In a Dry Season

by Peter Robinson

  The underground platforms, where people came to shelter during the air raids, were crowded, and I fancied I could smell sweat, unwashed clothes and urine mixed in with the sooty smell the trains made. Everything was grimy and run-down. The train soon came and we had to stand all the way. No one stood up to offer us seats.

  I was glad our train for home left on time, and though I knew I would dream about the trip for weeks to come, I can’t say I was sorry when, after a boring and uneventful journey of some seven hours, we caught the morning train from Leeds to Harrogate, thence to hook up with our little branch line back to Hobb’s End.

  It was after seven o’clock by the time Banks and Annie met up that evening. On his way back from Edinburgh, Banks got stuck in the mid-afternoon traffic around Newcastle, then he had to call in at the station to see if there had been any developments during his absence.

  He had found about twenty telephone messages waiting for him in response to Monday evening’s television news appearance. He spent an hour or so returning calls, but all he found out was that someone thought the Shackletons had moved to Leeds after VE day, and someone else remembered drinking with Matthew Shackleton in Hobb’s End near the end of the war. Most people, though, simply wanted to relive wartime memories and had no useful information whatsoever.

  There was also a message from John Webb, who said he had cleaned up the button Adam Kelly had taken from the skeleton. It was made of brass, probably, about half an inch in diameter, and had a raised pattern on the front, possibly reminiscent of wings. The expert who had examined it suggested it might be some sort of bird. Clearly, he added, given the time period under consideration, the armed forces came to mind, perhaps the RAF.

  When Banks had finished at the station, he phoned Annie and asked if she would mind coming up to Gratly, as he had been on the road most of the day. She said she didn’t mind at all. Then he went home, took a long shower and tidied the place up. It didn’t take long. Next he tried phoning Brian in Wimbledon again. Still no luck. What the hell was he supposed to do? It was going on for a week since their argument. He could go down there, he supposed, but not until the case was over. Anyway, he would try again the next day.

  He thought of cooking something for Annie, then decided against it. Learning to cook might be his next project after fixing up the cottage, but he still had a long way to go. Besides, there was nothing in the fridge except a couple of cans of lager, half a tomato and a piece of mouldy Cheddar. He would take her out to the Dog and Gun in Helmthorpe for dinner and hope to God there was something vegetarian on the menu.

  When Annie arrived she first showed him the photograph of Gloria and her friends with the American airmen. Then, after a lightning tour of the house, which she described as “very bijou,” she agreed it was a perfect evening for a stroll. They left their cars parked in Banks’s gravel laneway and headed for Helmthorpe in the hazy evening light, sharing the information each had learned that day as they walked.

  Sheep grazed on the lynchets that descended towards the dried-up beck. Some of them had even managed to get through the gate at the back of the churchyard, where they grazed among the lichen-dappled tombstones.

  “Have time for a walk on the prom in Scarborough?” Banks asked.

  “Of course. Had to eat, didn’t I? I can tell you, though, there’s not much choice for a vegetarian in Scarborough. I ended up buying some chips—cooked in vegetable oil, or so the woman said—and sat on a bench by the harbour to eat them, watching a man painting his fishing boat. He tried to chat me up.”

  “Oh?”

  “He didn’t get very far. I’m used to being chatted up by fishermen. It takes more than heroic tales of landing haddock or halibut to get into my knickers, I can tell you.”

  Banks laughed. “St Ives?”

  “Right. Heard it all before. Got the T-shirt. Anyway, after that I went for a quick look at Anne Brontë’s grave, then I came back to the station to write up the interview.”

  “Do you like Anne Brontë’s books?”

  “I haven’t read any. It’s just the sort of thing you do, isn’t it, when you’re nearby. Go and see where famous people are buried. I saw The Tenant of Wildfell Hall on TV. It’s all right if you like that sort of thing.”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “Governesses, bodices, tight corsets, all that repressed Victorian sexuality.”

  “And you don’t?”

  Annie cocked her head. “I didn’t say that.”

  It was early September now, and the nights were drawing in fast. When they got to the High Street, the sun was already low in the west, a red ball glowing like an ember through the gathering haze, and the shadows were lengthening. Sounds of laughter and music came from the open pub doors. Tourists, tired after the day out and a big meal, were getting in their cars and driving back to their cities.

  Annie and Banks walked through the crowded bar and managed to find a table in the beer garden out back. Between the trees, the dying sunlight streaked the river shallows blood-orange and crimson. Annie sat down while Banks went to buy a couple of pints and order their food. Luckily, Annie said she wasn’t very hungry and a cheese and pickle sandwich would do her just fine. He was just in time; they were about to stop serving.

  “It’s nice out here,” Annie said when he came back with the drinks. “Thanks.”

  “Cheers.” Banks took a sip. Though there were a few other people sitting outside, conversations seemed hushed. “So who have we got now, then?” he asked. “Now we’ve discovered that Matthew was killed before Gloria was?”

  Annie leaned back, stretched out her long legs and set them on the third white plastic chair at the table. “What about the boyfriend?” she suggested. “The American.”

  “Brad? As her killer? Why?”

  “Why not? Or one of his pals. She could have stirred them up, set them against one another. I get the impression that Gloria was the kind of woman who exerted an enormous power over men. Brad could have been hoping for more than he got. Alice said she thought he was more keen on Gloria than she was on him. Maybe she tried to shake him loose and he wouldn’t go. Rowan Woods wasn’t far away. It would have been easy for him to sneak in and out the back way, I should think.”

  “We definitely need to find out more about the Americans in Hobb’s End,” said Banks.

  “How do we go about that?”

  “You can start with the American Embassy. They might be able to point you in the right direction.”

  “I notice the subtle pronoun usage there: ‘you.’ I don’t suppose you’re planning on spending a day on the phone?”

  Banks laughed. “Rank has its privileges. Besides, you’re so good at it.”

  Annie pulled a face and flicked some beer at him.

  “If it makes you feel any better,” he added, “I’ll be trying to get more information on Matthew Shackleton from our own military authorities.”

  Their food arrived, and they both ate in silence for a while. The river looked like an oil slick now. There were no clouds, but the air had turned more humid during the day, and the setting sun turned the western sky scarlet and purple. Clusters of small buzzing insects, gnats or midges, hovered over the still, shallow water.

  “What about Michael Stanhope?” Banks suggested. “What possible motive could he have? They were friends.”

  “Inordinate desire? Drink? They can push a person beyond the normal limits, and it’s likely Stanhope was a bit beyond them anyway to start with. If he was powerfully attracted to Gloria, if she wouldn’t have anything to do with him sexually, then painting her in the nude might have inflamed him beyond all reason. Let’s admit it, a man like Stanhope can’t have been entirely dispassionate all the time he had a naked Gloria Shackleton in his studio.” Annie raised her eyebrows. “Can’t he? Perhaps you mean you couldn’t be. You’d be surprised how dispassionate an artist can be. Anyway, Alice Poole said she was sure they weren’t lovers, and I believe her. The impression I get is that a lot of village
rs—like the one you talked to—projected negative feelings onto Gloria. I think she was basically a decent woman and a devoted wife, but her good looks and her free-and-easy attitude gave her no end of problems, especially with men. Eventually someone went over the top.”

  “You sound as if you know what you’re talking about.” Annie turned away and stared at the dark river. It had only been a teasing, offhand remark, but Banks felt as if he had trespassed on some private reserve, set her hackles up. They still had to be careful with one another, he realized. A couple of nights of passionate abandon and a sense of having something in common as mutual outsiders weren’t enough to map the route through the emotional minefields that lay between them. Tread carefully, he warned himself.

  After a pause, Annie went on, “I think Gloria was one of the few people in Hobb’s End who understood Michael Stanhope, who took him seriously. Besides, Alice also said he was gay.”

  “She couldn’t know that for certain. Or he could have been bisexual.”

  “I think you’re pushing it a bit, that’s all.

  “You’re probably right. Anyway, there’s one obvious flaw with the Stanhope theory.”

  “There is?”

  Banks shoved his empty plate aside. “Where do you think Gloria was killed?” he asked.

  “In, or very close to, Bridge Cottage. I thought we’d already agreed on that because of where she was buried. By the way.” Annie consulted her notebook. “I forgot to tell you before, but the blackout ended officially on 17 September 1944. Not that it matters now we know Gloria was still alive that Christmas.”

  “Every little helps.”

  “Anyway, what’s your point?”

  “Most of the time Gloria visited Stanhope at his studio. That would certainly have been the case if he were painting her that autumn. If anything happened between them, it would be more likely to have happened there, that’s all. That’s where she was naked in front of him. If he killed her, I don’t think he would have risked carrying the body all the way back to Bridge Cottage. He would have some other way of disposing of her, somewhere closer.”

  “Unless they were having an affair, as you suggest. In which case he might well have visited her at her own home.”

  “Would she risk that, with Gwen so close by?”

  “Possibly. Gloria certainly sounds unconventional and unpredictable, from everything I’ve heard. Just going to his studio must have been scandalous enough, given his reputation in the village.”

  “Good point. Elizabeth Goodall certainly seemed to think their relationship was a scandal. Another drink?”

  “Better not,” Annie said, placing her hand over her glass. “One’s my limit when I’m driving.”

  Banks paused a moment, his voice lost somewhere deep in his chest. “You don’t have to drive home,” he said finally, sure he was croaking.

  Annie smiled and put her hand on his arm. Her touch set his pulse going faster. “No, but I think I should, with it being a week-night and all. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow. Besides, we agreed, didn’t we?”

  “Can’t blame a bloke for trying. Mind if I have one?”

  She laughed. “Course not.”

  Banks went inside. He hadn’t expected Annie to rise to his offer, but he was disappointed that she hadn’t. He knew they had agreed to stick to weekends, but surely there was room for a little spontaneity now and then? He wondered if he would ever be able to figure out this relationship business. It was easy when you were married; at least you didn’t usually have to make appointments to see one another. On the other hand, he and Sandra hadn’t seen all that much of one another, and they had been married more than twenty years. Perhaps if they had made more time for one another they would still be together.

  The dinner crowd had thinned out, leaving the lounge half-empty, mostly locals playing dominoes and darts in the public bar. A group of kids sat in one corner, and one of them put “Concrete and Clay” on the jukebox. Christ almighty, thought Banks. Unit 4 + 2. It had been recorded before they were born.

  He bought himself another pint and went back outside. Annie wasn’t much more than a silhouette now—and a beautiful one to his eyes, with her graceful neck and strong profile—staring at the river in that peculiarly relaxed and centred way she had.

  He sat down and broke the spell. Annie stirred languidly. She still had half her drink left, which she swirled in her glass a few times before sipping.

  “What about her family?” Banks asked.

  “Family? Whose family?”

  “Gloria Shackleton’s.”

  “Her family was killed in the Blitz.”

  “All of them?”

  “That’s what she told Alice.”

  “What about this mysterious stranger and the child who turned up looking for her? You said she told Alice that it was relations.”

  “I know.” Annie shook her head slowly. “That’s what I don’t understand. It does seem odd, doesn’t it?”

  “If she ran off and left a husband or boyfriend stuck with her kid, that might be someone else with reason to be angry with her. He could have tracked her down and killed her.”

  “Yes, but maybe whoever it was didn’t feel stuck with the kid. Maybe he loved the boy. Besides, men do that sort of thing all the time and women don’t kill them for it.”

  Banks wasn’t going to jump at that one. “The point is,” he said, “did this particular man feel strongly enough to track down the wife or girlfriend who bore his child and deserted him? They did argue, according to what Alice Poole told you.”

  “Gloria was still alive after he left.”

  “He could have stewed for a while, gone back weeks, months later.”

  “Possibly,” Annie admitted. “I’d also like to know what happened to the sister-in-law, Gwynneth. Even with your appeals on the telly, no one’s come forward with any useful leads.”

  “Maybe she’s dead?”

  “Maybe she is.”

  “Do you see her as a suspect?”

  Annie frowned. “She looked like a tall, strong woman in the photograph. Something could have happened between them.”

  “Maybe DS Hatchley got lucky. We’ll find out tomorrow. It’s been a long day.”

  A nightbird called across the river in the silence. Then someone put an Oasis song on the jukebox. “The kind of crime it was ought to be telling us something,” Annie said after a slight pause.

  “What does it tell you that we haven’t considered already?”

  “Well, it was obviously violent, passionate. Somebody felt strongly enough about Gloria Shackleton to stab her so many times. After strangling her first.”

  “You’ve said it yourself: Gloria was the kind of woman men felt passionately about, the sort to spark off strong feelings. But there are probably a lot of things we don’t know about what happened.”

  “Sorry, I don’t follow.”

  “It’s an old crime scene, Annie. All we’ve got is bones and a few odds and ends of corroded jewellery. We don’t know whether she was raped or sexually interfered with in any way first. Or after. For all we know, this might be a sex crime, pure and simple.”

  “The SOCOS haven’t found any other victims buried in the area.”

  “Not yet. Besides, sex crimes don’t always mean multiple victims.”

  “Usually they do. You can’t tell me that someone raped and murdered Gloria Shackleton the way he did and never did it again before or after.”

  “That’s the point,” said Banks. “Think about it. The body was buried in the outbuilding of Gloria and Matthew’s cottage. The fact that we haven’t found any other bodies in the vicinity doesn’t mean there aren’t any anywhere else. It doesn’t mean that whoever did it didn’t kill elsewhere, in exactly the same way.”

  “A serial killer, then? A stranger to the area?”

  “It’s possible. DS Hatchley’s already put out a request for information on crimes with similar MOS. It’ll take time, though, and that’s if anyone even bothers fol
lowing it up. People can be pretty lazy, especially when what they want isn’t on the computer. Let’s face it, we’re not exactly high on anyone’s priority list with this one. Still, some curious or industrious PC might poke about and discover something. I’ll have Jim send out a reminder.”

  Annie paused. “You realize we might never know who killed her, don’t you?”

  Banks finished his drink and nodded. “If that’s what it comes down to, we make out a final report based on all the evidence we’ve collected and point at the most likely solution.”

  “How do you think you’ll feel about that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s become important to you, hasn’t it? Oh, I’m not saying I don’t care. I do. But for you it’s something else. It goes deeper. You have a sort of compulsion.”

  Banks lit a cigarette. As he did so, he realized how often he hid behind the smoke of his cigarettes. “Somebody has to give a damn.”

  “That sounds melodramatic. Besides, is it really as simple as that?”

  “Nothing ever is, really, is it?”

  “Meaning?”

  Banks paused and tried to frame his nebulous thoughts.

  “Gloria Shackleton. I know what she looked like. I’ve got some idea of her character and her ambitions, who her friends were, the things she liked to do to amuse and entertain herself.” He tapped the side of his head. “She’s real enough for me in there, where it counts. Somebody took all that away from her. Somebody strangled her, then stabbed her fifteen or sixteen times, wrapped her body in blackout curtains and buried it in an outbuilding.”

  “But it happened years ago. The war’s been over for ages now. Murders happen all the time. What’s so different about this one?”

  Banks shook his head. “I don’t know. Nothing, really. Partly, it’s the war itself. I’m older than you. I grew up in its shadow, and it cast a long one for a long time after it was over. I was born with a ration book and a National Identity Card.” He laughed. “It’s funny, you know, the way people resist being named and counted these days, but I was proud of that card when I was a kid. It actually gave me an identity, told me who I was. Maybe I was already in training for my warrant card. Anyway, there were ruins all over the place in my home town. I used to play in them just like Adam Kelly. And my dad had a collection of mementoes I used to sneak up to the attic and play with when he was out—an SS dagger, a Nazi armband. There were pictures I used to look at, photographs of the collaborators hanging from the balustrades in Brussels. It was another age, before my time, but in a way it wasn’t; it was much closer than that. We used to play at being commandos. We even used to dig tunnels and pretend to escape from prison camps. I bought every book about fighter and bomber planes I could get my hands on. My childhood and early adolescence was saturated with the war. Somehow the idea of a vicious murder like this one being committed while all that carnage was going on in the world makes it seem even more of a travesty, if you see what I mean.”