Sandra shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. I just came up to Eastvale to see to some things at the community center. I’m staying with Harriet and David. While I was in the area, I thought I’d drop by to get some papers signed and talk to you about our son, but it’ll do some other time. No hurry. Don’t let me interrupt your brain-storming session.”
As she spoke she grasped the handle and opened the door. “Nice meeting you, DS Cabbot,” she said over her shoulder, and with that she was gone.
Annie stood facing Banks in silence for a few moments, aware only of her fast and loud heartbeat and burning skin. “I didn’t know what to say,” she said. “I felt foolish, embarrassed.”
“Why should you?” said Banks. “I’ve already told you, Sandra and I have been separated for almost a year.”
But you still love her, Annie thought. Where did that come from? She pushed the thought away. “Yes, I know. It was just a shock, meeting her like that.”
Banks gave a nervous laugh. “You can say that again. Look, let’s have some more coffee and go sit outside, okay? Put Vivian Elmsley and her problems on the back burner for a while. It’s a beautiful day, shame to waste it staying indoors. Maybe this afternoon we can go for a long walk? Fremington Edge?”
“Okay.” Annie followed him outside, still feeling dazed. She sat on a striped deck chair, feeling the warmth of the canvas against the backs of her bare thighs, the feeling that always reminded her of summers in St. Ives. Banks was reading the Sunday Times book section, trying to pretend everything was just fine, but she knew he was rattled, too. Perhaps even more than she was. After all, he had been married to the woman for more than twenty years.
Annie stared into the distance at a straggling line of ramblers walking up Witch Fell, whose massive shape, like a truncated witch’s hat, took up most of the western skyline. Crows wheeled over the heights.
“Are you okay?” Banks asked, looking up from his paper.
“Fine,” she said, mustering a smile. “Fine.”
But she wasn’t. She told herself she should have known how fleeting happiness was; how foolish it is to expect it at all, and what a mistake it is to allow oneself to get too close to anyone. Closeness like that stirs up all the old demons – the jealousy, the insecurity; all the things she thought she had mastered. The only possible outcome is pain. A shadow had blotted out her sun, just the way Witch Fell obscured the sky; a snake had crawled into her Eden. What, she wondered, would be the cost?
SEVENTEEN
Vivian’s manuscript haunted Banks long after he had read it. There were so many inconsistencies, so many branches in the road to Gloria’s murder. On Wednesday, when they still hadn’t found Gloria’s son, he started thinking about the trip George and Francis Henderson had made to try to find Gloria after the war. Gwen had denied her, in a way, and that set Banks thinking about his visit to Jem’s parents.
As vividly as if it were yesterday, he remembered the late-May afternoon when he drove his ailing VW beetle to Cambridgeshire in search of Jem’s parents. He didn’t even know why he was making the journey, and more than once he thought of turning back. What could he say? What right had he to intrude on their grief? After all, he had hardly known Jem, knew nothing about his life. On the other hand, they had been friends, and now his friend was dead. The least he could do was offer his condolences and tell them they had a son they should be proud of, no matter how ignominious his death.
Besides, he was curious to see what sort of background Jem came from.
It was a fine day and Banks drove with his window down through the North London suburbs and into open countryside, the wind blowing through his hair, which at that time was well over his collar. He turned off the main road just south of Cambridge. A number of images of the drive came back: Tim Buckley on the radio singing “Dolphins” just outside Saffron Walden; a whitewashed pub wall; a herd of cows blocking the road as they were moved, udders swinging, from field to field by a slow farmer, unconcerned about the minor traffic jam he was causing; the air smelling of warm straw and manure.
Banks stopped in the village newsagent’s and asked for directions to the Hylton house. The shopkeeper looked suspicious, as if she thought he was out to rob the place, but she told him. The house – mansion, rather – stood at the end of an unpaved drive about half a mile from the village center. It was originally Tudor, by the look of it, but was crusted with so many centuries of additions, like barnacles on the bottom of a boat – a conservatory here, a garage there, a dormer window – that it seemed on the verge of buckling under its own weight.
Banks sat in his car and stared for a moment, hardly able to take in that this was where Jem came from. He stubbed out his cigarette. The area was quiet, except for a few birds singing and the sound of someone talking on a radio deep inside the house. Surely they must have heard him arrive? Especially with the odd hiccuping sounds his beetle was making those days.
Banks got out of the car and looked around. Beyond a neatly trimmed croquet-size lawn the land dipped away, revealing a patchwork landscape of green and brown fields under a canopy of blue sky as far as the eye could see. A few small copses and a church steeple were all that broke the monotony. This was the old England, the place of order, of the laborer at work in the fields and the lord at ease in his manor. It was a far cry from Peterborough and Notting Hill. Banks had visited the countryside before, of course, but he had never been to a house so opulent, had never known anyone who came from such a house. The old class insecurities began to surface, and if he had been wearing one, he would probably have knocked on the door cap in hand. He felt self-conscious of his accent even before he opened his mouth.
A sweet-smelling honeysuckle bush stood beside the old oak door, and Banks could hear the bees droning around the blossoms. He banged the heavy knocker against the wood. The sound echoed through the countryside and sent a nearby flock of starlings flapping off into the sky.
It seemed forever before Banks became aware of someone approaching the door, a creak of a floorboard perhaps, or swish of a skirt. When it opened a crack, he found himself looking at a dark-haired woman with high cheekbones and sunken brown eyes. She seemed old to him back then, when he had hardly turned twenty, but he realized that she was probably only in her early forties, about the same age he was now.
She raised an eyebrow. “Yes? What is it?”
“Mrs. Hylton?”
“I’m Mrs. Hylton. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve come about Jem?”
She frowned. “Who?”
“Jem. Sorry: Jeremy. Your son.”
A man appeared behind her, and she opened the door all the way. He had white hair, a red face, and watery pale blue eyes. “What is it, darling?” he asked, putting his hand on the woman’s shoulder and frowning at Banks. “Who is he? What does he want?”
She turned to her husband with a puzzled expression on her face. “Someone come about Jeremy.”
Banks introduced himself. “I lived across the hall from Jeremy in Notting Hill,” he said. “We were friends. I just wanted to come and say I’m sorry about what happened.”
“I don’t understand,” said the man. “Our son died a long time ago. It’s a bit late to be coming round with condolences, don’t you think?”
“Jem? Jeremy Hylton? I am at the right house, aren’t I?”
“Oh, yes,” said the woman. “But the thing is, our Jeremy died five years ago.”
“But… but it was only about a month ago. I mean, I knew him. I found him. We are speaking about the same person, aren’t we? Did Jeremy have a brother, perhaps?”