In a Dry Season

by Peter Robinson

  “Don’t laugh at this,” said Annie, “but that time . . . you know in the backyard when you put your arm around me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I was sort of expecting something might happen, and I didn’t know if I was ready for it yet. I was going to tell you I was a lesbian. Just to let you down lightly, to make you think it wasn’t anything personal, you know, that it wasn’t that I didn’t fancy you or anything, but that I just didn’t go for men. I’d got it all worked out.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “When the time came, I didn’t want to. Believe me, I was probably just as surprised as you were about what happened. Just as scared. I know I invited you to my house and fed you drinks, but I really wasn’t planning to seduce you.”

  “I didn’t think you were.”

  “I was going to offer you the couch.”

  “And I would have accepted gracefully.”

  “But when it came to it, I wanted you. I was terrified. It was the first time since the night I’ve just told you about. But I wanted to do it as well. I suppose I wanted to overcome my fear. Sometimes it’s the only way.”

  They walked along Charing Cross Road, past all the closed bookshops, and crossed Oxford Street. As they turned onto Great Russell Street, Annie slipped her arm through Banks’s. It was only the second time they had had any little intimate physical contact in public, and it felt good: the warmth, the gentle pressure. Annie leaned her head a little so it rested on his shoulder; her hair tickled his cheek.

  Neither of them had been to the hotel yet; Banks had simply phoned earlier to book a room and said they would be arriving late. It was only a small place. He had stayed there twice before while on police business in London— both times alone—and had been impressed by the general cleanliness and level of service, not to mention the reasonable rates.

  They passed the dark mass of the British Museum, set back behind its railings and courtyard, then crossed Russell Square. Conversation and laughter carried on the night air from a pub around the corner. A couple walked by, arms wrapped around one another.

  “Here we are,” said Banks. “Did you buy a toothbrush?”

  “Yup.” Annie held up one of her bags. “And a new pair of jeans, new shoes, a skirt and blouse, undies.”

  “You really did go shopping, didn’t you?

  “Hey. It’s not often I get to the big city. I bought a nightie, too.”

  “I thought I said you wouldn’t need one.”

  She laughed and moved closer. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s only a little nightie. I promise you’ll like it.” And they walked up the stone steps to the hotel.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about the gun. Usually, the way the scene ran in my mind was that Gloria shot Matthew first and then herself. The images were so vivid I could even see the blood gush from their wounds. Finally, I determined I had to do something.

  As I said, I had a key to Bridge Cottage. It wasn’t that Matthew locked himself in, but he sometimes wouldn’t bother getting up to answer the door. Most of the time he was in a sort of comatose state from alcohol anyway. When he wasn’t at the pub, he was sipping whisky at home. Whisky that Gloria got from PX.

  So the next time it was Gloria’s turn to take Matthew to see Dr Jennings in Leeds, I let myself in. Even if someone saw me, it wouldn’t seem at all strange because I was in and out of Bridge Cottage all the time and everyone in the village knew about Matthew’s condition.

  I found the gun in the same place Gloria had left it: behind the cocoa and tea in the kitchen cupboard. I put it in the shopping bag I had brought with me, put the cupboard back in order and left. I didn’t know how long it would take her to miss it, but the best I could hope was that by the time she did she wouldn’t feel the need for it any more and would realize what a favour I had done her.

  We can be such fools for love, can’t we?

  Seventeen

  It was about eleven o’clock on Saturday morning when Banks and Annie arrived back at Vivian Elmsley’s flat. Before Banks could even press the buzzer, the door opened and Vivian almost bumped into them.

  “Going somewhere, Ms Elmsley?” asked Banks. “You?” She put her hand to her heart. “I didn’t think . . . so soon . . . I was just . . . you’d better come in.”

  They followed her upstairs to the flat. She was carrying a large buff envelope, which she dropped on the hall table as she entered the room. Banks glanced at it, saw his name and the Eastvale station address on it.

  She turned to face them as they entered her living-room. “I suppose I should thank you for coming back,” she said. “You’ve saved me the postage.”

  “What were you sending me?” Banks asked. “A confession?”

  “Of sorts. Yes. I suppose you could call it that.”

  “So you were lying yesterday?”

  “Fiction’s my trade. Sometimes I can’t help it.”

  “You should know the difference.”

  “Between what?”

  “Fiction and reality.”

  “I’ve learned to leave that to the most arrogant among us. They’re the only ones who seem to think they know everything.” She turned, walked back to the hall and picked up the envelope. “Anyway,” she went on, handing it to Banks, “I’m sorry for being flippant. I’ve found this whole thing extremely difficult. I tend to hide behind language when I’m frightened. This is the whole story, from the first time I ever saw Gloria Stringer, as she was then. I’d like you to grant me the favour of taking this away with you and reading it. I had a copy made this morning. If you’re worried about my fleeing from justice, please don’t. I’m not going to run anywhere, I promise you.”

  “Why the change of heart?”

  “Conscience, would you believe? I thought I could live with it, but I can’t. The telephone calls didn’t help, either. In the early hours of the morning, I arrived at the end of a long struggle, and I decided to tell the truth. What you do with it once you know it is up to you. I’d just rather do things this way than answer a lot of questions at the moment. I think it will help you understand. Of course, you’ll have questions eventually. I have to be in Leeds next week to do some book-signings, so you’ll soon have the opportunity. Will you allow me this much, at least?”

  It was an unusual request, and if Banks were to go by the book, he wouldn’t let a murder suspect hand him a written “confession” then go away and leave her to her own devices. But it was time for a judgement call. This had been an unusual case right from the start, and he believed that Vivian Elmsley wasn’t going anywhere. She was in the public eye, and he didn’t think she had anywhere to run, even if she wanted to. The other possibility was suicide. It was a risk, to be certain, but he decided to take it. If Vivian Elmsley wanted to kill herself rather than suffer through a criminal trial that cost the taxpayers thousands and drew the media like blood draws leeches, who was Banks to judge her? If Jimmy Riddle found out about it, of course, Banks’s career wouldn’t be worth a toss, but since when had he let thoughts of Jimmy Riddle get in his way?

  “You mentioned telephone calls,” he said. “What do you mean?”

  “Anonymous calls. Sometimes he says things, other times he just hangs up.”

  “What kind of things does he say?”

  “Nothing really. He just sounds vaguely threatening.

  And he calls me Gwen Shackleton.”

  “Have you any idea who it might be?”

  “No. It wouldn’t be too difficult for anyone to find out my real name, and my number’s in the directory. But why?”

  “What about the accent? Is it American?”

  “No. But it’s hard to say exactly what it is. The voice sounds muffled, as if he’s speaking through a handkerchief or something.”

  Banks thought for a moment. “We can’t really do anything about it. I wouldn’t worry too much, though. In most cases people who make threatening phone calls don’t confront their victims. That’s why they use the phone in the first place. They’re afr
aid of personal contact.”

  Vivian shook her head. “I don’t know. He didn’t sound like one of those heavy breathers or nutcases. It seemed more . . . personal.”

  “Perhaps your line of work attracts one or two crackpot fans?” Banks suggested. “Someone who thinks he’s giving you an idea for a story, or helping you know what it’s like to experience fear. I honestly wouldn’t worry too much, but you should get in touch with your local police station as soon as possible. They’ll be able to help. Do you have any contacts there?”

  “Yes. There’s Detective Superintendent Davidson. He helps me with my research.”

  “Even better. Talk to him.” Banks held up the envelope. “We’ll do as you ask,” he said, “but how do we know this is the truth and not just more fiction?”

  “You don’t. Actually, it’s a bit of both, but the parts you’ll be interested in are true. You’ll just have to take my word for it, won’t you?”

  The day it happened began like any ordinary day; if any day could be deemed ordinary in those extraordinary times. I opened the shop, took in the ration coupons, apologized for shortages, made lunch and tea for Mother and settled down to an evening’s reading and the wireless. The Americans were having a farewell party up at the base that night, as they had heard they would be moving out in a matter of days. We had been invited, but neither Gloria nor I had felt like going. Somehow, that part of our lives seemed over. Charlie was dead and Gloria had made it clear to Brad, after their last fling on VE day, that she was sticking with Matthew and it would be best if they didn’t see each other any more.

  I’d like to say I felt some sort of premonition of disaster, some sense of foreboding, but I didn’t. I was distracted and found it hard to concentrate on Trollope’s The Last Chronicle of Barset, but I had a lot on my mind: Charlie’s death, Matthew’s illness, Gloria’s problems, Mother.

  I wouldn’t normally have gone to Bridge Cottage so late in the evening except that Cynthia Garmen had dropped off some parachute silk on her way to Harkside. I hadn’t seen Gloria for two or three days and I thought she might appreciate a small gift; she had been very drawn and depressed since VE day and hadn’t been taking care of herself at all. I can’t say that I heard any small voice telling me to go; nor can I recollect any great feeling of apprehension, any involuntary shudder or burning of the ears. I couldn’t concentrate on my book, and Gloria was on my mind; it was as simple as that.

  This is where my diary stops, but however much I have tried over the years to expunge the events from my memory, I haven’t been able to succeed.

  It was just after ten o’clock and Mother had gone to bed. Distracted, I put my book aside and fingered the silky material. I thought the prospect of a new dress to make might cheer Gloria up. I was also feeling guilty over stealing the gun, I suppose, and I wanted to know whether she had noticed it was missing yet. If she had, she certainly hadn’t said anything.

  I assumed Matthew would still be at the Shoulder of Mutton, so I thought I would call in there first and persuade him to walk home with me. Even though he didn’t communicate, I believed that he knew who I was and knew that I loved him. I also think he felt comfortable being with me. As it turned out, he had been asked to leave a little earlier because he had had one of his little tantrums and broken a glass.

  I walked down the dark, deserted High Street to Bridge Cottage. Over the river I could hear music and laughter from the Duke of Wellington, where, it seemed, the VE day celebrations were still going on more than a week after the day itself. Moonlight silvered the flowing water and made it look like some sort of sleek, slinking animal.

  There was light showing between the curtains in Bridge Cottage. New curtains, I noticed, now we didn’t have to worry about the blackout, or even the dim-out, any more. I knocked at the door but no one answered. I knocked again.

  I didn’t think Gloria would be out; she rarely went out in the evenings except to the pictures with me. She certainly wouldn’t go out and leave the lights on. Besides, Matthew should be there. Where else would he have gone after being ejected from the Shoulder of Mutton?

  I knocked again.

  Still nothing.

  I put my key in the lock, turned it and entered, calling out

  Gloria’s name.

  There was no one in the living-room, but I noticed a strong smell of whisky. I called out Gloria’s name again, then thought I heard a movement in the kitchen. Puzzled, I walked over and when I got to the doorway I saw her.

  Gloria lay on the flagstone floor, legs and arms splayed at awkward angles like a rag doll a sulking child has tossed aside. One of her little fists was curled tight, as if she were about to hit someone, except for the little finger, which stuck out.

  There wasn’t a lot of blood; I remember being surprised at how little blood there was. She was wearing her royal blue dress with the white lace collar, and the stains on the material looked like rust. They were all over the place: breast, stomach, ribs, loins. Everywhere the royal blue dress was stained with blood, yet very little of it had flowed to the floor.

  Not far from her body lay a broken whisky bottle, the source of the smell I had noticed earlier. Bourbon. An unopened carton of Lucky Strikes sat on the counter-top. Above it, the cupboard was open and tea and cocoa had spilled all over the counter and the floor nearby, along with knives and forks from the cutlery drawer.

  Beside her, holding a bloody kitchen knife, Matthew knelt in a small pool of blood. I went over to him, took the knife gently out of his hand and led him through to his armchair. He accompanied me as meekly as a weary, defeated soldier goes with his captors and flopped back in the chair like a man who hasn’t slept for months.

  “Matthew, what happened?” I asked him. “What have you done? You’ve got to tell me. Why did you do it?”

  I gave him pencil and paper, but he just drew in on himself and I could tell I would get nothing out of him. I put my hands on his shoulders and shook him lightly, but he seemed to shrink away, bloodstained thumb in his mouth. I noticed more blood on the cuffs of his white shirt.

  I don’t know how long I tried to get him to communicate something, but in the end I gave up and went back to the kitchen. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I suppose if I assumed anything at all, it was that someone had told him there was nasty gossip going around about what his wife got up to while he was out. I already knew that he had had a tantrum in the Shoulder of Mutton and I guessed that one way or the other, it had set off the explosion that had been building in him the way pressure builds in a boiler; now Gloria was dead and Matthew was empty of his rage.

  As I stared down at poor Gloria’s body, still half unable to believe what had happened, I knew I had to do something. If anyone found out about this, Matthew might be hanged, or more likely found insane and put in the lunatic asylum for the rest of his days. However difficult his life was right now, I knew he wouldn’t be able to bear that; it would be purgatory for him. Or worse. I would have to care for him from now on.

  As for Gloria, my heart wept for her; I had come to love her almost as much as I loved Matthew. But she was dead. There was nothing I could do for her. She had no other family; I was the only one who knew her story; it didn’t matter now what happened to her. Or so I told myself.

  I still had some vestiges of religion in me back then, though most of it had disappeared during the war, especially after Matthew’s death and resurrection, which seemed to me a very cruel parody of Easter, but I didn’t particularly give any thoughts to Gloria’s immortal soul, a proper burial or things like that. The church didn’t come into it. I didn’t think of what I was doing in terms of right or wrong; nor did I really consider that I would be breaking the law. All I could think about was what to do to protect Matthew from all the prying policemen and doctors who would torment him if word of this got out.

  Did I think of Matthew as a murderer? I don’t think I did, though there was undoubted evidence of this at my feet. In a strange way, I also saw Gloria as my partner in w
anting to protect Matthew from further cruelty and suffering. She wouldn’t want him to go to jail, I told myself; she wouldn’t want him put away in a lunatic asylum. She had sacrificed so much to protect him. His comfort and ease were all she had lived for after his return; he was her penance, after all, and that was why she would never leave him; that was why she was dead. Gloria wanted me to do this.

  I offer no more excuses. The blackout cloth was still rolled up below the windows in the living-room, where it had been left after I helped Gloria take it down a couple of weeks ago. I carried it into the kitchen and gently rolled Gloria onto it, then I wrapped it around her tightly as a shroud. Before I had finished, I bent over, kissed her gently on the forehead and said, “Goodbye, sweet Gloria. Goodbye, my love.” She was still warm.

  Where could I hide her? The only place I could think of was the old outbuilding they never used. In the light of a small oil lamp I started to dig the hole. I wanted to make it deeper, but I couldn’t manage more than about three or four feet before exhaustion overcame me. I went back to the house, where Matthew hadn’t moved, and managed to find the energy to drag out the roll of blackout cloth and drop it in the hole. There was no one around. The cottage next door was empty and there was neither a light nor a sound out back. Only the black night sky with its uncaring stars.

  With tears running down my cheeks, I shovelled back the earth. Some heavy stone slabs stood propped against the wall and I levered them down on top of the makeshift grave. It was the best I could do.

  That left only the inside of the house. First, I swept up the broken glass, the spilled tea leaves and cocoa powder, and put the tins back in the cupboard. As I said, there was very little blood and I managed to scrub that off the floor easily enough. There might have been minute traces left but nobody would be able to tell what they were. If things went according to plan, nobody would even look.