Gristhorpe gazed at a point in space somewhere above Fremlington Edge. “This Annie Cabbot,” he said. “What’s she like?”
Banks felt himself blush. “She’s good,” he said.
“Too good for a godforsaken outpost like Harksmere?”
“I think so.”
“Then what’s she doing there?”
“I don’t know.” Banks glanced sideways at Gristhorpe. “Maybe she pissed somebody off, like I did.”
Gristhorpe narrowed his eyes. “Alan,” he said, “I don’t approve of what you did last year, taking off like that without so much as a by-your-leave. You dropped me right in it. I can see why you did it. I might even have done it myself in your place. But I can’t condone it. And while it pulled your chestnuts out of the fire in one sense, it’s probably dropped them in it in another way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jimmy Riddle already hated you. He also hates being proved wrong, especially after he’s done his crowing to the press. Your maverick actions helped solve the case, but now he hates you even more. I can’t do anything for you. You must be aware your grasp at Eastvale is pretty tenuous, to say the least.”
Banks stood up. “I’m not asking for any favors.”
“Sit down, Alan. Hear me out.”
Banks sat and fumbled for a cigarette. “I’d probably have looked for a transfer before now,” he said, “but I’ve had a few other things on my mind.”
“Aye, I know. And I know you’d not ask for any favors, either. That’s not your way. I might have a bit of good news for you, though, if you can promise to keep it to yourself.”
“Good news. That makes a change.”
“Between you and me and the stone wall, Jimmy Riddle might not be around much longer.”
Banks could hardly believe his ears. “What? Riddle’s retiring? At his age?”
“A little bird tells me that the crooked finger of politics beckons. As you know, he can’t enter into that as a copper, so you tell me what the logical solution is.”
“Politics?”
“Aye. His local Conservative member is practically gaga. Not that anyone would notice something like that much in the House. High-echelon rumor has it that Riddle has already had several interviews with the selections committee and they’re pleased with him. Like I said, Alan, this is just between you and me.”
“Of course.”
“There’s no guarantee he’ll go. Or get elected, for that matter. Though the Conservative seat around here is so secure they could put Saddam Hussein up and he’d probably win it. Even if Riddle does go, he’ll leave a bad smell around and swear it’s yours. So I’m not saying there’s no damage done. For a start, a lot depends on whether we get a CC who can tell the smell of shit from perfume.”
Banks began to feel a sort of warm glow deep inside. An interesting case. Annie Cabbot. Now this. Maybe there was a God, after all. Maybe his dry season really was coming to an end.
“Do you know,” he said, “it might even be worth voting Conservative, just to make sure the bastard wins his seat.”
Charlie was killed on the nineteenth of March during a big raid over Berlin. Their Flying Fortress got badly shot up by a Messerschmidt. Brad managed to fly the burning airplane back across the Channel and land in an airfield in Sussex, only to find Charlie and two other members of his crew dead. Brad himself escaped with cuts and bruises and after a couple of days’ observation in hospital, he returned to Rowan Woods.
Coming right after Matthew’s return, this news was almost impossible for me to bear. Poor, gentle Charlie, with his poetry and his puppy-dog eyes. Gone.
When Brad got back from Sussex, he came over to the shop with a bottle of bourbon and told me the news in person. Though he had only known Charlie a couple of years, during that time they had become close friends. He tried to explain the kind of bond that is forged between pilot and navigator. I could tell he was devastated by what happened. He blamed himself and felt guilty about his own survival.
Gloria was busy taking care of Matthew and she had told Brad she couldn’t see him again, that it would only upset her and would do them no good. Brad was angry and upset about her rejection, but there was nothing he could do except come to me and pour his heart out.
We sat in the small room above the shop after Mother had gone to bed, drank bourbon and smoked Luckies. We had the Home Service on the wireless and Vivien Leigh was reading poetry by Christina Rossetti and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Neither of us said very much; there was nothing, really, to say. Charlie was gone, and there was an end to it. Poetry filled our periods of silence.
Not far down the High Street, Gloria – who adored Vivien Leigh, I remembered from our very first meeting – was devoting her time to caring for a man who couldn’t speak, wouldn’t communicate and probably didn’t even know who she was. She was spoon-feeding him, bathing him, for all I knew, with no end in sight. That was what our lives had been reduced to by the war: the essence of misery and hopelessness.
The bottle lay empty; my head spun; the room reeked of cigarette smoke. “‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways,’” read Vivien Leigh. How Charlie hated such maudlin poetry. I let my head rest on Brad’s shoulder and cried.
Banks went home early on Thursday evening. He didn’t need to be in his office to prepare a list of questions for Vivian Elmsley, and he was far more comfortable at the pine table in his kitchen, a mug of strong tea beside him, Arvo Pärt’s Stabat Mater on the stereo, and the early-evening light, gold as autumn leaves, flooding through the window behind him.
When he had made a list of the essential things he wanted to know, he went through to the living room and tried Brian’s number yet again.
On the fifth ring, someone answered.
“Yeah?”
“Brian?”
“Andy. Who’s calling?”
“His father.”
Pause. “Just a sec.”
Banks heard muffled voices, then a few moments later, Brian came on the phone. “Dad?”
“Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all week.”
“Playing holiday resorts in South Wales. We were doing some gigs with the Dancing Pigs. Look, Dad, I told you, we’ve got gigs coming out of our ears. We’re busy. You weren’t interested.”
Banks paused. He didn’t want to blow it this time, but he was damned if he was going to grovel to his own son. “That’s not the point,” he said. “I don’t think it’s out of line for a father to express some concern at his son’s sudden change of plans, do you?”
“You know I’m into the band. You’ve always known I’ve loved music. Dad, it was you who bought me that guitar for my sixteenth birthday. Don’t you remember?”
“Of course I do. All I’m saying is that you have to give it a little time to sink in. It’s a shock, that’s all. We were all expecting you to come out with a good degree and start working at a good firm somewhere. Music’s a great hobby but a risky living.”
“So you keep saying. We’re doing all right. Anyway, did you always do what your parents wanted you to?”
Low blow, Banks thought. Almost never would have been the truth, but he wasn’t ready to admit to that. “Not always,” he said. “Look, I’m not saying you aren’t old enough to make your own decisions. Just think about it, that’s all.”
“I have thought about it. This is what I want to do.”
“Have you spoken to your mother?”
Banks swore he could almost hear the guilt in Brian’s pause. “She’s always out when I call,” he said at last.
Bollocks, Banks thought. “Well, keep trying.”
“I still think it would come better from you.”
“Brian, if it’s your decision, you can take responsibility for it. Believe me, it won’t come any better from me.”