Past Reason Hated

ONE

Banks walked slowly by the river. He wore his fur-lined suede car-coat, collar up, hands thrust deep in his pockets. As he walked, he breathed out plumes of air. The river wasn’t entirely frozen over; ducks paddled as usual, apparently oblivious to the cold, in channels between the lumps of grey ice.

As he walked, he thought about the success he had had that morning with the BBC. A keen young researcher in the local studio had taken the trouble to dig out and listen to the 22 December taped carol broadcast, using a stopwatch. The programme had started at seven sharp. ‘Away in a Manger’ began just over midway through the broadcast – 7.21, to be exact – and finished two minutes, fourteen seconds later. Banks marvelled at the precision. With such a sense of exact measurement, the young woman perhaps had a future working for the Guinness Book of Records or the Olympic Records Committee. Anyway, they now knew that Caroline’s likely killer had been let in between 7.21 and 7.24.

They also knew that it wasn’t Charles Cooper. Richmond had talked to the regulars at Tan Hill and confirmed his alibi: Cooper had been drinking there between about six thirty and ten thirty on 22 December and on most other evenings leading up to the Christmas period. It would be more difficult for him to explain long absences to his wife at any other time, Banks thought.

Banks started thinking about the victim, Caroline Hartley, again and realized he still didn’t know much about her. She had run away from home at sixteen, gone to London, got herself pregnant, picked up a conviction for soliciting, come back up north and shacked up first with Nancy Wood, who was out of the picture now, and then with Veronica Shildon. Attractive to both men and women – but now interested only in the latter – vivacious and enthusiastic, but given to thoughtful, secretive moods, a budding actress, a good mimic. That was about all. It covered ten years of the woman’s life, and it didn’t add up to a hell of a lot. There had to be more, and the only place to find out – as Caroline’s friends and family either wouldn’t talk or didn’t know – was in London. But where to start?

Banks picked up a flat stone and skimmed it across the water towards the Green. Briefly, he thought of Jenny Fuller, who lived in one of the Georgian semis there. A lecturer in psychology at York, she had helped Banks before. She would be damn useful in this case, too, he thought. But she’d gone away somewhere warm for Christmas. Tough luck.

Up ahead, near the bridge, Banks saw a boy, no older than twelve or thirteen. He had a catapult and was aiming pebbles at the ducks out on the river. Banks approached him. Before saying a word, he took out his identity card and let the boy have a good long look.

The boy read it, then glanced up at Banks and said, ‘Are you really a copper or just one of those perverts? My dad’s warned me about blokes like you.’

‘Lucky for you, sonny, I’m really a copper,’ Banks said, and snatched the metal catapult from the boy’s hand.

‘Hey! What you doing? That’s mine.’

‘That’s a dangerous weapon is what that is,’ Banks said, slipping it in his coat pocket. ‘Think yourself lucky I don’t take you in. What do you want to go aiming at those ducks for anyway? What harm have they ever done you?’

‘Dunno,’ the kid said. ‘I wasn’t meaning to kill them or anything. I just wanted to see if I could hit one. Can I have my catapult back, mister?’

‘No.’

‘Go on. It cost me a quid, that did. I saved up out of my pocket money.’

‘Well don’t bother saving up for another,’ Banks said, walking away.

‘It’s bloody daylight robbery,’ the kid called after him. ‘You’re no better than a thief!’

But Banks ignored him, and soon the shouting died down. There was something in what the boy had said that interested him: ‘I wasn’t meaning to kill them or anything. I just wanted to see if I could hit one.’

Could he really divorce the action from its result as cleanly and innocently as that? And if he could, could a murderer, too? There was no doubt that whoever plunged the knife into Caroline Hartley’s body had meant her to be dead, but had that been the killer’s original intention? The bruise on the cheek indicated that she had been hit, perhaps stunned, first. How had that come about? Was it the kind of thing a woman would do, punch another woman?

Could it have been some kind of sexual encounter gone out of control, with the original object not so much murder but just a desire to see how far things could go? A sadomasochistic fantasy turned reality, perhaps? After all, Caroline Hartley had been naked. But that was absurd. Veronica and Caroline were respectable, middle-class, conservative lesbians; they didn’t cruise the gay bars or try to lure innocent schoolgirls back to the house for orgies, like the lesbians one read about in lurid tabloids. Still, when lovers fight, no matter what sex, they can easily become violent towards one another. What happened between the punch and the stabbing? What warped sequence of emotions did the killer feel? Caroline must have been unconscious, or at least momentarily stunned, and the killer must have picked up the knife, which lay so conveniently on the table by the cake.

What made her do it? Would she have done it if the knife hadn’t been so close to hand? Would she have gone into the kitchen and taken a knife from the drawer and still had the resolve when she got back to the living room? Impossible questions to answer – the kind that Jenny might have been able to help with – but they had to be answered or he would never find the key to his problem. Banks needed to know what happened in the dark area, what it was that pushed someone beyond argument, past reason, past sex, beyond even simple physical assault, to murder.

He turned his back on the river and started walking up the hill by the formal gardens back around the castle to the market square. Back at the station, as soon as he turned from the stairwell to the corridor that led to his upstairs office, he saw Susan Gay come rushing towards him with a sheet of paper flapping in her hand. She looked like the cat that had got the cream. Her eyes gleamed with success.

‘Found her,’ she announced. ‘Ruth. It’s a small London publishing company. Sappho Press. I faxed them the photo and they said they had it taken for a dust jacket and for general publicity.’

‘Good work,’ Banks said. ‘Tell me, what made you call that particular press out of the dozens we had listed?’

Susan looked puzzled. ‘I got as far as “S” in the alphabet. It took me all morning.’

‘Do you know who Sappho was?’

Susan shook her head.

Gristhorpe would have known, Banks thought, but you could hardly demand a degree in classics of everyone who wanted to join the police. On the other hand, perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea: an elite squad of literary coppers.

‘She was an ancient Greek poet from the isle of Lesbos,’ he said.

‘Is that…?’ Susan began.

Banks nodded.

She blushed. ‘Well I’d like to say I got the literary clue, like in Agatha Christie,’ she said, ‘but it was down to pure hard slog.’

Banks laughed. ‘Well done, anyway. Tell me the details.’

‘Her name’s Ruth Dunne and apparently she’s published a couple of books. Doing very well for herself in the poetry scene. The woman I spoke to said one of the bigger publishers might be after her soon. Faber and Faber perhaps.’

‘What kind of stuff does she write?’

‘Well, that’s another thing. They told me she started by writing the kind of thing the Sappho Press people support. I assumed it was feminist stuff, but now you mention it… Anyway, she’s moved away from that, they said, and it looks like she’s shifting into a broader market, whatever that means.’

‘Did you mention Caroline Hartley?’

‘Yes. It’s a funny thing. The editor recognized the name. She went to check and then told me Ruth Dunne’s second book was dedicated to someone called Caroline. I thought it was odd we didn’t find a copy among the victim’s things, don’t you?’

‘She liked to travel light,’ Banks said. ‘Still, it would have made it a lot easier for us if we had. Maybe they just lost touch with one another.’

Susan passed the paper over. ‘Anyway, she lives in Kennington. Here’s the address. What now?’

‘I’m going down there tomorrow. There’s a few things I want to talk to Ruth Dunne about. She’s the only link we have so far with Caroline Hartley’s child and her life down there. I think she might be able to tell us quite a lot.’

TWO

Perhaps I’m pushing too hard, Susan told herself later that evening. She was trying to decide what to wear for her first real date with James Conran, but she couldn’t help going over the past two days’ events in her mind. Banks had seemed so calm, so sure of himself, with Claude Ivers. Susan, left to her own devices, would have charged into his studio.

She also doubted that she would have left Redburn without bringing both Ivers and the Janowski woman in for a lengthy interrogation at the station. After all, they had both been at the Oakwood Mews house around the time of Caroline Hartley’s murder, and both had lied about it. She couldn’t understand Banks’s obsession with the record and the meaning of the music. In her experience, criminals weren’t intelligent enough to leave erudite musical clues behind them. Things like that only happened in the detective stories she had read as a teenager. But the music had been playing, she had to admit, and that was very odd indeed.

She decided on the blue cotton blouse and navy mid-length skirt. Neither were so close fitting that they would reveal what she thought of as an unacceptably thick waist. And she mustn’t overdress. Mario’s was a little up-market, but it wasn’t really posh.

The more she thought about the case, the more she thought about Veronica Shildon. Susan had felt intimidated by the woman’s reserve and poise; and the mysterious transition from happily married woman to lesbian disturbed her. It just didn’t seem possible.

Ivers could be right in blaming Caroline Hartley. Perhaps Veronica knew this too, deep down, and hated herself for allowing herself to fall so low. Then she found Caroline naked after seeing Patsy Janowski leave the house, and she hit out. That seemed as good an explanation as any to her. All they had to do was discover how Veronica had disposed of her bloody clothing. Surely if Banks put his mind to it, instead of dwelling on that damn music, he could come up with something. Gary Hartley, Susan thought, wasn’t capable of the crime. He might be bitter, but he was also weak, a captive in his father’s cold, decaying mansion.

Banks seemed to suspect everyone except Veronica Shildon – or at least he didn’t see her as a serious contender. Perhaps it was to do with his being a man, Susan thought. Men perceived things differently; they were unsuited to spotting subtle nuances. They were basically selfish and saw things only in relation to their own egos, whereas women spun a more general net of consciousness. She knew Banks was astute enough not to get side-tracked by his feelings, at least most of the time, but maybe he was attracted to Veronica Shildon. There was something in that tension between her strait-laced exterior and inner passions that a man might find sexy. And the fact that he couldn’t have her would only add to the excitement, make her seem more of a challenge. Didn’t men always want unattainable women?

Rubbish, Susan told herself sharply. She was letting her imagination run away with her. Time to apply a bit of lipstick.

When she was ready, she looked again at her small tree and the few trimmings she had hastily put up on Christmas Eve. They made the place look a bit more like a home. As she looked around the room, she couldn’t really see what was missing. The wallpaper, red roses on a cream background, was nice enough; the three-piece suite arranged around the gas fireplace looked a little shabby, but nonetheless cosy; and the bookcase added a learned look. There was a beautiful pine table, too, in the corner by the window, where she ate. So what was it?

Looking again at the Christmas trimmings, she realized with a shock what was missing. So simple, really. If she had been on a case looking objectively at a suspect’s apartment and had seen one just like this, she would have known immediately. But because it was her own, she hadn’t paid it the same attention. The one personal touch, the Christmas decorations, pointed out that there was nothing of her there; the room had no personality. The furniture, wallpaper, carpet could all belong to anyone. Where were the knick-knacks that people accumulate over the years? Where were the favourite prints on the walls, the framed photographs of loved ones on the mantelpiece, the ornaments on the windowsill? There were no books, only her textbooks, which she kept in the guest room she used as a study. And where was the music? She had a music centre her parents had bought for her twenty-first birthday, but all she ever listened to was the radio. She had no records or tapes at all.

The doorbell rang. Well, she thought, slipping on her coat, perhaps it’s time I started. A nice landscape on the wall, over there, a Constable print or something, a couple of china figurines on the mantelpiece, a few books, and a record of that music Banks played in the car on the way back from Redburn yesterday. She had felt embarrassed and stupid when he had asked what she wanted to listen to, because she had no idea. She heard music on the radio, pop and classical, and enjoyed some of it, but could never remember the names of performers or titles of the pieces.

For some reason she had asked for some vocal music, and he had played a tape of Kiri Te Kanawa singing highlights from Madama Butterfly. Even Susan had heard of Kiri Te Kanawa, the soprano from New Zealand who had sung at the wedding of Prince Charles to Lady Di. One song in particular sent shivers all the way up her spine and made the hackles at the back of her neck stand on end. Banks had told her the heroine was imagining the return of her lover in the aria, which translated as ‘One Fine Day’. Susan had taken a note of the title, and she would buy it for herself tomorrow, as a start to her collection. Perhaps she would also try to find out what happened in the story: did the lover return, as Butterfly dreamed?

The doorbell rang again. Smiling, Susan went downstairs to the front door to meet James. He told her she looked beautiful. She didn’t believe him, but she felt wonderful as they got into his car and drove off into the icy night.

THREE

‘Sorry about the mess,’ Veronica Shildon said as she let Banks in. He looked around. There was no mess, really. He sat down. Veronica stood by the kitchen door with her arms folded.

‘The reason I came,’ he said, ‘is to tell you that we’ve tracked down the woman in the picture.’

Veronica shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

‘Yes?’

‘Her name is Ruth Dunne. She’s a poet, as you said, published by a small feminist press, and she lives in London.’

‘You have an address?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you for telling me, Chief Inspector. I realize it might have been unethical.’

‘Ms Shildon, I never do anything unethical.’ His eyes twinkled when he smiled.

‘I – I didn’t meant…’

‘It’s all right.’

‘Would you like some tea? I was just about to make some.’

‘Yes, please. It’s a bit nippy out there.’

‘If you’d like something stronger…?’

‘No, tea will do fine.’

While Veronica made the tea, Banks looked around the room. It was in a state of flux. In the first place, there was hardly anywhere to sit. The suite was gone, leaving only a couple of hard-backed chairs at the table by the window. Also, the sideboard had been moved, and the Christmas tree, along with all the trimmings, was gone, even though it was only 29 December. Banks wondered if Veronica could have done it all herself.

‘Have you talked to her?’ Veronica asked, placing the tray on the table and sitting opposite him.

‘No, not yet. I’m going down there tomorrow morning. It wouldn’t be wise to phone ahead.’

‘You don’t mean she’s a suspect?’

‘Until I find out otherwise, she is, and I don’t want to give her any reason to run off if she thinks she’s sitting pretty.’

‘It must be an awful job you do,’ Veronica said.

‘Sometimes. But not as awful as the things the people we try to catch do.’

‘Touché.’

‘Anyway, I just thought I’d let you know.’

‘And I’m grateful.’ Veronica put her cup and saucer down. ‘I’d like to see her,’ she said. ‘Ruth Dunne. If it’s not too much of an imposition, may I travel down with you?’

Banks scratched the scar by his right eye, then crossed his legs. He knew he should say no. Officially, Veronica Shildon was a major suspect in her lover’s murder. He had told her about Ruth Dunne only partly out of goodwill; mainly he had been interested in her reaction to the news. On the other hand, if he got her out of her normal environment, out of this house and out of Eastvale, he might be able to get her to open up a bit more about Caroline’s background. Was that worth the risk of her making a break for it? It would be easy for her to disappear in a city as large as London. But why should she? They had no real evidence against her; they couldn’t put her under arrest.

‘I’m going by train,’ he said. ‘I won’t be driving down. I never could stand driving in London.’

‘Are you trying to put me off? I know it’s an unusual request to make Chief Inspector, but I’ve heard about Ruth often enough from Caroline, though never more than her first name and what a good friend she was. Somehow, now that Caroline’s gone, I just feel I’d like to meet her There’s very little else left.’

Banks sipped at his tea and let a minute pass. ‘On two conditions,’ he said finally. ‘First of all, I can’t allow you to be present at the interview, and second, you’ll have to wait until I’ve talked to her before you see her.’

Veronica nodded. ‘That sounds fair.’

‘I haven’t finished yet.’

‘But that was two.’

‘I’ll make it three, then. I reserve the right to stop you seeing her at all if for any reason I feel it necessary.’

‘But why on earth…?’

‘It should be obvious. If Ruth Dunne turns out to be even more of a suspect than she is now, I can’t allow the two of you to discuss the case together. Do you agree to the terms?’

Veronica nodded slowly. ‘I suppose I’ll have to.’

‘And you’ll also have to return with me.’

‘I was thinking of looking up an old friend,’ Veronica said. ‘Perhaps staying down for New Year…’

Banks shook his head. ‘I’m already going out on a limb.’

Veronica stood up. ‘Very well. I understand.’

‘Right,’ he said at the door. ‘Eight twenty from Eastvale, change at Leeds.’

‘I’ll be there,’ she said, and closed the door behind him.

FOUR

Mario’s was a cosy restaurant in a narrow cul-de-sac of gift shops off North Market Street. It had a small bar at one end of the long room, stucco walls and small tables with red and white checked cloths and candles in orange pressed-glass jars. A man with a guitar sat on a stool at the far end quietly crooning Italian love songs.

The place was full when James and Susan got there and they had to sit for ten minutes at the bar. James ordered a half litre of Barolo, which they sipped as they waited.

He looked good, Susan thought. Clearly he had made some sartorial effort, replacing cords and polo-neck with grey slacks, a white shirt and a well-tailored, dark-blue sports jacket. His fair hair, thinning and combed forward flat against his skull, looked newly washed, and he had also shaved, as a couple of nicks under his chin testified. His grey eyes seemed bluer tonight, and they sparkled with life and mischief.

‘You’ll just love the cannelloni,’ he said, putting his fingers to his lips and making a kissing gesture.

Susan laughed. How long was it since an attractive man had made her laugh? She had no idea. But very quickly she seemed to be getting over the idea of James Conran as drama teacher and moving towards… Well, she didn’t quite know and didn’t really want to contemplate just yet. At least not tonight. James chatted easily with the barman in fluent Italian and Susan sipped her wine, reading the labels of the liqueur bottles behind the bar. Soon, a white-jacketed waiter ushered them with a flourish to a table for two. Luckily, Susan thought, it wasn’t too close to the singer, now lost in the throes of ‘O Sole Mio’.

They examined their menus in silence, and Susan finally decided to take James’s advice on the cannelloni. He ordered linguine in a white wine and clam sauce for himself. He had recommended that, too, but she was allergic to shellfish.

‘I must say again,’ he said, raising his glass in a toast, ‘that you look gorgeous tonight.’

‘Oh, don’t be stupid.’ Susan felt herself blush. She had done the best she could with her appearance, accenting her rather too thin lips and playing down the extra fat on her cheekbones with powder. She knew that she wasn’t bad looking; her large eyes were a beautiful ultramarine colour and her short, blonde hair, naturally thick and curly, gave her no trouble at all. If she could just lose a couple of inches from her waist and three or four from her hips, she thought, she’d be more inclined to believe compliments and wolf whistles. Still, it was a long time since she’d gone to such lengths for a date. She smiled and clinked glasses with James.

‘All you lack is confidence,’ he said, as if reading her thoughts. ‘You have to believe in yourself more.’

‘I do,’ Susan answered. ‘How do you think I’ve got where I am?’

‘I mean your personality, the image you project. Believe you’re lovely and people will see you that way.’

‘Is that what you do?’

James winced in mock agony. ‘Oh, now you’re being cruel.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right. I’ll survive.’ He leaned forward. ‘Tell me, I’ve always wondered, what did you think of me when you were at school? I mean, what did the girls think of me?’

Susan laughed and put her hand to her mouth. ‘They thought you were gay.’

James’s face showed no expression, but a sudden chill seemed to emanate from him.

‘I’m sorry,’ Susan said, feeling flustered. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it. I didn’t think so, if that’s any consolation. And it was just because you were in the arts.’

‘In the arts?’

‘Yes, you know how people in the performance arts always seem to be thought of as gay. If it’ll make you feel any better, they thought Mr Curlew was that way, too.’

James stared at her, then burst into laughter. ‘Peter Curlew? The music teacher?’

Susan nodded.

‘Well, that’s a good one. I do feel better now. Curly was a happily married man with four kids. Devoted family man.’

Susan laughed with him. ‘That just shows you how wrong we were, I suppose. I liked the way he used to conduct to himself whenever he played a record for us. He really got quite worked up, in a world of his own.’

‘Of course, you lot were all snickering at him behind your hands, weren’t you?’

‘Yes. Yes, I’m afraid we were.’ Susan felt strangely ashamed to admit it now, though she hadn’t thought of Mr Curlew for years.

‘He was a very talented pianist, you know. He could have gone a long way, but those years of dreary teaching broke his spirit.’

Susan felt embarrassed. ‘How are you getting on without Caroline?’ she asked, to change the subject.

James paused for a few seconds, as if deep in thought, before answering. ‘Fine, I suppose. It wasn’t a difficult part, it was just that, well, Caroline was special, that’s all. Are you any closer?’

Susan shook her head. Not that she would have said even if they were closer to finding Caroline’s killer. She frowned. ‘Do you think anyone in the production could have been involved in her death?’

He cupped his chin in his hand and thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘No, I can’t see it. Nobody knew her that well.’

‘Her killer didn’t need to know her well. She let him or her in, but he or she could have been merely an acquaintance, someone come to talk to her about something.’

‘I still can’t see it.’

‘There must have been friction with the other women, the leads.’

‘Why?’

‘Competition.’

‘Over what?’

‘Anything. Men. Lines. Parts.’

‘There wasn’t. I’m not saying we were a totally happy family, we had our ups and downs, our off days, but you’re grasping at straws. Remember, it’s the amateur dramatic society. People join for pleasure, not profit. I’d like to think, though, that we’re far from amateur in quality.’

Susan smiled. ‘I’m sure you are. Tell me, what was Caroline Hartley really like?’

‘I’m sorry, Susan, it’s still very upsetting for me, such a loss. I just don’t want to – ah, look, here’s our food.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Delightful. And another half litre of your best Barolo, please, Enzo.’

‘Do you think we should?’ Susan asked. ‘I’ve still got half a glass left. I’m not certain I can drink any more.’

‘Well if you can’t, I can. I know I should be drinking white with the linguine, but what the hell, I prefer Barolo. Worry not, not a drop will be wasted. What did you do for Christmas?’

‘I – I…’

‘Well, what? Did you visit your parents?’ He gathered a forkful of food and lifted it to his mouth, his eyes probing her face for an answer all the time.

Susan looked down at her plate. ‘I… not really, no, I didn’t. I was busy with the case.’

‘You don’t get on with them, do you?’ he said, still looking directly at her, with just a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. She found his gaze disconcerting and looked down at her plate again to cut off a bit of cannelloni.

‘I don’t suppose I do,’ she admitted when she’d finished chewing. She shrugged. ‘It’s nothing serious. Just that holidays at home can be awfully depressing.’

‘I suppose so,’ James said. ‘I’m an orphan myself and I always find Christmas terribly gloomy. It brings back memories of those awful orphanage dinners and enforced festivities. But you have a family. You shouldn’t neglect them, you know. One day, it’ll be too late.’

‘Look,’ Susan said, reaching for her glass, ‘when I want a lecture on a daughter’s responsibility, I’ll ask for one.’

James stood up. ‘I’m sorry, really I am.’ He patted her arm. ‘Excuse me for a moment.’

Susan held her anger in check and tossed back the last of her wine. The second half litre arrived. She refilled her glass and took a long swig. To hell with caution; she could get as pissed as the next person if she wanted to. Why couldn’t she talk about her parents without getting so damned emotional? she asked herself. She picked away at her cannelloni, which was very good, until James came back. Then she took a deep breath and put down her knife and fork.

‘I’m the one that should apologise,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to blow up like that. It’s just that it’s my problem, all right?’

‘Fine,’ James said. ‘Fine. So what did you do?’

She sighed. ‘I stayed at home. I had quite a nice day actually. I’d dashed out and bought a small tree and a few decorations the night before, so the place looked quite seasonal. I watched the Queen’s message and a variety show and read a book on homicide investigation.’

James laughed, a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth. ‘You read a textbook on homicide on Christmas Day?’

Susan blushed. At that moment the manager walked by. He nodded at James as he passed.

‘I don’t believe it,’ James said. ‘You sitting there by the Christmas tree listening to carols, reading about dead bodies and poisons and ballistics.’

‘Well it’s true,’ Susan said, managing a smile. ‘Anyway, if my job dis-’

But she had no time to finish. Before she could even get the word out, a man appeared beside her and began singing into her ear. She didn’t know the song, but she could make out words like bella and amore. She wished she could shrink to nothing and disappear down a crack in the floor. James sat opposite, hands folded on his lap, watching with cool amusement in his eyes. When the singer had gone and Susan had grudgingly thanked him, she turned to James with fury in her eyes.

‘You set that up, didn’t you, when you went to the gents’? You talked to the manager. Go on, admit it.’

‘Very well.’ James turned his hands palms up. ‘Mea culpa. I just thought you might enjoy it, that’s all.’

‘I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life. I’ve a good mind-’ Susan dropped her napkin on the table and pushed back her chair, but James leaned forward and put his hand gently on her arm. She could see the mild amusement in his eyes turn to concern.

‘Don’t go, Susan. I just meant I thought it might cheer you up, after a Christmas spent alone. Honestly, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I never thought you wouldn’t like it. How could I know?’

Looking at his eyes again, she could see he was sincere. Not so much that, but it hadn’t even occurred to him that the singer might embarrass her. She eased the chair towards the table again and relaxed.

‘All right,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘I’ll let you off just this once. But don’t you ever-’

‘I won’t,’ James said. ‘I promise. Scout’s honour. Cross my heart and hope to die. Come on, eat your cannelloni and drink your wine. Enjoy.’ And he let his hand rest on hers on the checked tablecloth for a long moment before taking it away.

FIVE

Banks switched off Milhaud’s ‘Creation’ as he pulled up outside Faith Green’s block of flats. It was a small unit, only three stories high, with six flats on each floor. He looked at his watch: 8.50. Plenty of time for Faith to have come home from the Crooked Billet, if she hadn’t gone out on a date.

Luckily, she was in. When he knocked, he heard someone cross the room and saw the tiny peephole in the door darken.

‘Inspector Banks!’ Faith said as she pulled the door open with a dramatic flourish. ‘What a surprise. Do come in. Let me take your coat.’ She hung up his coat, then took his arm and led him into the spacious living room. A number of framed posters from old movies hung on the pastel-green walls: Bogart in Casablanca, Garbo in Camille, John Garfield and Lana Turner in The Postman Always Rings Twice. Faith gestured towards the modular sofa that covered almost two walls, and Banks sat down.

‘Drink?’

‘Maybe just a small Scotch, if you have it.’

‘Of course.’ Faith opened up a glass-fronted cocktail cabinet and poured them both drinks. Banks’s was about two fingers taller than he would have liked.

‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ Faith asked in her husky voice. ‘If only you’d told me you were coming, I could have at least put my face on. I must look terrible.’

She didn’t. With her beautiful eyes and silvery, pageboy hair, it would have been difficult for Faith Green to look terrible. She wore no make-up, but that didn’t matter. Her high cheekbones needed no highlights, her full, pink lips no colouring. In skin-tight black slacks and a dark-green silk blouse, her figure, slim at the waist, nicely curved at the hips and well-rounded at the bust, looked terrific. The perfume she wore was the same one Banks remembered from their brief chat at the Crooked Billet – very subtle, with a hint of jasmine.

She settled close to Banks on the sofa and cradled a glass of white wine in her hands. ‘You should have phoned first,’ she said. ‘I gave you my number.’

‘Maybe you didn’t know I was married.’

She laughed. ‘I’ve never known that to make very much difference to men.’ Given the way she was sitting and looking at him, he could well believe her. He fiddled for his cigarettes.

‘Oh, you’re not going to smoke, are you?’ She pouted. ‘Please don’t. It’s not that I’m so anti, but I just can’t bear my flat smelling of smoke. Please?’

Banks removed his hand from his jacket pocket and took a long swig of Scotch. He waited until the pleasant burning sensation had subsided, then said, ‘Remember the last time we talked? About how things were going between the people in the play?’

‘Of course I do.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘I told you I liked my men dark and handsome, and not necessarily tall.’

If Banks had been wearing a tie, he would have loosened it at this point. ‘Miss Green-’

‘Faith, please. It’s not such a bad name, is it? There are three of us, sisters, but my parents never were that well up on the Bible. The youngest’s called Chastity.’

Banks laughed. ‘Faith it is, then. You told me you had no idea that Caroline Hartley was a lesbian. Are you sure you didn’t?’

Faith frowned. ‘Of course not. What an odd question. She didn’t walk around with it written on her forehead. Besides, it’s not as obvious in a woman as it sometimes is in a man, is it? I mean, I’ve known a few homosexuals, and most of them don’t mince around and lisp, but you have to admit that some conform to the stereotype. How could you possibly tell with a woman unless she went about dressed like a man or something?’

‘Perhaps you would just sense it?’

‘Well, I didn’t. Not with Caroline. And she certainly didn’t walk around dressed like a man.’

‘So she told no one?’

‘Not as far as I know, she didn’t. She certainly didn’t tell me. I can’t vouch for the others. Another drink?’

Banks looked at his glass, amazed to find it empty so soon. ‘No thanks.’

‘Oh, come on,’ Faith said, and took it from him. She brought it back only slightly fuller than the last time and sat about six inches closer. Banks held his ground.

‘There’s something missing,’ he said. ‘Some factor, maybe just a little thing, and I’m trying to find out what it is. I get the feeling that people – you especially – are holding something back, hiding something.’

‘Little me? Hiding something? Like what?’ She spread her hands and looked down as if to indicate that all she had was on display. She wasn’t far from the truth.

‘I don’t know. Do you think there might be a chance that Caroline Hartley was having an affair with someone other than the woman she was living with, perhaps someone in the theatre company?’

Faith stared at him, then backed away a few inches, burst out laughing and pointed at her chest. ‘Me? You think I’m a lesbian?’

Given the situation, her physical closeness and the heady aura of sex that seemed to emanate from her, it did seem rather a silly thing to think.

‘Not you specifically,’ Banks said. ‘Anyone.’

When Faith had stopped laughing, she moved closer again and said, ‘Well, I can assure you I’m not.’ She shifted her legs. The material swished as her thighs brushed together. ‘In fact, if you let me, I can even prove to you I’m not.’

Banks held her gaze. ‘It’s quite possible for a person to be bisexual,’ he said. ‘Especially if he or she is over-sexed to start with.’

Faith seemed to recede several feet into the distance, though she hadn’t moved at all. ‘I ought to be insulted,’ she said with a pout, ‘but I’m not. Disappointed in you, yes, but not insulted. Do you really think I’m over-sexed?’

Banks put his thumb and forefinger close together and smiled. ‘Maybe just a little bit.’

All the seductiveness, the heat and smell of sexuality, had gone from her manner, and what sat next to him was a very attractive young woman, perhaps a little shy, a little vulnerable. Perhaps it had all been an act. Could she turn her sexual power on and off at will? Why did he keep forgetting that there were so many actors on the fringes of Caroline Hartley’s death?

‘I didn’t mean it as an insult,’ Banks went on. ‘It just seemed the best way to cut the games and get down to business. I really do need information. That’s why I’m here.’

Faith nodded, then smiled. ‘All right, I’ll play fair. But I’m not just all talk, you know.’ Just for a moment she upped the voltage again and Banks felt the current.

‘Could Caroline have been seeing someone?’ he asked quickly.

‘She could have been, yes. But I can’t help you there. Caroline kept herself to herself. Nobody knew anything about her private life, I’m certain. After a couple of drinks, she’d go off home-’

‘By herself?’

‘Usually. If it was an especially nasty night James would give her a lift. And before you make too much out of that, he would take Teresa too, and drop her off last.’ She paused for effect, then added huskily. ‘At his place, sometimes.’

‘Teresa told me she didn’t care about James’s attraction to Caroline. What would you say about that?’

Faith put a slender finger to her lips, then said. ‘Well, I wouldn’t quite put it that way. I don’t like to tell tales out of school, but…’

‘But what? It could be important.’

‘Teresa’s very emotional.’

‘You mean she fought with Caroline?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘With James Conran?’

Faith swirled her drink and nodded slowly. ‘I heard them talking once or twice,’ she said. ‘Caroline’s name came up.’

‘In what way?’

Faith lowered her voice and leaned closer to Banks. ‘Usually as that “prick-teasing little bitch.” Teresa’s a good friend,’ she added, settling back, ‘but you did say it was important.’

So Teresa Pedmore had more of a grudge against Caroline Hartley than she had cared to admit. She could have been the woman who visited Caroline’s house after Patsy Janowski. On the other hand, so could Faith Green, who was being much more circumspect about her own involvement in the thespian intrigues, if she had any. Both were a little taller than Caroline Hartley. Banks would have to have a word with Teresa later and see what she, in turn, had to say about her friend.

‘You say James seemed attracted enough to Caroline to upset Teresa,’ he said. ‘How strong would you say his interest was?’

‘He flirted with her in the pub. That was all I ever saw.’

‘How did she react?’

‘She gave as good as she got.’

‘Did they sleep together?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘Teresa never referred to them doing that?’

‘No, just to the way James fussed about her. It wasn’t Caroline who manoeuvred the seating in the pub. If anyone, Teresa should have blamed James, not Caroline.’

‘People aren’t very logical when it comes to blame,’ Banks said, thinking of what Claude Ivers and Patsy Janowski had said about Caroline and Veronica.

‘Where did you all go after the rehearsal on the day of Caroline’s death?’

‘I came home. Honestly. I was tired. I didn’t even have a date.’

‘Why didn’t you all go for a drink as usual?’

Faith shrugged. ‘No special reason. Sometimes we just didn’t, that’s all. People just wandered off home. There’s nothing more to it than that. It was close to Christmas. There was shopping to do, family to visit.’

Banks didn’t believe her. She fiddled with her pearl necklace as she spoke and looked away from him. She also spoke as if there was nobody listening to her.

‘Did something happen at that rehearsal, Faith?’ he asked. ‘Was there a row between Caroline and Teresa?’

Faith shifted in her seat. She turned her eyes on him again. They gave away nothing. A waft of perfume drifted over.

‘Another drink?’

‘No. Tell me what happened.’

‘Leave me alone. Nothing happened.’

Banks put his glass down on the St Ives coaster and stood up.

Faith scratched the inside of her elbow. ‘Are you going now?’ she asked. All of a sudden she seemed like a frightened girl whose parents were about to turn the lights out.

‘Yes. Thanks very much for the drinks. You’ve been a great help.’

She touched his arm. ‘Nothing happened. Really Believe me. We just finished our rehearsal and we all went home. Don’t you believe me?’

Banks moved towards the door. Faith walked beside him, still holding on. ‘You must catch him soon, you know,’ she said.

‘Him?’

‘Whoever killed Caroline. Was it a woman? I suppose it could have been. But you must.’

‘Don’t worry. We will. With or without your help. Why are you so concerned?’

Faith let go of his arm. ‘The rest of us are in danger, aren’t we? It stands to reason.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Whoever killed Caroline. He might be stalking the cast A serial killer.’

‘A psychopathic killer? It’s possible, but I don’t think so. You’ve been reading too many books, Faith.’

‘So you really don’t think the rest of us are in danger?’

‘No. But you might as well keep your door locked anyway. And always look and see who’s there.’ He paused, half out of the door.

‘What is it?’ Faith asked.

‘Some of you could be in danger,’ he added slowly, ‘if you know more about the crime than you’re telling, and if the killer knows you know, or suspects that you do.’

Faith shook her head. ‘I know nothing more than I told you.’

‘Then you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?’

Banks smiled and left. He wanted to get Teresa’s version of that final night, but she would have to wait. It was going on for ten o’clock, he was tired, and he was going to London early in the morning. If he still needed to talk to her when he got back, he could do it then.

As he walked over the brittle ice listening to the rest of the Milhaud piece, he recalled Faith Green’s expression at the door. She had told him that she knew nothing, but had looked distinctly worried when he had hinted she might be in danger. Of course, knowing her, it could have been just another act, but perhaps, he thought, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have Richmond and Susan Gay keep an eye on the thespians while he was in London.