In a Dry Season

by Peter Robinson

  I say “plan” now, but it was just something I had come up with while burying Gloria. I had to explain where she had gone.

  After I had managed to lead Matthew upstairs and wash and undress him, I put him to bed. I put his bloody shirt and trousers in a small suitcase and added as many of Gloria’s favourite clothes as I could fit in. Then I went and picked up her personal odds and ends and put them in the suitcase too.

  After checking the kitchen carefully to make sure that I had collected everything of importance and cleaned up to the best of my ability, I wrote a note on the same paper I had got out for Matthew earlier. Gloria’s childlike handwriting and style were easy to imitate. After that, taking the suitcase I went the back way to the shop. I didn’t want to leave Matthew, God knows, but what else could I do? Things had to appear more or less normal. He didn’t seem aware of what was happening and I had no idea how he would face the next day, whether he would remember what he had done, feel remorse or guilt. Would he even notice she was gone?

  Early the next day I went to Bridge Cottage, found Matthew still in bed, “found” the note and proceeded to tell everyone we knew, including Mother, that Gloria had run away during the night because she couldn’t bear her life with Matthew any more. She said she loved him, and she always would, but she couldn’t be responsible for her actions if she stayed. Then I showed them the note, which said exactly that. She ended by saying that we shouldn’t go looking for her because we would never be able to find her.

  There was no reason to call in the police. Everyone believed the note without question. Hadn’t Gloria already told me she had heard people predicting that she would run off with a Yank at the first opportunity? Of course, she hadn’t gone off with a Yank, and Brad, for one, would know that, but I would cross that bridge when I came to it.

  I gave up Bridge Cottage, sold the contents, including the radiogram and the records Gloria loved so much, and brought Matthew back to live with us above the shop.

  One evening when Mother was at Joyce Maddingley’s, I took Matthew’s bloodstained clothes and Gloria’s dresses and burned them in the grate. I cried as I watched all those beautiful dresses catch fire. The black-red-and-white-checked Dorville dress she had bought in London; the black velvet V-neck dress with the puff sleeves, wide, padded shoulders and red felt rose that she had worn to our first dance with the Americans at Rowan Woods; her fine underwear. I watched it all flare and twist then collapse into ashes. I disposed of her trinkets in Leeds the next time I went there on shop business. I just stood on Leeds Bridge at the bottom of Briggate and dropped them one by one into the River Aire.

  As I had expected, it was Brad who gave me the most trouble. On his last day at Rowan Woods, he came to the shop and pestered me with questions. He just couldn’t believe that Gloria had simply left. If she wanted to go, he argued, then why didn’t she go with him? He had asked her often enough. I told him I thought she wanted to escape from everyone; she needed a completely new start. He said she could have had that in California. Again, I argued that living with him in Los Angeles would always have felt tainted to her because of the circumstances in which it came about. No matter what, she would still be Matthew’s wife.

  It hurt him deeply, which I hated to do, but he had to accept what I said in the end. After all, she had told him she didn’t want to see him any more after VE day. Absolutely no one suspected anything like the truth. The 448th Bomber Group moved out of Rowan Woods and I heard nothing more from Brad. It was all over.

  Michael Stanhope expressed sorrow that such a beautiful spirit had left the community. He said something about Hobb’s End having glimmered briefly then turned dark again. He was free to sell the nude, now, not that I ever saw or heard anything of it again. Perhaps it wasn’t as good as he thought it was.

  As for Matthew, he never really showed any sign that anything was different. He was a little more withdrawn, perhaps, but he went on with the same drinking and staring into space as before. I had to stop the visits to Dr Jennings, of course. Who knew what narcosynthesis might draw out of Matthew, should it work? Though the doctor protested, I think he was quite relieved. Doctors don’t like failures and Dr Jennings had been getting nowhere with Matthew.

  Soon, we were hearing rumours that the village was to be sold as a reservoir site, and when I looked around, it didn’t surprise me.

  Hobb’s End had turned into a ghost village.

  I hadn’t noticed it happening because of other matters, but hardly anyone lived there any more. Those who had come back from the war had had a taste of more interesting locales or had been trained for jobs they could only get in the cities. Even the women, who had perhaps gained the most in terms of employment, were heading off for factory jobs in Leeds and Bradford. The mill closed. Buildings fell into disrepair. Old people died. Finally, there was nobody left.

  A strange incident occurred before we left for Leeds, though Gloria had, in a way, predicted it. One day, a man in a brown demob suit came into the shop with a little boy of about eight or nine and asked to see Gloria. I knew immediately who they were, though I didn’t want to admit it to them.

  “Are you a relative?” I asked him.

  “No,” he said. “Nothing like that. Just an old friend, that’s all. I was passing this way so I thought I’d look her up.” He sounded rather sad, and I noticed he had a Cockney accent, just like Gloria did when she let her guard slip. And, of course, nobody just passes Hobb’s End way.

  I asked him more questions, to show interest and politeness, but I could get nothing more out of him. Most of all, I wanted him to be satisfied by my explanation of Gloria’s disappearance; I certainly didn’t want him to come back and pester Matthew and me.

  I needn’t have worried. When he left, he just said, “If you do see her again, tell her George called, will you?” He looked down at the boy. “Tell her George and little Frankie dropped by and send their love.”

  I assured him I would. The little boy had said nothing at all, but I felt him staring at me the whole time, as if he were etching my features onto the tissue of his memory. On impulse, I gave him a quarter-ounce of gumdrops, quite a rarity, as sweets were still rationed. He thanked me solemnly and then they left.

  The following week, Matthew, Mother and I moved to Leeds and Hobb’s End ceased to exist. Our life in Leeds was not without incident, but that’s another story.

  “If we go to the Crown Prosecution Service with Vivian Elmsley’s story,” Banks said to Annie, “they’ll laugh us out of the office.”

  It was Sunday morning, and they were both lounging about Banks’s cottage rereading Vivian Elmsley’s manuscript and drinking coffee. It had been against Annie’s better judgement to take up Banks’s suggestion of spending the weekend together. What she had meant to do after getting in her car at York was drive straight home and spend the rest of the weekend in blissful, idle solitude. But next Friday, she was taking two weeks’ holidays and was planning to go down to stay with her father at the colony. Best enjoy some time together now, she thought. She would have plenty of time for long, lonely coast walks when she got to St Ives.

  So, on Sunday morning, she was lying back in Banks’s front room, barefoot, wearing shorts, her feet dangling over the arm of the settee, reading about Gwen Shackleton’s war.

  “Why would they laugh?” she said. “It’s a confession of sorts, isn’t it? She does admit to interfering with the body. That makes her an accessory.”

  “I very much doubt that any judge would admit the manuscript as evidence. All she has to do is say it’s fiction. The Crown knows that. It’s a load of bollocks, Annie. Just as well the woman writes fiction and doesn’t have to solve real crimes.”

  “But she uses real names.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Any decent lawyer would make mincemeat of it as a confession to aiding and abetting. Look at what we’ve got. We’ve got a woman in her seventies who presented us with a manuscript she wrote nearly thirty years ago, hinting that she covered up a murder s
he thinks her brother committed over twenty years before that, in a village that no longer exists. Add to that she makes her living writing detective fiction.” He ran his hand across his head. “Believe me, the CPS have enough of a backlog already. They can’t even keep up with today’s crimes, let alone put staff on prosecuting yesterday’s on evidence so flimsy a puff of wind would blow it away.”

  “So that’s it? We go no further? She goes scot-free?”

  “Do you want to see her in prison?”

  “Not particularly. I’m just playing devil’s advocate. To be honest, it looks as if the poor woman’s suffered enough to me. What a blighted life.”

  “I don’t know. She’s had a fair amount of success.”

  “Sometimes that doesn’t mean as much as those who don’t have it seem to think it does.”

  “Well,” Banks went on, “we always knew the case might end nowhere. Matthew Shackleton is dead. I think Vivian Elmsley wanted to get what she did off her chest. She wanted us to know. Not for our sake, so we could solve the mystery, but for hers, so she wouldn’t have to bear the burden alone any more. The discovery of Gloria Shackleton’s skeleton was a tremendous catalyst for her. It pushed her towards some sort of catharsis, and when we found out who she was, it was just a matter of time. I would imagine now it seems less important to her to protect Matthew’s memory than it did all those years ago. He’s in no position to hang or spend his days in a psychiatric institution.”

  “She still committed a crime, though.”

  “Yes, but she’s not the killer.”

  “Unless she’s lying in the story.”

  “I don’t think so. She did what she did to protect her brother, who had already suffered terribly in the war. And she kept the secret to protect herself and Matthew’s name. If she’d called the police at the time, it’s almost certain he would have been convicted of Gloria’s murder. Unless . . . ”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless he didn’t do it. There are a number of things in Gwen’s version that bother me. Look at the scenario. Gwen walks into the cottage and sees Matthew bent over Gloria’s body, a kitchen knife in his hand. So far so good?”

  Annie nodded.

  “She also notices that Gloria’s fist is clenched and the little finger appears to be broken. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “And Gloria’s body is still warm.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which means that the clenched fist wasn’t caused by rigor mortis; it was caused by a cadaveric spasm. What if the killer, the real killer, had been trying to take something out of Gloria’s hand when he was disturbed by Matthew coming home, chucked out of the pub early for causing a ruckus? Something that might have incriminated him.”

  “The button?”

  “It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s certainly possible.”

  Banks shook his head. “But they’d still probably have arrested Matthew, depending on the copper in charge. Remember, most of the bright young detectives were at war. The crazy husband would have looked the most obvious suspect, and the button, even if they had found it, could have been explained away. From Vivian’s point of view, if Matthew had even a scrap of sanity left before all hell broke loose, he wouldn’t have had by the time it was over. So she committed a crime. And a serious one at that. But not only would the CPS throw it out, if it ever got as far as a jury, they would chuck it out too. Think of the sympathy angle. Any decent barrister—and I’ll bet you Vivian Elmsley can afford a more than decent barrister—would have the whole courtroom in tears.”

  “So what do we do next?”

  “We could hand the report to Jimmy Riddle and get on with our lives.”

  “Or?”

  “Or look into those one or two little inconsistencies I mentioned. For a start, I’m not convinced that—”

  The doorbell rang.

  Banks went to answer it. Curious, Annie let the manuscript drop on her lap. “Maybe it’s that hard-working DS Hatchley of yours?”

  “On a Sunday morning? That’d be stretching credibility too far.”

  Banks opened the door. Annie heard a woman’s voice, then Banks stepped back slowly and in she walked. Blonde hair, black eyebrows, attractive, good figure, nicely dressed in a pastel skirt and a white blouse.

  She noticed Annie out of the corner of her eye and turned. For a moment, she seemed speechless, a slight flush suffusing her pale complexion, then she moved forward and said, “Hello, I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

  Feeling foolish, Annie took the manuscript off her stomach and stood up. “Annie Cabbot,” she said. “DS Cabbot.” She felt acutely aware of her bare legs and feet.

  “Sandra Banks,” said the other. “Pleased to meet you.” Banks closed the door and stood behind them looking uncomfortable. “DS Cabbot and I were just discussing the Thornfield Reservoir case,” he said. “Maybe you’ve read about it?”

  Sandra looked down at Annie’s bare feet, then gave Banks a withering glance. “Yes, of course,” she said. “And on a Sunday morning, too. Such devotion to duty.” She started moving back towards the door.

  Annie felt herself blush to her roots.

  “Anyway,” Banks gibbered on. “It’s really nice to see you. Would you like some coffee or something?”

  Sandra shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. I just came up to Eastvale to see to some things at the community centre. I’m staying with Harriet and David. While I was in the area, I thought I’d drop by to get some papers signed and talk to you about our son, but it’ll do some other time. No hurry. Don’t let me interrupt your brainstorming session.”

  As she spoke, she grasped the handle and opened the door. “Nice meeting you, DS Cabbot,” she said over her shoulder, and with that she was gone.

  Annie stood facing Banks in silence for a few moments, aware only of her fast and loud heartbeat and burning skin. “I didn’t know what to say,” she said. “I felt foolish, embarrassed.”

  “Why should you?” said Banks. “I’ve already told you, Sandra and I have been separated for almost a year.”

  But you still love her, Annie thought. Where did that come from? She pushed the thought away. “Yes, I know. It was just a shock meeting her like that.”

  Banks gave a nervous laugh. “You can say that again. Look, let’s have some more coffee and go sit outside, okay? Put Vivian Elmsley and her problems on the back burner for a while. It’s a beautiful day; shame to waste it staying indoors. Maybe this afternoon we can go for a long walk? Fremington Edge?”

  “Okay.” Annie followed him outside, still feeling dazed. She sat on a striped deck-chair, feeling the warmth of the canvas against the backs of her bare thighs, the feeling that always reminded her of summers in St Ives. Banks was reading the Sunday Times book section, trying to pretend everything was just fine, but she knew he was rattled, too. Perhaps even more than she was. After all, he had been married to the woman for more than twenty years.

  Annie stared into the distance at a straggling line of ramblers walking up Witch Fell, whose massive shape, like a truncated witch’s hat, took up most of the western skyline. Crows wheeled over the heights.

  “Are you okay?” Banks asked, looking up from his paper.

  “Fine,” she said, mustering a smile. “Fine.”

  But she wasn’t. She told herself she should have known how fleeting happiness was; how foolish it is to expect it at all, and what a mistake it is to allow oneself to get too close to anyone. Closeness like that stirs up all the old demons, the jealousy, the insecurity—all the things she thought she had mastered. The only possible outcome is pain. A shadow had blotted out her sun, just the way Witch Fell obscured the sky; a snake had crawled into her Eden. What, she wondered, would be the cost?

  Eighteen

  Banks and Hatchley walked across Market Street to the Golden Grill for toasted teacakes and coffee. Rain had finally come to the Dales, and the place was almost empty. Doris, the proprietor, claime
d they were only the fourth and fifth customers to pass through her door that day.

  “Does that put us in line for summat special, like?” Hatchley asked. “Maybe a free cuppa?”

  She slapped his arm and laughed. “Get away with you.”

  “Worth a try,” said Hatchley to Banks. “Never ask, never get. I used to know a bloke years back who claimed he asked every girl he met if she’d go to bed with him. Said he only got slapped in the face nine times out of ten.”

  Banks laughed, then he asked, “Have you heard anything on that nationwide inquiry you put out yet?”

  “Something came in this morning, as a matter of fact,” said Hatchley. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Lass called Brenda Hamilton. Bit of a tart by all accounts. Not a prossie by trade, but she wasn’t averse to opening her legs for anyone who looked like he had a bob or two to spare. Anyway, she was found dead in a barn.”

  “MO?”

  “Strangled and stabbed. In that order.”

  “It certainly sounds promising.”

  Hatchley shook his head. “Don’t get your hopes up.

  There’s a couple of problems.”

  “What problems?”

  “Location and time-frame. It happened in Suffolk in August 1952. I only mentioned it because it was the same MO.”

  Banks chewed on his teacake and thought it over. “Any suspects?”

  “Naturally, the farmer who owned the barn came in for a close look, but he had a watertight alibi. I’d have sent for more details, but . . . well, it’s not likely to be connected with our business, is it?”

  “Even so, it wouldn’t do any harm to ask a few more questions.”

  “Maybe not. But that’s seven years after Gloria Shackleton was killed. It’s a long gap for the kind of killer we’re looking at. It also happened in another part of the country.”

  “There could be reasons for that.”

  “And I doubt there’d be any American Air Force personnel around by then, would there? I mean the war was long over. Most of them went off to the Pacific after VE day, and the rest buggered off home as soon as they could.”