“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 prizing 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 playfully. “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 was 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 Billie 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 favors 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 and Paul Henreid 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.
“Brad,” said the young man. “Brad Szikorski. And this is my pal Charlie Markleson.”
Gloria did a little mock curtsy. “Charmed to meet you, I’m sure.”
“We’re with the Four Hundred Forty-Eighth? Over at Rowan Woods?” Though they were statements, they sounded like questions. I had noticed this before with both Americans and Canadians. “I don’t mean to be forward,” said Brad, “but would you ladies care to honor us by joining us for a drink?”
We exchanged glances. I could tell Gloria wanted to go. Brad was tall and handsome, with a twinkle in his eye and a little Clark Gable mustache. I looked at Charlie, who was probably destined to be my companion for the evening, and I had to admit I quite liked what I saw. About the same age as Brad, he had intelligent eyes, if a little puppy-dog, and a rather pale, thin face. His nose was too big, and it had a bump in the middle, but then mine was nothing to write home about, either. He also seemed reserved and serious. All in all, he’d do. At least for a drink.
We walked across to the Black Swan. The village green was deserted and the ice crackled under our feet. Icicles hung from the branches and twigs of the chestnut trees and frost covered the bark. If it hadn’t been so cold, I could have imagined they were blossoms in May. Behind us, the illuminated sign over the Lyceum went off. Even in the blackout, cinemas, shops and a few other establishments were allowed a small measure of light, unless the air-raid siren went off. Ahead, St. Jude’s was partially lit, and close by stood the Black Swan, with its familiar timber-and-whitewash facade and sagging roof. We could hear the sounds of talking and laughter from inside, but heavy blackout curtains covered the mullioned windows.
The pub was crowded and we were lucky to get a table. Brad went to the bar for drinks while we took our coats off. A meager fire burned in the hearth, but with all the warm bodies in there, it was enough. Also, in the Black Swan, Brad and Charlie weren’t the only Americans; it seemed to be a popular place among the Rowan Woods crowd, and there were even some GIs from the army base near Otley. They were loud and they used hand gestures a lot; they also seemed to push and shove one another a lot, in a friendly way, as children do.