In a Dry Season (53 page)

“Not quite. Not immediately.” Annie looked down into her coffee cup. “There were complications.”

“What complications?”

She wrapped a strand of hair around her forefinger and stared down into her cup for a few more seconds before looking up at Banks. “Remember, I told you I kicked one of them in the balls?”

“Yes? What about it?”

“Something went wrong. They had to operate. He lost them. Both of them. The devil of it was that he was the youngest of the three and the most junior in rank. Just a
DS
himself and only married a year. Planning a family.”

“Jesus. I can imagine you were a popular woman around the station after that.”

“Exactly. For a while I thought of leaving the force altogether. But I'm stubborn. The chief super suggested it might be better for all concerned if I transferred somewhere else. He said he'd look into some possibilities, and
they came up with Harkside. Millicent Cummings was immediately sympathetic to me, of course, and I think our
ACC
used to work with Chief Constable Riddle.”

“So Riddle knows all about what happened?”

“He knew my chief super's side of the story, yes.”

“Which means that to him you're a troublemaker? A ballbusting lesbian bitch?”

Annie mustered a crooked smile. “Well, I've been called worse, but thanks for the compliment.”

“No wonder he put us together. Never was much of a judge of character, though, wasn't Jimmy Riddle. I'm surprised he got as far as he did. I'm sorry about what happened to you, Annie. Sorrier than I can say.”

“All water under the bridge.”

“I'm also amazed you would even consider getting involved with me, a
DCI
. I would have thought that what happened would have been enough to put you off your fellow coppers for life, especially senior
CID
ranks.”

“Oh, come on, Alan. You do yourself a disservice. Do you really think I'm that stupid? That's insulting to both of us. I've never, not for one moment, seen any similarity whatsoever between you and the men who assaulted me. I didn't even know you were a
DCI
when I first saw you, and I fancied you right away. The thing is, I thought I'd faced up to it and got on with my life.”

“Haven't you? You seem to be doing all right to me.”

“I've been in hiding. I shut myself away. I thought I was over it and that I'd simply chosen a quieter life. The celibate life of reflection and contemplation. There's a laugh. I thought that was my choice, but it was really a result of what happened, of not facing up. But I already practised meditation and yoga, had done for years, and I came from
a small seaside town, so it seemed only natural to dig in my heels at Harkside.”

“You aren't happy there?”

“What's happiness? Something you measure in relation to unhappiness? I get by. I have my nice, safe, little life at the centre of the labyrinth, as you so astutely pointed out. I have few possessions. I go to work, I do my job, and then I come home. No social life, no friends. I certainly didn't dwell on what had happened to me. I didn't have recurring nightmares about it. I suppose I was lucky that way. And I felt no guilt about what happened to that young
DS
. That might sound harsh, but I've probed myself deeply enough to know it's the case. He was egged on by his superiors, true, caught up in the spirit of drunken revelry. I suppose some people might excuse him by saying he was too weak to resist or he simply lost his rag, temporary insanity. But I was the one he raped. And I was the one who saw his face while he was doing it. He
deserved
all he got. The only real shame is that I didn't get the chance to do it to the other two as well.” She paused. “But let's face it, I haven't even done any serious detective work in Harkside. I know I'm good at the job—I'm quick, I'm bright and I'm hardworking—but until this case came along it's all been break-ins, vandalism, the occasional runaway kid.”

“And now?”

She shrugged. “Now I don't know. You're the first person I've told since it happened.”

“You didn't tell your father?”

“Ray? No. He'd be sympathetic, but he wouldn't understand. He didn't want to me to join the police to start with.”

“A hippie artist? I shouldn't think he did.”

“He'd probably have led a protest march to New Scotland Yard.” She paused and played with her hair again. “Now it's your turn. Remember, you promised to tell me something, too.”

“Did I?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What do you want to know.”

“Did you really punch Jimmy Riddle?”

Banks stubbed out his cigarette and slipped his credit card on the little tray the waiter had left. It was snatched up almost immediately. The theatres had come out now and people were queuing at the restaurant door.

“Yes,” he said. “I did.”

She laughed. “Bloody hell. I wish I'd been there.” The waiter finished with the card in no time flat. Banks signed the receipt, Annie gathered her packages and they walked out into the busy West End evening. The streets were packed with people standing drinking outside the pubs. Four men blocked the pavement, all talking and laughing at once into a mobile phone. Banks and Annie skirted them. Across the street, Banks saw a drunken woman in a tartan schoolgirl mini, black thigh stockings and fuck-me shoes try to carry on an argument with her “boyfriend” and walk at the same time. She failed, teetered at the edge of the pavement and went sprawling in the gutter, cursing all the way. Sirens blared in the distant city night.

“Don't laugh at this,” said Annie, “but that time . . . you know in the backyard when you put your arm around me?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I was sort of expecting something might happen, and I didn't know if I was ready for it yet. I was going to tell
you I was a lesbian. Just to let you down lightly, to make you think it wasn't anything personal, you know, that it wasn't that I didn't fancy you or anything, but that I just didn't go for men. I'd got it all worked out.”

“Why didn't you?”

“When the time came, I didn't want to. Believe me, I was probably just as surprised as you were about what happened. Just as scared. I know I invited you to my house and fed you drinks, but I really wasn't planning to seduce you.”

“I didn't think you were.”

“I was going to offer you the couch.”

“And I would have accepted gracefully.”

“But when it came to it, I wanted you. I was terrified. It was the first time since the night I've just told you about. But I wanted to do it as well. I suppose I wanted to overcome my fear. Sometimes it's the only way.”

They walked along Charing Cross Road, past all the closed bookshops, and crossed Oxford Street. As they turned onto Great Russell Street, Annie slipped her arm through Banks's. It was only the second time they had had any little intimate physical contact in public, and it felt good: the warmth, the gentle pressure. Annie leaned her head a little so it rested on his shoulder; her hair tickled his cheek.

Neither of them had been to the hotel yet; Banks had simply phoned earlier to book a room and said they would be arriving late. It was only a small place. He had stayed there twice before while on police business in London— both times alone—and had been impressed by the general cleanliness and level of service, not to mention the reasonable rates.

They passed the dark mass of the British Museum, set
back behind its railings and courtyard, then crossed Russell Square. Conversation and laughter carried on the night air from a pub around the corner. A couple walked by, arms wrapped around one another.

“Here we are,” said Banks. “Did you buy a toothbrush?”

“Yup.” Annie held up one of her bags. “And a new pair of jeans, new shoes, a skirt and blouse, undies.”

“You really did go shopping, didn't you?

“Hey. It's not often I get to the big city. I bought a nightie, too.”

“I thought I said you wouldn't need one.”

She laughed and moved closer. “Oh, don't worry. It's only a
little
nightie. I promise you'll like it.” And they walked up the stone steps to the hotel.

I couldn't stop thinking about the gun. Usually, the way the scene ran in my mind was that Gloria shot Matthew first and then herself. The images were so vivid I could even see the blood gush from their wounds. Finally, I determined I had to do something.

As I said, I had a key to Bridge Cottage. It wasn't that Matthew locked himself in, but he sometimes wouldn't bother getting up to answer the door. Most of the time he was in a sort of comatose state from alcohol anyway. When he wasn't at the pub, he was sipping whisky at home. Whisky that Gloria got from
PX
.

So the next time it was Gloria's turn to take Matthew to see Dr Jennings in Leeds, I let myself in. Even if someone saw me, it wouldn't seem at all strange because I was in and out of Bridge Cottage all the time and everyone in the village knew about Matthew's condition.

I found the gun in the same place Gloria had left it: behind the cocoa and tea in the kitchen cupboard. I put it in the shopping bag I had brought with me, put the cupboard back in order and left. I didn't know how long it would take her to miss it, but the best I could hope was that by the time she did she wouldn't feel the need for it any more and would realize what a favour I had done her.

We can be such fools for love, can't we?

Seventeen

I
t was about eleven o'clock on Saturday morning when Banks and Annie arrived back at Vivian Elmsley's flat. Before Banks could even press the buzzer, the door opened and Vivian almost bumped into them.

“Going somewhere, Ms Elmsley?” asked Banks. “You?” She put her hand to her heart. “I didn't think . . . so soon . . . I was just . . . you'd better come in.”

They followed her upstairs to the flat. She was carrying a large buff envelope, which she dropped on the hall table as she entered the room. Banks glanced at it, saw his name and the Eastvale station address on it.

She turned to face them as they entered her living-room. “I suppose I should thank you for coming back,” she said. “You've saved me the postage.”

“What were you sending me?” Banks asked. “A confession?”

“Of sorts. Yes. I suppose you could call it that.”

“So you
were
lying yesterday?”

“Fiction's my trade. Sometimes I can't help it.”

“You should know the difference.”

“Between what?”

“Fiction and reality.”

“I've learned to leave that to the most arrogant among
us. They're the only ones who seem to think they know everything.” She turned, walked back to the hall and picked up the envelope. “Anyway,” she went on, handing it to Banks, “I'm sorry for being flippant. I've found this whole thing extremely difficult. I tend to hide behind language when I'm frightened. This is the whole story, from the first time I ever saw Gloria Stringer, as she was then. I'd like you to grant me the favour of taking this away with you and reading it. I had a copy made this morning. If you're worried about my fleeing from justice, please don't. I'm not going to run anywhere, I promise you.”

“Why the change of heart?”

“Conscience, would you believe? I thought I could live with it, but I can't. The telephone calls didn't help, either. In the early hours of the morning, I arrived at the end of a long struggle, and I decided to tell the truth. What you do with it once you know it is up to you. I'd just rather do things this way than answer a lot of questions at the moment. I think it will help you understand. Of course, you'll have questions eventually. I have to be in Leeds next week to do some book-signings, so you'll soon have the opportunity. Will you allow me this much, at least?”

It was an unusual request, and if Banks were to go by the book, he wouldn't let a murder suspect hand him a written “confession” then go away and leave her to her own devices. But it was time for a judgement call. This had been an unusual case right from the start, and he believed that Vivian Elmsley wasn't going anywhere. She was in the public eye, and he didn't think she had anywhere to run, even if she wanted to. The other possibility was suicide. It was a risk, to be certain, but he decided to take it. If Vivian Elmsley wanted to kill herself rather than suffer through a
criminal trial that cost the taxpayers thousands and drew the media like blood draws leeches, who was Banks to judge her? If Jimmy Riddle found out about it, of course, Banks's career wouldn't be worth a toss, but since when had he let thoughts of Jimmy Riddle get in his way?

“You mentioned telephone calls,” he said. “What do you mean?”

“Anonymous calls. Sometimes he says things, other times he just hangs up.”