Past Reason Hated

ONE

The community hall was surprisingly full for the first night of an amateur production, Banks thought. There they all sat, chattering and coughing nervously before the play started: a party of fourth-formers from Eastvale Comprehensive, present under sufferance; friends and relatives of the cast; a group of pensioners; members of the local literary institute. The old boiler groaned away in the cellar, but it didn’t seem to be doing much good. There was a chill in the hall and most people kept their scarves on and their coats draped over their shoulders.

Banks sat beside Sandra. Their seats, compliments of James Conran, were front and centre, about ten rows back. Further ahead, Banks could make out Susan’s blonde curls. The director himself sat beside her, occasionally leaning over to whisper in her ear. He could also see Marcia talking animatedly to a grey-haired man beside her.

It was almost seven thirty. Banks eyed the moth-eaten curtain for signs of movement. Much as he enjoyed Shakespeare, he hoped the performance would not last too long. He remembered an actor telling him once in London that he didn’t like doing Hamlet because the pubs had always closed by the time it was over. Banks didn’t think Twelfth Night was that long, but a bad performance could make it seem so.

Finally, the lights went off abruptly, there being no dimmer switch in the Eastvale Community Centre, and the curtains began to jerk open. Rusted rings creaked on the rail. The audience clapped, then made themselves as comfortable as they could in the moulded-plastic chairs.

If music be the food of love, play on,

Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,

The appetite may sicken, and so die…

So spoke the Duke, and the play was underway. The set was simple, Banks noticed. A few well-placed columns, drapes and portraits gave the impression of a palace. Banks recognized the music, played on a lute, as a Dowland melody, fitting enough for the period.

Though he was no Shakespeare expert, Banks had seen two other performances of Twelfth Night, one at school and one in Stratford. He remembered the general plot but not the fine details. This time, he noticed, too many cast members shouted or rushed their lines and mauled the poetry of Shakespeare’s language in the process. On the other hand, the groupings and movements on stage constantly held the attention. The way people faced one another or paced about as they talked kept everything in motion. From what little he knew of directing, Banks assumed that Conran himself was responsible for this. Occasionally, a member of the audience would shift in his or her seat, and there were quite a few present suffering from coughs and colds, but on the whole most people were attentive. When an actor or actress hesitated over lines, waiting for a prompt, nobody laughed or walked out.

Faith and Teresa were good. They had the poise and the skill to bring off their roles, even if it was difficult to believe in Faith’s masquerade as a man. In their scenes together, though, there was an obvious tension, perhaps because Faith knew who had told Banks about her row with Conran, and Teresa knew who had told him about her jealousy over Caroline Hartley. Ironically, this seemed to give an edge to the performances, especially to Viola’s initial rudeness on their first meeting. The ambiguity of their relationship – Viola, dressed as a man, courting Olivia on her brother’s behalf – soon absorbed Banks. To hear Faith complimenting Teresa’s beauty was an odd thing indeed, but to watch their love blossom was even stranger.

For Banks, this had a dark side, too. He couldn’t help but think of Caroline and Veronica, knowing, as the characters themselves did not, that both Viola and Olivia were female. Maria, the role that Caroline would have played, was an added reminder of the recent tragedy.

During the intermission, Banks felt distracted. He left Sandra chatting with some acquaintances and nipped out on to North Market Street for a cigarette in the icy cold The dim gaslights glinted on the snow and ice, and even as he stood, a gentle snowfall began, flakes drifting down like feathers. He shuddered, flicked his half-smoked cigarette end into a grate and went back inside.

The vague connection between the play and reality was beginning to make Banks feel very uneasy. By the fourth act, his attention began to wander – to thoughts of his recent interviews with Faith and Teresa and the pile of unread paperwork in his in-tray, including a report on the arrest of the vandals that Susan had stayed up half the night to prepare. Then his attention would return to the play in time to hear the Clown and Malvolio chatting about Pythagoras’s opinion of wild fowl, or Sebastian in raptures about the pearl Olivia had given him. He couldn’t maintain lasting concentration. There was something in his mind, a glimmer of an idea, disparate facts coming together, but he couldn’t grasp it, couldn’t see the complete picture yet. There was an element still missing.

By the final act, Banks’s back and buttocks hurt, and he found it difficult to keep still in the hard chair. Surreptitiously, he glanced at his watch. Almost ten. Surely not long to go. Even before he expected it, true identities were revealed, everybody was married off, except for Malvolio, and the Clown began to sing:

When that I was and a little tiny boy,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

A foolish thing was but a toy,

For the rain it raineth every day.

Then the music ended and the curtains closed. The audience applauded; the cast appeared to take bows. Soon the formalities were all over and everyone shuffled out of the hall, relieved to be leaving the hard seats.

‘Time for a drink?’ Banks said to Sandra as they fastened their coats on the front steps.

Sandra took his arm. ‘Of course. Champagne. It’s the only civilized thing to do after an evening at the theatre. Except go for dinner.’

‘There aren’t any restaurants open this late. Maybe Gibson’s Fish and-’

Sandra pulled a face and tugged his arm. ‘I’ll settle for a lager and lime and a packet of cheese and onion crisps.’

‘A cheap date,’ Banks said. ‘Now I know why I married you.’

They set off down North Market Street to the Queens’ Arms, which was much closer to the front exit of the community centre than was the usual cast watering-hole out the back, the Crooked Billet.

It was only twenty past ten when they got there, enough time for a couple of pints at least. The pub was quiet at first, but many of the theatre goers following Banks and Sandra seemed to have the same idea about a drink, and it soon got crowded. By then, Banks and Sandra had a small, dimpled, copper-topped table near the fireplace, where they warmed their hands before drinking.

They discussed the play against a background buzz of conversation, but Banks still felt uneasy and found it hard to concentrate. Instead, he couldn’t help but put together what he knew about the Caroline Hartley murder, trying different patterns to see if he could at least discover the shape of the missing piece.

‘Alan?’

‘What? Oh, sorry.’

‘What the hell’s up with you? I asked you twice what you thought about Malvolio.’

Banks sipped some beer and shook his head. ‘Sorry, love. I feel a bit distracted.’

‘There’s something bothering you, isn’t there?’

‘Yes.’

She put her hand on his arm. ‘About the case? It’s only natural, after seeing the play, isn’t it? After all, Caroline Hartley was supposed to be in it.’

‘It’s not just that.’ Banks couldn’t put his thoughts into words. All he could think of was the woman who walked strangely in the snow and Vivaldi’s burial music for a small child. And there was something about the play that snagged on his mind. Not the production details or any particular line, but something else, something obvious that he just couldn’t bring into focus. Faith and Teresa? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he felt not only puzzled but tense, too, the kind of edginess one has before a storm breaks. Often, he knew, that feeling signalled that he was close to solving the case, but there was even more this time, a sense of danger, of evil he had overlooked.

Suddenly he became aware of someone tapping him on the shoulder. It was Marcia Cunningham.

‘Hello, Mr Banks,’ she said. ‘Wondered if I’d find you here.’

‘I’d have thought you’d be at the Crooked Billet with the rest,’ Banks said.

Marcia shook her head. ‘It was all right during rehearsals, but I don’t know if I can handle the first-night post-mortems. Besides, I’m with a friend.’

She introduced Banks to the trim, middle-aged man standing behind her. Albert. There was one more chair at the table, and Banks offered his as well to the two newcomers. They demurred at first, then sat. Banks leaned against the stone fireplace.

‘Last orders!’ called Cyril, the landlord. ‘Last orders, please!’

In the scramble for the bar, Banks managed to get in another round. When he got back to the table Marcia Cunningham was chatting to Sandra.

‘I was just saying to Sandra,’ she repeated, ‘that I was wondering if you’d solved the little mystery of the dress?’

‘Pardon?’

‘The dress, the one with the pieces missing.’

‘I’m sorry, Marcia,’ Banks said, ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

Marcia frowned. ‘But surely young Susan must have told you?’

‘Whatever it is, I can assure you she didn’t. It was her case, anyway. I’ve been far too preoccupied with the Caroline Hartley murder.’

Marcia shrugged and smiled at Albert. ‘Well, I don’t suppose it’s very important, really.’

‘Why don’t you tell me anyway?’ Banks asked, realizing he might have been a little abrupt. He remembered what Veronica Shildon had said about people asking doctors for medical advice at cocktail parties. Sometimes being a policeman was much the same; you were never off duty. ‘We’ve caught the vandals, you know,’ he added.

Marcia raised her eyebrows. ‘You have? Have they told you why they did it?’

‘I haven’t had time to read Susan’s report yet. But don’t expect too much. People like that don’t have reasons you and I can fathom.’

‘Oh, I know that, Mr Banks. I was just wondering what they did with the pieces, that’s all.’

Banks frowned. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t follow.’

Marcia took a sip of mild and launched into her story. Albert sat beside her, still and silent as a faithful retainer. His thin face showed an intricate pattern of pinkish blood vessels just below the skin. He nodded from time to time, as if in support of what Marcia was saying.

‘What do you make of it, then?’ Marcia asked when she’d finished.

Banks looked at Sandra, who shook her head.

‘It’s odd behaviour for vandals, I’ll give you that,’ he said. ‘I can’t think of any reason-’ Then he suddenly fell silent, and the other images that had been haunting him formed into some kind of order – vague and shadowy as yet, without real substance, but still something resembling a pattern. ‘That’s if…’ he went on after a pause. ‘Look, Marcia, do you still have it, the dress?’

‘Of course. It’s at home.’

‘Could I see it?’

‘Any time you want. There’s nothing more I can do with it.’

‘How about now?’

‘Now? Well, I don’t know… I…’ she looked at Albert, who smiled.

‘Is it really so important, Alan?’ Sandra asked, putting a hand on his arm.

‘It might be,’ he said. ‘I can’t explain yet, but it might be.’

‘All right,’ Marcia said. ‘We were going home in a minute anyway. It’s not far.’

‘My car’s parked behind the station. I’ll give you a lift,’ Banks said. He turned to Sandra. ‘I’ll see you-’

‘No you won’t. I’m coming with you. I’m damned if I’m walking home alone.’

‘All right.’

They grabbed their coats and made for the door.

TWO

What did you think of it?’ James asked Susan after they had carried their drinks to a table for two in the Crooked Billet. His eyes were shining and he seemed to exude a special kind of energy. Susan thought that if she touched him now, she would feel an electric shock like the ones she sometimes got from static.

‘I enjoyed it,’ she said. ‘I thought the cast did a terrific job.’ As soon as she’d spoken she knew she had said the wrong thing, even before James’s eyes lost a little of their sparkle. It wasn’t that she hadn’t mentioned his direction, but that her comment had been hopelessly pedestrian. The trouble was, she knew nothing about Shakespeare beyond what James himself had tried to teach her at school. What a confession! And she had forgotten all that. She hadn’t got far reading Twelfth Night at home, either; the language was too difficult for her to grasp much of what was going on. Next to James, with all his knowledge and enthusiasm, she felt inadequate.

James patted her arm. ‘It could have been better,’ he said. ‘Especially the pacing of the third act, that scene…

And Susan sat back with relief to listen. He hadn’t wanted intelligent comments after all, just someone to sound out his theories on. That she could do, and for the next twenty minutes he asked for it. It wasn’t so difficult when he got technical. She found she could easily remember scenes that had seemed dull, awkward or over-long, and James confirmed that there were good reasons for this, things he hoped to put right before the next performance tomorrow night.

Occasionally, she drifted off into thoughts of work: her interviews with Chalmers and Morley, the torn dress she hadn’t yet told Banks about, the damn nuisance of having even more vandals to chase. But she put her lack of concentration down to tiredness. After all, she had been up most of the night before, and all day.

At eleven twenty, glasses empty and no prospect of another drink, James asked if Susan fancied a nightcap back at his house. A drink and a talk with a friend… what could be wrong with that? She couldn’t put him off forever. Besides, she needed to relax. She still felt nervous about being alone with him, but she reached for her coat and followed him out into the night anyway. It was just for a drink, after all; she wasn’t going to let him seduce her.

They pulled up in the alley at the back of the house, where James parked his car, and entered through the back door. Susan made herself comfortable in the armchair by the fire, while James busied himself with drinks in the kitchen. Before he settled, he put a compact disc of Beethoven’s ‘Pastoral’ Symphony on.

‘Makes me think of spring,’ he said, sitting down. ‘Somehow, if I close my curtains and relax, I can almost believe winter’s over.’

‘It soon will be,’ Susan said. She felt herself relaxing, becoming warm and heavy-limbed.

‘Perhaps when the good weather comes we could take a ride out into the dale now and then?’ James suggested. ‘Or even venture a little further afield? A short hike and a pub lunch?’

‘Sounds marvellous,’ Susan murmured. ‘Believe it or not, I’ve hardly ever made time to take advantage of the countryside.’

‘You know what they say, “All work and no play”…’

Susan laughed. James sat on the floor by her knees, his shoulder resting against the armchair so he could look at her when they talked. It was closer than she would have liked just yet, but not uncomfortably so.

‘How’s business, anyway?’ he asked. ‘Caught any big criminals lately?’

Susan shook her head. Then she told him about the previous evening. ‘So we’re still hot on the trail of your vandals,’ she said, cupping the large glass of brandy in both hands. ‘They’re a strange lot. Can you imagine why any young yob would snip up a dress and then run away with some of the pieces?’

‘What?’

Susan explained what Marcia had told her and what she had seen.

‘So Marcia still has the dress, then?’ he said.

‘What’s left of it.’

‘What’s she going to do with it?’

‘I don’t know,’ Susan answered. She was feeling drowsy and vulnerable from the heat and the brandy. ‘I suppose I should take it in for analysis. You never know…’

‘Never know what?’

‘What you might find.’ She looked down at the top of his head. ‘Why are you so interested, anyway, James?’

‘Just curiosity, that’s all. I suppose they must have had some reason for doing it. Maybe one of them cut himself and used it as a bandage. Another drink?’

Susan looked at her glass. ‘No thanks, I’d better not. Already she felt that warmth, tiredness and alcohol were making her let her guard down more than she cared to, and she certainly didn’t want to lose control.

‘Busy day at the nick tomorrow?’

Susan laughed. ‘Who knows?’

‘Excuse me while I get one.’

‘Of course.’

While he was gone, Susan listened to the music. She could have sworn she heard a cuckoo in one section, but doubted that anyone as serious as Beethoven would use such a frivolous gimmick.

‘Perhaps one of them was a fetishist,’ James suggested, after he had sat down at her feet again.

‘And liked to wear only little bits of women’s clothes? Don’t be silly, James. I don’t see why you have to keep harping on about it. It’s nothing.’

‘You’d be surprised the things people like to dress up in.’

‘Like you in that policeman’s uniform that day?’

‘That’s different. That was just a joke.’

‘I didn’t mean to suggest you were kinky or anything,’ Susan said. ‘But didn’t you tell me you were just a little bit shy of making a direct approach to a woman?’

‘Yes, well… Acting’s in my blood, I suppose. Hamming it up. Maybe there are deep-rooted psychological reasons. I don’t really know.’ He shrugged.

Susan laughed. ‘You’re always doing melodramatic things like that. Dressing up, arranging for that singer in Mario’s. A real practical joker, aren’t you?’

‘I told you,’ James said, a little irritably. ‘I’m just a bit insecure. It helps.’

‘Especially with women?’

‘Yes.’

As soon as Susan realized what she had said, a tiny shiver went up her spine. She could feel the chill, as palpable as the winter night outside, fall between them. James fell silent and Susan sipped at her brandy, thinking, and not liking what she thought: James’s penchant for play-acting and dressing up, the vandals’ denial of breaking into the community centre, James’s attraction to Caroline, the burgundy dress. No, it couldn’t be. Not possibly. It was too absurd. But her thoughts suddenly spanned two cases. It was like hot-wiring a car; the engine jumped to life. Now she could think of at least one good reason why the dress had been cut up the way it had.

Before long, she became aware of a slight tickle up the side of her leg. She looked down and saw that James was touching her, very gently. She shifted in her seat – not too abruptly, she hoped – and he stopped.

The music ended and Susan finished what little she had left in her glass. ‘I’d better be going,’ she said, sitting forward in her chair.

‘Don’t go just yet,’ James said. ‘It’s been such a wonderful evening. I don’t want it to end.’

Susan laughed. Didn’t he feel the same unease she did? Maybe not. Better for her that he didn’t. She must act naturally, then investigate her vague fears later from a more secure position. Surely, she would then discover how absurd they were. No doubt the beer and brandy had caused her imagination to run wild. It was most important now, though, that she make an early exit without letting James see that she entertained any suspicions at all.

‘Don’t be such a romantic.’ She laughed. ‘There’ll be plenty of other evenings.’

She tried to sit up, but he was on his knees, blocking her way.

‘James!’

‘What’s the harm in it?’ he said, leaning forward towards her.

He put his hands on her shoulders and she pushed them off. ‘If this is what a first night does to you…’ she said, trying for a light tone. But she couldn’t think of a way to end her sentence.

Finally, he moved aside and she managed to get to her feet. She felt as if she were treading on thin ice. Did he know what she was beginning to suspect? How could he? Was it obvious that she was humouring him and trying to get out fast? All she knew was that she had to stay cool and get out of here. Maybe then she would be able to dismiss her fears. But she couldn’t stay, not after the frightening images had started in her mind. Crazy or not, she had to talk seriously to Banks about James, no matter how difficult it might be to swallow her pride and her feelings.

‘Don’t sulk,’ she said, tousling his hair. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’

‘Damn you!’ he said, jerking away from her touch. Anger flashed in his eyes. ‘What’s wrong with you? Don’t you think I’m man enough for you? You’re just like her, aren’t you?’

Susan felt as if she had been thrust under a cold shower. Every nerve-end tingled. She edged closer to the door. ‘Like who, James?’ she asked quietly.

He turned to face her, and she could see that he knew. It was too late. ‘You know damn well who I’m talking about, don’t you?’

‘I don’t even know what you’re talking about,’ Susan lied. Somehow, she thought, if she didn’t say the name, there was still a chance.

‘Don’t lie. You can’t fool me. I can tell. I can tell what you’re thinking. You’ve been toying with me, leading me on all this time, trying to get me to confess. It’s all been a game, hasn’t it?’ He moved quickly so that he was standing between Susan and the door.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what you mean. And move out of the way, please. I want to leave.’

Conran shook his head slowly. ‘You’re thinking about me and Caroline, aren’t you?’

There was no point pretending any longer. Susan looked at him and said, ‘You went to her, didn’t you? That night.’

‘It was an accident,’ Conran pleaded. ‘It was a ghastly accident.’

‘James, you’ve got to-’

‘No! That’s where you’re wrong. No, I don’t. It was all an accident. All that stupid bitch’s fault.’ And suddenly, he didn’t look like the James she knew any longer. Not at all like the James she knew and thought she trusted.

THREE

The four of them stood in Marcia Cunningham’s front room and looked at the remains of the dress.

‘Who would do something like that?’ Sandra asked.

‘That’s the point,’ Banks said. ‘No casual vandal would go to such trouble, at least not for any reason we can think of.’

‘But it must have happened then,’ Marcia said. ‘I’d have noticed if it had been done before. And certainly no one from the cast would have done it.’

‘I’m not saying it was done before,’ Banks said. ‘What I’m saying is that it’s possible vandals didn’t do this.’

‘Then who?’

‘Look at this.’ Banks passed the dress to Sandra, who studied the remains of its front. ‘Look at those spots.’

‘What are they? Paint?’

‘Could be. But I don’t think so. They’re hard to see because the dress is so dark. And we can’t be sure, not without forensic examination, but if I’m right…’

‘What are you getting, Alan?’ Sandra asked. ‘You’re not making much sense, you know.’

‘The last person entering Caroline Hartley’s house was a woman, according to all our witnesses. And Patsy Janowski said she saw a woman who walked funny at the end of the street. I thought it was because she might have been wearing high heels.’

‘But that’s stupid,’ Sandra said. ‘In that weather?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Are you suggesting that the killer wore this dress?’ Marcia asked. ‘I can’t believe it.’ She pointed at the dress. ‘And that’s… that’s blood!’

‘The way Caroline Hartley was stabbed,’ Banks said, ‘there was no way the murderer could have avoided blood stains. If she was wearing the dress, it would have been easy enough to put her raincoat on again and get away from the scene, get time to think. I don’t think the murder was planned, not right from the start. But then there was still a blood-stained dress to explain. Why not simply cut off the sleeves and the stained front, then stage a break-in and cut up the other dresses? That would raise much less suspicion than just doing away with the dress altogether. If our killer had done that, Marcia would have missed it and started to wonder what might have happened. But how could the killer know that Marcia would be so diligent as to try and sew them back together again?’

‘But that means,’ Marcia said slowly, ‘that the killer was someone who knew about our costumes, someone who had access to them. It means-’

‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘And if she was wearing shoes, not boots, what does that suggest?’

‘We don’t have any boots,’ Marcia said. ‘Not that I know of. Shoes, yes, but not boots.’

‘The killer couldn’t find any suitable boots to complete the disguise, so had to make do with women’s shoes.’

‘I still don’t understand,’ Marcia said.

‘It was the play gave me the idea, that and what Patsy said. All that stuff about a woman walking funny, and a play about confused identity. Couldn’t it have been a man dressed as a woman? Would any of the shoes have been big enough?’

‘Well… yes, of course,’ Marcia said. ‘We have all kinds of sizes. But why? Why would anybody dress up and do that?’

‘We don’t know,’ Banks said. ‘A sick joke? Maybe someone knew Caroline was a lesbian, someone who wanted her badly. Do you have a plastic bag?’

‘I think so… somewhere.’ Marcia gestured vaguely, her brows knit together.

‘There’s one in the larder, by the newspapers, love,’ said Albert, who had remained silent until now. ‘I’ll go and get it.’

Albert brought the bag and Banks put the dress in it.

‘What about the break-in?’ Marcia asked.

‘It could have been staged later, when the killer discovered what he’d done.’ Banks looked at his watch. ‘It’s after eleven thirty,’ he said. ‘Let’s try the Crooked Billet and see if they’re still there.’

‘Who?’ asked Marcia.

‘Susan and Conran,’ Banks said. ‘I assume they are together.’ He turned to Marcia. ‘When did you tell Susan about this dress?’

‘The other day. She couldn’t make anything of it.’

‘That’s hardly surprising. Does James Conran know?’

‘I haven’t told him,’ Marcia said.

‘Has Susan?’

‘I don’t know. I mean, she’s seeing him. She might have mentioned it. Why?’

Banks looked at Sandra. ‘I don’t want to alarm anyone,’ he said, ‘but if I’m right, we’d better try to find Susan right away. Excuse us, Marcia, Albert.’ And he took Sandra by the arm and led her to the door.

‘But why?’ Sandra asked.

‘Because I think James Conran’s the killer,’ Banks said on their way down the path. ‘I think he wanted Caroline Hartley so badly he went over to the house to see her. I don’t know why he dressed up, or what happened in there, but he’s the only one in the society apart from Marcia who had access to the prop room.’

They got in the car and Banks cursed the ignition until it started on his fourth attempt. ‘Don’t you see?’ he said as he skidded off. ‘According to Faith and Teresa, Conran was the last one to leave the centre. And even if he did go to the pub, he had a key. He could have easily gone back there and changed. Why do you think he was paying so much attention to Susan? He wanted to know how the investigation was going, how close we were.’

‘My God,’ said Sandra. ‘Poor Susan.’

FOUR

James blocked Susan’s way. ‘She asked for it, you know,’ he said. ‘She was nothing but a prick-teaser, then she…’

‘Then she what?’ Susan felt real fear now, like ice in her spine. Her mind was racing in search of a way out. If only she had told Banks about the dress, then maybe he would have been able to put two and two together before she had. If only she could keep Conran talking. If only…

‘You know what,’ he said. ‘It turned out she didn’t like men, she was just playing, leading me on, just like you were, playing me for a fool.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Stop lying. It’s too late now. What are you going to do?’ James asked.

‘What do you think?’

‘Turn me in? Can’t you let it go?’

‘Don’t be an idiot.’

‘What is it with you, Susan? Just what makes you tick? Professional all the way?’

‘Something like that,’ Susan muttered, ‘but it doesn’t really matter any more, does it?’

‘You could forget this ever happened,’ James said, moving forward and reaching for her hand. She noticed a sheen of sweat on his forehead and upper lip.

She snatched her hand away. ‘No, I couldn’t. Don’t be a bloody fool, James. Let me go. Don’t make things worse.’ He was still rational, she thought; James was no madman, just troubled. She could talk sense to him, and he might listen. The main problem was that he was highly strung and, at the moment, in a state of near panic. She would have to be very careful how she handled him.

‘Where do you want to go?’ he asked.

‘To the phone,’ she said calmly.

Conran stood aside and let her pass. But no sooner had she picked up the receiver than he grabbed it from her and pulled her back into the front room.

‘No!’ he said. ‘I can’t let you. I’m not going to jail. Not just because of that perverted slut. Don’t you see? It wasn’t my fault.’

‘Don’t be a fool, James. What’s the alternative?’

Conran licked his lips and looked around the room like a caged animal. ‘I could get out of here. Go away. You’d never have to see me again. Just don’t try to stop me.’

‘I have to. You know that.’

‘I mean it. I don’t want to hurt you. Look, we could go together. I’ve got some money saved up. Wherever you want. We could go somewhere warm.’

‘James,’ Susan said softly, ‘you’ve got a problem. You don’t necessarily have to go to jail. Maybe you can get help. A doctor-’

‘What do you mean, problems? I don’t have any problems.’ Conran pointed at his chest. ‘Me? You tell me I’ve got problems? She was the one with the problem. Not me. I’m not queer. I’m not a homosexual. I’m normal.’

His face was flushed and sweaty now and he was breathing fast. Susan wasn’t sure if she could talk him down and persuade him to give himself up. Not if he didn’t want to.

‘Nobody says you’re not normal,’ she said cautiously. ‘But you’re obviously upset. You need help. Let me help you, James.’

‘I’m not going with you,’ he said. ‘And if you phone, I won’t be here when your friends arrive.’

‘You’re making it worse,’ Susan said. ‘At least if you come in with me, it’ll look good. It’s no use running. We’ll get you in the end. You know we will.’

‘I don’t care. I’m not going to jail. You don’t understand. I couldn’t live in jail. The things they do in there… I’ve heard about them.’ He shuddered.

‘I told you, James. It might not mean prison. Perhaps you can get help in a hospital.’

‘No! There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m perfectly normal. I’ll not have doctors poking about in my head.’

Susan got up and walked towards the front door. She held her breath as she turned her back on him. Before she even got to the hallway, she felt his hands around her neck. They were strong and she couldn’t pry them apart. Because he was standing behind her, all she could do was wriggle, and it didn’t help. She flailed back with her hands but met only empty air. She tried to swing her hips back into his groin, but she couldn’t reach him. Her throat hurt and she couldn’t breathe. She lashed back with one foot, felt it connect and heard him gasp. But his grip never slackened. She felt all the life and sensation going out of her body, like water down the drain. Her knees buckled and he let her sink forward to the floor, his hands still locked tight around her throat. The blackness had seeped in everywhere now. She thought she could hear someone hammering on the door, then she heard nothing at all.

FIVE

‘I’ll call an ambulance and stay with her,’ Sandra said, kneeling over Susan.

Banks nodded and dashed back to the Cortina. He had heard Conran’s car start up as they broke in. There was only one way his back lane led, and that was to the main Swainsdale road. Once there, he could turn back towards Eastvale or head out into the dale. As Banks negotiated the turns, he radioed for help from Eastvale and from Helmthorpe, which had one patrol car. If Conran didn’t turn off on one of the side roads, at least they could make sure the main road was blocked and he could get no further than the dale’s largest village. At the junction, Conran turned left into Swainsdale.

The Cortina skidded on a patch of ice. Banks steadied it. He knew the road like the back of his hand. Narrow for the most part, with drystone walls on either side, it dipped and meandered, treacherous in the icy darkness. He kept Conran’s tail-lights in view, about a couple of hundred yards ahead.

When he got closer, he put his foot down. Conran did the same. It was almost like racing through a dark tunnel, or doing a slalom run. Snow was piled almost as high as the walls at the roadsides. Beyond, the fields stretched up the daleside, an endless swath of dull pearl in the moonlight.

Conran screeched through Fortford, almost losing control as he took the bend by the pub. The car’s side scraped against the jutting stones in the wall and sent a shower of sparks out into the night. Banks slowed and the Cortina took the turn easily. He knew there was a long stretch of straight road before the next bend.

Conran had gained a hundred yards or so, but once around the corner, Banks put his foot down and set about catching up. The red tail-lights drew closer. Banks glanced ahead for landmarks and saw the drumlin within the six leaning trees silhouetted by the moon about a mile in front of them. Just before that, there would be another kink in the road.

He was right behind Conran’s car now, but there was no easy way to stop him. He couldn’t pull in front in such conditions on a narrow road. If he tried, Conran would easily be able to nudge him into the wall. All he could do was ride his tail and push, hoping Conran would panic and make a mistake.

A few moments later, it happened. Either through ignorance, or just plain panic, Conran missed the bend. Banks had already slowed enough to take it, but instead he eased on the brake as he watched Conran’s car slide up the heaped snow in slow motion, take off the top of the dry-stone wall, spraying sparks again as it went, and land with a loud thud in the field.

Banks turned off his engine. The silence after the accident was so deep he could hear the blood ring in his ears. On a distant hillside, a sheep bleated – an eerie sound on a winter’s night.

Banks got out of the car and climbed the wall to see what had happened. There was very little damage as far as he could tell by the moonlight. Conran’s car lay on its side, the two free wheels spinning. Conran himself had managed to get the passenger door open and was now struggling up the hillside, thigh-deep in snow. The farther he went, the deeper the snow became, until he could move no more. Banks walked in his wake and found him curled up and shivering in a cot of snow. He looked up as Banks came towards him.

‘Please let me go,’ he said. ‘Please! I don’t want to go to jail. I couldn’t stand being in jail.’

Banks thought of Caroline Hartley’s body, and of Susan Gay laid out on the floor, her face purple. ‘Think yourself bloody lucky we don’t still have hanging,’ he said, and dragged Conran up out of the snow.