Children of the Revolution

Chapter 4

Brierley House stood in the area of Eastvale called The Heights, or what the locals knew as ‘Millionaires’ Row’, a short stretch of ten grand houses widely spaced along the hilltop that crested the town to the north, above the bend in the river. All built of local limestone, though in varying styles, most of them had high stone walls and wrought-iron gates. Most of the gates stood permanently open, though some were locked and linked by intercom with the houses themselves.

The gates to Lady Veronica Chalmers’ house stood open, and as Banks drove down the winding gravel drive, past manicured lawns, flower beds and an ancient copper beech, he felt like Philip Marlowe going to visit Colonel Sternwood, though he doubted that he would find Lady Chalmers sitting in a hothouse. He parked next to a beautifully maintained old MG sports car. A red one.

It was ten-thirty in the morning. As yet, neither Banks nor Gerry Masterson had told anyone about Gavin Miller’s phone call. Banks had considered ringing Lady Chalmers after he had heard the news from Gerry the previous evening, but had decided against it. Though he couldn’t imagine that she was involved in any way with Gavin Miller’s death, he didn’t want to give her too much time to think, or worry, before his visit. Those first impressions could be so important.

There was a brass bell push beside the panelled yellow door, and when Banks pressed it, he heard the chimes ring inside. Nothing happened for a few moments, then he thought he heard a muffled voice followed by the click-clack of high heels across an uncarpeted area. When the door opened, a beautiful young woman with straight dark hair down to her shoulders, a flawless olive complexion, full lips and big loam-brown eyes smiled and asked him who he was and what he wanted. She had the merest hint of an accent, which Banks thought might be Greek or Italian, but he could have been wrong. In her early thirties, Banks guessed, she was casually but smartly dressed in a navy skirt and a buttoned white blouse, tucked into the waistband.

Banks showed her his warrant card and said that he would like to see Lady Chalmers on a private matter. The young woman invited him to step into a spacious reception area with a marbled chessboard floor, high ceiling and a large fireplace, and bade him wait there while she went into one of the rooms, taking his warrant card with her. As she walked away, he noticed not only her fine figure, but that she wasn’t wearing high heels, just shoes that made a lot of noise on the floor. She returned a moment later and led Banks through another door. ‘Please make yourself comfortable,’ she said. ‘Lady Chalmers is on the telephone at the moment, but she will be with you in a short while.’ Then she turned and closed the door behind her.

He was standing in a light and airy room with a number of interesting paintings on the walls, most of them abstract or impressionist in style. One interested him in particular, a striking contemporary portrait of a man and a woman standing some distance apart in a room not entirely unlike the one he was in. He thought he recognised the style, though not the actual painting, and when he walked closer to examine the signature and saw he was right, he swallowed and stared again.

He turned his attention next to the large sliding glass doors and saw once again why these houses commanded the high prices they did. The doors led out to a flagged patio area, complete with white garden furniture and an expensive barbecue and outdoor dining set up. They wouldn’t have got much use out of that this summer, he thought. Stone steps led down to a lower garden, a lawn edged with shrubs and flowers, and more garden furniture. Bay trees, rose bushes and fuchsia stood against the drystone walls of the neighbouring houses, giving the garden a private, cosy feeling. The only flora showing any colour were the teardrop flowers of the fuchsia, still reddish-purple, like a fresh bruise.

The view, of course, was stunning. Looking directly ahead to the south, Banks took in the vista of the town centre cupped in its hollow, the Norman church, the cobbled market square, the Swainsdale Centre and bus station, and the castle ruins up on their hill. Beyond, Hindswell Woods straggled up the slope on the other side of the valley and thinned out towards the summit, above whose ridge spread the ever-changing sky, dark and threatening where it seemed to rest on the line of the ridge itself, but lightening and showing gaps of blue higher up. Below the castle, the terraced gardens stepped down to the river and its waterfalls, which these days were running at full capacity. Banks could hear their deep rumbling even through the double-glazing. Across the river, slightly to the left, lay The Green, another desirable, if not quite as expensive, residential area of Eastvale, with its old trees, green space and ordered streets of Georgian semis.

Banks sensed rather than heard someone enter the room and turned to see a woman standing there, smiling and holding out his warrant card. He took it and shook her hand. It felt warm and delicate in his. ‘Veronica Chalmers,’ she said with the slightly challenging smile of someone obviously aware of both her position and her effect on men. ‘My friends call me Ronnie.’

Banks felt tongue-tied for a moment. He didn’t feel that he could call her Ronnie, but Lady Chalmers was a bit of a mouthful. He resolved to try not to use her name at all.

Lady Veronica Chalmers was a remarkably beautiful woman. Banks put her age at mid-forties, only because of crinkling crows’ feet around her eyes, which he thought added to, rather than detracted from, her beauty. She was simply dressed in thigh-hugging designer jeans and a pale blue scallop-necked top. Her tousled blonde hair fell down over her shoulders in lustrous waves, and a shaggy fringe covered most of her forehead. She had a heart-shaped face and unusual green eyes flecked with amber. Her teardrop pendant and matching earrings, which he could just see among the shadows of her hair, echoed their colours. So here he was, in a house up on The Heights, surrounded by beautiful women. A man might think he had died and gone to heaven.

Lady Chalmers gestured to a winged armchair, which sat at an angle to its partner in front of a low glass table. Facing the view, of course. ‘Do sit down. I’ve asked Oriana to bring us tea. I hope that’s all right?’ Her voice was naturally posh, educated, but not in any way patronising or arrogant. When she sat down opposite him and relaxed, crossing her legs, he noticed how smooth and pale her skin was. Alabaster came to mind.

‘Perfect,’ said Banks. ‘It’s an unusual name, Oriana.’

‘Yes. Oriana Serroni. It’s Italian, of course.’ Lady Chalmers looked towards the sliding doors. ‘Normally, I’d take tea outside,’ she said. ‘Even at this time of the year. But... well... you know what it’s been like lately.’

‘The deluge,’ said Banks.

‘Indeed.’

‘It’s a beautiful house.’

‘Thank you. We’re very lucky. Of course, it’s far too big for us, but Jem does do a lot of entertaining here.’

‘I take it that Jem would be Sir Jeremy, your husband?’

‘Yes. I’m afraid he’s away in New York at the moment, working on yet another a new production. He’s away a lot.’

‘I should imagine so,’ said Banks.

He knew that Sir Jeremy Chalmers was a theatrical producer of international reputation, and a man of influential friends, including the chief constable and the local Member of Parliament, who also happened to be a cabinet minister, which made Banks more than a little nervous about his visit. What a theatrical producer actually did, though, and who he did it for, Banks had no idea. He had always assumed it was a euphemism for a wheeler and dealer, the money-man, what they used to call an ‘impresario’, but he was willing to admit there might be more to it than that. Sir Jeremy was known for his multi-million dollar musical productions along the lines of Les Mis and the Andrew Lloyd Webber spectacles. He had a reputation for taking on odd choices of source material — even odder than Sweeney Todd or The Phantom of the Opera — so much so that the joke was that his next production was likely to be The Texas Chainsaw Massacre III — The Musical, or the rather more highbrow Remembrance of Things Past, Part I. It hadn’t happened yet, but Banks wouldn’t be surprised if it did. Whatever Sir Jeremy did, it had made him a lot of money, which had bought him a beautiful wife and home, not to mention a knighthood.

Banks nodded towards the painting that had engaged his attention. ‘I couldn’t help but notice, but is that really what I think it is?’

Lady Chalmers’ eyes widened. ‘Why, surely you don’t think we’d allow any forgeries in our house, do you? Yes, it is. A genuine Hockney. It was a wedding present, actually.’

‘You know Hockney?’

She gave an enigmatic smile. ‘Our paths crossed briefly in Los Angeles, many years ago. My first husband was an artist. Now Hockney’s come back home again, of course. Bridlington.’ Her expression took on a note of sadness. ‘It is such a beautiful painting, though, don’t you think? The positions of their bodies, the sense of space, the expressions on their faces. It says it all. The distance, the yearning.’

She sounded wistful, and Banks had the strangest feeling, as he glanced over at the painting again, that the woman in the couple was her, perhaps with her first husband. It wasn’t an exact likeness, of course, but there was just something about it, the features, the bearing. He quickly dismissed the idea. ‘Absolutely stunning,’ he said. ‘It reminds me of a story I read about Joan Collins, I think it was, or maybe Jackie. Anyway, she said she loved one of Hockney’s paintings of a swimming pool, but she couldn’t afford the painting, so she bought the swimming pool instead.’

Lady Chalmers laughed. ‘I haven’t heard that.’ She gestured towards the painting. ‘Of course, I would never have been able to afford the painting.’ She paused, then went on, head tilted to one side as she observed Banks closely. ‘I must say, you intrigue me. A policeman who knows something about art.’

‘I don’t know very much, I’m afraid. It’s not my main area of interest, I have to confess. You’d have to meet my DI for that. I’m more of a music aficionado.’

‘Of course.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Alan Banks. I should have known. The policeman with the rock musician son. I’ve read about you in the local newspaper. Samantha, my youngest, absolutely adores the Blue Lamps.’

‘My fame precedes me, clearly,’ said Banks. ‘I’m Brian Banks’s father, yes, for my sins.’ Though he liked to complain about it to his son, Banks was secretly proud to be the father of such a popular and accomplished musician. And the Blue Lamps were doing well. They’d had songs on CSI, Grey’s Anatomy and House, the line-up had settled down, and Brian was doing most of the songwriting. They had also been nominated for, though not won, a Mercury Award, there was a gig on Later... With Jools Holland coming up, and their third CD had made the charts. With any luck, Brian would be keeping Banks in his old age.

At that moment, Oriana came in with the silver tea service, all poise and smiles.

‘This is Alan Banks, Oriana,’ said Lady Chalmers. ‘Brian Banks’s father.’

Oriana’s loam-brown eyes widened. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you.’

‘Oriana’s a big fan, too,’ Lady Chalmers explained as Oriana walked away. ‘But she’s probably too embarrassed to say so. I don’t know what I’d do without her,’ she whispered when Oriana had left the room. ‘She takes care of everything.’

It must be nice to have someone who takes care of everything for you, Banks thought, especially someone as lovely as Oriana.

‘By the way,’ Lady Chalmers went on, ‘Jem and I are attending a function in Harrogate with your chief constable next weekend.’

‘Be sure to give him my regards.’ Banks picked up his cup and saucer carefully. ‘I’m afraid I wasn’t invited.’

Lady Chalmers didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Must have been an oversight.’

‘It’s all right, anyway,’ said Banks. ‘I have a previous engagement.’ They looked at each other and started to laugh.

‘I suppose I should let you get around to business and ask you why you’re here, shouldn’t I?’ said Lady Chalmers into the silence after the laughter had subsided.

‘It’s a minor matter, really,’ said Banks, ‘and I was hoping we could clear it up quickly and easily.’

‘I suppose I should get nervous when a policeman says it’s a minor matter. Like when a doctor says it. It’s usually the prelude to something cataclysmic.’

‘Hardly, in this case. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but a man was found dead on the disused railway line up around Coverton early Monday morning.’

Lady Chalmers frowned. ‘I do believe I heard something about it on the news. But how can I possibly help?’

‘Does the name Gavin Miller mean anything to you?’

‘It sounds vaguely familiar. Is that the name of the person you just mentioned... the dead man?’

‘Yes. Naturally, we’ve been trying to find out all we can about him, and one of the things we discovered was that he telephoned this house a week ago Monday, just before two o’clock in the afternoon. Do you remember that call?’

Lady Chalmers put her hand to her chest. ‘Here? Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Someone did ring that Monday afternoon, just after lunch, asking for money. Something to do with the alumni society. Said he was from the university. His name may have been Miller. I must confess, I wasn’t paying much attention. I already give quite generously to my alma mater. I try to maintain close connections.’

‘Which university was that?’

‘Essex.’

‘What did he want to talk about?’

‘What do alumni people usually talk about? Donations, scholarships, that sort of thing. He was very chatty. I must say, it was hard to get him off the line.’

‘But you didn’t know him? He hadn’t called you before?’

‘No, never.’

‘You see, the phone call went on for nearly seven minutes. That seems rather a long time to deal with a request for alumni donations, especially when you’ve already given at the office, so to speak.’

‘I suppose it does, when you put it like that. But I assure you that’s all it was. Seven minutes? Are you sure?’

‘Was Oriana here?’

‘No, she has Mondays off. She visits her grandfather in a care home near Malton. I’m afraid I was quite alone. Is that a problem?’

‘I shouldn’t worry about it. I’m sure there’s a simple explanation. How did Gavin Miller get your number? It’s ex-directory, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. I have no idea. I should imagine it’s easy enough if anyone really wanted it. The university might even have it on file, I suppose.’

‘They probably do.’ Banks made a mental note to check with Gerry. He took the photograph of the old, haggard Gavin Miller that Liam had given him and showed it to Lady Chalmers. ‘Do you recognise this man? Have you ever seen him?’

She studied the picture. ‘Is that him? Your victim?’

‘Yes.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t recognise him at all. He’s not familiar.’ She paused. ‘He looks so... old.’

The front door opened, and Banks heard footsteps in the hall. Not Oriana’s. Then a voice called out. ‘Mummy? Mummy? Are you home?’

‘In here, darling,’ Lady Chalmers called back.

The door opened and a young woman in her early twenties stood there. She bore a striking resemblance to Lady Chalmers. Blonde, sporty and healthy — though perhaps just a little horsey around the large mouth and jaw — was the first description that came to Banks’s mind. She was also wearing a riding jacket, boots and breeches.

When she saw Banks, she slowed down, her eyes shifting from one to the other. ‘Is something wrong, Mummy? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Has something happened to Daddy?’

‘Don’t be silly, dear. Of course nothing is wrong.’ She turned back to Banks. ‘DCI Banks, this is my eldest daughter Angelina. She’s just back from Middleham. We keep some horses with a trainer there. I don’t know why, but Angelina likes to go out on the gallops early in the morning. She’s been living with us here ever since she finished university.’

‘And you can’t wait to get rid of me, can you? To marry me off.’ Angelina walked over to Banks. Her handshake was firm and dry. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you DCI Banks. Wait a minute? Aren’t you...? The Blue Lamps? My little sister listens to them all the time. She wants to be a rock star, too. But what are you doing here? I mean what are the police doing here?’

‘It’s nothing, really,’ Banks said, sitting down again. ‘I was just talking with your mother about a case I’m working on.’ He got the distinct impression that Lady Chalmers had expected him to leave when her daughter came home, and that she was disappointed he hadn’t taken the hint. But he thought he might as well see if Angelina knew anything. He asked her about the phone call and showed her the photograph, which she also didn’t recognise.

‘You say his name’s Gavin Miller? I’ve never heard of any Gavin Miller. And I wouldn’t have known about any phone call. I was at an auction in York a week ago Monday, all day, so I wouldn’t have been here, anyway.’

‘An auction?’ said Banks.

‘Yes, a horse sale.’

‘Oh, I see.’ He paused. ‘I don’t suppose either of you collects vinyl records, do you?’

‘Vinyl? You are joking, of course?’ said Lady Chalmers.

‘Just a thought. By the way,’ he asked, ‘I was admiring the MG when I came in. Whose is it?’

‘It’s mine,’ said Lady Chalmers. ‘I always wanted one.’

‘A bit damp in this weather, I should think?’

‘You’d be surprised.’

There was an awkward silence, and Banks felt it would be best not to overstay his welcome by too long. However vague the description of the car in the Coverton car park they had got, it was nothing like a red MG, and the witness was certain it was a man she saw getting into it. He got to his feet again and walked over to the door. The ladies followed suit, and Angelina opened the sitting-room door for him. ‘Well, thank you very much, Lady Chalmers, Angelina,’ Banks said, then, at the risk of inviting their wrath, he couldn’t help but ask one more question, Columbo-style, before he left. ‘What were you doing on Sunday evening, around ten o’clock?’

‘Why, we were here,’ said Lady Chalmers, a puzzled expression on her face.

‘All of you?’

‘Yes. Except for Jem, of course. He left for New York from Heathrow on Friday. And Sam. She’s up at St Andrews, just started her final year. Oriana made dinner for about eight o’clock. In addition to everything else, she is a wonderful gourmet cook. Then she and I attended to some business in the study, and I think after that the three of us watched a DVD.’

‘That’s right,’ Angelina said to Banks. ‘I remember. It was an old one. Night of the Iguana. Richard Burton.’

‘I know it,’ said Banks. ‘Excellent.’

Lady Chalmers smiled at Banks, moved closer to her daughter and put her arm around Angelina’s shoulder. ‘We love watching old movies together.’

Banks handed Lady Chalmers his card and asked her to call if she remembered anything useful. Oriana, who didn’t seem to have been too far away, walked him back across the chequered hall to the front door and opened it for him.

‘I’m sorry we couldn’t be of any more help,’ Lady Chalmers called after him from the door to the sitting room. Her voice echoed slightly in the high reception hall.

‘That’s all right,’ Banks said. ‘I told you it was a minor matter. Now you’ve cleared it up for us. Nothing to it.’

But when he sat behind the wheel of his car feeling a little punch-drunk from the conversation, his mind echoing with conflicting thoughts and feelings, he began to wonder. That phone call still bothered him. There might be nothing to it, and possibly, just possibly, Gavin Miller had been calling about alumni business, but seven minutes was a long time, and he wasn’t convinced that Lady Chalmers had been telling the whole truth. Besides, from what he knew of Miller, he was hardly likely to be the kind of person collecting for the university alumni society. He didn’t even have enough money to feed himself. There had been something brittle about Lady Chalmers’ responses when Banks had questioned her, like a fragile eggshell that would crack if you prodded it too hard. But what was inside? What was the shell protecting?

Normally, when Annie walked into a physiotherapy department, she was there for treatment, but today, when she and Winsome called by the medical centre attached to the Swainsdale Centre, she was there on other business entirely. The centre was a modern brick building, two stories high, and the physio department was on the ground floor. The foyer smelled of menthol and embrocation. When they asked for Dayle Snider, the receptionist pointed them in the direction of a corridor to the right.

‘She should be in her office,’ the receptionist said, glancing at the clock on the wall and checking the computer screen. ‘Her next appointment isn’t until after lunch.’

Annie knew that. She had called ahead and timed their visit for a gap in Dayle Snider’s calendar. She saw the name on the door and knocked.

‘Come in.’

Annie and Winsome walked into a small office with a window looking out on the river at the back of the centre, and across to the Green. There were the usual filing cabinets and rows of box files, a bookshelf full of medical texts, a laptop computer on the desk, and a small printer on the window ledge. The room smelled of some sort of aromatherapy mixture.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Dayle, standing up to greet them. ‘I’m afraid my office wasn’t built for consultations between more than two people. Let me get another chair.’

‘Its all right,’ Winsome said. ‘I can stand.’

‘Nonsense.’ She disappeared next door for a moment and came back carrying another chair. ‘Gary’s not in today, anyway, so he won’t mind. Now, please, sit.’ Dayle Snider was rather severe, Annie thought, with her cropped and streaked dark hair and white coat, glasses on a cord around her neck, though she was attractive in an angled, chiselled sort of way, and she had the sort of body you only get from regular and strenuous exercise — taut, perhaps a little sharp on the curves, but not without a certain feline grace. She was also used to giving the orders, it seemed; though her manner was polite, there was a commanding tone underneath it all. She was also, Annie noticed, perhaps tall and strong enough to tip the emaciated Gavin Miller over the edge of the bridge. And the massages and physio she gave would increase her strength and keep her in shape. Annie hadn’t really considered Dayle as a suspect, but she realised that, at this point, everyone connected with Miller had to be viewed with suspicion.

‘Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’ she said to Annie.

‘Probably. I’ve been here for treatment a few times. Terry Feldman.’

‘Yes, of course. One of Terry’s. I hope everything’s satisfactory?’

‘Just hunky-dory.’

They sat. Winsome took out her notebook and pen.

‘What can I do for you?’ asked Dayle. ‘You didn’t tell me very much on the telephone.’

‘Did you know a man called Gavin Miller?’ Annie asked.

‘Gavin? Yes. Why?’

‘I suppose you’ve heard the news?’

‘What news?’

‘The news of his death.’

Dayle remained silent for a few seconds, then she blinked and whispered, ‘No. No, as a matter of fact I hadn’t heard. I’m afraid I haven’t been paying a great deal of attention to the news lately. Too busy. I’m very sorry to hear it. How did he die?’

‘He died as a result of a fall,’ Winsome said, leaning forward in her chair. ‘We think he might have been pushed.’

Dayle patted her chest. ‘Good Lord. Killed? But who would want to murder Gavin?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Annie said. ‘We were hoping you could help us. We understand you knew him? Dated him?’

‘Well, yes... I suppose I did. For a while. But that was a long time ago.’

‘How long?’

‘About four years. We didn’t go out together for very long.’

‘Oh? Why was that?’

Dayle seemed affronted by the question; a frown appeared between her eyebrows and her lips tightened, but she stiffened her back and said, ‘We just weren’t compatible, that’s all. Hasn’t that ever happened to you? I’m sorry if I seem a bit distracted. This is just very hard to take in. I’m not saying that Gavin was a close friend or anything, I haven’t seen him for years, but when it’s someone you know who dies, no matter how little you knew them, well, it gets to you, doesn’t it?’

‘I understand,’ said Annie. ‘And I’m sorry if I gave you the bad news in a brutal way. We’re not here to interrogate you or upset you at all. We just thought you might be able to tell us a bit about Gavin. He seems to have been something of an enigma.’

Dayle let out a harsh laugh. ‘Enigma? You can say that again. I mean, that’s putting it mildly. Gavin had all the social graces and people skills of a Trappist monk. And you ask me why we didn’t go out for long.’

‘But he was a teacher, wasn’t he? That’s what I can’t understand. Surely he had to deal with people all the time in his job? He must have had some social skills.’

‘Yes, but that was his work. It’s like an actor being on stage, then being shy and retiring in real life. Gavin was like that. He came alive in front of a class.’

‘You attended his classes?’

‘He invited me to a lecture he gave at the local film society once. Something about Ozu. Anyway, he was a good public speaker. What I mean is that he was socially inept in the real world, and especially one-on-one,’ Dayle said. ‘He was fine with groups, on his favourite subjects, and more than competent at his job, but for Gavin, well, I suppose you could say Sartre’s maxim was true: “L’enfer, c’est les autres.”?’

‘ “Hell is other people”,’ said Annie.

‘Yes. A bit melodramatic, I suspect, but there you are. He didn’t know what to talk about, how to engage people, how to have a simple conversation.’

‘So he could have offended someone by his manner?’

‘He could have. Certainly. Very easily. But it wasn’t his nature to be offensive. If he was, it would have been because he didn’t realise it.’

‘Insensitive, perhaps?’

‘That’s more like it. But even that indicates a certain amount of self-awareness. Gavin was absorbed in his own world. It was a bit of a fantasy world.’

‘We know about his interests and his online life.’

‘Yes. They took up a lot of his time, and even more of his energy, even then, when he had a full-time job. Apart from being fairly well informed on literature and world affairs and politics in general, he couldn’t relate to much else that people talked about. He’d be the kind of person to interject some doom-laden quotation from Nietzsche or Camus at an inappropriate moment in a dinner conversation. It could be quite charmingly gauche, but more often it was not. It ended a few conversations, that’s for sure.’

‘I understand you met him at Trevor Lomax’s house?’ Annie said.

‘Yes. A dinner party. It was one of Sally’s little attempts at matchmaking. I’m a physiotherapist by training, but I also studied philosophy as a subsidiary subject at university, and I like to read. Booker nominees, that sort of thing. Sally thought we might have something in common.’

‘But you didn’t?’

‘I’m not saying that. I actually quite enjoyed Gavin’s company at first. He was bright, and passionate about his interests, and he could be quite witty when the spirit took him. It was OK as long as you were willing to do all the listening.’

‘Do you know if he had any enemies?’ Annie asked. ‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm him?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Do you remember the problems he had at the college?’

‘Do I remember? That was one of the things that hastened the end of our relationship, such as it was. He even came around to the house one night in a terrible state wanting to talk to me all about it.’

‘What state? Was he drunk?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you listen to him?’

‘I didn’t have much choice. You never did with Gavin. He’d just barge in and start talking, especially when he’d had a few. Oh, I could have sent him away, thrown him out physically, even, but I have to admit that I was intrigued.’

‘What did he say about it?’

‘That it was pure fabrication, of course. That the girls were lazy lying sluts. All sorts of things. He was venting his feelings and his frustrations. What you’d expect, I suppose, from someone who claims he’s being wrongfully persecuted.’

‘And was he, do you think?’

Dayle paused and put a finger to her lips for a few moments before answering. ‘I’m not so sure,’ she said finally. ‘I mean, I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but Gavin was sexually insecure. He could appear quite an attractive man, in his way, but he had very low self-esteem in that department, something to do with his failed marriage, I think, and he... well, he wasn’t good at seizing the moment, shall we say.’

‘I’m sorry to be indelicate,’ said Annie, ‘but did you have a sexual relationship?’

‘We didn’t have intercourse, if that’s what you mean. Gavin was nervous and inexperienced. Not that I’m any great expert, myself. I didn’t sleep around. Don’t. But you could tell.’

‘Was he impotent?’ Annie asked.

‘I think he probably suffered from erectile dysfunction. Yes.’

‘How did he react to that?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did he get angry, tearful, apologetic?’

‘Not angry. Sort of resigned. He didn’t say anything, really, just withdrew into himself. We only tried the once. I always thought it was perhaps because I was too overconfident for him. A strong-minded, independent career woman. I suppose I can be a bit overbearing at times. Maybe I come on too strong.’

‘Do you think he would have preferred a more subservient woman?’

‘I’m sure he would have done.’

‘Was he angry when you split up with him?’

‘Perhaps more disappointed, hurt, but it came out as anger. He called me a few choice names.’

‘Did he harm you or threaten to harm you in any way?’

‘No. Nothing like that. He simply disappeared from my life. I never saw him again.’

‘After the trouble with the college?’

‘Yes. After he lost his job. He was desperate for someone to believe in him. He thought that someone was me. I probably let him down.’

‘Did you bear a grudge against him?

‘Good Lord, no. What are you getting at? It was me who dumped him, you know.’

‘Did you ever visit him in Coverton?’

‘No. I haven’t seen him since that time he came over to see me. He was still living in a poky flat in Eastvale then.’

‘Did he ever ask you for money?’

‘No. Never.’

‘The girl who accused Gavin Miller of sexual misconduct said that he told her he would fix a test result for her if she had sex with him. Does that sound right to you? Do you think he would do something like that?’

‘How can you expect me to answer a question like that?’

‘I’m only asking whether you think it’s likely. Do you think he might resort to coercion, given the opportunity? Do you think that perhaps exerting power in that way over a woman might arouse him, or that he might even behave in a mercenary way and see the situation as one to be exploited?’

‘I really can’t... I mean, perhaps if she seemed vulnerable, if he thought he couldn’t possibly fail, then... yes. Perhaps he might. Perhaps it might excite him.’

Annie and Winsome stood up to leave, then Annie asked, ‘Can you tell us where you were last Sunday evening, around ten o’clock?’

‘Is that when it...? When Gavin...’

Annie just nodded.

Dayle twisted the diamond ring Annie had noticed on the third finger of her left hand. She had twisted it a lot during the interview. ‘I was with Derek,’ she said. ‘My fiancé. We went out for dinner to the Blue Lion in East Witton, then we went back to his place in Ripon.’

Annie thanked her and they left.

Gerry Masterson waited for Banks at a copper-topped table in the Queen’s Arms that lunchtime, sipping her slimline tonic, quite relieved that Banks had asked her to continue her research and DS Jackman had gone with DI Cabbot to talk to the Snider woman, instead of her. DI Cabbot scared her. She looked around and saw there was no one else from the station in the lounge at the moment. Not that it mattered. This was not an assignation. Discretion was all Banks wanted, along with his lunch, of course, and Gerry thought she knew why.

He had been to see the Chalmers woman that morning. Lady Veronica Chalmers. What he had found out, or concluded, Gerry had no idea yet — he hadn’t been very forthcoming over the telephone — but she bet that was what the hastily called meeting was about.

She felt nervous. She was still the new girl, and Banks was the boss. There was Area Commander Gervaise, too, she supposed, but AC Gervaise was too remote to think about most of the time. Gerry hardly ever saw her except at some of the briefings, but Banks was right there, on the case, all the time. There was no escaping him. She liked him, but he still terrified her. There was an intensity and focus about him that made her feel nervous around him, a weight and depth of feeling that made her feel shallow. And she wasn’t. Sure, she liked playing football with the local women’s team, liked sport in general, but she read books, too, and she thought about things, important things; she worried about the environment, climate change, the polar ice caps, polluted oceans, the lot. Starving children, too. And war. She hadn’t joined any organisations, but that didn’t mean she didn’t care. But Banks always made her feel as if her caring was superficial. And the damnedest thing about it was that she knew he didn’t do it on purpose, that he would be mortified if he thought she felt that way. And she also knew that, when it came right down to it, he didn’t really feel anything more deeply or more powerfully than she did. Damn it, he never even mentioned climate change, pollution, war or starving children. It was all down to her own stupid feelings, her imagination, her lack of confidence. Annie Cabbot scared her because she was quick and fierce, with an abrasive tongue to match, and Winsome Jackman was tall and silent, mostly, and Gerry never felt that she was meeting Winsome’s exacting standards. But only Banks made her feel shallow. And she wasn’t, dammit, she wasn’t.

She saw him walk through the door and glance around the room. He caught her eye, raised his eyebrows in greeting and walked over. Gerry touched her hair, tucking a stray wave behind her ear. She was proud of her flowing red hair; it was perhaps her only true vanity. She hated her freckles, though some boyfriends had said they found them sexy. The rest of her she thought was OK. She hoped she looked presentable. She guessed that Banks must have come from his office because he wasn’t wearing an overcoat, and it was chilly outside. He wore a navy blue suit, white shirt and a purple tie. When he sat down, she noticed that the top button of his shirt was undone and the knot in the tie was quite a loose one.

‘What did Lady Chalmers say, sir?’ she asked.

‘She admitted that a Gavin Miller called her a week ago last Monday. Something to do with alumni affairs. She was very vague about it, and very surprised when I told her the call lasted seven minutes. Nobody else was around when she took it.’

‘Do you believe her story?’

‘No. But I can’t think why she might be lying, or what she might have to do with the case. On the other hand, I just can’t see a seven-minute call about a donation to the alumni society, or Miller being involved in such a thing. She also seemed shocked when I showed her the photo, mentioned how old he looked.’

‘As if she remembered him when he didn’t look like that?’

‘Maybe. But I couldn’t say for certain. It was just a feeling I got. I may have been imagining things I’d like to be true. Anyway, can you check and find out whether he was involved in alumni affairs in any way?’

‘Of course. One of the numbers on his scratch pad was the University of Essex number. It may help.’

‘And maybe you can find out something about Lady Chalmers’ secretary, too, or whatever she is. Her name’s Oriana Serroni. Hungry?’

‘Ravenous, sir.’

‘Had a chance to look at the menu? I’m buying.’

‘Thank you, sir. The steak sandwich on a baguette sounds perfect.’

‘Steak it is.’ Banks got up and walked over to the bar, where Gerry watched him share a few words and a laugh with Cyril, the landlord. He came back carrying a pint in one hand and another slimline tonic in the other. Gerry thanked him for the drink.

‘No problem. Cheers.’ He took a sip of his beer. ‘Anyway. Lady Veronica Chalmers. What did you find out about her?’

‘Probably nothing you don’t already know, sir.’ Gerry opened the file in front of her, though she knew most of it off by heart. ‘She comes from a good old wealthy Buckinghamshire family, the Bellamys. Raised in the old family manor house outside Aylesbury. Very lah-di-dah. Trust funds and all the rest. Family made their fortune in the colonies originally, mostly South Africa and India. Luckily, they invested wisely and were able to get their money out and carry on with their privileged existence after Partition. Her father was a bigwig at the National Gallery and a pretty well-known art expert and collector. Not exactly Sir Anthony Blunt, but... well, I’m sure you get the idea. All the best schools for Veronica, of course. Jolly hockey sticks, ponies and what have you. But apparently, she got a bit wayward when she hit her teens. The family wanted her to go to Oxbridge, and she could probably just have squeaked in, but she chose to go to the University of Essex instead.’

‘So she said. From debutante to Essex girl? Bit of an odd choice, isn’t it?’

‘Teenage rebellion. Making a statement. It happens often enough.’

‘OK. Carry on.’

‘Not much more to say, sir. She did do some postgraduate research work later at Cambridge, then decided against an academic life. She’d written a historical novel, which she got published. It did quite well. Then she wrote a couple of brief literary biographies of rather neglected figures in quick succession — Rumer Godden and Rosamond Lehmann — then she started a series of Regency romances under a pseudonym, Charlotte Summers, which she still writes. There’s been a spate of recent articles in the national press and the local papers. No doubt carefully orchestrated by her publicist.’

‘Cynic,’ said Banks. ‘What are they? Bodice-rippers?’

‘I suppose you could call them that.’

‘Read any?’

Gerry felt herself blush. There came that shallow feeling again. ‘I must admit that I have, sir.’

‘Any good?’

‘I think so. They’re very well written, and the research seems convincing. To me, at any rate. But I’m no expert. They keep me turning the pages, anyway.’

‘Go on.’ Banks drank some more beer. Gerry thought he seemed to be enjoying her discomfort, but she realised that he probably didn’t even know she was uncomfortable.

‘She met her future husband, Jeremy Chalmers, in 1985, when he was working for the National Theatre, and they were married the following year. Both were living in London then. In Fitzrovia. Their first daughter, Angelina, was born in 1988, and a second daughter, Samantha, followed in 1992. Her husband was knighted in 2003. They’ve been living at Brierley House in Eastvale ever since Angelina was born. He’s from Yorkshire, the East Riding, and she said in one of the interviews that they had always dreamed of a place in the Dales. Her parents are deceased. One sister, Francesca, five years older, lived in Derbyshire, a few miles outside Buxton. She died two years ago of an inoperable brain tumour. She was married to Anthony Litton, semi-retired Harley Street specialist. Gynaecologist, I believe, and very much one for the upper crust. He still commutes between London and Derbyshire on occasion. They have one son, Oliver.’

‘Oliver Litton?’

‘Yes.’

‘The Oliver Litton so hotly tipped to be our future Home Secretary?’

‘One and the same.’

Banks whistled. ‘Some family. A knighthood and a future Home Secretary. Curious and curiouser. Any hint of a juicy scandal in Lady Chalmers’ life?’

‘None, either juicy or otherwise. There was one previous marriage, however, in 1981 after her postgraduate thesis, to an American artist called Chad Bueller, much against her parents’ wishes. It must have been the tail end of her rebellious phase. He was far from being a penniless artist, however, being both very successful and highly collectible. She went to live with him in Los Angeles, in Beverly Hills, believe it or not, but it didn’t last. It took her two years to find out that he preferred the company of members of his own sex, and she came back to England after the divorce. Published her first book shortly thereafter. It concerned Edward II. I remember doing it at school, sir. Christopher Marlowe. You know what happened to Edward II?’

Banks flinched. ‘That red-hot poker business, wasn’t it? Go on.’

‘She met Jeremy Chalmers at a book signing, then started to settle down, and the rest is history.’

Banks thought about the painting in the Chalmers’ living room, the way the couple were standing apart, the palpable sense of distance and tension between them. Was that the future Lady Chalmers and her gay husband? Perhaps just after she’d discovered the truth? No, he decided, he was being fanciful. She wouldn’t want to live with something like that on the wall, reminding her of what happened every time she walked into the room. On the other hand, it was a Hockney, and 1983 was a long time ago. ‘If she was in California from 1981 to 1983, there’s an overlap with Gavin Miller’s time over there, isn’t there?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Gerry, ‘but as far as I can work out, there are no missing years in Veronica Chalmers’ life. It seems doubtful that their paths would have crossed, with him doing his On the Road imitation and her living the life of Riley in Beverly Hills.’

‘True.’ Banks had driven a rented Cadillac convertible around Beverley Hills just last year, sometimes marvelling and sometimes gagging at the mishmash of imitated styles — Rhenish castles, English stately homes and Tudor mansions, Tuscan villas, French chateaux, all rubbing shoulders. Well, not quite, as there were often quite large spaces between them and acres of manicured lawn surrounding them. The place made The Heights look like a run-down council estate. Or ‘social housing’, as such places were being called now.

Their sandwiches came, and both said nothing for a few moments while they ate. Then Banks washed his third bite down with a draught of beer. ‘There’s something I don’t quite understand,’ he said. ‘You told me that Lady Chalmers married this Chad Bueller person in 1981 and lived in LA for two more years, right?

‘Yes, sir. Until late 1983.’

‘Then she came home, met Jeremy Chalmers and married him in 1985, right?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Gerry said again, aware that her mouth was full and trying to cover it as inconspicuously as possible while she spoke. She passed her folder to Banks. ‘I made a copy for you, sir. It’s all in here, dates, details, places, everything. I’ve just given you the bare bones.’

Banks tapped the folder. ‘Thank you. I appreciate that. But wouldn’t she have been only about seventeen in 1985? And that would mean she was far too young to get married in 1981? By my calculation, she’d have been about thirteen. Jerry Lee Lewis might have got away with it in Tennessee in the fifties, but I doubt that Chad Bueller did in California in the eighties.’

‘Sir?’

‘Well, how old is she? I’d say not more than mid-forties.’

Gerry checked her notes. ‘Mid-forties? Sir, Veronica Chalmers is fifty-nine. She was thirty when she married Chad Bueller.’

Banks reran the images of Lady Veronica Chalmers in his mind: the lithe, trim body in tight jeans, the attractive crows’ feet around her startling eyes, the alabaster skin, natural long blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders. No extensions, as far as he could make out. No signs of the surgeon’s knife. ‘That’s hard to believe,’ he said. ‘She certainly doesn’t look it. I suppose I never was any good at guessing women’s ages.’

Gerry smiled. ‘She must be remarkably well preserved, sir, if you thought she was in her forties. I suppose she can afford to stay young.’

Banks glanced at her, and she thought she could see humour in his twinkling eyes. ‘Lady Chalmers is a very attractive woman, Gerry, and I don’t think it’s down to cosmetic surgery, though I suppose I could be wrong about that, too. No doubt the money does help to buy the right potions and creams.’

‘No doubt, sir. But does it mean anything? Her age?’

‘Other than that I was wrong? As a matter of fact,’ Banks said slowly, ‘I think it might mean a great deal. Here’s what I’d like you to do next.’