Past Reason Hated

ONE

‘What’s Susan up to?’ Richmond asked Banks on the way to Harrogate on the afternoon of December 27.

Driving conditions had improved considerably. Most of the main roads had been salted, and for the first time in weeks the sky glowed clear blue and the sun glinted on distant swaths and rolls of snow.

‘I’ve got her chasing down the record,’ Banks answered. ‘Some shops might not even bother to reply unless we push them.’

‘Do you think it’ll lead anywhere?’

‘It could, but I don’t know where. It can’t just have been on by accident. It was like some kind of macabre soundtrack. Call it a strong hunch if you like, but there was something bloody about it.’

‘Claude Ivers?’

‘Could be. At least we know now he lied to us about being out. We’ll talk to him again later. What I want today is a fresh perspective on Caroline Hartley’s family background. We’ve already got Susan’s perceptions, now it’s time for yours and mine. The old man couldn’t have done it, so we’ll concentrate on the brother. It sounds like he had plenty of motive, and nobody keeps tabs on his movements. It wouldn’t have been hard for him to leave his father to sleep for a couple of hours and slip out. From what Susan said, the old man probably wouldn’t have noticed.’

‘What about transport?’

‘Bus. Or train. The services are frequent enough.’

They pulled up outside the huge, dark house.

‘Bloody hell, it does look spooky, doesn’t it?’ Richmond said. ‘He’s even got the curtains closed.’

They walked up the path through the overgrown garden and knocked at the door. Nobody answered. Banks hammered again, harder. A few seconds later, the door opened slowly and a thin, pale-faced teenager with spiky black hair squinted out at the sharp, cold day. Banks showed his card.

‘You can’t see Father today,’ Gary said. ‘He’s ill. The doctor was here.’

‘It’s you we want to talk to,’ Banks said. ‘If you don’t mind.’

Gary Hartley turned his back on them and walked down the hall. He hadn’t shut the door, so they exchanged puzzled glances and followed him, closing the door behind them. Not that it made much difference; the place was still freezing.

In the front room, Banks recognized the high ceiling, curlicued corners and old chandelier fixture that Susan had described. He could also see the evidence of what Gary Hartley had done to the place, its ruined grandeur: wainscotting pitted with dart holes, scratched with obscene graffiti.

Richmond looked stunned. He stood by the door with one hand in his overcoat pocket and the other touching the right side of his moustache, just staring around him. The room was dim, lit only by a standard lamp near the battered green-velvet sofa on which Gary Hartley lay smoking and studiously not looking at his visitors. A small colour television on a table in front of the curtained window was showing the news with the sound turned down. Empty lager cans and wine bottles stood along the front of the stone hearth like rows of soldiers. In places, the carpet had worn through so much that only the crossed threads remained to cover the bare floorboards. The room smelled of stale smoke, beer and unwashed socks.

It must have been beautiful once, Banks thought, but a beauty few could afford. Back in the last century, for every family enjoying the easy life in an elegant Yorkshire mansion like this, there were thousands paying for it, condemned to the misery of starving in cramped hovels packed close to the mills that accounted for their every waking hour.

Banks picked a scuffed, hard-backed chair to sit on and swept a pair of torn jeans to the floor. He managed to light a cigarette with his gloves on. ‘What did your father do for a living?’ he asked Gary.

‘He owned a printing business.’

‘So you’re not short of a bob or two?’

Gary laughed and waved his arm in an all-encompassing arc. ‘As you can see, the fortune dwindles, riches decay.’

Where did he get such language? Banks wondered. He had already taken in the remains of an old library in ceiling-high bookcases beside the empty fireplace: beautiful, tooled-leather bindings. Cervantes, Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Dickens. Now he saw a book lying open, face down, beside Gary’s sofa. The gold embossed letters on the spine told him it was Vanity Fair, something he had always meant to read himself. What looked like a red-wine stain in the shape of South America had ruined the cover. So Gary Hartley drank, smoked, watched television and read the classics. Not much else for him to do, was there? Was he knowledgeable about music, too? Banks saw no signs of a stereo. It was eerie talking to this teenager. He couldn’t have been more than a year or so older than Brian, but any other similarity between them ended with the spiky haircut.

‘Surely there must be some money left?’ Banks said.

‘Oh, yes. It’ll see him to his grave.’

‘And you?’

He looked surprised. ‘Me?’

‘Yes. When he’s gone. Will you have some money left to help you leave here, find a place of your own?’

Gary dropped his cigarette in a lager can. It sizzled. ‘Never thought about it,’ he said.

‘Is there a will?’

‘Not that he’s shown me.’

‘What’ll happen to the house?’

‘It was for Caroline.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Dad was going to leave it for Caroline.’

Banks leaned forward. ‘But she deserted him, she left you all. You’ve been taking care of him by yourself for all these years.’ At least that was what Susan Gay had told him.

‘So what?’ Gary got up with curiously jerky movements and took a fresh pack of cigarettes from the mantelpiece. ‘She was always his favourite, no matter what.’

‘What now?’

‘With her gone, I suppose I’ll get it.’ He looked around the cavernous room, as though the thought horrified him more than anything else, and flopped back down on the sofa.

‘Where were you on the evening of December twenty-second?’ Richmond asked. He had recovered enough to find himself a chair and take out his notebook.

Gary glanced over at him, a look of scorn on his face. ‘Just like telly, eh? The old alibi.’

‘Well?’

‘I was here. I’m always here. Or almost always. Sometimes I used to go to school so they didn’t get too ratty with me, but it was a waste of time. Since I left, I’ve got a better education reading those old books. I go to the shops sometimes, just for food and clothes. Then there’s haircuts and the bank. That’s about it. You’d be surprised how little you have to go out if you don’t want to. I can do the whole lot in one morning a week if I’m organized right Booze is the most important. Get that right and the rest just seems to fall into place.’

‘What about your friends?’ Banks asked. ‘Don’t you ever go out with them?’

‘Friends? Those wallies from school? They used to come over sometimes.’ He pointed to the wainscotting. ‘As you can see. But they thought I was mad. They just wanted to drink and do damage and when they got bored they didn’t come back. Nothing changes much here.’

‘December twenty-second?’ Richmond repeated.

‘I told you,’ Gary said, ‘I was here.’

‘Can you prove that?’

‘How? You mean witnesses?’

‘That would help.’

‘I probably emptied out the old man’s potty. Maybe even changed his sheets if he messed the bed. But he won’t remember. He doesn’t know one day from the next I might even have dropped in at the off-licence for a few cans of lager and some fags, but I can’t prove that either.

Every time Gary talked about his father his tone hardened to hatred. Banks could understand that. The kid must be torn in half by his conflicts between duty and desire, responsibility and the need for freedom. He had given in and accepted the yoke, and he must both hate himself for his weakness and his father for making such a demand in the first place. And Caroline, of course. How he must have hated Caroline, though he didn’t sound bitter when he spoke of her. Perhaps his hatred had been assuaged by her death and he had allowed himself to feel some simple pity.

‘Did you go to Eastvale that evening?’ Richmond went on. ‘Did you call on your sister and lose your temper with her?’

Gary coughed. ‘You really think I killed her, don’t you? That’s a laugh. If I was going to I’d have done it a few years ago, when I really found out what she’d lumbered me with, not now.’

Five or six years ago, Banks calculated, Gary would have been only twelve or thirteen, perhaps too young for a relatively normal child to commit sororicide – and surely he must have been living a more normal life back then. Also, as Banks had learned over the years, bitterness and resentment could take a long time to reach breaking point. People nursed grudges and deep-seated animosities for years sometimes before exploding into action. All they needed was the right trigger.

‘Did you ever visit Caroline in Eastvale?’ Banks asked.

‘No. I told you, I hardly go out. Certainly not that far.’

‘Have you ever met Veronica Shildon?’

‘That the lezzie she was shacking up with?’

‘Yes.’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘But Caroline visited you here?’

He paused. ‘Sometimes. When she’d come back from London.’

‘You told the detective constable who visited you a few days ago that you knew nothing of Caroline’s life in London. Is that true?’

‘Yes.’

‘So for over five years, when she was between the ages of sixteen and twenty-one, you had no contact.’

‘Right. Six years, really.’

‘Did you know she had a baby?’

Gary sniffed. ‘I knew she was a slut, but I didn’t know she had a kid, no.’

‘She did. Do you know what happened to it? Who the father was?’

‘I told you, I didn’t even know she’d had one.’

He seemed confused by the issue. Banks decided to take his word for the moment.

‘Did she ever mention a woman called Ruth to you?’

Gary thought for a moment. ‘Yeah, some woman who wrote poetry she knew in London.’

‘Can you remember what she said about her?’

‘No. Just that they were friends like, and this Ruth woman had helped her.’

‘Is that all? Helped her with what?’

‘I don’t know. Just that she’d helped her.’

‘What did you think she meant?’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe took her in off the street or something, helped her with the baby. How should I know?’

‘What was her last name?’

‘She never mentioned it. Just Ruth.’

‘Whereabouts in London did she live?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘You’re sure there’s nothing more you can tell us about her?’

Gary shook his head.

‘Do you know anything about music?’ Banks asked.

‘Can’t stand it.’

‘I mean classical music.’

‘Any music sounds awful to me.’

Another one with a tin ear, Banks thought, just like Superintendent Gristhorpe. But it didn’t mean Gary knew nothing about the subject. He read a lot, and could easily have come across the necessary details concerning the Vivaldi piece, perhaps in a biography.

‘The last time you saw Caroline,’ he asked, ‘did she tell you anything that gave you cause to worry about her, to think she might be in danger, frightened of something?’

Gary appeared to give the question some thought, then he shook his head. ‘No.’

Again, Banks thought he was telling the truth. Just. But there was something on Gary’s mind, below the surface, that made his answer seem evasive.

‘Is there anything else you want to tell us?’

‘Nope.’

‘Right.’ Banks nodded to Richmond and they headed for the door. ‘Don’t bother to see us out,’ Banks said. ‘We know the way.’

Gary didn’t reply.

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Richmond when they’d got in the car and turned on the heater. ‘What a bloody nutcase.’ He rubbed his hands together.

‘You wouldn’t think, would you,’ Banks said, looking at the tall, elegant stone houses, ‘that behind such a genteel façade you’d find something so twisted.’

‘Not unless you were a copper,’ Richmond answered.

Banks laughed. ‘Time for a pub lunch on the way back, he said, ‘then you can take a trip to Barnard Castle and I’ll see about having a chat with the therapist.’

‘Rather you than me,’ Richmond said. ‘If she’s anything like she was when I saw her the other day she’ll probably end up convincing you you need therapy yourself – after she’s chewed your balls off.’

‘Who knows, maybe I do need therapy,’ Banks mused, then turned by the Stray, passed the Royal Baths and headed back towards Eastvale.

TWO

Ursula Kelly’s office was on the second floor of an old building on Castle Hill Road. A back room, it was graced with a superb view over the formal gardens and the river to the eyesore of the East End Estate and the vale beyond. Not that you could see much today but a uniform shroud of white through which the occasional clump of trees, redbrick street or telegraph pole poked its head.

The waiting room was cramped and chilly, and none of the magazines were to Banks’s taste. It wasn’t an interview he was looking forward to. He had a great professional resistance to questioning doctors and psychiatrists during a case; much as they were obliged and bound by law, they had never, in his experience, proved useful sources of information. The only one he really trusted was Jenny Fuller, who had helped him out once or twice. As he looked out the window at the snow, he wondered what Jenny would make of Gary Hartley and the whole situation. Pity she was away.

After about ten minutes, Dr Ursula Kelly admitted him to her inner sanctum. She was a severe-looking woman in her early fifties, with grey hair swept back tight and held firm in a bun. The lines of what might once have been a beautiful if harsh face were softened only by the plumpness of middle age. Her eyes, though guarded, couldn’t help but twinkle with curiosity and irony. Apart from a few bookcases housing texts and journals, and the desk and couch in the corner, the consulting room was surprisingly bare. Ursula Kelly sat behind the desk with her back to the picture window, and Banks placed himself in front of her. She was wearing a fawn cardigan over her cream blouse, no white coat in evidence.

‘What can I do for you, Chief Inspector?’ she asked, tapping the eraser of a yellow HB pencil on a sheaf of papers in front of her. She spoke with a faint foreign accent. Austrian, German, Swiss? Banks couldn’t quite place it.

‘I’m sure you know why I’m here,’ he said. ‘My detective sergeant dropped by to see you the other day. Caroline Hartley.’

‘What about her?’

Banks sighed. It was going to be just as hard as he had expected. Question – answer, question – answer.

‘I just wondered if you might be able to tell me a little more than you told him. How long had she been a patient of yours?’

‘I had been seeing Caroline for just over three years.’

‘Is that a long time?’

Ursula Kelly pursed her lips before answering. ‘It depends. Some people have been coming for ten years or more. I wouldn’t call it long, no.’

‘What was wrong with her?’

The doctor dropped the pencil and leaned back in her chair. She eyed Banks for a long time before answering. ‘Let’s get this clear,’ she said finally. ‘I’m not a medical doctor, I’m an analyst, primarily using Jungian methods, if that means anything to you.’

‘I’ve heard of Jung.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Good. Well, without going into all the ins and outs of it, people don’t have to be ill to start seeing me. In the sense that you mean, there was nothing wrong with Caroline Hartley.’

‘So why did she come? And pay? I’m assuming your services aren’t free.’

Dr Kelly smiled. ‘Are yours? She came because she was unhappy and she felt her unhappiness was preventing her from living fully. That is why people come to me.’

‘And you make them happy?’

She laughed. ‘Would that it were as easy as that. I do very little, actually, but listen. If the patient makes the connections, they cut so much deeper. The people who consult me generally feel that they are living empty lives, living illusions, if you like. They are aware of what potential they have; they know that life should mean more than it does to them; they know that they are capable of achieving, of feeling more. But they are emotionally numb. So they come for analysis. I’m not a psychiatrist. I don’t prescribe drugs. I don’t treat schizophrenics or psychotics. I treat people you would perceive as perfectly normal, on the outside.’

‘And inside?’

‘Ah! Aren’t we all a mass of contradictions inside? Our parents, whether they mean to or not, bequeath us a lot we’d be better off without.’

Banks thought of Gary Hartley and the terrible struggles he had to live with. He also thought of the Philip Larkin poem that Veronica Shildon had quoted.

‘Can you tell me anything at all about Caroline Hartley’s problems?’ he asked. ‘Anything that might help solve her murder?’

‘I understand your concern,’ Ursula Kelly said, ‘and believe me, I sympathize with your task, but there is nothing I can tell you.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

‘Take it whichever way you wish. But don’t think I’m trying to impede your investigation. The things Caroline and I worked on were childhood traumas, often nebulous in the extreme. They could have nothing to do with her death, I assure you. How could the way a child felt about… say… a lost doll result in her murder twenty years later?’

‘Don’t you think I’d be the best judge of that, as one professional to another?’

‘There is nothing I can tell you. It was her feelings I dealt with. We tried to uncover why she felt the way she did about certain things, what the roots of her fears and insecurities were.’

‘And what were they?’

She smiled. ‘Even in ten years, Chief Inspector, we might not have uncovered them all. I can see by the way you’re fidgeting you need a cigarette. Please smoke, if you wish. I don’t, but it doesn’t bother me. Many of my patients feel the need for infantile oral gratification.’

Banks ignored the barb and lit up. ‘I don’t suppose I need to remind you,’ he said, ‘that the rule of privilege doesn’t apply to doctor-patient relationships as it does to those between lawyer and client?’

‘It is not a matter of reminding me. I never even thought about it.’

‘Well, it doesn’t. You are, by law, obliged to disclose any information you acquired while practising your profession. If necessary, I could get a court order to make you hand over your files.’

‘Pah! Do it, then. There is nothing in my files that would interest you very much.’ She tapped her head. ‘It is all in here. Look, the women had problems. They came to me. Neither of them hurt anyone. They are not criminals, and they do not have any dangerous psychological disorders. Isn’t that what you want to know?’

Banks sighed. ‘Okay. Can you at least tell me what kind of progress Caroline was making? Was she happy lately? Was anything bothering her?’

‘As far as I could tell, she seemed fine. Certainly she wasn’t worried about anything. In fact, we’d come to…

‘Yes?’

‘Let’s just say that she’d recently worked through a particularly difficult trauma. They occur from time to time in analysis and they can be painful.’

‘I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me about it?’

‘She had confronted one of her demons and won. And people are usually happy when they overcome a major stumbling block, at least for a while.’

‘Did she ever talk about her brother, Gary?’

‘It’s not unusual for patients to talk about their families.’

‘What did she have to say about him?’

‘Nothing of interest to you.’

‘She treated him very badly. Did she feel no guilt?’

‘We all feel guilt, Chief Inspector. Do you not think so?’

‘Perhaps he should have been your patient. He certainly seems to have his problems, thanks to his sister.’

‘I don’t choose my patients. They choose me.’

‘Veronica Shildon was a patient of yours, too, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes. But I can say even less about her. She’s still alive.’

Judging by how little Ursula Kelly had said about Caroline, Banks knew not to expect very much.

‘Was Veronica particularly upset about anything that last session?’

She shook her head. ‘Your sergeant asked me that, and the answer is the same. No. It was a perfectly normal session as far as I was concerned.’

‘No sudden traumas?’

‘None.’ She leaned forward and rested her hands on the desk. ‘Look, Chief Inspector, you might not think I’ve been very forthcoming. That is your prerogative. In my business you soon become privy to the innermost fears and secrets of the people you deal with, and you get into the habit of keeping them to yourself. You’re looking for facts. I don’t have any. Even if I did tell you what happened during my sessions with Caroline and Veronica, it wouldn’t help you. I deal with a world of shadows, of dreams and nightmares, signs and symbols. What my patients feel is the only reality we have to work with. And I have already told you, in all honesty, that as far as I know neither Caroline nor Veronica was in any way especially disturbed of late. If you need to know more, try talking to Veronica herself.’

‘I already have.’

‘And?’

‘I think she’s holding back.’

‘Well, that is your problem.’

Banks pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘I think you’re holding back, too,’ he said. ‘Believe me, if I find out that you are and that it’s relevant to Caroline’s murder, I’ll make sure you know about it. You’ll need twenty years in analysis to rid yourself of the guilt.’

Her jaw muscles clenched and her eyes hardened. ‘Should that occur, it will be my burden.’

Banks walked out and slammed the door behind him. He didn’t feel good about his anger and his pathetic threat, but people like Ursula Kelly, with her smug generalizations and pompous, self-righteous air, brought out the worst in him. He took a couple of deep breaths and looked at his watch. Five thirty. Time to catch the end of rehearsal.

THREE

Richmond parked his car outside a pub on the main street, got out and sniffed the air. There was no reason, he thought, why it should smell so different up here, but it did have a damper, more acrid quality. Barnard Castle was only twenty or so miles from Eastvale, but it was over the Durham border in Teesdale.

According to his map, the shop should be on his right about halfway down the hill just in front of him. It seemed to be the main tourist street, with an Indian restaurant, coffeehouse, bookshop and antique shop all rubbing shoulders with places that sold souvenirs along with walking and camping gear.

The toy shop was indeed about halfway down the hill. First, Richmond looked in the window at the array of goods. Hardly any of them seemed familiar, nothing at all like the toys he had played with as a child. In fact, mostly he had had to use his imagination and pretend that a stick was a sword. It wasn’t that his parents had been exceptionally poor, but they had strict priorities, and toys had come very low on the list.

The bell pinged as he entered and a young woman behind the counter looked up from behind a ledger. He guessed her to be in her mid-twenties, and she had a fine head of tangled auburn hair that cascaded over her shoulders and framed an attractive, freckled, oval face. She wore a long, loose cardigan, grey with a maroon pattern, and from what Richmond could see of her above the counter, she seemed to have a slim, shapely figure. A pair of glasses dangled on a chain around her neck, but she didn’t put them on as he walked towards her.

‘What can I do for you, sir?’ she said with a lilting, Geordie accent in a slightly husky voice. ‘Would it be something for your boy, or your little girl, perhaps?’

Richmond noticed the glint of humour in her eyes. ‘I’m not married,’ he said, mentally kicking himself even before he had got the words out. ‘I mean, I’m not here to buy anything.’

She looked at him steadily, fingering the spectacles chain as she did so.

‘CID,’ he said, fumbling for his identification. ‘I spoke with the manager a couple of days ago, when you were on holiday.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Ah, yes. Mr Holbrook told me about you. Tell me, do all policemen dress as well as you do?’

Richmond wondered if she were being sarcastic. He took pride in his dress, certainly. He had the kind of tall, trim, athletic body that clothes looked good on, and he always favoured a suit, white shirt and tie, unlike Banks, who went in for the more casual, rumpled look.

‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ he said finally. ‘Look, I’m at a bit of a disadvantage. I’m afraid he didn’t tell me your name.’

She smiled. ‘It’s Rachel, Rachel Pierce. Pleased to meet you.’ She held out her hand. Richmond shook it. He noticed there was no sign of either a wedding ring or an engagement ring.

She seemed to be laughing at him, and it made him feel foolish and disconcerted. How could he question her seriously when she looked at him like that? He remembered his training and aimed for the correct tone.

‘Well, Miss Pierce,’ he began, ‘as you may be aware, we are investigating-’

She burst out laughing. Richmond felt himself flush to the tips of his moustache. ‘What the…?’

She put her hand to her mouth and quietened down. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, seeming more than a little embarrassed herself. ‘I don’t usually giggle. It’s just that you seem so stuffy and formal.’

‘Well, I’m sorry if-’

She waved her hand. ‘No, no. Don’t apologize. It’s my fault. I know you have a job to do. It’s just that it gets a bit lonely in here after Christmas and I’m afraid that seems to affect my manners. Look,’ she went on, ‘it would make this a lot easier for me if you’d let me lock up and make you a cup of tea before we talk. It’s near enough closing time already and the only customer I’ve had all day was a young lad wanting to exchange his Christmas present.’

Richmond, encouraged by her friendliness, smiled. ‘If you’re closing anyway,’ he said, ‘maybe we could go for a drink and a bit to eat?’

She chewed on her lower lip and looked at him. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Just give me a minute to make sure everything’s secure.’

In ten minutes, they were sitting in a cosy pub, Richmond nursing a pint and Rachel sipping rum and coke.

‘I’m ready,’ she said, sitting back and folding her arms. Grill away, Mr CID.’

Richmond smiled. ‘There’s not much to ask, really. You know Charles Cooper?’

‘Yes. He’s the general manager.’

‘I understand he’s been very busy lately making sure everything was in order for Christmas.’

Rachel nodded.

‘Do you remember December the twenty-second?’

She wrinkled her brow and thought, then said, ‘Yes. He was here that day sorting out some stock problems. You see, Mr Curtis, the manager, had forgotten to reorder some… But you don’t want to hear about that, do you?’

Richmond wasn’t too sure. He felt like pinching himself to see if he could escape the way just listening to her voice and watching her animated face made him feel. He tried it – just a little nip at the back of his thigh – but it did no good. He took a deep breath. ‘How long was he at the shop?’ he asked.

‘Oh, a couple of hours, perhaps.’

‘Between what times?’

‘He got here about four, or thereabouts, and left at six.’

‘He left at six o’clock?’

‘Yes. You sound surprised. Why?’

‘It’s nothing.’ It was, though. Unless he had gone to another branch – and neither Cooper nor his wife had mentioned anything about that – then he had left the shop at six and not got home until eleven. Where the hell had he been, and why had he lied?

‘Are you sure he left at six o’clock?’ he asked.

‘Well, it can’t have been much after,’ Rachel answered. ‘We closed at seven – extra hours for the holiday period – and he was gone a while before then. He said he’d try to shift some stock over from the Skipton shop before Christmas Eve.’

‘Did you get the impression he was going to go to Skipton right then?’

‘No. They’d be closed, too. Wouldn’t be any point, would there?’

‘Presumably, if he’s the general manager, he’s got a key?’

‘Yes, but he doesn’t go carrying boxes of toys around, does he, if he’s the general manager. He gets some dogsbody to do that.’

Richmond fingered his moustache. ‘Maybe you’re right. What was your impression of him? Do you know him well?’

She shook her head. ‘Not well, no. He’d drop in once in a while. We might have a cup of tea and a chat about how things were going.’

‘That’s all?’

She raised her left eyebrow and squinted her right eye almost shut. ‘And just what might you mean by that?’

‘I’m not sure, really. He didn’t make a pass at you or anything?’

‘Mr Cooper? Make a pass?’ She laughed. ‘You obviously don’t know him.’

‘So he never did?’

‘Never. The thought of it…’ She laughed again.

‘Did he ever talk about things other than business? Personal things.’

‘No. He kept himself to himself.’

‘Did you ever hear him mention a woman called Caroline Hartley?’

She shook her head.

‘Veronica Shildon?’

‘No. He hardly ever mentioned his own wife, only when I asked after her. I’d met her once or twice at company do’s, you see, so it’s only polite to ask after her, isn’t it?’

‘Was there anything odd about him at all?’ Richmond asked. ‘Think. Surely you must have felt or noticed something at some time?’

Rachel frowned. ‘Look, there is something… but I don’t like to speak out of turn.’

‘It’s not out of turn,’ Richmond said, leaning forward. ‘Remember, this is a murder investigation. What is it?’

‘Well, I could be wrong. It was just a couple of times, you know.’

‘What?’

‘I think he’s a drinker.’

‘In what way? We’re drinking right now.’

‘I don’t know, but not like this. A secret drinker, a problem drinker, whatever you call it.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I could smell alcohol on his breath sometimes, early in the day, when he hadn’t bothered to take one of those awful breath mints he usually smelled of. And once I saw him take a little flask out of his pocket in the stockroom when he thought I wasn’t looking. I can’t be sure what it was, of course, but…’

Could there be anything in it? Richmond wondered. Rachel Pierce had certainly given him a new perspective on the Coopers, but whether it would lead him to a murderer, he couldn’t tell. So the man drank, so he had lied about his alibi – a silly lie, at that, an easy one to check – but it might not mean anything. One thing was certain, though, Banks would want to visit the Coopers again very soon, and he wouldn’t be as gentle as he had been on previous occasions.

Richmond looked over at Rachel. Her glass was nearly empty.

‘Another?’ he asked.

‘I shouldn’t.’

He glanced at his watch. ‘I think I can say I’m officially off duty now,’ he said. ‘Come on, it won’t do any harm.’

She looked at him a long time. He couldn’t fathom the expression on her face. Then she said, ‘All right, then. Another one.’

‘Wonderful. There’s just one thing I have to do first.’

She raised an eyebrow.

‘Call my boss,’ Richmond said. ‘Don’t go away. I won’t be a minute.’

He glanced back and saw her smiling into her glass as he made for the telephone.

FOUR

Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness

Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.

How easy is it for the proper – false

In women’s waxen hearts to set their forms!

Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we!

For such as we are made of, such we be.

How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly,

And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;

And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.

What will become of this? As I am man,

My state is desperate for my master’s love.

As I am woman – now alas the day! -

What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!

O Time, thou must untangle this, not I;

It is too hard a knot for me t’untie!

‘Better, Faith darling, much better! Perhaps just a bit more introspection – remember, it is a soliloquy – but not too serious.’ James Conran turned to Banks. ‘What did you think?’

‘I thought she was very good.’

‘Do you know the play?’

‘Yes. Not well. But I know it.’

‘So you know how it “fadges” then?’

‘They all marry the ones they want and live happily ever after.’

Conran stuck a finger in the air. ‘Ah, not quite, Chief Inspector. Malvolio, remember, ends by vowing revenge on the lot of them for making a fool of him.’

All that Banks remembered about the end of Twelfth Night was the beautiful song the Clown sang alone when everyone else had walked off to their fates. It was on his Deller Consort tape. ‘For the rain it raineth every day,’ the refrain went. It had always seemed a curiously sombre song to end a comedy with. But nothing was black and white, especially in Shakespeare’s world.

‘Perhaps you’d care to see us on opening night,’ Conran said. ‘Complimentary tickets, of course.’

‘Yes, I would. Very much.’ Accepting free tickets to an amateur production could hardly be called being on the take, Banks thought. ‘Will you be much longer here?’ he asked. ‘I’d like to talk to some of the cast members. Maybe it would be more comfortable over in the Crooked Billet.’

Conran frowned. ‘What on earth would you want to talk to them about?’

‘Police business.’

Definitely not pleased, Conran looked at his watch and clapped his hands. The actors walked off stage and went for their coats.

After they had dashed down the alley in the chilly evening, the warmth of the Crooked Billet greeted them like a long lost friend. They unbuttoned their coats and hung them by the door, then pulled two tables together near the fire to accommodate the thirsty thespians. Banks tried to keep track of the introductions and the links between actors and roles. Olivia, played by Teresa Pedmore, and Viola, Faith Green, interested him the most Marcia Cunningham, the costumes and props manager, was there too. It was a casual and unorthodox method of questioning possible suspects, Banks was aware, but he wanted to get as much of a feel of the troupe as he could before he decided where to go from there.

‘I still can’t imagine why you want to talk to the cast,’ Conran complained. ‘Surely you can’t think one of us had anything to do with poor Caroline’s death?’

‘Don’t be so bloody naive, Mr Conran. There’s a chance that anyone who knew her might have done it. Certainly she seemed to know her killer, as there was no sign of forced entry. How long did you stay at the pub the night she died?’

‘I don’t know. About an hour, I suppose. Maybe a bit longer.’

‘Until just after seven?’

‘About that, yes.’

‘Then you went home?’

‘Yes. I told you.’

‘There you are, then. You could be lying. You’ve got no alibi at all.’

Conran reddened and his hand tightened on his glass. ‘Now just wait-’

But Banks ignored Conran completely and went to the bar for another drink. The director certainly seemed jumpy. Banks wondered why. Maybe it was just his artistic temperament.

When he got back to the table, his seat had been taken by a distraught Sir Toby Belch, who seemed to think his part could do with some expansion (perhaps to match his stomach) despite the limitations Shakespeare had imposed.

Banks managed to squeeze himself in between Teresa Pedmore and Faith Green, not a bad place to be at all. Teresa was deep in conversation with the man on her right, so Banks turned to Faith and complimented her on her rendering of Viola’s soliloquy. She blushed and replied quickly, her breathy voice pitched quite low.

‘Thank you. It’s very difficult. I have no formal training. I’m a schoolteacher and I do like to get involved with the plays the department puts on, but… It’s so difficult doing Twelfth Night. I have to remember that I’m really a woman dressed as a man talking about a woman who seems to have fallen in love with me. It’s all very strange, a bit perverted really.’ She put her hand to her mouth and touched Banks’s arm. ‘Oh God, I shouldn’t have said that, should I? Not after poor Caroline…’

‘I’m sure she’d forgive you,’ Banks said. ‘Did you have any idea of her sexual inclinations before her death?’

‘None at all. None of us did. Not until I read about it in the papers. If you’d asked me, I’d have said she was man-mad.’

‘Why?’

Faith waved her hand in the air. ‘Oh, just the way she behaved. She knew how to string a man along. A woman knows about these things. At least, I thought I did.’

‘But you never actually saw her with a man?’

‘Not in the way you mean, no. I’m talking about her general effect, the way she could turn heads.’

‘Did you notice any personality conflicts among the cast? Especially involving Caroline.’

Faith rubbed one of her long, blue tear-drop earrings between her finger and thumb. She was probably in her early twenties, Banks thought, with especially beautiful silvery hair hanging in a fringe and straight down to her shoulders. It looked so vibrant and satiny he wanted to reach out and touch it. He was sure sparks would fly if he did. Her eyes were a little too close together and her lower lip pouted a bit, but the total effect had an interesting kind of unity. As he had noticed on the stage, she was tall and well-formed. It would be difficult, without very good costumes, to conceal the fact that Faith Green was all woman.

She leaned closer to speak to Banks and he smelled her perfume. It was subtle, and probably not cheap. He also smelled the Martini Rossi on her breath.

‘I didn’t notice anything in particular,’ she said, flicking her eyes towards the rubicund Sir Toby and Malvolio, who looked like an undertaker’s assistant, ‘but some of the men aren’t too keen on Mr Conran.’

‘Oh? Why’s that?’

‘I think they’re jealous.’

‘But the women like him?’

‘Most of them, yes. And that’s partly why the others are jealous. You’d be surprised what shady motives people have for joining in amateur events like this.’ She widened her eyes and Banks noticed that they were smiling. ‘S-e-x,’ she said. ‘But he’s not my type. I like my men dark and handsome.’ She looked Banks up and down. ‘Not necessarily tall, mind you. I don’t mind being bigger than my boyfriends.’

Banks noticed the plural. Surely there had never been schoolteachers like this in his time?

‘I hear there was something between Mr Conran and Olivia – Teresa, that is.’

‘You’ll have to ask her about that,’ Faith said. ‘I’ll not tell tales on my friends out of school.’ She wrinkled her nose.

‘Can you tell me anything more about Caroline?’

Faith shrugged. ‘Not really. I mean, I hardly knew her. She was beautiful in a petite, girlish sort of way, but I can’t say she made much of an impression on me. As I said before, I thought she was a bit of a flirt, myself, but I don’t suppose she could help the way the men flocked to her.’

‘Anyone in particular?’

‘No, just in general, really. Most of the men seemed to like being with her, including our director.’

‘Did he make a pass at her?’

‘No, he’s too subtle for that. He plays the shy and vulnerable one until women approach him, then he reels them in. At least he did with Teresa.’ She clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Look, I am telling tales out of school. How do you do it?’

Banks smiled. ‘Professional secret. So in your opinion, Caroline Hartley was a flirt, but nothing ever came of it?’

‘Yes. I suppose that’s how she kept them at bay.’ Faith shook her head and her hair sparked like electricity. Maybe I was blind, but I’m damned if I could see what she really was.’

‘What did you think of her as an actress?’

Faith traced a ring around the top of her glass. ‘She was young, inexperienced. She had a long way to go. And it was only a small part, after all. Young Maggie over there’s taken it on now.’ She nodded towards a serious-looking young woman sitting next to Conran.

‘But she was talented?’

‘Who am I to say? Perhaps. In time. Look-’

‘Did anything odd happen at rehearsal the day Caroline was killed? Does any incident stand out in your mind, however petty it might have seemed at the time?’

‘No, not that I remember. Look, will you excuse me for a min? Have to pee.’

‘Of course.’

Banks waited a moment or two, then attracted Teresa Pedmore’s attention. Her hair was as dark as Faith’s was silver. She had the healthy complexion of a young countrywoman, and it didn’t surprise Banks to discover that she was a milkman’s daughter from Mortsett, now working in the main Eastvale Post Office and living in town. But that was where her rusticity ended. The haughty tilt of her head when she spoke and her fierce dark eyes had nothing to do with simple country life. There was an aura of mystery about her; Banks found its source hard to pin down. Something to do with the economy of her body language, perhaps, or the faintly sardonic tone of her voice. And she was ambitious; he could sense that from the start.

‘It’s about Caroline Hartley, isn’t it?’ she said before Banks could open his mouth. As she spoke, Banks noticed, she was looking over at James Conran, who was watching her with a frown on his face.

‘Yes,’ Banks answered. ‘Can you tell me anything about her?’

Teresa shook her head. Coal-black hair danced about her shoulders. ‘I hardly knew her. Even less so than I thought at the time, according to the papers.’

‘I understand you were involved with Mr Conran?’

‘Who told you that? Faith?’

Banks shook his head. ‘Faith was subtly evasive. Were you?’

‘What if I was? We’re both single. James is fun once you get to know him. At least he was.’

‘And did Caroline Hartley spoil that fun for you?’

‘Of course not. How could she?’

‘Didn’t he switch his attentions from you to her?’

‘Look, I don’t know who’s been telling you all this, but it’s rubbish. Or are you just making it up? James and I ended our little fling ages ago.’

‘So you weren’t jealous of Caroline?’

‘Not at all.’

‘How did Caroline behave among the other women in the cast?’

Teresa laughed, showing a set of straight white teeth rarely seen outside America. ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at.’

‘Was she close to anyone?’

‘No. I thought she always seemed aloof. You know, friendly but distant. Casual.’

‘So you didn’t like her very much.’

‘I can’t say I cared one way or the other. Not that I’m glad she’s… you know. This is only the second play the company’s done since James took over, but it was Caroline’s first. None of us knew her that well.’

‘How did she get the part?’

Teresa raised her dark, arched eyebrows. ‘Auditioned, I should think. Like everybody else.’

‘You didn’t notice her form any close attachments to other women in the play?’

‘There are only three of us. What are you trying to say, that I’m a lesbian too?’

Banks shifted in his seat. ‘No. No, I’d say that was very unlikely, wouldn’t you?’

Slowly, she relaxed. ‘Well…’

‘What about Faith?’

Teresa gave her cigarette a short, sharp flick with her thumbnail. ‘What did she tell you? I saw you talking to her.’

‘She told me nothing. That’s why I’m asking you.’

‘There was nothing between them, I can assure you of that. Faith’s as straight as I am.’ She took a breath, sipped some milky Pernod and water, then smiled. ‘As far as the others go, I don’t think you’ve got much chance of finding a murderer among them, quite frankly. Malvolio’s such a puritan prig he probably even whips himself for taking part in such a sinful hobby as acting. Sir Andrew’s thick as pigshit – excuse my French – and Orsino’s so wrapped up in himself he wouldn’t notice if Samantha Fox waggled her boobs in front of his face.’

Banks looked over at Orsino. He had muscular shoulders – clearly the fruits of regular weight-training – dark, wavy hair, hollow cheeks, bright eyes and an expression set in a permanent sneer, as if all he saw outside a mirror was unworthy of his regard.

‘None of them three had much to do with Caroline anyway, as far as I noticed. They had some scenes together, but I never saw them communicate much offstage. And you can forget the others, too. I know for a fact that Antonio’s queer as a three-pound note, Sebastian’s very happily married with a mortgage, a dog and two-point-five kids, and the Clown, well… he’s very quiet actually, and he never seems to socialize with us.’

‘Have you ever noticed him talking to Caroline off-stage or between scenes?’

‘I’ve never noticed him talking to anyone. Period. One of the strangest transformations you can imagine. A wonderful Clown, but such a dull, depressing-looking man.’

Banks asked her a few more general questions but found out nothing else. Before long, Teresa was asking him about his most exciting cases and it was time to move on. He chatted briefly with some of the others but got no further. Finally, he went back to James Conran, excused himself from the company and walked out into the cold evening, but not before Faith Green managed to catch him at the door and slip him her telephone number.

Outside, Banks caught his breath at the cold. Bright stars stabbed pinpoints of light in the clear sky. Who, Banks wondered, had believed that the sky was just a kind of black-velvet curtain and the light of heaven beyond showed through the holes in it? The Greeks? Anyway, on nights like this it felt exactly that way.

There had been something wrong about his conversations in the Crooked Billet. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but everything had seemed too easy, too chummy. Everyone he spoke to had been nervous, worried about something. He hadn’t missed the way Faith excused herself before answering one of his questions, nor the way Teresa played with her cigarette when he asked her questions she didn’t like. Those two would merit further talking to, definitely. Surely there must have been minor tiffs or conflicts among the cast of a play? According to the people he had talked to, it had all been happy families – much too squeaky clean for his liking. What were they covering up, and when had they decided to do so?

He put his headphones on. In winter they acted as earmuffs, too. The tape he had in was a collection of jazz pieces by the likes of Milhaud, Gershwin and Stravinsky performed by Simon Rattle and the London Sinfonietta Tracy had bought it him for Christmas, clearly under instructions from Sandra. When Banks switched on the Walkman the erotic clarinet glissando at the opening of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue almost bowled him over. He turned down the volume and walked on.

The tree was still lit up outside the church in the market square, but there were no carol singers in evidence this evening. The cobblestones were icy and he had to step carefully. The blue lamp glowed coldly outside the police station. It was seven o’clock. Just time to drop in and see if any new information had turned up before going home for dinner.

He walked into the bustle of the police station and went straight upstairs to his office. Before he could even shut the door, Susan Gay called after him and entered.

Banks sat down and took his headphones off. ‘Anything new?’

‘I followed up on the record shops,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Most of them are open now because they’re having post Christmas sales. Anyway, I’ve tracked down two copies of that Luddite poori thing sold in the past three weeks.’

‘Good work. Where from?’

‘One from a small speciality shop in Skipton and another from the Classical Record Shop in Leeds. But there’s more, sir,’ she went on. ‘It seemed a long shot, but I asked for a description of the purchaser in both instances.’

‘And?’

‘The Leeds shop, sir. Before I’d even started he told me who’d bought it. The salesman recognized him.’

‘Claude Ivers?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, well, well,’ Banks said. ‘So he was lying after all. Why aren’t I surprised? You’ve done a great job, Susan. In fact I think you deserve a day at the seaside tomorrow.’

Susan smiled. ‘Yes, sir. Oh, and DS Richmond phoned from Barnard Castle with a message about Charles Cooper’s alibi. It seems things are getting a bit complicated, doesn’t it?’