suitcase to make it look as though she had run off. He even faked a note. It was wartime. People went missing all the time. Everyone in the village knew Gloria wasn’t happy with Matthew, what a burden she had to bear. Why should they question that she’d just done a moonlight?”
Frank spoke in Vivian’s ear. “Is that right, what he’s saying?”
Banks couldn’t hear her, but he saw her mouth form the word “Yes.”
“Frank,” Banks pressed on, playing his advantage. “The gun. I know you don’t want to hurt anyone, but it’s dangerous. It’s easy to make a wrong move. Nobody’s been hurt yet. No harm’s been done.”
Frank looked at the gun as if he were seeing it for the first time.
Banks stepped onto the fairy bridge and moved forward slowly, holding his hand out. He knew there were probably two or three trained marksmen aiming in his direction, and the thought made his stomach churn. “Give the gun to me, Frank. It’s all over. Vivian didn’t kill your mother. She had nothing to do with it. She loved Gloria like a sister. It was Edgar Konig.”
Frank let his gun hand drop and released his grip on Vivian Elmsley’s throat. She staggered aside and slipped down one of the muddy holes the SOCOs had dug in the Bridge Cottage floor. Annie ran to help her. Frank handed the gun to Banks. It weighed heavy in his hand. “What happened to him?” Frank asked. “This Konig. Did he ever get caught?”
“I’ll tell you all about that later, Frank,” said Banks, taking Frank by the elbow. “Just for now, though, we’re all a bit tired and wet. Okay? I think we should leave here, go somewhere to dry off and get some clean clothes, don’t you?”
Frank hung his head. Banks draped an arm across his shoulder. As he did so, he noticed something on the ground, partially covered by mud. He bent and picked it up. It was a photograph of a sixteen-year-old Gloria Shackleton, her beautiful, determined, defiant face staring out at the camera. It was damaged by the water, but still salvageable.
Several police officers had already come dashing and sliding down the embankment. Two went to help Annie get Vivian out of the pit, and two of them grabbed Frank roughly and started handcuffing him.
“There’s no need to be so rough with him,” said Banks.
“Leave this to us, sir,” said one of the officers.
Banks sighed and handed over the gun, then he held up the photograph of Gloria. “I’ll get this cleaned up for you, if you want, Frank,” he said.
Frank nodded. “Please,” he said. “And don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right. It’s not the first time I’ve had the cuffs on.”
Banks nodded. “I know.”
They hustled Frank Stringer away, practically dragging him up the muddy slope, and Banks turned to see Annie and the other policemen helping Vivian Elmsley stumble over the fairy bridge.
Vivian stopped in front of him, covered in mud while the others went on ahead. “Thank you,” she said. “You saved my life.”
“I lied for you,” said Banks. “I also sullied Gloria’s loyalty to Matthew.”
She paled and whispered, “I know. I appreciate what you did. I’m sorry.”
“There was a chance, you know. Maybe just a small chance, but a chance. If you’d come forward after you found Gloria dead, if you hadn’t destroyed all the evidence, if you’d gone to the police…” Banks held his anger in check; this was neither the time nor the place for it. “Ah, to hell with it. Too late now.”
Vivian bowed her head. “Believe me, I know what I’ve done.”
Banks turned and slogged on alone through the mud. It was difficult, but he made it up the edge without falling down. At the top, he was aware of Annie standing beside him. Before he could say anything, Jimmy Riddle came running over and grabbed his arm. “I’m glad you’ve salvaged at least something out of this situation, Banks,” he hissed, “but you’re bloody incompetent. I don’t want incompetent officers under my command. I’ll be talking to you first thing Monday morning.” Then he turned to Annie. “As for you, DS Cabbot, you disobeyed a direct order. I don’t like insubordinate officers, either. I’ll be talking to you, too.”
Banks shook his arm free, turned on his heel and walked back toward his car. All he wanted was a long hot bath, a large Laphroaig and a change of clothes.
And Annie.
She was already leaning against her car, arms folded.
“Are you all right?” Banks asked.
“I’m fine. Fine as anyone can be who’s spent the last half hour standing in the rain wondering if someone was going to get her head blown off.”
“Frank Stringer wasn’t going to hurt anyone.”
“Easy for you to say. I respect what you did out there, by the way.”
“What do you mean?”
“You lied to protect Frank Stringer’s feelings. I told you, my mother died when I was six. I like to remember her as a beautiful, dazzling creature moving in a haze of light, the same way he remembers Gloria. And I wouldn’t want anyone to spoil that illusion for me, no matter what the truth.”
“I lied to get us all out of there alive.”
Annie smiled. “Whatever. It worked both ways.”
“What next?”
Annie stretched, arching her back and reaching her arms toward the sky. “Onward to Saint Ives. After I’ve stopped at home for some dry clothes. I was already on my way when I heard. I couldn’t just leave it.”
“Of course not. Thanks for being here.”
“You?”
“Home, I suppose.” Banks remembered dinner with Jenny. Too late now, especially the state his clothes were in, but he could at least borrow a mobile from someone and phone her, apologize.
Annie nodded. “Look, I’ll be gone for two weeks. Right now I’m still a bit mixed up about my feelings. Why don’t you phone me when I get back? Maybe we can have that talk?”
“Okay.”
She grinned at him crookedly. “If there weren’t so many policemen about I’d kiss you good-bye.”
“Not a good idea.”
“No. See you, then.”
And with that she opened the car door and got in. Banks ignored his cutting-down program and lit another cigarette, aware that his hands were shaking. Without looking back, Annie started her car. Banks watched the red taillights disappear down the muddy track.
EPILOGUE
After a long, rainy winter and overdue repairs by Yorkshire Water, Thornfield Reservoir filled up again and Hobb’s End once more disappeared. On July 27 of the year after the Gloria Shackleton murder had entered and left the public’s imagination, Vivian Elmsley lay on a king-size bed in her Florida hotel room, propped up with pillows, and watched the local news channel.
Vivian was in the midst of a national book tour, seventeen cities, and while Gainesville wasn’t on the itinerary, she had enough clout with her publishers for this brief diversion. She would have come anyway, tour or no tour. Yesterday she had been in Baltimore, Bethesda and Washington, D.C., tomorrow she was going to Dallas, but tonight she was in Gainesville.
For tonight was the night that Edgar Konig had his appointment with Old Sparky, and after everything she had been through, Vivian desperately needed
It was a sultry, mosquito-ridden night, but that didn’t seem to deter the crowds that gathered outside the gates of Starke Prison, about twenty-five miles away. One or two were quietly carrying placards that asked for an end to capital punishment, but by far the majority were chanting, “Fry Konig! Fry Konig!” Bumper stickers echoed the same sentiments, and the crowd had created what the commentator called a tailgate-party atmosphere. It wasn’t big enough to attract any of the national networks – after all, executions in Florida were as common as
