“Not that I know of. They were simply part of a group we went around with. Though Billy Joe, I remember, did have a violent temper, and PX was rather smitten with Gloria.”
“Did she go out with him?”
“Not to my knowledge. You couldn’t… he wasn’t… I mean, he just seemed so young and so shy.”
“Did you notice any blood in Bridge Cottage after Gloria’s disappearance?”
“No. Obviously, if I had done, I would have been suspicious and called the police. But then I can’t say I was actually looking for blood.”
“Not one little spot? Nothing that might, in retrospect, have been blood?”
“Nothing. Anyway, what makes you think she was killed in Bridge Cottage?”
“It’s a logical assumption.”
“She could have been killed outside, in the backyard, or even in the outbuilding where you found her remains.”
“Possibly,” Banks allowed. “Even so, whoever did it was very thorough. What happened next?”
“Nothing. We just carried on. Actually, we only stayed on in the village a few weeks longer, then we got a council house in Leeds.”
“I know. I’ve seen it.”
“I can’t imagine why you’d want to do that.”
“So you’re saying you have absolutely no idea what happened to Gloria?”
“None at all. As I said, I simply thought she couldn’t face life with Matthew anymore – in his condition – so she ran off and started up elsewhere.”
“Did you think she might have run off with Brad Szikorski, arranged to meet him over in America or something? After all, the Four Hundred Forty-Eighth Bomber Group moved out around the same time, didn’t they?”
“I suppose it crossed my mind. It was always possible that she had ended up in America.”
“Did it not surprise you that she never got in touch?”
“It did. But there was nothing I could do about it if she wanted to disappear, sever all ties. As I said, she’d done it before.”
“Did you ever try to find her?”
“No.”
“Did anyone?”
“Not that I know of.”
“What about Matthew?”
“What about him?”
“Did you kill him?”
“I did not. He committed suicide.”
“Why?”
“It wasn’t related to Gloria’s disappearance. He was ill, confused, depressed, in pain. I did my best for him, but it was ultimately no use.”
“He shot himself, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“With a Colt forty-five automatic.”
“Was it? I’m afraid I know nothing about guns.”
“Where did he get the gun?”
“The gun? I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”
“Simple question, Ms. Elmsley. Where did Matthew get the gun he shot himself with?”
“He always had it.”
“Always? Since when?”
“I don’t know. Since he came back from the war, I suppose. I can’t remember when I first saw it.”
“From the Japanese POW camp?”
“Yes.”
Banks got to his feet, shaking his head.
“What’s wrong, Chief Inspector?” Vivian asked, hand plucking at the turkey flap at the base of her throat.
“Everything,” said Banks. “None of it makes any sense. Think over what you’ve just told us, will you? You’re telling us you believed that Gloria simply upped sticks and left without leaving a note, taking her clothes and a few personal belongings with her in a cardboard suitcase. If you’re telling the truth, then whoever killed Gloria must have packed the suitcase and either taken it away with him or buried it somewhere to make it look as if she had run off. Then, five years later, your brother Matthew shot himself with an American service revolver he just happened to bring back from a Japanese POW camp. You write detective novels. Ask yourself if your Inspector Niven would believe it. Ask yourself if your readers would believe it.” He reached in his pocket. “Here’s my card. I want you to think seriously about our little talk. We’ll be back. Soon. Don’t bother yourself, we’ll see ourselves out.”
Once they were out in the hot street again, Annie turned to Banks, whistled and said, “What was all that about?”
“All what?”
“She was lying. Couldn’t you tell?”
“Of course she was.” Banks looked at his watch. “Want to grab a bite to eat?”
“Yes. I’m starving.”
They found a small café and sat outside. Annie had a Greek salad, and Banks went for the prosciutto, Provolone and sliced red-onion sandwich.
“But why was she lying?” Annie asked when they had sat down with their food. “I don’t get it.”
Banks swatted a fly away from his sandwich. “She’s protecting herself. Or someone else.”
“After seeing her,” Annie said, “I’d say she was probably big and strong enough to kill and bury Gloria. Fifty years ago, anyway. Did you notice her hands?”
“Yes. And Gloria Shackleton was petite.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Nothing,” said Banks. “We’ll leave her to stew overnight and then have another go at her tomorrow. I get the impression she has a lot on her conscience. There was a definite struggle going on inside her. If I’m right, she’s near the end of her tether on this. It’s amazing how guilt has a way of gnawing away at you through the small hours. She wants to tell the truth, but she still has a few things to weigh up, to settle with herself; she doesn’t quite know how to go about it yet. It’s like that character in her book.”
“The one you were reading on the train?”
“Guilty Secrets, yes.”
“And what did he do?”
Banks smiled and put his finger to his lips. “That would be telling. I wouldn’t want to spoil the ending for you.”
Annie thumped his arm. “Bastard. And in the meantime?”
“Vivian Elmsley’s not going to do a runner. She’s too old and too tired to run. She also has nowhere to go. First, we’ll go see if we can find Francis Henderson.”
“And then?”
“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to head out to Bethnal Green and see my son. His band’s playing there. We’ve got a few things to talk over.”
“Of course. I understand. Maybe I’ll go to the pictures. What about later?”
“Remember that naughty weekend you mentioned?”
Annie nodded.
“I don’t know if you’re still interested, but there’s this discreet little hotel out Bloomsbury way. And it is Friday. Even CID get to work regular hours sometimes. We’ll let Vivian Elmsley sleep on it. If she can.”
Annie blushed. “But I didn’t bring my toothbrush.”
Banks laughed. “I’ll buy you one.”
“Last of the big spenders.” She turned to him, the corner of her mouth twitching in a smile. “I didn’t bring my nightie, either.”
“Don’t worry,” said Banks. “You won’t need your nightie.”
FIFTEEN
Over the next couple of weeks, as I continued to mourn Charlie, I noticed no improvement in Matthew’s condition. He remained at Bridge Cottage with Gloria. I don’t really think it mattered to him at that point where he was, if indeed he even knew, as long as his basic creature comforts were taken care of. There wasn’t a day went by when I didn’t spend time sitting with him, talking to him, though he never responded and hardly even acknowledged that he heard; he just stared off into space with that intense inward gaze of his, as if looking on horrors and agonies we could never even imagine in our wildest nightmares.
The London doctor was as good as his word and we soon got Matthew fixed up with Dr. Jennings, a psychiatrist attached to the staff of the University of Leeds. He had his office in one of those big old houses in the streets behind the campus, houses where large families with servants used to live before the First War. Once a week, either I or Gloria would take him to his appointment, spend an hour or so looking around the shops, then collect him and take him home. Dr. Jennings admitted to me privately on the third visit that he was having little success with straightforward methods and that he was considering narcosynthesis, despite the problems.