guns.”
“But you don’t think so?”
“I think it’s highly unlikely,” said Banks. “Why should they? And why would he still have it when he went back to Hobb’s End from hospital? Anyway, it’s a minor point, probably doesn’t mean a thing.”
“If he did have a gun, though, why didn’t he use that on Gloria instead of strangling her and stabbing her?”
“
“Have you considered Gwen as a serious suspect?” Annie asked.
“Certainly. According to everything we’ve heard, she was very close to her brother. If Gloria was hurting him, running around with other men, Gwen might just have fought back on his behalf. At the very least she should be able to tell us more about Matthew’s relationship with Gloria after he came back, assuming Gloria was still alive at the time. Fancy a trip to London tomorrow?”
“Who’s driving?”
“We’ll take the train. It’s faster, and the London traffic’s murder. If my memory serves me well, there’s a train leaves York around a quarter to nine that’ll have us at King’s Cross by twenty to eleven. Can you manage that?”
“No problem. In the meantime I’ll see if I can get any more information on the airmen.”
After Annie hung up, Banks walked over to the window and looked out over the square, with its ancient market cross and square-towered church, gray-gold in the sunlight. He thought about Vivian Elmsley. Could she really be Gwen Shackleton? It seemed a preposterous idea, but stranger things had happened. He decided it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a go at one or two of Vivian Elmsley’s books before he set off to interview her. Her writing might give him some insight into her character.
He tried dialing Brian’s Wimbledon number again. Still nothing. Ken Blackstone was right, though; all he could do for the moment was keep on trying. If he was going to London tomorrow, he hoped he might be able to see Brian, have a talk, get things sorted. He didn’t want Brian to keep on thinking his father was disappointed in him for what he was doing, the way Banks’s own father always made clear his dismay at Banks’s choice of career, even now, every time they met.
Banks went back to his desk. For about the third time since the case began, he spread out the objects found with Gloria Shackleton’s body before him. Not much for the remnants of a life, or the detritus of a death: a locket whose original heart shape had been squashed and bent; a corroded wedding ring; clips from a brassiere or suspenders; a pair of tiny, deformed leather shoes, which reminded him of the ones he had seen at the Bronte parsonage once; a few scraps of blackout cloth; and the button from Adam Kelly, greenish-blue with verdigris. Superintendent Gristhorpe might be able to tell him a bit about the button, he thought. Gristhorpe was a bit of an expert on military history, especially the Second World War.
Banks grabbed his jacket and was just about to leave the office when his phone rang.
“Hello, Alan.”
A woman’s voice.
“Yes?”
“It’s me. Jenny. Jenny Fuller. Don’t you recognize my voice?”
“Jenny. It’s been a long time. Where are you?”
“Home. Just got back yesterday. Look-”
“A bit early, aren’t you?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’m glad you called. I need some advice.”
“If it’s personal, I’m the last person to ask, believe me.”
“Professional?”
“I might be able to manage that. The reason I was phoning is, I know I shouldn’t bother you at work and all, but I’m in town and I wondered if you’ve got time for lunch?”
Banks had intended to drive out to Lyndgarth to see Gristhorpe, who was taking his annual holidays at home, but that could wait until after. “Queen’s Arms, half-twelve?”
“Wonderful. I’ll see you there.”
Banks smiled as he put down the receiver. He hadn’t seen Jenny Fuller in almost a year, not since she’d decided to take a leave of absence from the University of York to teach in California. That was around the time he and Sandra had split up. He had received a couple of postcards asking how he was doing, but that was all.
Jenny was one of the two women his colleagues expected him to sleep with after Sandra left. Perhaps he would have slept with her if she had been around. But timing is everything. Jenny was spending most of her time in California these days, and there was a man at the bottom of that. The other friend, Pamela Jeffries, feeling restless and hemmed in, had taken off to play in an orchestra in Australia, of all places, and he hadn’t seen her for months. Again, he got the occasional postcard from such exotic locales as Sydney, Melbourne, Adelaide and Perth. It made him want to travel more, too.
Now he and Jenny were having lunch in about an hour’s time. Just enough time, in fact, to prepare his questions on Matthew Shackleton and nip over to Waterstone’s for a couple of Vivian Elmsley’s novels.
For some reason I was standing out in the street to check the window display (which was pretty meager) when I glanced to my left and saw him coming across the fairy bridge. I had just heard the train arrive, so I assumed that he had come from the station. The wind howled around the chimneys, and clouds as black as a Nazi’s heart besmirched the sky like grease stains. There was nobody else about. That was why I noticed him. That, and the fact that he was wearing only an overlarge, baggy brown suit and carrying no luggage.
He was tall but stooped, as if suffering some affliction of the spine, and he walked with a sturdy stick. He moved slowly, almost like a figure in a dream, as if he knew where he was going, but felt no hurry to get there. His frame was thin to the point of emaciation. As he came closer, I realized that he wasn’t as old as I had first thought, though his lank, lifeless hair was tinged here and there with gray, or white.
The wind tugged at my hair and clothes and chilled me to the marrow, but something about him compelled me to stand and watch, as if in a trance. When he got within a few feet of the shop, I saw his eyes. Deep, hollow, haunted eyes, turned completely inward, as if he was subjecting himself to a most intense and unflinching scrutiny.
He saw me, though, and he stopped.
I don’t know when the truth dawned on me; it could have been seconds; it could have been minutes. But I started to shake like a leaf and it had nothing to do with the cold. I ran to him and threw my arms around him but his body felt stiff and unyielding as a tree. I caressed his cheek with my palm, noticing the puckered white scar that curved up from the side of his mouth in an ugly parody of a grin. Tears were pouring down my cheeks.
“Matthew!” I cried. “Oh my God. Matthew!” And I took his arm and led him inside to Mother.
Banks walked into the Queen’s Arms a couple of minutes before twelve-thirty carrying two of Vivian Elmsley’s paperback mysteries in his Waterstone’s bag. He bought a pint and sat down at a table near the empty fireplace. Jenny was always late, he remembered, opening the bag and looking at the books.
One was a suspense novel called
The other was called
