In A Dry Season

“You can start with the American Embassy. They might be able to point you in the right direction.”

“I notice the subtle pronoun usage there: ‘you.’ I don’t suppose you’re planning on spending a day on the phone?”

Banks laughed. “Rank has its privileges. Besides, you’re so good at it.”

Annie pulled a face and flicked some beer at him.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he added, “I’ll be trying to get more information on Matthew Shackleton from our own military authorities.”

Their food arrived, and they both ate in silence for a while. The river looked like an oil slick now. There were no clouds, but the air had turned more humid during the day, and the setting sun turned the western sky scarlet and purple. Clusters of small buzzing insects, gnats or midges, hovered over the still, shallow water.

“What about Michael Stanhope?” Banks suggested.

“What possible motive could he have? They were friends.”

“Inordinate desire? Drink. They can push a person beyond the normal limits, and it’s likely Stanhope was a bit beyond them anyway to start with. If he was powerfully attracted to Gloria, if she wouldn’t have anything to do with him sexually, then painting her in the nude might have inflamed him beyond all reason. Let’s admit it, a man like Stanhope can’t have been entirely dispassionate all the time he had a naked Gloria Shackleton in his studio.”

Annie raised her eyebrows. “Can’t he? Perhaps you mean you couldn’t be. You’d be surprised how dispassionate an artist can be. Anyway, Alice Poole said she was sure they weren’t lovers, and I believe her. The impression I get is that a lot of villagers – like the one you talked to – projected negative feelings onto Gloria. I think she was basically a decent woman and a devoted wife, but her good looks and her free and easy attitude gave her no end of problems, especially with men. Eventually someone went over the top.”

“You sound as if you know what you’re talking about.”

Annie turned away and stared at the dark river. It had only been a teasing, offhand remark, but Banks felt as if he had trespassed on some private reserve, set her hackles up. They still had to be careful with one another, he realized. A couple of nights of passionate abandon and a sense of having something in common as mutual outsiders weren’t enough to map the route through the emotional minefields that lay between them. Tread carefully, he warned himself.

After a pause, Annie went on, “I think Gloria was one of the few people in Hobb’s End who understood Michael Stanhope, who took him seriously. Besides, Alice also said he was gay.”

“She couldn’t know that for certain. Or he could have been bisexual.”

“I think you’re pushing it a bit, that’s all.”

“You’re probably right. Anyway, there’s one obvious flaw with the Stanhope theory.”

“There is?”

Banks shoved his empty plate aside. “Where do you think Gloria was killed?” he asked.

“In, or very close to, Bridge Cottage. I thought we’d already agreed on that because of where she was buried. By the way” – Annie consulted her notebook – “I forgot to tell you before, but the blackout ended officially on the seventeenth of September, 1944. Not that it matters now we know Gloria was still alive that Christmas.”

“Every little bit helps.”

“Anyway, what’s your point?”

“Most of the time Gloria visited Stanhope at his studio. That would certainly have been the case if he was painting her that autumn. If anything happened between them, it would be more likely to have happened there, that’s all. That’s where she was naked in front of him. If he killed her, I don’t think he would have risked carrying the body all the way back to Bridge Cottage. He would have found some other way of disposing of her, somewhere closer.”

“Unless they were having an affair, as you suggest. In which case he might well have visited her at her own home.”

“Would she risk that, with Gwen so close by?”

“Possibly. Gloria certainly sounds unconventional and unpredictable, from everything I’ve heard. Just going to his studio must have been scandalous enough, given his reputation in the village.”

“Good point. Elizabeth Goodall certainly seemed to think their relationship was a scandal. Another drink?”

“Better not,” Annie said, placing her hand over her glass. “One’s my limit when I’m driving.”

Banks paused a moment, his voice lost somewhere deep in his chest. “You don’t have to drive home,” he said finally, sure he was croaking.

Annie smiled and put her hand on his arm. Her touch set his pulse going faster. “No, but I think I should, with it being a weeknight and all. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow. Besides, we agreed, didn’t we?”

“Can’t blame a bloke for trying. Mind if I have one?”

She laughed. “Course not.”

Banks went inside. He hadn’t expected Annie to rise to his offer, but he was disappointed that she hadn’t. He knew they had agreed to stick to weekends, but surely there was room for a little spontaneity now and then? He wondered if he would ever be able to figure out this relationship business. It was easy when you were married; at least you didn’t usually have to make appointments to see one another. On the other hand, he and Sandra hadn’t seen all that much of each other, and they had been married over twenty years. Perhaps, if they had made more time for one another, they would still be together.

The dinner crowd had thinned out, leaving the lounge half empty, mostly locals playing dominoes and darts in the public bar. A group of kids sat in one corner, and one of them put “Concrete and Clay” on the jukebox. Christ Almighty, thought Banks. Unit 4 + 2. It had been recorded before they were born.

He bought himself another pint and went back outside. Annie wasn’t much more than a silhouette now – and a beautiful one to his eyes, with her graceful neck and strong profile – staring at the river in that peculiarly relaxed and centered way she had.

He sat down and broke the spell. Annie stirred languidly. She still had half her drink left, which she swirled in her glass a few times before sipping.

“What about her family?” Banks asked.

“Family? Whose family?”

“Gloria Shackleton’s.”

“Her family was killed in the Blitz.”

“All of them?”

“That’s what she told Alice.”

“What about this mysterious stranger and the child who turned up looking for her? You said she told Alice that it was relations.”

“I know.” Annie shook her head slowly. “That’s what I don’t understand. It does seem odd, doesn’t it?”

“If she ran off and left a husband or boyfriend stuck with her kid, that might be someone else with reason to be angry with her. He could have tracked her down and killed her.”

“Yes, but maybe whoever it was didn’t feel stuck with the kid. Maybe he loved the boy. Besides, men do that sort of thing all the time and women don’t kill them for it.”

Banks wasn’t going to jump at that one. “The point is,” he said, “did this particular man feel strongly enough to track down the wife or girlfriend who bore his child and deserted him? They did argue, according to what Alice Poole told you.”

“Gloria was still alive after he left.”

“He could have stewed for a while, gone back weeks, months later.”

“Possibly,” Annie admitted. “I’d also like to know what happened to the sister-in-law, Gwynneth. Even with your appeals on the telly, no one’s come forward with any useful leads.”

“Maybe she’s dead?”

“Maybe she is.”

“Do you see her as a suspect?”

Annie frowned. “She looked like a tall, strong woman in the photograph. Something could have happened between them.”

“Maybe DS Hatchley came up with something in London. We’ll find out tomorrow. It’s been a long day.”