Summer Rain: An Inspector Banks Short Story by Peter Robinson Page A

waves washing in and out on a beach of pure white sand. The ocean and sky were the brightest blue he could imagine, and tall palm trees dotted the landscape. The pastel village that straddled the steep hillside looked like a cubist collage.
    “Sorry to bother you, sir,” Susan said, “but it looks like we’ve got a right one here.”
    Banks opened his eyes and rubbed them. He felt as if he were coming back from a very long way. “It’s all right,” he said. “I was getting a bit bored with the crime statistics, anyway.” He tossed the folder onto his desk and linked his hands behind his head. “Well, what is it?”
    Susan entered the office. “It’s sort of hard to explain, sir.”
    “Try.”
    Susan told him about Jerry Singer. As he listened, Banks’s blue eyes sparkled with amusement and interest. When Susan had finished, he thought for a moment, then sat up and turned off the music. “Why not?” he said. “It’s been a slow week. Let’s live dangerously. Bring him in.” He fastened his top button and straightened his tie.
    A few moments later, Susan returned with Jerry Singer in tow. Singer looked nervously around the office and took the seat opposite Banks. The two exchanged introductions, then Banks leaned back and lit a cigarette. He loved the mingled smells of smoke and summer rain.
    “Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning,” he said.
    “Well,” said Singer, turning his nose up at the smoke, “I’ve been involved in regressing to past lives for a few years now, partly through hypnosis. It’s been a fascinating journey, and I’ve discovered a great deal about myself.” He sat forward and rested his hands on the desk. His fingers were short and tapered. “For example, I was a merchant’s wife in Venice in the fifteenth century. I had seven children and died giving birth to the eighth. I was only twenty-nine. In my next incarnation, I was an actor in a troupe of Elizabethan players, the Lord Chamberlain’s Men. I remember playing Bardolph in Henry V in 1599. After that, I—”
    “I get the picture,” said Banks. “I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Singer, but maybe we can skip to the twentieth century?”
    Singer paused and frowned at Banks. “Sorry. Well, as I was telling Detective Constable Gay here, it’s the least clear one so far. I was a hippie. At least, I think I was. I had long hair, wore a caftan, bell-bottom jeans. And I had this incredible sense of déjà vu when I was driving through Swainsdale yesterday afternoon.”
    “Where, exactly?”
    “It was just before Fortford. I was coming from Helmthorpe, where I’m staying. There’s a small hill by the river with a few trees on it, all bent by the wind. Maybe you know it?”
    Banks nodded. He knew the place. The hill was, in fact, a drumlin, a kind of hump-backed mound of detritus left by the retreating ice age. Six trees grew on it, and they had all bent slightly to the southeast after years of strong northwesterly winds. The drumlin was about two miles west of Fortford.
    “Is that all?” Banks asked.
    “All?”
    “Yes.” Banks leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. “You know there are plenty of explanations for déjà vu, don’t you, Mr. Singer? Perhaps you’ve seen a place very similar before and only remembered it when you passed the drumlin?”
    Singer shook his head. “I understand your doubts,” he said, “and I can’t offer concrete proof, but the feeling is unmistakable. I have been there before, in a previous life. I’m certain of it. And that’s not all. There’s the dream.”
    “Dream?”
    “Yes. I’ve had it several times. The same one. It’s raining, like today, and I’m passing through a landscape very similar to what I’ve seen in Swainsdale. I arrive at a very old stone house. There are people and their voices are raised, maybe in anger or laughter, I can’t tell. But I start to feel tense and claustrophobic. There’s a baby crying somewhere and it won’t stop. I