In A Dry Season

FIFTEEN

Over the next couple of weeks, as I continued to mourn Charlie, I noticed no improvement in Matthew’s condition. He remained at Bridge Cottage with Gloria. I don’t really think it mattered to him at that point where he was, if indeed he even knew, as long as his basic creature comforts were taken care of. There wasn’t a day went by when I didn’t spend time sitting with him, talking to him, though he never responded and hardly even acknowledged that he heard; he just stared off into space with that intense inward gaze of his, as if looking on horrors and agonies we could never even imagine in our wildest nightmares.

The London doctor was as good as his word and we soon got Matthew fixed up with Dr. Jennings, a psychiatrist attached to the staff of the University of Leeds. He had his office in one of those big old houses in the streets behind the campus, houses where large families with servants used to live before the First War. Once a week, either I or Gloria would take him to his appointment, spend an hour or so looking around the shops, then collect him and take him home. Dr. Jennings admitted to me privately on the third visit that he was having little success with straightforward methods and that he was considering narcosynthesis, despite the problems.

Matthew wasn’t any trouble; he just wasn’t there. He did, however, get into the habit of going to the Shoulder of Mutton every night and sitting alone in a corner drinking until closing time. Friends and neighbors who knew him would approach at first and ask how he was doing, but soon even those who remembered him most fondly left him alone. Once in a while he would have an angry outburst and smash a glass or kick a chair. But these were infrequent and soon passed over.

Gloria gave me a key, so I was able to pop in and out of Bridge Cottage whenever I could. She took as much time off from the farm as possible, of course, but she needed the income, and I don’t think she could have borne the pain and the heartbreak of being with him twenty-four hours a day.

It was hard to believe that the war was almost over after all this time, even though you could smell victory in the air. The Americans had crossed the Rhine, and so had Monty’s men. The Russians had Berlin surrounded. In April and May we started hearing the first rumors about concentration camps and human atrocities on a scale that had only been hinted at in the reports about Lublin the previous year. All the newspapers seemed at a loss as to how to describe what the liberating armies had found at places such as Belsen and Buchenwald. In addition to reading about Japanese cannibalism and the appalling tortures inflicted on prisoners like Matthew, I also read about the German camps where hundreds of thousands of people, or so we thought at the time, were shot, starved, beaten or made the subject of medical experiments.

Along with all our personal losses, such as Charlie, and Matthew’s ruined health, it was impossible to take it all in. I don’t think we even tried. We had suffered five years of fear and hardship and we were damned if we were going to be cheated out of the big party when it was all over.

Banks walked into the cavernous Victorian pub, all smoked and etched glass, brass fittings and mirrors. Somehow, it had survived the Blitz, as much of east London hadn’t. Years of cigarette smoke had turned the high ceiling and the walls brown.

It wasn’t far from Mile End, where Gloria Shackleton had been born. She may have even been here, Banks fancied, though he doubted it. People tended to stick very close to home, hardly venturing more than a street or two away except on emergencies or special occasions.

He and Annie had just been to Dulwich to see Francis Henderson, only to find him out. A neighbor told them she thought he had most likely gone on holiday, as he had canceled his newspapers and milk. Banks slipped his card with a note through the letter box and left it at that. What more could he do? As far as he was concerned, Francis Henderson wasn’t guilty of any crime – or if he was, it was nothing to do with the Gloria Shackleton case. He wanted to meet Francis, mostly out of curiosity, to see what he was like and find out what he knew, if anything, but he could hardly justify the expense of a manhunt. The DNA would be helpful, but not essential.

It was half past five, and the band was due to start at six to draw in the after-work crowd. Not that anyone Banks could see in the audience looked as if they had been at work, unless they were all students or bicycle couriers. Brian stood on the low wooden stage along with the others, setting their equipment up. Maybe they were making money, but they clearly couldn’t afford a crew of roadies yet. The mountain of speakers made Banks a little nervous. He loved music, and he knew that rock sometimes benefited from being played loud, but he feared deafness perhaps even more than blindness. Back in his Notting Hill days, he had been to see just about all the major bands live – The Who, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors – and more than once he had woken up the next day with ringing ears.

Brian waved him over. He looked a little nervous, but that was only to be expected; after all, he was with his mates and here was his old man coming to a gig. They would no doubt tease him about that. He introduced Banks to Andy, the keyboard player, Jamisse, the bassist, who was from Mozambique, and the percussionist, Ali. Banks didn’t know if Brian had told them he was a detective. Probably not, he guessed. There might be a bit of pot around, and Brian wouldn’t want to alienate himself from his friends.

“I’ve just got to tune up,” said Brian, “then I’ll come over. Okay?”

“Fine. Pint?”

“Sure.”

Banks bought a couple of pints at the bar and found an empty table about halfway down the room. Occasionally, feedback screeched from the amps, Ali hit a snare drum or Jamisse plucked at a bass string. It was a quarter to six when Brian, apparently satisfied with the sound, detached himself from the others and came over. Banks hadn’t realized until now how much his son had changed. Brian wore threadbare jeans, trainers and a plain red T-shirt. His dark hair was long and straight, and he had a three or four days’ growth around his chin. He was tall, maybe a couple of inches more than Banks’s five foot nine and, being skinny, he looked even taller.

He sat down and scratched his cheek, avoiding Banks’s eyes. Banks didn’t want to launch right into the midst of things. The last thing he wanted was another row. “I’m looking forward to this,” he said, nodding toward the stage. “I haven’t heard you play since you used to practice at home.”

Brian looked surprised. “That was a long time ago, Dad. I hope I’ve got better since then.”

“Me, too.” Banks smiled. “Cheers.” They clinked glasses, then Banks lit a cigarette.

“Still got that filthy habit, then?” said Brian.

Banks nodded. “’Fraid so. I’ve cut down a lot, though. What kind of music do you play?”

“You’ll have to wait and hear it for yourself. I can’t describe it.”

“Blues?”

“Not straight blues, no. That was the band I was with a couple of years ago. We broke up. Ego problems. Lead singer thought he was Robert Plant.”

“Robert Plant? I wouldn’t have thought you’d have heard of him.”

“Why wouldn’t I have? You were always playing ‘Stairway to Heaven’ when you weren’t playing bloody operas. The long version.” He smiled.

“I don’t remember doing that,” Banks complained. “Anyway, who writes the songs?”

“All of us, really. I do most of the lyrics, Jamisse does most of the music. Andy can read music, so he arranges and stuff. We do some cover versions, too.”

“Anything an old fogy like me would recognize?”

Brian grinned. “You might be surprised. Got to go now. Will you be around after?”

“How long’s the set?”

“Forty-five minutes, give or take.”

Banks looked at his watch. Six. Plenty of time. He was a short walk from the Central Line and it wouldn’t take him more than an hour to get to Leicester Square. “I don’t have to leave until about eight,” he said.

“Great.”

Brian walked back up to the stage where the others looked ready to begin. The pub was filling up quickly now, and Banks was joined at his table by a young couple. The girl had jet-black hair, pale makeup and a stud in her upper lip. Was she a Goth? he wondered. But her boyfriend looked like a beatnik with his beret and goatee, and Brian’s band didn’t play Goth music.

Matching the fashions with the music used to be easy: parkas and motor scooters with The Who and The Kinks; Brylcreem, leather and motorbikes with Eddie Cochran and Elvis; mop-tops and black polo-necks with The Beatles. And later, tie-dye and long hair with Pink Floyd and The Nice; skinheads, braces and bovver-boots with The Specials; torn clothes and spiky hair with the Sex Pistols and The Clash. These days, though, all the fashions seemed to coexist. Banks had seen kids with tie-dye and skinhead haircuts, leather jackets and long hair. He was definitely overdressed in his suit, even though he had put his tie in his pocket long ago, but he hadn’t brought a change of clothes. Maybe he was just getting old.

The next thing he knew, the band had started. Brian was right; they played a blend of music difficult to pin down. There was blues underlying it, definitely, variations on the twelve-bar structure with a jazzy spring. Andy’s ghostly keyboards floated around it all, and Brian’s guitar cut through the rhythms clear as a bell. When he soloed, which he did very well, his sound reminded Banks of a cross between early Jerry Garcia and Eric Clapton. Not that he was as technically accomplished as either, but the echoes were present in his tone and phrasing, and he got the same sweet, tortured sounds out of his guitar. In each number, he did something a little different. The rhythm section was great; they kept the beat, of course, but both Jamisse and Ali were creative musicians who played off one another and liked to spring surprises. There was an improvisational, jazzy element to the music, but it was accessible, popular. For a few songs they were joined by a soprano saxophone player. Banks thought his tone was a bit too harsh and his style too staccato, but bringing the instrument in was a good idea, if only they could find a better player.

They paused between songs and Brian leaned into the microphone. “This one’s for an old geezer I know sitting in the audience,” he said, looking directly at Banks. The girl with the stud in her lip frowned at him and he felt himself blush. After all, he was the only old geezer in the place.

It took a few moments for Banks to recognize what the song was, so drastically had the group altered its rhythm and tempo, and so different was Brian’s plaintive, reedy voice from the original, but what emerged from Banks’s initial confusion was a cover version of one of his favorite Dylan songs, “Love Minus Zero/No Limit.” This time it swung and swayed with interlaced Afro rhythms and a hint of reggae. Andy’s organ imbued the whole piece, and Brian’s guitar solo was subdued and lyrical, spinning little riffs and curlicues off the melody line.

Dylan’s cryptic lyrics didn’t really mesh with Brian’s own songs, mostly straightforward numbers about teenage angst, lust, alienation and the evils of society, but they resonated in Banks the same way they did the first time he heard them on the radio at home all those years ago.

Before the song was over, Banks got a lump in his throat and he felt his eyes prick with tears. He lit another cigarette, his fourth of the day. He wasn’t feeling emotional only because his son was up there on a stage, giving something back, but the song also brought back memories of Jem.

After Jem’s death, no one came to the bed-sit to claim his belongings. The landlord, whose musical taste ran more toward skiffle than sixties rock, let Banks take the small box of LPs. Being more into Harold Robbins than Baba Ram Dass, he also let Banks take the books.

Banks and Jem had listened to Bringing It All Back Home a lot, and the first time he took it out to play in Jem’s memory he found a letter stuffed inside the sleeve. It was addressed to Jeremy Hylton at an address in Cambridgeshire. At first, he wasn’t going to read it, respecting Jem’s privacy, but as it usually did, his curiosity got the better of him. According to the postmark, the letter was dated five years earlier. He had known Jem was older than him, but not by how much. The letter was very short.

Dear Jeremy,

I’m writing to your parents’ address because I know you’re going home for Whitsuntide, and I won’t be here when you get back. I’m sorry, I’ve been trying to tell you that it just isn’t working between us, but you won’t listen to me. I know this is the coward’s way out, and I know it’s hurtful to you, but I don’t want the baby, and it’s my body, my lifelong burden. I have made arrangements with a good doctor, so you needn’t worry about me. I’ve got the money, too, so I don’t need anything from you. After that I’m going a long way away, so don’t even try to look for me. I’m sorry, Jeremy, really I am, but things were going badly between us before the pregnancy, you must know that. I don’t know how you could think that having a baby would bring us closer together. I’m sorry.

Clara

Banks remembered being puzzled and upset by what he read. Jem had never mentioned anyone named Clara, nor had he ever mentioned where his family lived or what they did. He looked at the address again: Croft Wynde. It sounded posh. He hadn’t a clue what Jem’s background was; his accent was neutral, really, and he never spoke about the world he had grown up in. He was clearly educated, well-read, and he introduced Banks to a whole world of writing, from Kerouac and Ginsberg to Hesse and Sartre, but he never said anything about having been to university. Still, everyone was reading that kind of stuff then; you didn’t need a university course to read On the Road or Howl.

When Banks had finished thinking about what he’d just read in the letter, he made a note of the address. He decided to drive out to see Jem’s parents. The least he could do was offer his condolences. His time in London had been lonely, and would have been a lot more so if not for the shared conversations, music and warmth of Jem’s tiny bed-sit.

The song finished and the audience’s applause brought Banks out of his reverie.

“That was weird,” the kid next to him said.

The black-haired girl nodded and gave Banks a mystified glance. “I don’t think they wrote it themselves.”

Banks smiled at her. “Bob Dylan,” he said.

“Oh, yeah. Right. I knew that.”

After that, the band launched into one of Brian’s songs, an upbeat rocker about race relations. Then the first set was over. The band acknowledged the applause, then Brian came over. Banks bought them both another pint. The couple at the table asked Banks if he would please save their seats, then they wandered off to talk with some friends across the room.

“That was great,” Banks said. “I didn’t know you liked Dylan.”

“I don’t, really. I prefer The Wallflowers. It used to drive me crazy when I was a kid and you played him all the time. That whiny voice of his and the bloody-awful harmonica. It’s just a nice structure, that song, easy to deconstruct.”

Banks felt disappointed, but he didn’t let it show. “I liked the ones you wrote, too,” he said.

Brian glanced away. “Thanks.”

There was no point putting it off any longer, Banks thought, taking a deep breath. Soon the band would be starting again, and he didn’t know when he would get another chance to talk to his son. “Look,” he said, “about what we said on the phone the other day. I’m disappointed, of course I am, but it’s your life. If you think you can really make a go of this, I’m certainly not going to stand in your way.”

Brian met Banks’s gaze, and Banks thought he could see relief in his son’s eyes. So his approval did matter, after all. He felt curiously light-headed.

“You mean it?”

Banks nodded.

“It was just so boring, Dad. You’re right. I screwed it up, and I’m sorry if I caused you any grief. But it was only partly because of the band. I didn’t do enough work last year because I was bored by the whole subject. I was lucky to get a third.”

Banks had felt exactly the same way about his business-studies course – bored – so he could hardly get on his moral high horse. Well, he could, but he managed to put a rein on his parents’ voices this time. “Have you told your mother yet?”

Brian looked away and shook his head.

“You’ll have to tell her, you know.”

“I left a message on her machine. She’s always out.”

“She has to work. Why don’t you go over and pay her a visit? She’s not far away.”

Brian said nothing for a while. He swirled the beer in his glass, pushed back his hair. The place was noisy and crowded around them. Banks managed to focus and cut out the laughter and shouted conversations. Just the two of them on a floodlit island, the rest of the world a buzz in the distance.

“Brian? Is there something wrong?”

“Nah, not really.”

“Come on.”

Brian sipped some beer and shrugged. “It’s nothing. It’s just Sean, that’s all.”

Banks felt a tingling at the back of his neck. “What about him?”

“He’s a creep. He treats me like a kid. Whenever I go over there he can’t wait to get rid of me. He can’t keep his hands off of Mum, either. Dad, why can’t you two get back together? Why can’t things be the way they were?” He looked at Banks, brow furrowed, tears of anger and pain in his eyes. Not the cool, accomplished young man anymore but, for a moment, the scared little kid who has lost his parents and his only safe, reliable haven in the world.

Banks swallowed and reached for another cigarette. “It’s not that easy,” he said. “Do you think I didn’t want to?”

“Didn’t?”

“A lot’s changed.”

“You mean you’ve got a new girlfriend?”

If it were possible to inflect the word with more venom than Brian did, Banks couldn’t imagine how. “That’s not the point,” he said. “Your mother has made it quite clear, over and over again, that she doesn’t want to get back together. I’ve tried. I did have hopes at first, but… What more can I do?”

“Try harder.”

Banks shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “It takes two to do that, and I’m getting no encouragement whatsoever from her quarter. I’ve sort of given up on it. I’m sorry about Sean. Sorry you don’t get along.”

“He’s a plonker.”

“Yeah, well… Look, when you get a bit of free time, why don’t you come up to Gratly? You can help me work on the cottage. You haven’t even seen it yet. We can go for long walks together. Remember the way we used to? Semerwater? Langstrothdale? Hardraw Force?”

“I don’t know,” said Brian, pushing his hair back. “We’re gonna be really busy the next while.”

“Whenever. I’m not asking you to put a date to it. It’s an open invitation. Okay?”

Brian looked up from his beer and smiled that slightly crooked smile that always reminded Banks so much of his own father. “Okay,” he said. “I’d like that. It’s a deal. Soon as we get a few days’ break I’ll be knocking on your door.”

A bass note and drum roll cut through the buzz of conversation as if to echo what Brian had said. He looked up. “Gotta go, Dad,” he said. “Be around later?”

“I don’t think so,” said Banks. “I’ve got work to do. I’ll stick around for part of the set, but I might be gone before you’re through. It’s been great seeing you. And don’t be a stranger. Remember my offer. There’s a bed there for you whenever you want, for as long as you want.”

“Thanks, Dad. What’s it they say? ‘Home’s the place where they have to take you in.’ Wish I knew where mine was. Take care.”

Banks stuck out his hand and Brian shook it. Then, feeling guilty, he checked his watch. Time to hear a few more songs before slinking off to keep his date with Annie.

One day Gloria came to me and asked if I would mind closing the shop for an hour or so and walking with her. She looked pale and hadn’t taken her usual pains with her appearance.

It was the beginning of May, I remember, and it was all over but the shouting. Hitler was dead, the Russians had Berlin, and all the German troops in Italy had surrendered. It could only be days from the end now.

I closed the shop, as she asked, and we walked into Rowan Woods, leaving the road behind and wandering in the filtered green light of the new leaves. The woodland flowers were all in bloom, clusters of bluebells here and there, wild roses, violets and primroses. Birds were singing and the air was pungent with the smell of wild garlic. Now and then, I could hear a cuckoo call in the distance.

“I don’t know what to do with him, Gwen,” she said, wringing her hands as we walked, close to tears. “Nothing I do to try to reach him does any good.”

“I know,” I said. “We just have to be patient. Let the doctor do his job. Time will heal him.” Even as I spoke them, I felt the triteness and inadequacy of my words.

“It’s all right for you. He’s not your husband.”

“Gloria! He’s my brother.”

She put her hand on my arm. “Oh, I’m sorry, Gwen, that’s not the way I meant it. I’m just too distraught. But it’s not the same. He’s taken to sleeping on the Chesterfield now when he gets in from the pub.”

“You don’t… I mean, he doesn’t…?”

“Not since he came back. It’s not fair, Gwen. I know I’m being selfish, but this isn’t the man I married. I’m living with a stranger. It’s getting unbearable.”

“Are you going to leave him?”

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t think I can. Brad is still pestering me to run off back to America with him as soon as his new orders come in. He says he might have to go out to the Pacific first – the war’s not over there yet – but he says he’ll send for me. Just imagine it, Gwen: Hollywood! A new life in the sunshine under the palm trees in a faraway magical land. A young, healthy, handsome, vigorous man who dotes on me. Endless possibilities of riches and wealth. I could even become a movie star. Ordinary people like you and me can do that over there, you know.”

“But?”

She turned away, eyes downcast. “A dream. That’s all. I can’t go. Silly, isn’t it? A few years ago I did exactly that. Walked away from a life I didn’t want and ended up here.”

“But you’d lost your whole family then. You had nothing to stay for. Anyone can understand your doing that.”

“Haven’t I lost Matt now?”

“It’s not the same.”

“You’re right; it’s not. Anyway, I’d walked away even before I lost them.”

“What do you mean?”

She paused and touched my arm again lightly. “There are things you don’t know about me, Gwen. I haven’t been a good person. I’ve done terrible things. I’ve been selfish. I’ve hurt people terribly. But I want you to know one thing. This is important.”

“What?”

“Matt is the only man I have ever truly loved.”

“Not Brad?”

“Not Brad, not… Never mind.”

“What were you going to say?”

Gloria paused and looked away from me. “I told you, I’ve done terrible things. If I tell you, you must promise never to tell anyone else.”

“I promise.”

She looked at me with those blue eyes of hers. I was shocked that I hadn’t noticed the tragedy in them before. “I won’t ask you to forgive me,” she said. “You might not be able to do that. But at least hear me out.”

I nodded. She leaned back against a tree.

“When I was sixteen,” she began, “I had a baby. I didn’t love the father, not really. Oh, I suppose I was infatuated. George was a few years older than me, good-looking, popular with all the girls. I was advanced for my age and flattered by his attentions. We… well, you know all about it. We only did it once, but I didn’t know anything about… you know… then, and I got pregnant. Our families wanted us to get married. George would have done it like a shot – he said he loved me – but… I knew, I knew deep down that it would be the worst mistake of my life. I knew if I married George I would be unhappy. He loved me then, but how long would it last? He drank, like they all did down on the docks, and I really believed it was just a matter of time before he would start beating me, looking upon me as his slave. I’d seen it in my own home. My own father. I hated him. That was why I wanted so desperately to escape. I used to listen to the wireless for hours trying to learn to speak the way I thought real people spoke. If my dad caught me, he’d either laugh at me or beat me, depending on how much he’d had to drink. So I left them all.”

“Where did you go?”

“To a friend’s house. Not far away. I didn’t know anyone from outside the East End, except for my Uncle Jack in Southend, and he’d have just sent me right back home.”

“And you were with this friend when your parents were killed?”

“Yes. I was heartbroken about Joe, my little brother, but my father can rot in hell as far as I was concerned. And my mother… she was harmless, I suppose, but she did nothing to stop him. In a way she was better off dead. She didn’t have much of a life. I don’t remember ever seeing her smile.”

“But what about the baby?”

Again, Gloria paused, as if struggling for words. “I hated being pregnant. I was sick all the time. After I had Francis I got very depressed and I didn’t… I didn’t feel what they said a normal mother should. I’m ashamed to say it, but I didn’t like holding him. I felt revolted that such a thing could have come out of me. I hated my own baby, Gwen. That’s why I could never be a real mother to him or to anyone else.”

She sobbed and fell forward into my arms. I held her and comforted her as best I could. I didn’t understand; I had no idea that a mother could not love her child; I knew nothing about postnatal depression in those days. I’m not sure that anybody did. My heart felt hot and too big for my chest. Sniffling, dabbing her handkerchief to her eyes, Gloria went on, “Francis is alive. George’s sister Ivy can’t have any children of her own. They live on the canal. Her husband John’s a lockkeeper. I know he’s teetotal and I’ve met Ivy once or twice. They’re decent people, not like the others. They’d got away and bettered themselves. They said they would take care of Francis. I knew he would be better off with them.”

“What did George say?”

“He already knew that whatever there had been between us was over – though it never stopped him trying – but he couldn’t understand it when I didn’t object to giving up Francis to Ivy and John. George is a simple man. Traditional. He believes in family. He believes a mother should love her baby. Simple as that. Of course, he agreed. He could hardly bring up Francis on his own. He said I would still be the boy’s mother no matter what happened, that a boy needed a real mother to love. When I agreed without any fuss and said I didn’t mind if they kept him forever, George refused to believe me. That’s what he always did when I had one of my ‘funny turns,’ as he called them. Refused to believe me. He wasn’t a bad man, Gwen, that’s not what I’m saying. It’s me who’s bad. I think he loved his son more than I did. He wanted to be a father as much as he could. But he got called up, of course, like all the rest. Anyway, he always thought I would change my mind. He’s stubborn, the way some men are. He’s already been up to see me once with Francis. He said he still loves me, urged me to go back. I told him I was married and we had an argument. He went off. But he’ll be back, Gwen. He won’t give up that easily.”

“Are you afraid of him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. A little. He’s got a temper, like his own father. Especially when he’s been drinking.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Say you don’t hate me, Gwen, please! I couldn’t bear it if you hated me. You’re my only real friend.”

“Of course I don’t hate you. I just don’t understand, that’s all.”

“I don’t know if I do, either, but don’t you see that’s exactly why I can’t leave, no matter what life is like with Matt? Because of what I did before. Oh, I have plenty of excuses: I was too young; it was a mistake; I wasn’t in love; I thought I was cut out for better things. But that’s just what they are: excuses. When it came right down to it, I was selfish; I was a coward. I’m not going to be a coward again. This is my punishment, Gwen. Don’t you see? Matt is my penance.”

“I think so,” I said.

She smiled through her tears. “Good old Gwen. I’ll bet there aren’t many in Hobb’s End would give me that much credit, don’t you think? I’ve heard their tongues wagging already.” She imitated the local accent. “‘She’ll be off,’ they say. ‘Off with one of them Yanks before he’s been back ten minutes, you just mark my words.’ Well, I won’t, Gwen. Let them talk. But I won’t.”

“Are you and Brad still…?”

“Sometimes. Don’t be angry. I tried to stop seeing him when Matt first got back, I really did, but when I found out that he couldn’t… I mean… Brad brings me comfort from time to time and as long as Matt doesn’t know… To be honest, though, he’s more trouble than he’s worth right now. I just can’t keep him off the subject of running away together. It’s all getting to be too much of a strain. I told him if he didn’t stop pushing me I’d run off and leave the whole lot of you behind, him included.”

I can’t say that I approved of Gloria’s seeing Brad after Matthew had returned, but I said nothing. I only felt that way because I was being protective toward Matthew; I wasn’t a moral busybody like Betty Goodall. These were extraordinary times and Gloria was an extraordinary woman.

She laughed. “You know, I don’t know what I’d do without PX. It’s funny, isn’t it, but in times like this, when things are so grim, it’s the little things that give you a moment’s cheer. A piece of beef, a new shade of lipstick, a little whiskey, a packet of cigarettes. New stockings. He’s a gem.”

“What about Billy Joe? Have you had any more trouble from him?”

“No, not really. I saw him the other day. I got the impression he was secretly pleased that Matt had come back and spoiled things for me and Brad. He had that look in his eye, too, as if he thought he had a chance of getting me in bed again. I don’t think he gives a damn about what it’s all doing to me.”

“Well, he wouldn’t, would he? I can’t say I ever did really trust him. He’s got a nasty, violent streak, you know.”

“Billy Joe? Oh, I can handle him. He’s nothing but a big child, really.” She leaned back against the tree. “But you’re right, he can be violent. I don’t like that in a man.” She paused, averting her eyes. “Look, Gwen, I don’t know if I should be telling you this, but I have to talk to someone. I’ve been having a few problems with Michael.”

“Michael? Good Lord. You don’t mean he’s-”

“Don’t be a fool, Gwen. The man’s only interested in boys. The younger, the better. No. Well, I suppose I’ll have to tell you now, but you mustn’t say a word to anyone. Promise?”

“What a day for secrets. All right, I promise.”

“Last summer and autumn, you might have noticed I spent quite a bit of time at his studio.”

“Yes.”

“Guess what?”

“He was painting you?”

“Oh. You guessed!”

“Well, it wasn’t difficult. I mean, he is an artist. But that’s wonderful, Gloria. Can I see it? Is it finished?”

“Yes. And it’s very good.”

“So what’s wrong?”

“It’s a nude.”

I swallowed. “You posed in the nude for Michael Stanhope?”

She laughed. “Why not? There certainly wasn’t much chance of him trying to put his hands on me, was there? Anyway, the point is, I went over to see him yesterday and begged him not to exhibit it, or even to sell it privately, as long as Matthew is alive. I know he just seems to sit there like a zombie between going to the pub and drinking himself to sleep, but I just don’t know how it would affect him. Or if it would. The thing is, I don’t want to take the chance. You know what this village is like. Matthew’s health is hanging by a thread already. Who knows if seeing a nude painting of his wife, done while he was suffering in a Japanese POW camp, won’t send him right over the edge?”

“That sounds reasonable,” I told her. “What did Michael Stanhope have to say?”

“Oh, he agreed in the end. But he’s not happy about it. Thinks it’s one of the best things he’s done, blah-blah-blah, opens up a new direction for him. Says his career needs a boost and this could give it one. He also argued that Matthew wouldn’t be any the wiser and that even if he did see it he wouldn’t recognize who it was. He’s probably right. I’m being silly.”

“But he did agree?”

“He complained a lot, but, yes, he agreed in the end. He likes to play the miserable cynic, but he’s pretty decent, deep down. He’s got a good heart.”

And there she finished. We walked back to Hobb’s End enjoying the sound of the breeze through the leaves and the songs of the birds in the high branches.

I didn’t see Gloria again until a couple of days later, on the afternoon of the seventh of May, and by then everyone knew Germany had surrendered. The war was over and everywhere people started putting up flags and closing up shop.

The last party had begun.

“Enjoy the film?” Banks asked, when he met Annie outside the Leicester Square Odeon at nine o’clock. She had been to see the latest megamillion special-effects extravaganza by one of those highly touted directors who used to make television adverts.

“Not much,” said Annie. “I suppose it had its good points.”

“What?”

“The End, for one.”

Banks laughed. Leicester Square was crowded with tourists, as usual. Street kids, buskers, jugglers, clowns and sword swallowers were all working hard to prize a quid or two out of the punters’ pockets, while the pickpockets took an easier route. The Hare Krishnas were back in force, too. Banks hadn’t seen them in years.

“How were things with your son?” Annie asked.

“We mended a bridge or two.”

“And the band?”

“Pretty good, though I suppose I’m biased. We’ll go see them if they ever play up north, and you can make your own mind up.”

“It’s a date.”

Banks took Annie to a small bistro-style restaurant he knew just off Shaftesbury Avenue. The place was busy, but they managed to get a table for two after a short wait at the bar.

“I’m starving,” said Annie as she squeezed herself into the chair between the table and the wall, twisting around and setting her packages down behind her. “But I can see that eating with you is going to become a serious problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“This kind of place hardly caters to the vegetarian eater,” she whispered. “Just look at the menu.”

Banks looked. She was right: lamb, beef, chicken, fish, seafood, but little in the way of interesting vegetarian dishes, other than salads. Still, as far as Banks was concerned, “interesting vegetarian dish” was up there with “corporate ethics” as far as oxymorons went.

“Sorry,” he said. “Do you want to try somewhere else?”

She put her hand on his arm. “No, it doesn’t matter. Next time, though, it’s my choice.”

“Visions of tofu and seaweed are already dancing before my eyes.”

“Idiot. It doesn’t have to be like that. Indian restaurants do great vegetarian dishes. So do Italian ones. You didn’t complain about the meal I made last week, did you?”

“It was delicate timing. I didn’t want to offend you just before I made a pass.”

Annie laughed. “Well, there’s something to be said for honesty, I suppose.”

“I wasn’t being honest. I was being facetious. It was a great meal. Dessert wasn’t bad, either.”

“There you go again.”

“Anyway, you’re right. Next time, it’s your choice Okay?”

“Deal.”

“How about some wine?”

They chose a relatively inexpensive claret – relatively being the key word – and Banks went for the roast leg of lamb with rosemary, while Annie, pulling a martyred expression, settled for a large green salad and some bread and cheese. The waiter, who must have been imported from France along with the decor and food style, grunted with disapproval and disappeared.

Their food arrived quicker than Banks expected, and they paused until the waiter had gone. The lamb was tender and succulent, still pink in the middle; Annie turned her nose up at it and said her salad was okay. There was a tape of romantic dinner music playing in the background, and beyond the bustling waiters, the hum of conversation, clinking of cutlery and glassware, Banks could hear strains of the andante cantabile from Tchaikovsky’s “String Quartet Number 1.”

After his talk with Brian, he felt as if a burden had been lifted from his mind. There were still problems – Sean, for one – but Brian would just have to learn to live with the way things were. Banks had to admit that this Sean sounded like a real prick. Not for the first time, he speculated about going over there and kicking the shit out of him. Really mature way to deal with the problem, he told himself. A lot of good that would do everyone concerned. The important thing at the moment was that he and his son were talking again. And from what he had heard, the kid had talent; he might make it in the business yet. Banks tried to imagine being father to a famous rock star. When he was old and gray, would Brian buy him a mansion and a Mercedes?

The candlelight brought out the slight wine-flush on Annie’s cheeks and filled her dark eyes with mysterious shadows and reflections. She was still wearing the same business suit she had worn that morning, but she had loosened her hair so that it tumbled over her shoulders in sexy waves. It would probably just brush against the tattoo over her breast.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, looking up and pushing some stray hair back behind one ear.

Perhaps this was the moment, Banks thought, emboldened by his buoyant mood, to take the plunge anyway. “Annie, can I ask you a personal question?”

She arched her eyebrows and Banks sensed a part of her scurry back into the shadows. Too late now. “Of course,” she said. “But I can’t promise to answer it.”

“Fair enough. What are you doing at Harkside?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. It’s a nowhere posting. It’s the kind of place they send naughty boys and girls. You’re bright. You’re keen. You’ve got a future ahead of you if you want it, but you’ll not get the job experience you need at Harkside.”

“I think that’s rather insulting to Inspector Harmond and the others up there, don’t you?”

“Oh, come on, Annie. You know as well as I do that’s where they want to be. It’s their choice. And it’s not an insult that they choose the easy life.”

“Well, maybe it’s what I’ve chosen, too.”

“Is it?”

“I didn’t promise to answer your question.” Her mouth took on a sulky cast Banks hadn’t seen before, the corners of her lips downturned; her fingers drummed on the tablecloth.

“No, you didn’t,” Banks said, leaning toward her. “But let me tell you something. Jimmy Riddle hates my guts. He isn’t in the business of putting me in the way of anything I might find even remotely pleasant. Now, given that he knows who you are, and given that what’s happened between us since could never in a million years fulfill his idea of the circle of hell he thinks he’s cast me into, I find myself wondering why.”

“Or waiting for the punch line?”

“What?”

“Isn’t that what you’re saying? You think something’s wrong. You think there’s some sort of a plot to get you. You think I’m part of it.”

“That’s not what I said,” said Banks, who realized guiltily that the thought had crossed his mind.

Annie turned her head away. Her profile looked stern. “Annie,” he said, after a few moments’ silence, “I’m not saying I haven’t been suspicious. But, believe me, the only reason I’m asking you now is because I’ve come to… Because I’m afraid you’re being used, too.”

She glanced at him, not moving her head, eyes narrowed. “How?”

“I don’t know. What else can I say? Riddle had to have some reason for putting us together, something he thought would be unpleasant for me. I hope you agree that it hasn’t turned out at all that way. Do you blame me for wondering what’s going on?”

Her expression softened a little. She tilted her head. “Perhaps this is it?” she suggested. “What he expected.”

“In what way?”

“That we’d get together somehow, break the rules and get caught. That way he could be rid of both of us.”

“No, that’s not enough. It’s too easy. What we’re doing isn’t… I mean, it’s only the same kind of thing he thought I was doing before. He has a far more sadistic mind than that. And to be honest, I don’t think he’s as clever as that, either. What is it the spies call it, a ‘honey trap’? Jimmy Riddle feels no need to give me honey, only arsenic.”

“Jimmy Riddle didn’t give you anything.”

“Okay. Sorry. You know what I mean.”

Annie shook her head slowly and the shadows danced through her hair. Dessert came, but she left it untouched for a while, then she seemed to come to some kind of decision. She picked up her spoon, tasted a mouthful, then looked at Banks. “All right,” she said. “I’ll tell you, but only if you’ll tell me something, too.”

Yorkshire weather has a very ironic sense of occasion. On the eighth of May, 1945, it poured down all morning, despite the fact that this was VE-day. By early afternoon, the rain was tapering off and we were left with clouds and light showers. I closed the shop at lunchtime and Gloria came down from the farm. That afternoon, leaving Mother and Matthew together, the two of us bicycled into Harkside and went to see a matinee of Phantom of the Opera at the Lyric.

All over Harkside we heard excited talk of parties and dances; people on the streets were hanging streamers and putting out flags. All the church bells were ringing. We bumped into some people we knew on the village green and they suggested we come back that evening to the celebration dance at the Mechanics Institute, to be followed by a street party. The Americans from Rowan Woods would be there, they assured us. We said we would try to come as soon as we had done some celebrating in Hobb’s End first.

After tea, the sun lanced through the raggedy black clouds, sending shafts of light into Rowan Woods. Soon, all the clouds had gone and it was as beautiful a warm May evening as you could ever ask for, the grass green and moist from the rain.

Gloria gave me a pair of stockings she had got from PX, and helped me with my makeup. First, we spent an hour or so at the Hobb’s End street party. People had brought little tables and put them together in a row all along High Street. It was a dull affair, though, as there were so few people left in the village, and the whole thing felt more like a wake than a celebration.

Mother sat at one of the tables with her friend, Joyce Maddingley, and she told us to behave ourselves when we slipped away to Harkside with Cynthia Garmen. Matthew refused to come out of the cottage at all; he wouldn’t budge. Mother said not to worry, she would look in on him from time to time and make sure he was comfortable.

The three of us set off, taking the long way around on the roads so we wouldn’t get our ankles and court shoes wet in the grass.

Harkside was much wilder than Hobb’s End. Most of the soldiers and airmen from the nearby bases had come, so there were men in uniform all over the place. From the minute we got to the village green, we were swept into a mad whirl. It didn’t take Gloria long to meet up with Brad. Billy Joe was there with his new girlfriend, and PX was tagging along, too. I felt a sudden pang of missing Charlie, then I tried to enter into the spirit of victory.

First we went to the dance. There was a big band playing Glenn Miller, Duke Ellington and Benny Goodman tunes, and people kept throwing colored streamers across the dance floor.

Out in the streets, between songs, we could hear fireworks and people whooping with joy. At one point, when I was dancing a waltz with Billy Joe and trying to explain how Matthew took up so much of our time, I noticed Gloria and Brad slip outside. It was over an hour before I saw them again, and Gloria had retouched her makeup. She couldn’t hide the ladder in one of her stockings, though. I resolved to say nothing. Since our talk a few days ago, I had thought a lot about Gloria and what she was sacrificing to care for Matthew, and I decided that she deserved her little pleasures, as long as she remained discreet about them.

The band was still playing when we piled out into the street. There was a huge bonfire on the village green and people were singing, dancing and setting off fireworks all around it, just like Guy Fawkes Night. The air was full of the acrid smell of smoke and the sky full of exploding colors. Someone had made up an effigy of Hitler and they were heaving it on top of the fire. Everyone was drunk. I don’t know where Cynthia got to. I was with a group of people, and I could see Gloria and Brad through the flames having an argument. At least they looked as if they were shouting at one another, but I couldn’t hear for all the singing and explosions.

At one point we went to someone’s house and drank some whiskey. It was a wild party. People were packed in like sardines and I felt hands all over my body as I pushed my way through the crowd to go to the toilet. The house was full of smoke and it stung my eyes. Gloria was dancing, but I couldn’t see Brad. Someone fell down the stairs. At one point, I’m sure I saw a Negro dancing on the piano. PX was drunk, eyes closed almost to slits, and I saw him try to kiss a woman. She pushed him away and his face turned red. Then he stormed off. Cynthia reappeared with a sailor in tow. I don’t know where she’d managed to find him, as we were at least fifty miles from the coast. It was almost one o’clock and we were back out on the street again when I told Cynthia and Gloria it was time for us to go.

The three of us were a little drunk. It was the emotion and excitement as much as the alcohol, I think. We didn’t even bother trying to cadge a lift but danced and laughed our way home instead. Hobb’s End was quiet as a tomb.

Bridge Cottage was dark. I went in with Gloria to make sure everything was all right and we heard Matthew snoring on the Chesterfield as soon as we opened the door. Gloria put her finger to her lips and gestured me toward the kitchen. With the door shut, she poured us both another whiskey, which was probably the last thing we needed. When she put her handbag down on the countertop, it slipped off and fell on the floor. I bent over to pick it up for her and noticed how heavy it was. Curious, I opened the clasp and nearly fainted when I saw a gun. Gloria turned with the bottle and glasses in time to see me.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” she said.

“But Gloria, where did you get it?”

“From one of the Americans at the party. He was so drunk he won’t miss it.”

“Not Brad?”

“No, not Brad. Nobody we know.”

“But whoever he was, he’ll get into serious trouble.”

“I don’t think so. Anyway, I don’t care. It serves him right for being so careless, doesn’t it? He was trying to put his hand up my skirt at the time.”

“What do you want a gun for?”

She shrugged. “War souvenir.”

“Gloria!”

“All right!” She was whispering as loudly as she could, so as not to wake Matthew. “Maybe I just feel a bit more comfortable knowing it’s there, that’s all.”

“But Matthew’s harmless. He wouldn’t hurt you.”

She looked at me as if I were the biggest fool she had ever met. “Who said anything about Matthew?” she said, not even bothering to whisper, then she took the gun from me and put it in one of the kitchen cupboards behind the meager supplies of tea and cocoa. “Now will you have that drink?”

Vivian Elmsley was having a difficult time. Close to midnight she was sitting in her sparse living room, her third gin and tonic in her hand and some dreadful rubbish on television. Sleep refused to come. Her mysterious caller hadn’t rung again, but she still regarded the telephone as an object of terror, ever on the verge of destroying what little peace of mind she had left. She wondered if she should have told the police about him. But what could they do? It was all so vague.

She had known the police would find out who she was and come for her eventually – she had known that the minute she knew Gloria’s body had been dug up – but she hadn’t been prepared for the effect that their visit would have on her. They knew she was lying; that was obvious. Chief Inspector Banks wasn’t a fool; he knew that nobody who had been as close to the people involved as Vivian had could know so little as she had professed. And she wasn’t a good liar.

Why hadn’t she told them the truth? Fear for her own well-being? Partly. She didn’t want to go to jail. Not at her age. But would they really prosecute her after so long, no matter what the law books said? When they heard her full story, would they really go ahead and put her through the pain and humiliation of a trial and a jail sentence? Were there not such things as mitigating circumstances?

She didn’t know what they would do, and that was the problem. When it comes right down to it, we fear the unknown more than anything else.

On the other hand, if she didn’t tell them, then they would never find out the truth about what happened that night. Nobody else knew. Living or dead. If she was careful, Vivian could take her secret to the grave with her.

Only one thing was certain: The police would be back; she had seen it in the chief inspector’s eyes. Tonight she had to make her decision.

“You’re right about one thing,” Annie began. “I’m in Harkside because I was a naughty girl.”

“What happened?”

“Depends on your point of view. They called it an initiation rite. I called it attempted gang rape. Look, I’m not going to tell you where it was or who was involved. All I’m saying is it happened in a big city, and it wasn’t in Yorkshire. Okay?”

“Okay. Go on.”

“This is hard.” Annie spooned down some more chocolate mousse. “Harder than I ever thought.”

“You don’t have to.”

She held up her hand. “No. I’ve come this far.” The waiter drifted by and they both ordered coffee. He didn’t give any indication that he had heard, but the coffee arrived in a matter of moments. Annie pushed aside her dessert bowl; it was empty. She played with the spoon.

“It was when I made DS,” she said. “Nearly two years ago now. I’d done my stint in uniform there, and I wasn’t sure where they were going to send me next. But I didn’t care. I was happy just to be back in CID again after… well, you know what I mean.”

“Patrols? Shifts?”

“Exactly. Anyway, there was a celebration at the local coppers’ pub. The ‘private’ room upstairs. I suppose I was dead chuffed with myself. I’d always wanted to be one of the boys. Naturally, we closed the place. It got down to just four of us left. One of them suggested we go back to his place and drink some more and we all agreed that was a good idea.”

She was speaking very quietly so that no one would hear. There wasn’t much chance of that. The restaurant was packed now, full of laughter and loud voices. Banks had to strain to hear her, and somehow that made what he heard so much more affecting, that it was delivered in not much more than a whisper. He sipped some black coffee. Through the occasional hush in the background noise, he could hear the lush, romantic strains of Liszt’s “Liebestraum.”

“We were already three sheets to the wind,” Annie went on, “and I was the only female. I didn’t know the others well. Things were getting pretty wild. I suppose I should have known what was coming by the way the conversation was going in the taxi. You know. Flirting. Sexual innuendos. Casual touches. That sort of thing. Call me naive. The other three kept making veiled references to initiation ceremonies, and there was a lot of nudging and winking going on, but I’d been drinking, too, and I didn’t really think much of it until we’d been at the flat for a while and drunk some more. One of them grabbed my arm and suggested we go in the bedroom, said he could tell I’d been wanting it all night. I laughed and brushed him off. I thought he was joking. He got angry. Things got out of hand. The other two grabbed me and held me down over the back of the settee while he pulled up my skirt, tore off my underwear and raped me.”

Banks noticed that Annie was gripping the spoon handle tightly in her fist. Her knuckles were white. She took a deep breath and went on. “When he’d finished, they started rearranging positions, and I knew what was coming. It was like there were no individuals in the room anymore; they were all caught up in this blind male lust and I was the object of it. It overwhelmed everything, conscience… decency. It’s hard to describe. I was terrified, but I’d sobered up pretty damn quickly over the last few minutes. Soon as I got my chance, I slipped free from their grip, kicked the one who’d raped me hard as I could in the balls and caught another on the jaw with my elbow. I’d done some martial-arts training. I don’t know, maybe if I hadn’t been drinking, my reflexes would’ve been quicker, my coordination a bit more accurate. Anyway, I managed to put two of them out of action long enough to make it to the door. The third one caught me, and by then the one I’d hit with my elbow was up again. They were sweating, red in the face, and mad as hell. One of them punched me in the stomach and the other hit me hard in the chest. I went down. I think I was sick. I thought that was it again, that they were going to do what they’d intended, but they’d lost their bottle. It had all got too real for them. Suddenly they were individuals again, each looking out for number one, and they knew what they’d done. It was time to close ranks. They called me a lesbian bitch, told me to get out and if I knew what was good for me I wouldn’t say a word. I left.”

“Did you report it? For crying out loud, Annie, you’d been raped.”

She laughed harshly. “Isn’t that so easy for a man to say? To sit in judgment over what a person in that position should or shouldn’t do? To be oh so understanding about it?” She shook her head. “You know what I did? I walked the city most of the night in a complete daze. People must have thought I was crazy. I wasn’t drunk anymore, I was plain cold sober, but I was drained, numb, I couldn’t feel anything. I remember trying to feel some sort of emotion, thinking I ought to feel anger or pain. I was really angry at myself for not feeling angry. I know it sounds impossible, but that’s the only way I can describe it. There was nothing. Just a deep cold numbness. When I finally found myself back at my flat, I had a long hot bath. Hours I must have lain there, just listening to the radio. News. Weather. Normal life. That was soothing somehow. And do you know what? I understand every one of those rape victims who never comes forward to report the crime.”

Banks could see tears glistening at the corners of her eyes, but as she noticed him looking, she seemed to draw them back in.

“What happened?” he asked.

“By morning I’d got a bit of nerve back. First thing, I went to see the chief super to tell him what they did. Know what?”

“What?”

“Two of the others had got there before me and queered the pitch. Preemptive strike. They told the super there’d been a spot of bother at a party last night, just an initiation rite that got a bit out of hand, nothing serious, like, but that I’d probably be coming to complain, making up all sorts of wild allegations. According to them I’d got totally rat-arsed and gone way over the top, telling them I’d take them all on and then backing down when it came to it.”

“And he believed them?”

“Their word against mine. Besides, they were all mates. People around the station already thought I was a bit weird. Some of them even used to call me the ‘Hippie Cop’ behind my back, or so they thought. You know, I did yoga and meditation and I didn’t eat meat and watch sport on the telly and talk about sex all the time. That’s enough to make you seem weird, for a start. I also had a reputation around the place for not being very interested in men, just because I didn’t find any of the blokes I worked with particularly attractive. I’m sure they all thought I was gay. That hits a certain kind of male the wrong way. He thinks all a lesbian needs is a big hard cock in her and she’ll soon come to her senses. And, of course, he’s just the bloke to give it to her. As it happened, I did have a boyfriend at the time, nothing serious, but I kept my private life separate from the Job.”

“Did you tell the chief super what really happened?”

“Yes. Every detail.”

“What was his reaction?”

“He looked very embarrassed.”

“Didn’t he initiate some sort of inquiry?”

“Like I said, their word against mine. And apart from a pair of torn knickers, I’d pretty much destroyed the evidence, hadn’t I?”

“Even so… these days…”

“What about these days?”

“Annie, there are procedures to guard against these things.”

“Procedures? Hah. Tell that to the chief super. He also told me, by the way, that no one wants that sort of internal investigation going on. It hurts everyone, and it especially hurts the force. He said the officers involved would be disciplined for their excessive high spirits, but it would be best for all concerned if it went no further than his office. He told me to put the good of the force as a whole above my own selfish concerns.”

“You agreed to that?”

“What choice had I?”

“He should have been kicked off the force.”

“I’m glad you agree.”

“So all that happened was they got a slap on the wrist and you got shipped off to the middle of nowhere?”

“Not quite. Not immediately.” Annie looked down into her coffee cup. “There were complications.”

“What complications?”

She wrapped a strand of hair around her forefinger and stared down into her cup for a few more seconds before looking up at Banks. “Remember, I told you I kicked one of them in the balls?”

“Yes? What about it?”

“Something went wrong. They had to operate. He lost them. Both of them. The devil of it was that he was the youngest of the three and the most junior in rank. Just a DS himself and only married a year. Planning a family.”

“Jesus. I can imagine you were a popular woman around the station after that.”

“Exactly. For a while I thought of leaving the force altogether. But I’m stubborn. The chief super suggested it might be better for all concerned if I transferred somewhere else. He said he’d look into some possibilities, and they came up with Harkside. Millicent Cummings was immediately sympathetic, of course, and I think our ACC used to work with Chief Constable Riddle.”

“So Riddle knows all about what happened?”

“He knew my chief super’s side of the story, yes.”

“Which means that to him you’re a troublemaker? A ball-busting lesbian bitch?”

Annie mustered a crooked smile. “Well, I’ve been called worse, but thanks for the compliment.”

“No wonder he put us together. Never was much of a judge of character, though, wasn’t Jimmy Riddle. I’m surprised he got as far as he did. I’m sorry about what happened to you, Annie. Sorrier than I can say.”

“All water under the bridge.”

“I’m also amazed you would even consider getting involved with me, a DCI. I would have thought that what happened would have been enough to put you off your fellow coppers for life, especially senior CID ranks.”

“Oh, come on, Alan. You do yourself a disservice. Do you really think I’m that stupid? That’s insulting to both of us. I’ve never, not for one moment, seen any similarity whatsoever between you and the men who assaulted me. I didn’t even know you were a DCI when I first saw you, and I fancied you right away. The thing is, I thought I’d faced up to it and got on with my life.”

“Haven’t you? You seem to be doing all right to me.”

“I’ve been in hiding. I shut myself away. I thought I was over it and that I’d simply chosen a quieter life. The celibate life of reflection and contemplation. There’s a laugh. I thought that was my choice, but it was really a result of what happened, of not facing up. But I’d already practiced meditation and yoga, had done for years, and I came from a small seaside town, so it seemed only natural to dig in my heels at Harkside.”

“You aren’t happy there?”

“What’s happiness? Something you measure in relation to unhappiness? I get by. I have my nice safe little life at the center of the labyrinth, as you so astutely pointed out. I have few possessions. I go to work, I do my job, and then I come home. No social life, no friends. I certainly didn’t dwell on what had happened to me. I didn’t have recurring nightmares about it. I suppose I was lucky that way. And I felt no guilt about what happened to that young DS. That might sound harsh, but I’ve probed myself deeply enough to know it’s the case. He was egged on by his superiors, true, caught up in the spirit of drunken revelry. I suppose some people might excuse him by saying he was too weak to resist or he simply lost his rag, temporary insanity. But I was the one he raped. And I was the one who saw his face while he was doing it. He deserved all he got. The only real shame is that I didn’t get the chance to do it to the other two as well.” She paused. “But let’s face it, I haven’t even done any serious detective work in Harkside. I know I’m good at the job – I’m quick, I’m bright and I’m hard-working – but until this case came along it’s all been break-ins, vandalism, the occasional runaway kid.”

“And now?”

She shrugged. “Now I don’t know. You’re the first person I’ve told since it happened.”

“You didn’t tell your father?”

“Ray? No. He’d be sympathetic, but he wouldn’t understand. He didn’t want me to join the police to start with.”

“A hippie artist? I shouldn’t think he did.”

“He’d probably have led a protest march to New Scotland Yard.” She paused and played with her hair again. “Now it’s your turn. Remember, you promised to tell me something, too.”

“Did I?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Did you really punch Jimmy Riddle?”

Banks stubbed out his cigarette and slipped his credit card on the little tray the waiter had left. It was snatched up almost immediately. The theaters had come out now and people were queuing at the restaurant door.

“Yes,” he said. “I did.”

She laughed. “Bloody hell. I wish I’d been there.”

The waiter finished with the card in no time flat. Banks signed the receipt, Annie gathered her packages and they walked out into the busy West End evening. The streets were packed with people standing drinking outside the pubs. Four men blocked the pavement, all talking and laughing at once into a mobile phone. Banks and Annie skirted them. Across the street, Banks saw a drunken woman in a tartan schoolgirl mini, black thigh stockings and fuck-me shoes try to carry on an argument with her “boyfriend” and walk at the same time. She failed, teetered at the edge of the pavement and went sprawling in the gutter, cursing all the way. Sirens blared in the distant city night.

“Don’t laugh at this,” said Annie, “but that time… you know, in the backyard, when you put your arm around me?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I was sort of expecting something might happen, and I didn’t know if I was ready for it yet. I was going to tell you I was a lesbian. Just to let you down lightly, to make you think it wasn’t anything personal, you know, that it wasn’t that I didn’t fancy you or anything, but that I just didn’t go for men. I’d got it all worked out.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“When the time came, I didn’t want to. Believe me, I was probably just as surprised as you were about what happened. Just as scared. I know I invited you to my house and fed you drinks, but I really wasn’t planning to seduce you.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

“I was going to offer you the couch.”

“And I would have accepted gracefully.”

“But when it came to it, I wanted you. I was terrified. It was the first time since the night I’ve just told you about. But I wanted to do it as well. I suppose I wanted to overcome my fear. Sometimes it’s the only way.”

They walked along Charing Cross Road, past all the closed bookshops, and crossed Oxford Street. As they turned onto Great Russell Street, Annie slipped her arm through Banks’s. It was only the second time they had had any little intimate physical contact in public, and it felt good: the warmth, the gentle pressure. Annie leaned her head a little so it rested on his shoulder; her hair tickled his cheek.

Neither of them had been to the hotel yet; Banks had simply phoned earlier to book a room and said they would be arriving late. It was only a small place. He had stayed there twice before while on police business in London – both times alone – and had been impressed by the general cleanliness and level of service, not to mention the reasonable rates.

They passed the dark mass of the British Museum, set back behind its railings and courtyard, then crossed Russell Square. Conversation and laughter carried on the night air from a pub around the corner. A couple walked by, arms wrapped around one another.

“Here we are,” said Banks. “Did you buy a toothbrush?”

“Yup.” Annie held up one of her bags. “And a new pair of jeans, new shoes, a skirt and blouse, undies.”

“You really did go shopping, didn’t you?”

“Hey. It’s not often I get to the big city. I bought a nightie, too.”

“I thought I said you wouldn’t need one.”

She laughed and moved closer. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s only a little nightie. I promise you’ll like it.” And they walked up the stone steps to the hotel.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the gun. Usually, the way the scene ran in my mind was that Gloria shot Matthew first and then herself. The images were so vivid I could even see the blood gush from their wounds. Finally, I determined I had to do something.

As I said, I had a key to Bridge Cottage. It wasn’t that Matthew locked himself in, but he sometimes wouldn’t bother getting up to answer the door. Most of the time he was in a sort of comatose state from alcohol anyway. When he wasn’t at the pub he was sipping whiskey at home. Whiskey that Gloria got from PX.

So the next time it was Gloria’s turn to take Matthew to see Dr. Jennings in Leeds, I let myself in. Even if someone saw me, it wouldn’t seem at all strange because I was in and out of Bridge Cottage all the time and everyone in the village knew about Matthew’s condition.

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

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