Past Reason Hated

ONE

‘What have we got so far?’ Gristhorpe asked at eight o’clock the following morning. As Banks knew from experience, the superintendent liked to call regular conferences in the early stages of an investigation. Although he had been at the scene the previous evening, he would now leave the fieldwork to his team and concentrate on co-ordinating their tasks and dealing with the press. Gristhorpe, unlike some supers Banks had worked with, believed in letting his men get on with the job while he handled matters of politics and policy.

In the conference room, the four of them – Gristhorpe, Banks, Richmond and Susan Gay – reviewed the events of the previous evening. Nothing had come in yet from forensics or from Dr Glendenning who was just about to start the post-mortem. The only new information they had obtained had resulted from the house-to-house enquiry. Three people had been visiting number eleven Oakwood Mews separately that evening. Nobody could describe them clearly – after all, it had been dark and snowing, and the street was not well lit – but two independent witnesses seemed to agree that one man and two women had called there.

The man had called first, around seven o’clock, and Caroline had admitted him to the house. Nobody had seen him leave. Not very long after, a woman had arrived, talked briefly to Caroline on the doorstep, then left without entering the house. One witness said she thought it might have been someone collecting for charity, what with it being Christmas and all, but then a collector wouldn’t have missed the opportunity of knocking on everyone else’s door as well, would she? And no, there had been no obvious signs of a quarrel.

The final visitor – according to the sightings – called shortly after the other woman left and went inside the house. Nobody had noticed her leave. That, as far as they could pin down, was the last time Caroline Hartley had been seen alive by anyone but her killer. Other visitors may have called between about half past seven and eight, but nobody had seen them. Everybody had been watching Coronation Street.

‘Any ideas about the record?’ Gristhorpe asked.

‘I think it might be important,’ Banks said, ‘but I don’t know why. According to Veronica Shildon, it wasn’t hers, and the Hartley girl didn’t like classical music.’

‘So where did it come from?’ Susan Gay asked.

‘Tolliver said that one of the witnesses thought the man who called was carrying a shopping bag of some sort. It could have been in there – a present, say. That would explain the wrapping paper we found.’

‘But why would anyone bring a woman a present of something she didn’t like?’

Banks shrugged. ‘Could be any number of reasons Maybe it was someone who didn’t know her tastes well. Or it might have been intended for Veronica Shildon. All I’m saying is that it’s odd and I think we ought to check it out. It’s also strange that someone should put it on the turntable and deliberately leave it to repeat ad infinitum We can be reasonably certain that Caroline wouldn’t have played it, so who did, and why? We might even be dealing with a psycho. The music could be his calling card.’

‘All right,’ Gristhorpe said after a short silence. ‘Susan, why don’t you get down to Pristine Records and see if they know anything about it.’

Susan made a note in her book and nodded.

‘Alan, you and Detective Sergeant Richmond here can see what you can get out of Veronica Shildon.’ He paused. ‘What do you make of their relationship?’

Banks scratched the little scar by the side of his right eye. ‘They were living together. And sleeping together, as Ear as I could tell. Nobody’s spelled it out yet, but I’d say it’s pretty obvious. Christine Cooper implied much the same.’

‘Could that give us an angle?’ Gristhorpe suggested. ‘I don’t know much about lesbian relationships, but anything off the beaten track could be worth looking into.’

‘A jealous lover, something like that?’ Banks said.

Gristhorpe shrugged. ‘You tell me. I just think it’s worth a bit of scrutiny.’

The meeting broke up and they went their separate ways, but not before Sergeant Rowe came up to them in the corridor with a form in his hand.

‘There’s been a break-in at the community centre,’ he said, waving the sheet. ‘Any takers?’

‘Not another!’ Banks groaned. It was the third in two months. Vandalism was becoming as much of a problem in Eastvale as it seemed to be everywhere else in the country.

‘Aye,’ said Rowe. ‘Dustbin men noticed the back door broken open when they picked up the rubbish half an hour ago. I’ve already notified the people involved with that amateur dramatic society. They’re the only ones using the place at the moment – except for your wife, sir.’

Rowe was referring to Sandra’s new part-time job managing Eastvale’s new gallery, where she arranged exhibitions of local art, sculpture and photography. The Eastvale Arts Committee had applied as usual for its grant, fully expecting significant cuts, if not an outright refusal. But that year, whether due to some bureaucratic blunder or a generous fiscal whim, they had been given twice what they had asked for and found themselves looking for ways to spend the money before someone asked for it back. The cheque didn’t bounce; months passed and they received no letter beginning, ‘Due to a clerical oversight, we are afraid…’ So the large upstairs room in the community centre was set aside and redecorated for gallery space.

‘Any damage upstairs?’ Banks asked.

‘We don’t know yet, sir.’

‘Where’s the caretaker?’

‘On holiday, sir. Gone to the in-laws in Oldham for Christmas.’

‘All right, we’ll take care of it. Susan, drop by there before you go to the record shop and see what’s going on. It shouldn’t take too long.’

Susan Gay nodded and set off.

Banks and Richmond turned down by the side of the police station towards King Street. The snow had stopped early in the morning, leaving a covering about six inches thick, but the sky was still overcast, heavy with more. The air was chill and damp. On the main streets cars and pedestrians had already churned the snow into brownish-grey slush, but in those narrow, winding alleys between Market Street and King Street it remained almost untouched except for the odd set of footprints and the patches that shopkeepers had shovelled away from the pavement in front of their doors.

This was the real tourist Eastvale. Here, the antique dealers hung up their signs and antiquarian booksellers advertised their wares alongside numismatists and bespoke tailors. These weren’t like the cheap souvenir shops on York Road; they were specialty shops with creaking floors and thick, mullioned windows, where unctuous, immaculately dressed shopkeepers called you ‘sir’ or ‘madam’.

Oakwood Mews was a short cul-de-sac, a renovated terrace with only ten houses on each side. Black-leaded iron railings separated each small garden from the pavement. In summer, the street blossomed in a profusion of colours, with many houses sporting bright hanging and window boxes. It had even won a ‘prettiest street in Yorkshire’ prize several years ago, and the plaque to prove it was affixed to the wall of the first house. Now, as Banks and Richmond approached number nine, the street looked positively Victorian. Banks almost expected Tiny Tim to come running up to them and throw his crutches away.

Banks knocked on the Coopers’ door. It was made of light, panelled wood, and the shiny knocker was a highly polished brass lion’s head. A wealthy little street this, obviously, Banks thought, even if it was only a terrace block of small houses. They were brick built, pre-war, and had recently been restored to perfection.

Christine Cooper answered the door in her dressing gown and invited them in. Unlike the more cosy, feminine elegance of number eleven, the Cooper place was almost entirely modern in decor: assemble-it-yourself Scandinavian furniture and off-white walls. The kitchen, into which she led them, boasted plenty of shelf- and surface-space and every gadget under the sun, from microwave to electric tin opener.

‘Coffee?’

Banks and Richmond both nodded and sat down at the large pine breakfast table. It had been set close to a corner to save space, and someone had fixed bench seating to the two adjacent walls. Both Banks and Richmond sat on the bench with their backs to the wall. Banks had no trouble fitting himself in, as he was only a little taller than regulation 172 centimetres; but Richmond had to shift about to accommodate his long legs.

Mrs Cooper faced them from a matching chair across the table. The electric coffee-maker was already gurgling away, and they had to wait only a few moments for their drinks.

‘I’m afraid Veronica isn’t up, yet,’ Mrs Cooper said ‘Your doctor gave her a sleeping pill and she was out like a light as soon as we got her into bed. I explained everything to Charles. He’s been very understanding.’

‘Where is your husband?’ Banks asked.

‘At work.’

‘What time did he get home last night?’

‘It must have been after eleven. We sat up and talked about… you know… for a while, then we went to bed about midnight.’

‘He certainly works long hours.’

Mrs Cooper sighed. ‘Yes, especially at this time of year. You see, he runs a chain of children’s shops in North Yorkshire, and he’s constantly being called from one crisis to another. One place runs out of whatever new doll all the kids want this year and another out of jigsaw puzzles. I’m sure you can imagine the problems.’

‘Where was he yesterday evening?’

Mrs Cooper seemed surprised at the question, but she answered after only a slight hesitation. ‘Barnard Castle. Apparently the manager of the shop there reported some stock discrepancies.’

There was probably nothing in it, Banks thought, but Charles Cooper’s alibi should be easy enough to check.

‘Maybe you can give us a bit more background on Caroline Hartley while we’re waiting for Mrs Shildon,’ he said.

Richmond took out his notebook and settled back in the corner seat.

Mrs Cooper rubbed her chin. ‘I don’t know if I can tell you much about Caroline, really. I knew her, but I didn’t feel I really knew her, if you know what I mean. It was all on the surface. She was a real sparkler, I’ll say that for her. Always full of beans. Always a smile and a hello for everyone. Talented, too, from what I could gather.’

‘Talented? How?’

‘She was an actress. Oh, just amateur like, but if you ask me, she’d got what it takes. She could take anybody off. You should have seen her impression of Maggie Thatcher. Talk about laugh!’

‘Was this theatrical work local?’

‘Oh, yes. Only the Eastvale Amateur Dramatic Society.’

‘Was this her first experience with theatre?’

‘I wouldn’t know that. It was only a small part, but she was excited about it.’

‘Where does she come from?’

‘Do you know, I can’t say. I know nothing about her past. She could be from Timbuktu for all I know. As I said before, we weren’t really close.’

‘Do you know if she had any enemies? Did she ever tell you about any quarrels she might have had?’

Mrs Cooper shook her head, then blushed.

‘What is it?’ Banks asked.

‘Well,’ Mrs Cooper began, ‘it’s nothing really, I don’t suppose, and I don’t want to go getting anybody into trouble, but when two women live together like… like they did, then somebody somewhere’s got to be unhappy, haven’t they?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Veronica’s ex-husband. She was a married woman before she came here. I shouldn’t think he’d be very happy about things, would he? And I’ll bet there was someone in Caroline’s life, too – a woman or a man. She didn’t seem the kind to be on her own for too long, if you know what I mean.’

‘Do you know anything about Veronica Shildon’s ex-husband?’

‘Only that they sold the big house they used to have outside town and split the money. She bought this place and he moved off somewhere. The coast, I think. The whole thing seemed very hush-hush to me. She’s never even told me his name.’

‘The Yorkshire coast?’

‘Yes, I think so. But Veronica can tell you all about him.’

‘You didn’t see him in the neighbourhood yesterday evening, did you?’

Mrs Cooper pulled her robe together at the front, looking down and making a double chin as she did so. ‘No. I told you all I saw or heard last night. Besides, I wouldn’t recognize him from Adam. I’ve never seen him.

Banks heard stairs creak and looked around to see Veronica Shildon standing in the doorway. She was dressed as she had been the previous evening – tight jeans, which flattered her slim, curved hips, trim waist and flat stomach, and a high-necked, chunky-knit green sweater, which brought out the colour in her eyes. She was tall, about five foot ten, and poised. Banks thought there was something odd about seeing her in such casual wear; she looked as if she belonged in a pearl silk blouse and a navy business suit. She had taken the time to brush her short hair and put a little make-up on, but her face still looked drawn underneath it all, and her eyes, disarmingly honest and naked, were still red from crying.

Banks tried to stand up, but he was too closely wedged in by the table.

‘I’m sorry to bother you so soon,’ he said, ‘but the quicker we get moving the more chance we have.’

‘I understand,’ she said. ‘Please don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right.’

She swayed a little as she walked towards the table. Mrs Cooper took her elbow and guided her to a chair, then brought her some coffee and disappeared, muttering something about things to attend to.

‘In cases like this,’ Banks began, ‘it helps if we know what the person was doing, where she was, previous to the incident.’ He knew he sounded trite, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to say ‘victim’ and ‘murder’.

Veronica nodded. ‘Of course. As far as I know Caroline went to work, but you’ll have to check that. She runs the Garden Café on Castle Hill Road.’

‘I know it,’ Banks said. It was an elegant little place, very up-market, with a stunning view of the formal gardens and the river.

‘She usually finishes at three on a weekday, after the lunchtime crowd. They don’t open for tea off-season. On a normal day she’d come home, do some shopping, or perhaps drop by at the shop for a while to help out.’

‘Shop?’

‘I own a flower shop – or rather my partner and I do It’s mostly a matter of his money and my management. It’s just round the corner from here, down King Street.’

‘You said on a “normal” day. Was yesterday not normal?’

She looked straight at him and her eyes let him know that his choice of words had been inappropriate. Yesterday, indeed, had not been normal. But she simply said, ‘No. Yesterday after work they had a rehearsal. They’re doing Twelfth Night at the community centre. It’s quite a heavy rehearsal schedule as the director’s set on actually opening on twelfth night.’

‘What time did rehearsals run?’

‘Usually between four and six, so she would have been home at about quarter past six, if she’d come home immediately.’

‘And was she likely to?’

‘They often went for a drink after, but yesterday she came straight home.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I phoned to see if she was there and to tell her I’d be a bit late because I was doing some shopping.’

‘What time?’

‘About seven.’

‘How did she sound?’

‘Fine… she sounded fine.’

‘Was there any special reason for her not going for a drink with the others yesterday?’

‘No. She just said she was tired after rehearsal and she…’

‘Yes?’

‘We’ve both been so busy lately. She wanted to spend some time with me… a quiet evening at home.’

‘Where had you been that evening?’

Veronica didn’t show a flicker of resentment at being asked for an alibi. ‘I closed the shop at five thirty, then I went for my six o’clock appointment with Dr Ursula Kelly, my therapist. She’s Caroline’s too. Her office is on Kilnsey Street, just off Castle Hill. I walked. We do have a car but we don’t use it much in town, mostly just for trips away.’ She blew on her coffee and took a sip. ‘The session lasted an hour. After that, I went to the shopping centre to buy a few things. Christmas presents mostly.’ She faltered a little. ‘Then I walked home. I… I got here about eight o’clock.’

No doubt it would be possible to check her alibi in the shopping centre, Banks thought. Some shopkeepers might remember her. But it was a busy time of year for them, and he doubted that any would be able to recollect what day and what time they had last seen her. He could examine the receipts, too. Sometimes the modern electronic cash registers gave the time of purchase as well as the date.

‘Can you tell me exactly what happened, what you did, from the moment you left the shops and walked home last night?’

Veronica took a deep breath and closed her eyes. ‘I walked home,’ she began, ‘in the snow. It was a beautiful evening. I stopped and listened to the carol singers in the market square for a while. They were singing “O, Little Town of Bethlehem”. It’s always been one of my favourites. When I got home I… I called out hello to Caroline, but she didn’t answer. I thought nothing of it. She could have been in the kitchen. And then there was the music… well, that was odd. So I took the opportunity and crept upstairs to hide the presents in the wardrobe. Some were for her, you see, the…’ She paused, and Banks noticed her eyes fill with tears. ‘It seemed so important just to put them out of sight,’ she went on. ‘I knew there would be plenty of opportunity to wrap them later. While I was up there, I washed and changed and went back downstairs.

‘The music was still playing. I opened the door to the living room and… I… at first I thought she was wearing the new scarlet camisole. She looked so serene and so beautiful lying there like that. But it couldn’t be. I told you last night, I hadn’t give it to her then. I’d just bought her the camisole for Christmas and I’d put it in the bottom of the wardrobe with everything else. Then I went closer and… the smell… her eyes… Veronica put her mug down and held her head in her hands.

Banks let the silence stretch for a good minute or two. All they could hear was the soft ticking of Mrs Cooper’s kitchen wall clock and a dog barking in the distance.

‘I understand you were married,’ Banks said, when Veronica had wiped her eyes and reached out for her coffee again.

‘I still am, officially. We’re only separated, not divorced. He didn’t want our personal life splashed all over the newspapers. As you may have gathered, Caroline and I lived together.’

Banks nodded. ‘Why should the newspapers have been interested? People get divorced all the time for all kinds of reasons.’

Veronica hesitated and turned her mug slowly in a circle on the table. She wouldn’t met his eyes.

‘Look,’ Banks said, ‘I hardly need remind you what’s happened, how serious this is. We’ll find out anyway. You can save us a lot of time and trouble.’

Veronica looked up at him. ‘You’re right, of course,’ she said. ‘Though I don’t see how it can have anything to do with all this. My husband was – is, Claude Ivers. He’s not exactly a household name, but enough people have heard of him.’

Banks certainly had. Ivers had once been a brilliant concert pianist, but several years ago he had given up performance for composition. He had received important commissions from the BBC, and a number of his pieces had been recorded. Banks even had a tape of his, two wind quintets; they possessed a kind of eerie, natural beauty – not structured, but wandering, like the breeze in a deep forest at night. Veronica Shildon was right. If the press had got hold of the story she would have had no peace tor weeks. News of the World reporters would have been climbing the drainpipes and spying in bedroom windows, talking to spiteful neighbours and slighted lovers. He could just see the headlines: MUSICIAN’S WIFE IN LESBIAN LOVENEST.

‘Where is your husband now?’ Banks asked.

‘He lives in Redburn, out on the coast. He said the seclusion and the sea would be good for his work. He always did care about his work.’

Banks noticed the bitterness in her tone. ‘Do you ever see one another?’

‘Yes,’ she said. A smile touched her thin lips. ‘It was an acrimonious parting in many ways, but there is some affection left. We don’t seem able to stamp that out, whatever we do.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘About a month ago. We occasionally have dinner if he’s in town. I rarely visit the coast, but he comes here from time to time.’

‘To the house?’

‘He’s been here, yes, though he’s always worried someone will see him and know who he is. I try to tell him that people don’t actually recognize composers in the street any more than they do writers, that it’s only television and film stars have to put up with that, but…’ She shrugged.

‘Did he know Caroline?’

‘He could hardly help knowing her, could he? They’d met a few times.’

‘How did they get on?’

Veronica shrugged. ‘They never seemed to have much to say to one another. They were different as chalk and cheese. He thought she was a scheming slut and she thought he was a selfish, pompous ass. They had nothing in common but affection for me.’

‘Was there any open antagonism?’

‘Open? Good Lord no. That isn’t Claude’s way. He sniped from time to time, made sarcastic comments, cruel remarks, that kind of thing.’

‘Directed towards Caroline?’

‘Directed towards both of us. But I’m sure he blamed Caroline for leading me astray. That’s how he saw it.’

‘Was it that way?’

Veronica shook her head.

‘Was Caroline ever married?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Was she living with anyone before she met you?’

Veronica paused and gripped her coffee mug in both hands as if to warm them. Her fingers were long and tapered and she had freckles on the backs of her hands. She wore a silver ring on the middle finger of her right hand. As she spoke, she looked down at the table. ‘She was living with a woman called Nancy Wood. They’d been together about eight months. The relationship was going very badly.’

‘Where does Nancy Wood live?’

‘In Eastvale. Not too far from here. At least, she did the last I heard.’

‘Did Caroline ever see her after they split up?’

‘Only by accident once or twice in the street.’

‘So they parted on bad terms?’

‘Doesn’t everyone? Much as I admire Shakespeare, I’ve often wondered where the sweetness is in the sorrow.’

‘And before Nancy Wood?’

‘She spent some time in London. I don’t know how long or who with. A few years, at least.’

‘What about her family?’

‘Her mother’s dead. Her father lives in Harrogate. He’s an invalid – been one for years. Her brother Gary looks after him. I told one of your uniformed men last night. Will someone have called?’

Banks nodded. ‘Don’t worry, the Harrogate police will have taken care of it. Is there anything else you can tell me about Caroline’s friends or enemies?’

Veronica sighed and shook her head. She looked exhausted. ‘No,’ she said. ‘We didn’t have a lot of close friends. I suppose we tried to be too much to one another. At least that’s how it feels now she’s gone. You could try the people at the theatre. They were her acquaintances, at least. But we didn’t socialize very much together. I don’t think any of them even knew about her living with me.’

‘We’re still puzzled about the record,’ Banks said. ‘Are you sure it isn’t yours?’

‘I’ve told you, no.’

‘But you recognized the singer?’

‘Magda Kalmar, yes. Claude and I once saw her in Lucia di Lammermoor at the Budapest Opera. I was very impressed.’

‘Could the record have been intended as a Christmas present from your husband?’

‘Well, I suppose it could… but that means… no, I haven’t seen him in a month.’

‘He could have called last night, while you were out.’

She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t believe it. Not Claude.

Banks looked over at Richmond and nodded. Richmond closed his notebook. ‘That’s all for now,’ Banks said.

‘Can I go home?’ she asked him.

‘If you want.’ Banks hadn’t imagined she would want to return to the house so soon, but there was no official objection. Forensics had finished with the place.

‘Just one thing, though,’ he said. ‘We’ll need to have another good look through Caroline’s belongings. Perhaps Detective Sergeant Richmond can accompany you back and look over them now?’

She looked apprehensive at first, then nodded. ‘All right.’

They stood up to leave. Christine Cooper was nowhere in sight, so they walked out into the damp, overcast day and shut the door behind them without saying goodbye.

Veronica opened her front door and went in. Banks lingered at the black iron gate with Richmond. ‘I’m going to the community centre,’ he said. ‘There should be someone from the theatre group there since they’ve been notified of the break-in. How about we meet up at the Queen’s Arms, say twelve or twelve-thirty?’ And he went on to ask Richmond to check Veronica Shildon’s purchases and look closely at the receipts for corroboration of her alibi. ‘And check on Charles Cooper’s movements yesterday,’ he added. ‘It might mean a trip to Barnard Castle, but see if you can come up with anything by phone first.’

Richmond went into the house and Banks set off up the steep part of King Street with his collar turned up against the cold. The community centre wasn’t very far; the walk would be good exercise. As he trudged through the snow, he thought about Veronica Shildon. She presented an odd mixture of reserve and frankness, stoical acceptance and bitterness. He was sure she was holding something back, but he didn’t know what it was. There was something askew about her. Even her clothes didn’t seem to go with the rather repressed and inhibited essence that she projected. ‘Prim and proper’ was the term that sprang to mind. Yet she had left her husband, had gone and set up house with a woman.

All in all, she was an enigma. If anything, Banks thought, she seemed like a woman in the process of great change. Her reference to the analyst indicated that she was at least concerned with self-examination.

It seemed to Banks as if her entire personality had been dismantled and the various bits and pieces didn’t quite fit together; some were new, or newly discovered, and others were old, rusted, decrepit, and she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to discard them or not. Banks had an inkling of what the process felt like from his own readjustment after the move from London. But Veronica’s changes, he suspected, went far deeper. He wondered what she had been like as a wife, and what she would become in the future now that Caroline Hartley had been so viciously excised from her life. For the younger woman had had a great influence on Veronica’s life; Banks was certain of that. Was Veronica a killer? He didn’t think so, but who could say anything so definite about a personality in such turmoil and transition?

TWO

On her way to the community centre, DC Susan Gay thought over her behaviour of the previous day and found it distinctly lacking. She had felt even more miserable than usual when she went home from Oakwood Mews that night. Her small flat off York Road always depressed her It was so barren, like a hotel room, so devoid of any real stamp of her presence, and she knew that was because she hardly spent any time there. Mostly she had been working or off on a course somewhere. For years she had paid no attention to her surroundings or to her personal life. The flat was for eating in, sleeping in and, occasionally, for watching half an hour of television.

It seemed like a lifetime since she’d last had a boyfriend, or anyone more than a casual date, anyone who meant something to her. She accepted that she wasn’t especially attractive, but she was no ugly sister, either. People had asked her out; the problem was that she always had something more important to do, something related to her career. She was beginning to wonder if the normal sexual impulse had somehow drained away over the years of toil. That incident with the rugby player last night, for example. She knew she shouldn’t have responded with such obvious revulsion. He was only being friendly, even if he was a bit rough about it. And wasn’t that what mistletoe was for? But she had to overreact.

Banks and Gristhorpe had both noticed, she was certain. She wondered what they must think of her.

Damn! The front doors of the community centre, a Victorian sandstone building on North Market Street, were still locked. That meant Susan would have to double back to the narrow street behind the church. Shivering, she hunched up against the cold and turned around.

It seemed now that the whole of yesterday evening had been a nightmare. First she had run off half-cocked out of the station at the first sign of trouble, without even bothering to check if the call was genuine or not. Then she had gone straight to Banks. She had seen Gristhorpe by the bar, of course, but she hadn’t approached him because she was terrified of him. She knew he was said to be a softie, really, but she couldn’t help herself. He seemed so self-contained, so sure of himself, so solid, just like her father.

The only thing she was proud of was her reaction at the scene. She hadn’t fainted, even though it was her first corpse, and a messy one at that. She had managed to maintain a detached, clinical view of the whole affair, watching the experts at work, getting the feel of the scene. There had been only one awkward moment, as the body was being carried away, but anyone could be forgiven for paling a bit at that. No, her behaviour at the scene had been exemplary. She hoped Banks and Gristhorpe had noticed that, and not only her faults.

And now she was on her way to investigate a case of vandalism while the others got to work on the murder. It wasn’t fair. She realized she was the new member of the team, but that didn’t mean she always had to be the one to handle the petty crimes. How could she get ahead if she didn’t get to work on important cases? She had already sacrificed so much for her career that she couldn’t bear to contemplate failure.

Finally, she got to the back entrance, down an alley off the northern part of York Road. The back door had obviously been jemmied open. Its meagre lock was bent and the wood around the jamb had cracked. Susan walked down the long corridor, lit only by a couple of bare sixty-watt bulbs, to where she could hear voices. They came from a room off to her right, a high-ceilinged place with exposed pipes, bare brick walls pied with saltpetre, and more dim lighting. The room smelled of dust and mothballs. There she found a man and a woman bent over a large trunk. They stood up as she walked in.

‘Police?’ the man asked.

Susan nodded and showed her new CID identification card.

‘I must admit, I didn’t expect a woman,’ he said.

Susan prepared to say something withering, but he held up a hand. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. I’m not a sexist pig. It’s just a surprise.’ He peered at her in the poor light. ‘Wait a minute, aren’t you…?’

‘Susan Gay,’ she said, recognizing him now that her eyes had adjusted to the light. ‘And you’re Mr Conran. She blushed. ‘I’m surprised you remember me. I was hardly one of your best students.’

Mr Conran hadn’t changed much in the ten years since he had taught the sixteen-year-old Susan drama at Eastvale Comprehensive. About ten years older than her, he was still handsome in an artsy kind of way, in baggy black cords and a dark polo-neck sweater with the stitching coming away at the shoulder seam. He still had that vulnerable, skinny, half-starved look that Susan remembered so well, but despite it he looked healthy enough. His short fair hair was combed forward, flat against his skull; beneath it, intelligent and ironic grey eyes looked out from a pale, hollow-cheeked face. Susan had hated drama, but she had had a crush on Mr Conran. The other girls said he was a queer, but they said that about everyone in the literature and arts departments. Susan hadn’t believed them.

‘James,’ he said, stretching his hand out to shake hers. ‘I think we can dispense with the teacher-pupil formalities by now, don’t you? I’m directing the play. And this is Marcia Cunningham. Marcia takes care of props and costumes. It’s she you should talk to, really.’

As if to emphasise the point, Conran turned away and began examining the rest of the storage room.

Susan took her notebook out. ‘What’s the damage?’ she asked Marcia, a plump, round-faced woman in grey stretch slacks and a threadbare alpaca jacket that looked at least one size too large for her.

Marcia Cunningham sniffed and pointed to the wall. ‘There’s that, for a start.’ Crudely spray-painted across the bricks were the words FUCKING WANKERS. ‘But that’ll wash off easy enough,’ she went on. ‘This is the worst. They’ve shredded our costumes. I’m not sure if I can salvage any of them or not.’

Susan looked into the trunk. She agreed. It looked like someone had been to work on them with a large pair of scissors, snipping the different dresses, suits and shirts into pieces and mixing them all together.

‘Why should anyone do that?’ Marcia asked.

Susan shook her head.

‘At least they left the shoes and wigs alone,’ she said, gesturing towards the other two boxes of costumes.

‘Has anyone checked upstairs?’ Susan asked.

Marcia looked surprised. ‘The gallery? No.’

Susan made her way down the corridor to the stairs, cold stone with metal railings. There were several rooms upstairs, some of them used for various groups such as the Philately Society or the Chess Club, others for local committee meetings. All of them were locked. The glass doors to the new gallery were locked too; no damage had been done there. She went back down to the props room and watched Marcia picking up strands of slashed material and moaning.

‘All that work, all those people who gave us stuff. Why do they do this?’ Marcia asked again. ‘What bloody point is there?’

Susan knew numerous theories of hooliganism, from poor potty training to the heartlessness of modern England, but all she said was, ‘I don’t know.’ People don’t want to hear theories when something they value has been destroyed. ‘And short of catching them red-handed, we can’t promise much, either.’

‘But this is the third time!’ Marcia said. ‘Surely by now you must have some kind of lead?’

‘There are a few people we’re keeping our eye on,’ Susan told her, ‘but it’s not as if they’ve stolen anything.’

‘Even that would be more understandable.’

‘What I mean is, we’d find no evidence even if we suspected someone. There’s no stolen property to trace them. Have you thought of employing a night watchman?

Marcia snorted. ‘A night watchman? How do you think we can afford that? I know we got a bonanza grant this year, but we didn’t get that much. And most of it’s gone already on costumes and stuff.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Susan said. She realized this was an inadequate response, but what else was there to say? A constable walked the beat, but he couldn’t spend his whole night in the alley at the back of the community centre. There had been other break-ins, too, and other incidents of vandalism. ‘I’ll make out a report,’ she said, ‘and let you know if we come up with anything.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘Don’t be so rude, Marcia.’ James Conran reappeared and put his hand on Marcia’s shoulder. ‘She’s only trying to help.’ He smiled at Susan. ‘Aren’t you?’

Susan nodded. His smile was so infectious she could hardly keep from responding, and the effort to maintain a detached expression made her flush.

Marcia rubbed her face until her plump cheeks shone. I’m sorry, love,’ she said. ‘I know it’s not your fault. It’s just so bloody frustrating.’

‘I know.’ Susan put her notebook back in her handbag. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said.

Before she could turn to leave, they heard footsteps coming along the corridor. Conran looked surprised. ‘There’s nobody else supposed to be coming here, is there?’ he asked Marcia, who shook her head. Then the door creaked open and Susan saw a familiar face peep around. It was Chief Inspector Banks. At first she was relieved to see him. Then she thought, why the hell is he here? Checking up on me? Can’t he trust me to do a simple job properly?

THREE

Detective Sergeant Philip Richmond was glad that Veronica Shildon had not wanted to stand over him as he searched the two upper rooms. He never could tolerate the feel of someone looking over his shoulder. Which was one of the reasons he liked working with Banks, who usually left him to get on with the job his own way.

The bedroom smelled of expensive cologne or talcum. As he looked at the large bed with its satiny coral spread, he thought of the two women in there together and the things they did to each other. The images embarrassed him and he got back to work.

Richmond took the bag of presents out of Veronica’s half of the wardrobe and spread them on the bed: a Sheaffer fountain pen and pencil set, a green silk scarf, some Body Shop soaps and shampoos, a scarlet camisole, the latest Booker Prize winner… all pretty ordinary stuff The receipts were dated but none of them gave the time the purchase had been made. Richmond made a list of items and shops so the staff could be questioned.

The dresser drawers contained mostly lingerie. Richmond picked his way through it methodically, but found nothing hidden away, nothing that shouldn’t be there. He moved on to the study.

In addition to the books – none of them inscribed – there was also a roll-top desk in the corner under the window. There was nothing surprising in it: letters to Veronica Shildon, some from her husband, about practical and financial matters; a few bills; Veronica’s address book, mostly empty; a house insurance policy; receipts and guarantees for the oven, the fridge and items of furniture, and that was about all. None of it any use to Richmond.

Just when he was beginning to wonder whether Caroline Hartley had had any possessions at all, he came across a manila envelope with ‘Caroline’ written on the front. Inside were a pressed flower, her birth certificate (which showed she had been born in Harrogate twenty-six years ago), an expired passport with no stamps or visas, and a black and white photograph of a woman he didn’t recognize. She had piercing, intelligent eyes, and her head was slightly tilted to one side. Her medium-length hair was swept back, revealing a straight hairline and ears with tiny lobes. Her lips were pressed tight together, and there was something about the arrogant intensity of her presence that Richmond found disturbing. He wouldn’t have described her as beautiful, but striking, certainly. Across the bottom were the words ‘To Carrie, Love Ruth’, written with a flourish.

Making sure he hadn’t missed anything, Richmond went back downstairs, taking the envelope of Caroline’s possessions with him. Veronica Shildon turned on the small electric fire in the front room when he entered.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I can’t be bothered to light a real Eire now. We use this most of the time anyway. It seems to be warm enough. Some tea?’

‘Yes, please, if it’s no trouble.’

‘It’s already made.’

Richmond sat down, avoiding the cushionless sofa in favour of an armchair. After Veronica had poured, he held out the photograph to her. ‘Who’s this woman?’ he asked. ‘Can you tell me anything about her?’

Veronica glanced at the photograph and shook her head. ‘It’s just someone Caroline used to know in London.’

‘Surely she must have told you something about her.’

‘Caroline didn’t like to talk about her past very much.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps it was painful for her.’

‘In what way?’

‘I told you. I don’t know. I’ve seen the picture before, yes, but I don’t know who it is or where you can find her.’

‘Is it an old girlfriend?’ Richmond felt embarrassed as he asked the question.

‘I should think so, wouldn’t you?’ Veronica said evenly

‘Mind if I take it with me?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Caroline didn’t seem much of a one for possessions,’ Richmond mused. ‘There’s hardly anything of hers but clothes. No letters, nothing.’

‘She liked to travel light, and she had no sentimental regard for the past. Caroline always looked ahead.’

It was a simple statement, but Richmond heard the irony in Veronica Shildon’s voice.

She shrugged. ‘A few of the books are hers. Some of the jewellery. All the non-classical records. But she didn’t go in much for keepsakes.’

Richmond tapped the photograph. ‘Which makes it all the more odd she should have hung on to this. Thank you, Ms Shildon. I’d better be off now.’

‘Aren’t you going to finish your tea?’

‘Best not,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to get back to work or my boss’ll skin me alive. Thanks very much anyway. Richmond could sense her unease. She looked around the room before glancing at him again and nodding.

‘All right, if you must.’

‘Will you be all right?’ he asked. ‘You could always go back to Mrs Cooper’s, if you feel-’

‘I’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘I’m still in a bit of a daze. I can’t believe it’s really happened.’

‘Is there no one you can go to, until you’re feeling better?’

‘There’s my therapist. She says I can call her any time, day or night. I might do that. We’ll see. But do you know the oddest thing?’

Richmond shook his head.

She folded her arms and nodded towards the room in general. ‘I can take all this. The room where it happened. I didn’t think I’d be able to bear it after last night, but it doesn’t bother me in the slightest to be here. It just feels empty. Isn’t that strange? It’s the loneliness, Caroline’s absence, that hurts. I keep expecting her to walk in at any moment.’

Richmond, who could think of no reply, said goodbye and walked out into the snow. He still had about an hour before his lunchtime meeting with Banks in the Queen’s Arms. He could use that time to check on Charles Cooper’s movements the previous evening and perhaps see if he could find out anything about the mysterious Ruth.