“Yes.”
“Well, I was sort of expecting something might happen, and I didn’t know if I was ready for it yet. I was going to tell you I was a lesbian. Just to let you down lightly, to make you think it wasn’t anything personal, you know, that it wasn’t that I didn’t fancy you or anything, but that I just didn’t go for men. I’d got it all worked out.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“When the time came, I didn’t want to. Believe me, I was probably just as surprised as you were about what happened. Just as scared. I know I invited you to my house and fed you drinks, but I really wasn’t planning to seduce you.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
“I was going to offer you the couch.”
“And I would have accepted gracefully.”
“But when it came to it, I wanted you. I was terrified. It was the first time since the night I’ve just told you about. But I wanted to do it as well. I suppose I wanted to overcome my fear. Sometimes it’s the only way.”
They walked along Charing Cross Road, past all the closed bookshops, and crossed Oxford Street. As they turned onto Great Russell Street, Annie slipped her arm through Banks’s. It was only the second time they had had any little intimate physical contact in public, and it felt good: the warmth, the gentle pressure. Annie leaned her head a little so it rested on his shoulder; her hair tickled his cheek.
Neither of them had been to the hotel yet; Banks had simply phoned earlier to book a room and said they would be arriving late. It was only a small place. He had stayed there twice before while on police business in London – both times alone – and had been impressed by the general cleanliness and level of service, not to mention the reasonable rates.
They passed the dark mass of the British Museum, set back behind its railings and courtyard, then crossed Russell Square. Conversation and laughter carried on the night air from a pub around the corner. A couple walked by, arms wrapped around one another.
“Here we are,” said Banks. “Did you buy a toothbrush?”
“Yup.” Annie held up one of her bags. “And a new pair of jeans, new shoes, a skirt and blouse, undies.”
“You really did go shopping, didn’t you?”
“Hey. It’s not often I get to the big city. I bought a nightie, too.”
“I thought I said you wouldn’t need one.”
She laughed and moved closer. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s only a little nightie. I promise you’ll like it.” And they walked up the stone steps to the hotel.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the gun. Usually, the way the scene ran in my mind was that Gloria shot Matthew first and then herself. The images were so vivid I could even see the blood gush from their wounds. Finally, I determined I had to do something.
As I said, I had a key to Bridge Cottage. It wasn’t that Matthew locked himself in, but he sometimes wouldn’t bother getting up to answer the door. Most of the time he was in a sort of comatose state from alcohol anyway. When he wasn’t at the pub he was sipping whiskey at home. Whiskey that Gloria got from PX.
So the next time it was Gloria’s turn to take Matthew to see Dr. Jennings in Leeds, I let myself in. Even if someone saw me, it wouldn’t seem at all strange because I was in and out of Bridge Cottage all the time and everyone in the village knew about Matthew’s condition.
I found the gun in the same place Gloria had left it: behind the cocoa and tea in the kitchen cupboard. I put it in the shopping bag I had brought with me, put the cupboard back in order and left. I didn’t know how long it would take her to miss it, but the best I could hope for was that by the time she did she wouldn’t feel the need for it anymore and would realize what a favor I had done her.
We can be such fools for love, can’t we?
SIXTEEN
It was about eleven o’clock on Saturday morning when Banks and Annie arrived back at Vivian Elmsley’s building. Before Banks could even press the buzzer, the door opened and Vivian almost bumped into them.
“Going somewhere, Ms. Elmsley?” asked Banks.
“You?” She put her hand to her heart. “I didn’t think… so soon… I was just… you’d better come in.”
They followed her upstairs to the flat. She was carrying a large buff envelope, which she dropped on the hall table as she entered the room. Banks glanced at it, saw his name and the Eastvale station address on it.
She turned to face them as they entered her living room. “I suppose I should thank you for coming back,” she said. “You’ve saved me the postage.”
“What were you sending me?” Banks asked. “A confession?”
“Of sorts. Yes. I suppose you could call it that.”
“So you were lying yesterday?”
“Fiction’s my trade. Sometimes I can’t help it.”
“You should know the difference.”
“Between what?”
“Fiction and reality.”
“I’ve learned to leave that to the most arrogant among us. They’re the only ones who seem to think they know everything.” She turned, walked back to the hall and picked up the envelope. “Anyway,” she went on, handing it to Banks, “I’m sorry for being flippant. I’ve found this whole thing extremely difficult. I tend to hide behind language when I’m frightened. I’d like you to grant me the favor of taking this away with you and reading it. I had a copy made this morning. If you’re worried about my fleeing from justice, please don’t. I’m not going to run anywhere, I promise you.”
“Why the change of heart?”
“Conscience, would you believe? I thought I could live with it, but I can’t. The telephone calls didn’t help, either. In the early hours of the morning, I arrived at the end of a long struggle, and I decided to tell the truth. What you do with it once you know is up to you. I’d just rather do things this way than answer a lot of questions at the moment. I think it will help you understand. Of course, you’ll have questions eventually. I have to be in Leeds next week to do some book-signings, so you’ll soon have the opportunity. Will you allow me this much, at least?”
It was an unusual request, and if Banks were to go by the book, he wouldn’t let a murder suspect hand him a written “confession,” then go away and leave her to her own devices. But it was time for a judgment call. This had been an unusual case right from the start, and he believed that Vivian Elmsley wasn’t going anywhere. She was in the public eye, and he didn’t think she had anywhere to run, even if she wanted to. The other possibility was suicide. It was a risk, to be certain, but he decided to take it. If Vivian Elmsley wanted to kill herself rather than suffer through a criminal trial that cost the taxpayers thousands and drew the media like blood draws leeches, who was Banks to judge her? If Jimmy Riddle found out about it, of course, Banks’s career wouldn’t be worth a toss, but since when had he let thoughts of Jimmy Riddle get in his way?
“You mentioned telephone calls,” he said. “What do you mean?”
“Anonymous calls. Sometimes he says things, others he just hangs up.”
“What kind of things does he say?”
“Nothing, really. He just sounds vaguely threatening. And he calls me Gwen Shackleton.”
“Have you any idea who it might be?”
“No. It wouldn’t be too difficult for anyone to find out my real name, and my number’s in the directory. But why?”
“What about the accent? Is it American?”
“No. But it’s hard to say exactly what it is. The voice sounds muffled, as if he’s speaking through a handkerchief or something.”
Banks thought for a moment. “We can’t really do anything about it. I wouldn’t worry too much, though. In most cases people who make threatening phone calls don’t confront their victims. That’s why they use the phone in the first place. They’re afraid of personal contact.”