’ll take a bit of whittling down. There was more than one person working in the PX, for a start.”

Banks sensed that her tone was softening a little. Should he tell her he had missed her last night? Or ask her what was wrong? Better hold off awhile. He ventured a tentative, “Is there anything else?”

Annie told him about what happened at Hobb’s End.

“What were you doing out there?” he asked.

“What does it matter? Maybe I just wanted to see what it looks like in the dark.”

“And?”

“It looks spooky.”

“It was probably just a kid.”

“I thought about that. It didn’t look like a kid. And it drove away.”

“I’ve known ten-year-olds do that. Still, I take your point. There’s not much we can do about it now, though, is there?”

“I just thought I’d let you know. For the record. It was interesting, that’s all.”

“Sounds like it. Anything else?”

Annie told him about drawing a blank on trying to confirm Vivian Elmsley’s identity through Ruby, Betty and Alice.

“We’d better track her down, anyway,” Banks said.

“I’ve already done that.”

“Now I’m really impressed.”

“So you should be. While you’ve been recovering from your self-inflicted damage, I’ve been on the phone.” Was there a hint of forgiveness there, perhaps? Depended how he played it: he needed to strike the right balance of remorse and praise, guilt and compliments.

“And?”

“Well, in her case it was easy. She’s in the London telephone directory.”

“You didn’t phone her, did you?”

“Please. Give me some credit. I’m not that gormless. But I’ve got her address. What do you want to do about it?”

“We should talk to her as soon as possible. If she really is the one we’re looking for, she’s holding something back. She might also know the names we want. There was another thing nagging at me a few minutes ago and I’ve just realized what it was.”

“Apart from the hangover?”

“Yes.”

“All right. What was it?”

Banks explained to her about the call from Major Gargrave. “It’s to do with the gun,” he said.

“What gun?”

“The one Matthew Shackleton’s supposed to have shot himself with.”

“What about it? Handguns must have been common enough just after the war. You’d just had hundreds of thousands of men running around armed to the teeth killing one another, remember?”

“Yes, but why would Matthew have a gun?”

“I don’t – wait a minute, I think I do see what you mean.”

“If he was a released POW, he’d hardly have his service revolver. I should imagine the Japanese confiscated the weapons off the people they captured, wouldn’t you?”

“Unless his liberators gave him one?”

“I suppose that’s remotely possible. Especially if they were Americans. Americans feel naked without guns.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“I think it’s highly unlikely,” said Banks. “Why should they? And why would he still have it when he went back to Hobb’s End from hospital? Anyway, it’s a minor point, probably doesn’t mean a thing.”

“If he did have a gun, though, why didn’t he use that on Gloria instead of strangling her and stabbing her?”

“If it was Matthew who killed her.”

“Have you considered Gwen as a serious suspect?” Annie asked.

“Certainly. According to everything we’ve heard, she was very close to her brother. If Gloria was hurting him, running around with other men, Gwen might just have fought back on his behalf. At the very least she should be able to tell us more about Matthew’s relationship with Gloria after he came back, assuming Gloria was still alive at the time. Fancy a trip to London tomorrow?”

“Who’s driving?”

“We’ll take the train. It’s faster, and the London traffic’s murder. If my memory serves me well, there’s a train leaves York around a quarter to nine that’ll have us at King’s Cross by twenty to eleven. Can you manage that?”

“No problem. In the meantime I’ll see if I can get any more information on the airmen.”

After Annie hung up, Banks walked over to the window and looked out over the square, with its ancient market cross and square-towered church, gray-gold in the sunlight. He thought about Vivian Elmsley. Could she really be Gwen Shackleton? It seemed a preposterous idea, but stranger things had happened. He decided it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a go at one or two of Vivian Elmsley’s books before he set off to interview her. Her writing might give him some insight into her character.

He tried dialing Brian’s Wimbledon number again. Still nothing. Ken Blackstone was right, though; all he could do for the moment was keep on trying. If he was going to London tomorrow, he hoped he might be able to see Brian, have a talk, get things sorted. He didn’t want Brian to keep on thinking his father was disappointed in him for what he was doing, the way Banks’s own father always made clear his dismay at Banks’s choice of career, even now, every time they met.

Banks went back to his desk. For about the third time since the case began, he spread out the objects found with Gloria Shackleton’s body before him. Not much for the remnants of a life, or the detritus of a death: a locket whose original heart shape had been squashed and bent; a corroded wedding ring; clips from a brassiere or suspenders; a pair of tiny, deformed leather shoes, which reminded him of the ones he had seen at the Brontë parsonage once; a few scraps of blackout cloth; and the button from Adam Kelly, greenish-blue with verdigris. Superintendent Gristhorpe might be able to tell him a bit about the button, he thought. Gristhorpe was a bit of an expert on military history, especially the Second World War.

Banks grabbed his jacket and was just about to leave the office when his phone rang.

“Hello, Alan.”

A woman’s voice.

“Yes?”

“It’s me. Jenny. Jenny Fuller. Don’t you recognize my voice?”

“Jenny. It’s been a long time. Where are you?”

“Home. Just got back yesterday. Look-”

“A bit early, aren’t you?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m glad you called. I need some advice.”

“If it’s personal, I’m the last person to ask, believe me.”

“Professional?”

“I might be able to manage that. The reason I was phoning is, I know I shouldn’t bother you at work and all, but I’m in town and I wondered if you’ve got time for lunch?”

Banks had intended to drive out to Lyndgarth to see Gristhorpe, who was taking his annual holidays at home, but that could wait until after. “Queen’s Arms, half-twelve?”

“Wonderful. I’ll see you there.”

Banks smiled as he put down the receiver. He hadn’t seen Jenny Fuller in almost a year, not since she’d decided to take a leave of absence from the University of York to teach in California. That was around the time he and Sandra had split up. He had received a couple of postcards asking how he was doing, but that was all.

Jenny was one of the two women his colleagues expected him to sleep with after Sandra left. Perhaps he would have slept with her if she had been around. But timing is everything. Jenny was spending most of her time in California these days, and there was a man at the bottom of that. The other friend, Pamela Jeffries, feeling restless and hemmed in, had taken off to play in an orchestra in Australia, of all places, and he hadn’t seen her for months. Again, he got the occasional postcard from such exotic locales as Sydney, Melbourne, Adelaide and Perth. It made him want to travel more, too.

Now he and Jenny were having lunch in about an hour’s time. Just enough time, in fact, to prepare his questions on Matthew Shackleton and nip over to Waterstone’s for a couple of Vivian Elmsley’s novels.

For some reason I was standing out in the street to check the window display (which was pretty meager) when I glanced to my left and saw him coming across the fairy bridge. I had just heard the train arrive, so I assumed that he had come from the station. The wind howled around the chimneys, and clouds as black as a Nazi’s heart besmirched the sky like grease stains. There was nobody else about. That was why I noticed him. That, and the fact that he was wearing only an overlarge, baggy brown suit and carrying no luggage.

He was tall but stooped, as if suffering some affliction of the spine, and he walked with a sturdy stick. He moved slowly, almost like a figure in a dream, as if he knew where he was going, but felt no hurry to get there. His frame was thin to the point of emaciation. As he came closer, I realized that he wasn’t as old as I had first thought, though his lank, lifeless hair was tinged here and there with gray, or white.

The wind tugged at my hair and clothes and chilled me to the marrow, but something about him compelled me to stand and watch, as if in a trance. When he got within a few feet of the shop, I saw his eyes. Deep, hollow, haunted eyes, turned completely inward, as if he was subjecting himself to a most intense and unflinching scrutiny.

He saw me, though, and he stopped.

I don’t know when the truth dawned on me; it could have been seconds; it could have been minutes. But I started to shake like a leaf and it had nothing to do with the cold. I ran to him and threw my arms around him but his body felt stiff and unyielding as a tree. I caressed his cheek with my palm, noticing the puckered white scar that curved up from the side of his mouth in an ugly parody of a grin. Tears were pouring down my cheeks.

“Matthew!” I cried. “Oh my God. Matthew!” And I took his arm and led him inside to Mother.

Banks walked into the Queen’s Arms a couple of minutes before twelve-thirty carrying two of Vivian Elmsley’s paperback mysteries in his Waterstone’s bag. He bought a pint and sat down at a table near the empty fireplace. Jenny was always late, he remembered, opening the bag and looking at the books.

One was a suspense novel called Guilty Secrets – certainly an interesting title from Banks’s point of view – which bore review quotes from the Sunday Times, Scotland on Sunday, the Yorkshire Post, and the Manchester Evening News, all to the general effect that it was an “amazing” and “disturbing” achievement by one of our best mystery writers, a true equal of P. D. James and Ruth Rendell.

The other was called The Shadow of Death and featured her regular series character, Detective Inspector Niven. In this one, he was called on to investigate the murder of an upmarket Shepherd’s Bush restaurateur. Banks didn’t even know that such a creature existed. As far as he could remember, there weren’t any upmarket restaurants in Shepherd’s Bush. Still, it was a long time since he’d been there, so he gave her the benefit of the doubt. Anyway, the novel was praised for its “compassionate realism in the portrayal of ordinary people” and its “believable depictions of policemen’s lives and police procedures.” Banks smiled. He’d see about that. On the cover was a picture of the handsome, craggy-faced young actor who, so the blurb informed Banks, played DI Niven on the television series. And got paid far more than a real copper did.

He was on page 10 when Jenny dashed in, out of breath, tousled red hair flaming around her face as she looked this way and that. When she saw him she waved, patted her chest and hurried over. She bent and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Sorry I’m late. My God, you look awful.”

Banks smiled and raised his glass. “Hair of the dog.”

Jenny picked up the paperback he had set down on the table and turned up her nose. “I didn’t think this sort of thing was up your alley.”

“Work.”

“Aha.” She raised her eyebrows. The California tan looked good on her, Banks thought. The sun hadn’t burned her, the way it did with most redheads, only darkened the natural creams and reds of her complexion and brought out her freckles, especially across her nose. Her figure looked as good as ever in tight black jeans and a loose jade silk top.

“So,” Banks said, when Jenny had settled herself down and deposited her oversized shoulder bag on the floor beside her. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Campari and soda, please.”

“Food?”

“Scampi and chips. I’ve been craving scampi and chips for about a month now.”

“Scampi and chips it is.” Banks made his way to the bar, got them each a drink and ordered the food. There were a few more exotic dishes finding their way onto the menu these days, like fajitas and pad Thai noodles, but Banks finally settled for plaice and chips. It wasn’t that he had anything against exotic food, but from experience he didn’t trust the pub version of it. Besides, he could still taste the curry he had eaten in Leeds last night.

He carried the drinks back and found Jenny poring over The Shadow of Death, one hand holding her hair back from her eyes. When he approached she flashed him a quick smile and closed the book. “I think I saw this on TV over there,” she said, touching the cover. “On PBS. They interviewed her afterward. Vivian Elmsley. She’s very popular in the States, you know. Quite a striking woman.”

Banks told her briefly about the case so far, including the possibility of Vivian Elmsley’s having a role in the affair. By the time he had finished, their food arrived.

“Is it as good as you remembered?” he asked after she had taken a couple of bites.

“Nothing ever is,” Jenny said. He noticed a new sadness and weariness in her eyes. “It’s good, though.”

“What happened over there?”

“What do you mean?” She glanced at him, then looked away quickly. Too quickly. He saw fear in her eyes.

He thought of the very first time he had met her in Gristhorpe’s office, shortly after he had first arrived in Eastvale, how he had been struck by her sharp intelligence and her quick sense of humor, as well as her natural beauty, the flaming-red hair, full lips and green eyes with their attractive laugh lines.

Jenny Fuller had been thirty-one then; she was nearly thirty-eight now. The lines had etched themselves a little deeper, and they weren’t so easy to associate with laughter anymore. His first impression had been that she was a knockout. He felt exactly the same today. They had come close to an affair, but Banks had backed off, unwilling to commit himself to infidelity. He had been different then, more confident, more certain of what his life was all about and where it was going. Life had been simpler for him then, or perhaps he had approached it on more absolute terms. It had seemed simple, at least: he loved Sandra and believed she loved him; therefore, he didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that, no matter how tempting. They had just moved up from London, where Banks felt he was quickly burning out, to a less hectic region, partly to save their marriage. And it had worked, up to a point. Seven years.

Against all odds, Banks and Jenny had remained friends. Jenny had become friends with Sandra, too, though Banks got the impression they had drifted apart over the past two or three years.

“Come on, Jenny,” he said. “This sudden return wasn’t on the agenda. I thought you’d become a California beach bunny for good.”

“Beach bunny?” Jenny laughed. “I guess I just didn’t quite make the grade, did I?”

“What do you mean?”

She sighed, looked away, tried to form some words, sighed again, then laughed. There were tears in her eyes. She seemed a lot more twitchy than he remembered, always moving her hands. “It’s all washed up, Alan. That’s what I’ve been meaning to say.”

“What’s all washed up?”

“All of it. The job. Randy. My life.” She cocked her head. “I never did have much luck with men, did I? I should have listened to you years ago.”

There was no arguing with that. Banks remembered one or two of Jenny’s disasters that he had been around to mop up after.

Jenny pushed her plate aside, scampi and chips unfinished, and took a long swig of Campari and soda. Her glass was almost empty; Banks still had the best part of his pint left. He didn’t want any more. “Another?” he asked.

“Am I becoming an alcoholic, too? No, don’t answer that. I’ll get it myself.” Before he could stop her, she stood up and headed for the ladies’ loo.

Banks finished his plaice and chips and looked at the back cover of The Shadow of Death on the table beside him. “A masterpiece.” “Top-rate work.” “A must read.” The critics obviously loved Vivian Elmsley. Or were the brief quotes cunningly edited from less flattering sentences? “Whereas Dostoevsky wrote a masterpiece, Vivian Elmsley can be said to have written only a potboiler of the lowest kind.” Or “Had this book shown even the slightest sign of literary talent or creative imagination, I would not have hesitated to declare it a must read and a piece of top-rate work, but as it possesses neither of these qualities, I have to say it’s a dud.”

When Jenny came back, she had repaired what little damage the tears had caused to her makeup. She had also picked up another Campari and soda.

“You know,” she said, “I’ve been imagining sitting here and talking this over with you like this all the way over on the plane. Picturing how it would be, just you and me here in the Queen’s Arms, like old times. I don’t know why I found it so difficult. I think I might still be jetlagged.”

“Take it easy,” said Banks. “Just tell me what you want to, at your own pace.”

She smiled and patted his arm. “Thanks. You’re sweet.” She snatched a cigarette from his packet and lit up.

“You don’t smoke,” Banks said.

“I do now.” Jenny blew out a long plume. “I’ve just about had it up to here with those nico-Nazis out there. You can’t smoke anywhere. And to think California was a real hotbed of protest and innovation in the sixties. It’s like a fucking kindergarten run by fascists now.”

He hadn’t heard Jenny swear before. Something else new. Smoking, drinking, swearing. He noticed that she wasn’t inhaling, and she stubbed the cigarette out halfway through. “As I’m sure you’ve gathered already,” she went on, “Randy, my main man, my paramour, my significant other, my reason for staying out there as long as I did, is no longer a part of my life. The little shit.”

“What happened?”

“Graduate students. Or, to put it more bluntly, blond twenty-something bimbos with their brains between their legs.”

“I’m sorry, Jenny.”

She waved her hand. “I should have seen it coming. Anyone else would have. Anyway, soon as I found out about what he was up to, there wasn’t much to keep me there. After I confronted him with the evidence, my dear Randy made damn sure I wasn’t going to be offered another year’s visiting lectureship.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Well, thank God they’re not all like that. I’ll be going back to my old lecturing job at York. Start next month. If that doesn’t work out, I’ll hang up my shingle next door to the cop shop and go into private practice. I’m quite the expert on deviants and criminal psychology, should you happen to have such a creature as a serial killer lurking in the general vicinity. I’ve even been on training courses with the FBI profilers.”

“I’ve heard that’s all a load of bollocks,” said Banks. “But I’m impressed. Sorry we don’t have anything at the moment.”

“I know – don’t call us… Story of my life.”

“I don’t think you’ll have any problem staying in work, Jenny, but if there’s ever anything I can do…”

“Thanks. You’re a pal.” She patted his hand.

“I do want to ask your advice on something.”

“Go ahead. I’m finished blubbering and moaning. And I didn’t even ask about you. I haven’t seen you since Sandra left. How are you doing?”

“I’m doing fine, thanks.”

“Seeing anyone?”

Banks paused a moment. “Sort of.”

“Serious?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“So it is serious. How about Sandra?”

“Do you mean is she seeing anyone? Yes, she is.”

“Oh.”

“It’s okay. I’m fine, Jenny.”

“If you say so. What was it you wanted to ask me?”

“It’s about Matthew Shackleton. Gwen’s – possibly Vivian Elmsley’s – brother. Apparently he was captured by the Japanese and spent a few years in one of their prison camps. By all accounts, he was pretty disturbed when he came home. Ended up committing suicide five years after the war. Thing is, all I can come up with in terms of psychiatric diagnoses are such vague terms as ‘shell shock.’”

“I thought that went out with the First World War?”

“Apparently not, they just changed the name to ‘battle fatigue’ or ‘combat fatigue.’ I was wondering what sort of diagnosis you’d come up with today.”

“That’s good one, Alan.” Jenny pointed her thumb at her chest. “You want me, a psychologist, to come up with a psychiatric diagnosis of a dead man’s mental problems? I like that, I really do. That takes the biscuit.”

Banks grinned. “Oh, don’t be such a nitpicker, Jenny.”

“This had better be between you and me.”

“Cross my heart.”

Jenny toyed with her beer mat, ripping off little pieces of damp cardboard. “Well,” she said, “I’m only guessing, you understand, but if your man had indeed been a prisoner of war under such terrible conditions, then he was probably suffering from some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder.”

Banks took his notebook from his inside pocket and jotted a few words down.

“Don’t you dare quote me on this,” Jenny warned him. “I told you, it’s strictly between you and me.”

“Don’t worry, you won’t be called upon to testify in court. I realize this is pure speculation. Anyway, it all happened a long time ago. This condition would have been caused by his experiences in the war and the camp, right?”

“Right. Basically, PTSDs are caused by some event or series of events well beyond the normal range of human experience. Maybe we should redefine exactly what that means these days, given the state of the so-called normal world, but it generally refers to extreme experiences. Things that go way beyond marital breakdowns, broken love affairs, simple bereavement, chronic illness or bankruptcy. The things most of us suffer from on a daily basis.”

“That bad?”

Jenny nodded. “Things like rape, assault, kidnapping, military combat, floods, earthquakes, fires, car crashes, bombing, torture, death camps. The list of divine and human atrocities goes on and on, but I’m sure you get the picture.”

“I get the picture. What are the symptoms?”

“Many and varied. Recurrent nightmares about the event are common. As is feeling that the event is recurring – things like flashbacks and hallucinations. Anything that reminds the person of the event is painful, too, such as an anniversary. Also things that were part of it. If a man was kept in a small cage for a long period, for example, then he would be likely to experience suffocating claustrophobia whenever those conditions were approximated. Maybe in a lift, for example.”

“What about amnesia?”

“Yes, there’s psychological memory loss sometimes. Believe me, most of the people who suffer from this would find the memory loss preferable to the persistent nightmares. But the problem is that strong feelings of detachment, estrangement and separation come with it. You can’t even enjoy your lack of recollection of the horror. People who suffer from PTSDs often find it difficult to feel or accept love, they become alienated from society, from their families and loved ones, and they have an extremely diminished sense of the future. Add to that insomnia, difficulty in concentrating, hypervigilance, depressive or panic disorders.”

“Sounds like me.”

“Much worse. Suicide is also not uncommon. He’s a suspect, I assume?”

“Yes. That was another thing I wanted to ask you. Might he be likely to become violent?”

“That’s a difficult one to answer. Anyone can become violent given the right stimulus. He would certainly be prone to irritability and outbursts of anger, but I’m not sure they’d necessarily lead him to murder.”

“I was thinking he might have killed his wife because he found out she’d been having an affair.”

“I suppose it’s possible he got a bee in his bonnet about it,” Jenny said.

“But you don’t think so?”

“I didn’t say that. Let me just say I hold reservations. Don’t forget the constraints you’ve got me working under.”

“I won’t. Tell me about your reservations.”

“The outbursts of anger in PTSD are usually fairly irrational. By linking them to his wife’s behavior, you’re making it all far more logical, do you see? Cause and effect.”

“Yes.”

“And the other thing is that if he did feel detached and was unable to love, then where does the hate come in? Or the jealousy?”

“So could he or couldn’t he?”

“Oh, no, you’re not trapping me like that. Of course he could have committed murder. People do all the time, often for no reason whatsoever. Yes, he could have heard about his wife having it off with some other bloke and as a result he could have, quite reasonably, come to hate her and to want rid of her. Or he could have just done it in an outburst of irrational rage, for no apparent reason.”

“Whoever did it probably strangled the woman, at least until she was unconscious, then stabbed her about fifteen or sixteen times.”

“Such rage. I don’t know, Alan. From what you’ve told me about this man, and from what I know of PTSD, I’d say that most of his pain and anger would have been directed inward, not out at the world. While I wouldn’t rule it out, I’d maybe hedge on the side of saying it’s unlikely he would have killed that way for that reason. But it’s hard to say anything about someone you’ve never met, never had the chance to talk to. Also, it’s often too easy to pick on the mentally disturbed person as the most likely murderer. Most mentally ill people wouldn’t harm a fly. I’m not saying all of them – there are some really sick puppies out there who manage to keep it well hidden – but most of the obvious ones are harmless. Sad and pathetic, perhaps, sometimes even a little scary, but rarely dangerous.”

“Thanks. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“Well, I’m just glad I can still be of some use to somebody.”

They both sat in silence, nursing what was left of their drinks. Banks thought about Matthew Shackleton’s suffering and about what Jenny had said about his possible alienation, his estrangement from the world of normal human affairs. Maybe that could have made a killer out of him and maybe not. If you couldn’t feel love for someone, why would you feel hate? When Banks first found out about Sandra and Sean, he had hated them both because he still loved Sandra. If he hadn’t cared, he wouldn’t have felt so passionate. Now, the feelings were receding into the distance. He wasn’t sure if he loved Sandra anymore. At least he was trying to make a life without her, reinventing and discovering himself. If she came and asked him to take her back tomorrow, he honestly didn’t know what he would do.

“I fell apart, you know,” Jenny said suddenly, startling him out of his train of thought.

“You did what?”

She played with her hair. A number of expressions battled for pride of place on her face. A sort of crooked grin won out. “I had a breakdown. After all that with Randy. I suddenly found myself alone out there, completely cut off from everything and everyone I’d grown up with, alone in a foreign country. It’s one of the scariest feelings I’ve ever had. I mean, they speak sort of the same language and all, but that only makes things worse, like a parody of all you’ve known. I’m not making myself clear… I felt like I was on another planet, a hostile one, and I couldn’t get home. I fell to pieces.” She laughed. “Do you know the song?”

“I’ve heard it,” said Banks, who tried to avoid country and western music the way he did a dose of clap.

“Well, I’ve done it.” She shook her head slowly. “I even went to see a shrink.”

“Do any good?”

“Some. One of the things I realized was that I wanted to go home. I mean, that wasn’t part of being ill. The desire was real and perfectly reasonable. It wasn’t just Randy or not having the contract renewed, I could have got a teaching job somewhere else if I’d wanted. But I missed this place too much. Can you believe it? I actually missed overcooked scampi and chips. And, bloody hell, wouldn’t you know it if I didn’t miss winter too. It gets you down, all that sun, day in, day out, only the occasional flood, fire or earthquake for variety. Pretty soon you begin to feel like you’re living in some kind of suspended animation, like everything’s on hold. Or maybe you’re not really living at all, you’re in limbo. You keep telling yourself one day the snow’s going to come, but it never does. Anyway, as soon as I realized what I really wanted to do, I gave myself the best therapy I could think of. I chucked my tranquilizers down the toilet and took the next flight home. Well, almost the next flight. I had a few things to do first – including, I’m almost ashamed to admit, a little act of girlish revenge on poor, dear Randy.”

“What did you do?”

Jenny paused for a moment, then licked her lips and flashed him a wicked grin. “I planted one of those little voice-activated tape recorders in his office and taped one of his trysts. Then I retrieved the machine and sent the tape to the dean.”

“In his office?”

“Yes. Over the desk. Don’t be such a prude, Alan. It happens all the time over there. What are offices for? Oh, you should have heard them: ‘Give it to me, big boy. Fuck me. Go on. Oh, yeah. Stick that big hard cock in me. Go deep. Fuck me harder.’”

Her voice had risen, and one or two tourist families looked at her uncomfortably. “Oops, sorry,” she said, putting her hand over her mouth. “Wash your mouth out, Jenny Fuller. Anyway, there was no mistaking whose voices they were.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. I left before the shit hit the fan. So if I get murdered, you know where to start looking. I should imagine he got suspended. Maybe fired. Of course, it was hardly evidence you could use at a tribunal, but they can get quite stroppy about things like that over there. Fucking your students is almost as bad as being caught smoking in a restaurant.” She tossed back the rest of her drink and looked at her watch. “Look, I’m sorry I’ll have to go. The university’s been very good to me so far, but they won’t continue to be unless I get my courses prepared. It’s great seeing you again.”

She picked up her bag, paused and rested it on her lap. Then she looked Banks in the eye, reached out and touched his hand softly and said, “Why don’t you give me a ring? We could… you know, have dinner or something together, if that’s okay?”

Banks swallowed. “I will. That would be great. And you’ve got to come out and see the cottage.”

“I’d love to.” She patted his hand, blew him a kiss and then she was gone in a whirl of red, jade and black, leaving a faint trace of Miss Dior behind in the smoky air. Banks looked down at his hand. It still tingled where she had touched him. Now that he had found the courage and desire to start a relationship with Annie, Jenny was a complication he didn’t need. But she was a friend; he couldn’t turn his back. And there was no reason at all why Annie should object to his having dinner with her. Even so, he felt more confused than he had half an hour earlier as he picked up his books and left the pub.