“What do you mean, she had nothing to do with it?” Frank said. “She told my father that my mother had gone away, when all the while she was buried up here. She lied. Why would she do that unless she’d killed her, or knew who had?”
“As far as she was concerned,” Banks said, “your mother had gone away. She had spoken about running away often since Matthew got back from the war. He’d been badly hurt by the Japanese. He wasn’t the man she had married. Life was miserable for her. It seemed only natural to everyone who knew her that she’d go, just like she left you and your father in the first place.”
“No!”
Frank’s grip tightened on Vivian’s throat and she gasped. Banks felt his heart lurch. He held his hands out, palms toward Frank.
“Okay, Frank,” he went on. “Calm down. Please. Calm down and listen to me.”
They waited a moment, the four of them, all silent but for the pattering of the rain and the storm disappearing into the distance, the occasional crackle of a police radio from the rim.
Then Banks felt things relax, the same way as when you undo a tight button. “Matthew drove her away,” he went on. “It was only natural for Gwen to assume that was what happened. Your mother’s suitcase was gone. Her things were gone.”
Frank didn’t say anything for at least a minute. Banks could see him processing information, trying to shore up his defenses. The storm passed into the distance now and the rain eased off, leaving the four of them soaked to the skin.
“If it wasn’t her, who was it?” Frank said eventually. “I’ll bet you can’t tell me that, can you?”
“I can, Frank.” Annie stepped forward and spoke. Frank turned to her and blinked the rain out of his eyes.
“Who?” Frank asked. “And don’t you lie to me.”
“His name was Edgar Konig,” Annie said. “He ran the PX at Rowan Woods USAAF base, about a mile from here.”
“PX?” Vivian gasped.
“I don’t believe you,” said Frank.
“It’s true,” said Banks, picking up the thread. He realized that Annie didn’t have the full story yet. “Konig killed your mother. He also killed at least one other woman over here the same way, down at East Anglia. There were others, too, in Europe and America.”
Frank shook his head slowly.
“Listen to me, Frank. Edgar Konig knew your mother and her friends from the dances they went to. He was attracted to her from the start, but he had serious problems with women. He was always tongue-tied around them. He brought her presents, but even then she didn’t offer herself to him, she wouldn’t help him overcome his shyness. She went out with other men. He watched and waited. All the time the pressure was building up in him.”
“You say he killed other women?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know it was him?”
“We found a collar button from an American airman’s uniform. We think your mother must have torn it off as they struggled. Then we looked into the unsolved murder in Suffolk and found he had been questioned in connection with that, too. Are you listening, Frank?”
“I’m listening.”
Frank’s grip around Vivian’s throat had loosened a little, and Banks could tell that he had relaxed the hand holding the gun. “Edgar Konig went to Bridge Cottage that night to collect what he thought your mother owed him while her husband Matthew was at the pub as usual. The bomber group was due to move out in a couple of days and that had pushed him to the brink. He didn’t have much time. He’d been torturing himself for over a year. He’d been drinking that night, getting more and more lustful, and he thought he had plucked up the courage, thought he could overcome his inadequacies. Something short-circuited, though. She must have rejected him, maybe laughed at him, and the next thing he knew he’d killed her in a rage. Do you understand what I’m saying, Frank? There was something wrong with him.”
“A psycho?”
“No. Not technically. Not at first, anyway. He became a sex murderer. The two things – sex and murder – became tangled up in his mind. The one demanded the other.”
“If that’s how it happened, why did no one know about it?”
Slowly, Banks reached for his cigarettes and offered Frank one. “Gave them up years back,” he said. “Thanks for the offer, though.”
Banks lit up. Definite progress. Frank seemed less tightly wound, more willing to listen to reason. And he didn’t appear to be drunk or on drugs. Better not cock it up now.
“No one knew about it,” Banks went on, “because Edgar Konig realized what he’d done. That sobered him up fast. He covered his tracks well.” Banks looked at Vivian Elmsley as he spoke. She averted her eyes. “He cleaned up the mess and he buried the body in the outbuilding. Then he packed a few of her clothes and belongings in a suitcase to make it look as though she had run off. He even faked a note. It was wartime. People went missing all the time. Everyone in the village knew Gloria wasn’t happy with Matthew, what a burden she had to bear. Why should they question that she’d just done a moonlight?”
Frank spoke in Vivian’s ear. “Is that right, what he’s saying?”
Banks couldn’t hear her, but he saw her mouth form the word “Yes.”
“Frank,” Banks pressed on, playing his advantage. “The gun. I know you don’t want to hurt anyone, but it’s dangerous. It’s easy to make a wrong move. Nobody’s been hurt yet. No harm’s been done.”
Frank looked at the gun as if he were seeing it for the first time.
Banks stepped onto the fairy bridge and moved forward slowly, holding his hand out. He knew there were probably two or three trained marksmen aiming in his direction, and the thought made his stomach churn. “Give the gun to me, Frank. It’s all over. Vivian didn’t kill your mother. She had nothing to do with it. She loved Gloria like a sister. It was Edgar Konig.”
Frank let his gun hand drop and released his grip on Vivian Elmsley’s throat. She staggered aside and slipped down one of the muddy holes the SOCOs had dug in the Bridge Cottage floor. Annie ran to help her. Frank handed the gun to Banks. It weighed heavy in his hand. “What happened to him?” Frank asked. “This Konig. Did he ever get caught?”
“I’ll tell you all about that later, Frank,” said Banks, taking Frank by the elbow. “Just for now, though, we’re all a bit tired and wet. Okay? I think we should leave here, go somewhere to dry off and get some clean clothes, don’t you?”
Frank hung his head. Banks draped an arm across his shoulder. As he did so, he noticed something on the ground, partially covered by mud. He bent and picked it up. It was a photograph of a sixteen-year-old Gloria Shackleton, her beautiful, determined, defiant face staring out at the camera. It was damaged by the water, but still salvageable.
Several police officers had already come dashing and sliding down the embankment. Two went to help Annie get Vivian out of the pit, and two of them grabbed Frank roughly and started handcuffing him.
“There’s no need to be so rough with him,” said Banks.
“Leave this to us, sir,” said one of the officers.
Banks sighed and handed over the gun, then he held up the photograph of Gloria. “I’ll get this cleaned up for you, if you want, Frank,” he said.
Frank nodded. “Please,” he said. “And don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right. It’s not the first time I’ve had the cuffs on.”
Banks nodded. “I know.”
They hustled Frank Stringer away, practically dragging him up the muddy slope, and Banks turned to see Annie and the other policemen helping Vivian Elmsley stumble over the fairy bridge.
Vivian stopped in front of him, covered in mud while the others went on ahead. “Thank you,” she said. “You saved my life.”