In a Dry Season

by Peter Robinson

  “She hinted at it once or twice, but I didn’t take her seriously.”

  “Why not?”

  “Her manner. It was as if she was joking. You know, ‘Some day my prince will come. I’m going to leave all this behind and run off to untold wealth and riches.’ Gloria was a dreamer, Chief Inspector. I, on the other hand, have always been a realist.”

  “I suppose that’s debatable,” Banks said. “Given what you do for a living.”

  “Perhaps my dreams are very realistic.”

  “Perhaps. Even though she hinted, you didn’t believe Gloria would actually go?”

  “No.”

  “What were the circumstances surrounding her departure?” Banks asked. “Did you see her go?”

  “No. It happened on one of the days when I accompanied Matthew to his doctor in Leeds. When we got back that evening, she was gone.”

  “You accompanied him? Why not Gloria? She was still his wife.”

  “And he was still my brother. Anyway, she asked me to, on occasion. It was the only respite she got. She looked after him the rest of the time. I thought it only fair she get some time to herself once in a while.”

  “Did she take anything with her when she left?”

  “A few clothes, personal items. She didn’t have much.”

  “But she took her clothes?”

  “Yes. A few.”

  “That’s interesting. What did she carry them in?”

  “An old cardboard suitcase. The same one she arrived with.”

  “Did she leave a note?”

  “Not that I saw. If Matthew found one, he never indicated it to me.”

  “Would he have?”

  “Possibly not. He wasn’t very communicative. In his condition, it’s impossible to predict what he would have done.”

  “Murder?”

  “No. Not Matthew. I’ve already told you, he had a gentle nature. Even his dreadful war experiences and his illness didn’t change that about him, though they changed everything else.”

  “But Gloria’s belongings were definitely missing?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you and Matthew were in Leeds during the time she made her exit?”

  “Yes.”

  “So she never even said goodbye?”

  “Sometimes it’s easier that way.”

  “So it is.” Banks remembered that Sandra, once she had made her mind up, had given him little time for protracted goodbyes. He paused for a moment. “Ms Elmsley,” he asked, “knowing what you know now, why do you think her clothes and suitcase were missing? Where do you think they got to?”

  “I have no idea. I’m only telling you what I witnessed at the time, what I thought must have happened. Perhaps someone stole them? Perhaps she interrupted a burglar and he killed her?”

  “Were they particularly fine clothes? Minks, a few diamond necklaces perhaps? A tiara or two?”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “It’s not me who’s being absurd. You see, it’s not often people get murdered for their clothes, especially if they’re ordinary clothes.”

  “Perhaps they were taken for some other reason.”

  “Like what?”

  “To make it look as if she had gone away.”

  “Ah. Now that would be clever, wouldn’t it? Who do you think would feel the need to risk taking time to bury her body under the outbuilding floor?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Not a casual burglar, I don’t think.”

  “As I suggested, perhaps someone wanted to make it appear as if she had gone away.”

  “But who would want to do that? And perhaps more important: why?”

  “To avoid suspicion.”

  “Exactly. Which brings us back very close to home, doesn’t it? Why try to avoid suspicion unless you have some reason to believe suspicion will fall on you?”

  “Your rhetoric is too much for me, Chief Inspector.”

  “But you write detective novels. I’ve read one of them.

  Don’t play the fool with me. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “I’m very flattered that you have read my books, Chief Inspector, but I’m afraid you credit me with a far more logical mind than I actually possess.”

  Banks sighed. “If someone took great pains to make it look as if Gloria had run away, I’d say that someone wasn’t likely to be a stranger just passing through, or a burglar. It had to be someone who felt suspicion was likely to fall on him or her: Matthew, Brad Sikorski or you.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me. And I told you, Matthew never raised a finger to her.”

  “Which leaves Brad Sikorski.”

  “Perhaps. Though I doubt it. It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  She allowed him a thin smile. “Because Brad Sikorski was killed in a flying stunt in the desert outside Los Angeles in 1952. Ironic, isn’t it? During the war, Brad flew on bombing raids over Europe and survived, only to be killed in a stunt for a war film seven or eight years later.”

  “What about Charles Markleson?”

  “Charlie. He would have had no reason at all to harm Gloria. Besides, he was killed in the war.”

  “Edgar Konig? Billy Joe Farrell?”

  “I don’t know what happened to them, Chief Inspector.

  It’s all so long ago. I only know about Brad because it was in the newspapers at the time. I suppose you’ll have to ask them yourself, won’t you? That is, if you can find them.”

  “Oh, I’ll find them, if they’re still alive. Had either of them reason to kill Gloria?”

  “Not that I know of. They were simply part of a group we went around with. Though Billy Joe, I remember, did have a violent temper, and PX was rather smitten with Gloria.”

  “Did she go out with him?

  “Not to my knowledge. None of us did. You couldn’t . . . he wasn’t . . . I mean, he just seemed so young and so shy.”

  “A hanger-on?”

  “I suppose so, but he did supply the cigarettes, chewing-gum and stockings.”

  “All for free?”

  “He never asked me for anything.”

  “Did you notice any blood in Bridge Cottage after Gloria’s disappearance?”

  “No. Obviously, if I had done, I would have been suspicious and called the police. But then I can’t say I was actually looking for blood.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Nothing. We just carried on. Actually, we only stayed on in the village a few weeks longer, then we got a council house in Leeds.”

  “I know. I’ve seen it.”

  “I can’t imagine why you’d want to do that.”

  “So you’re saying you have absolutely no idea what happened to Gloria?”

  “None at all. As I said, I simply thought she couldn’t face life with Matthew any more—in his condition—so she ran off and started up elsewhere.”

  “Did you think she might have run off with Brad Sikorski, arranged to meet him over in America or something? After all, the 448th Bomber Group moved out around the same time, didn’t they?”

  “I suppose it crossed my mind. It was always possible that she had ended up in America.”

  “Did it not surprise you that she never got in touch?”

  “It did. But there was nothing I could do about it if she wanted to disappear, sever all ties. As I said, she’d done it before.”

  “Did you ever try to find her?”

  “No.”

  “Did anyone?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “What about Matthew?”

  “What about him?”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “I did not. He committed suicide.”

  “Why?”

  “It wasn’t related to Gloria’s disappearance. He was ill, confused, depressed, in pain. I did my best for him, but it was ultimately no use.”

  “He shot himself, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “With a Colt
.45 automatic.”

  “Was it? I’m afraid I know nothing about guns.”

  “Where did he get the gun?”

  “The gun? I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

  “Simple question, Ms Elmsley. Where did Matthew get the gun he shot himself with?”

  “He always had it.”

  “Always? Since when?”

  “I don’t know. Since he came back from the war, I suppose. I can’t remember when I first saw it.”

  “From the Japanese POW camp?”

  “Yes.”

  Banks got to his feet, shaking his head.

  “What’s wrong, Chief Inspector,” Vivian asked, hand plucking at the turkey flap at the base of her throat.

  “Everything,” said Banks. “None of it makes any sense. Think over what you’ve just told us, will you? You’re telling us you believed that Gloria simply upped sticks and left without leaving a note, taking her clothes and a few personal belongings with her in a cardboard suitcase. If you’re telling the truth, then whoever killed Gloria must have packed the suitcase and either taken it away with him or buried it somewhere to make it look as if she had run off. Then, five years later, your brother Matthew shot himself with an American service revolver he just happened to bring back from a Japanese POW camp. You write detective novels. Ask yourself if your Inspector Niven would believe it. Ask yourself if your readers would believe it.” He reached into his pocket. “Here’s my card. I want you to think seriously about our little talk. We’ll be back. Soon. Don’t bother yourself, we’ll see ourselves out.”

  Once they were out in the hot street again, Annie turned to Banks, whistled and said, “What was all that about?”

  “All what?”

  “The lies.”

  Banks looked at his watch. “Want to grab a bite to eat?”

  “Yes. I’m starving.”

  They found a small café and sat outside. Annie had a Greek salad, and Banks went for the prosciutto, Provolone and sliced red-onion sandwich.

  “But why was she lying?” Annie asked when they had sat down with their food. “I don’t get it.”

  Banks swatted a fly away from his sandwich. “She’s protecting herself. Or someone else.”

  “After seeing her,” Annie said, “I’d say she was probably big and strong enough to kill and bury Gloria. Fifty years ago, anyway. Did you notice her hands?”

  “Yes. And Gloria Shackleton was petite.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “Nothing,” said Banks. “We’ll leave her to stew overnight and then have another go at her tomorrow. I get the impression she has a lot on her conscience. There was a definite struggle going on inside her. If I’m right, she’s near the end of her tether on this. It’s amazing how guilt has a way of gnawing away at you through the small hours. She wants to tell the truth, but she still has a few things to weigh up, to settle with herself; she doesn’t quite know how to go about it yet. It’s like that character in her book.”

  “The one you were reading on the train?”

  “A Guilty Secret, yes.”

  “And what did he do?”

  Banks smiled and put his finger to his lips. “That would be telling. I wouldn’t want to spoil the ending for you.”

  Annie thumped his arm. “Bastard. And in the meantime?”

  “Vivian Elmsley’s not going to do a runner. She’s too old and too tired to run. She also has nowhere to go. First, we’ll go see if we can find Francis Henderson.”

  “And then?”

  “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to head out to Bethnal Green and see my son. His band’s playing there. We’ve got a few things to talk over.”

  “Of course. I understand. Maybe I’ll go to the pictures. What about later?”

  “Remember that naughty weekend you mentioned?” Annie nodded.

  “I don’t know if you’re still interested, but there’s this discreet little hotel out Bloomsbury way. And it is Friday. Even CID get to work regular hours sometimes. We’ll let Vivian Elmsley sleep on it. If she can.”

  Annie blushed. “But I didn’t bring my toothbrush.” Banks laughed. “I’ll buy you one.”

  “Last of the big spenders.” She turned to him, the corner of her mouth twitching in a smile. “I didn’t bring my nightie, either.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Banks. “You won’t need your nightie.”

  Fifteen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He and Annie had just been to Dulwich to see Francis Henderson, only to find him out. A neighbour told them she thought he had most likely gone on holiday, as he had cance
lled his newspapers and milk. Banks slipped his card with a note through the letter-box and left it at that. What more could he do? As far as he was concerned, Francis Henderson wasn’t guilty of any crime—or if he was, it was nothing to do with the Gloria Shackleton case. Henderson’s DNA would certainly be useful for final identification of the remains, but mostly Banks wanted to meet him out of curiosity, to see what he was like and find out what he knew, if anything.

  It was half past five, and the band was due to start at six to draw in the after-work crowd. Not that anyone Banks could see in the audience looked as if they had been at work, unless they were all students or bicycle couriers. Brian stood on the low wooden stage along with the others, setting their equipment up. Maybe they were making money, but they clearly couldn’t afford a crew of roadies yet. The mountain of speakers made Banks a little nervous.

  He loved music, and he knew that rock sometimes benefited from being played loud, but he feared deafness perhaps even more than blindness. Back in his Notting Hill days, he had been to see just about all the major bands live—The Who, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors—and more than once he had woken up the next day with ringing ears.

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

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

  “Fine. Pint?”

  “Sure.”

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