In a Dry Season by Peter Robinson Page B

dear?”
    Gloria nodded. “As a matter of fact, I was.”
    â€œWell,” said Mr Stanhope, putting the brass snake-head of his cane to his chin as he reflected, “I’ll tell you what. As I very much approve of women smoking, perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement. I have but one stipulation.”
    â€œOh,” said Gloria, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes. “And what might that be?”
    â€œThat you smoke in the street every now and then.”
    Gloria stared at him for a moment, then she started to laugh. “That won’t be a problem,” she said. “I can assure you.” And he handed her one of the packets.
    I was flabbergasted. There were ten cigarettes in each packet and they weren’t cheap or easy to get.
    Instead of protesting that she couldn’t possibly accept them but thanking him for his generosity anyway, as I would have done, Gloria simply took the packet and said, “Why, thank you very much, Mr . . . ?”
    He beamed at her. “Stanhope. Michael Stanhope. At your service. And it’s my pleasure. Believe me, my dear, it’s a rare treat indeed to meet a woman as comely as thyself around these parts.” Then he moved a step closer and scrutinized her, quite rudely, I thought, rather like a farmer looking over a horse he was about to buy.
    Gloria stood her ground.
    When Mr Stanhope had finished, he turned to go, but before the door shut behind him, he cast a quick glance over his shoulder at Gloria. “You know, you really must visit my studio, my dear. See my etchings, as it were.” And with that he was gone, chuckling as he went.
    In the silence that followed, Gloria and I stared at one another for a moment, then we both burst out giggling. When we had managed to control ourselves, I told her I was sorry for deceiving her over the cigarettes, but she waved the apology aside. “You have your regulars to attend to,” she said. “And these are difficult times.”
    â€œI must apologize for Mr Stanhope, too,” I said. “I’m afraid he can be quite rude.”
    â€œNonsense,” she said, with that little, pixieish grin of hers. “I rather liked him. And he did give me these.”
    She opened the packet and offered me a cigarette. I shook my head; I didn’t smoke then. She put one in the corner of her mouth and lit it with a small silver lighter she took from her uniform pocket. “Just as well,” she said. “I can see these will have to last me a while.”
    â€œI can put some aside for you in future,” I said. “I mean, I can try. Depending on how many we can get, of course.”
    â€œWould you? Oh, yes, please! That would be wonderful. Now if I might just have a look at that copy of Picture Goer over there, the one with Vivien Leigh on the cover. I do so admire Vivien Leigh, don’t you? She’s so beautiful. Have you seen Gone With the Wind ? I saw it in the West End before I went on my month’s training. Absolutely—”
    But before I could get the magazine for her or tell her that Gone With the Wind hadn’t reached this far north yet, Matthew dashed in.
    Gloria turned at the sound of the bell, eyebrows raised in curiosity. When he saw her, my brother stopped in his tracks and fell into her eyes so deeply you could hear the splash.

    The first thing Banks did when he got back to the cottage that night was check the answering machine. Nothing. Damn it. He wanted to put things right after his miserable cock-up on the phone earlier that day, but he still had no access to Brian’s number in Wimbledon. He didn’t even know Andrew’s last name. He could find out—after all, he was supposed to be a detective—but it would take time, and he could only do it during office hours. Sandra might know, of course, but the last thing he wanted to do was talk to her.
    Banks poured himself a whisky, turned off the bright overhead