Summer Rain: An Inspector Banks Short Story (3 page)

VIII

“
H
ER NAME IS
Catherine Anne Singer,” said Susan the next afternoon. “And she was relieved to talk to me as soon as I told her we weren’t after her for leaving the scene of a crime. She comes from somewhere called Garden Grove, California. Like a lot of young Americans, she came over to ‘do’ Europe in the sixties.”

The three of them—Banks, Susan, and Jenny Fuller—sat over drinks at a dimpled, copper-topped table in the Queen’s Arms, listening to the summer rain tap against the diamonds of colored glass.

“And she’s Jerry Singer’s mother?” Banks asked.

Susan nodded. “Yes. I just asked him for her telephone number. I didn’t tell him why I wanted it.”

Banks nodded. “Good. Go on.”

“Well, she ended up living in London. It was easy enough to get jobs that paid under the counter, places where nobody asked too many questions. Eventually, she hooked up with Joseph Atherton and they lived together in a bedsit in Notting Hill Gate. Joseph fancied himself as a musician then—”

“Who didn’t?” said Banks. He remembered taking a few abortive guitar lessons himself. “Sorry. Go on.”

“There’s not a lot to add, sir. She got pregnant, wouldn’t agree to an abortion, though apparently Joseph tried to persuade her. She named the child Jerry, after some guitarist Joseph liked called Jerry Garcia. Luckily for Jerry, Annie wasn’t on heroin. She drew the line at hash and LSD. Anyway, they were off to join some Buddhist commune in the wilds of Scotland when Joseph said they should drop in on his parents on the way and try to get some money. She didn’t like the idea, but she went along with it anyway.

“Everything happened exactly as Mrs. Atherton described it. Annie got scared and ran away. When she got back to London, she decided it was time to go home. She sold the car and took out all her savings from the bank, then she got the first flight she could and settled back in California. She went to university and ended up working as a marine biologist in San Diego. She never married, and she never mentioned her time in England, or that night at the Atherton farm, to Jerry. She told him his father had left them when Jerry was still a baby. He was only two and a half at the time of Atherton’s death, and as far as he was concerned he had spent his entire life in Southern California.”

Banks drained his pint and looked at Jenny.

“Cryptomnesia,” she said.

“Come again?”

“Cryptomnesia. It means memories you’re not consciously aware of, a memory of an incident in your own life that you’ve forgotten. Jerry Singer was present when his grandfather knocked his father down the stairs, but as far as he was concerned
consciously
, he’d never been to Swainsdale before, so how could he remember it? When he got mixed up in the New Age scene, these memories he didn’t know he had started to seem like some sort of proof of reincarnation.”

Sometimes, Banks thought to himself, things are better left alone. The thought surprised him because it went against the grain of both his job and his innate curiosity. But what good had come from Jerry Singer’s presenting himself at the station three days ago? None at all. Perhaps the only blessing in the whole affair was that Betty Atherton had passed away peacefully, as she had intended, in her pill-induced sleep. Now she wouldn’t suffer anymore in this world. And if there were a God, Banks thought, he surely couldn’t be such a bastard as to let her suffer in the next one, either.

“Sir?”

“Sorry, Susan, I was miles away.”

“I asked who was going to tell him. You or me?”

“I’ll do it,” said Banks, with a sigh. “It’s no good trying to sit on it all now. But I need another pint first. My shout.”

As he stood up to go to the bar, the door opened and Jerry Singer walked in. He spotted them at once and walked over. He had that strange naïve, intense look in his eyes. Banks instinctively reached for his cigarettes.

“They told me you were here,” Singer said awkwardly, pointing back through the door toward the Tudor-fronted police station across the street. “I’m leaving for home tomorrow and I was just wondering if you’d found anything out yet?”

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IN THE DARK PLACES

On sale August 11, 2015

From William Morrow

1

T
ERRY
G
ILCHRIST CAME
out of the woods opposite the large hangar, which loomed ahead of him like some storage area for crashed alien spaceships in New Mexico. Only he wasn’t in New Mexico; he was in North Yorkshire.

It stood at the center of a large area of cracked and weed-covered concrete, its perimeter surrounded by a seven-foot chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. A large sign on the padlocked double gates read:
PRIVATE—KEEP OUT
. About a quarter of a mile beyond the hangar, a passenger train sped by on the East Coast line, heading for King’s Cross.

As he usually did at this point on the walk, Gilchrist let Peaches off her leash. The space was open far enough that he could easily keep an eye on her, and she always came back when he whistled or called her name.

Peaches sniffed around the edges of the fence, and before long she had found a way in, probably the same hole the kids used when they went there to play cricket or smoke joints and try to feel up the local girls. This time, instead of continuing to sniff around the concrete and weeds, Peaches headed for the dark opening of the hangar and disappeared inside.

While he waited for her to finish her business, Gilchrist leaned his stick against a tree, stretched his arms out to prop himself up against the trunk and started doing a series of simple leg exercises the army medics had given him. They were already pleased with his progress: out walking, albeit with a stick, after only four months, when they had at first thought the leg was as good as gone. But Gilchrist wanted rid of the stick now, and the only way to do that was to build up the damaged muscle tissue little by little. His leg might never
look
the same, but he was determined that it would function as well as it ever had.

When he had done, Peaches had still not reappeared, so he whistled and called her name. All he got in reply was a bark followed by a whining sound. He called again, adding a bit more authority to his tone, and the whining went on for longer, but Peaches didn’t reappear. She wasn’t coming back. What the hell was wrong with her?

Irritated, Gilchrist grasped his stick again and made his way along the side of the fence, searching for the gap Peaches had found. When he saw it, his heart sank. He could get in, of that he was certain, but it would be a difficult, and probably painful, business. And messy. He called again. Peaches continued barking and whining, as if
she
were calling
him
.

To get through the hole, Gilchrist had to lie flat on the wet ground and edge slowly forward, sticking his arms through first and pushing back against the fencing to propel himself forward. There was an immediate familiarity in lying on his belly that flooded his mind with fear, more a cellular or muscular memory than anything else, and he almost froze. Then he heard Peaches barking through the haze and carried on. Standing up was another awkward maneuver, as he could hardly bend his leg without causing extreme pain, but he made it, hanging on the links of the fence and using them as climbing grips. Finally, he stood panting and leaned back against the fence, clothes damp and muddy; then he grabbed his stick and made toward the hangar.

It was dim inside, but enough light came through the large opening to make it possible to see once his eyes had adjusted. Peaches was standing about thirty yards to his right, near the wall; she was barking and her tail was wagging. Gilchrist made his way over, wondering what on earth was making her behave in such a willful and excited manner. Irritation slowly gave way to curiosity.

The floor of the hangar was concreted over like the surrounding area, and it was just as cracked in places, weeds growing through despite the lack of light. He could hear rain tapping on the steel roofing and the wind moaning around the high dark spaces. He felt himself give an involuntary shudder as he approached Peaches.

Even in the dim light, it was easy to see that she was sniffing around a dark patch on the concrete, but it took the light from Gilchrist’s mobile phone to see that what interested her was a large bloodstain dotted with chips of bone and chunks of gray matter. Immediately, an image of blood on the sand flashed into his mind and he felt the panic rise like the bile in his throat.

Get a grip,
he told himself, then took several deep breaths and bent to peer more closely in the light of the mobile. He didn’t have Peaches’s acute sense of smell, but close up, he picked up that rank and coppery smell of blood. It was a smell he remembered well.

The thought came into his mind unbidden:
Someone has died here
.

“
A
BLOODY STOLEN
tractor,” complained Annie Cabbot. “Would you merit it? I ask you, Doug. Is this why I put in all those years to make DI? Risked life and limb? Is this Homicide and Major Crimes? A stolen tractor? Is that why I was put on this earth?”

“It’s rural crime,” said DC Dougal Wilson, taking his eyes from the road for a moment to flash Annie a quick grin. “And rural crime is major crime. At least according to the new police commissioner.”

“Christ, anyone would think it was election time again already.”

“Well,” said Wilson, “it’s not as if it’s the first piece of farm equipment gone missing over the past while, not to mention the occasional cow and sheep. And it
is
an expensive tractor.”

“Even so . . . Is this farmer we’re going to see a personal friend of the Commissioner’s?”

“No, but I do believe his wife is a friend of Area Commander Gervaise. Book club, or something.”

“Hmm. Didn’t know Madame Gervaise was a reader. Hidden depths. She and Alan must have a lot in common. And where is DCI Banks when you need him? I’ll tell you where. He’s off in Cumbria for a dirty weekend with his girlfriend, that’s where he is.”

“I think you’ll find it’s Umbria, guv,” muttered Wilson.

“Umbria? That’s even worse. It’ll be sunny there.” Annie paused as Wilson negotiated a narrow humped stone bridge. Annie had always been nervous about such bridges. There was no way you could see whether someone was coming from the other side. The best you could do was close your eyes and put your foot down. She closed her eyes. Wilson put his foot down. They made it. “What is it about these Italians?” she went on. “First it was Joanna Passero, the one he went to Estonia with.”

“She’s not Italian. She’s Scottish. Now she’s got divorced, she’s gone back to her maiden name. She’s just plain old Joanna MacDonald.” Wilson blushed. “Well, not exactly plain, perhaps, but you know what I mean. Works at County HQ in Criminal Intelligence. Quite the rising star.”

“I’ve always thought there was something criminal about the intelligence at County HQ,” said Annie. She shot Wilson a suspicious glance. “Anyway, how do you know all this?”

Wilson pushed his glasses up on his nose. “One of the perks of being a lowly DC. Privilege of low rank. You get to hear all the good gossip.”

Annie smiled. “I remember. Vaguely. Still, a bloody stolen tractor. I ask you.” She squinted at a road sign between the fast-beating windscreen wipers. “I think we’re here, Doug. Beddoes Farm. Here’s the track.”

“I know. I can see it.” Wilson turned so sharply that the car almost skidded into the ditch. The ground was sodden and the mud churned to the consistency of porridge. They hung on as the car bounced and squelched down the quarter mile of rough track that led to the farm itself, giving its shock absorbers a workout they probably didn’t need. At least it was a car from the police motor pool, Annie thought, not her new red Astra.

Wilson pulled into the farmyard, where the mud wasn’t any more welcoming, and parked beside a silver BMW. Beyond that stood a new-looking Range Rover. The layout was that of a typical courtyard farmstead: a two-story farmhouse, built of limestone with a flagstone roof, surrounded by farm buildings, including a barn, also of limestone with big wooden doors with flaking green paint, what looked like a garage built of corrugated steel, a pigsty, whose natives sounded happy to be rolling about in mud and worse, and a chicken coop so fortified that the local foxes had probably all slunk off with their tails between their legs.

The usual farm smells assailed Annie’s nostrils when she got out of the car. No doubt the pigs contributed a great deal to it, she thought. And to the mud. You never knew what you were squelching through when you walked across a farmyard. The rolling fields of rapeseed, which would blossom a glorious bright yellow in May, now looked brooding and threatening under a lowering gunmetal sky. Very
Wuthering Heights,
Annie thought, though she knew that was miles away. Dark clouds lumbered overhead, unleashing shower after shower of rain, some heavy, some more like drizzle, and the wind whistled in the emptiness.

Annie had come prepared for a cold wet day in the country—it was only March, after all—her jeans tucked into a pair of red wellies, flower-patterned plastic rain hat, woolly jumper under a waterproof jacket. Doug Wilson looked a little more professional in his Marks and Sparks suit, trilby and tan raincoat with the epaulettes and belt. In fact, Annie thought, he looked a bit like a private detective from a fifties movie, except for the glasses. And when he took his hat off, he still looked like Daniel Radcliffe playing Harry Potter.

There was an arched porch over the entrance, where they removed their outer clothing. When Annie took off the rain hat, her chestnut hair tumbled around her shoulders. The blond was all gone now; she had let her hair grow out and return to its natural color. She could certainly testify that she had not had more fun as a blonde.

A tall, wiry man in his mid fifties, with a fine head of gray hair and a light tan, answered the door. He was wearing jeans and a red V-neck sweater over a pale blue shirt. Despite the casual clothing, Annie thought he looked more like a business executive than a farmer. There was an aura of wealth and power about him that she had never associated with farmers before. “You must be the police,” he said, before they could pull out their warrant cards. He held the door open and stood aside. “Are your coats wet? If so, please don’t hesitate to bring them indoors. We’ll soon dry them out.”

“They’ll be fine,” Annie said, rubbing her hands together, then reaching for her warrant card. “DI Cabbot and DC Wilson.”

“I’m John Beddoes. Please, come in.”

Most farms Annie had visited—admittedly not very many—smelled of mouthwatering baking, of pastry, marzipan, cinnamon and cloves, but Beddoes’s place smelled of nothing but lemon-scented air freshener.

“I know you probably think this is a huge waste of your time,” said Beddoes. “Not to mention a waste of police resources, but it’s not the first such crime we’ve had around here this past year or so.”

“We’re aware of that, sir,” said Annie. “That’s why we’re here.”

Beddoes led them through to a cozy sitting room. First he bade them sit down on a three-piece suite that definitely hadn’t come from DFS, then he called to his wife. “Pat? The police are here, love.”

Patricia Beddoes walked in. Wearing figure-hugging designer jeans, trainers and an orange T-shirt, she was an attractive, elegant woman, with expensively coiffed dark hair, a good ten years or more younger than her husband. Even though she had been on holiday in the sun, her tan looked fake, from a can, like the kind that the young women all showed off on
Coronation Street
. She still looked a little chilly and severe to Annie, too many sharp angles, but her welcoming smile was genuine enough, her handshake firm, and she immediately offered them tea. Annie and Wilson said yes. Neither had eaten breakfast yet. Outside, the rain poured down and the wind blew it hard against the windowpanes and on the parked cars and tin garage. It sounded like someone chucking handfuls of gravel.

“Miserable weather, isn’t it?” said John Beddoes. “And they say there’s more to come.”

Everyone was saying it had been the wettest March since records began, and Annie wasn’t about to argue with that. Apart from a few days earlier in the month, it hadn’t been all that warm, either. There was even snow in the forecast. And all this coming on the heels of a miserable winter, a particularly tough one for farmers, who had lost so many sheep in snowdrifts out on the moors. “You were away on holiday?” she said.

“Yes. Mexico. You might think it an odd time for us to go away—if there ever is a good time for a farmer—but we don’t have any sheep or cattle, you see, so we have no need to worry about lambing or calving.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “And Patricia needed a break.”

“Very nice.” Annie didn’t think most farmers could afford to go to Mexico, not given the way they always seemed to be complaining about low prices of dairy produce, prohibitive EU tariffs and whatnot, but then with all the cheap flights and bargain all-inclusive holidays, it probably wasn’t all that expensive these days. Not that Annie fancied the idea: a bunch of yobs in leopard-skin swimming trunks, slathered in coconut sunblock and pissed on weak beer had about as much appeal for her as a wet Sunday in Wales, or Yorkshire, for that matter. “I understand you only just got back,” she said.

“Late last night. About half past eleven. We were supposed to arrive early in the morning, but the flight to New York was delayed and we missed our connection. Well . . . you know what it’s like. Stuck in the airport lounge all day.”