In A Dry Season

psychiatric observation, which they carried out, then they sent him home again.”

“Why didn’t he use the gun that time?”

“No idea.”

“But it was just a matter of time?”

“Seems that way.”

“You disagree?”

“No. Though I suppose there’s always the possibility that he was helped on his way, that he had become an intolerable burden to his sister. Remember, Gwen had been taking care of both her mother and her brother. It’s not much of a life for a young woman, is it? Anyway, if Elsie Patterson really did see Gwen Shackleton go into the house before the shot was fired, it’s possible Gwen might have stood by and let him get on with it.”

“Still a crime.”

“Yes, but it happened over forty years ago, Ken. And we’d never prove it.”

“Not unless Gwen Shackleton confessed.”

“Why should she do that?”

“Years of accumulated guilt? The need to get it off her chest before her final confrontation with the Almighty? I don’t know. Who knows why people confess? They do, though.”

Their main courses arrived: aloo gobi, rogan josh, and king prawn, with pilao rice, lime chutney and chapatis. They ordered more lager.

Banks looked at Blackstone. Cute, Annie had said. Cute was the last thing that came to Banks’s mind. Elegant, yes; donnish, even. But cute? No matter where Blackstone was – student hangout, back- street pub, five-star restaurant, cop shop – he was always immaculately dressed in his Burtons’ best pinstripe or herringbone, monogrammed silk handkerchief poised over the edge of his top pocket, folds so aesthetic and delicate they might have been set by a Japanese flower arranger. Crisp white shirt, neat Windsor knot in his subdued tie. Thinning sandy hair curled around his ears and his wire-rimmed glasses balanced on the bridge of his straight nose.

“What about forensics?” Blackstone asked.

“Single shot in the mouth. Splattered his brains over the wall like blancmange. No evidence of a struggle. Empty whiskey bottle by the chair. The angle of the wound was also consistent with the suicide theory.”

“Note?”

“Yes. The genuine article, according to forensics.”

“So what’s bothering you?”

Banks ate some curry and washed it down before answering. Already a pleasant glow was spreading from his mouth and stomach throughout the rest of his body. The curry was just hot enough to produce a mild sweat, but not to burn his taste buds off. “Nothing, really. Outside of normal curiosity, I’m not really interested in whether Gwen Shackleton helped her brother commit suicide or not. But I would like to know if he murdered Gloria Shackleton.”

“Perhaps he couldn’t live with the guilt?”

“My first thought.”

“But now?”

“Oh, it’s still the most likely explanation. The only person who can tell us is Gwen Shackleton.”

“What happened to her? Is she still alive?”

“That’s another interesting thing. Elsie Patterson swears she’s Vivian Elmsley.”

Blackstone whistled and raised his thin, arched eyebrows. “The writer?”

“That’s the one.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible, I suppose. The Pattersons said they could tell Gwen was well-read, and everyone who remembers her said she always had her head stuck in a book. Annie’s going to ask around, but there’s only one way to find out for certain, isn’t there? We’ll have to talk to her. Like Gloria’s son, if he’s still alive, she certainly hasn’t been in touch with us, and we’ve had calls out all over the country for information. It’s hard to imagine that many people don’t know the story.”

“Which may mean that, if it is her, she has a reason for not wanting to be found?”

“Exactly. A guilty secret.”

“Wasn’t that the title of one of her books?”

Banks laughed. “Was it? I can’t say as I’ve read any.”

“I have,” said Blackstone. “Seen them on telly, too. She’s actually a very talented writer. Hasn’t a clue about how we really operate, of course, but then none of them do.”

“It’d make for some pretty boring books if they did.”

“True enough.”

Blackstone ordered a couple more pints of lager. He looked at his watch. “How about heading into town after this one?” he asked.

“Okay.”

“How are the kids?”

“Fine, I suppose. Well, at least Tracy is.”

“Brian?”

“Silly bugger’s just cocked up his finals and come out with a third.”

Blackstone, who had a degree in art history, frowned. “Any particular reason? You don’t blame yourself, do you? The breakup? Stress?”

Banks shook his head. “No, not really. I think he just sort of lost interest in the subject and found something he felt more passionate about.”

“The music?”

“Uh-huh. He’s in a band. They’re trying to make a go of it.”

“Good for him,” said Blackstone. “I would have thought you’d approve.”

“That’s the bloody problem, Ken, I do. Only when he first told me I said some things I regret. Now I can’t get in touch with him to explain. They’re out on the road somewhere.”

“Keep trying. That’s about all you can do.”

“I sounded just like my own parents. It brought back a lot of stuff, things I hadn’t really thought much about in years, like why I made some of the choices I did.”

“Any answers?”

Banks smiled. “On a postcard, please.”

“Any great change in your circumstances tends to make you introspective. It’s one of the stages you go through.”

“Been reading those self-help books again, Ken?”

Blackstone smiled. “Fruits of experience, mate. This DS you were asking me about on the phone, the one who was with you at Millgarth. What’s her name again?”

“Annie. Annie Cabbot.”

“Good-looking woman.”

“I suppose so.”

“You involved with her?”

Banks paused. If he told Ken Blackstone the truth, that would be one person too many who knew about them. But why keep it a secret? Why lie? Ken was a mate. He nodded briefly.

“Is it serious?”

“For crying out loud, Ken, I’ve only known her a week.”

Blackstone held his hand up. “Okay, okay. Is she the first one since Sandra?”

“Yes. Well, apart from a mistake one night. Yes. Why?”

“Just be careful, that’s all.”

“Come again?”

Blackstone leaned back in his chair. “You’re still vulnerable, that’s what I’m talking about. It takes a long time to get over a relationship as long-lasting and as deep as yours and Sandra’s.”