Banks was still getting the hang of the station’s new voice-mail system, and was more often than not likely to forget about it or delete everything waiting for him, but that morning he got Annie’s message loud and clear. The ice in her tone was enough to freeze his eardrum. There was also a message from a Major Gargrave, in military personnel. Banks phoned him first, building up the courage to call Annie later.

“It’s about that query you made the other day,” said Major Gargrave. “Matthew Shackleton.”

“Yes?”

“Well, it’s all a bit embarrassing really.”

“He came back, didn’t he? We found a death certificate dated 1950. I was going to ask you about it.”

“Yes, well, these things happen sometimes, you know. When my assistant was returning the file, he found some papers wedged down between two folders. It was because of the irregularity of it all, you see.”

“And a filing error.”

“Yes.”

“When did he return?” Banks asked.

“It was his sister who reported his return, actually. March 1945. Place called Hobb’s End. Does that make any sense?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “Go on.”

“I’m afraid there’s not much more to tell, really. Sergeant Shackleton simply discharged himself from a London hospital and went home. The hospital said he’d been liberated from a Japanese POW camp in the Philippines and shipped home in pretty bad shape. No identification.”

“And that’s all?”

“Yes. It would seem so. Very odd.”

“Okay,” said Banks, “thanks very much for calling, Major.”

“No problem.”

After he hung up, Banks opened the window and let the sunshine in. He thought of lighting a cigarette but realized he didn’t really feel like one. Too many last night. His throat and lungs still felt raw. There was something that didn’t make sense in what the major had just told him; it was on the tip of his consciousness, but he couldn’t quite force it out. Too many dead brain cells in the way.

Back at his desk, Banks steeled himself and picked up the phone. He was as ready as he would ever be for Annie now. She answered on the third ring.

“You’re back, then,” was all she said.

“Yes.”

“Have a good time?”

“Pretty good, thanks.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

“I’d rather forget this morning, though.”

“You probably deserved it.”

“Probably.”

“I’ve got the info on the Rowan Woods personnel.”

“Wonderful.”

“It’s a long list, though. It’ll take a bit of whittling down. There was more than one person working in the PX, for a start.”

Banks sensed that her tone was softening a little. Should he tell her he had missed her last night? Or ask her what was wrong? Better hold off awhile. He ventured a tentative, “Is there anything else?”

Annie told him about what happened at Hobb’s End.

“What were you doing out there?” he asked.

“What does it matter? Maybe I just wanted to see what it looks like in the dark.”

“And?”

“It looks spooky.”

“It was probably just a kid.”

“I thought about that. It didn’t look like a kid. And it drove away.”

“I’ve known ten-year-olds do that. Still, I take your point. There’s not much we can do about it now, though, is there?”

“I just thought I’d let you know. For the record. It was interesting, that’s all.”

“Sounds like it. Anything else?”

Annie told him about drawing a blank on trying to confirm Vivian Elmsley’s identity through Ruby, Betty and Alice.

“We’d better track her down, anyway,” Banks said.

“I’ve already done that.”

“Now I’m really impressed.”

“So you should be. While you’ve been recovering from your self-inflicted damage, I’ve been on the phone.” Was there a hint of forgiveness there, perhaps? Depended how he played it: he needed to strike the right balance of remorse and praise, guilt and compliments.

“And?”

“Well, in her case it was easy. She’s in the London telephone directory.”

“You didn’t phone her, did you?”

“Please. Give me some credit. I’m not that gormless. But I’ve got her address. What do you want to do about it?”

“We should talk to her as soon as possible. If she really is the one we’re looking for, she’s holding something back. She might also know the names we want. There was another thing nagging at me a few minutes ago and I’ve just realized what it was.”

“Apart from the hangover?”

“Yes.”

“All right. What was it?”

Banks explained to her about the call from Major Gargrave. “It’s to do with the gun,” he said.

“What gun?”

“The one Matthew Shackleton’s supposed to have shot himself with.”

“What about it? Handguns must have been common enough just after the war. You’d just had hundreds of thousands of men running around armed to the teeth killing one another, remember?”

“Yes, but why would Matthew have a gun?”

“I don’t – wait a minute, I think I do see what you mean.”

“If he was a released POW, he’d hardly have his service revolver. I should imagine the Japanese confiscated the weapons off the people they captured, wouldn’t you?”

“Unless his liberators gave him one?”

“I suppose that’s remotely possible. Especially if they were Americans. Americans feel naked without guns.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“I think it’s highly unlikely,” said Banks. “Why should they? And why would he still have it when he went back to Hobb’s End from hospital? Anyway, it’s a minor point, probably doesn’t mean a thing.”

“If he did have a gun, though, why didn’t he use that on Gloria instead of strangling her and stabbing her?”

“If it was Matthew who killed her.”

“Have you considered Gwen as a serious suspect?” Annie asked.

“Certainly. According to everything we’ve heard, she was very close to her brother. If Gloria was hurting him, running around with other men, Gwen might just have fought back on his behalf. At the very least she should be able to tell us more about Matthew’s relationship with Gloria after he came back, assuming Gloria was still alive at the time. Fancy a trip to London tomorrow?”

“Who’s driving?”

“We’ll take the train. It’s faster, and the London traffic’s murder. If my memory serves me well, there’s a train leaves York around a quarter to nine that’ll have us at King’s Cross by twenty to eleven. Can you manage that?”

“No problem. In the meantime I’ll see if I can get any more information on the airmen.”

After Annie hung up, Banks walked over to the window and looked out over the square, with its ancient market cross and square-towered church, gray-gold in the sunlight. He thought about Vivian Elmsley. Could she really be Gwen Shackleton? It seemed a preposterous idea, but stranger things had happened. He decided it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a go at one or two of Vivian Elmsley’s books before he set off to interview her. Her writing might give him some insight into her character.

He tried dialing Brian’s Wimbledon number again. Still nothing. Ken Blackstone was right, though; all he could do for the moment was keep on trying. If he was going to London tomorrow, he hoped he might be able to see Brian, have a talk, get things sorted. He didn’t want Brian to keep on thinking his father was disappointed in him for what he was doing, the way Banks’s own father always made clear his dismay at Banks’s choice of career, even now, every time they met.

Banks went back to his desk. For about the third time since the case began, he spread out the objects found with Gloria Shackleton’s body before him. Not much for the remnants of a life, or the detritus of a death: a locket whose original heart shape had been squashed and bent; a corroded wedding ring; clips from a brassiere or suspenders; a pair of tiny, deformed leather shoes, which reminded him of the ones he had seen at the Brontë parsonage once; a few scraps of blackout cloth; and the button from Adam Kelly, greenish-blue with verdigris. Superintendent Gristhorpe might be able to tell him a bit about the button, he thought. Gristhorpe was a bit of an expert on military history, especially the Second World War.