In a Dry Season

by Peter Robinson

  I told her some of what the doctor had said. “He came back here, didn’t he?” I said, to comfort her. “He made his way here by himself. It was the only place he knew to come. Home. Don’t worry, he’ll be fine now he’s back with people who love him.” Gloria nodded, but she didn’t seem convinced. I couldn’t blame her; I wasn’t convinced, either.

  It was a long time since Banks had pulled up the rutted driveway in front of Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe’s squat stone house on the daleside above Lyndgarth.

  As expected, he found Gristhorpe out back working on his drystone wall. Walling was a hobby the superintendent had taken up years ago. It was the ideal pointless activity; his wall went nowhere and fenced nothing in. He said he found it relaxing, like some form of meditation. You could just empty your mind and get in harmony with the natural world. So he said. Maybe the super and Annie would have a lot in common.

  Gristhorpe was wearing a baggy pair of brown corduroy trousers, held up by frayed red braces, and a checked shirt that might once have had a white background. He was holding a triangular lump of limestone in his hand and squinting at the wall. When Banks approached, he turned. His pock-marked face was redder than usual after the sun and exertion. He was also sweating, and his unruly thatch of hair lay plastered to his skull. Was it a trick of the light, Banks wondered, or was Gristhorpe suddenly looking old?

  “Alan,” he said. It wasn’t a greeting, or a question. Just a statement. Hard to tell anything much from the flat tone.

  “Sir.”

  Gristhorpe pointed towards the wall. “They say a good waller doesn’t put a stone aside once he’s picked it up,” he said, then looked at the rock in his hand. “I wish I could figure out where to put this bugger.” He paused for a moment, then he tossed the stone back on the pile, slapped his hands on his trousers to get rid of the dust and walked over. “You’ll have a glass of something?”

  “Anything cold.”

  “Coke, then. I’ve got some in the fridge. We’ll sit out here.” Gristhorpe pointed to two fold-up chairs in the shade by the back wall of the old farmhouse.

  Banks sat down. He thought he could see some tiny figures making their way along the limestone escarpment that ran along the top of Fremlington Hill.

  Gristhorpe came out with two glasses of Coke, handed one to Banks and sat down beside him. At first, neither of them spoke.

  Finally, Gristhorpe broke the silence. “I hear Jimmy Riddle’s given you a real case to work on.”

  “Sort of. I’m sure he thinks of it as more of a dead end.” Gristhorpe raised his bushy eyebrows. “Is it?”

  “I don’t think so.” Banks told Gristhorpe what he and Annie Cabbot had discovered so far and handed him the button Adam Kelly had taken from the skeleton’s hand. “It’s impossible to say,” he went on, “but it might have been in the victim’s hand. It was certainly buried with her, and it didn’t walk there. She could have ripped it from her attacker’s uniform when she was being strangled. I know you’re a bit of a military history buff, and I thought you might be able to help.”

  Gristhorpe examined the button and took a sip of Coke. “It looks like an American Army Air Force button,” he said. “I could be wrong—it’s so old and corroded it’s hard to tell—but that design looks like the American eagle. It’s not what the husband would have been wearing, even if he had been in uniform. Not from what you’ve told me.

  And it’s very unlikely that he would have been in uniform if he had been liberated from a Japanese POW camp and repatriated.”

  “So you think it’s American?”

  Gristhorpe weighed the metal in his palm. “I wouldn’t swear to it in court,” he said. “The American armed forces were very casual dressers compared to our lot. Most of the time they wore ‘Ike’ jackets with hidden front buttons, but this could have come from the collar. Usually it was worn on the right side. Officers wore them left or right, with the branch of service below. GIS not assigned to any specific service wore the eagle on both sides.”

  “If she was being strangled,” said Banks, “then it’s quite likely she reached out to try to scratch her attacker’s face and grab at his collar. Gloria and her friends went around with a group of American airmen from Rowan Woods.”

  Gristhorpe handed back the button. “It sounds like a reasonable theory to me.”

  “There’s another thing that puzzles me. Matthew Shackleton committed suicide in 1950. Shot himself. I’m wondering where he got the gun.”

  “Anyone can get a gun if he wants one badly enough. Even today.”

  “He was in no state to go out and buy one on the black market, even if he knew where to look.”

  “So you’re assuming he already had it?”

  “Yes, but he wouldn’t have had one in the prison camp, would he?”

  “He could have got it from someone on his way home. Long journey, lots of opportunities.”

  “I suppose so. All we know is that he went missing, presumed dead, in Burma in 1943, turned up at Hobb’s End again in March 1945, then committed suicide in Leeds in 1950. It’s a long gap.”

  “What kind of gun was it?”

  “A Colt .45 automatic.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “That was the gun the American military issued their servicemen. It raises interesting possibilities, doesn’t it? American button in the wife’s hand. American gun in the husband’s mouth.”

  Banks nodded. Though what the possibilities were, he hadn’t a clue. The two events were separated by five years, more or less, and happened in different places. He sipped some more Coke.

  “How’s Sandra?” Gristhorpe asked.

  “Fine, as far as I know.”

  “I’m sorry about what happened, Alan.”

  “Me, too.”

  Gristhorpe gazed at a point in space somewhere above Fremlington Edge. “This Annie Cabbot,” he said. “What’s she like?”

  Banks felt himself blush. “She’s good,” he said.

  “Too good for a God-forsaken outpost like Harksmere?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then what’s she doing there?”

  “I don’t know.” Banks glanced sideways at Gristhorpe.

  “Maybe she pissed somebody off, like I did.”

  Gristhorpe narrowed his eyes. “Alan,” he said, “I don’t approve of what you did last year, taking off like that without so much as a by-your-leave. You dropped me right in it. I can see why you did it. I might even have even done it myself in your place. But I can’t condone it. And while it pulled your chestnuts out of the fire in one sense, it’s probably dropped them in it in another way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jimmy Riddle already hated you. He also hates being proved wrong, especially after he’s done his crowing to the press. Your maverick actions helped solve the case, but now he hates you even more. I can’t do anything for you. You must be aware your grasp at Eastvale is pretty tenuous, to say the least.”

  Banks stood up. “I’m not asking for any favours.”

  “Sit down, Alan. Hear me out.”

  Banks sat and fumbled for a cigarette. “I’d probably have looked for a transfer before now,” he said, “but I’ve had a few other things on my mind.”

  “Aye, I know. And I know you’d not ask for any favours, either. That’s not your way. I might have a bit of good news for you, though, if you can promise to keep it to yourself.”

  “Good news. That makes a change.”

  “Between you and me and the stone wall, Jimmy Riddle might not be around much longer.”

  Banks could hardly believe his ears. “What? Riddle’s retiring? At his age?”

  “A little bird tells me that the crooked finger of politics beckons. As you know, he can’t enter into that as a copper, so you tell me what the logical solution is.”

  “Politics?”

  “Aye. His local Conservative member is practically gaga. Not that anyone would notice something lik
e that much in the House. High-echelon rumour has it that Riddle has already had several interviews with the selections committee and they’re pleased with him. Like I said, Alan, this is just between you and me.”

  “Of course.”

  “There’s no guarantee he’ll go. Or get elected, for that matter. Though the Conservative seat around here is so secure they could put Saddam Hussein up and he’d probably win it. Even if Riddle does go, he’ll leave a bad smell around and swear it’s yours. So I’m not saying there’s no damage done. For a start, a lot depends on whether we get a CC who can tell the smell of shit from perfume.”

  Banks began to feel a sort of warm glow deep inside. An interesting case. Annie Cabbot. Now this. Maybe there was a God, after all. Maybe his dry season really was coming to an end.

  “Do you know,” he said, “it might even be worth voting Conservative, just to make sure the bastard wins his seat.”

  Charlie was killed on 19 March during a big raid over Berlin. Their Flying Fortress got badly shot up by a Messerschmitt. Brad managed to fly the burning aeroplane back across the Channel and land in an airfield in Sussex, only to find Charlie and two other members of his crew dead. Brad himself escaped with cuts and bruises and after a couple of days’ observation in hospital, he returned to Rowan Woods.

  Coming right after Matthew’s return, this news was almost impossible for me to bear. Poor, gentle Charlie, with his poetry and his puppy-dog eyes. Gone. Another of history’s victims.

  When Brad got back from Sussex, he came over to the shop with a bottle of bourbon and told me the news in person. Though he had only known Charlie a couple of years, during that time they had become close friends. He tried to explain the kind of bond that is forged between pilot and navigator. I could tell he was devastated by what had happened. He blamed himself and felt guilty about his own survival.

  Gloria was busy taking care of Matthew and she had told Brad she couldn’t see him again, that it would only upset her and would do them no good. Brad was angry and upset about her rejection but there was nothing he could do except come to me and pour his heart out.

  We sat in the small room above the shop after Mother had gone to bed, drank bourbon and smoked Luckies. We had the Home Service on the wireless and Vivien Leigh was reading poetry by Christina Rossetti and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Neither of us said very much; there was nothing, really, to say. Charlie was gone, and there was an end to it. Poetry filled our periods of silence.

  Not far down the High Street, Gloria—who adored Vivien Leigh, I remembered from our very first meeting—was devoting her time to caring for a man who couldn’t speak, wouldn’t communicate and probably didn’t even know who she was. She was spoon-feeding him, bathing him, with no end in sight. That was what our lives had been reduced to by the war: the essence of misery and hopelessness.

  The bottle lay empty; my head spun; the room reeked of cigarette smoke. “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways,” read Vivien Leigh. How Charlie hated such maudlin poetry. I let my head rest on Brad’s shoulder and cried.

  Banks went home early on Thursday evening. He didn’t need to be in his office to prepare a list of questions for Vivian Elmsley, and he was far more comfortable at the pine table in his kitchen, a mug of strong tea beside him, Arvo Pärt’s Stabat Mater on the stereo, and the early evening light, gold as autumn leaves, flooding through the window behind him.

  When he had made a list of the essential things he wanted to know, he went through to the living-room and tried Brian’s number yet again.

  On the fifth ring, someone answered.

  “Yeah?”

  “Brian?”

  “Andy. Who’s calling?”

  “His father.”

  Pause. “Just a sec.”

  Banks heard muffled voices, then a few moments later, Brian came on the phone. “Dad?”

  “Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all week.”

  “Playing holiday resorts in South Wales. We were doing some gigs with the Dancing Pigs. Look, Dad, I told you, we’ve got gigs coming out of our ears. We’re busy. You weren’t interested.”

  Banks paused. He didn’t want to blow it this time, but he was damned if he going to grovel to his own son. “That’s not the point,” he said. “I don’t think it’s out of line for a father to express some concern at his son’s sudden change of plans, do you?”

  “You know I’m into the band. You’ve always known I’ve loved music. Dad, it was you who bought me that guitar for my sixteenth birthday. Don’t you remember?”

  “Of course I do. All I’m saying is that you have to give it a little time to sink in. It’s a shock, that’s all. We were all expecting you to come out with a good degree and start working at a good firm somewhere. Music’s a great hobby but a risky living.”

  “So you keep saying. We’re doing all right. Anyway, did you always do what your parents wanted you to?”

  Low blow, Banks thought. Almost never would have been the truth, but he wasn’t ready to admit to that. “Not always,” he said. “Look, I’m not saying you aren’t old enough to make your own decisions. Just think about it, that’s all.”

  “I have thought about it. This is what I want to do.”

  “Have you spoken to your mother?”

  Banks swore he could almost hear the guilt in Brian’s pause. “She’s always out when I call,” he said at last. Bollocks, Banks thought. “Well, keep trying.”

  “I still think it would come better from you.”

  “Brian, if it’s your decision, you can take responsibility for it. Believe me, it won’t come any better from me.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Fine. All right. I’ll try her again.”

  “You do that. Anyway, the main reason I’m calling is that I’ll be down in your neck of the woods tomorrow, so I wondered if we could get together and talk about things. Let me buy you a pint.”

  “I don’t know, Dad. We’re really busy right now.”

  “You can’t be busy all the time.”

  “There’s rehearsals, you know . . . ”

  “Half an hour?”

  Another pause followed. Banks heard Brian say some-thing to Andrew, but he couldn’t catch what it was. Then Brian came back on again. “Look,” he said, “tomorrow and Saturday we’re playing at a pub in Bethnal Green. If you want to come and listen we can have that pint during the break.” Banks got the name of the pub and the time and said he’d do his best.

  “It’s all right,” said Brian. “I’ll understand if something else comes up and you can’t make it. Wouldn’t be the first time. One of the joys of being a copper’s son.”

  “I’ll be there,” said Banks. “Goodbye.”

  It was almost dark by now. He took his cigarettes and small whisky and went outside to sit on the wall. A few remaining streaks of crimson and purple shot through the sky to the west and the waning moon shone like polished bone over the valley. The promise of a storm had dissipated and the air was clear and dry again.

  Well, Banks thought, at least he had talked to Brian and would get to see him soon. He looked forward to hearing the band. He had heard Brian practising his guitar when he lived at home, of course, and had been impressed by the way he had picked it up so easily. Unlike Banks.

  Way back in the Beatles days, when every kid tried to learn guitar, he had managed about three badly fingered chords before packing it in. He envied Brian his talent, perhaps in the same way he envied him his freedom. There had been a time when Banks had also contemplated the bohemian life. What he would actually have done, he didn’t know; after all, he had no facility for music or writing or painting. He could have been a hanger-on, perhaps, a roadie, or just a real cool guy. It didn’t seem to matter back then. But Sandra, kids and a mortgage changed all that. Besides, deep down, he knew he needed a career with some sort of disciplined structure. He didn’t really fancy the armed forces, and with images of the never-to-be-found Graham Marshall in his mind, that left the police. Myst
eries to solve; bullies to send down.

  An agitated curlew screeched and shrieked way up the daleside. Some animal threatening its nest, perhaps. Banks heard his phone ring again. Quickly, he stubbed out the cigarette and went back inside.

  “Sorry to disturb you at this time of night, sir,” said DS Hatchley, “but I know you’re off to London in the morning.”

  “What is it?” Banks looked at his watch. Half past nine. “It’s not like you to be working so late, Jim.”

  “I’m not. I mean, I wasn’t. I was just over at the Queen’s Arms with a couple of mates from the rugby club, so I thought I’d pop in the station, like, and see if I’d got any answers to my inquiries.”

  “And?”

  “Francis Henderson. Like I said, I know you’re off down there tomorrow, so that’s why I’m calling. I’ve got an address.”

  “He lives in London?”

  “Dulwich.” Hatchley read out the address. “What’s interesting, why it came back so quick, is he’s got form.” Banks’s ears pricked up. “Go on.”

  “According to Criminal Intelligence, Francis Hender-son started working for one of the East End gangs in the sixties. Not the Krays, exactly, but that sort of thing. Mostly he dug up information for them, found people they were after, watched people they wanted watched. He developed a drug habit and started dealing to support it in the seventies. They say he’s been retired and clean for years now, at least as far as they know.”

  “Sure it’s our Francis Henderson?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay. Thanks a lot for calling, Jim. Get yourself home now.”

  “Don’t worry, I will.”

  “And give another push on that nationwide tomorrow if you can find time.”

  “Will do. Bon voyage.”

  Fourteen

  Annie was waiting on the platform at York station looking very businesslike in a navy mid-length skirt and silver-buttoned blazer over a white blouse. She had tied her hair back so tightly it made a V on her forehead and arched her dark eyebrows. For once, though, Banks didn’t feel underdressed. He wore a lightweight cotton summer suit and, with it, a red and grey tie, top shirt button undone.