“No problem. In the meantime I’ll see if I can get any more information on the airmen.”
After Annie hung up, Banks walked over to the window and looked out over the square, with its ancient market cross and square-towered church, gray-gold in the sunlight. He thought about Vivian Elmsley. Could she really be Gwen Shackleton? It seemed a preposterous idea, but stranger things had happened. He decided it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a go at one or two of Vivian Elmsley’s books before he set off to interview her. Her writing might give him some insight into her character.
He tried dialing Brian’s Wimbledon number again. Still nothing. Ken Blackstone was right, though; all he could do for the moment was keep on trying. If he was going to London tomorrow, he hoped he might be able to see Brian, have a talk, get things sorted. He didn’t want Brian to keep on thinking his father was disappointed in him for what he was doing, the way Banks’s own father always made clear his dismay at Banks’s choice of career, even now, every time they met.
Banks went back to his desk. For about the third time since the case began, he spread out the objects found with Gloria Shackleton’s body before him. Not much for the remnants of a life, or the detritus of a death: a locket whose original heart shape had been squashed and bent; a corroded wedding ring; clips from a brassiere or suspenders; a pair of tiny, deformed leather shoes, which reminded him of the ones he had seen at the Brontë parsonage once; a few scraps of blackout cloth; and the button from Adam Kelly, greenish-blue with verdigris. Superintendent Gristhorpe might be able to tell him a bit about the button, he thought. Gristhorpe was a bit of an expert on military history, especially the Second World War.
Banks grabbed his jacket and was just about to leave the office when his phone rang.
“Hello, Alan.”
A woman’s voice.
“Yes?”
“It’s me. Jenny. Jenny Fuller. Don’t you recognize my voice?”
“Jenny. It’s been a long time. Where are you?”
“Home. Just got back yesterday. Look-”
“A bit early, aren’t you?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’m glad you called. I need some advice.”
“If it’s personal, I’m the last person to ask, believe me.”
“Professional?”
“I might be able to manage that. The reason I was phoning is, I know I shouldn’t bother you at work and all, but I’m in town and I wondered if you’ve got time for lunch?”
Banks had intended to drive out to Lyndgarth to see Gristhorpe, who was taking his annual holidays at home, but that could wait until after. “Queen’s Arms, half-twelve?”
“Wonderful. I’ll see you there.”
Banks smiled as he put down the receiver. He hadn’t seen Jenny Fuller in almost a year, not since she’d decided to take a leave of absence from the University of York to teach in California. That was around the time he and Sandra had split up. He had received a couple of postcards asking how he was doing, but that was all.
Jenny was one of the two women his colleagues expected him to sleep with after Sandra left. Perhaps he would have slept with her if she had been around. But timing is everything. Jenny was spending most of her time in California these days, and there was a man at the bottom of that. The other friend, Pamela Jeffries, feeling restless and hemmed in, had taken off to play in an orchestra in Australia, of all places, and he hadn’t seen her for months. Again, he got the occasional postcard from such exotic locales as Sydney, Melbourne, Adelaide and Perth. It made him want to travel more, too.
Now he and Jenny were having lunch in about an hour’s time. Just enough time, in fact, to prepare his questions on Matthew Shackleton and nip over to Waterstone’s for a couple of Vivian Elmsley’s novels.
For some reason I was standing out in the street to check the window display (which was pretty meager) when I glanced to my left and saw him coming across the fairy bridge. I had just heard the train arrive, so I assumed that he had come from the station. The wind howled around the chimneys, and clouds as black as a Nazi’s heart besmirched the sky like grease stains. There was nobody else about. That was why I noticed him. That, and the fact that he was wearing only an overlarge, baggy brown suit and carrying no luggage.
He was tall but stooped, as if suffering some affliction of the spine, and he walked with a sturdy stick. He moved slowly, almost like a figure in a dream, as if he knew where he was going, but felt no hurry to get there. His frame was thin to the point of emaciation. As he came closer, I realized that he wasn’t as old as I had first thought, though his lank, lifeless hair was tinged here and there with gray, or white.
The wind tugged at my hair and clothes and chilled me to the marrow, but something about him compelled me to stand and watch, as if in a trance. When he got within a few feet of the shop, I saw his eyes. Deep, hollow, haunted eyes, turned completely inward, as if he was subjecting himself to a most intense and unflinching scrutiny.
He saw me, though, and he stopped.
I don’t know when the truth dawned on me; it could have been seconds; it could have been minutes. But I started to shake like a leaf and it had nothing to do with the cold. I ran to him and threw my arms around him but his body felt stiff and unyielding as a tree. I caressed his cheek with my palm, noticing the puckered white scar that curved up from the side of his mouth in an ugly parody of a grin. Tears were pouring down my cheeks.
“Matthew!” I cried. “Oh my God. Matthew!” And I took his arm and led him inside to Mother.
Banks walked into the Queen’s Arms a couple of minutes before twelve-thirty carrying two of Vivian Elmsley’s paperback mysteries in his Waterstone’s bag. He bought a pint and sat down at a table near the empty fireplace. Jenny was always late, he remembered, opening the bag and looking at the books.
One was a suspense novel called Guilty Secrets – certainly an interesting title from Banks’s point of view – which bore review quotes from the Sunday Times, Scotland on Sunday, the Yorkshire Post, and the Manchester Evening News, all to the general effect that it was an “amazing” and “disturbing” achievement by one of our best mystery writers, a true equal of P. D. James and Ruth Rendell.
The other was called The Shadow of Death and featured her regular series character, Detective Inspector Niven. In this one, he was called on to investigate the murder of an upmarket Shepherd’s Bush restaurateur. Banks didn’t even know that such a creature existed. As far as he could remember, there weren’t any upmarket restaurants in Shepherd’s Bush. Still, it was a long time since he’d been there, so he gave her the benefit of the doubt. Anyway, the novel was praised for its “compassionate realism in the portrayal of ordinary people” and its “believable depictions of policemen’s lives and police procedures.” Banks smiled. He’d see about that. On the cover was a picture of the handsome, craggy-faced young actor who, so the blurb informed Banks, played DI Niven on the television series. And got paid far more than a real copper did.
He was on page 10 when Jenny dashed in, out of breath, tousled red hair flaming around her face as she looked this way and that. When she saw him she waved, patted her chest and hurried over. She bent and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Sorry I’m late. My God, you look awful.”
Banks smiled and raised his glass. “Hair of the dog.”
Jenny picked up the paperback he had set down on the table and turned up her nose. “I didn’t think this sort of thing was up your alley.”
“Work.”
“Aha.” She raised her eyebrows. The California tan looked good on her, Banks thought. The sun hadn’t burned her, the way it did with most redheads, only darkened the natural creams and reds of her complexion and brought out her freckles, especially across her nose. Her figure looked as good as ever in tight black jeans and a loose jade silk top.