Past Reason Hated

ONE

Snow fell on Swainsdale for the first time that year a few days before Christmas. Out in the dale, among the more remote farms and hamlets, the locals would be cursing. A heavy snowfall could mean lost sheep and blocked roads. In past years, some places had been cut off for as long as five weeks. But in Eastvale, most of those crossing the market square on the evening of 22 December felt a surge of joy as the fat flakes drifted down, glistening in the gaslight as they fell, to form a lumpy white carpet over the cobblestones.

Detective Constable Susan Gay paused on her way back to the station from Joplin’s newsagents. Outside the Norman church stood a tall Christmas tree, a gift from the Norwegian town with which Eastvale was twinned. The lights winked on and off, and its tapered branches bent under the weight of half an inch of snow. In front of the tree, a group of children in red choirgowns stood singing ‘Once in Royal David’s City’. Their alto voices, fragile but clear, seemed especially fitting on such a beautiful winter’s evening.

Susan tilted her head back and let the snowflakes melt on her eyelids. Two weeks ago she would not have allowed herself to do something so spontaneous and frivolous. But now that she was Detective Constable Gay, she could afford to relax a little. She had finished with courses and exams, at least until she tried for sergeant. Now there would be no more arguing with David Craig over who made the coffee. There would be no more walking the beat, either, and no more traffic duty on market day.

The music followed her as she headed back to the station:

And He leads His children on

To the place where He is gone.

Directly in front of her, the new blue lamp hung like a shopsign over the doorway of the Tudor-fronted police station. In an attempt to change the public image of the force, tarnished by race riots, sex scandals and accusations of high-level corruption, the government had looked to the past: more specifically, to the fifties. The lamp was straight out of Dixon of Dock Green. Susan had never actually seen the programme, but she understood the basic idea. The image of the kindly old copper on the beat had caused many a laugh around Eastvale Regional Headquarters. Would that life were simple, they all said.

Her second day on the job and all was well. She pushed open the door and headed for the stairs. Upstairs! The inner sanctum of the CID. She had envied them all for so long – Gristhorpe, Banks, Richmond, even Hatchley – when she had brought messages, or stood by taking notes while they interrogated female suspects. No longer. She was one of them now, and she was about to show them that a woman could do the job every bit as well as a man, if not better.

She didn’t have her own office; only Banks and Gristhorpe were allowed such luxuries. The hutch she shared with Richmond would have to do. It looked over the carpark out the back, not the market square, but at least she had a desk, rickety though it was, and a filing cabinet of her own. She had inherited them from Sergeant Hatchley, now exiled to the coast, and the first thing she had had to do was rip down the nude pin-ups from the cork bulletin board above his desk. How anybody could work with those bloated mammaries hanging over them was beyond her.

About forty minutes later, after she had poured herself a cup of coffee to keep her awake while she studied the latest regional crime reports, the phone rang. It was Sergeant Rowe calling from the front desk.

‘Someone just phoned in to report a murder,’ he said.

Susan felt the adrenalin flow. She grasped the receiver tighter. ‘Where?’

‘Oakwood Mews. You know, those tarted-up bijou terraces at the back of King Street.’

‘I know them. Any details?’

‘Not much. It was a neighbour who called. Said the woman next door went rushing into the street screaming. She took her in, but couldn’t get much sense out of her except that her friend had been murdered.’

‘Did the neighbour take a look for herself?’

‘No. She said she thought she’d better call us right away.’

‘Can you send PC Tolliver down there?’ Susan asked ‘Tell him to check out the scene without touching anything. And tell him to stay by the door and not let anyone in till we get there.’

‘Aye,’ said Rowe, ‘but shouldn’t-’

‘What’s the number?’

‘Eleven.’

‘Right.’

Susan hung up. Her heart beat fast. Nothing had happened in Eastvale for months – and now, on only her second day on the new job, a murder. And she was the only member of the CID on duty that evening. Calm down, she told herself, follow procedure, do it right. She reached for her coat, still damp with snow, then hurried out the back way to the car park. Shivering, she swept the snow off the windscreen of her red Golf and drove off as fast as the bad weather allowed.

TWO

Four and twenty virgins

Came down from Inverness,

And when the ball was over

There were four and twenty less.

‘I think Jim’s a bit pissed,’ Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks leaned over and said to his wife, Sandra.

Sandra nodded. In a corner of the Eastvale Rugby Club banquet room, by the Christmas tree, Detective Sergeant Jim Hatchley stood with a group of cronies, all as big and brawny as himself. They looked like a parody of a group of carol singers, Banks thought, each with a foaming pint in his hand. As they sang, they swayed. The other guests stood by the bar or sat at tables chatting over the noise. Carol Hatchley – née Ellis – the sergeant’s blushing bride, sat beside her mother and fumed. The couple had just changed out of their wedding clothes into less formal attire in readiness for their honeymoon, but Hatchley, true to form, had insisted on just one more pint before they left. That one had quickly turned into two, then three…

The village butcher, he was there,

Chopper in his hand.

Every time they played a waltz,

He circumcised the band.

It didn’t make sense, Banks thought. How many times could you circumcise one band? Carol managed a weak smile, then turned and said something to her mother, who shrugged. Banks, leaning against the long bar with Sandra, Superintendent Gristhorpe and Philip Richmond, ordered another round of drinks.

As he waited, he looked around the room. It was done up for the festive season, no doubt about that. Red and green concertina trimmings hung across the ceiling, bedecked with tinsel, holly and the occasional sprig of mistletoe. The club tree, a good seven feet tall, sparkled in all its glory.

It was twenty past eight, and the real party was just beginning. The wedding had taken place at Eastvale Congregational Church late in the afternoon, and it had been followed by a slap-up meal at the rugby club at six. Now the speeches had been made, the plates cleared away and the tables moved for a good Yorkshire knees-up. Hatchley had hired a DJ for the music, but the poor lad was still waiting patiently for a signal to begin.

Singing ‘Balls to your father,

Arse against the wall.

If you’ve never been shagged on a Saturday night.

You’ve never been shagged at all.’

‘Four and Twenty Virgins’ was coming to a close. Banks could tell. There would be a verse about the village schoolmistress (who had unusually large breasts) and one about the village cripple (who did unspeakable things with his crutch), then a rousing finale. With a bit of luck, that would be the end of the rugby songs. They had already performed ‘Dinah, Dinah, Show Us Yer Leg (A Yard Above Your Knees)’, ‘The Engineer’s Song’ and a lengthy, improvized version of ‘Mademoiselle from Armentieres’. The sulky DJ, who had been pretending to set up his equipment for the past hour, would soon get his chance to shine.

Banks passed the drinks along to the others and reached for a cigarette. Gristhorpe frowned at him, but Banks was used to that. Phil Richmond was also smoking one of his occasional panatellas, so the superintendent was having a particularly hard time of it. Sandra had stopped smoking completely, and Banks had agreed not to smoke in the house. Luckily, although most of the police station had been declared a non-smoking area, he was still permitted to light up in his own office. Things had got so bad, though, that even alleged criminals brought in for interrogation could legally object to any police officer smoking in the interview rooms. It was a sorry state of affairs, Banks mused: you could beat them to your heart’s content, as long as the bruises didn’t show, but you couldn’t smoke in their presence and get away with it.

Sandra raised her dark eyebrows and breathed a sigh of relief when ‘Four and Twenty Virgins’ came to an end. But her joy was short lived. The choir of rugby forwards refused to leave the stage without giving their rendition of ‘Good King Wenceslas’. Despite groans from the captive audience, a dirty look from the DJ and a positive flash of fury from Carol’s eyes, Sergeant Hatchley led them off:

Good King Wenceslas looked out

Of his bedroom window.

Silly bugger, he fell out…

Gristhorpe looked at his watch. ‘I think I’ll be off after this one. I just overheard someone say it’s snowing pretty heavily out there now.’

‘Is it?’ Sandra said. Banks knew she loved snow. They walked over to the window at the far end of the room and glanced out. Clearly satisfied with what she saw, Sandra pulled the long curtains open. It had been snowing only lightly when they had arrived for pre-dinner drinks at about five, but now the high window framed a thick swirl of white flakes falling on the rugby field. Others turned to look, oohing and aahing, touching their neighbours on the arm to tell them what was happening. As they walked back, Banks took Sandra in his arms and kissed her.

‘Got you,’ he said, then he looked up and Sandra followed his gaze to the mistletoe hanging above them.

Sandra took his arm and walked beside him back to the bar. ‘I don’t mean to be rude or anything,’ she said, ‘but when’s this racket going to end? Don’t you think someone should have a word with Jim? After all, it is Carol’s wedding day…’

Banks looked at Hatchley. Judging by his flushed face and the way he swayed, there wouldn’t be much of a wedding night for the bride.

Brightly shone his arse that night,

Though the frost was cruel…

Banks was just about to walk across and say something – only concerned that he might sound too much like the boss when he was just a wedding guest – when he was saved by the DJ. A long and loud blast of feedback issued from the speakers and stopped Hatchley and his mates in their tracks. Before they could regather their wits for a further onslaught, several quick-thinking members of the party applauded. At once, the singers took this as their cue for a bow and the DJ as his opportunity to begin the real music. He adjusted a couple of dials, skipped the patter, and before Hatchley and his mob even knew what had hit them the hall was filled with the sound of Martha and the Vandellas singing ‘Dancing in the Street’.

Sandra smiled. ‘That’s more like it.’

Banks glanced over at Richmond, who looked very pleased with himself. And well he might. There had just been a big change-around at Eastvale Regional Police Headquarters. Sergeant Hatchley had been a problem for some time. Not suitable material for promotion, he had stood in Richmond’s way, even though Richmond had passed his sergeant’s examination with flying colours and shown remarkable aptitude on the job. The trouble was, there just wasn’t room for two detective sergeants in the small station.

Finally, after months of trying to find a way out of the dilemma, Superintendent Gristhorpe had seized the first opportunity that came his way. Official borders had been redrawn and the region had expanded eastwards to take in a section of the North York Moors and a small stretch of coastline between Scarborough and Whitby. It seemed a good idea to place a small CID outpost on the coast to deal with the day-to-day matters that might arise there, and Hatchley came to mind as the man to head it. He was competent enough, just lazy and inattentive to detail. Surely, Gristhorpe had reasoned to Banks, he couldn’t do much damage in a sleepy fishing village like Saltby Bay?

Hatchley had been asked if he fancied living by the seaside and he had said yes. After all, it was still in Yorkshire. As the time of the move coincided with his impending marriage, it had seemed sensible to combine the two celebrations. Though Hatchley remained a sergeant, Gristhorpe had managed to wangle him a small pay increase, and – more important – he would be in charge He was to take David Craig, now a detective constable, with him. Craig, soaking up the ale at the other end of the bar, didn’t look too pleased about it.

Hatchley and his wife were off to Saltby Bay that night – or, the way things were going, the next morning – where he was to take two weeks’ leave to set up their cottage by the sea. His only complaint was that it wouldn’t be summer for a long time. Apart from that, Hatchley seemed happy enough with the state of affairs.

In Eastvale, Richmond had got his promotion to detective sergeant at last, and Susan Gay had been brought upstairs as their new detective constable. It was too early to know whether the arrangement would work, but Banks had every confidence in both Richmond and Gay. Still, he felt sad. He had been in Eastvale almost three years, and during that time he had grown to like and depend on Sergeant Hatchley, despite the man’s obvious faults. It had taken Banks until last summer to call the sergeant by his first name, but he felt that Hatchley, with Superintendent Gristhorpe, had been responsible for helping him adapt to Yorkshire ways after his move from London.

The music slowed down. Percy Sledge started singing ‘When a Man Loves a Woman’. Sandra touched Banks’s arm. ‘Dance?’

Banks took her hand and they walked towards the dance floor. Before they got there, someone tapped him gently on the shoulder. He turned and saw DC Susan Gay, snowflakes still melting on the shoulders of her navy coat and in her short, curly blonde hair.

‘What is it?’ Banks asked.

‘Can I have a word, sir? Somewhere quiet.’

The only quiet place was the toilets, and they could hardly go charging off into the gents’ or ladies’. The alternative was the corner opposite the DJ, which seemed to be deserted. Banks asked Sandra if she minded missing this one. She shrugged, being used to such privations, and went back to the bar. Gristhorpe, Banks noticed, gallantly offered her his arm, and they went onto the dance floor.

‘It’s a murder, at least a possible murder,’ DC Gay said, as soon as they had found a quieter spot. ‘I didn’t see the superintendent when I came in, so I went straight to you.’

‘Any details?’

‘Sketchy.’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘About ten minutes. I sent PC Tolliver to the house and drove straight over here. I’m sorry to spoil the celebrations, but I couldn’t see what else-’

‘It’s all right,’ Banks said, ‘you did fine.’ She hadn’t, but that was hardly her fault. She was new to the job and a murder report had cropped up. What should she have done? Well, she could have gone to check out the scene herself, and she might have found, as nine times out of ten one did, that there had been some mistake, or a prank. Or she might have waited for the PC to call in and let her know the situation before running off and dragging her chief inspector away from his ex-sergeant’s wedding celebration. But Banks didn’t blame her. She was young yet, she would learn, and if they really were dealing with a murder, the time saved by Susan’s direct action could prove invaluable.

‘I’ve got the address, sir.’ She stood there looking at him, keen, expectant. ‘It’s on Oakwood Mews. Number eleven.’

Banks sighed. ‘We’d better go then. Just give me a minute.’

He went back to the bar and explained the situation to Richmond. The music speeded up again, into the Supremes’ ‘Baby Love’, and Gristhorpe led Sandra back from the dance floor. When he heard the news, he insisted on accompanying Banks to the scene, even though it was by no means certain they would find a murder victim there. Richmond wanted to come along, too.

‘No, lad,’ said Gristhorpe, ‘there’s no point. If it’s serious, Alan can fill you in later. And don’t tell Sergeant Hatchley. I don’t want it spoiling his wedding day. Though judging by the look on young Carol’s face he might have already done that himself.’

‘Are you taking the car?’ Sandra asked Banks.

‘I’d better. Oakwood Mews is a fair distance from here. There’s no telling how long we’ll be. If there’s time, I’ll come back and pick you up. If not, don’t worry, Phil will take good care of you.’

‘Oh, I’m not worried.’ She slipped her arm in Richmond’s and the new detective sergeant blushed. ‘Phil’s a lovely mover.’

Banks kissed her quickly and set off with Gristhorpe.

Susan Gay stood waiting for them by the door. Before they got to her, one of Hatchley’s rugby club cronies lurched over and tried to kiss her. From behind, Banks saw him put his arms around her, then double up and stagger back. Everyone else was too busy dancing or chatting to notice. Susan looked flushed when Banks and Gristhorpe got there. She put her hand to her mouth and muttered, ‘I’m sorry,’ while the rugby player pointed, with a hurt expression on his face, to the sprig of mistletoe over the door.

THREE

It was no false alarm; that much, at least, was clear from the expression on PC Tolliver’s face when Banks and the others reached number eleven Oakwood Mews. After Gristhorpe had issued instructions to send for Dr Glendenning and the scene-of-crime team, the three detectives went inside.

The first thing Banks noticed when he entered the hall was the music. Muffled, coming from the front room, it sounded familiar: a Bach cantata, perhaps? Then he opened the living-room door and paused on the threshold. The scene possessed a picturesque quality, he felt, which even extended, at first, to masking the ugliness of the corpse on the sofa.

A log fire crackled in the hearth. Its flames tossed shadows on the sheepskin rug and over the stucco walls. The only other light came from two red candles on the polished oak table in the far corner, and from the Christmas tree lights in the window. Banks stepped into the room. The flames danced and the beautiful music played on. On the wall above the stereo was a print of one of Gauguin’s Tahitian scenes: a coffee-skinned native woman, naked to the waist, carrying what looked like a bowl of red berries as she walked beside another woman.

As he approached the sofa, Banks noticed that the sheepskin rug was dotted with dark blotches, as if the fire had spat sparks, which had seared the wool. Then he became aware of that sickling, metallic smell he had come across so often before.

A log shifted on the fire; flames leapt in all directions and their light played over the naked body. The woman lay stretched out, head propped up on cushions in what would have been a very inviting pose had it not been for the blood that had flowed from the multiple stab wounds in her throat and chest and drenched the whole front of her body. It glistened like dark satin in the firelight. From what Banks could see, the victim was young and pretty, with smooth, olive skin and shoulder-length, jet-black hair. Bending over her, he noticed that her eyes were blue, the intense kind of blue that makes some dark-haired people all that much more attractive. Now their stare was cold and lifeless. In front of her, on the low coffee table, stood a half-empty teacup on a coaster and a chocolate layer cake with one slice missing. Banks covered one fingertip with his handkerchief and touched the cup. It was cold.

The spell broke. Banks became aware of Gristhorpe’s voice in the background questioning PC Tolliver, and of Susan Gay standing silent beside him. It was her first corpse, he realized, and she was handling it well, better than he had. Not only was she not about to vomit or faint, but she, too, was glancing around the room, observing the details.

‘Who found the body?’ Gristhorpe asked PC Tolliver.

‘Woman by the name of Veronica Shildon. She lives here.’

‘Where is she now?’ Banks asked.

Tolliver nodded towards the stairs. ‘Up there with the neighbour. She didn’t want to come back in here.’

‘I don’t blame her,’ said Banks. ‘Do you know who the victim is?’

‘Her name’s Caroline Hartley. Apparently, she lived here too.’

Gristhorpe raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘Come on, Alan, let’s go and hear what she has to say. Susan, will you stay down here till the scene-of-crime team arrives?’

Susan Gay nodded and stood aside.

There were only two rooms and a bathroom upstairs. One room had been converted into a sitting room, or a study, with bookcases covering one wall, a small roll-top desk under the window and a couple of wicker armchairs arranged below the track-lighting. The bedroom, Banks noticed from the landing, was done out in coral and sea-green, with Laura Ashley wallpaper. If two women lived in the house and there was only one bedroom, he reasoned, then they must share it. He took a deep breath and went into the study.

Veronica Shildon sat in one of her wicker chairs, head in hands. The neighbour, who introduced herself as Christine Cooper, sat beside her. The only other place to sit was the hard-backed chair in front of the desk. Gristhorpe took it and leaned forward, resting his chin on his fists. Banks stood by the door.

‘She’s had a terrible shock,’ Christine Cooper said. ‘I don’t know if she’ll be able to tell you much.’

‘Don’t worry, Mrs Cooper,’ Gristhorpe said. ‘The doctor will be here soon. He’ll give her something. Is there anyone she can stay with?’

‘She can stay with me if she wants. Next door. We’ve got a spare room. I’m sure my husband won’t mind.’

‘Fine.’ Gristhorpe turned towards the crying woman and introduced himself. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

Veronica Shildon looked up. She was in her mid-thirties, Banks guessed, with a neat cap of dark-brown hair streaked with grey. Handsome rather than pretty, her thin face and lips, and everything in her bearing, spoke of dignity and refinement, perhaps even of severity. She held a crumpled tissue in her left hand and the fist of her right was clenched so tightly it was white. Even as he admired her appearance, Banks looked for any signs of blood on her hands or her clothing. He saw none. Her grey-green eyes, red around the rims, couldn’t quite focus on Gristhorpe.

‘I just got home,’ she said. ‘I thought she was waiting for me.’

‘What time was this?’ Gristhorpe asked.

‘Eight. A few minutes after.’ She didn’t look at him when she answered.

‘Where had you been?’

‘I’d been shopping.’ She looked up, but her eyes appeared to be staring right through the superintendent. ‘That’s just it, you see. I thought for a moment she was wearing the present I’d bought her, the scarlet camisole. But she couldn’t have been, could she? I hadn’t even given it to her. And she was dead.’

‘What did you do when you found her?’ Gristhorpe asked.

‘I… I ran to Christine’s. She took me in and called the police. I don’t know… Is Caroline really dead?’

Gristhorpe nodded.

‘Why? Who?’

Gristhorpe leaned forward and spoke softly. ‘That’s what we have to find out, love. Are you sure you didn’t touch anything in the room?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’

Veronica Shildon shook her head. She was clearly too distraught to speak. They would have to leave their questions until tomorrow.

Christine Cooper accompanied Banks and Gristhorpe to the study door. ‘I’ll stay with her till the doctor comes, if you don’t mind,’ she said.

Gristhorpe nodded and they went downstairs.

‘Organize a house-to-house, would you?’ Gristhorpe asked PC Tolliver before they returned to the living room. You know the drill. Anyone seen entering or leaving the house.’ The constable nodded and dashed off.

Back inside the front room, Banks noticed for the first time how warm it was and took off his raincoat. The music stopped, then the needle came off the record, returned to the edge of the turntable and promptly started on its way again.

‘What is that music?’ Susan Gay asked.

Banks listened. The piece – elegant, stately strings accompanying a soprano soloist singing in Latin – sounded vaguely familiar. It wasn’t Bach at all, Italian in style rather than German.

‘Sounds like Vivaldi,’ he said, frowning. ‘But it’s not what it is bothers me so much, it’s why it’s playing, and especially why it’s been set to repeat.’

He walked over to the turntable and knelt by the album cover lying face down on the speaker beside it. It was indeed Vivaldi: Laudate pueri, sung by Magda Kalmár. Banks had never heard of her, but she had a beautiful voice, more reedy, warm and less brittle than many sopranos he had heard. The cover looked new.

‘Should I turn it off?’ Susan Gay asked.

‘No. Leave it. It could be important. Let the scene-of-crime boys have a look.’

At that moment the front door opened and everyone stood aghast at what walked in. To all intents and purposes, their visitor was Santa Claus himself, complete with beard and red hat. If it hadn’t been for the height, the twinkling blue eyes, the brown bag and the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, Banks himself wouldn’t have known who it was.

‘I apologize for my appearance,’ said Dr Glendenning ‘Believe me, I have no wish to appear frivolous. But I was just about to set off for the children’s ward to give out their Christmas presents when I got the call. I didn’t want to waste any time.’ And he didn’t. ‘Is this the alleged corpse? He walked over to the sofa and bent over the body. Before he had done much more than look it over, Peter Darby, the photographer, arrived along with Vic Manson and his team.

The three CID officers stood in the background while the specialists went to work collecting hair and fabric samples with tiny vacuum cleaners, dusting for prints and photographing the scene from every conceivable angle. Susan Gay seemed enthralled. She must have read about all this in books, Banks thought, and even taken part in demonstration runs at the police college, but there was nothing like the real thing. He tapped her on the shoulder It took her a few seconds to pull her eyes away and face him.

‘I’m just nipping back upstairs,’ Bank whispered ‘Won’t be a minute.’ Susan nodded and turned to watch Glendenning measure the throat wounds.

Upstairs, Banks knelt in front of the armchair ‘Veronica,’ he said gently, ‘that music, Vivaldi, was it playing when you got home?’

With difficulty, Veronica focused on him. ‘Yes,’ she said, with a puzzled look on her face. ‘Yes. That was odd I thought we had company.’

‘Why?’

‘Caroline… she doesn’t like classical music. She says it makes her feel stupid.’

‘So she wouldn’t have put it on herself?’

Veronica shook her head. ‘Never.’

‘Whose record is it? Is it part of your collection?’

‘No.’

‘But you like classical music?’

She nodded.

‘Do you know the piece?’

‘I don’t think so, but I recognize the voice.’

Banks stood up and rested his hand on her shoulder. ‘The doctor will be up soon,’ he said. ‘He’ll give you something to help you sleep.’ He took Christine Cooper’s arm and drew her on to the landing. ‘How long have they been living here?’

‘Nearly two years now.’

Banks nodded towards the bedroom. ‘Together?’

‘Yes. At least…’ She folded her arms. ‘It’s not my place to judge.’

‘Ever any trouble?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Rows, threats, feuds, angry visitors, anything?’

Christine Cooper shook her head. ‘Not a thing. You couldn’t wish for quieter, more considerate neighbours. As I said, we didn’t know each other very well, but we’ve passed the time of day together now and then. My husband…’

‘Yes?’

‘Well… he was very fond of Caroline. I think she reminded him of our Corinne. She died a few years ago. Leukaemia. She was about Caroline’s age.’

Banks looked at Christine Cooper. She seemed to be somewhere in her mid-fifties, a small, puzzled-looking woman with grey hair and a wrinkled brow. That would make her husband about the same age, or a little older perhaps. A paternal attachment, most likely, but he made a mental note to follow it up.

‘Did you notice anything earlier this evening?’ he asked.

‘Like what?’

‘Any noise, or anyone calling at the house?’

‘No. I can’t really say I did. The houses are quite solid, you know. I had my curtains closed, and I had the television on until eight o’clock, when that silly game show came on.’

‘You heard nothing at all?’

‘I heard doors close once or twice, but I couldn’t be sure whose doors.’

‘Can you remember what time?’

‘When I was watching television. Between seven and eight. I’m sorry I’m not more use to you. I just didn’t pay attention. I didn’t know it would be important.’

‘Of course not. Just one more small point,’ Banks said ‘What time did Mrs Shildon arrive at your house?’

‘Ten past eight.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I was in the kitchen then. I looked at the clock when I heard someone shouting and banging on my door. I hadn’t heard any carol singers, and I wondered who could be calling at that time.’

‘Did you hear her arrive home?’

‘I heard her door open and close.’

‘What time was that?’

‘Just after eight – certainly not more than a minute or two after. I’d just switched the television off and gone to start on Charles’s dinner. That’s why I heard her. It was quiet then. I thought it was my door at first, so I glanced up at the clock. It’s a habit I have when I’m in the kitchen. There’s a nice wallclock, a present… but you don’t want to know about that. Anyway, I wasn’t expecting Charles back so early so I… Just a minute! What are you getting at? Surely you can’t believe-’

‘Thank you very much, Mrs Cooper, that’ll be all for now.’

When Mrs Cooper had gone back into the study, Banks had a quick look through the bedroom for any signs of blood-stained clothing, but found nothing. The wardrobe was clearly divided into two halves: one for Veronica’s more conservative clothes and the other for Caroline’s, a little more modern in style. At the bottom sat a carrier bag full of what looked like unwrapped Christmas presents.

The whole house would have to be searched thoroughly before the night was over, but the scene-of-crime team could do that later. What bothered Banks for the moment was the gap of almost ten minutes between Veronica Shildon’s arriving home and her knocking on her neighbour’s door. A lot could be accomplished in ten minutes.

Back downstairs, Banks led Vic Manson over to the turntable.

‘Can you get this record off and dust the whole area for prints? I want the cover and the inside sleeve bagged for examination, too.’

‘No problem.’ Manson set to it.

Everyone looked up when the music stopped. It had cast such a spell over the scene that Banks felt like a dancer cut off in the middle of a stately pavane. Now everyone seemed to notice for the first time exactly what the situation was. It was harsh and ugly, especially with all the lights on.

‘Have they found anything interesting yet?’ Banks asked Gristhorpe.

‘The knife. It was on their draining-board in the kitchen, all washed, but there are still traces of blood. It looks like one of their own, from a set. Did you notice that cake on the table in front of the sofa?’

Banks nodded.

‘It’s possible she’d used the knife to cut herself a slice earlier.’

‘Which would make it the handiest weapon,’ Banks said, ‘if it was still on the table.’

‘Yes. And there’s this.’ The superintendent held out a crumpled sheet of green Christmas wrapping paper with silver bells and red holly berries on it. ‘It was over by the music centre.’ He shrugged. ‘It might mean something.’

‘It could have come from the record,’ Banks said, and told Gristhorpe what Veronica had said.

Dr Glendenning, who had taken off his beard and hat and unbuttoned the top half of his Father Christmas outfit, walked over to them and stuck another cigarette in his mouth.

‘Dead three or four hours at the most,’ he said. ‘Bruise on the left cheek consistent with a hard punch or kick. It might easily have knocked her out. But cause of death was blood loss due to multiple stab wounds – at least seven, as far as I can count. Unless she was poisoned first.’

‘Thanks,’ Gristhorpe said. ‘Any way of telling how it happened?’

‘At this stage, no. Except for the obvious – it was a bloody vicious attack.’

‘Aye,’ said Gristhorpe. ‘Was she interfered with sexually?’

‘On a superficial examination, I’d say no. No signs of it at all. But I won’t be able to tell you any more until after the post-mortem, which I’ll conduct first thing tomorrow morning. You can have the lads cart her to the mortuary whenever they’re ready. Can I be off now? I hate to keep those poor wee kiddies waiting.’

Banks asked him if he would drop in on Veronica Shildon first and give her a sedative. Glendenning sighed but agreed. The ambulance men, who had been waiting outside, came in to take away the body. Glendenning had covered the hands with plastic bags to preserve any skin caught under the fingernails. As the ambulance men lifted her on to the stretcher, the cuts around her throat gaped open like screaming mouths. One of the men had to put his hand under her head so that the flesh didn’t rip back as far as the spine. That was the only time Banks saw Susan Gay visibly pale and look away.

With Caroline Hartley’s body gone, apart from the blood that had sprayed on to the sheepskin and the sofa cushions, there was very little left to indicate what horror had occurred in the cosy room that night. The forensic team bundled up the rug and cushions to take with them tor further examination, and then there was nothing left to show at all.

It was after ten thirty. PC Tolliver and another two uniformed constables were still conducting house-to-house enquiries in the area, but there was little else the CID could do until morning. They needed to know Caroline Hartley’s movements that evening: where she had been, who she had seen and who might have had a reason to want her dead. Veronica Shildon could probably tell them, but she was in no state to answer questions.

Gristhorpe and Susan Gay left first. Then, after leaving instructions for the scene-of-crime team to search the house thoroughly for any signs of blood-stained clothing, Banks returned to the rugby club to see if Sandra was still there. Snow swirled in front of his headlights and the road was slippery.

When Banks pulled up outside the rugby club in the northern part of Eastvale it was almost eleven o’clock. The lights were still on. In the foyer, he kicked the clinging snow off his shoes, brushed it from his hair and the shoulders of his camel-hair overcoat, which he hung up on the rack provided, and went inside.

He stood in the doorway and looked around the softly lit banquet hall. Hatchley and Carol had finally left, but plenty of others remained, still holding drinks. The DJ had taken a break and someone sat at the piano playing Christmas carols. Banks saw Sandra and Richmond sitting on their stools at the bar. He stood and watched them sing for a few moments. It was a curiously intimate feeling, like watching someone sleep. And like sleepers, their faces wore innocent, tranquil expressions as their lips mouthed the familiar words:

Silent night, holy night

All is calm, all is bright