Past Reason Hated

ONE

Christmas Day in the Banks household passed the way Christmas Days usually pass for small families: plenty of noisy excitement and too much to eat and drink. Downstairs at nine o’clock – a great improvement over the ridiculously early hours they had woken up on Christmas mornings past – Brian and Tracy opened their presents while Sandra and Banks sipped champagne and orange juice and opened theirs. Outside, framed in the bay window, fresh snow hung heavy on the roofs and eaves of the houses opposite and formed a thick, unmarked carpet across street and lawns alike.

Banks and Sandra were happy with their presents – mostly clothes, book or record tokens and the inevitable aftershave, perfume and chocolates. Brian quickly disappeared upstairs with his guitar, and Tracy spent an hour in the bathroom preparing herself for dinner.

Gristhorpe arrived about noon. They ate at one thirty, got the dishes out of the way as quickly as possible, then watched the Queen’s Message, which Banks found as dull and pointless as ever. The rest of the afternoon the adults spent variously chatting, drinking and dozing. Around teatime, Banks and Sandra made a few phone calls to their parents and distant friends.

In deference to Gristhorpe’s tin ear, Banks refrained from playing music most of the time, but later in the evening, when Brian and Tracy had gone up to their rooms and the three adults sat enjoying the peace, he couldn’t restrain himself. Off and on, he had been thinking about Caroline Hartley and was anxious to check out the music. He was sure that it had some connection with the murder. Now he could hold back no longer. He searched through his cassette collection for the Vivaldi he thought he had. There it was: the Magnificat, with Laudate pueri and Beatus vir on the same tape.

First he put on the record that Vic Manson had sent over from forensics. The familiar music, with its stately opening and pure, soaring vocal, disturbed him with the memory of what he had seen in Veronica Shildon’s front room three days ago. He could picture again the macabre beauty of the scene: blazing fire, Christmas lights, candles, sheepskin rug, and Caroline Hartley draped on the sofa. The blood had run so thickly down her front that she had looked as if she were wearing a bib, or as if an undergarment had slipped up over her breasts. Carefully, he removed the needle.

‘I was enjoying that,’ Sandra said. ‘Better than some of the rubbish you play.’

‘Sorry,’ Banks said. ‘Try this.’

He put the cassette in the player and waited for the music to start. It was very different. The opening was far more sprightly, reminiscent of ‘Spring’ from The Four Seasons.

‘What are you after?’ Sandra asked.

Banks stopped the tape. ‘They’ve got the same title, by the same composer, but they’re different.’

‘Any fool can hear that.’

‘Even me,’ Gristhorpe added.

‘Claude Ivers was right then,’ Banks muttered to himself. He could have sworn he had a piece by Vivaldi called Laudate pueri, but he hadn’t recognized the music he heard at the scene.

The sleeve notes for the record told him very little. He turned to the cassette notes and read through the brief biographical sketch: Vivaldi – affectionately called ‘il prete rosso’ because of his flaming red hair – had taken holy orders, but ill health prevented him from working actively as a priest. He had served at the Pietà, a kind of orphanage-cum-conservatory for girls in Venice, from 1703 to 1740 and would have been asked to compose sacred music when there was no choirmaster.

The blurb went on, outlining the composer’s career and trying to pin down dates of composition. The Laudate pueri had probably been written for a funeral at the Pietà. One of its sections – the antiphon, ‘Sit nomen Domini’ – revealed the liturgical context as a burial service for very young children. There was more about Vivaldi’s setting being hardly solemn enough for a child’s funeral, but Banks was no longer paying attention. He went back to the word sheet enclosed in the record sleeve and read through the translation: so few words so much music.

According to the translator, ‘Sit nomen Domini benedictum ex hoc nunc et usque in saeculum’ meant, ‘Blessed be the name of the Lord; from henceforth now and for ever’. What that had to do with funerals or children Banks had no idea. He realized he didn’t know enough about the liturgy. He would have to talk to a churchman if he really wanted to discover the true relevance of the music.

The main point, however, was that what Banks now knew how the music tied in with the information he had got from Glendenning’s post-mortem. Caroline Hartley had given birth to a child. According to Banks’s theories so far, this had either been the reason for her flight to London or it had occurred while she had been there. Another chat with Veronica Shildon might clear that up.

Where was the child? What had happened to it? And who was the father? Perhaps if he could answer some of those questions he would know where to begin.

As far as musical knowledge went, Claude Ivers certainly seemed the most likely candidate to have brought the record. Already Banks was far from satisfied with his account of himself. Naturally, Ivers would deny having called at Veronica’s house on the night of the murder; he was known to have a grudge against Caroline Hartley. But he must have realized he had left the record. Why take such a risk? Surely he must understand that the police would have ways of finding out who had bought the record, even if there was no gift tag on the wrapping? Or did he? Like many geniuses, his connection with the practical realities of life was probably tenuous. And Ivers couldn’t have had anything to do with Caroline Hartley’s baby unless they had known one another some time ago. Very unlikely.

‘Put some carols on,’ Sandra said, ‘and stop sitting on the floor there staring into space.’

‘What? Oh, sorry.’ Banks snapped out of it and got up to freshen the drinks. He searched through the pile of records and tapes for something suitable. Kathleen Battle? Yes, that would do nicely. But even as ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’ began, his mind was on Vivaldi’s requiem for a dead child, Caroline Hartley’s baby and the photograph of Ruth, the mystery woman. Christmas, or not, Veronica Shildon was going to get another visit very soon. He went into the hall, took his cigarettes and lighter from his jacket pocket and slipped quietly out into the backyard for a peaceful smoke.

TWO

‘Veronica Shildon, this is Detective Constable Susan Gay.’

It was an embarrassing introduction, but it had to be made. Banks was well aware of the modern meaning of ‘gay’, but he was no more responsible for the word’s diminishment than he was for Susan’s surname.

Banks noticed the ironic smiled flit across Veronica’s lips and saw Susan give a long-suffering smile in return – something she would never have done in other circumstances.

Veronica stretched out her hand. ‘Good to meet you. Please sit down.’ She sat opposite them, back straight, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap. The excessive formality of her body language seemed at odds with the casual slacks and grey sweatshirt she was wearing. She offered them some sherry, which they accepted, and when she went to fetch it she walked as if she’d put in a lot of time carrying library books on her head.

Finally, when they all had their glasses to hide behind, Veronica seemed ready for questions. Starting gently, Banks first asked her about the furniture, whether she wanted the sofa cushions and the rug back. She said no, she never wished to see them again. She was going to redecorate the room completely, and as soon as the holidays were over and the shops had reopened, she was going to buy a new suite and carpet.

‘How are you managing with the flower shop?’ he asked.

‘I have a very trustworthy assistant, Patricia. She’ll take care of things until I feel ready again.’

‘Did Caroline ever have anything to do with your business? The shop, your partner…?’

Veronica shook her head. ‘David, my partner, lives in Newcastle and rarely comes here. He was a friend of Claude’s, one of the few that stuck with me when… Anyway, he regards the shop more as an investment than anything else.’

‘And Patricia?’

‘She’s only eighteen. I assume she has her own circle of friends.’

Banks nodded and sipped some sherry, then he slipped the signed photograph from his briefcase.

‘Are you sure you can’t tell me any more about this woman?’

Veronica looked at the photograph again. ‘It was something personal to Caroline,’ she answered. ‘I never pried. There were parts of her she kept hidden. I could accept that. All I know is that her name was Ruth and she wrote poetry.’

‘Where does she live?’

‘I’ve no idea, but Caroline lived in London for some years before she came up here.’

‘And you’ve never met this Ruth, never seen her?’

‘No.’

Banks bent to slip the photograph back into his briefcase and said casually, before he had even sat up to face her again, ‘Did you know that Caroline had a conviction for soliciting?’

‘Soliciting? I… I…’ Veronica paled and looked away at the wall so they couldn’t see her eyes. ‘No,’ she whispered.

‘Is there anything at all you can tell us about Caroline’s life in London?’

Veronica regained her composure. She sipped some sherry and faced them again. ‘No.’

Banks ran his hand through his cropped hair. ‘Come on, Ms Shildon,’ he said. ‘You lived with her for two years She must have talked about her past. As I understand it, you were undergoing therapy. Caroline too. Do you seriously expect me to believe that two people digging into their psyches like that never spoke to one another about important things?’

Veronica sat up even straighter and gave Banks a look as cold and grey as the North Sea. ‘Believe what you want, Chief Inspector. I’ve told you what I know. Caroline lived in London for a number of years. She didn’t have a very happy time there. What she was working through in analysis was private.’

‘How was she when you met her?’

‘When I…?’

‘When you first met.’

‘I’ve told you. She was living with Nancy Wood. She seemed happy enough. It wasn’t a… it was just a casual relationship. They shared a flat, I believe, but there was no deep commitment. What else can I say?’

‘Was she more, or less, disturbed back then than she has been lately?’

‘Oh, more. Definitely more. As I said, she seemed happy enough. At least on the surface. But she had some terrible problems to wrestle with.’

‘What problems?’

‘Personal ones. Psychological problems, like the ones we all have. Haven’t you read the poem: “They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They don’t mean to, but they do.”’ She reddened when she’d finished, as if just realizing there had been a four-letter word in the literary quotation. ‘Philip Larkin.’

Banks, who had heard from Susan all about the Hartley home, could certainly believe that. He knew something about Larkin’s poetry, too, through Gristhorpe and a recent Channel Four special, and made a mental note to have another look at the poem later.

‘But she was making progress?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Slowly, she was becoming whole. The scars don’t go away, but you recognize them and learn to live with them. The better you understand why you are what you are, the more you’re able to alter destructive patterns of behaviour.’ She managed a wry smile at herself. ‘I’m sorry if I sound like a commercial for my therapist, but you did ask.’

‘Was anything bothering her lately? Was she especially upset about anything?’

Veronica thought for a moment and drank more sherry. Banks was coming to see this as a signal of a forthcoming lie or evasion.

‘Quite the opposite,’ Veronica said finally. ‘As I told you, she was making great progress with regard to her personal problems. Our life together was very happy. And she was excited about the play. It was only a small part, but the director led her to believe there would be better ones to follow. I don’t know if Mr Conran was leading her to expect too much, but from what she told me, he seemed convinced of her talent.’

‘Did you ever meet James Conran?’

‘No. Caroline told me all this.’

‘Did she ever tell you that he fancied her?’

Veronica smiled. ‘She said he chatted her up a lot. I think she knew he found her attractive and felt she could use it.’

‘That’s a bit cold-blooded, isn’t it?’

‘Depends on your point of view.’

‘How far was she willing to go?’

Veronica put her glass down. ‘Look, Chief Inspector, I don’t mind answering your questions when they’re relevant, but I don’t see how speaking or implying ill of the dead is going to help you at all.’

Banks leaned forward. ‘Now you listen to me for a moment, Ms Shildon. We’re looking for the person who killed your companion. At the moment we’ve no idea who this person might be. If Caroline did anything that might have led to her death, we need to know, whether it reflects well or badly on her. Now how far was she willing to go with James Conran?’

Veronica, pale and stiff, remained silent a while. When she spoke, it was in a quiet, tired voice. ‘It was only an amateur dramatic society,’ she said. ‘The way you speak, anyone would think we were talking about a movie role. Caroline could flirt and flatter men’s egos easily enough, but that’s as far as she’d go. She wasn’t mercenary or cold.’

‘But she did lead men on?’

‘It was part of her way of dealing with them. If they were willing to be led…’

‘She didn’t sleep with them?’

‘No. And I would have known, believe me.’

‘So everything seemed to be going well for Caroline. There was nothing to worry or upset her?’

Again, the hesitation, the lady-like sip of sherry. ‘No.’

‘It’s best not to hold anything back,’ he said. ‘I’ve already told you, you can’t have any idea what information might be valuable in an investigation like this. Leave decisions like that to us.’

Veronica looked directly at him. He could see courage, pain and stubborn evasion in her eyes. He let the silence stretch, then gave Susan, who had been busy taking notes, a discreet signal to go ahead.

‘Veronica,’ Susan asked softly, ‘did you know about Caroline’s baby?’

This time the reaction was unmistakably honest. She almost spilled her sherry and her eyes widened. ‘What?’

Veronica Shildon certainly hadn’t known about Caroline’s baby, and the fact that she hadn’t known surprised her. Which meant, Banks deduced, that she probably did know a lot more about Caroline than she was willing to let on.

‘Caroline had a baby some years ago,’ Susan went on. We can’t say exactly when, but we were hoping you might be able to help.’

Veronica was able only to shake her head in disbelief.

‘We’re assuming she had it in London,’ Banks said. ‘That’s why anything you can tell us about Caroline’s life there would be a great help.’

‘A baby,’ Veronica echoed. ‘Caroline? She never said a word…’

‘It’s true,’ Susan said.

‘But what happened to it? Where is it?’

‘That’s what we’d like to know,’ Banks said. ‘Did you know that music, the Laudate pueri, was used at burial services for children?’

Veronica looked at him as if she didn’t understand. Her thin, straight lips pressed tight together and a frown spread over her brow from a deep V at the top of her nose. ‘What does that have to do with it?’ she asked.

‘Maybe nothing. But someone put that record on and made sure it was going to stay on. You say it wasn’t yours, so someone must have brought it. Perhaps the killer. You said you like classical music?’

‘Of course. I could hardly have lived with Claude for ten years if I didn’t, could I?’

Banks shrugged. ‘I don’t know. People make the strangest sacrifices for comfort and security.’

‘I might have sacrificed my independence and my pride, Chief Inspector, but my love for music wasn’t feigned, I assure you. I did then and still do enjoy all kinds of classical music.’

‘But Caroline didn’t.’

‘What does it matter? I was quite happy to enjoy my records when she was out.’

Banks, who had often suffered Sandra’s opposition to some of the music he liked, understood that well enough. ‘Is it,’ he asked, ‘the kind of present your husband might have given you?’

‘If you’re expecting me to implicate Claude in this, I won’t do it. We may have separated, but I wish him no harm. Are you trying to suggest that there is some obscure link between this music, the baby and Caroline’s death?’

‘The link seems obvious enough between the first two, Banks said, ‘but as for the rest, I don’t know. If you’d never seen the record before, someone must have brought it over that evening. It would help a lot if we knew who the father of Caroline’s child was.’

Veronica shook her head slowly. ‘I didn’t know. I really didn’t know. About the baby, I mean.’

‘Does it surprise you to discover that Caroline wasn’t exclusively lesbian?’

‘No, it’s not that. After all, I’ve hardly been exclusively so myself, have I? Most people aren’t. Most people like us.’ She tilted her head back and fixed him with a cool, grey look. ‘It might interest you to know, Chief Inspector, just for the record, that I’m not ashamed of what I am, and neither was Caroline. But we weren’t crusaders. We didn’t go around holding hands and mauling one another in public. Nor did we proselytize on behalf of groups or causes that seem to think sexual preference is an important issue in everything from ordination as a Church minister to what kind of breakfast cereal one buys. Like most people’s sex lives, ours was an intimate and private matter. At least it was until the papers got hold of this story. They soon discovered I was married to Claude, and why we parted, and it hasn’t taken them long to guess at the nature of my relationship with Caroline.’

‘I shouldn’t worry too much,’ Banks offered. ‘People pay much less attention to the gutter press during the Christmas season. Do you know if Caroline had any affairs while she was living with you? With men or women?’

Veronica fingered the neckline of her sweatshirt. ‘You’re very forthright, aren’t you?’

‘I sometimes have to be. Can you answer the question?’

Veronica paused, then said, ‘As far as I know she didn’t. And I think I would have known. Of course, she was attractive to men, and she knew it. She dealt with it as best she could.’

‘What were her feelings about men?’

‘Fear, contempt.’

‘Why?’

Veronica looked down into her glass and almost whispered. ‘Who can say where something like that starts? I don’t know.’

‘What about you?’

‘My feelings toward men?’

‘Yes.’

‘I can’t see how that’s relevant, Chief Inspector, but I certainly don’t hate men. I suppose I fear them somewhat, like Caroline, but perhaps not as much. They threaten me, in a way, but I have no trouble dealing with them in the course of business. Mostly they confuse me. I certainly have no desire ever to live with one again.’ She had finished her sherry and put the glass down on the low table as though announcing the end of the interview.

‘Are you sure she wasn’t involved with any members of the cast? Things like that do happen, you know, when people work together.’

Veronica shook her head. ‘All I can say is that she never came home late or stayed out all night.’

‘Did Caroline’s brother ever visit you here?’ Susan asked.

‘Gary? He hardly left the house as far as I know.’

‘You never met him?’

‘No.’

‘Did he know where the two of you lived?’

‘Of course he did. Caroline told me she gave him the address in case of emergency. She’d drop by every once in a while to see how things were with her father.’

‘You never went with her?’

‘No. She didn’t want me to.’

Banks could understand why. ‘Did anyone know you were going shopping after your therapy session the other evening?’ he asked.

‘Nobody. At least, I… I mean, Caroline knew.’

‘Apart from Caroline.’

‘She might have told someone, though I can’t think why. I certainly don’t announce such domestic trivia to the world at large.’

‘Of course not. But you might have mentioned it to someone?’

‘I might have. In passing.’

‘But you can’t remember to whom?’

‘I can’t even remember mentioning it to anyone other than Ursula, my therapist. Why is it important?’

‘Did your husband know?’

She uncrossed her legs and shifted in her chair. Claude? Why would he?’

‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

Veronica shook her head. ‘I told you, I’ve not seen him for a while. He phoned me yesterday to offer his condolences, but I don’t think it would be a good time tor us to meet again. Not for a while.’

‘Tell me, is there any chance that your husband knew Caroline Hartley before you introduced them?’

‘What a strange question. No, of course he didn’t. How could he, without my knowing?’

Banks shook his head and gestured to Susan that they were about to leave. They stood up.

‘Thanks for your time,’ Banks said at the door. ‘I hope it wasn’t too painful for you.’

‘Not too much, no. Incomprehensible, perhaps, but the pain was bearable.’

Banks smiled. ‘I told you, it’s best to leave the sorting out to us.’

She looked away. ‘Yes.’

As he turned, she suddenly touched his arm and he swung around to face her again. ‘Chief Inspector,’ she said. ‘This woman, Ruth. If you do find her, would you tell me? I know it’s foolish, but I’d really like to meet her. From what Caroline told me, Ruth had quite an influence on her, on the kind of life she’d begun to make for herself. I’m being honest with you. I know nothing more about her than that.’

Banks nodded. ‘All right, I’ll see what I can do. And if you remember anything else, please call me.’

She started to say something, but it turned into a quick ‘Goodbye’ and a hastily closed door.

The chill hit them as soon as they walked out into Oakwood Mews. Banks shivered and slipped on his black leather gloves, a Christmas present from Sandra. The sky looked like iron and the pavement was slick with ice.

‘Well,’ Susan said, as they walked carefully down the street, ‘she didn’t have much to tell us, did she?’

‘She’s holding back. I think she’s telling the truth about not knowing the woman in the photograph, but she’s holding back about almost everything else. Maybe you could pick up the key from the station and drop in at the community centre. Caroline may have left some of her things there, in a locker, maybe, or a dressing-table drawer.’

Susan nodded. ‘Do you think we should bring her in to the station and press her a bit harder? I’m sure she knows something. Maybe if we kept her for a while, wore down her resistance…?’

Banks looked at Susan and saw a smart young woman with earnest blue eyes, tight blonde curls and a slightly snub nose gazing back at him. Good as she is, he thought, she’s got a long way to go yet.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It won’t do any good. She’s not holding back for reasons of guilt. It’s a matter of pride and privacy with her. You might break her, given time, but you’d have to strip her of her dignity to do so, and she doesn’t deserve that.’

Whether Susan understood or not, Banks didn’t really know. She nodded slowly, a puzzled look clouded her eyes, then she shoved her hands deep in the pockets of her navy-blue coat and marched up King Street beside him. The crusted ice crackled and creaked under their winter boots.

THREE

There were certainly no dressing rooms at the community centre, not even for the lead players; nor were there any lockers. Susan wondered how they would manage when the play opened and they had to wear costumes and make-up. As she nosed around idly, she reflected on her Christmas.

On Christmas morning she had weakened and considered going to Sheffield, but in the end she had phoned and said she couldn’t make it because of an important murder investigation. ‘A murder?’ her mother had echoed. ‘How lurid. Well, dear, if you insist.’ And that was that. She had spent the day studying and watching the old musicals on television. But at least, she remembered with a smile, she had been on time on Christmas Eve to buy a small tree and a few decorations. At least she had made the flat look a bit more like a home, even if there were still a few things missing.

There was not much else they could do about identifying the three visitors Caroline Hartley had received on the evening of her death until they had more information about the record and the woman in the photograph. They wouldn’t get that until the shops and businesses were back into the swing of things again in a day or two. Banks had suggested a second visit to Harrogate for the following day, and though Susan was hardly looking forward to that, she was interested in what Banks would make of the set-up there.

Susan wasn’t sure about Veronica Shildon at all, especially now that she had met her. The woman was too stiff and thin-lipped – the kind one could imagine teaching in an exclusive girls’ school – and her posh accent and prissy mannerisms stuck in her craw. The idea of the two women in bed together made Susan’s flesh crawl.

As she poked around, looking for anything that might have been connected with Caroline, she thought she heard a noise down the hallway. It could have come from anywhere. The backstage area, she had quickly discovered, was a warren of store rooms and cubby-holes. Slowly, she walked towards the stage entrance and peeked through a fire door. The lights were on in the auditorium, which seemed odd, but it was silent and she saw no one. Puzzled, she went to the props room.

Marcia had scrubbed the graffiti from the walls, Susan noticed, leaving only garish smears in places. The trunk of tattered costumes had gone. It was a shame about the vandals, she thought, but there was nothing, really, she could do. As she had told Conran and Marcia, the police had a good idea who the culprits were, but they didn’t have the manpower to put a round the clock watch on them and could hardly arrest them with no evidence at all. PCs Tolliver and Bradley had had a word with the suspected ringleaders, but the kids were so cool and arrogant they had given nothing away.

Again, Susan thought she heard a noise like something being dragged across a wood floor. She stood still and listened. It stopped, and all she could hear was her own heart beating. Not even a mouse stirred. She shrugged and went on poking about the room. It was no use. She would pick up nothing about Caroline Hartley here by osmosis.

The door creaked open slowly behind her. She turned, ready to defend herself, and saw a uniformed policeman silhouetted in the doorway. What the hell? As far as she knew, they hadn’t put a guard inside the place. She couldn’t make out who it was; his helmet was too low over his brow and its strap covered his chin. The light behind her in the store room was too dim to be much help.

He stood with his hands clasped behind his back and bent his knees. ‘Hello, hello, hello! What have we here?’

It was an assumed voice, she could tell that. Pretentiously deep and portentous. For a moment she didn’t know what to do or say. Then he walked into the room and closed the door.

‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘I shall have to ask you to accompany me to the Crooked Billet for a drink, and if you don’t come clean there, we’ll proceed to Mario’s for dinner.’

Susan squinted in the poor light and saw that under the ridiculous helmet stood James Conran himself. Out of angry relief, she said, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, taking off the helmet. ‘Couldn’t resist playing a little joke. I saw you when you peeked into the auditorium. I’d just dropped by to check out some blocking angles from the floor.’

‘But the uniform,’ Susan said. ‘I thought the costumes had all been destroyed.’

‘This? I found it under the stage with a lot more old stuff. Been there for years. I suppose our previous incarnation must have left it all behind.’

Susan laughed. ‘Do you always dress the part when you ask someone out to dinner?’

Conran smiled shyly. ‘I’m not the most direct or confident person in the world,’ he said, unbuttoning the high-collared police jacket. ‘Especially when I’m talking to an ex-pupil. You may be grown-up now, but you weren’t the last time I saw you. Maybe I need a mask to hide behind. But I did mean what I said. Would you consider at least having a drink with me?’

‘I don’t know.’ Susan had nothing to do, nowhere to go but home, but she felt she couldn’t just say yes. It was partly because he made her feel like that sixteen-year-old schoolgirl with a crush on the teacher again, and partly because he was connected, albeit peripherally, with a case she was working on.

‘I think I should arrest you for impersonating a police officer,’ she said.

He looked disappointed, and a faint flush touched his cheeks. ‘At least grant the condemned man his last wish, then. Surely you can’t be so cruel?’

Still Susan deliberated. She wanted to say yes, but she felt as if a great stone had lodged in her chest and wouldn’t let out the air to form the words.

‘Some other time, perhaps, then?’ Conran said. ‘When you’re not so busy.’

‘Oh, come on,’ Susan said, laughing. ‘I’ve got time for a quick one at the Crooked Billet at least.’ To hell with it, she thought. Why not? It was about time she had some fun.

He brightened. ‘Good. Just a minute then. Let me change back into my civvies.’

‘One thing first,’ Susan said. ‘Did Caroline or any of the cast keep any of their private things here? I can’t seem to find any lockers or changing areas.’

‘We just have to make do with what we have,’ Conran said. ‘It’s all right at the moment, but at dress rehearsal and after… well, we’ll see what we can do about some of those little cubby-holes off the main corridor.’

‘So there’s not likely to be anything?’

‘Afraid not. If people brought their handbags or briefcases to rehearsal, we just left them in here while we were on stage. The back door was locked, so nobody could sneak in and steal anything. Don’t go away,’ he said, and backed out of the room.

Susan put her hand over her mouth and laughed when he had gone. How shy and clumsy he seemed. But he did have charm and a sense of humour.

‘Right,’ he said, peeping around the door a couple of minutes later. ‘Ready.’

They left the community centre by the back door, locked up and made their way down the alley to York Road. There, midway between the bus station and the preRoman site, stood the Crooked Billet. Luckily it wasn’t too busy. They found a table by a whitewashed wall adorned with military emblems, and Conran went to fetch the drinks.

Susan watched him. His shirt hung out of the back of his trousers, under his sweater, he had rather round shoulders and his hair could have done with a trim at the back. Apart from that he was presentable enough. Slim, though more from lack of proper diet than exercise, she guessed; tall, and if not straight at least endearingly stooped. Very artistic, really. His eyes, she noticed as he came back, were two slightly different shades of blue-grey, one paler than the other. Funny, she had never noticed that at school.

‘Here,’ he said, putting a half of mild in front of her and holding out his pint. ‘Cheers.’ They clinked glasses.

‘How’s the investigation going?’ he asked.

Susan told him there was nothing to report on the vandalism. ‘I’m sorry about Caroline Hartley,’ she went on. ‘I noticed how upset you were when the Chief Inspector mentioned her death.’

Conran looked down and swirled the beer in his glass. ‘Yes. As I told you on Christmas Eve, I can’t say we were great friends. This was her first role with the company. I hadn’t known her very long. Obviously, I didn’t know her at all, really. But she was a joy to have around. Such childlike enthusiasm. And what talent! Untrained, but very talented. We’ve lost an important member of the cast. Not that that’s why I was upset. A Maria can easily be replaced.’

‘But not a Caroline Hartley?’

He shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Are you sure you weren’t in love with her?’

Conran started as if he’d been stung. ‘What? What on earth makes you ask that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Susan said. And she didn’t. The question had just risen, unbidden, to her lips. ‘Just that everyone says she was so attractive. After all, you are a bachelor, aren’t you?’

He smiled. ‘Yes. I’m sorry. It’s just that, well, here we are, having a drink together for the first time – our first date, so to speak – and you ask me if I was in love with another woman. Don’t you think that’s a bit odd?’

‘Maybe. But were you?’

Conran smiled from the corner of his mouth and looked at her. ‘You’re very persistent. I’d guess that’s something to do with your job. One day you must tell me all about it, all about your last ten years, why you joined the police.’

‘And the answer to my question?’

He held his hands out, as if for handcuffs, and said in a Cockney voice, ‘All right, all right, guv! Enough’s enough! I’ll come clean.’

The people at the next table looked over. Susan felt embarrassed, but she couldn’t help smiling. She leaned forward and put her elbows on the table. ‘Well?’ she whispered.

‘I suppose every man’s a little bit in love with every beautiful woman,’ Conran said quietly.

Susan blushed and reached for her drink. She didn’t consider herself beautiful, but did he mean to imply that she was? ‘That’s a very evasive answer,’ she said. ‘And besides, it sounds like a quote.’

Conran grinned. ‘But it’s true, isn’t it? Depending on one’s sexual preference, I suppose.’

‘I think it’s disgusting, the way she lived,’ Susan said. It’s abnormal. Not that I mean to speak ill of the dead,’ she blustered on, reddening, ‘but the thought of it gives me the creeps.’

‘Well, that was her business,’ Conran said.

‘But don’t you think it’s perverted?’

‘I can think of worse things to be.’

‘I suppose so,’ Susan said, feeling she’d let too much out. What was wrong with her? She had been so hesitant about going out with him in the first place, and now here she was, exposing her fears. And to him, of all people. Surely, being in the arts, he must have come across all kinds of perverts. But she hadn’t been able to help herself. The image of the two women in bed together still tormented her. And it was especially vivid as she had just come from talking to the cool, elegant Veronica Shildon. Slow down, Susan, she warned herself.

‘Do you have any idea who the killer is?’ Conran asked. Susan shook her head.

‘And what about your boss?’

‘I’m never sure I know what he thinks,’ Susan said. She laughed. ‘He’s an odd one is Chief Inspector Banks. I sometimes wonder how he gets the job done at all. He likes to take his time, and he seems so sensitive to other people and their feelings. Even criminals, I’ll bet.’ She finished her drink.

‘You make him sound like a wimp,’ Conran said, ‘but I doubt very much that he is.’

‘Oh no, he’s not a wimp. He’s…’

‘Sympathetic?’

‘More like empathetic, compassionate. It’s hard to explain. It doesn’t stop him from wanting to see criminals punished. He can be tough, even cruel, if he has to be. I just get the impression he’d rather do things in the gentlest way.’

‘You’re more of a pragmatist, are you?’

Susan wasn’t sure if he was making fun of her or not. It was the same feeling she often had with Philip Richmond. Her eyes narrowed. ‘I believe in getting the job done, yes. Emotions can get in the way if you let them.’

‘And you wouldn’t?’

‘I’d try not to.’

‘Another drink?’ Conran asked.

‘Go on, then,’ she said. ‘On two conditions.’

‘What are they?’

‘One, I’m buying. Two, no more shop talk. From either of us.’

Conran laughed. ‘It’s a deal.’

Susan picked up her handbag and went to the bar.

FOUR

I’ve told you,’ Detective Sergeant Jim Hatchley said to his new wife. ‘It’s not exactly work. You ought to know me better than that, lass. Look at it as a night out.’

‘But what if I didn’t want a night out?’ Carol argued.

‘I’m buying,’ Hatchley announced, as if that was the end of it.

Carol sighed and opened the door. They were in the carpark at the back of the Lobster Inn, Redburn, about fifteen miles up the coast from their new home in Saltby Bay. The wind from the sea felt as icy as if it had come straight from the Arctic. The night was clear, the stars like bright chips of ice, and beyond the welcoming lights of the pub they could hear the wild crashing and rumbling of the sea. Carol shivered and pulled her scarf tight around her throat as they ran towards the back door.

Inside, the place was as cosy as could be. Christmas decorations hung from beams that looked like pieces of driftwood, smoothed and worn by years of exposure to the sea. The murmur of conversations and the hissing of pumps as pints were pulled were music to Hatchley’s ears. Even Carol, he noticed, seemed to mellow a bit once they’d got a drink and a nice corner table.

She unfastened her coat and he couldn’t help but look once again at the fine curve of her bosom, which stood out as she took off the coat. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was wavy now, after a perm, and Hatchley relished the memory of seeing it spread out on the pillow beside him that very morning. He couldn’t get enough of the voluptuous woman he now called his wife, and she seemed to feel the same way. His misbehaviour at the reception had soon been forgiven.

Carol spotted the way he was looking at her. She blushed, smiled and slapped him on the thigh. ‘Stop it, Jim.’

‘I weren’t doing anything.’ His eyes twinkled.

‘It’s what you were thinking. Anyway, tell me, what did Chief Inspector Banks say?’

Hatchley reached for a cigarette. ‘There’s this bloke called Claude Ivers lives just up the road from here, some sort of highbrow musician, and he parks his car at the back of the pub. Banks wants to know if he took it out at all on the evening of December twenty-second.’

‘Why can’t he find out for himself?’

Hatchley drank some more beer before answering. ‘He’s got other things to do. And it’d be a long way for him to come, especially in nasty weather like this. Besides, he’s the boss, he delegates.’

‘But still, he needn’t have asked you. He knows we’re supposed to be on our honeymoon.’

‘It’s more in the way of a favour, love. I suppose I could’ve said no.’

‘But you didn’t. You never do say no to a night out in a pub. He knows that.’

Hatchley put a hand as big as a ham on her knee. ‘I thought you’d be used to going with a copper by now, love.’

Carol pouted. ‘I am. It’s just… oh, drink your pint, you great lummox.’ She slapped him on the thigh.

Hatchley obliged and they forgot work for the next hour, chatting instead about their plans for the cottage and its small garden. Finally, at about five to eleven, their glasses only half full, Carol said, ‘There’s not a lot of time left, Jim, if you’ve got that little job to do.’

Hatchley looked at his watch. ‘Plenty of time. Relax, love.’

‘But it’s nearly eleven. You’ve not even gone up for a refill. That’s not like you.’

‘Trust me.’

‘Well, you might not want another, though that’s a new one on me, but I do.’

‘Fine.’ Hatchley muttered something about nagging wives and went to the bar. He came back with a pint for himself and a gin and tonic for Carol.

‘I hope it’s not all going to be like this,’ she said when he sat down again.

‘Like what?’

‘Work. Our honeymoon.’

‘It’s one-off job, I’ve told you,’ Hatchley replied. He drained about half his pint in one go. ‘Hard work, but someone has to do it.’ He belched and reached for another cigarette.

At about twenty past eleven Carol suggested that if he wasn’t going to do anything they should go home. Hatchley told her to look around.

‘What do you see?’ he asked when she’d looked.

‘A pub. What else?’

‘Nay, lass, tha’ll never make a detective. Look again.’

Carol looked again. There were still about a dozen people in the pub, most of them drinking and nobody showing any signs of hurrying.

‘What time is it?’ Hatchley asked her.

‘Nearly half past eleven.’

‘Any towels over the pumps?’

‘What? Oh…’ She looked. ‘No. I see what you mean.’

‘I had a word with young Barraclough, the local lad at Saltby Bay. He’s heard about this place and he’s told me all about the landlord. Trust me.’ Hatchley put a sausage finger to the side of his nose and ambled over to the bar.

‘Pint of bitter and a gin and tonic, please,’ he said to the landlord, who refilled the glass without looking up and took Carol’s tumbler over to the optic.

‘Open late, I see,’ Hatchley said.

‘Aye.’

‘I do so enjoy a pub with flexible opening hours. Village bobby here?’

The landlord scowled and twitched his head towards the table by the fire.

‘That’s him?’ said Hatchley. ‘Just the fellow I want to see.’ He paid the landlord, then went and put the drinks down at their table. ‘Won’t be a minute, love,’ he said to Carol, and walked over to the table by the fire.

Three men sat there playing cards, all of them in their late forties in varying degrees of obesity, baldness or greying hair.

‘Police?’ Hatchley asked.

One of the men, sturdy, with a broad, flat nose and glassy, fish-like eyes, looked up. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘What if I am?’

‘A minute of your time?’ Hatchley gestured to the table where Carol sat nursing her gin and tonic.

The man sighed and shook his head at his mates. ‘A policeman’s lot…’ he said. They laughed.

‘What is it?’ he grunted when they’d sat down at Hatchley’s table.

‘I didn’t want to talk in front of your mates,’ Hatchley began. ‘Might be a bit embarrassing. Anyways, I take it you’re the local bobby?’

‘That I am. Constable Kendal, at your service. If you get to the bloody point, that is.’

‘Aye,’ said Hatchley, tapping a cigarette on the side of his package. ‘Well, that’s just it. Ciggie?’

‘Hmph. Don’t mind if I do.’

Hatchley gave him a cigarette and lit it for him. ‘Yon landlord seems a bit of a miserable bugger. I’ve heard he’s a tight-lipped one, too.’

‘Ollie?’ Kendal laughed. ‘Tight as a Scotsman’s sphincter. Why? What’s it to you?’

‘I’d like to make a little bet with you.’

‘A bet? I don’t get it.’

‘Let me explain. I’d like to bet you a round of drinks that you can get some information out of him.’

Kendal’s brow furrowed and his watery eyes seemed to turn into mirrors. He chewed his rubbery lower lip. ‘Information? What information? What the bloody hell are you talking about?’

Hatchley told him about Ivers and the car. Kendal listened, his expression becoming more and more puzzled. When Hatchley had finished, the constable simply stared at him open-mouthed.

‘And by the way,’ Hatchley added, reaching into his inside pocket for his card. ‘My name’s Hatchley, Detective Sergeant James Hatchley, CID. I’ve just been posted to your neck of the woods so we’ll probably be seeing quite a bit of one another. You might mention to yon Ollie about his licence. Not that I have to remind you, I don’t suppose, when it’s an offence you’ve been abetting.’

Pale and resigned, Constable Kendal stood up and walked over to the bar. Hatchley sat back, sipped some more beer and grinned.

‘What was all that about?’ Carol asked.

‘Just trying to find out how good the help is around here. Why do a job yourself if you can get someone else to do it for you? There’s some blokes, and I’ve a good idea that landlord is one of them, who’ll tell you it’s pissing down when the sun’s out, just to be contrary.’

‘And you think he’ll talk now?’

‘Aye, he’ll talk all right. No percentage in not doing, is there?’ He ran a hand through his fine, straw-coloured hair. ‘I’ve lived in Yorkshire all my life,’ he said, ‘and I’ve still never been able to figure it out. There’s some places, some communities, as wide open as a nympho’s legs. Friendly. Helpful. And there’s others zipped up as tight as a virgin’s – sorry, love – and I reckon this is one of them God help us if anything nasty happens in Redburn.’

‘Couldn’t you just have asked the landlord yourself?’

Hatchley shook his head. ‘It’ll come better from the local bobby, believe me, love. He’s got very powerful motivation for doing this. His job. And the landlord’s got his licence to think about. Much easier this way. The more highly motivated the seeker, the better the outcome of the search. I read that in a textbook somewhere.’

About five minutes later, Kendal plodded back to the table and sat down.

‘Well?’ said Hatchley.

‘He came in to open up at six – they don’t go in for that all-day opening here except in season – and he says Ivers’s car was gone.’

‘At six?’

‘Thereabouts, aye.’

‘But he didn’t see him go?’

‘No. He did see that bird of his drive off, though.’

‘Oh, aye?’

‘Aye. American, she is. Young enough to be his daughter. Has her own car too. Flashy red sportscar. Well, you know these rich folk…’

‘Tell me about her.’

‘Ollie says she was getting in her car and driving off just as he came in.’

‘Which way did she go?’

Kendal looked scornfully at Hatchley and pointed with a callused thumb. ‘There’s only one way out of here, up the bloody hill.’

Hatchley scratched his cheek. ‘Aye, well… they haven’t issued me my regulation ordnance survey map yet. So let’s get this straight. At six o’clock, Ivers’s car was already gone and his girlfriend was just getting into hers and driving off. Am I right?’

Kendal nodded.

‘Owt else?’

‘No.’ Kendal stood up to leave.

‘Just a minute, Constable,’ Hatchley said. ‘I won the bet. While you’re on your feet I’ll have a pint of bitter for myself and a gin and tonic for the missis, if it’s no trouble.’