In a Dry Season

by Peter Robinson

  “You’re probably right, Jim, but let’s be thorough. Get onto East Anglia and ask them for more details. I’ll ask DS Cabbot to contact the USAFE people again and see if she can find out anything.”

  “Will do.”

  Back in his office, Banks put off phoning Annie at Harkside, smoking a cigarette instead and staring out of the window. A warm slow rain fell on the market square, darkening the cobbles and the ancient market cross. It wasn’t bringing much relief; the air was still sticky and humid. But slowly the clouds were gathering, the humidity increasing. One day soon it would break and the heavens would open. There were only a couple of cars parked in the square, and the few people in evidence ambled around under umbrellas, looking gloomily at the shops. Radio Three was playing a programme of British light music, and Banks recognized the signature theme of “Children’s Favourites.”

  The reason he was avoiding talking to Annie was that Sunday had gone badly after Sandra’s visit. Both Banks and Annie had been on edge, conversation awkward, and she had eventually left just after lunch, forgoing the afternoon walk, claiming she had things to see to back in Harkside. They hadn’t spoken to one another since.

  At the time, Banks had not been sorry to see her go. He was more upset than he had let on by Sandra’s visit, and it annoyed him that he felt that way. After all, she had a new boyfriend, Sean. Why did she have to turn up just then, when everything was going so well? What gave her the right to burst in and act so shocked that he was seeing someone, knocking everyone’s feelings out of kilter? How would she like it if he just dropped in on her and Sean without even phoning first? And he had wanted to talk to her, especially after his little heart-to-heart with Brian. Now God only knew when he would get the chance again.

  He also realized that Sandra had been upset by what she saw, too. The withering coolness and sarcastic tone were her way of reacting to her own discomfort. He still had feelings for her. You can’t just lose your feelings that quickly for someone you loved for so long. Love lost or rejected may first turn to hate, but only over time does it become indifference.

  Finally, he plucked up the courage and picked up the phone. “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “Fine.”

  “You sound distracted.”

  “No, I’m not. Just a bit busy. Really. It’s fine.”

  Banks took a deep breath. “Look, if it’s about Sunday, I’m sorry. I had no idea Sandra was going to turn up. I also didn’t think it would have so much of an effect on you.”

  “Well, you don’t always know about these things till they happen, do you? As I said, I’m fine. Except I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. What’s on your mind?”

  “Okay, if that’s how you want to play it. Get onto your military contacts again and see if you can find out anything about US Air Force presence in Suffolk in 1952.”

  “What about it?”

  “Find out if there were any bases left, for a start. And if there were, which was the nearest one to Hadleigh. If there was one, I’d also like a list of personnel.”

  “Right.”

  “Can you do it today?”

  “I’ll try. Tomorrow at the latest.”

  “Annie?”

  “What?”

  “Can’t we get together and talk about things?”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. Really. Look, you know I’m off home on holiday in a couple of days. I’ve got a lot to do before I go. Maybe when I get back. Okay? In the meantime, I’ll get that information to you as soon as I can. Goodbye.”

  Feeling more depressed than ever after that pointless conversation, Banks glanced at the pile of paper beside the computer on his desk: SOCO search results, post-mortem, forensic odontology. None of it contradicted what they had previously estimated; nor did any of it tell him anything more.

  What would have happened if Gwen had done as she should have and reported finding Gloria’s body? A good copper might have asked around and not simply tried to pin the murder on Matthew. And maybe not. Too late for asking questions now; they were all dead except Vivian. Poor Gloria. She saw Matthew as her penance. Somehow that told Banks more about her than anything else.

  And what if Vivian’s ending was the real lie? The ultimate irony. What if Gwen herself had committed the murder?

  Vivian Elmsley put her book down as the train pulled out of Wakefield Westgate on Thursday. It would only be a few more minutes to Leeds now, and built-up the whole way: a typical Northern industrial landscape of shabby redbrick housing estates, low-rise office buildings, sparkling new shopping centres, factory yards full of stacked pallets wrapped in polythene, kids fishing in the canal, stripped to the waist. The only untypical thing was the sticky sunlight that seemed to encase everything like sugar water.

  The publisher’s rep was supposed to meet Vivian at the station and accompany her to the Metropole Hotel, where she would be staying until Sunday. She had book-signings in Bradford, York and Harrogate, as well as in Leeds, but it made no sense to move everything lock, stock and barrel from one hotel to another every day. The cities were close enough together. The rep would drive her around.

  Not that Vivian needed any help to find the hotel; the Metropole wasn’t more than a couple of hundred yards from City Square, and she knew exactly where it was. She had stayed there with Charlie the time they went to Michael Stanhope’s exhibition in 1944. What an evening they had made of it. After the show, they went to a classical concert and then to the 21 Club, where they had danced until late. That was why she had asked to stay there again this trip. For memory’s sake.

  She was nervous. It wasn’t anything to do with this evening’s reading at Armley Library, or the Radio Leeds interview tomorrow afternoon, but with meeting Chief Inspector Banks and his female sidekick again. She knew they would want to interview her after studying the manuscript; there was no doubt she was guilty of something. But what could she do? She was too old and too tired to run. She was also too old to go to jail. The only way now was to face up to whatever charges might be brought and hope her lawyer would do a good job.

  No one, she supposed, could stop the press finding out the gory details eventually, and there was no doubt that they would go to town on the story. She wasn’t sure she could face public humiliation. Perhaps, if they didn’t arrest her, she would leave the country again, the way she had done so many times with Ronald. Why not? She could work anywhere, and she had enough money to buy a little place somewhere warm: Bermuda, perhaps, or the British Virgin Islands.

  Once again Vivian cast her mind back to the events of fifty years ago. Was there something she had missed? Had she got it all wrong? Had she been so ready to suspect Matthew that she had overlooked the possibility of anyone else being guilty? Banks’s questions about Michael Stanhope and about PX, Billy Joe, Charlie and Brad had shocked and surprised her at first. Now she was beginning to wonder. Could one of them have done it? Not Charlie, certainly—he was dead by then—but what about Brad? He and Gloria had been arguing a lot towards the end; she had even seen them arguing through the flames at the VE-day party. Perhaps the night she died he had gone to put his case forward one last time, and when she turned him down he went berserk? Vivian tried to remember whether Brad had been the kind to go berserk or not, but all she could conclude was that we all are, given the right circumstances.

  Then there was PX. He had certainly lavished a lot of gifts on Gloria in that shy way of his. Perhaps he had hoped for something in return? Something she hadn’t wanted to give? And while Billy Joe seemed to have moved on to other women quite happily, Vivian remembered his bitterness at being ditched for a pilot, the smouldering class resentment that came out as jibes and taunts.

  People said they didn’t have a class system in America, but Billy Joe had definitely been working-class, like the farm labourers in Yorkshire, while Charlie was from a well-established Ivy League background, and Brad had come from new west-coast oil money. Vivian didn’t think the Americans lacked class distinction so much as they
lacked a tradition of inherited aristocratic titles and wealth— which was probably why they all went gaga over British royalty.

  The train was nearing Leeds City Station now, wheels squealing as it negotiated the increasingly complicated system of signals and points. It had been a much faster and easier journey than the one Vivian had made to London and back with Gloria. She remembered the pinprick of blue light, the soldiers snoring, her first look at the desolation of war in the pale dawn light. She had slept most of the way back to Leeds, a six- or seven-hour journey then, and after she got back to Hobb’s End, London had grown more and more distant and magical in her imagination, until it might easily have been Mars or ancient Rome.

  Looking back, she began to wonder if perhaps it was all just a story. As the years race inexorably on, and as all the people we know and love die, does the past turn into fiction, an act of the imagination populated by ghosts, scenes and images suspended forever in water-glass?

  Wearily, Vivian stood up and reached for her overnight bag. There was something else she had steeled herself to do while she was in Leeds, and she had set aside Friday afternoon, after the interview, for it. Before that, though, she would make time to call at the art gallery and see Michael Stanhope’s painting.

  When the phone rang on Thursday morning, Banks snatched the receiver from its cradle so hard he fumbled it and dropped it on the desk before getting a good grip.

  “Alan, what’s going on? You almost deafened me.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “It’s Jenny.”

  “I know. I recognized your voice. How are you?”

  “Well, don’t sound so excited to hear from me.”

  “I’m sorry, Jenny, really. It’s just that I’m expecting an important call.”

  “Your girlfriend?”

  “The case I’m working on.”

  “That one you told me about? The war thing?”

  “It’s the only one I’ve got. Jimmy Riddle’s made sure my cases have been thin on the ground lately.”

  “Well, I won’t take up much of your time. It just struck me that I was rather . . . well, emotional . . . on our last meeting. I want to apologize for dumping all over you, as they say in California.”

  “What are friends for?”

  “Anyway,” Jenny went on. “By way of an apology, I’d like to invite you to dinner. If you think you can tolerate my cooking, that is?”

  “It’s bound to be better than mine.”

  She laughed a little too quickly and a little too nervously. “Don’t count on it. I thought we could, you know, just talk about things over a meal and a bottle of wine. A lot’s happened to both of us this past year.”

  “When?”

  “How about tomorrow, sevenish?”

  “Sounds fine.”

  “Are you sure it won’t cause any problems?”

  “Why should it?”

  “I don’t know . . . I just . . . ” Then her voice brightened.

  “That’s great. I’ll see you tomorrow about seven, then?”

  “You’re on. I’ll pick up some wine.”

  After he hung up, Banks sat back and thought about the invitation. Dinner with Jenny. At her place. That would be interesting. Then he thought about Annie, and that cast a shadow over him. She had basically cut him dead on the phone yesterday. After such quick and surprising intimacy, her coldness came as a shock. It was a long time since he had been given the cold shoulder by a girlfriend he had known for such a short time, and the whole thing brought back shades of adolescent gloom. Time to break out the sad songs again. Cry along with Leonard Cohen and learn how to get the best out of your suffering.

  But he was anxious to hear from Annie about the East Anglia connection. She had said today at the latest, after all. He toyed with the idea of phoning her, but in the end decided against it. Whatever their personal problems, he knew she was a good enough copper to let him know the minute she got the information he’d asked for. Shortly before eleven, she did.

  “I’m sorry for the delay,” she said. “What with time differences and faulty fax machines, well, I’m sure you know . . . ”

  “That’s all right. Just tell me what you’ve discovered.” Banks had already come to one or two conclusions of his own since his last talk with Annie, and he felt the tingling tremor of excitement that usually came as the pieces started to fall together; it was a feeling he hadn’t experienced in quite a while.

  “First off,” Annie said, “there definitely was an American air base near Hadleigh in 1952.”

  “What were they doing there?”

  “Well, the US armed forces cleared out of England after the war, but a lot of them stayed on in Europe, especially Berlin and Vienna. The war hadn’t solved the Russian problem. Anyway, the Americans came back to operate from British air bases in 1948, during the Berlin blockade and airlift. The first thing they did was deploy long-range B-29 bombers from four air bases in East Anglia. All this is from my contact in Ramstein. Apparently, there were so many bases by 1951 that they had to change their organizational structure to deal with them.”

  “Any familiar names?”

  “Just one. Guess who ran the PX?”

  “Edgar Konig.”

  “The very same. You don’t sound so surprised.”

  “Not really. What did you find out about him?”

  “He left Rowan Woods in May 1945 with the rest of the 448th and spent some time in Europe, then he returned to America. He was assigned to the base near Hadleigh in summer 1952.”

  “He stayed in the air force all that time?”

  “Seems that way. I suppose he had a pretty good job.

  Lots of perks. Tell me, why doesn’t it surprise you? Why not one of the other Americans?”

  “The whisky and the Luckies.”

  “What?”

  “In Vivian Elmsley’s manuscript. She said there was a bottle of whisky smashed on the floor and an unopened carton of Lucky Strikes on the kitchen counter. It’s hardly concrete evidence of anything, but I don’t think a carton of Luckies would have stayed unopened for very long in wartime, do you?”

  “Brad could have brought them.”

  “Possible. But it was PX who had easiest access to the stores, PX who always supplied the goodies. The manuscript also mentioned a farewell party at Rowan Woods that night. PX must have got drunk and finally plucked up courage. He’d sneaked out of the base and brought the presents that night. One last-ditch attempt to buy what he yearned for. Gloria resisted and . . . Matthew only came in afterwards, the poor sod. Any idea where PX was between 1945 and 1952?”

  “No. I can ask Mattie to check, if it’s important. You’re thinking there might have been others?”

  “Possibly. Do we know anything more about him?”

  “No. Mattie said she’d try to find out what she can— such as when and why he was discharged and if he’s still alive, but she doesn’t hold out a lot of hope. It’s not their official position to give out such information, but Mattie’s a mystery fan and it seems I’ve piqued her curiosity. She’s become quite an ally.”

  “Good. See what you can do. Let’s see if we can link him to any other murders. How old would he be now if he were still alive?”

  “According to Mattie’s information, he’d be about seventy-five.”

  “A possibility, then.”

  “Could be. I’ll talk to you later.”

  When Annie had hung up, Banks felt restless. Some-times waiting was the most difficult part; that was when he smoked too much and paced up and down, bad habits from his Met days he hadn’t quite got rid of. There were a couple of things he could do in the meantime. First, he dialled Jenny Fuller’s number.

  “Alan,” she said. “Don’t tell me you want to cancel?”

  “No, no. It’s nothing like that. Actually, I need you to do a little favour for me.”

  “Of course. If I can.”

  “Didn’t you say at lunch the other day that you trained with the FBI profilers?�
�

  “At Quantico. Yes. And you said you thought profiling was a load of bollocks.”

  “Forget that for now. Do you have any contacts there? Anyone close enough to ask a personal favour. It might be a bit quicker than an official request.”

  Jenny paused a moment. “Well, there is one fellow, yes. Why do you ask?”

  Banks filled her in on the new developments, then said, “This Edgar Konig, I’d like you to ask your friend to check his record. If he’s the sort of man I think he is, the odds are that he’ll have one. DS Cabbot’s working with the military authorities, but any information they can supply us with is limited.”

  “I’m sure Bill will be happy to oblige, if he can,” said Jenny. “Just let me get a pencil, then you can tell me what you want to know.”

  When Banks had finished giving Jenny the details, he asked DS Hatchley to call East Anglia and find out if a US airman called Edgar Konig had ever been questioned or suspected in connection with the Brenda Hamilton murder. After that, he sat back and told himself there was no rush. Nobody was running anywhere. Even if Konig did turn out to be the killer, even if he were still alive, there was no way he could know the North Yorkshire Police were onto him after all this time.

  Nineteen

  On Friday, the rep dropped Vivian back at her hotel a little later than she had expected. There had been a delay at the radio station when the sound technician discovered, halfway through the interview, that Vivian’s microphone was faulty. She had to do the whole thing again. It was after four o’clock when she got out of the car, and the sky looked heavy and dark, the air crackling with pre-storm tension. In the distance, she could hear hesitant rumbles of thunder and see faint lighting flashes. Even the Metropole’s façade, lovingly restored to its original orange terracotta, looked as black as it had when she had stayed there with Charlie all those years ago.

  She would have liked nothing better than to rest in her room for an hour or so, perhaps take a long bath, but it would be fully dark before long. She supposed she could put off her trip and go another time. Tomorrow would be taken up with signings in York and Harrogate, but she could always catch a later train and make the visit on Sunday morning. No. She would not procrastinate. There was also something ironically appealing to the writer in her about visiting the place during a storm.