In a Dry Season

by Peter Robinson

“And?”

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

  “You didn’t phone her, did you?”

  “Please. Give me some credit. I’m not that gormless.

  But I’ve got her address. What do you want to do about it?”

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

  “Apart from the hangover?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. What was it?”

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

  “What gun?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Unless his liberators gave him one?”

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

  “But you don’t think so?”

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

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

  “If it was Matthew who killed her.”

  “Have you considered Gwen as a serious suspect?”

  Annie asked.

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

  “Who’s driving?”

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

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

  After Annie hung up, Banks walked over to the window and looked out over the square, with its ancient market cross and square-towered church, grey-gold in the sunlight. He thought about Vivian Elmsley. Could she really be Gwen Shackleton? It seemed a preposterous idea, but stranger things had happened. Banks had met a mystery writer once before, a fellow called Jack Barker, who lived in Gratly and wrote about a Los Angeles private eye. Barker had since moved to LA after an incredible stroke of luck. A Hollywood TV executive had picked up a copy of one of his books at Heathrow on the way home from a business meeting in London, and he had decided it would make a great television series. So far, it hadn’t been shown in Britain.

  Banks had never actually read any of Jack Barker’s books—he usually stayed away from detective fiction, except for Sherlock Holmes, which he regarded more as absurd and exotic adventure stories than exercises in logic—but he decided it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a go at one or two of Vivian Elmsley’s before he set off to interview her. Her writing might give him some insight into her character.

  He tried dialling Brian’s Wimbledon number again.

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

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

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

  “Hello, Alan.”

  A woman’s voice.

  “Yes?”

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

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

  “Home. Just got back yesterday. Look—”

  “A bit early, aren’t you?”

  “It’s a long story.”

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

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

  “Professional?”

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

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

  “Wonderful. I’ll see you there.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He saw me, though, and he stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Work.”

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

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

  “Campari and soda, please.”

  “Food?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What happened over there?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What do you mean?”

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

  “What’s all washed-up?”

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

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

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

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

  Banks finished his plaice and chips and looked at the back cover of The Shadow of Death on the table beside him. “A masterpiece.”

  “Top-rate work.”

  “A must-read.” The critics obviously loved Vivian Elmsley. Or were the brief quotes cunningly edited from less flattering sentences? “Whereas Dostoevsky wrote a masterpiece, Vivian Elmsley can be said to have written only a pot-boiler of the lowest kind.” Or “Had this book shown even the slightest sign of literary talent or creative imagination, I would not have hesitated to declare it a must-read and a piece of top-rate work, but as it possesses neither of these qualities, I have to say it’s a dud.”

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

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

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

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

  “You don’t smoke,” Banks said.

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

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

  “What happened?”

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

  “I’m sorry, Jenny.”

  She waved her hand. “I should have seen it coming.

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

  “What are you going to do?”

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