In a Dry Season (59 page)

If she stayed with him, she would have to meet his son eventually and audition for the dad's-new-girlfriend test. There was a daughter, too, and she would probably be even harder to win over. She would no doubt also meet the redoubtable Sandra again. Even though no one needed a co-respondent in divorce cases these days, Annie was beginning to feel like one. And there would be the divorce, something else they'd have to go through.

She didn't think she could face all the emotional detritus of someone else's life impinging on her own. She had enough to deal with as it was. No, she should cut her losses and get out now; it was time to go back home, regroup, recuperate, then return to her labyrinth, her meditation and yoga. With any luck, in a couple of weeks, Banks would
have let her go from his thoughts and found someone else.

Annie had the electronic gizmo in the car stereo set so that no matter what programme she was listening to, the nearest local station would cut in with its weather and travel updates. She hadn't a clue how this worked—some sort of electronic signal, she assumed—but sometimes the interruption continued beyond the traffic and weather into the local news bulletin. Just as she was overtaking a convoy of lorries churning up so much water she could hardly see, the weather cut in, and she also caught the beginning of a news bulletin about a hostage situation at Thornfield Reservoir.

Unfortunately, the same gizmo that caused the bulletins to cut in also cut them off at the most inappropriate times, and this happened halfway through the item. All she had discovered was that the detective writer Vivian Elmsley was being held by an armed man at Thornfield Reservoir.

Annie jabbed at the search buttons, sending the
LCD
lights into a digital frenzy. She got country and western, a gardening programme and a classical concert, but the scanner couldn't find the damn newsbreak. She swore and thumped the wheel, swerving dangerously, then tried again, searching manually this time. When she finally did get the right frequency, all she heard were the final words, “ . . . bizarre twist in the affair, it seems the hostage taker has asked to talk to the detective in charge of the so-called Hobb's End skeleton case, believed to be Detective Chief Inspector Banks of the Eastvale
CID
. We'll give you more details as they come in.”

Well, Annie thought on the outskirts of Blackburn, there was nothing else for it; she would have to go back.

She negotiated her way carefully across the lanes of traffic, took the next exit, crossed the overpass, then followed the signs heading east. In this weather, it would take her about an hour, she calculated, and these were no conditions for impatient driving. She hoped she wouldn't be too late to find out what the hell was going on.

Banks arrived at Thornfield Reservoir car park, put on his wellington boots and hurried through the short stretch of woods to the scene. Riddle hadn't been far wrong when he compared it to a Hollywood production. It probably cost as much as
Waterworld
. Though the patrol cars, Armed Response Vehicles and Technical Support Unit vans couldn't drive right to the rim of the reservoir because of the trees, some of them had forced their way through as far as they could, and long, thick wires and cables trailed the rest of the way. The local media people were there, too. The entire bowl of Hobb's End was floodlit, and the occasional lightning flash gave everything a split-second blue cast. At the centre of it all, two small, pathetic figures were cruelly illuminated just beyond the fairy bridge.

Riddle stood by the phalanx of
TV
cameras and microphones clustered well behind the police tape. Banks ignored him and went straight over to the hostage negotiator. He looked young. Banks guessed he had a psychology degree and this was his first real-life situation. Officially, the local superintendent was in charge of the scene, but as a rule the negotiator called the shots. Banks couldn't see any police sharpshooters, but he knew they were around somewhere.

“I'm
DCI
Banks,” he said.

“Sergeant Whitkirk,” said the negotiator.

Banks nodded towards the two figures. “Let me go and talk to him.”

“You're not going down there,” Whitkirk said. “That's against the rules. Do your talking on this.” He held a loud hailer out. Banks didn't take it. Instead, he lit a cigarette and gazed out over the eerie scene, a set from a horror film, perhaps the same film that began with the skeletal hand scratching at the edge of a tombstone. He turned to Sergeant Whitkirk. “How old are you, sonny?”

“What's that got—”

“You're clearly not old enough to realize that not all wisdom comes out of books. What's it called, this rule-book of yours?
The Handy Pocket Guide to Hostage Negotiation
?”

“Now, you listen to me—”

“No.
You
listen to me.” Banks pointed to the two figures. “I don't know how many scenes like this you've handled successfully, but I do know this situation. I know what it's all about, and I think I've got a hell of a lot better chance than you or anyone else of making sure no one gets hurt.”

Whitkirk thrust his chin out. There was an angry red spot in the cleft. “You can't guarantee that. Leave it to the professionals. He's obviously a fucking madman.”

“He's not a fucking madman. What do you professionals intend to do? Shoot him?”

Whitkirk snorted. “We could've done that an hour ago, if that's what we wanted. We're containing the situation.”

“Bully for you.”

“How do you know he's not a madman?”

Banks sighed. “Because I know who he is and what he wants.”

“How can you know that? He hasn't communicated any demands yet.”

“Except to talk to me.”

“That's right. And our first rule is that we don't comply.”

“He hasn't done anything yet, has he?”

“No.”

“Why not, do you think?”

“How would I know? All I know is he's a fucking nutter and he's unpredictable. We can't give in to him, and you can't just go walking into the situation. Look at it this way. He asked for you. Maybe you're the one he really wants to kill.”

“I'll take my chances.”

“No, you won't. I'm in charge of the scene here and you're not going in.”

“What do we do, then?”

“We play for time.”

Banks felt like laughing, but he held it back. “And in time, what's your plan?”

“First we do all we can to turn an imprecise situation into a precise one.”

“Oh, stop quoting the fucking textbook at me,” Banks said. “How long have you been here already? An hour? Hour and a half? Have you turned your imprecise situation into a precise one yet?”

“We've established communications.”

Banks looked down at the loud hailer. “Yes. Great communicators, those.”

Whitkirk glared at him. “We offered to send down a phone but he refused.”

“Look,” said Banks, “he's asked for me. We might not
know what he wants, but he must have something to tell me, and you and I both know there's only one way to find out. I think I can talk him out of doing any harm. Can't you give me a bit of leeway?”

Whitkirk chewed on his lip for a moment. “Securing the scene's my responsibility,” he said.

“Let me go in.” Banks pointed over to the chief constable. “Believe me, there's a bloke over there will give you a medal if I get shot.”

Whitkirk managed a thin smile. “One condition,” he said.

“What is it?”

“You wear a bullet-proof vest.”

“All right.”

Whitkirk sent someone to pick up the vest from the Armed Response Vehicle, then he told the hostage taker over his loud hailer what he was planning.

“Send him in,” the man shouted back.

Whitkirk stood aside and Banks, kitted out with his bullet-proof vest, trod his cigarette in the mud and set out down the side of the reservoir. He heard Whitkirk whisper “Good luck” as he went. About halfway down, he slipped and went the rest of the distance on his backside. Not very dignified. Though it probably did more harm to his pride than to his clothing, it also reminded him that he had put on his best trousers for dinner with Jenny, a dinner he was very unlikely to be having now, especially as he had forgotten his mobile in all the excitement and hadn't been able to phone her and cancel.

When he got to the bottom of the embankment, he heard a curse behind him and turned to see Annie Cabbot come sliding down after him, also on her bum, feet in the
air. At the bottom, she got to her feet and flashed him a grin. “Sorry. It was the only way I could give them the slip.”

“I take it you don't have a bullet-proof vest?”

“No.”

“I could be gallant and give you mine, but we're a little too close to the scene now. Just stay back, behind me. We don't want to scare him.”

They approached the fairy bridge. Banks told the man who he was. He indicated that it was okay and told the two of them to stop at the far side. They faced one another over the bridge. Vivian Elmsley looked frightened but unhurt as far as Banks could see. The gun looked like a .
32
automatic.

“This is
DS
Cabbot,” Banks said. “She's been working on the case with me. Is it okay for her to be here?”

The man looked at Annie and nodded. “I know who she is,” he said. “I saw her on television the day you found the skeleton, then down here that night a week or so ago.”

“So it was you,” Annie said. “What were you doing? Surely you weren't looking for anything after all this time?”

“Perhaps I was. Not the sort of thing you mean. But perhaps I was looking for something. I've been here a lot at night. Thinking.”

“Why did you run?”

“I recognized you from the television. You walked right past me and didn't even see me. But I saw you. I couldn't risk being caught, having to explain myself, before I'd finished what I had to do.”

Banks decided it was time to take charge. He held his hands up and gestured for Annie to do the same. Rain dripped down the back of his neck. “We're not armed,
Francis,” he said. “We don't want to hurt you. We just want to talk. Let Ms Elmsley go.”

“So you know who I am?”

“Francis Henderson.”

“Clever. But my name's Stringer now. Frank Stringer.”

He licked his lips. So he had adopted his mother's surname. Strange. That told Banks something about the situation they were dealing with. Frank looked twitchy, and Banks wondered if he had been drinking or if he were on drugs again. If it's hard to make an imprecise situation precise, he thought, then it's a bloody sight harder to make a halluci-natory situation real.

“Anyway,” Frank went on, “I'm not ready to let anyone go yet. I want to hear it all first. I want to hear her confess to you, then I'll decide whether to kill her or not. It makes no odds to me.”

“Okay, Frank. What do you want to hear?”

“She killed my mother. I want to hear her say so, and I want to know why.”

“She didn't kill anyone, Frank.”

“What are you talking about? You're lying. You're trying to protect her.”

His grip tightened on Vivian. Banks caught her sudden intake of breath and saw the gun barrel pushed into the flesh under her ear.

“Listen to me, Frank,” he said. “It's important you listen to me. You asked for me to come here. You want the truth, don't you?”

“I already know the truth. I want to hear it from her mouth. I want to hear her confess in front of you. I want to hear what she did to my mother.”

“It didn't happen the way you think it did, Frank. It
didn't happen the way any of us thought it did. We were all wrong.”

“My mother was murdered.”

“Yes, she was murdered.”

“And this . . . this bitch here lied to my father and me when we went and asked about her.”

“No,” said Banks. “She didn't lie. She thought she was telling you the truth.” He noticed the look of confusion in Vivian's eyes.

“All those years,” Frank went on, as if he hadn't heard. “Do you know he worshipped her, my father? Even though she left us. He said she was a dreamer, a free spirit, a beautiful butterfly who just had to spread her wings and fly away. But I hated her for leaving us. For depriving us of all that beauty. Why couldn't she share it with us? Why couldn't
we
be part of her dreams? We were never good enough for her. I hated her and I loved her. All my life dominated and blighted by a mother I never even knew. What do you think Mr Freud would make of that? Don't you think that's funny?”

Banks looked away. He didn't want to tell Frank the truth, that his mother had turned her back on him at birth. All those years, George had fed him on illusions. Gloria certainly had been wrong about the father of her child; he hadn't turned out so bad after all. “No,” he said. “I don't think it's funny at all, Frank.”