“Weren’t mine, woman.”
“You knew I wanted to move to that new Raynville Estate when they built it, didn’t you?”
“Aye,” said Stan. “When were that? In 1963? And where is it now? They’ve had to knock the bloody place down now, things got so bad.”
“There were other places we could have moved. Poplars. Wythers.”
“
“What year was it?” Banks butted in. “When you first came to live here?”
The Pattersons glared at one another for a moment, then Elsie stirred her tea. She sat up straight, knees pressed together, hands around the mug on her lap. In the distance, Banks could hear the music from the skinhead’s house: tortured guitars, heavy bass, a testosterone-pumped voice snarling lust and hatred. Christ, he hoped Brian’s band was better than that.
“In 1949,” Elsie said. “October 1949. I remember because I were three months gone with Derek at the time. He was our first. Remember, Stan,” she said, “you’d just got that job at Blakey’s Castings?”
“Aye,” said Stan, turning to Banks. “I were just twenty years old, and Elsie here were eighteen.”
Banks hadn’t even been born then. The war had been over four years and the country was going through a lot of changes, setting up the Welfare State in the wake of the Beveridge Report, setting up the whole system that had given Banks far more opportunities and chances of self-improvement than previous generations had. And to his parents’ dismay, he had become a copper instead of a business executive or managing director, the sort of position his father had always looked up to. Now, though, having felt very much like a business executive this past year, he was pleased to discover that he still thought he had made the right choice.
Banks tried to imagine the Pattersons as a young couple with hope in their hearts and a promising future before them crossing the threshold of their first home together. The image came in black and white, with a factory chimney in the background.
“Do you remember anything about your neighbors across the street?” Annie asked. “Directly opposite, where Kev and his family live now.”
Elsie spoke first. “Weren’t that those, you know, those… What’stheirnames… lived, Stanley? A bit stuck up. There were some trouble.”
“A suicide,” Banks prompted her.
“Aye. That’s right. Don’t you remember, Stanley? Shot himself. That tall skinny young fellow, used to walk with a stick, never said a word to anyone. What were his name?”
“Matthew Shackleton.”
“That’s right. We had police all over the place. They even came over and talked to us. By gum, that takes me back a bit. Matthew Shackleton. Don’t you remember, Stanley?”
“Aye,” said Stan hesitantly. “I think so.” He lit another cigarette and coughed. Then he glanced at his watch. Opening time.
“Did you know the Shackletons?” Banks asked.
“Not really,” Elsie said. “Acted like they’d gone down in the world, fallen on hard times, like. From the country somewhere, though I found out she were nowt better than a shopkeeper’s daughter. Not that there’s owt wrong with that, mind you. I’m no snob. I tried to be friendly, you know, like you do, seeing as we were the newcomers and all that. But nobody bothered with them. The time or two I did talk to her, she didn’t say owt about where they came from, except to mention that things had been different back in the village, like. Well, la-di-da, I thought.”
Well, Banks thought, from Hobb’s End to this Leeds council estate would have been quite a frightening journey into purgatory for Gwen and Matthew, unless they were in a purgatory of their own making already.
“How many of them lived there?”
“Just the two,” Elsie said. “I remember her saying her mother used to live with them and all, but she died a year or so before we moved here.”
“Aye,” Stan chirped in. “I remember them now. Just the two of them, weren’t there? Him and his wife. Tall, gangly lass, herself.”
“Nay,” said Elsie, “she were never his wife. He weren’t right in his head.”
“Who were she, then?”
“I don’t know, but she weren’t his wife.”
“How do you know?” Banks asked Elsie.
“They didn’t act like man and wife. I could tell.”
“Don’t be so bloody daft, woman,” Stan said. Then he looked at Banks and rolled his eyes. “She were his wife. Take it from me.”
“What was her name?” Banks asked.
“It’s on the tip of my tongue,” Elsie said.
“Blodwyn,” said Stan. “Summat Welsh, anyroad.”
“No, it weren’t. Gwynneth, that were it. Gwynneth Shackleton.”
“What did she look like?”
“Ordinary, really, apart from them beautiful eyes of hers,” said Elsie. “Like Stanley said, she were a bit taller than your average lass, and a bit clumsy, you know, the way some big people are. She were nearly as tall as Matthew.”
“How old, would you say?”
“She can’t have been that old, but she had a hard-done-by look about her. I don’t know how to say it, really. Old before her time. Tired, like.”
“Must’ve been from looking after her husband. He were an invalid. Battle fatigue. War wound.”
“He weren’t her husband.”
Stan turned to face her. “Did you ever see her stepping out with a young man?”
“Come to think on it, no, I don’t recall as I did.”
“There you are then. Goes to show.”
“Show what?”
“You’d’ve thought if she weren’t married she’d have had a boyfriend or two, girl like that, wouldn’t you? I’ll grant you she were no oil painting, but she were well enough shaped where it counts, and she were bonny enough.”
“Did they ever have many visitors?” Banks asked.
“Not as I noticed,” Elsie answered. “But I’m not one of your nose-at-the-window types, you know.”
“How about an attractive young woman with blond hair?” Annie said, turning to Stanley. “Might have looked like this.” She handed him the copy of Alice Poole’s photograph and pointed to Gloria.
“No,” said Stan. “Never seen anyone looked like her. And I think I’d remember.” He winked at Annie. “I’m not that old, tha knows. But the other one’s Gwynneth all right.” He pointed to the woman Alice had identified as Gwen Shackleton. “I can’t recall as they ever had
“Aye, you’re right there, Stanley,” she said. “They kept to themselves.”
“What happened after the suicide?” Banks asked.
“She went away.”
“Do you know where?”
“No. She never even said good-bye. One day she were there, the next she were gone. I’ll tell you what, though.”
“What?” asked Banks.
A wicked smile twisted her features. “I know who she is.”
“What do you mean?”
“Her. That Gwynneth Shackleton. That’s not her name now, of course, but it’s her, right enough. Done right well for herself, she has.”
“Who is she?”
“I’ve seen her on telly, seen her picture in
“Yer barmy, woman,” Stan piped up.
“I’m telling you, Stanley: it’s her. Those eyes. The height. The voice. I don’t forget things like that. I’m surprised you can’t see it for yourself.”
Banks was trying hard to remain patient and beginning to think he was fighting a losing battle. “Mrs. Patterson.
