Making sure he locked up behind him, he led them into the house. The windows were all shut tight and most of the curtains were closed. The living-room had the atmosphere of a hot and stuffy funeral parlour; it smelled of cigarette smoke and dirty socks.
“What’s it all about, then?” The old man flopped down on a sagging brown corduroy settee.
“The past,” said Banks.
A woman walked through from the kitchen. About the same age as the man, she seemed a little better preserved. She certainly had a bit more flesh on her bones.
The old man reached for his cigarettes and lighter balanced on the threadbare arm of the settee, and he coughed when he lit up. What the future holds in store for us smokers if we don’t stop, Banks thought glumly, deciding against joining him just at the moment.
“Police, Elsie,” the man said.
“Come to do something about those hooligans?” she asked.
“No,” said the man, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. “They say it’s about the past.”
“Aye, well, there’s plenty of that about for everyone,” she said. “Like a cuppa?”
“Please,” said Banks. Annie nodded.
“Sit yerselves down then. I’m Mrs Patterson by the way. You can call me Elsie. And this is my Stanley.”
Stanley leaned forward and offered his hand. “Call me Stan,” he said, with a wink. Elsie went to make the tea. “I see you met that lot over the street?” Stan said with a jerk of his head.
“We did,” said Banks.
“He threatened to beat his wife,” Annie said. “Have you ever seen any evidence of that, Mr Patterson? Any cuts or bruises?”
“Nay, lass,” said Stan. “He’s all wind and piss is yon Kev. Colleen’d kill him like as not if he ever laid a finger on her. And she’s not his wife, neither. Not that it seems to matter these days. It’s not even his kid.” He took a drag on his cigarette, which Banks noticed was untipped, and launched into a coughing fit. When he recovered, his face was red and his chest was heaving. “Sorry,” he said, thumping his chest. “All them years grafting in that filthy factory. Ought to bloody sue.”
“How long have you lived here?” Banks asked.
“Forever. Or so it seems,” Stan said. “It were always a rough estate, even back then, but it weren’t really such a bad place when we first moved in. Lucky to get it, we were.” He smoked and coughed again.
Elsie came back with the tea. A cold drink would probably have made more sense, Banks thought, but you take what you’re offered.
“Stan was just saying you’ve lived here a long time,” Banks said to her.
She poured the tea into heavy white mugs. “Since we got married,” she said. “Well, we lived with Stan’s mum and dad in Pontefract for a few months, didn’t we, love, but this was our first home together.” She sat beside her husband.
“And our last, way things turned out,” Stan said.
“Well, whose fault were that?”
“Weren’t mine, woman.”
“You knew I wanted to move to that new Raynville estate when they built it, didn’t you?”
“Aye,” said Stan. “When were that? Nineteen sixty-three? And where is it now? They’ve had to knock the bloody place down now, things got so bad.”
“There were other places we could have moved. Poplars. Wythers.”
“Wythers! Wythers is worse than this.”
“What year was it?” Banks butted in. “When you first came to live here?”
The Pattersons glared at one another for a moment, then Elsie stirred her tea. She sat up straight, knees pressed together, hands around the mug on her lap. In the distance, Banks could hear the music from the skinhead’s house: tortured guitars, heavy bass, a testosterone-pumped voice snarling lust and hatred. Christ, he hoped Brian’s band was better than that.
“Nineteen forty-nine,” Elsie said. “October 1949. I remember because I were three months gone with Derek at the time. He was our first. Remember, Stan,” she said, “you’d just got that job at Blakey’s Castings?”
“Aye,” said Stan, turning to Banks. “I were just twenty years old, and Elsie here were eighteen.”
Banks hadn’t even been born then. The war had been over five years and the country was going through a lot of changes, setting up the Welfare State in the wake of the Beveridge Report, setting up the whole system that had given Banks far more opportunities and chances of self-improvement than previous generations. And to his parents’ dismay, he had become a copper instead of a business executive or managing director, the sort of position his father had always looked up to. Now, though, having felt very much like a business executive this past year, he was pleased to discover that he still thought he had made the right choice.
Banks tried to imagine the Pattersons as a young couple with hope in their hearts and a promising future before them crossing the threshold of their first home together. The image came in black-and-white, with a factory chimney in the background.
“Do you remember anything about your neighbours across the street?” Annie asked. “Directly opposite, where Kev and his family live now.”
Elsie spoke first. “Weren’t that those, you know, those . . . whatstheirnames . . . lived, Stanley? A bit stuck-up. There were some trouble.”
“A suicide,” Banks prompted her.
“Aye. That’s right. Don’t you remember, Stanley? Shot himself. That tall, skinny young fellow, used to walk with a stick, never said a word to anyone. What were his name?”
“Matthew Shackleton.”
“That’s right. We had police all over the place. They even came over and talked to us. By gum, that takes me back a bit. Matthew Shackleton. Don’t you remember, Stanley?”
“Aye,” said Stan hesitantly. “I think so.” He lit another cigarette and coughed. Then he glanced at his watch. Opening time.
“Did you know the Shackletons?” Banks asked.
“Not really,” Elsie said. “Acted like they’d gone down in the world, fallen on hard times, like. From the country somewhere, though I found out she were nowt better than a shopkeeper’s daughter. Not that there’s owt wrong with that, mind you. I’m no snob. I tried to be friendly, you know, like you do, seeing as we were the newcomers and all that. But nobody bothered with them. The time or two I did talk to her, she didn’t say owt about where they came from, except to mention that things had been different back in the village, like. Well, la-de-da, I thought.”
Well, Banks thought, from Hobb’s End to this Leeds council estate would have been quite a frightening journey into purgatory for Gwen and Matthew, unless they were in a purgatory of their own making already.
“How many of them lived there?”
“Just the two,” Elsie said. “I remember her saying her mother used to live with them and all, but she died a year or so before we moved here.”
“Aye,” Stan chirped in. “I remember them now. Just the two of them, weren’t there? Him and his wife. Tall, gangly lass, herself.”
“Nay,” said Elsie, “she were never his wife. He weren’t right in his head.”
“Who were she, then?”
“I don’t know, but she weren’t his wife.”
“How do you know?” Banks asked Elsie.
“They didn’t act like man and wife. I could tell.”
“Don’t be so bloody daft, woman,” Stan said. Then he looked at Banks and rolled his eyes. “She were his wife. Take it from me.”
“What was her name?” Banks asked.
“It’s on the tip of my tongue,” Elsie said.
“Blodwyn,” said Stan. “Summat Welsh, anyroad.”
“No, it weren’t. Gwynneth, that were it. Gwynneth Shackleton.”
“What did she look like?”
“Ordinary, really, apart from them beautiful eyes of hers,” said Elsie. “Like Stanley said, she were a bit taller than your average lass, and a bit clumsy, you know, the way some big people are. She were nearly as tall as Matthew.”
“H
ow old, would you say?”
“She can’t have been that old, but she had a hard-done-by look about her. I don’t know how to say it, really. Old before her time. Tired, like.”
“Must’ve been from looking after her husband. He were an invalid. Battle fatigue. War wound.”
“He weren’t her husband.”
Stan turned to face her. “Did you ever see her stepping out with a young man?”
“Come to think on it, no, I don’t recall as I did.”
“There you are then. Goes to show.”
“Show what?”
“You’d’ve thought if she weren’t married she’d have had a boyfriend or two, girl like that, wouldn’t you? I’ll grant you she were no oil painting, but she were well enough shaped where it counts, and she were bonny enough.”
“Did they ever have many visitors?” Banks asked.
“Not as I noticed.” Elsie answered. “But I’m not one of your nose-at-the-window types, you know.”
“How about an attractive young woman with blonde hair?” Annie said, turning to Stanley. “Might have looked like this.” She handed him the copy of Alice Poole’s photograph and pointed to Gloria.
“No,” said Stan. “Never seen anyone looked like her. And I think I’d remember.” He winked at Annie. “I’m not that old, tha knows. But that other one’s Gwynneth all right.” He pointed to the woman Alice had identified as Gwen Shackleton. “I can’t recall as they ever had any visitors, come to think on it.”
“Aye, you’re right there, Stanley,” she said. “They kept to themselves.”
“What happened after the suicide?” Banks asked.
“She went away.”
“Do you know where?”
“No. She never even said goodbye. One day she were there, the next she were gone. I’ll tell you what, though.”
“What?” asked Banks.
A wicked smile twisted her features. “I know who she is.”
“What do you mean?”
“Her. That Gwynneth Shackleton. That’s not her name now, of course, but it’s her, right enough. Done right well for herself, she has.”
“Who is she?”
“I’ve seen her on telly, seen her picture in Woman’s
Own.”
“Yer barmy, woman,” Stan piped up.
“I’m telling you, Stanley: it’s her. Those eyes. The height. The voice. I don’t forget things like that. I’m surprised you can’t see it for yourself.”
Banks was trying hard to remain patient and beginning to think he was fighting a losing battle. “Mrs Patterson. Elsie,” he said finally. “Do you think you could tell me who you think Gwen Shackleton is?”
“It’s that woman writes those books, isn’t it? Always being interviewed on telly. And she did that documentary about that little church in London, you know, like Alan Bennett did on Westminster Abbey. Used to live just down the road, did Alan Bennett. His dad were a butcher. Any-road, you could see it were her, how tall she were. And those eyes.”
“What books?” Banks asked.
“Them detective books. Always on telly. With that good-looking whatsisname playing the inspector. Good they are, too. I’ve had her books out of the library. I must go through ten books a week. It’s her, I’m telling you.”
“She’s thinking of that Vivian Elmsley woman,” sighed Stan. “Swore the first time she saw her interviewed by that bloke who talks through his nose—”
“Melvyn Bragg.”
“Aye, him. Swore blind it were Gwen Shackleton.”
“You don’t agree?” Annie asked.
“Nay, I don’t know, lass. I’m not good at faces, not the way our Elsie is. She’s always telling me someone’s baby looks like his mum or dad but I’m buggered if I can see it. They all look like Winston Churchill to me. Or Edward G. Robinson. There is a resemblance, but . . . ” He shook his head. “It’s so long ago. People change. And things like that don’t happen to people like us, do they, people from places like this? Someone across the street gets famous and writes books that get done on telly and all? I mean, life’s not like that, is it? Not here. Not for the likes of us.”
“What about Alan Bennett?” Elsie argued. “And she were well-read. You could tell that about her.”
In the brief silence that followed, Banks heard more music and laughter from across the street.
“You hear what it’s like?” Stan said. “Never a moment’s peace. Day and night, night and day, bloody racket. We keep our windows shut and curtains closed. You never know what’s going to happen next. We had a murder last week. Bloke down the street playing cards with some bloody Gyppos. Vinnie and Derek, our lads, they worry about us. They’d like us to go live in sheltered housing. We might just do it and all. Right now, I’d settle for three squares a day and a bit of peace and quiet.”
“Back to this woman,” said Banks, turning to Elsie. “Gwen Shackleton.”
“Aye?”
“How long did she stay on the estate after the suicide?”
“Oh, not long. I’d say as long as it took to get him buried and get everything sorted out with the authorities.”
“Were the police suspicious about what happened?”
“Police are always suspicious, aren’t they?” said Stan.
“It’s their job.” He laughed and coughed. “Nay, lad, you ought to know that.”
Banks smiled. “Was Gwen in the house at the time of the suicide?” he asked.
Elsie paused and lowered her head. “That’s what they asked us back then,” she said. “I’ve thought and thought about it to this day, and I still don’t know. I thought I saw her get back from the shops—that was where she’d been, shopping up Town Street—before I heard the bang.” She frowned. “But, you see, I were so close to having our Derek, and I weren’t always seeing things right. I could have been wrong.”
“Did you tell the police this?”
“Yes. But nowt came of it. Or they’d have put her in jail, wouldn’t they?”
Now Banks definitely wanted to have a look at the Matthew Shackleton file. “We might as well be off,” he said to Annie, then turned to Stan and Elsie. “Thanks very much. You’ve been a great help.”
“Tell me summat,” said Stan. “I know getting information out of you lot’s like prising a penny from a Scotsman’s arse, but I’m curious. This Gwen, were she his wife?”
Banks smiled. “His sister. We think.”
Elsie nudged her husband hard in the ribs. He started coughing. “See, Stanley. I told yer so, yer great lummox.”
Banks insisted they could find their own way out, and soon he and Annie walked gratefully in the fresh air. The people across the street were still enjoying their party, joined now by Kev and his dog, which was running wild across the tiny lawns, scratching on doors and ripping up what weeds had survived summer so far. Another woman, whom Banks assumed to be Colleen, was also there, holding her baby. She was a skinny girl, about seventeen, smiling, no bruises, but with a hard, defeated look about her.
As Banks and Annie neared the end of the street, an empty beer can skittered across the tarmac behind them.
“What do you think about this Vivian Elmsley business?” Annie asked.
“I don’t know. I’m surprised that neither Elizabeth nor Alice mentioned it.”
“Maybe they didn’t know? Alice said she’s got very poor eyesight, and Elizabeth Goodall didn’t even know why you were visiting her, she pays so little attention to current affairs.”
“True,” said Banks. “And Ruby Kettering left Hobb’s End in 1940, when Gwen was only about fifteen. Definitely worth looking into.”
“So,” said Annie back in the car. “What next?”
“The local nick. I want to see Matthew Shackleton’s file.”
“I thought so. And then?”
“Back to Millgarth.”
“Have we time for a drink and a bite to eat later?”
“Sorry. I’ve got a date.”
She thumped him pl
ayfully. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. With a detective inspector. A male detective inspector called Ken Blackstone. You met him briefly. He gave us the address.”
“I remember him. The snappy dresser. Cute.” If Annie were disappointed, she didn’t show it. Banks explained his tenuous friendship with Ken and how he was in a mood for building bridges. Things seemed to be coming together for him—the cottage, an active investigation, Annie—and he realized that he had been neglecting his friends for too long.
“I see.” Annie said. “A boys’ night out, then?”
“I suppose so.”
She laughed. “I wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall at that one.”
Billy Joe was confined to base for a few weeks. They said his punishment would have been far more severe had not all the witnesses, even Seth’s friends, attested that he didn’t start the fight. Seth was fine, too. At first, I thought Billy Joe had broken the glass in his face, but it had simply fallen off the edge of the table when he had tried to put it back there before preparing to defend himself. All Billy Joe had done was punch Seth in the nose, and everyone agreed it was well deserved.
Gloria never said as much, but I think the incident put her off Billy Joe. She hated violence. Some girls like being fought over. I’ll never forget the primal blood-lust in Cynthia Garmen’s eyes when two soldiers fought over her favours at one of the Harkside dances. She didn’t care who was hitting whom as long as someone was getting hit and blood was flowing. But Gloria wasn’t like that. Violence upset her.
It was while Billy Joe was confined to base that we first met Brad and Charlie.
We were walking out of the Lyceum. It was a miserable February night in 1944, not snowing, but freezing cold, with icicles hanging from the cinema’s eaves. We hadn’t been out for a few days and Gloria was getting depressed with the cold and the hard working conditions at the farm. She needed cheering up.
We had been to see Bette Davis, Paul Henreid and Claude Rains in Now, Voyager, and we were both humming the theme song as we put our coats back on in the foyer before going out into the bitter cold evening.
Before Gloria could dig out her own cigarettes, a young man in a fleece-lined leather jacket walked over, put two cigarettes in his mouth, lit them, then handed one to her. It was the same thing they had done in the film. We doubled over laughing.
In a Dry Season Page 26