Past Reason Hated

ONE

The wind numbed Banks to the marrow when he got out of his car near the Lobster Inn the following afternoon. It was 3 January – only three days to twelfth night. The sky was a pale eggshell blue, with a few wispy grey clouds twisting over the horizon like strips of gauze. But the sun had no warmth in it. The wind kicked up little white caps as it danced over the ruffled water and slid up the rough sea wall right onto the front. Banks dashed into the pub.

There already, ensconced in front of the meagre fire, sat Detective Sergeant Jim Hatchley, pint in one ham-like hand and a huge, foul-smelling cigar smouldering between two sausage-shaped fingers of the other. Banks thought he had put on weight; his bulk seemed to loom larger than ever. The sergeant shifted in his seat when Banks came over and sat opposite him.

‘Miserable old bugger saves all his coal till evening,’ he said, by way of greeting, gesturing over at the landlord who sat on a high stool behind the bar reading a tabloid. Bigger crowd then, you see.’

Banks nodded. ‘How’s married life treating you?’

‘Can’t complain. She’s a good lass. I could do without being at the bloody seaside in winter, though. Plays havoc with my rheumatism.’

‘Didn’t know you had it.’

‘Nor did I.’

‘Never mind. Just wait till spring. You’ll be the envy of us all then. Everyone will want to come and visit you on their weekends off.’

‘Aye, maybe. We’ll have to see about renting out the spare room for bed and breakfast. Carol’s got some fancy ideas about starting a garden, too. Sounds like a lot of back breaking work to me.’

And Banks knew what Hatchley felt about work, the dreaded four-letter word, back breaking or not. ‘I’m sorry to lumber you with this, Jim,’ he said. ‘Especially on your honeymoon.’

‘That’s all right. Gets me out of the house. We’re not spring chickens, you know. Can’t expect to be at it all the time.’ He winked. ‘Besides, a man needs time alone with his pint and his paper.’

Banks noticed a copy of the Sun folded in Hatchley’s pocket. From the little he could see, it looked to be open at page three. An attractive new wife, and he still ogled the naked page-three girl. Old habits die hard.

The landlord stirred; his newspaper began to rustle with impatience. Clearly it was all very well for him to be rude to customers, but customers were not expected to be rude to him by warming themselves in front of the sparse flames for too long without buying a drink. Banks walked over and the paper rose up again, covering the man’s beady eyes.

‘Two pints of bitter, please,’ Banks said, and slowly the paper came to rest on the bar. With a why-can’t-everyone-leave-me-alone sigh, the man pulled the pints and plonked them down in front of Banks, holding his other hand out for the money as soon as he had done so. Banks paid and walked back to Sergeant Hatchley.

‘Anything come up?’ Banks asked, reaching for a cigarette.

Hatchley pulled a cigar tube from his inside pocket. ‘Have one of these. Christmas present from the in-laws. Havana. Nice and mild.’

Banks remembered the last cigar he had smoked, one of Dirty Dick Burgess’s Tom Thumbs, and declined. ‘Best stick with the devil you know,’ he said, lighting the cigarette.

‘As you like. Well,’ Hatchley said, ‘there’s nowt been happening around here. I’ve been up with Carol a couple of evenings, for a drink, like, and noticed that Ivers and his fancy woman in here once or twice. Tall chap in need of a hair cut. Looks a bit like that Irish bloke from Camelot, Richard Harris, after a bad night. And that lass of his, young enough to be his granddaughter I’d say. Still, it takes all sorts. Lovely pair of thighs under them tight jeans, and a bum like two peaches in a wet paper bag. Anyroad, they’d come in about nine-ish, nod hello to a few locals, knock back a couple of drinks and leave about ten.’

‘Ever talk to them?’

‘No. They don’t know who I am. They keep themselves to themselves, too. The local constable’s a very obliging chap. I’ve had him keeping an eye open and he says they’ve done nothing out of the ordinary. Hardly been out of the house. Are they still in the running?’

Banks nodded. ‘There’s a couple of problems with the timing, but nothing they couldn’t have worked out between them.’

‘Between them?’

‘Yes. If they killed Caroline Hartley, they must have been in it together. It’s the only way they could have done it.’

‘But you’re not sure they did?’

‘No. I’m just not satisfied with their stories.’

‘What about their motive?’

‘That I don’t know. The husband had one, clearly enough, but the girl didn’t share it. It’d have to be something we don’t know about.’

‘Money?’

‘I don’t think so. Caroline Hartley didn’t have much. It would have to be something more obscure than that.’

‘Perhaps she’s the kind who’d do anything for him, just to hang on to him.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Or they didn’t do it?’

‘Could be that, too.’

‘Or maybe you’re over-complicating things as usual?’

Banks grinned. ‘Maybe I am.’

‘So what now?’ Hatchley asked.

‘A quick visit, just to let them know we haven’t forgotten them.’

‘Me too?’

‘Yes.’

‘But they’ll recognize me. They’ll know me in future.’

‘It won’t do them any harm to know we’re keeping an eye on them. Come on, sup up.’

Grudgingly, Sergeant Hatchley drained his pint and stubbed out his cigar. ‘Still another ten minutes left in that,’ he complained.

‘Take it with you.’

‘Never mind.’

Hatchley followed Banks out into the sharp wind. Thin ice splintered as they made their way up the footpath to Ivers’s cottage, from which a welcoming plume of smoke curled and drifted west. Hatchley groaned and panted as they walked. Banks knocked. This time, Ivers himself answered the door.

‘Come in. Sit down. Sit down,’ he said. Hatchley took the bulky armchair by the mullioned window and Banks lowered himself into a wooden rocker by the fire. ‘Have you caught him?’ Ivers asked. ‘The man who killed Caroline?’

Banks shook his head. ‘Afraid not.’

Ivers frowned. ‘Oh… well. Patsy! Patsy! Some tea, if you’ve got a minute.’

Patsy Janowski came in from her study, glared at Banks’s right shoelace and went into the kitchen.

‘How do you think I can help you again?’ Ivers asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ Banks said. ‘First, I’d just like to go over one or two details.’

‘Shall we wait for Patsy with the tea?’

They waited. Banks passed the time talking music with Ivers, who was excited about the harmonic breakthroughs he had made over the past two days. Hatchley, hands folded in his lap, looked bored.

Finally, Patsy emerged with a tray and put it down on the table in front of the fire. She wore jeans with a plain white shirt, the top two buttons undone. Banks noticed Hatchley take a discreet look down the front as she bent to put the tray down. She didn’t seem pleased to see Banks, and if either of them recognized Sergeant Hatchley, they didn’t show it. This time, Patsy was surly and evasive and Ivers seemed open and helpful. Luckily, Banks had learned never to take anything at face value. When tea was poured, he began with the questions.

‘It’s the timing that’s important, you see,’ he opened. ‘Can you be any clearer about what time you delivered the Christmas present, Mr Ivers?’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t. Sometime around seven, I’m sure of that.’

‘And you stayed how long?’

‘No more than five minutes.’

‘That’s rather a long time, isn’t it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘People have funny ideas about time, about how short or long various periods are. I’d say five minutes was a bit long to spend with someone you didn’t like on an errand like that. Why not just hand over the present and leave?’

‘Maybe it wasn’t that long,’ Ivers said. ‘I just went in, handed it over, exchanged a few insincere pleasantries and left. Maybe two minutes, I don’t know.’

Banks sipped some tea, then lit a cigarette. Patsy, legs curled under her on the rug in front of the fire, passed him an ashtray from the hearth.

‘What pleasantries?’ he asked. ‘What did you say to each other?’

‘As I said before, I asked how she was, how Veronica was, made a remark about the weather. And she answered me politely. I handed over the record, told her it was something special for Veronica for Christmas, then I left. We’d at least reached a stage where we could behave in a civilized manner towards one another.’

‘You said it was something special?’

‘Something like that.’

‘How did she react?’

Ivers closed his eyes for a moment and frowned. ‘She didn’t, really. I mean, she didn’t say anything. She looked interested, though. Curious.’

‘That may be why she opened it, if she did,’ Banks said, almost to himself. ‘Did she seem at all strange to you? Did she say anything odd?’

Ivers shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Did she seem to be expecting someone?’

‘How would I know? She certainly didn’t say anything if she was.’

‘Was she on edge? Did she keep glancing towards the door? Did she give the impression she wanted you out of the way as soon as possible?’

‘I’d say yes to the latter,’ Ivers answered, ‘but no to the others. She seemed perfectly all right to me.’

‘What was she doing?’

‘Doing?’

‘Yes. When you called. You went into the front room, didn’t you? Was she listening to music, polishing the silver, watching television, reading?’

‘I don’t know. Nothing… I… eating, perhaps. There was some cake on the table. I remember that.’

‘What was she wearing?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘Claude’s hopeless about things like that,’ Patsy cut in. Half the time he doesn’t even notice what I’m wearing.’

Taking in the stooped, lanky figure of the composer in his usual baggy clothes, Banks was inclined to believe her. Here was the genius so wrapped up in his music that he didn’t notice such mundane things as what other people said, did or wore.

On the other hand, Ivers obviously had a taste for attractive women. In different ways, both Veronica and Patsy were evidence enough of that. And what red-blooded male would forget a woman as beautiful as Caroline Hartley answering the door in her bathrobe? Surely a man with a taste for so seductive a woman as Patsy Janowksi couldn’t fail to remember, or to react? But then Ivers knew Caroline; he knew she was a lesbian. Perhaps it was all a matter of perspective. Banks pressed on.

‘What about you, Ms Janowski? Can you remember what she was wearing?’

‘I didn’t even go into the house. I only saw her standing in the doorway.’

‘Can you remember?’

‘It looked like some kind of bathrobe to me, a kimonostyle thing. Dark green I think the colour was. She was hugging it tight around her because of the cold.’

‘What time did you arrive?’

‘After seven. I left here about twenty minutes after Claude.’

‘How long after seven?’

‘I’m not sure. I told you before. Maybe about a quarter after, twenty past.’

‘What were you wearing?’

‘Wearing?’ Patsy frowned. ‘I don’t see what that’s-’

‘Just answer, please.’

She shot his right lapel a baleful glance. ‘Jeans, boots and my fur-lined jacket.’

‘How long is the jacket?’

‘It comes down to my waist,’ Patsy said, looking puzzled. ‘Look, I don’t-’

‘Would you say that Caroline was expecting someone else? Someone other than you?’

‘I couldn’t say, really.’

‘Did she react as if she had been expecting someone else when she saw you standing there at the door? Did she show any disappointment?’

‘No, not especially.’ Patsy thought for a moment. ‘She was real nice, given who I am. I’m sorry, but it all happened so quickly and I was too concerned about Claude to pay much attention.’

‘Did she seem nervous or surprised to see you, anxious for you to leave quickly?’

‘No, not at all. She was surprised to see me, of course, but that’s only natural. And she wanted to shut the door because of the cold.’

‘Why didn’t she ask you in?’

Patsy looked at the hearth. ‘She hardly knew me. Besides, all I had to ask her was whether Claude was there.’

‘And she said he wasn’t.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you believed her?’

Patsy’s tone hardened. She spoke between clenched teeth. ‘Of course I did.’

‘Are you sure he wasn’t still in the house?’

Ivers leaned forward. ‘Now wait-’

‘Let her answer, Mr Ivers,’ Sergeant Hatchley said.

‘Caroline said he’d gone. She said he’d just left the record and gone. I hadn’t any reason to believe she was lying.’

‘Was she in a hurry to get rid of you?’

‘I’ve told you, no. Everything was normal as far as I could tell.’

‘But she didn’t invite you inside. Doesn’t that seem odd to you, Ms Janowski? You’ve already said it was so cold on the doorstep that Caroline Hartley had to hold her robe tight around her. Wouldn’t it have made more sense to invite you in, even if just for a few minutes? After all, Mr Ivers here says he only stayed for five minutes.’

‘Are you trying to suggest that I did go inside?’ Patsy exploded. ‘Just what’s going on in that policeman’s mind of yours? Are you accusing me of killing her? Because if you are you’d better damn well arrest me right now and let me call my lawyer!’

‘There’s no reason to be melodramatic, Ms Janowski,’ Banks said. ‘I’m not suggesting anything of the kind. I happen to know already that you didn’t enter the house.’

Patsy’s brow furrowed and some of the angry red colour drained from her cheeks. ‘Then I… I don’t understand.’

‘Did you hear music playing?’

‘No. I can’t remember any.’

‘And you didn’t ask to go inside, to look around?’

‘No. Why should I? I knew he wouldn’t still be there if Veronica wasn’t home.’

‘The point is,’ Banks said, ‘that Mr Ivers could have been in the house, couldn’t he? You’ve just confirmed to me that you didn’t go in and look.’

‘I’ve told you, he wouldn’t-’

‘Could he have been inside?’

She looked at Ivers, then back to Banks. ‘That’s an unfair question. The goddamn Duke of Edinburgh could have been inside for all I know, but I don’t think he was.’

‘The thing is,’ Banks said, ‘that nobody saw Mr Ivers leave. Caroline Hartley didn’t invite you in, even though it was cold, and you didn’t insist on seeing for yourself.’

‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ Ivers burst out, ‘and you know it. It was pure bloody luck on your part that anyone noticed me arrive, or Patsy. You can’t expect them to be watching for me to leave, too.’

‘Maybe not, but it would have made everything a lot tidier.’

‘And if you’re suggesting that Caroline didn’t let Patsy in because I was there, have you considered that she might have been hiding someone else? Have you thought about that?’

‘Yes, Mr Ivers, I’ve thought about that. The problem is, no one else was seen near the house between your visit and Ms Janowski’s.’ He turned to Patsy. ‘When you left, did you notice anyone hanging around the area?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Concentrate. It could be important. I’ve asked you before to try to visualize the scene. Did you see anyone behaving strangely, or anyone who looked furtive, suspicious, out of place?’

Pasty closed her eyes. ‘No, I’m sure I didn’t… Except-’

‘What?’

‘I’m not very clear. There was a woman.’

‘Where?’

‘The end of the street. It was dark there… snowing. And she was some distance away from me. But I remember thinking there was something odd about her, I don’t know what. I’m damned if I can think what it was.’

‘Think,’ Banks encouraged her. The timing was certainly right. Patsy had called at about twenty past seven, and the killer – if indeed the last observed visitor was the killer – only two or three minutes later. There was a good chance that they had passed in the street.

Patsy opened her eyes. ‘It’s no good. It was ages ago now and I hardly paid any attention at the time. It’s just one of those odd little things, like a déjà vu.’

‘Did you think you knew this woman, recognized her?’

‘No. It wasn’t anything like that. I’d remember that. It was when I got to King Street. She was crossing over, as if she was heading for the mews. We were on opposite sides and I didn’t get a very close look. It was something else, just a little thing. I’m sorry, Chief Inspector, really I am. Especially,’ she added sharply, ‘as any information I might give could get us off the hook. I simply can’t remember.’

‘If you do remember anything at all about the woman,’ Banks said, ‘no matter how minor a detail it might seem to you, call me immediately, is that clear?’

Patsy nodded.

‘And you’re not off the hook yet. Not by a long chalk.’

Banks gestured for Hatchley to get up, a lengthy task that involved quite a bit of heaving and puffing, then they left. Banks almost slipped on the icy pathway, but Hatchley caught his arm and steadied him just in time.

‘Well,’ said the sergeant, stamping and rubbing his hands outside the Lobster Inn, ‘that’s that then. I don’t mind doing a bit of extra work, you know,’ he said, glancing longingly at the pub, ‘even when I’m supposed to be on my honeymoon. I know it’s not my case, but I wish you’d fill me in on a few more details.’

Banks caught his glance and interpreted the signals. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Over a pint?’

Hatchley beamed. ‘Well, if you insist…’

TWO

‘Susan, love, could I have a word?’

‘Of course.’

Susan and Marcia were sitting in the Crooked Billet with the entire cast of Twelfth Night after rehearsal. It had gone badly, and those who weren’t busy arguing were drowning their depression in drink. James didn’t seem too concerned, Susan thought, watching him listen patiently to Malvolio’s complaints about the final scene. But he was used to it; he’d directed plays before. She shifted along the bench to let Marcia Cunningham sit beside her. ‘What is it?’

Marcia looked puzzled. ‘I’m not sure. It’s nothing really. At least I don’t think it is. But it’s very odd.’

‘Police business?’

‘Well, it might have something to do with the break-in. You did say to mention anything that came up.’

‘Go on.’

‘But that’s just it, you see, love. It doesn’t make sense.’

‘Marcia,’ Susan said, ‘why don’t you just tell me? Get it off your chest.’

Marcia frowned. ‘It’s hard to explain. You’d probably think I was just being silly if I told you. Can’t you pop around and have a look for yourself? I don’t live far away.’

‘What, now?’

‘Whenever you can spare the time, love.’ Marcia looked at her watch. ‘I’ll have to be off in a few minutes, anyway.’

Susan recognized a deadline when she heard one. Now she was with CID she was never really off duty. She wouldn’t get anywhere if she put personal pleasure before the job, however fruitless the trek to Marcia’s might seem. And the vandalism was her case. A success so early in her CID career would look good. What could she do but agree? As Marcia couldn’t be induced to say any more, Susan would have to put James off and go with her. It wouldn’t take long, Marcia had assured her, so she wouldn’t have to cancel their dinner date, just postpone it for half an hour or so. James would understand. He certainly had plenty to occupy himself with in her absence.

‘All right,’ Susan said. ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘Thanks, love. It might be a waste of time but well, wait till you see.’

Susan told James she had to nip out for a while and would be back in half an hour or so, then she buttoned up her winter coat and left with Marcia. They walked northeast along York Road, past the excavated pre-Roman site, where the little burial mounds and hut foundations looked eerie under their carapace of moonlit ice.

‘It’s just down here.’ Marcia led Susan down a sloping street of pre-war semis opposite the site. Though the house itself was small, it had gardens at both front and back and a fine view of the river and the Green from the kitchen window. The furniture looked dated and worn, and swaths of material lay scattered here and there, along with stacks of patterns and magazines, in the untidy living room. Marcia didn’t apologize for the mess. Her sense of disorder, Susan realized, didn’t stop at the way she dressed.

On the mantelpiece above the electric fire stood a framed photograph of Marcia’s late husband, a handsome man, posing on the seafront at some holiday resort with a pipe in his mouth. Marcia switched on the fire. Susan took off her coat and knelt by the reddening element, rubbing her hands. She could smell dust burning as it heated up.

‘Sorry it’s so cold,’ Marcia said. ‘We wanted central heating, but since my Frank died I just haven’t been able to afford it.’

‘I don’t have it either,’ Susan said. ‘I always do this when I get home.’ She stood up and turned. ‘What is it you’ve got to show me?’

Marcia dragged a large box into the centre of the room. ‘It’s this. Remember I told you yesterday I was patching up some of the damage those hooligans did to the costumes?’

Susan nodded.

‘Well, I have. Look.’ She held up a long pearl gown with shoulder straps and plunging neckline.

Susan looked closely. ‘But surely…?’

‘Cut to shreds, it was,’ Marcia said. ‘Look.’ She pointed out the faint lines of stitching. ‘Of course, you’d never get away with wearing it for a banquet at the Ritz, but it’ll do for a stage performance. Even the nobs in the front row wouldn’t be able to see how it had been sewn back together.’

‘You’re a genius, Marcia,’ Susan exclaimed, touching the fabric. ‘You should have been a surgeon.’

Marcia shrugged. ‘Can’t stand the sight of blood. Anyway, it was just like doing a jigsaw puzzle really.’ And she showed Susan more dresses and gowns she had resurrected from the box of snipped-up originals. That so untidy a person should be able to bring such order out of chaos astonished Susan.

‘You didn’t bring me here just to praise you, did you?’ she said finally. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I told James I’d be back in half an hour.’

‘Sorry, love,’ Marcia said. ‘Just got carried away, that’s all. Forgot how impatient young love is.’

Susan blushed. ‘Marcia! The point.’

‘Yes, well.’ Marcia reached into the box and took out a simple burgundy dress. ‘This is the point. I worked on this one all afternoon.’ She held it up, and Susan could see that the sleeves had been cut off up to elbow-level and a large patch of the front, around the breasts, was also missing.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you finished?’

‘I’ve done all I could, love. That’s the point. This is it. All there was.’

‘I still don’t understand.’

‘And you a copper, too. It’s simple. I managed to sort out the bits and pieces of the other dresses here and patch them together, as you’ve seen.’

Susan nodded.

‘But when it came to this one, I couldn’t find all the pieces. Some of them’ve plain disappeared.’

‘Disappeared?’

‘Wake up, lass. Yes, disappeared. I’ve looked everywhere. Even back at the centre to see if they’d fallen on the floor or something. Not a trace.’

‘But it doesn’t make any sense,’ Susan said slowly. ‘Who on earth would want to steal pieces of a ruined dress?’

‘My point exactly,’ Marcia said. ‘That’s why I asked you to come here and see it for yourself. Who would do such a thing? And why?’

‘There has to be a simple explanation.’

Marcia nodded. ‘Yes. But what is it? Your lot didn’t take any for analysis or whatever, did they?’

Susan shook her head. ‘No. They must have dropped out somewhere. Maybe when you were bringing the box home.’

‘I looked everywhere. I’m telling you, love, if there’d been pieces I would’ve found them.’

Susan couldn’t help but feel disappointed. It was hardly an important discovery – certainly not one that would lead to the identity of the vandals – but Marcia was right in that it was mystifying. It was slightly disturbing, too. When Susan picked up the dress and held it in front of her, she shivered as if someone had just walked over her grave. It looked as if the arms had been deliberately cut off rather than torn, and two circles of fabric around the breasts had been snipped out in a similar way. Shaking her head, Susan folded the dress and handed it back to Marcia.

THREE

Chief Inspector Banks! Have you any news?’

‘No news,’ Banks said. ‘Maybe a few questions.’

‘Come in.’ Veronica Shildon led him into her front room. It looked larger and colder than it had before, as if even all the heat from the fiercely burning fire in the hearth couldn’t penetrate every shadowy corner. Two small, threadbare armchairs stood in front of the fire.

‘Christine Cooper let me have them until I get around to buying a new suite,’ Veronica said, noticing Banks looking at them. ‘She was going to throw them out.’

Banks nodded. After Veronica had taken his coat, he sat in one of the armchairs and warmed himself by the flames. ‘It’s certainly more comfortable than a hard-backed chair,’ he said.

‘Can I offer you a drink?’ she asked.

‘Tea would do nicely.’

Veronica brewed the tea and came to sit in the other armchair, placed so they didn’t face each other directly but at an angle that required a slight turning of the head to make eye-contact. The fire danced in the hollows of Veronica’s cheeks and reflected like tiny orange candle flames in her eyes.

‘I don’t feel I thanked you enough for letting me come to London with you,’ she said, crossing her legs and sitting back in the chair. ‘It can’t have been an easy decision for you to make. Anyway, I’m grateful. Somehow, seeing Ruth Dunne gave me more of Caroline than I’d had, if you can understand that.’

Banks, who had more than once spent hours with colleagues extolling the virtues and playfully noting the faults of deceased friends, knew exactly what Veronica meant. Somehow, sharing memories of the dead seemed to make them live larger in one’s mind and heart, and Veronica had had nobody in Eastvale to talk to about Caroline because nobody here had really known her.

Banks nodded. ‘I don’t really know why I am here, to tell the truth,’ he said finally. ‘Nothing I learned in London really helped. Now it’s early evening on a cold January day and I’m still no closer to the solution than I was last week. Maybe I’m just the cop who came in from the cold.’

Veronica raised an eyebrow. ‘Frustration?’

‘Certainly. More than that.’

‘Tell me,’ she said slowly, ‘am I… I mean, do you still believe that I might have murdered Caroline?’

Banks lit a cigarette and shifted his legs. The fire was burning his shins. ‘Ms Shildon,’ he said, ‘we’ve no evidence at all to link you to the crime. We never have had. Everything you told us checks out, and we found no traces of blood-stained clothing in the house. Nor did there appear to be any blood on your person. Unless you’re an especially clever and cold-blooded killer, which I don’t think you are, then I don’t see how you could have murdered Caroline. You also appear to lack a motive. At least I haven’t been able to find one I’m comfortable with.’

‘But surely you don’t take things at face value?’

‘No, I don’t. It’s a simple statistic that most murders are committed by people who are close to the victim, often family members or lovers. Given that, you’re obviously a prime suspect. There could have been a way, certainly, if you’d been planning the act. There could also be a motive we don’t know about. Caroline could have been having an affair and you could have found out about it.’

‘So you still think I might have done it?’

Banks shrugged. ‘It’s not so much a matter of what I think. It’s maybe not probable, but it certainly is possible. Until I find out exactly who did do it, I can’t count anybody from Caroline’s circle out.’

‘Including me?’

‘Including you.’

‘God, what a terrible job it must be, having to see people that way all the time, as potential criminals. How can you ever get close to anyone?’

‘You’re exaggerating. It’s my job, not my life. Do you think doctors go around all the time seeing everyone as potential patients, for example, or lawyers as potential clients?’

‘Of the latter I’m quite certain,’ Veronica said with a quiet laugh, ‘but as for doctors, the only ones I’ve known get very irritated when guests ask their advice about aches and pains at cocktail parties.’

‘Anyway,’ Banks went on, ‘people create their own problems.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Everyone lies, evades or holds back the full truth. Oh, you all have your own perfectly good reasons for doing it – protecting Caroline’s memory, covering up a petty crime, unwillingness to reveal an unattractive aspect of your own personality, inability to face up to things or simply not wanting to get involved. But can’t you see where that leaves us? If we’re faced with several people all closely connected to the victim, and they all lie to us, one of them could conceivably be lying to cover up murder.’

‘But surely you must have instincts? You must trust some people.’

‘Yes, I do. My instincts tell me that you didn’t kill Caroline, but I’d be a proper fool if I let my heart rule my head and overlooked an important piece of evidence. That’s the trouble, trusting your instincts can sometimes blind you to the obvious. Already I’ve told you too much.

‘Does your instinct tell you who did kill her?’

Banks shook his head and flicked a column of ash into the fire. ‘Unfortunately, no. Gary Hartley confessed, in a way, but…’ He told her what had happened in Harrogate Veronica sat forward and clasped her hands on her lap as he spoke.

‘The poor boy,’ she said when he’d finished. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘I don’t think so. He’s undergoing psychiatric tests right now. But the point is, whatever he did do, he didn’t kill Caroline. If anything, towards the end, when he knew the full story, he felt pity for her. It was his father he turned on, with years of pent-up hatred. I still can’t imagine what torture it must have been for both of them. The old man unable to help himself, unable to get out of bed, starving and lying in his own waste; and Gary downstairs getting drunk and listening to the feeble cries and taps growing fainter, knowing he was slowly killing his own father. Banks shuddered. ‘There are some things it doesn’t do to dwell on, perhaps. But none of this gets us any closer to Caroline’s killer.’

‘It’s the “why” I can’t understand,’ Veronica said. ‘Who could possibly have had a reason for killing Caroline?’

‘That we don’t know.’ Banks sipped some tea. ‘I thought it might have had something to do with her past, but neither Ruth Dunne nor Colm Grey, the father of her child, had anything to do with it. Unless there’s a very obscure connection, such as a dissatisfied customer come back to wreak revenge, which hardly seems likely, all we can surmise is that it was someone she knew, and someone who hadn’t planned to kill her.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘There was no sign of forced entry, and the weapon, it just came to hand.’

‘But she didn’t know many people,’ Veronica said. ‘Surely that would be a help.’

‘It is and it isn’t. If she didn’t know many people very well, then how could she offend someone so much they’d want to kill her?’

‘Why do you say offend? Maybe you’re wrong. Perhaps she found out something that someone didn’t want known, or she saw something she shouldn’t have.’

‘But according to what everyone tells me – yourself included – she wasn’t acting at all strangely prior to her death. Surely if something along those lines was bothering her she should have been.’

Veronica shook her head. ‘I don’t know… she could have been holding back, pretending… for my sake.’

‘But you didn’t get that impression? Your instinct didn’t tell you so?’

‘No. Then, I never known whether to trust my instincts or not. I’ve made mistakes.’

‘We all have,’ Banks said. ‘But you’re right to consider other motives. We shouldn’t overlook the possibility that someone had a very practical reason for wanting her out of the way. The problem is, it just makes the motive harder to get at, because it’s less personal. Let’s say, to be absurd, that she saw two spies exchanging documents. In the first place, how would she know they were doing anything illegal, and in the second, how would they know she was a threat?’ He shook his head. ‘That kind of thing only happens in books. Real murders are much simpler, in a way – at least as far as motive is concerned – but not necessarily easier to solve. Gary Hartley might have had a deep-seated reason to kill his sister, but he didn’t do it Your estranged husband had a motive, too. He blamed Caroline for the separation. But he seems happy enough in his new life with Patsy. Why would he do anything to ruin that? On the other hand, who knows what people really feel?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He could have done it, if Patsy Janowski is in it with him or is lying to protect him. He delivered the record, we know that for a fact. As to who put it on the turntable…’

Veronica shook her head slowly. ‘Claude couldn’t murder anyone. Oh, he has his moods and his rages, but he’s not a killer. Anyway, do you really think the music is important?’

‘It’s a clue of some kind, but it didn’t mean what I thought it did. I believe Caroline opened it out of curiosity. She wanted to know what Claude thought was so special to you. Beyond that, your guess is as good as mine. Maybe she would even play a little of it, again to satisfy her curiosity, but I can’t believe she’d leave the arm up so it would repeat forever.’

Veronica smiled. ‘That’s just like Caroline,’ she said quietly. ‘Such curiosity. You know, she always wanted to shake all her Christmas presents. It was well nigh impossible to stop her opening them on Christmas Eve.’

Banks laughed. ‘I know, my daughter’s the same.’

Veronica shook her head. ‘Such a child… in some ways.’

Banks leaned forward. ‘What did you say?’

‘About Caroline. I said she was such a child in so many ways.’

‘Yes,’ Banks whispered. ‘Yes, she was.’ He remembered something Ruth Dunne had said to him in London. He tossed his cigarette end into the fire and finished his tea.

‘Does it mean something?’ Veronica asked.

‘It might do.’ He stood up. ‘If it does, I’ve been a bit slow on the uptake. Look, I’d better go now. Much as I’d like to stay here and keep warm, I’ve got work to do. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right. You don’t have to apologize. I don’t expect you to keep me company. That’s not part of your job.’

Banks put the empty teacup on the table. ‘It’s not a task I despise,’ he said. ‘But there are a few points I have to review back at the station.’

‘When you find out,’ Veronica said, twisting the silver ring around her middle finger, ‘will you let me know?’

‘You’d find out soon enough.’

‘No. I don’t want to find out from the papers. I want you to let me know. As soon as you find out. No matter what the time, day or night. Will you do that for me?’

‘Is this some sort of desire for revenge? Do you need an object to hate?’

‘No. You once told me I was far too civilized for such feelings. I just want to understand. I want to know why Caroline had to die, what the killer was feeling.’

‘We might never know that.’

She put her hand on his sleeve. ‘But you will tell me, won’t you, when you know? Promise?’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Banks said.

Veronica sighed. ‘Good.’

‘What about the record?’ Banks said at the door. Technically, it’s yours, you know.’

Veronica leaned against the doorjamb and wrapped her arms around her to keep warm. ‘I can live in this house, she said, ‘especially when I get it redecorated and bring new furniture in. But do you know something? I think that if I ever heard that music again I’d go insane.’

Banks said goodnight and Veronica closed the door. It was a shame, he thought, that such a glorious and transcendent piece of music should be associated with such a bloody deed, but at least he thought he now knew why the record had been left playing, if not who had put it on.

FOUR

Susan systematically picked the strips of glittering silver tinsel from her tiny artificial Christmas tree. Carefully, she replaced each flimsy strand on the card from which it came, to put away for next year. She did the same with the single string of lights and the red and green coloured balls, the only decorations she had bought.

When she had finished with the tree, she stood on a chair and untapped the intricate concertinas of coloured crêpe paper she had draped across the ceiling and folded them together. Apart from the Father Christmas above the mantelpiece, a three-dimensional figure that closed like a book when you folded it in half, that was it.

When she had put all traces of Christmas in the cupboard, Susan stood in the centre of her living room and gazed around. Somehow, even without all the festive decorations she had dashed out and bought at the last moment, the place was beginning to feel a little more like a home. There was still a lot to do – framed prints to buy, perhaps a few ornaments – but she was getting there Already she had found time to buy three records highlights from Madame Butterfly, The Four Seasons and a recording of traditional folk music, the kind she had heard a few times at university many years ago. The opening chords of ‘Autumn’ were playing as she walked into the kitchen to make some cocoa.

James hadn’t seen the inside of her flat yet. She would have to invite him soon if he was going to keep on taking her to dinner – not that he paid, Susan always insisted on going Dutch – but something held her back. Perhaps it was the same thing that had held her back so far from stopping in at his place for a nightcap. Damn it all, the man had been her teacher at school, and that was a difficult image to throw out. Still, at least she would make sure she had a few more books and records when she did invite him. She wouldn’t want him to think she lived in such a cultural vacuum.

She poured out her cup of cocoa and sat down to listen to the music, curling her feet under her in the small armchair. If she was honest with herself, she decided, her resistance to James had little to do with the fact that he had been her teacher, and was only partly related to his involvement in the case. As far as Susan was concerned, Veronica Shildon was guilty, and it was simply a matter of proving it, of finding evidence that she had returned earlier than she said and murdered her lover – such a distasteful word, Susan thought, when applied to a relationship like theirs – out of jealousy, self-disgust or some other powerful, negative emotion. Either that or the estranged husband had done it because Caroline had corrupted and stolen his wife. So, although James and the theatre crowd were officially suspects, Susan couldn’t believe that any of them were really guilty. No, it was something else that kept her at arm’s length from James.

She had for some reason stayed away from sexual relationships over the past few years. And, again if she was honest, it wasn’t only because of her career. That was important to her, yes, but many women could manage both a lover and a career. Some of her colleagues, and, stranger still, a couple of the more charming villains she had nicked, had asked her out, but she had always said no. Somehow they had all been too close to home. She didn’t want to be talked about around the station. She had dated occasionally, but had never been able to commit herself to anything. She supposed that, as far as the men were concerned, there always seemed to be a million things she would rather be doing than being with them, and they were right. Because of that, she had spent too many evenings alone in her soulless flat. But also, because of that, she had passed all her examinations and her career was flourishing.

She certainly found James attractive, as well as charming and lively company. He was a great ham, had a fine sense of the dramatic. But there was more to him than that, an intensity and a kind of masculine self-assurance. He would probably make a fine lover. So why was she avoiding the inevitable? Her excuse was the case, but her real reason was fear. Fear of what? she asked herself. He hadn’t even tried to touch her yet, though she was sure she had seen the desire in his eyes. Was she afraid of enjoying herself? Of losing control? Of feeling nothing? She didn’t know, but if she was to change her life in any way at all, she would have to find out. And that meant confronting it. So, when the case was over…

A skin had formed on the top of her cocoa. She had never liked that, ever since childhood. That sweet and sticky skin made her shudder when, inadvertently, she had sipped without looking and it had stuck like a warm spider’s web to her lips. Carefully, using her spoon, she pushed it to the edge of the cup, dredged it out and laid it in the saucer.

For some reason, that photo of Marcia Cunningham’s handsome husband with his pipe at a rakish angle came into her mind. He reminded her of James just a little. Not his looks, but his expression. She found herself looking at the mantelpiece. Now that the Father Christmas was gone, it seemed so empty. She would like to have a photo or two there, but of whom? Not her family, that was for certain. James? Much too early for that yet. Herself, the graduation picture from police college? It would do, for a start.

Then she remembered the dress Marcia had dragged her all that way to look at. There was a puzzle, to be sure. No doubt the vandals would have an explanation, when and if they were caught. Still, it was a strange thing for someone to do. Maybe they had taken strips of material to fasten around their foreheads as Rambo headbands or something. There was no telling what weird fantasies went on in the adolescent mind these days.

Susan put her cup down. The record had finished, and even though it wasn’t late she decided to go to bed and have an early night. There was still that American tome on homicide investigation for bedtime reading. Or should she do a little advance reading of Shakespeare from the cut-price Complete Works she had picked up at W. H. Smith’s?

In a couple of days it would be twelfth night, the first night of the play. She just hoped that no police business came up to stop her from attending. James seemed so much to want her there, even though her knowledge of Shakespeare left a lot to be desired. And she was looking forward to the evening. She couldn’t see how any of the present cases would get in her way. There wasn’t much else they could do on the Caroline Hartley murder until they got new evidence, or until Banks took his head out of the sand and gave Veronica Shildon a long, hard, objective interrogation. Besides, Susan was only a helper, a note-taker on that one. And as for the vandals, until they were caught red-handed there wasn’t much to be done about them, either. Picking up the heavy Complete Works from her bookshelf, she wandered off to bed.

FIVE

‘A message for you, sir,’ Sergeant Rowe called out as Banks walked into the police station after his visit to Veronica Shildon. He handed over a piece of paper. ‘It was a woman called Patty Jarouchki, I think. Sounded American. Anyway, she left her number. Said for you to call her as soon as you can.’

Banks thanked him and hurried upstairs to his office, grabbing a black coffee on the way. The CID offices were quiet, the tapping of a keyboard from Richmond’s office the only sign of life. He picked up the phone and dialled the number Sergeant Rowe had given him. Patsy Janowski answered on the third ring.

‘You had a message for me?’ Banks said.

‘Yes. Remember you asked me to try and recall if I’d noticed anything unusual in the area?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, it’s not really… I mean, it’s not clear at all, but you know I said there was a woman?’

‘The one crossing King Street?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about her?’

‘I didn’t get a good look or anything – I’m sure it wasn’t anyone I knew – but I do remember she was walking funny.’

‘In what way?’

‘Just… funny.’

‘Did she have a limp, a wooden leg?’

‘No, no, it was nothing like that. At least I don’t think so.’

‘A strange kind of walk? Some people have them. Bow-legged? Knock-kneed?’

‘Not even that. She was just struggling a bit. There was snow on the ground. Oh, I knew I shouldn’t have called you. It’s still not clear, and it’s probably nothing. I feel stupid.’

Banks could imagine her eyes ranging about the room, resting on the tongs by the fire, the old snuff-box on the mantelpiece. ‘You did right,’ he assured her.

‘But I’ve told you nothing, really.’

‘It might mean something. If you think of anything else, will you stop accusing yourself of idiocy and call me?’

He could almost hear her smile at the other end of the line. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think it’ll get any clearer.’

Banks said goodnight and broke the connection. For a moment he just sat on the edge of his desk, coffee in hand, staring at the calendar. It showed a wintry scene in Aysgarth, Wensleydale. Finally, he lit a cigarette and went over to the window. Outside, beyond the venetian blinds, the market square was deserted. The Christmas-tree lights still twinkled, but nobody passed to see them. It was that time of year when everyone had spent too much and drunk too much and seen too many people; now most Eastvalers were holed up in their houses keeping warm and watching repeats on television.

The day’s depression was still with him, and the mystery of Caroline Hartley’s death was still shrouded in fog. There had to be some way of making sense of it all, Banks told himself. He must have overlooked something. The only solution to his bleak mood was mental activity. As he stood at the window looking down on the forlorn Christmas lights, he tried to recreate the sequence of events in his mind.

First of all, he discounted the arrival of yet another visitor after the mysterious woman at seven twenty. He also accepted that by the time Patsy Janowski had called and talked to Caroline Hartley briefly at her door, Claude Ivers was busy doing his last-minute shopping in the centre and getting ready to head back to Redburn, and Veronica Shildon was shopping too.

A woman, perhaps the same one Patsy said walked strangely, knocked at Caroline’s door and was admitted to the house. What had happened inside? Had the woman been an ex-lover or a jilted suitor? Had she called to remonstrate and ended up losing her temper and killing Caroline? Presumably there could have been sex involved. After all, Caroline had been naked, and the kind of sex she was interested in wouldn’t oblige by leaving semen traces for the forensic boys to track down.

There was just no way of knowing. Caroline’s life had been full of mysteries, a breeding ground for motives. As a working hypothesis, Banks accepted that the crime was spur of the moment rather than a planned murder. The use of the handy knife and the lack of precaution about being seen, or caught by Veronica, who had been likely to arrive home at any moment, seemed to point that way. And unless Caroline had been involved in some unknown criminal activity, the odds were that passion of one kind or another lay at the root of her death.

After the murder came the clearing up. The killer had washed the knife, removed any possible fingerprints she might have left, and either put the Vivaldi record on the turntable or lifted up the arm. Given the savage nature of the wounds, the killer must also have got blood on her own clothing. If she had removed her coat before the deed, she could easily have covered her blood-spattered clothing with it and destroyed all evidence as soon as she got home.

Banks went to refill his coffee mug and returned to his office.

Something in Patsy Janowski’s sketchy description of the woman bothered him, but he couldn’t think what it was. He walked to the filing cabinet and dug out the reports on interviews with Caroline Hartley’s neighbours. Nothing much there helped, either. The details were vague, as the evening had been dark and snowy. Again, he read through the descriptions of the mystery woman: Mr Farlow had said she was wearing a mid-length, light trenchcoat with the belt fastened. He had seen her legs beneath it, and perhaps the bottom of a dress. She had been wearing a headscarf, so he had been able to say nothing about her hair. Mrs Eldridge had little to add, but what she remembered agreed with Farlow’s account.

Despite the coffee, Banks was getting tired. It really was time to go home. There was nothing to be gained by pacing the office. He slipped on his camel-hair overcoat and put the Walkman in his pocket. After he’d walked down the stairs and said goodnight to Sergeant Rowe at the front desk, he hesitated outside the station under the blue lamp and looked at the Queen’s Arms. A rosy glow shone warmly from its smoky windows. But no, he decided, best go home and spend some time with Sandra. It was a clear, quiet night. He would leave the car in the station car park and walk the mile or so home.

He put the headphones on, pressed the button and the opening of Poulenc’s ‘Gloria’ came on. As he walked on the crisp snow down Market Street, he looked at the patterns frost had made on the shop windows and wished that the odd bits and pieces of knowledge he had about the Hartley case could make similar symmetrical shapes. They didn’t. He began to walk faster. Christ, his feet were cold. He should have worn sheepskin-lined boots, or at least galoshes. But he had never really thought about walking home until the impulse struck him. Then something leaped into his mind as he turned into his cul-de-sac and saw the welcome lights of home ahead, something that made him forget his cold feet for the last hundred yards.

Patsy Janowksi had said the woman walked strangely. She couldn’t explain it any better than that. But Mr Farlowe said he was sure the visitor was a woman because he had seen her legs below her long coat. If that was the case, then her legs were bare; she either wasn’t wearing boots at all, or she was wearing very short ones. It had been snowing quite heavily that evening since about five o’clock, and the snow had been forecast as early as the previous evening, so even a woman going to work that morning would have known to take her boots. Even before the snow, the weather had been grey and cold. Most of December had been lined-boots and overcoat weather.

Now why would a woman be trudging around in the snow without boots at seven twenty that night? Banks wondered. She could have been in a hurry and simply slipped on the first pair of shoes that caught her eye. She could have come from somewhere she hadn’t needed boots. But that didn’t make sense. In such weather, most people wear boots to work, then change into more comfortable shoes when they get there. When it’s time to leave, they slip back into their boots for the journey home.

The woman might have arrived by car and parked close by. The nearest space, where Patsy said she and Ivers parked, was a fair distance to walk in the snow without boots. The woman might have driven to Caroline’s, found she couldn’t park any closer and ended up having to walk farther than she’d bargained for. Which meant it could have been someone who didn’t know the area well.

Given what Patsy had said about the walk, it sounded as if the woman had probably been wearing pumps or high heels – most likely the latter. That would explain her odd walk; trying to make one’s way through four or five inches of snow in high heels would be difficult indeed. And wet.

Was it, then, someone who had nipped out of a local function, committed the murder and dashed back before she was missed? There had probably been a lot of parties going on that night, Hatchley’s wedding reception among them. It couldn’t have been anyone from there, of course, as Banks knew most of the guests. But it was an interesting avenue to explore. If he could find someone who had been at such a function that night, someone who had a connection with Caroline Hartley, then maybe he’d get somewhere. Feeling a little more positive about things, he turned off the tape and went into the house.