Past Reason Hated

ONE

Only the sound of thin ice splintering underfoot accompanied Banks on his way to Oakwood Mews later that night. Eastvale was asleep, tucked up warm and safe in bed, and not even the faint sound of a distant car disturbed its tranquillity. But the town didn’t know what had gone on between Caroline Hartley and James Conran in that cosy, firelit room with the stately music playing. It didn’t know what folly, irony and pride had finally erupted in blood. Banks did. Sometimes, as he walked, he thought that his next step would break the crust over a great darkness and he would fall. He told himself not to be ridiculous, to keep going.

Apart from the dim, amber light shed by its widely spaced, black-leaded gas lamps, Oakwood Mews was as dark as the rest of the side street at that time of night. Not one light showed in a window. Easy, Banks thought, for a murderer to creep in and out unseen now.

For a moment, he stood by the iron gate and looked at number eleven. Should he? It was two thirty in the morning. He was tired, and Veronica Shildon was no doubt fast asleep. She wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep after what he had to tell her. Sighing, he opened the gate. He had a promise to keep.

He pressed the bell and heard the chimes ring faintly in the hall. Nothing happened, so he rang again and stood back. A few seconds later a light came on in the front upstairs window. Banks heard the soft footsteps and the turning of the key in the lock. The door opened an inch or two, on its chain. When Veronica saw who it was she immediately took off the chain and let him in.

‘I had an idea it was you,’ Veronica said. ‘Will you give me a few moments?’ She pointed him towards the living room and went back upstairs.

Banks turned on a shaded wall light and sat down. Embers glowed in the grate. It was cool in the room, but the memory of heat, at least, remained. Banks unfastened his heavy coat but didn’t take it off.

In a few minutes, Veronica returned in a blue and white track suit. She had combed her hair and washed the sleep out of her eyes.

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but I can’t stand sitting around in a dressing gown. It always makes me think I’m ill. Let me put this on.’ And she switched on a small electric heater. Its bar shone bright red in no time. ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea or something?’

‘Given the night I’ve had,’ Banks said, ‘a drop of whisky would be more welcome. That is, if you have any?’

‘Of course. Please forgive me if I don’t join you. I’d prefer cocoa.’

While Veronica made her cocoa, Banks sipped the Scotch and stared into the embers. It had all been so easy once they had got back to the station: wet clothes drying over the heater in the cramped office; steam rising; Conran spilling his guts in the hope of some consideration at sentencing. Now came the hard part.

Veronica sat in the armchair near the electric fire and folded her legs under her. She cradled the cocoa mug in both hands and blew on the surface. Banks noticed that her hands were shaking.

‘I always used to have cocoa before bed when I was young,’ she said. ‘It’s funny, they say it helps you sleep although it’s got caffeine in it. Do you understand that?’ Suddenly she looked directly at Banks. He could see the pain and fear in her eyes. ‘I’m prattling on, aren’t I?’ she said. ‘I assume you’ve got something important to tell me, or you wouldn’t be here at this time.’ She looked away.

Banks lit a cigarette and sucked the smoke in deeply. Are you sure you want to know?’ he asked.

‘No, I’m not sure. I’m frightened. I’d rather forget everything that happened. But I never got anywhere by denying things, refusing to face the truth.’

‘All right.’ Now he was there, he didn’t know where to start. The name, just the bald name, seemed inadequate but the why was even more meaningless.

Veronica helped him out. ‘Will you tell me who first?’ she asked. ‘Who killed Caroline?’

Banks flicked some ash into the grate. ‘It was James Conran.’

Veronica said nothing at first. Only the nerve twitching at the side of her jaw showed that she reacted in any way. ‘How did you find out?’ she asked finally.

‘I was slow,’ Banks replied. ‘Almost too slow. Given Caroline’s life, her past, I was sure there was a complex reason for her death. There were too many puzzles – Gary Hartley, Ruth Dunne, Colm Grey…’

‘Me.’

Banks shrugged. ‘I didn’t look close enough to home.’

‘Was there a complicated motive?’

Banks shook his head. ‘No, I was wrong. Some crimes are just plain… I was going to say accidents, but that’s not really the case. Stupid, perhaps, certainly pointless and often just sheer bad luck.’

‘Go on.’

‘As far as the evidence was concerned, we knew that Conran was attracted to Caroline, but there’s nothing unusual about that. She was a very beautiful woman. We also found out he tended to prefer her over other actresses in the cast, which gave rise to a certain amount of jealousy. Caroline dealt with normal male attention by doing what she knew best, what she’d learned on the game – teasing, flirting, stringing them along. It was an ideal way for her because it deflected suspicion away from her true sexual inclinations,’ he looked at Veronica, who was staring down into the murky cocoa, ‘and it kept them at a distance. Many flirts are afraid of real contact. It’s just a game.

‘But as I said, I was looking for deep, complex motives – something to do with her family, her time in London, her way of life. As it turns out, her death was to do with all those things, but not directly concerned with any of them.’

‘Another drink?’ Veronica had noticed his glass was empty and went to refill it. Banks didn’t object. Embers shifted with a sigh in the fire place. It was much warmer now the electric fire had heated the room. Banks took his coat off.

‘What happened?’ Veronica asked, handing him the tumbler.

‘On December the twenty-second, after rehearsal, everyone went their separate ways. Caroline came straight home, took a shower and made herself comfortable in the living room with a cup of tea and some chocolate cake. Your husband called with the present, which Caroline opened because he had said it was something special and she wanted to know what could be so special to you. I’m sure she intended to rewrap it before you found out. I’m speculating, of course. No one but Caroline was in the house at this time, so we’ll never know all the details. But I think I’m right. It couldn’t have happened any other way. Anyway, shortly after Claude Ivers left, Patsy Janowski arrived, checking up on him. She thought he was still involved with you.’ Veronica sniffed and shifted position. Banks went on. ‘She spoke to Caroline briefly at the door – very briefly, because it was cold and Caroline was only wearing her bathrobe – then she left. On her way down the street, she saw a woman who appeared to be walking oddly, heading across King Street, but thought nothing of it. By then it was dark and the air was filled with snow. It was difficult to look up and keep your eyes open without getting them full of cold snow.’

‘What about James Conran?’ Veronica asked. ‘How does he fit in?’

‘I was getting to that. It had been a particularly difficult rehearsal. He had insulted Faith Green by telling her that Caroline could play her part better, and Teresa Pedmore was probably still angry at him for being so obvious about his lust for Caroline in public. By this time, he was pretty well besotted with her, and he’s one of those types who’s like a little boy who breaks things when he doesn’t get his own way. Because of the bad atmosphere, everyone went their separate ways, including Caroline. After he locked up, Conran went to the Crooked Billet and drank several double Scotches very quickly. His row with Faith made him want Caroline all the more. After all he thought he was doing for her, he was getting very impatient that she didn’t seem to be keeping up her end of what he thought was the bargain.

‘Then he had an idea. He was always a bit of a theatrical type, the kind who got dressed up and recited “The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck” at parties when he was a kid, so he thought that, as a joke, he’d dress up as a woman and go and see Caroline. Twelfth Night, as you know, is about a woman who passes herself off as a man, and that’s where he got the idea. It would make her laugh, he thought, if he passed himself off as a woman, and when you make women laugh you soften them and break down their reserve. Also, he’d had enough drinks to make it seem a good idea and to make him feel brave enough. He knew where she lived, but he didn’t know that she lived with anyone.

‘He went back to the community centre – only he and Marcia Cunningham from the dramatic society had keys to the back door – chose a dress, a wig, and found some women’s shoes that fit him. But it must have been an uncomfortable walk for him. The shoes were a little too tight and pinched his toes, and it’s very hard to walk in high heels in the snow, I should imagine. Especially if you’re a man. That’s what Patsy Janowski noticed, but she didn’t realize what it meant.

‘He said Caroline seemed to recognize him, laughed and let him in. She had no reason not to. Apparently he’d done things like that in rehearsal – dressed up, played practical jokes, clowned around – so as far as she was concerned it wasn’t out of character for him. She may have been puzzled by his visit, even worried that you would come back and wonder what was going on, but as far as she knew, she had no reason to fear him.’

Veronica grimaced and massaged her right calf. Banks took a sip of fiery Scotch. ‘Are you sure you want me to go on?’ he asked. ‘It isn’t very pleasant.’

‘I didn’t expect it to be,’ Veronica said. ‘I’ve got a touch of cramp, that’s all. It’s not what you’re saying that’s making me grit my teeth. I want to know everything. But I think I’ve changed my mind about that drink.’ She limped to the cocktail cabinet, poured herself a glass of sherry and sat down again carefully. ‘Please go on. I’ll be fine.’

‘Conran was a little drunk and wanting his oats. Caroline must have seemed especially inviting dressed only in her bathrobe. Eventually, it happened. Conran made a pass and Caroline ducked it. According to him, she made some reference to the way he was dressed and told him she preferred real women. She accused him of playing some kind of sick joke. He was stunned. He had no idea. When he started to protest, she laughed at him and told him the clothes suited him, maybe he ought to consider going after some of the men in the cast. Then he hit her. She fell back on the sofa, stunned by the blow, and her robe fell open. He said he couldn’t help himself. He wanted her. And if rape was the only way he could get what he wanted, then so be it. He had to have her right there.’

Veronica was gripping the sherry glass tightly, her face pale. Banks paused and asked if she was all right.

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Go on.’ She closed her eyes.

‘He couldn’t do it,’ Banks said. ‘There she was, a beautiful, naked woman, just what he’d dreamed about ever since he’d met her, and he couldn’t function. He says he doesn’t remember the next part very well. Everything was red inside his eyes, he said. And then it was done. He saw what had happened. He’d picked up the knife from the table and stabbed Caroline. When the rage passed and the realization dawned, he didn’t panic, he started thinking clearly again. He knew he had to find some way of covering his tracks. First he washed the knife and rinsed the blood off his hands. When he went back into the room he was horrified by what he’d done. He said he sat down and just stared at Caroline, crying like a baby. That’s when he saw the record she’d opened. He knew the piece because he’d had a lot to do with church choral music ever since he was young. He knew that the Laudate pueri was played at the burial services of small children. That’s another reason I should have thought of him sooner, but then almost anyone could have known the significance of the music, or someone might simply have thought it sounded right.’

‘But I don’t understand,’ Veronica said. ‘Why did he play it?’

‘He said he put it on as a genuine gesture, that Caroline had always seemed childlike in her ways and in her enthusiasms, and she seemed to him especially like a child now as she lay there.’

‘So the music was for Caroline?’ Veronica asked.

‘Yes. A kind of requiem. It was right there in front of him. He was hardly going to search through the whole collection for something else, especially as it seemed so fitting.’

Veronica looked down into her sherry glass and said quietly, ‘Then maybe I can listen to it again. Go on.’

‘You have to remember, too, Veronica, that Conran’s a theatre director. He has a sense of the dramatic, a feel for arrangement. He told me that when he had stopped crying for what he’d done, he began to see the whole thing as a scene or a tableau of some kind, and the music seemed right. What he’d done wasn’t real to him any more, it was a part of a drama, and it needed the appropriate soundtrack.

‘Next he made sure he’d tidied everything up, then he left. He noticed the stains on the dress but could do nothing about them. At least his coat would cover him up until he got home and formed a clear plan. He was just about to burn the dress when he had a better idea. He knew it would be missed if he simply destroyed it. Marcia was in charge of costumes and he knew she was careful and diligent. That was when he came up with the idea of a break-in. There’s been a lot of vandalism in the area lately, and he saw it would make a perfect cover for getting rid of the evidence. Remember, he had no idea he would end up killing anyone and ruining the dress when he first put it on and went out, but now he had a serious problem. He went back later that night, careful not to be seen this time, broke in, scrawled a little of the usual graffiti and snipped up the dresses. He also replaced the wig and the shoes, which he’d cleaned carefully. When he got home, he snipped his coat into small pieces and burned them in a metal wastebin, a bit at a time; after that, he cut the sleeves and part of the front off the dress he’d worn and burned them too. He missed a few tiny spots, but the dress was a dark burgundy colour so they were very difficult to see. And that was it. All he had to do was try to stay cool when the questions started. That was easy enough for someone with actor’s training, especially as he seemed so able most of the time to divorce himself from the reality of what he’d done. It had been an act, a role, like any other. And there was no reason why we should connect the break-in with the murder.’

‘How did you catch him?’ Veronica asked.

‘It was partly the play. At least that started me thinking about the possibility of someone dressing up. And there were a few other clues. That report about the woman visitor wearing high heels on such a snowy night. The vandals denying that they had wrecked the community centre. Marcia being unable to find the missing pieces of that particular dress. Not to mention that I was running out of other suspects.’ But he didn’t tell Victoria that Susan Gay had known about the cut up dress for two days and hadn’t thought it important enough to mention, nor that he hadn’t read her report on the vandals until Conran had already been caught. He had been too concerned about Susan to stop in at the station and check, and as it turned out, his instinct had been right.

‘How is she?’ Veronica asked, when Banks had told her about the scene at Conran’s house.

‘She’ll be all right. Sandra acted quickly and got her breathing. She won’t be talking or eating real food for a while.’

‘How does she feel?’

‘I don’t know. Sandra’s still with her at the hospital, along with Superintendent Gristhorpe. She’s sedated right now, but when she comes round she’ll probably be very hard on herself.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know how she’ll deal with it.’

And he didn’t. Susan had made mistakes, yes, but mistakes that could be easily understood. Everyone new to the job made them. After all, why on earth should she link a partially destroyed dress to a murder. But no matter what anyone said, she would go on believing that she should have linked them, should have known. But she should at least have passed on the information, and verbally, too, not only in a routine report that might get stuck at the bottom of the chief inspector’s in-tray for days, especially when he was busy on a murder investigation. And Banks should have read the report. In a perfect world, he would have done. But police, perhaps more than anyone else, get notoriously behind in their paperwork. And so mistakes are made. Susan’s career hung in the balance, and Banks couldn’t guess which way it would go. Certainly he would support her as far as he could, but it would be her own decisions and actions that counted in the long run, her own strength.

‘It all seems so… pointless,’ Veronica said, ‘so absolutely bloody senseless.’

‘It was,’ Banks agreed. ‘Murder often is.’ He put down his glass and reached for his coat.

‘I’m glad you told me,’ she said. ‘I mean, I’m glad you came right away like you said you would.’

‘What are you going to do now?’

‘I’ll go back to bed. Don’t worry about me. I probably won’t be able to sleep but… your job’s over, you don’t have to take care of me.’

‘I mean in the future. Have you any plans?’

Veronica uncurled her legs and got to her feet, rubbing her calves to restore the circulation. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Maybe a holiday. Or maybe I’ll just struggle on with work and life. I’ll manage,’ she said, attempting a smile. I’m a survivor.’

Banks fastened his coat and headed for the door. Veronica held it open for him. ‘Once again,’ she said, thank you for coming.’

On impulse, Banks leaned forward and kissed her cool forehead. She gave him a puzzled look, then smiled. He hesitated on the path and looked back at her. He could think of nothing else to say. If Conran were mad, his actions might have been easier to explain, or to dismiss. Madmen did strange and evil things, and nobody knew why; it just happened that way. But he wasn’t mad. He was highly strung, egotistical, with a deep-rooted fear of his own latent homosexuality, but he wasn’t mad. He had sat at that desk in Banks’s office and spilled his heart out for over an hour before Banks, disgusted with the man’s whining self-pity, had left the task for Phil Richmond to finish.

Veronica’s face, shadowed by the hall’s soft light, looked drawn but determined. She held herself stiffly, arms crossed, yet there seemed a supple strength in her limbs to match the strength in her spirit. Perhaps that was why he liked her: she tried; she wasn’t afraid to face things; she made an effort at life.

At the end of Oakwood Mews, Banks remembered the Walkman in his pocket. He needed music, not so much as the food of love but as something to soothe the savage breast. The tape he had in was at the last movement of Messiaen’s ‘Quartet for the End of Time’. That eerie, fractured and haunting music would do just fine for the walk home. In his other pocket he felt the catapult he had confiscated from the kid on the riverbank and forgotten about.

He walked up to the market square listening to the music. Piano chords sounded like icicles falling and the violin notes stretched so tight they felt as if they would snap any second. As he walked, he thought about Veronica Shildon, who had tried to face some difficult truths and start a new life. He thought about how that life had been shattered, just like the ice under his feet, by a stupid, drunken, pointless act – lust beyond reason – and about how she would go about putting it together again. Veronica was right, she was a survivor. And Shakespeare was right, too; lust often is ‘murderous, bloody, full of blame,/Savage, extreme, cruel, not to trust.’

Banks passed the police station with hardly a glance. Sometimes, the formality of the job and its cold, calculated procedures just didn’t reflect what really happened, the pain people felt, the pain Banks felt. Perhaps the rites and rituals of the job – the forms to be filled in, the legal procedures to be followed – were intended to keep the pain at a distance. If so, they didn’t always succeed.

About twenty yards beyond the station, on Market Street, he stopped and turned. That damn blue light was still shining above the door like a beacon proclaiming benign, paternal innocence and simplicity. Almost without thinking, he took the catapult from his pocket, scraped up a couple of fair-sized stones from the icy gutter, put one in the sling and took aim. The stone clattered on the pavement somewhere along North Market Street. He took a deep breath, sighed out a plume of air, then aimed again carefully, trying to recreate his childhood accuracy. This time the lamp disintegrated in a burst of powder-blue glass and Banks took off down a side street, the back way home, feeling afraid and guilty and oddly elated, like a naughty schoolboy.