The three of us set off, taking the long way around on the roads so we wouldn’t get our ankles and court shoes wet in the grass.
Harkside was much wilder than Hobb’s End. Most of the soldiers and airmen from the nearby bases had come, so there were men in uniform all over the place. From the minute we got to the village green, we were swept into a mad whirl. It didn’t take Gloria long to meet up with Brad. Billy Joe was there with his new girlfriend, and PX was tagging along, too. I felt a sudden pang of missing Charlie, then I tried to enter into the spirit of victory.
First we went to the dance. There was a big band playing Glenn Miller, Duke Ellington and Benny Goodman tunes, and people kept throwing colored streamers across the dance floor.
Out in the streets, between songs, we could hear fireworks and people whooping with joy. At one point, when I was dancing a waltz with Billy Joe and trying to explain how Matthew took up so much of our time, I noticed Gloria and Brad slip outside. It was over an hour before I saw them again, and Gloria had retouched her makeup. She couldn’t hide the ladder in one of her stockings, though. I resolved to say nothing. Since our talk a few days ago, I had thought a lot about Gloria and what she was sacrificing to care for Matthew, and I decided that she deserved her little pleasures, as long as she remained discreet about them.
The band was still playing when we piled out into the street. There was a huge bonfire on the village green and people were singing, dancing and setting off fireworks all around it, just like Guy Fawkes Night. The air was full of the acrid smell of smoke and the sky full of exploding colors. Someone had made up an effigy of Hitler and they were heaving it on top of the fire. Everyone was drunk. I don’t know where Cynthia got to. I was with a group of people, and I could see Gloria and Brad through the flames having an argument. At least they looked as if they were shouting at one another, but I couldn’t hear for all the singing and explosions.
At one point we went to someone’s house and drank some whiskey. It was a wild party. People were packed in like sardines and I felt hands all over my body as I pushed my way through the crowd to go to the toilet. The house was full of smoke and it stung my eyes. Gloria was dancing, but I couldn’t see Brad. Someone fell down the stairs. At one point, I’m sure I saw a Negro dancing on the piano. PX was drunk, eyes closed almost to slits, and I saw him try to kiss a woman. She pushed him away and his face turned red. Then he stormed off. Cynthia reappeared with a sailor in tow. I don’t know where she’d managed to find him, as we were at least fifty miles from the coast. It was almost one o’clock and we were back out on the street again when I told Cynthia and Gloria it was time for us to go.
The three of us were a little drunk. It was the emotion and excitement as much as the alcohol, I think. We didn’t even bother trying to cadge a lift but danced and laughed our way home instead. Hobb’s End was quiet as a tomb.
Bridge Cottage was dark. I went in with Gloria to make sure everything was all right and we heard Matthew snoring on the Chesterfield as soon as we opened the door. Gloria put her finger to her lips and gestured me toward the kitchen. With the door shut, she poured us both another whiskey, which was probably the last thing we needed. When she put her handbag down on the countertop, it slipped off and fell on the floor. I bent over to pick it up for her and noticed how heavy it was. Curious, I opened the clasp and nearly fainted when I saw a gun. Gloria turned with the bottle and glasses in time to see me.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” she said.
“But Gloria, where did you get it?”
“From one of the Americans at the party. He was so drunk he won’t miss it.”
“Not Brad?”
“No, not Brad. Nobody we know.”
“But whoever he was, he’ll get into serious trouble.”
“I don’t think so. Anyway, I don’t care. It serves him right for being so careless, doesn’t it? He was trying to put his hand up my skirt at the time.”
“What do you want a gun for?”
She shrugged. “War souvenir.”
“Gloria!”
“All right!” She was whispering as loudly as she could, so as not to wake Matthew. “Maybe I just feel a bit more comfortable knowing it’s there, that’s all.”
“But Matthew’s harmless. He wouldn’t hurt you.”
She looked at me as if I were the biggest fool she had ever met. “Who said anything about Matthew?” she said, not even bothering to whisper, then she took the gun from me and put it in one of the kitchen cupboards behind the meager supplies of tea and cocoa. “Now will you have that drink?”
Vivian Elmsley was having a difficult time. Close to midnight she was sitting in her sparse living room, her third gin and tonic in her hand and some dreadful rubbish on television. Sleep refused to come. Her mysterious caller hadn’t rung again, but she still regarded the telephone as an object of terror, ever on the verge of destroying what little peace of mind she had left. She wondered if she should have told the police about him. But what could they do? It was all so vague.
She had known the police would find out who she was and come for her eventually – she had known that the minute she knew Gloria’s body had been dug up – but she hadn’t been prepared for the effect that their visit would have on her. They knew she was lying; that was obvious. Chief Inspector Banks wasn’t a fool; he knew that nobody who had been as close to the people involved as Vivian had could know so little as she had professed. And she wasn’t a good liar.
Why hadn’t she told them the truth? Fear for her own well-being? Partly. She didn’t want to go to jail. Not at her age. But would they really prosecute her after so long, no matter what the law books said? When they heard her full story, would they really go ahead and put her through the pain and humiliation of a trial and a jail sentence? Were there not such things as mitigating circumstances?
She didn’t know what they would do, and that was the problem. When it comes right down to it, we fear the unknown more than anything else.
On the other hand, if she didn’t tell them, then they would never find out the truth about what happened that night. Nobody else knew. Living or dead. If she was careful, Vivian could take her secret to the grave with her.
Only one thing was certain: The police would be back; she had seen it in the chief inspector’s eyes. Tonight she had to make her decision.
“You’re right about one thing,” Annie began. “I’m in Harkside because I was a naughty girl.”
“What happened?”
“Depends on your point of view. They called it an initiation rite. I called it attempted gang rape. Look, I’m not going to tell you where it was or who was involved. All I’m saying is it happened in a big city, and it wasn’t in Yorkshire. Okay?”
“Okay. Go on.”
“This is hard.” Annie spooned down some more chocolate mousse. “Harder than I ever thought.”
“You don’t have to.”
She held up her hand. “No. I’ve come this far.” The waiter drifted by and they both ordered coffee. He didn’t give any indication that he had heard, but the coffee arrived in a matter of moments. Annie pushed aside her dessert bowl; it was empty. She played with the spoon.
“It was when I made DS,” she said. “Nearly two years ago now. I’d done my stint in uniform there, and I wasn’t sure where they were going to send me next. But I didn’t care. I was happy just to be back in CID again after… well, you know what I mean.”
“Patrols? Shifts?”
“Exactly. Anyway, there was a celebration at the local coppers’ pub. The ‘private’ room upstairs. I suppose I was dead chuffed with myself. I’d always wanted to be one of the boys. Naturally, we closed the place. It got down to just four of us left. One of them suggested we go back to his place and drink some more and we all agreed that was a good idea.”
She was speaking very quietly so that no one would hear. There wasn’t much chance of that. The restaurant was packed now, full of laughter and loud voices. Banks had to strain to hear her, and somehow that made what he heard so much more affecting, that it was delivered in not much more than a whisper. He sipped some black coffee. Through the occasional hush in the background noise, he could hear the lush, romantic strains of Liszt’s “Liebestraum.”