In A Dry Season

EIGHTEEN

On Friday, the rep dropped Vivian back at her hotel a little later than she had expected. There had been a delay at the radio station when the sound technician discovered, halfway through the interview, that Vivian’s microphone was faulty. She had to do the whole thing again. It was after four o’clock when she got out of the car, and the sky looked heavy and dark, the air crackling with pre-storm tension. In the distance, she could hear hesitant rumbles of thunder and see faint lightning flashes. Even the Metropole’s facade, lovingly restored to its original orange terra cotta, looked as black as it had when she had stayed there with Charlie all those years ago.

She would have liked nothing better than to rest in her room for an hour or so, perhaps take a long bath, but it would be fully dark before long. She supposed she could put off her trip and go another time. Tomorrow would be taken up with signings in York and Harrogate, but she could always catch a later train and make the visit on Sunday morning. No. She would not procrastinate. There was also something ironically appealing to the writer in her about visiting the place during a storm.

She called the concierge and asked him to arrange for a taxi, then she put on her raincoat and waterproof boots. The car was waiting downstairs, and she ducked in the back with her umbrella and gave the driver directions. The rain had started spotting now, making huge dark blobs on the pavement. The driver, a young Pakistani, tried to practice his English by making conversation about the weather, but he soon gave up and settled in to concentrate on his driving.

Woodhouse Road was busy with people leaving work early for the weekend, and the worsening weather made it a matter of stop and start. Beyond the city limits, though, things eased up.

As Vivian gazed out of the rain-streaked window, hypnotized by the slapping of the windscreen wipers, she thought about her visit to Leeds City Art Gallery yesterday. Seeing the nude painting of Gloria had evoked such a complex response in her that she still hadn’t been able to sort out all the strands.

She had never seen Gloria naked before, had never accompanied her and Alice and the others on their skinny-dipping expeditions, out of shyness and out of shame at her body, so to see the smooth skin and the alluring curves as interpreted by Michael Stanhope’s expert eye and hand came as a revelation.

What disturbed Vivian most of all was the pang of desire the painting engendered in her. She had thought herself long past such feelings, if she had ever, indeed, experienced them at all. True, she had loved Gloria, but she had never admitted to herself, had never even realized, that she might have loved her in that way. Now, as she remembered the innocent physical intimacies they had shared – painting one another’s legs; the dancing lessons, when she had felt Gloria’s body close to hers and breathed her perfume; the little kiss on her cheek after the wedding – she wasn’t sure how innocent it had all been. The feelings, the urges, had been there, but Vivian had been ignorant of such things and had suppressed them. In the art gallery, she had felt like a pervert looking at pornography; not because there was anything pornographic about Stanhope’s painting, but because of her own thoughts and feelings attached to it.

She thought of that moment when she had kissed Gloria’s still-warm forehead before covering her with the blackout cloth. “Good-bye, sweet Gloria. Good-bye, my love.”

“Pardon me?” said the driver, turning his head.

“What? Oh, nothing. Nothing.”

Vivian shrank into her seat. Beyond Otley there was very little traffic. The roads were narrow, and they got stuck behind a lorry doing only about thirty for a while. It was after five o’clock when the driver pulled up in the car park near Thornfield Reservoir. The rain was coming down hard now, pattering against the leaves. At least, Vivian thought, in this weather she could be sure of having the place to herself. She told the driver she would only be about fifteen minutes and asked him to wait. He picked up a newspaper from the seat beside him.

A second car pulled up in the other car park, behind the high hedge, but Vivian was already walking through the woods, and she failed to notice it. The path was treacherous, as if the parched earth had been yearning for the chance to suck up every drop of rain that fell, and Vivian had to be really careful not to slip as she made her way slowly down the embankment, poking her umbrella in the ground ahead and using it as a sort of brake. God only knew how she would get back up again.

The ruined village lay spread out before her under the dark sky. Rain lashed the crumbled stones and every few seconds a flash of lightning lit the scene like a Stanhope painting.

Vivian paused to get her breath by the fairy bridge, unfurled her umbrella, then walked forward and stood at the humped center. She rested her free hand on the wet stone, hardly able to believe that this was the same bridge where she had stood and chatted with Gloria, Matthew, Alice, Cynthia, Betty and the others all those years ago. The last time she had been there, it had been under water.

The rain was already finding the old river’s channel by the High Street, and a small stream had formed, heading toward Harksmere. Thunder hammered across the sky, and Vivian shuddered as she moved toward Bridge Cottage. There was nothing left of the place except the foundations, a dark stone outline two or three feet high, but she remembered where every room and cupboard had been, especially the kitchen at the back, where she had found Gloria’s body.

The area around and inside the cottage had been dug up and was still surrounded by police signs warning that it might be dangerous. They had been looking for more bodies. Vivian supposed. Well, they would, wouldn’t they? Inspector Niven would have done exactly the same thing.

Now she was standing there in the driving rain, which dripped off her umbrella and ran down inside her boots, she was beginning to wonder why she had come. There was nothing here for her now. At least when Hobb’s End was under water she could imagine it, as she had done, as a place preserved in water glass. Now it was nothing but a heap of rubble.

She ambled through the mud up what had been the High Street, past the Shoulder of Mutton, where Billy Joe had his fight with Seth, and where Matthew spent his evenings after his return from Luzon; past Halliwell the butcher’s, where she had swapped Capstans for suet and pleaded for an extra piece of scrag-end; and past the newsagent’s shop, where she had lived with Mother and sold her bits and pieces, built up her private lending library, met Gloria for the first time that blustery April day she came by in her new land-girl uniform asking for cigarettes.

It was no good; there was nothing of the place left but memories, and her memories were mostly painful. She hadn’t known what to expect, had in mind only a simple sort of pilgrimage, an acknowledgment of some sort. Well, she had done that. Time to head back to the hotel for a hot bath and a change of clothes, or she would catch her death.

Lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed the gaunt, stringy-haired man who had followed her taxi all the way from Leeds. When she passed Bridge Cottage on her way back and turned toward the fairy bridge, he stepped from behind the outbuilding and held out a gun, then he moved forward quickly, grabbed her around the throat, and she felt the hard metal pushing at the side of her neck. Her umbrella went flying and landed upside down on High Street like a large black teacup.

Then his hand appeared in front of her, holding a dog-eared photograph creased with age. It took her a few moments to realize that it was Gloria. Her hair was darker and straighter, and it looked as if it had been taken perhaps a year or two before she had come to Hobb’s End. Rain spattered the photograph and the hand that held it. Such a small hand. Gloria’s hand, she thought, remembering that first meeting, when she had shaken hands and Vivian had felt heavy and awkward holding that tiny, moist leaf.

What was he doing with hands like Gloria’s?

By six o’clock on Friday evening, Banks was starting to get nervous about his dinner date with Jenny. The thunder and lightning and driving rain that buffeted his tiny cottage didn’t help. He had already showered and shaved, agonizing over whether to put on any aftershave and finally deciding against it, not wanting to smell like a tart’s window box. Now he was surveying his wardrobe, what little there was of it, trying to decide which version of casual he should put on tonight. It was a decision made a lot easier by the overflowing laundry basket: the Marks amp; Sparks chinos and the light blue denim shirt.

Almost ready at last, Banks stood in front of the mirror and ran his hand over his closely cropped hair. Nothing to write home about, he thought, but it was the best he could do with what nature had given him. He wasn’t a vain man, but today he seemed to take longer than a woman getting ready to go out. He remembered how he had always had to wait for Sandra, no matter how much time he gave her. It had got so bad that when they had to be somewhere for seven-thirty, he told her seven o’clock, just to get an edge.

He thought of Annie. Did he owe her fidelity, or were all bets off after the way she had cut him? He didn’t know. At the very least, he owed her an explanation of the case, given all the hard work she had put in. Late that afternoon, Bill Gilchrist of the FBI had sent him, at Jenny’s request, a six-page fax on Edgar “PX” Konig, and Banks had been gob-smacked by its contents. DS Hatchley had also determined that Konig had been questioned in connection with the Brenda Hamilton murder. He wasn’t a serious suspect, but the two had been friendly. Rationing was in force until 1954, so PX still had his uses among the locals as late as 1952.

Annie wasn’t at the section station when he phoned her. He had tried her at home, too, but either she had already left for St. Ives, or she wasn’t answering her phone. Next he dialed her mobile number but still got no answer. Maybe she didn’t want to talk to him.

Banks went downstairs and lit a cigarette. Miles Davis’s Bitches Brew was playing on the stereo, bringing back more memories of Jem.

During one of those periods when the Met had brought in a new broom, and corruption charges were flying right, left and center, Banks again saw the man he had first seen walking up the stairs on the night of Jem’s death. A dealer. His name was Malcolm, and he had been brought in to give evidence against a certain DS Fallon, who was charged with extorting heroin from importers he busted instead of arresting them. Fallon then set up his own distribution network, which included Malcolm. In Banks’s eyes, that made Malcolm partly responsible for Jem’s death, and when he saw DS Fallon, he recognized immediately the pockmarked face and cynical smile of the cop who had rifled his bed-sit after he’d reported Jem’s death. No wonder no charges had ever been laid.

Fallon was arrested and sentenced. He hadn’t been more than eighteen months in Wormwood Scrubs before a lifer who recognized him stabbed him through the ear with a filed-down length of metal. Karma. After five years or more it was hardly instant, but it was karma nonetheless. Jem would have liked that sense of symmetry.

Banks stubbed out his cigarette and was just heading into the bathroom to brush his teeth when the telephone rang. The sound startled him. He hoped it wasn’t Jenny phoning to cancel. With Annie going all cold on him, he had been entertaining some pleasant fantasies about the forthcoming dinner. As soon as he heard the voice, though, he realized there could be much worse things in the world than Jenny phoning to cancel dinner.

“Why is it, Banks,” growled Chief Constable Riddle, “that you manage to make a pig’s arse out of everything you do?”

“Sir?”

“You heard me.”

“Sir, it’s after six on a Fri -”

“I don’t give a monkey’s toss what bloody time it is, or what day it is. I give you a perfectly simple case to work on. Nothing too urgent. Nothing too exacting. Out of the goodness of my heart. And what happens? All my good intentions blow up in our faces, that’s what happens.”

“Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You might not, but the rest of the bloody country does. Don’t you watch the news?”

“No, sir. I’ve been getting ready to go out.”

“Then you’d better cancel. I’m sure she’ll forgive you. Not that I care about your sex life. Do you know where I’m calling from?”

“No, sir.”

“I’m calling from Thornfield Reservoir. Listen carefully and you’ll hear the rain. And the thunder. Let me fill you in. Shortly over an hour ago, a woman was taken hostage. She had taken a taxi out here and told the driver to wait while she went to look at something. When he thought he’d waited long enough, he went to look for her and saw her standing with a man who appeared to be holding a gun to her head. The man fired a shot in the air and shouted his demand, and the taxi driver ran back to his car and phoned the police. The woman’s name is Vivian Elmsley. Ring any bells?”

Banks’s heart lurched. “Vivian Elmsley? Yes, she’s-”

“I know damn well who she is, Banks. What I don’t know is why some maniac is holding a gun to her head and demanding to talk to the detective in charge of the Gloria Shackleton investigation. Because that’s what he demanded the taxi driver report. Can you fill me in on that?”

“No, sir.”

“‘No, sir.’ Is that all you can say?”

Banks fought back the urge to say, “Yes, sir.” Instead he asked, “What’s his name?”

“He hasn’t said. We, however, have gone into full bloody Hollywood production mode out here, with a big enough budget to bankrupt us well into the millennium. Are you still listening to me, Banks?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A hostage negotiator has spoken with him briefly from a distance, and all he says is that he wants to see justice done. He won’t say any more until we get you to the scene. There’s an Armed Response Unit here already, and they’re getting itchy fingers. Apparently one of their marksmen said he can get a clear shot.”

“For crying out loud-”

“Get yourself down here, man. Now! And this time you really will need your wellies. It’s pissing down cats and dogs.”

When Riddle hung up, Banks reached for his raincoat and shot out the door. He had a damn good idea who Vivian Elmsley’s captor might be, and why he was holding her. Behind him, Miles’s mournful trumpet echoed in the empty cottage.

Annie had managed to get away from the station early, before the shit hit the fan, and by six o’clock she was approaching Blackburn on the M65, shuttling from lane to lane to pass the convoys of enormous lorries that seemed to cluster together at regular intervals. It was Friday rush hour, the sky dark with storm clouds that gushed torrential rain over the whole of the North. Lightning forked and flickered over the humped Pennines, and thunder rumbled and crashed like a mad percussionist in the distance. Annie counted the gaps between the lightning and thunder, wondering if that really did tell you how far away the storm was.

What was the gap between her and Banks now? Could it be counted, like that between the thunder and the lightning? She knew she was being a coward, running away, but a little time and distance would give her a clearer perspective and a chance to sort out her feelings.

It was all getting to be too much: First, there was the annoyance she had felt when he went out boozing with his mate in Leeds instead of going to dinner with her; then the time in London he had gone to Bethnal Green to meet his son and made it clear she wasn’t welcome; and then the last straw, Sandra’s appearance at the cottage on Sunday morning. She had made Annie feel about an inch high. And Banks still loved her, that was obvious enough to anyone.

It wasn’t Banks’s fault; it wasn’t because of him she was running, but because of herself. If every little thing like that was going to rub up against her raw nerve ends, then where would she find any peace? She couldn’t blame Banks for making time for friends and family, but nor could she allow herself to be drawn so deeply into his life, tangled up in his past. All she wanted was a simple, no-strings relationship, but there were already too many complications.

If she stayed with him, she would have to meet his son eventually and audition for the Dad’s-new-girlfriend test. There was a daughter, too, and she would probably be even harder to win over. She would no doubt also meet the redoubtable Sandra again. Even though no one needed a co-respondent in divorce cases these days, Annie was beginning to feel like one. And there would be the divorce, something else they’d have to go through.

She didn’t think she could face all the emotional detritus of someone else’s life impinging on her own. She had enough to deal with as it was. No, she should cut her losses and get out now; it was time to go back home, regroup, recuperate, then return to her labyrinth, her meditation and yoga. With any luck, in a couple of weeks Banks would have let her go from his thoughts and found someone else.

Annie had the electronic gizmo in the car stereo set so that no matter what program she was listening to, the nearest local station would cut in with its weather and travel updates. She hadn’t a clue how this worked – some sort of electronic signal, she assumed – but sometimes the interruption continued beyond the traffic and weather into the local news bulletin. Just as she was overtaking a convoy of lorries churning up so much water she could hardly see, the weather cut in, and she also caught the beginning of a news bulletin about a hostage situation at Thornfield Reservoir.

Unfortunately, the same gizmo that caused the bulletins to cut in also cut them off at the most inappropriate times, and this happened halfway through the item. All she had discovered was that the detective writer Vivian Elmsley was being held by an armed man at Thornfield Reservoir.

Annie turned off the tape and jabbed at the search buttons, sending the LCD lights into a digital frenzy. She got country and western, a gardening program and a classical concert, but the scanner couldn’t find the damn newsbreak. She swore and thumped the wheel, swerving dangerously, then tried again, searching manually this time. When she finally did get the right frequency, all she heard were the final words, “…bizarre twist in the affair, it seems the hostage-taker has asked to talk to the detective in charge of the so-called Hobb’s End skeleton case, believed to be Detective Chief Inspector Banks of the Eastvale CID. We’ll give you more details as they come in.”

Well, Annie thought on the outskirts of Blackburn, there was nothing else for it; she would have to go back. She negotiated her way carefully across the lanes of traffic, took the next exit, crossed the overpass, then followed the signs heading east. In this weather, it would take her about an hour, she calculated, and these were no conditions for impatient driving. She hoped she wouldn’t be too late to find out what the hell was going on.

Banks arrived at Thornfield car park, put on his Wellington boots and hurried through the short stretch of woods to the scene. Riddle hadn’t been far wrong when he compared it to a Hollywood production. It probably cost as much as Waterworld. Though the patrol cars, Armed Response Vehicles and Technical Support Unit vans couldn’t drive right to the rim of the reservoir because of the trees, some of them had forced their way through as far as they could, and long, thick wires and cables trailed the rest of the way. The local media people were there, too. The entire bowl of Hobb’s End was floodlit, and the occasional lightning flash gave everything a split-second blue cast. At the center of it all, two small, pathetic figures were cruelly illuminated just beyond the fairy bridge.

Riddle stood by the phalanx of TV cameras and microphones clustered well behind the police tape. Banks ignored him and went straight over to the hostage negotiator. He looked young. Banks guessed he had a psychology degree and this was his first real-life situation. Officially, the local superintendent was in charge of the scene, but as a rule the negotiator called the shots. Banks couldn’t see any police sharpshooters, but he knew they were around somewhere.

“I’m DCI Banks,” he said.

“Sergeant Whitkirk,” said the negotiator.

Banks nodded toward the two figures. “Let me go and talk to him.”

“You’re not going down there,” Whitkirk said. “That’s against the rules. Do your talking on this.” He held a loud-hailer out. Banks didn’t take it. Instead, he lit a cigarette and gazed out over the eerie scene, a set from a horror film, perhaps the same film that began with the skeletal hand scratching at the edge of a tombstone. He turned to Sergeant Whitkirk. “How old are you, sonny?”

“What’s that got-”

“You’re clearly not old enough to realize that not all wisdom comes out of books. What’s it called, this rule book of yours? The Handy Pocket Guide to Hostage Negotiation?”

“Now, you listen to me-”

“No. You listen to me.” Banks pointed to the two figures. “I don’t know how many scenes like this you’ve handled successfully, but I do know this situation. I know what it’s all about, and I think I’ve got a hell of a lot better chance than you or anyone else of making sure no one gets hurt.”

Whitkirk thrust his chin out. There was an angry red spot in the cleft. “You can’t guarantee that. Leave it to the professionals. He’s obviously a fucking madman.”

“He’s not a fucking madman. What do you professionals intend to do? Shoot him?”

Whitkirk snorted. “We could’ve done that an hour ago, if that’s what we wanted. We’re containing the situation.”

“Bully for you.”

“How do you know he’s not a madman?”

Banks sighed. “Because I know who he is and what he wants.”

“How can you know that? He hasn’t communicated any demands yet.”

“Except to talk to me.”

“That’s right. And our first rule is that we don’t comply.”

“He hasn’t done anything yet, has he?”

“No.”

“Why not, do you think?”

“How would I know? All I know is he’s a fucking nutter and he’s unpredictable. We can’t give in to him, and you can’t just go walking into the situation. Look at it this way. He asked for you. Maybe you’re the one he really wants to kill.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“No, you won’t. I’m in charge of the scene here and you’re not going in.”

“What do we do, then?”

“We play for time.”

Banks felt like laughing, but he held it back. “And in time, what’s your plan?”

“First we do all we can to turn an imprecise situation into a precise one.”

“Oh, stop quoting the fucking textbook at me,” Banks said. “How long have you been here already? An hour? Hour and a half? Have you turned your imprecise situation into a precise one yet?”

“We’ve established communication.”

Banks looked down at the loud-hailer. “Yes. Great communicators, those.”

Whitkirk glared at him. “We offered to send down a phone but he refused.”

“Look,” said Banks, “he’s asked for me. We might not know what he wants, but he must have something to tell me, and you and I both know there’s only one way to find out. I think I can talk him out of doing any harm. Can’t you give me a bit of leeway?”

Whitkirk chewed on his lip for a moment. “Securing the scene’s my responsibility,” he said.

“Let me go in.” Banks pointed over to the chief constable. “Believe me, there’s a bloke over there will give you a medal if I get shot.”

Whitkirk managed a thin smile. “One condition,” he said.

“What is it?”

“You wear a bulletproof vest.”

“All right.”

Whitkirk sent someone to pick up the vest from the Armed Response Vehicle, then he told the hostage taker over his loud-hailer what he was planning.

“Send him in,” the man shouted back.

Whitkirk stood aside and Banks, kitted out with his bulletproof vest, trod his cigarette in the mud and set off down the side of the reservoir. He heard Whitkirk whisper, “Good luck,” as he went. About halfway down, he slipped and went the rest of the distance on his backside. Not very dignified. Though it probably did more harm to his pride than to his clothing, it also reminded him that he had put on his best trousers for dinner with Jenny, a dinner he was very unlikely to be having now, especially as he had forgotten his mobile in all the excitement and hadn’t been able to phone her and cancel.

When he got to the bottom of the embankment, he heard a curse behind him and turned to see Annie Cabbot come sliding down after him, also on her bum, feet in the air. At the bottom, she got to her feet and flashed him a grin. “Sorry. It was the only way I could give them the slip.”

“I take it you don’t have a bulletproof vest?”

“No.”

“I could be gallant and give you mine, but we’re a little too close to the scene now. Just stay back, behind me. We don’t want to scare him.”

They approached the fairy bridge. Banks told the man who he was. He indicated that it was okay and told the two of them to stop at the far side. They faced one another over the bridge. Vivian Elmsley looked frightened but otherwise unhurt as far as Banks could see. The gun looked like a.32 automatic.

“This is DS Cabbot,” Banks said. “She’s been working on the case with me. Is it okay for her to be here?”

The man looked at Annie and nodded. “I know who she is,” he said. “I saw her on television the day you found the skeleton, then down here that night a week or so ago.”

“So it was you,” Annie said. “What were you doing? Surely you weren’t looking for anything after all this time?”

“Perhaps I was. Not the sort of thing you mean. But perhaps I was looking for something. I’ve been here a lot at night. Thinking.”

“Why did you run?”

“I recognized you from the television. You walked right past me and didn’t even see me. But I saw you. I couldn’t risk being caught, having to explain myself, before I’d finished what I had to do.”

Banks decided it was time to take charge. He held his hands up and gestured for Annie to do the same. Rain dripped down the back of his neck. “We’re not armed, Francis,” he said. “We don’t want to hurt you. We just want to talk. Let Ms. Elmsley go.”

“So you know who I am?”

“Francis Henderson.”

“Clever. But my name’s Stringer now. Frank Stringer.” He licked his lips. So he had adopted his mother’s maiden name. Strange. That told Banks something about the situation they were dealing with. Frank looked twitchy, and Banks wondered if he had been drinking or if he was on drugs again. If it’s hard to make an imprecise situation precise, he thought, then it’s a bloody sight harder to make a hallucinatory situation real.

“Anyway,” Frank went on, “I’m not ready to let anyone go yet. I want to hear it all first. I want to hear her confess to you, then I’ll decide whether to kill her or not. It makes no odds to me.”

“Okay, Frank. What do you want to hear?”

“She killed my mother. I want to hear her say so, and I want to know why.”

“She didn’t kill anyone, Frank.”

“What are you talking about? You’re lying. You’re trying to protect her.”

His grip tightened on Vivian. Banks caught her sudden intake of breath and saw the gun barrel pushed into the flesh under her ear.

“Listen to me, Frank,” he said. “It’s important you listen to me. You asked for me to come here. You want the truth, don’t you?”

“I already know the truth. I want to hear it from your mouth. I want to hear her confess in front of you. I want to hear what she did to my mother.”

“It didn’t happen the way you think it did, Frank. It didn’t happen the way any of us thought it did. We were all wrong.”

“My mother was murdered.”

“Yes, she was murdered.”

“And this… this bitch here lied to my father and me when we went and asked about her.”

“No,” said Banks. “She didn’t lie. She thought she was telling you the truth.” He noticed the look of confusion in Vivian’s eyes.

“All those years,” Frank went on, as if he hadn’t heard. “Do you know he worshiped her, my father? Even though she left us. He said she was a dreamer, a free spirit, a beautiful butterfly who just had to spread her wings and fly away. But I hated her for leaving us. For depriving us of all that beauty. Why couldn’t she share it with us? Why couldn’t we be part of her dreams? We were never good enough for her. I hated her and I loved her. All my life dominated and blighted by a mother I never even knew. What do you think Mr. Freud would make of that? Don’t you think that’s funny?”

Banks looked away. He didn’t want to tell Frank the truth, that his mother had turned her back on him at birth. All those years, George had fed him on illusions. Gloria certainly had been wrong about the father of her child; he hadn’t turned out so bad after all. “No,” he said. “I don’t think it’s funny at all, Frank.”

“My father used to tell me how she always wanted to be one of those Hollywood actresses. Used to spend hours in front of the mirror practicing her makeup and the way they talked. Even before I was born it was no-go for them. She was too young, he said. Made just one mistake, that’s all. Me. It was enough.”

“She was very young, Frank. When she got pregnant, she was frightened. She didn’t know what to do.”

“So she had to run away and leave us?”

“For some people it seems like the only solution. She obviously wanted the child, you, to live. She didn’t have an abortion. She must have told your father where she was going? Did she keep in touch?”

He sniffed. “A postcard every now and then, telling him she was doing fine and not to worry. When my dad came home on leave once, he took me up to Hobb’s End to see her. It was the only time I… the only time I really remember seeing her, being with her, hearing her voice. She told me I was a fine-looking boy. I loved her then. She was a magical creature to me. Dazzling. Like someone from a dream. She seemed to move in a haze of light. So beautiful and so tender. But they argued. He couldn’t help asking her to come back when he saw her, but she wouldn’t. She told him she was married now and had a new life and we should leave her alone if we wanted her to be happy.”

“What did your father do?”

“What she asked. He was devastated. I think he’d always hoped that one day, perhaps, she would come back. We tried once more, when it was all over.” He turned so he was speaking into Vivian’s ear. “But this lying bitch here told us she had run away and she didn’t know where. All my life I believed that, believed my mother had run away and abandoned us forever. I tried to find her. I’m good at finding people, but I got nowhere. Now I find out she was dead all the time. Murdered and buried right here.”

“Let her go, Frank!” Banks shouted over a peal of thunder. “She didn’t know.”

“What do you mean, she didn’t know? She must have known.” Frank tore his attention away from Vivian and glared at Banks. His eyes were wild, his lank hair was plastered to his skull and rain dripped from his eyes like tears. “I want to hear it all. I want to hear her admit it to you. I want the truth.”

“You’ve got it all wrong, Frank. Vivian didn’t kill Gloria. Listen to me.”

“Even if she didn’t do the actual killing, she was involved. She covered for somebody. Who was it?”

“Nobody.”

“What do you take me for?”

“Vivian had nothing to do with your mother’s death.” As he spoke, Banks noticed Vivian’s eyes fill with curiosity, despite the gun at her neck. Annie stood beside him now, and Frank didn’t seem to care about her presence. Banks was aware of the activity in the background, but he didn’t think anyone would make a move yet. Thunder rumbled and lightning flashed. His raincoat and trousers stuck to his skin and rain stung his eyes.

“What do you mean, she had nothing to do with it?” Frank said. “She told my father that my mother had gone away, when all the while she was buried up here. She lied. Why would she do that unless she’d killed her, or knew who had?”

“As far as she was concerned,” Banks said, “your mother had gone away. She had spoken about running away often since Matthew got back from the war. He’d been badly hurt by the Japanese. He wasn’t the man she had married. Life was miserable for her. It seemed only natural to everyone who knew her that she’d go, just like she left you and your father in the first place.”

“No!”

Frank’s grip tightened on Vivian’s throat and she gasped. Banks felt his heart lurch. He held his hands out, palms toward Frank.

“Okay, Frank,” he went on. “Calm down. Please. Calm down and listen to me.”

They waited a moment, the four of them, all silent but for the pattering of the rain and the storm disappearing into the distance, the occasional crackle of a police radio from the rim.

Then Banks felt things relax, the same way as when you undo a tight button. “Matthew drove her away,” he went on. “It was only natural for Gwen to assume that was what happened. Your mother’s suitcase was gone. Her things were gone.”

Frank didn’t say anything for at least a minute. Banks could see him processing information, trying to shore up his defenses. The storm passed into the distance now and the rain eased off, leaving the four of them soaked to the skin.

“If it wasn’t her, who was it?” Frank said eventually. “I’ll bet you can’t tell me that, can you?”

“I can, Frank.” Annie stepped forward and spoke. Frank turned to her and blinked the rain out of his eyes.

“Who?” Frank asked. “And don’t you lie to me.”

“His name was Edgar Konig,” Annie said. “He ran the PX at Rowan Woods USAAF base, about a mile from here.”

“PX?” Vivian gasped.

“I don’t believe you,” said Frank.

“It’s true,” said Banks, picking up the thread. He realized that Annie didn’t have the full story yet. “Konig killed your mother. He also killed at least one other woman over here the same way, down at East Anglia. There were others, too, in Europe and America.”

Frank shook his head slowly.

“Listen to me, Frank. Edgar Konig knew your mother and her friends from the dances they went to. He was attracted to her from the start, but he had serious problems with women. He was always tongue-tied around them. He brought her presents, but even then she didn’t offer herself to him, she wouldn’t help him overcome his shyness. She went out with other men. He watched and waited. All the time the pressure was building up in him.”

“You say he killed other women?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know it was him?”

“We found a collar button from an American airman’s uniform. We think your mother must have torn it off as they struggled. Then we looked into the unsolved murder in Suffolk and found he had been questioned in connection with that, too. Are you listening, Frank?”

“I’m listening.”

Frank’s grip around Vivian’s throat had loosened a little, and Banks could tell that he had relaxed the hand holding the gun. “Edgar Konig went to Bridge Cottage that night to collect what he thought your mother owed him while her husband Matthew was at the pub as usual. The bomber group was due to move out in a couple of days and that had pushed him to the brink. He didn’t have much time. He’d been torturing himself for over a year. He’d been drinking that night, getting more and more lustful, and he thought he had plucked up the courage, thought he could overcome his inadequacies. Something short-circuited, though. She must have rejected him, maybe laughed at him, and the next thing he knew he’d killed her in a rage. Do you understand what I’m saying, Frank? There was something wrong with him.”

“A psycho?”

“No. Not technically. Not at first, anyway. He became a sex murderer. The two things – sex and murder – became tangled up in his mind. The one demanded the other.”

“If that’s how it happened, why did no one know about it?”

Slowly, Banks reached for his cigarettes and offered Frank one. “Gave them up years back,” he said. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

Banks lit up. Definite progress. Frank seemed less tightly wound, more willing to listen to reason. And he didn’t appear to be drunk or on drugs. Better not cock it up now.

“No one knew about it,” Banks went on, “because Edgar Konig realized what he’d done. That sobered him up fast. He covered his tracks well.” Banks looked at Vivian Elmsley as he spoke. She averted her eyes. “He cleaned up the mess and he buried the body in the outbuilding. Then he packed a few of her clothes and belongings in a suitcase to make it look as though she had run off. He even faked a note. It was wartime. People went missing all the time. Everyone in the village knew Gloria wasn’t happy with Matthew, what a burden she had to bear. Why should they question that she’d just done a moonlight?”

Frank spoke in Vivian’s ear. “Is that right, what he’s saying?”

Banks couldn’t hear her, but he saw her mouth form the word “Yes.”

“Frank,” Banks pressed on, playing his advantage. “The gun. I know you don’t want to hurt anyone, but it’s dangerous. It’s easy to make a wrong move. Nobody’s been hurt yet. No harm’s been done.”

Frank looked at the gun as if he were seeing it for the first time.

Banks stepped onto the fairy bridge and moved forward slowly, holding his hand out. He knew there were probably two or three trained marksmen aiming in his direction, and the thought made his stomach churn. “Give the gun to me, Frank. It’s all over. Vivian didn’t kill your mother. She had nothing to do with it. She loved Gloria like a sister. It was Edgar Konig.”

Frank let his gun hand drop and released his grip on Vivian Elmsley’s throat. She staggered aside and slipped down one of the muddy holes the SOCOs had dug in the Bridge Cottage floor. Annie ran to help her. Frank handed the gun to Banks. It weighed heavy in his hand. “What happened to him?” Frank asked. “This Konig. Did he ever get caught?”

“I’ll tell you all about that later, Frank,” said Banks, taking Frank by the elbow. “Just for now, though, we’re all a bit tired and wet. Okay? I think we should leave here, go somewhere to dry off and get some clean clothes, don’t you?”

Frank hung his head. Banks draped an arm across his shoulder. As he did so, he noticed something on the ground, partially covered by mud. He bent and picked it up. It was a photograph of a sixteen-year-old Gloria Shackleton, her beautiful, determined, defiant face staring out at the camera. It was damaged by the water, but still salvageable.

Several police officers had already come dashing and sliding down the embankment. Two went to help Annie get Vivian out of the pit, and two of them grabbed Frank roughly and started handcuffing him.

“There’s no need to be so rough with him,” said Banks.

“Leave this to us, sir,” said one of the officers.

Banks sighed and handed over the gun, then he held up the photograph of Gloria. “I’ll get this cleaned up for you, if you want, Frank,” he said.

Frank nodded. “Please,” he said. “And don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right. It’s not the first time I’ve had the cuffs on.”

Banks nodded. “I know.”

They hustled Frank Stringer away, practically dragging him up the muddy slope, and Banks turned to see Annie and the other policemen helping Vivian Elmsley stumble over the fairy bridge.

Vivian stopped in front of him, covered in mud while the others went on ahead. “Thank you,” she said. “You saved my life.”

“I lied for you,” said Banks. “I also sullied Gloria’s loyalty to Matthew.”

She paled and whispered, “I know. I appreciate what you did. I’m sorry.”

“There was a chance, you know. Maybe just a small chance, but a chance. If you’d come forward after you found Gloria dead, if you hadn’t destroyed all the evidence, if you’d gone to the police…” Banks held his anger in check; this was neither the time nor the place for it. “Ah, to hell with it. Too late now.”

Vivian bowed her head. “Believe me, I know what I’ve done.”

Banks turned and slogged on alone through the mud. It was difficult, but he made it up the edge without falling down. At the top, he was aware of Annie standing beside him. Before he could say anything, Jimmy Riddle came running over and grabbed his arm. “I’m glad you’ve salvaged at least something out of this situation, Banks,” he hissed, “but you’re bloody incompetent. I don’t want incompetent officers under my command. I’ll be talking to you first thing Monday morning.” Then he turned to Annie. “As for you, DS Cabbot, you disobeyed a direct order. I don’t like insubordinate officers, either. I’ll be talking to you, too.”

Banks shook his arm free, turned on his heel and walked back toward his car. All he wanted was a long hot bath, a large Laphroaig and a change of clothes.

And Annie.

She was already leaning against her car, arms folded.

“Are you all right?” Banks asked.

“I’m fine. Fine as anyone can be who’s spent the last half hour standing in the rain wondering if someone was going to get her head blown off.”

“Frank Stringer wasn’t going to hurt anyone.”

“Easy for you to say. I respect what you did out there, by the way.”

“What do you mean?”

“You lied to protect Frank Stringer’s feelings. I told you, my mother died when I was six. I like to remember her as a beautiful, dazzling creature moving in a haze of light, the same way he remembers Gloria. And I wouldn’t want anyone to spoil that illusion for me, no matter what the truth.”

“I lied to get us all out of there alive.”

Annie smiled. “Whatever. It worked both ways.”

“What next?”

Annie stretched, arching her back and reaching her arms toward the sky. “Onward to Saint Ives. After I’ve stopped at home for some dry clothes. I was already on my way when I heard. I couldn’t just leave it.”

“Of course not. Thanks for being here.”

“You?”

“Home, I suppose.” Banks remembered dinner with Jenny. Too late now, especially the state his clothes were in, but he could at least borrow a mobile from someone and phone her, apologize.

Annie nodded. “Look, I’ll be gone for two weeks. Right now I’m still a bit mixed up about my feelings. Why don’t you phone me when I get back? Maybe we can have that talk?”

“Okay.”

She grinned at him crookedly. “If there weren’t so many policemen about I’d kiss you good-bye.”

“Not a good idea.”

“No. See you, then.”

And with that she opened the car door and got in. Banks ignored his cutting-down program and lit another cigarette, aware that his hands were shaking. Without looking back, Annie started her car. Banks watched the red taillights disappear down the muddy track.