Summer Rain: An Inspector Banks Short Story Read Free Page A

Banks thought they would have to get out and push, but on the third try, the wheels caught and the car lurched forward.
    The farmyard looked neglected: bedraggled weeds poked through the mud; part of the barn roof had collapsed; and the wheels and tines of the old hay rake had rusted.
    Mrs. Atherton answered their knock almost immediately. Banks had phoned ahead so their arrival wouldn’t frighten her. After all, a woman living alone in such a wild place couldn’t be too careful.
    She led them into the large kitchen and put the kettle on the Aga. The stone-walled room looked clean and tidy enough, but Banks noted an underlying smell, like old greens and meat rotting under the sink.
    Mrs. Atherton carried the aura of the sickroom about with her. Her complexion was as gray as her sparse hair; her eyes were dull yellow with milky blue irises; and the skin below them looked dark as a bruise. As she made the tea, she moved slowly, as if measuring the energy required for each step. How on earth, Banks wondered, did she manage up here all by herself? Yorkshire grit was legendary, and as often close to foolhardiness as anything else, he thought.
    She put the teapot on the table. “We’ll just let it mash a minute,” she said. “Now, what is it you want to talk to me about?”
    Banks didn’t know how to begin. He had no intention of telling Mrs. Atherton about Jerry Singer’s “previous lifetime,” or of interrogating her about her son’s death. Which didn’t leave him many options.
    “How are you managing?” he asked first.
    “Mustn’t grumble.”
    “It must be hard, taking care of this place all by yourself?”
    “Nay, there’s not much to do these days. Jack Crocker keeps an eye on the sheep. I’ve nobbut got a few cows to milk.”
    “No poultry?”
    “Nay, it’s not worth it anymore, not with these battery farms. Anyway, seeing as you’re a copper, I don’t suppose you came to talk to me about the farming life, did you? Come on, spit it out, lad.”
    Banks noticed Susan look down and smile. “Well,” he said, “I hate to bring up a painful subject, but it’s your son’s death we want to talk to you about.”
    Mrs. Atherton looked at Susan as if noticing her for the first time. A shadow crossed her face. Then she turned back to Banks. “Our Joseph?” she said. “But he’s been dead thirty years or more.”
    “I know that,” said Banks. “We won’t trouble you for long.”
    “There’s nowt else to add.” She poured the tea, fussed with milk and sugar, and sat down again.
    “You said your son wrote and said he was coming?”
    “Aye.”
    “Did you keep the letter?”
    “What?”
    “The letter. I’ve not seen any mention of it anywhere. It’s not in the file.”
    “Well, it wouldn’t be, would it? We don’t leave scraps of paper cluttering up the place.”
    “So you threw it out?”
    “Aye. Bert or me.” She looked at Susan again. “That was my husband, God rest his soul. Besides,” she said, “how else would we know he was coming? We couldn’t afford a telephone back then.”
    “I know,” said Banks. But nobody had asked at the railway station whether Bert Atherton actually had met his son there, and now it was too late. He sipped some tea; it tasted as if the tea bag had been used before. “I don’t suppose you remember seeing a red Volkswagen in the area around that time, do you?”
    “No. They asked us that when it first happened. I didn’t know owt about it then, and I don’t know owt now.”
    “Was there anyone else in the house when the accident occurred?”
    “No, of course there weren’t. Do you think I wouldn’t have said if there were? Look, young man, what are you getting at? Do you have summat to tell me, summat I should know?”
    Banks sighed and took another sip of weak tea. It didn’t wash away the taste of decay that permeated the kitchen. He signaled to Susan and stood up. “No,” he said. “No, I’ve nothing new to tell you, Mrs. Atherton. Just