In a Dry Season (32 page)

“That's the point,” said Banks. “Think about it. The body was buried in the outbuilding of Gloria and Matthew's cottage. The fact that we haven't found any other bodies in the vicinity doesn't mean there aren't any
anywhere else. It
doesn't
mean that whoever did it didn't kill
elsewhere
, in exactly the same way.”

“A serial killer, then? A stranger to the area?”

“It's possible.
DS
Hatchley's already put out a request for information on crimes with similar
MOS
. It'll take time, though, and that's if anyone even bothers following it up. People can be pretty lazy, especially when what they want isn't on the computer. Let's face it, we're not exactly high on anyone's priority list with this one. Still, some curious or industrious
PC
might poke about and discover something. I'll have Jim send out a reminder.”

Annie paused. “You realize we might never know who killed her, don't you?”

Banks finished his drink and nodded. “If that's what it comes down to, we make out a final report based on all the evidence we've collected and point at the most likely solution.”

“How do you think you'll feel about that?”

“What do you mean?”

“It's become important to you, hasn't it? Oh, I'm not saying I don't care. I do. But for you it's something else. It goes deeper. You have a sort of compulsion.”

Banks lit a cigarette. As he did so, he realized how often he hid behind the smoke of his cigarettes. “Somebody has to give a damn.”

“That sounds melodramatic. Besides, is it really as simple as that?”

“Nothing ever is, really, is it?”

“Meaning?”

Banks paused and tried to frame his nebulous thoughts.

“Gloria Shackleton. I know what she looked like. I've got some idea of her character and her ambitions, who her
friends were, the things she liked to do to amuse and entertain herself.” He tapped the side of his head. “She's real enough for me in there, where it counts. Somebody took all that away from her. Somebody strangled her, then stabbed her fifteen or sixteen times, wrapped her body in blackout curtains and buried it in an outbuilding.”

“But it happened years ago. The war's been over for ages now. Murders happen all the time. What's so different about this one?”

Banks shook his head. “I don't know. Nothing, really. Partly, it's the war itself. I'm older than you. I grew up in its shadow, and it cast a long one for a long time after it was over. I was born with a ration book and a National Identity Card.” He laughed. “It's funny, you know, the way people resist being named and counted these days, but I was proud of that card when I was a kid. It actually
gave
me an identity, told me who I was. Maybe I was already in training for my warrant card. Anyway, there were ruins all over the place in my home town. I used to play in them just like Adam Kelly. And my dad had a collection of mementoes I used to sneak up to the attic and play with when he was out—an
SS
dagger, a Nazi armband. There were pictures I used to look at, photographs of the collaborators hanging from the balustrades in Brussels. It was another age, before my time, but in a way it wasn't; it was much closer than that. We used to play at being commandos. We even used to dig tunnels and pretend to escape from prison camps. I bought every book about fighter and bomber planes I could get my hands on. My childhood and early adolescence was saturated with the war. Somehow the idea of a vicious murder like this one being committed while all that carnage was going on in the world
makes it seem even more of a travesty, if you see what I mean.”

“I think so. What else bothers you?”

“That's the simple part. As far as we can tell, nobody reported Gloria missing; there was no hue and cry. It looks as if nobody cared. Somebody has to. I seem to be good at it, overburdened with compassion, a natural.” Banks smiled. “Am I still making sense?”

Annie brushed his sleeve with her fingers. “I care, too,” she said. “Maybe not for the same reasons or in the same way, but I do.”

Banks looked into her eyes. He could tell she meant what she was saying. He nodded. “I know you do. Home?”

Annie stood up.

They walked out into the street, much quieter now night had fallen. The fish and chip shop was still serving, and two of the kids who had been in the pub were leaning against the wall eating from newspaper. A whiff of vinegar drifted by.

At the top of the ginnel that ran past the churchyard was a swing gate, and after that the narrow, flagged footpath curved around the steep banks of Gratly Beck about half a mile up the daleside to the village itself. Luckily, there was a moon, for there was no other illumination on the path. Sheep scampered out of the way and bleated. Again Banks thought of the blackout. His mother had told him a story of a friend of hers who made her way home from work at the munitions factory by touching
176
railings along the canal-side before her left turn, then five lampposts down the street. It must have been in the early days, Banks thought, before Lord Beaverbrook ordered the collection of all railings for the war effort. His mother had
also told him about the enormous mountain of pots and pans on the cricket pitch that were supposed to be turned into aircraft.

Once through the narrow stile at the other end, Banks and Annie turned left past the new houses. The pavement was broader there, and Annie slipped her arm through his. The small act of intimacy felt good. They crossed the stone bridge, walked along the lane and stood at Banks's front door.

“Coffee?” Banks asked.

Annie smiled. “No, but I'll have a cold drink if you've got one. Non-alcoholic.”

He left her in the front room rummaging through his compact disc collection while he went to the fridge. It was eerie how the kitchen always gave him that feeling of peace and belonging, even at night when the sun wasn't shining. He wondered if he would ever be able to tell Annie about it without feeling like an idiot.

He took out a carton of orange juice and poured them both a glass. An old Etta James
CD
started playing in the living-room. Funky and fiery. He hadn't played it in years. Annie walked in, clearly pleased with her find.

“You've got a hell of a
CD
collection,” she said. “It's a wonder you can ever decide what to play.”

“It
is
a problem sometimes. Depends on the mood.” He handed her the glass and they went through to the living-room.

Soon Etta was belting out “Jump into my Fire” and “Shakey Ground.”

“Sure you won't have a nightcap?” Banks asked when Annie had finished her orange juice.

“No. I told you, I've got to drive back. I don't want
to get stopped by an over-zealous country copper.”

“It's a pity,” said Banks. “I was hoping you might change your mind.” His mouth felt dry.

“Come to Mama” was playing now, and the music's rhythmic, slow-moving sensuality was getting to him. He had to keep telling himself that Annie was a detective sergeant, someone he was working with on a case, and he shouldn't even be thinking like this. But the problem was that Annie Cabbot didn't seem like any detective sergeant he had ever come across before. And she was the first woman, apart from his daughter, Tracy, to visit his new home.

“Well,” said Annie, smiling. “I didn't say I had to go just yet, did I? You don't have to get me drunk to get me in bed, you know.” Then she stood up, crossed her arms in front of her and pulled her T-shirt slowly up over her head. She stood holding it in her hand, head tilted to one side, then smiled, held her hand out and said, “Come to mama.”

There are giant redwood trees in California, they say, that can grow another layer around the dead and blackened wood if they ever burn in a forest fire. Matthew's disappearance burned out my core like that and while, over time, I did grow another skin over it, a harder skin, there was part of me inside that was always black and dead. There still is, though over the years the new skin has grown so thick that most people take it for the real thing. I suppose, in a way, it is real, but it is not the
original
thing.

Of course, life went on. It always does. In time, we laughed and smiled again, stood on the fairy bridge and discussed the Italian campaign, lamented the shortages and complained about Lord Woolton Pie and the National Wholemeal Loaf.

Gloria threw herself into her work at the farm, making it clear that she was indispensable because the government was putting even more pressure on women to work in the aircraft and munitions factories, the idea of which terrified her. Rumour had it that there were spies from the Labour Exchange all over the place just looking for idle women. If there were, they left me alone, too, as I had enough work on my hands looking after an invalid mother and running the shop, as well as fire-watching and helping with the
WVS
, taking out pies and snacks to the field workers in the area.

In October, Gloria had her hair done like Veronica Lake, with a side parting, curling inwards over her shoulders. I had the new, short Liberty Cut because it was easy to manage and my hair just wouldn't do the things Gloria's did, even if I put sugar-water on it.

That month also,
Gone With the Wind
finally came to Harkside, and Gloria and Mr Stanhope practically dragged me to see it. As it turned out, I enjoyed the film, and found it was made even more poignant by the death of Leslie Howard, whose aeroplane had been shot down by Nazi fighters in June. Mr Stanhope, battered hat on his head, tapping with his snake-head–handled cane as we walked back, was enthusiastic about the use of colour and Gloria, needless to say, was potty about Clark Gable.

Autumn mists came to our shallow valley, often making it impossible for the aeroplanes to land or take off for days. In September we heard that the Rowan Woods Aerodrome had been closed and the
RAF
had gone somewhere else. It was hard to get a clear answer to any questions in those days, but one of the ground crew told me that the two-engined bombers they had been flying were old and were being phased out of operation. The runways at Rowan Woods had to be converted to be able to handle four-engined bombers. He didn't know whether his squadron would be back or not; things were so uncertain, people coming and going at a moment's notice.

Whatever the reason, the
RAF
moved out and a crew of labourers, mostly Irish, came in. Over the next couple of months, they brought in tons of cement, gravel and tarmac to bring the runways up to standard. They also put up more Nissen huts.

Of course, the character of village life changed a little during this period: we had a few fights between the Irish and the soldiers at the Shoulder of Mutton, and we got used to the whiff of tar that would drift through the woods when the wind was blowing the right way.

Early in December the labourers finished their work and shortly before Christmas, Rowan Woods became the new home to the
us
8th Air Force's 448th Bomber Group.

Just like that.

The Yanks had arrived.

Ever since she had seen Gloria's image and heard her name on television, Vivian Elmsley had been expecting the police to come knocking at her door. It wasn't as if she had taken any great steps to cover her tracks. She had never consciously sought to hide her past and her identity, although she had certainly glossed over it. Perhaps, also, the life she had lived hinted at a certain amount of conscious escape. At every stage, she had had to reinvent herself; the selfless carer; the diplomat's wife; the ever-so-slightly “with-it” young widow with the red sports car; the struggling writer; the public figure with the splinter of ice in her heart. Would that be the last? Which was the real one? She didn't know. She didn't even know if there
was
a real one.