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“I don’t understand,” said the man. “Our son died a long time ago. It’s a bit late to be coming round with condolences, don’t you think?”
“Jem? Jeremy Hylton? I am at the right house, aren’t I?”
“Oh, yes,” said the woman. “But the thing is, our Jeremy died five years ago.”
“But… but it was only about a month ago. I mean, I knew him. I found him. We are speaking about the same person, aren’t we? Did Jeremy have a brother, perhaps?”
“We had only one son,” the man said. “And he died five years ago. Now, if you don’t mind, I think my wife has been disturbed enough, don’t you? Good day.”
He started to close the door.
Banks made one last-ditch attempt. He stuck his foot in the door and said, “Please, you don’t understand. Jem died last month. I don’t mean to upset you, but-”
Mr. Hylton opened the door a fraction and Banks slipped his foot out. “If you don’t go away and get off our property immediately, I’m going to call the police,” he said. “Is that clear?” And this time he slammed the door shut before Banks could move.
For a few moments, Banks stared at the weathered oak, his mind spi
At the end of the drive, an elderly man wearing a cloth cap waved him down. Banks stopped, and the man leaned down to the open window. He had about five days’ growth on his cheeks, and his breath smelled of beer. “What you been bothering them there for, then?” he asked.
“I wasn’t bothering them,” Banks said. “I just came to offer them my condolences on their son’s death.”
The man scratched his cheek. “And what did they say?”
Banks told him, all the time glancing in his mirror to see if the Hyltons had followed him down the drive.
“Well,” the man said, “see, as far as they’re concerned, their Jeremy died the day he dropped out of university and went off to London to be one of them drug-smoking hippies.” He scrutinized Banks for a moment, as if trying to make up his mind where he fit in the scheme of things. “I noticed they had the police around a while back and wondered what it were all about. Jeremy’s really dead now, then?”
“Yes,” said Banks after another quick glance in the mirror.
“Drugs, were it?”
“Looks that way.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. I’ve known him since he were a babe in arms. Nice young lad he were till he went bad. He were going to be a doctor, like his dad. At Cambridge he was you know. I don’t know what went wrong.” He pointed with his thumb back at the house. “They never recovered. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t have any visitors.” He shook his head slowly. “Poor little Jeremy. They never even gave him a funeral service.” Then he wandered away along the road shaking his head and muttering to himself.
Banks was left alone at the intersection of the drive and the road, with only the birdsongs and his own gloomy thoughts of estrangement and denial for company. He had a pretty good idea of what went wrong for Jem, having read Clara’s letter, but it seemed that nobody wanted to know.
Horns blaring on Market Street broke into his reminiscences. Now he had another denial on his mind. Jem’s parents had convinced themselves their son had died five years before he really did, just because he had disappointed their expectations. Gwen Shackleton told George and Francis Henderson that Gloria had run away when she was well aware that Gloria was actually dead and buried out back. Somehow, the two denials seemed like curious mirror images to Banks.
A knock at the door interrupted this train of thought. Sergeant Hatchley walked in. “Coffee break?”
Banks looked up and dragged himself back from a long distance. “What? Oh, yes.”
“You all right, sir? You look a bit pale.”
“Fine. Just thinking, that’s all.”
“Can be painful, thinking. That’s why I try to avoid it.”
They walked across Market Street to the Golden Grill for toasted tea cakes and coffee. Rain had finally come to the Dales, and the place was almost empty. Doris, the proprietor, claimed they were only the fourth and fifth customers to pass through her door that day.
“Does that put us in line for summat special, like?” Hatchley asked. “Maybe a free cuppa?”
She slapped his arm and laughed. “Get away with you.”
“Worth a try,” said Hatchley to Banks. “Never ask, never get. I used to know a bloke years back who claimed he asked every girl he met if she’d go to bed with him. Said he only got slapped in the face nine times out of ten.”
Banks laughed, then he asked, “Have you heard anything on that nationwide inquiry you put out yet?”
“Something came in this morning, as a matter of fact,” said Hatchley. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Lass called Brenda Hamilton. Bit of a tart, by all accounts. Not a prossie by trade, but she wasn’t averse to opening her legs for anyone who looked like he had a bob or two to spare. Anyway, she was found dead in a barn.”
“MO?”
“Strangled and stabbed. In that order.”
“It certainly sounds promising.”
Hatchley shook his head. “Don’t get your hopes up. There’s a couple of problems.”
“What problems?”
“Location and time frame. It happened near Hadleigh, Suffolk, in August 1952. I only mentioned it because it was the same MO.”
Banks chewed on his tea cake and thought it over. “Any suspects?”
“Naturally, the farmer who owned the barn came in for a close look, but he had a watertight alibi. I’d have sent for more details, but… well, it’s not likely to be co
Banks shrugged. “Wouldn’t do any harm to ask a few more questions.”
“Maybe not. But that’s seven years after Gloria Shackleton was killed. It’s a long gap for the kind of killer we’re looking at. It also happened in another part of the country.”
“There could be reasons for that.”
“And I doubt there’d be any American Air Force perso
“You’re probably right, Jim, but let’s be thorough. Get onto East Anglia and ask them for more details. I’ll ask DS Cabbot to contact the USAFE people again and see if she can find out anything.”
“Will do.”
Back in his office, Banks put off phoning A
The reason he was avoiding talking to A
At the time, Banks had not been sorry to see her go. He was more upset than he had let on by Sandra’s visit, and it a