Read Online In a Dry Season by Peter Robinson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter Robinson
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he would be able to afford it; properties in the Dales were fetching astronomical prices. But fortune and human eccentricity proved to be on his side for once. Mrs Perkins had no love whatsoever for the holiday cottage trade and no particular greed for mere money. She wanted to sell to someone who would actually live in the cottage. As soon as she found out that Banks was looking for just such a place, and that his name was the same as her maiden name, the deal was as good as done. The only black mark against Banks was that he wasnât born a Yorkshireman, but she took to him anyway, convinced they were related, and she even flirted with him in that way some old ladies have.
When she let him have the place for fifty thousand pounds, probably about half of what she could have got, telling him it would be enough to see her to her grave, Dimmoch, the estate agent, groaned and shook his head in disbelief. Afterwards, Banks always had the impression thatDimmoch suspected him of exerting undue pressure on Mrs Perkins.
The cottage became Banksâs long-term projectâhis therapy, his refuge and, he hoped, his salvation. In an odd way, he felt, working on the cottage was like working on himself. Both needed renovating, and both had a long way to go. It was all new to him; he had never had the faintest interest in DIY or gardening before; nor had he been much inclined to self-analysis or introspection. But somehow he had lost his way over the past year, and he wanted to find a new one; he had also lost something of himself, and he wanted to know what it was. So far, he had fitted some pine cupboards in the kitchen, like the ones in his dream, installed a shower unit to replace the claw-footed Victorian bathtub, and painted the living-room. It hadnât kept the depression away completely, but made it more manageable; at least he could always drag himself out of bed in the morning now, even if he didnât always view the day ahead with any real relish.
A nightbird called out far in the distanceâa broken, eerie cry, as if perhaps some predator were threatening its nest. Banks stubbed out his cigarette and went back inside. As he got ready for bed, he thought of the skeletal hand, possibly human; he thought of DS Cabbot, definitely human; he thought of Hobbâs End, that lost, ruined village suddenly risen from the depths with its secrets; and somewhere in his mind, in the darkness way beyond the realms of logic and reason, he heard an echo, a click, felt something intangible connect across the years.
Three
B anks watched from the edge of the woods the next morning as the SOCOS slowly lifted the skeleton from its muddy grave under the expert direction of John Webb. First, they had to take down the wall next to which the bones were buried, then they made a trench around the area and dug down until the bones were exposed, about three feet below the surface. Next, they slipped a thin sheet of metal into the earth under the bones, and finally they got it in place, ready to lift out.
The bones came up on the metal sheet, still packed in earth, and four SOCO pallbearers carried it up the slope, where they laid it out on the grass at Banksâs feet like a burnt offering. It had just gone eleven, and DS Cabbot still hadnât shown up. Banks had already talked to Adam Kelly, who hadnât been able to add anything to his previous statement.
Adam was still shaken, but Banks sensed a resilience in him that he had also possessed as an early adolescent. Banks, too, had loved playing in derelict houses, of which there had been plenty in postwar Peterborough. The worst he had ever come away with was a scraped knee, but a pupil from the girlsâ school had been killed by a falling rafter, so he knew how dangerous they could be. The council wasalways boarding them up. Anyway, Adamâs little adventure had done no lasting harm, and it would give him stories to tell well into the school term. He would enjoy
When she let him have the place for fifty thousand pounds, probably about half of what she could have got, telling him it would be enough to see her to her grave, Dimmoch, the estate agent, groaned and shook his head in disbelief. Afterwards, Banks always had the impression thatDimmoch suspected him of exerting undue pressure on Mrs Perkins.
The cottage became Banksâs long-term projectâhis therapy, his refuge and, he hoped, his salvation. In an odd way, he felt, working on the cottage was like working on himself. Both needed renovating, and both had a long way to go. It was all new to him; he had never had the faintest interest in DIY or gardening before; nor had he been much inclined to self-analysis or introspection. But somehow he had lost his way over the past year, and he wanted to find a new one; he had also lost something of himself, and he wanted to know what it was. So far, he had fitted some pine cupboards in the kitchen, like the ones in his dream, installed a shower unit to replace the claw-footed Victorian bathtub, and painted the living-room. It hadnât kept the depression away completely, but made it more manageable; at least he could always drag himself out of bed in the morning now, even if he didnât always view the day ahead with any real relish.
A nightbird called out far in the distanceâa broken, eerie cry, as if perhaps some predator were threatening its nest. Banks stubbed out his cigarette and went back inside. As he got ready for bed, he thought of the skeletal hand, possibly human; he thought of DS Cabbot, definitely human; he thought of Hobbâs End, that lost, ruined village suddenly risen from the depths with its secrets; and somewhere in his mind, in the darkness way beyond the realms of logic and reason, he heard an echo, a click, felt something intangible connect across the years.
Three
B anks watched from the edge of the woods the next morning as the SOCOS slowly lifted the skeleton from its muddy grave under the expert direction of John Webb. First, they had to take down the wall next to which the bones were buried, then they made a trench around the area and dug down until the bones were exposed, about three feet below the surface. Next, they slipped a thin sheet of metal into the earth under the bones, and finally they got it in place, ready to lift out.
The bones came up on the metal sheet, still packed in earth, and four SOCO pallbearers carried it up the slope, where they laid it out on the grass at Banksâs feet like a burnt offering. It had just gone eleven, and DS Cabbot still hadnât shown up. Banks had already talked to Adam Kelly, who hadnât been able to add anything to his previous statement.
Adam was still shaken, but Banks sensed a resilience in him that he had also possessed as an early adolescent. Banks, too, had loved playing in derelict houses, of which there had been plenty in postwar Peterborough. The worst he had ever come away with was a scraped knee, but a pupil from the girlsâ school had been killed by a falling rafter, so he knew how dangerous they could be. The council wasalways boarding them up. Anyway, Adamâs little adventure had done no lasting harm, and it would give him stories to tell well into the school term. He would enjoy
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