Past Reason Hated

ONE

A sea mist clung to the coastline when Banks and Susan arrived in Redburn at eleven o’clock the next morning. Icy roads over the vale and freezing rain on the moors had made driving difficult all the way, and now, as they came down from the land to the sea, the clash of the two elements had produced a fog that reduced visibility to no more than a few yards.

Susan, Banks could tell, was surprised at being chauffeured by a senior officer. But she would soon learn. He preferred his own car because of the stereo and the generous mileage allowance, and he actually enjoyed driving in Yorkshire, even in poor conditions such as these. On the way, he had been listening to Metamorphosen, Richard Strauss’s haunting string elegy for the bombing of the Munich Hoftheater, and he hadn’t spoken much. He didn’t know whether Susan liked the music. She had been as silent as he and had spent most of the journey looking out the window, lost in thought.

He parked the car outside the Lobster Inn again, and they made their way up the path to Ivers’s cottage. The mist seemed to permeate everything, and by the time they got to the cottage they were glad of the fire blazing in the hearth.

Again it was Pasty Janowski who answered the door. This time, when Banks introduced Detective Constable Gay, her big brown eyes clouded with worry and fixed on the door handle. She was wearing tight jeans and a dark-green turtle-neck sweater. Her dark hair, which still fell almost to her eyes in a ragged fringe, was tied back in a ponytail. Her smooth complexion was tinged with the kind of flush that a brisk walk in fresh weather brings.

‘He’ll be down in a few minutes,’ she said. ‘Sit down and warm yourselves. I’ll make some tea.’

‘Shouldn’t we go up, sir?’ Susan asked when Patsy had left the room. ‘It’ll give us an edge.’

Banks shook his head. ‘He’ll be no trouble. Besides, I want to talk to her alone first.’ They sat in the creaky wooden chairs near the fire, and Banks rubbed his hands in front of the flames. Although he had been wearing gloves on this trip, the chill seemed to have penetrated right through both leather and flesh. When he felt warm enough, he took off his overcoat and lit a cigarette. Warm air from the fire hooked the smoke and sucked it up the chimney.

Patsy returned with the tea tray and set it down beside them. There was no fresh-made bread this time.

‘What is it?’ she asked, joining them by the fire. ‘Have you found the killer?’

Banks ignored her question and picked up his mug of tea. ‘Tell me,’ he asked, ‘where did you drive to when you left your parking spot behind the Lobster Inn the evening Caroline Hartley was killed?’

Patsy stared at his breast pocket, her eyes wide open and afraid, like a hunted doe’s. ‘I… I… You can’t expect me to remember a particular night just like that. Days are much the same out here.’

‘I can imagine that, but it was the evening before my last visit. I asked you then, very specifically, where you’d been the night before, and you both told me you’d stayed in. Now I’m asking you again.’

Patsy shrugged. ‘If I said I stayed in, I guess that’s what I did.’

‘But you were seen leaving the car park.’

‘It must have been someone else.’

‘I don’t think so. Unless you’re in the habit of lending out your car. Where did you go?’

She stirred a spoonful of sugar into her tea and gazed into the steaming mug as she spoke. ‘I don’t remember going anywhere, but I might have gone for a drive early on. I sometimes do that. But I wouldn’t have been gone long. There are some beautiful vantage points along the coast, but you have to drive out there, then walk a fair distance to find them.’

‘Even in this weather?’

‘Sure. I’d hardly live here if I minded a bit of rough weather, would I? I like it when the sea gets all churned up.’

She seemed to be regaining her composure, but Banks still didn’t believe her story. ‘Why didn’t you mention this little drive?’ he asked.

She smiled at the fireplace. ‘It didn’t seem important, I guess. I mean, it was nothing to do with what you were asking about.’

‘Did you go alone?’

She hesitated, then said, ‘Yes.’

‘Where was Mr Ivers?’

‘Back here, working.’

‘Then who was using his car?’

Her hand went to her mouth. ‘I… I don’t understand.’

‘It’s simple, really, Ms Janowski. His car was missing from its usual spot. If he was here working, who was using it?’

Patsy was saved from having to answer by the creak of the stairs as Ivers came down. He was dressed in much the same kind of baggy jeans and loose jersey as he had been on Banks’s first visit, but this time he had combed back his longish grey hair. He ducked underneath the low lintel beam and walked into the room, where his height and gaunt features commanded attention. The room had seemed crowded enough with three people in it, but with four it felt cluttered and claustrophobic.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked, looking over at Patsy, who was squeezing her plump lower lip between her fingers and staring out of the window.

Banks stood up. ‘Ah, Mr Ivers. Please join us. Sit down.’

‘I hardly need to be invited to sit down in my own house,’ Ivers said, but he sat.

Banks lit another cigarette and leaned against the stone mantelpiece. Not a tall man himself, he wanted the advantage of height. Susan remained where she was, her notebook in her lap. Ivers glanced nervously at her, but Banks didn’t introduce them.

‘We were just talking about memory,’ he said. ‘How deceptive it can be.’

Ivers frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Seems to be a lot of that about,’ Banks said.

‘Mr Ivers,’ Susan asked, ‘where did you drive to on the evening of December twenty-second?’

He stared at her but didn’t appear to see her, then he turned towards Banks and gripped the arms of his chair. He thrust himself forward in as menacing a manner as possible. ‘What is this? What are you insinuating?’

Banks flicked a column of ash into the fire. ‘We’re just asking you a simple question,’ he said. ‘Where did you go?’

‘I told you I didn’t go anywhere.’

‘I know. But you were lying.’

Ivers half rose. ‘Now look-’

Banks stepped forward and gently pushed him back. ‘No. You look. Let me save us all a lot of time and effort and tell you what happened.’

Ivers settled back and fumbled for his pipe and tobacco in his trouser pocket. Patsy poured him some tea and passed it over. Her hand was shaking. The corner of his thin mouth twitched for her in what was meant to be a reassuring smile.

‘That evening,’ Banks began, ‘you decided to take Veronica her Christmas present. It was a record you bought for her at the Classical Record Shop in the Merrion Centre in Leeds, Vivaldi’s Laudate pueri, sung by Magda Kalmar, a singer you knew had impressed her. But when you got to the house, just after seven, say, she was out. Caroline Hartley answered the door and let you in. You were simply going to drop off the present, but something happened, something made you angry. Perhaps she said something about your virility, I don’t know, or maybe the rage you felt about her stealing Veronica from you finally boiled over. You fought, hit her, then stabbed her with the kitchen knife you found on the table.’

‘Ingenious,’ Ivers said. ‘But not a word of it is true.’

Banks knew full well that his theory was full of holes – the two female visitors Caroline Hartley had received after Ivers had apparently left, for example – but he went on regardless. He wanted to shake Ivers up a bit, at the very least.

‘I don’t know why you put the record on, but you did. Perhaps you wanted to make it look like the work of a psychopath. That could also have been why you removed her robe after you hit her. Anyway, when it was done, you washed the knife in the sink. I imagine you must have got blood on your gloves and sleeves, but it would have been easy enough to destroy that evidence when you got home.’ Banks flicked his cigarette end into the fire. ‘Right there.’

Ivers shook his head and clamped his teeth down on his pipe.

‘Well?’ Banks said.

‘No,’ he whispered between clenched teeth. ‘It didn’t happen like that at all. I didn’t kill her.’

‘Did you know that Caroline Hartley had once had a baby?’ Banks asked.

Ivers took his pipe out of his mouth in surprise. ‘What? No. All I know is that she was the bitch who corrupted my wife and induced her to leave me.’

‘Which gives you a very good motive for wanting to be rid of her,’ Susan said, looking up from her notebook.

Again Ivers looked at her but hardly appeared to see her.

‘Perhaps so,’ he said. ‘But I’m not a killer. I create, I don’t destroy.’

Patsy leaned forward and took his hand in hers. With his other hand, he held on to his pipe.

‘What happened?’ Banks asked.

Ivers sighed and stood up. He stroked Patsy’s cheek and went to the fireplace where he knocked out his pipe. He seemed more stooped and frail now, somehow, and his cultured voice no longer held its authoritative tone.

‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘I did go over to Eastvale that evening. I shouldn’t have lied. I should have told you the truth. But when you told me what had happened, I was certain I’d be a suspect, and I was right, wasn’t I? I couldn’t bear the thought of any serious interruption to my work. But I swear, Chief Inspector, that when I left Caroline Hartley, the little slut was as alive as you and I. Yes, I went to the house. Yes, Veronica was out shopping. Caroline let me in grudgingly, but she let me in because it was cold and snowing and she didn’t want to leave the door open. I wasn’t in there more than a few minutes. Out of politeness, I asked how she was and asked about Veronica, then I just handed over the present and left. And that’s the truth, whether you believe it or not.’

‘I’d find it easier to believe if you’d told me the first time I called,’ Banks said. ‘You’ve wasted a lot of our time.’

‘I’ve already explained why I couldn’t tell you. Good Lord, man, what would you have done in my position?’

Banks always hated it when people asked him that. In ninety-nine per cent of cases he would have done exactly as they had: the wrong thing.

‘How could you even imagine that we wouldn’t trace the buyer of the record?’

Ivers shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea what you can or can’t do. I don’t read mystery novels or watch police shows on television. We don’t even have a television. Never have had. I knew I hadn’t put a gift tag on the record – I remembered I’d forgotten to do that shortly after I left Veronica’s – so when you mentioned Vivaldi last time you called I had a good idea you were only guessing it was me. You never asked me outright whether I took her the record or not.’

‘When you left,’ Banks said, ‘was the record still wrapped or had it been opened?’

‘Still wrapped, of course. Why should it have been opened?’

‘I don’t know. But it was. Could Caroline have opened it?’

‘She may have done, just to have a laugh at me and my tastes, I suppose. She always said I was an old bore. She once told Veronica she thought my music sounded like the kind of sounds you’d get from a constipated camel.’

If Ivers was telling the truth, Banks wondered, then how had the record come to be unwrapped? Unless either Caroline had opened it out of malicious curiosity – ‘Hello darling, look what the boring old fart’s bought you for Christmas!’ – or Veronica Shildon herself had returned to the house and opened it. But why should she do that with a Christmas present? Surely she would have put it under the tree with the rest and waited until the morning of the twenty-fifth? And she certainly wouldn’t have done anything so mundane if she had walked into the room and found Caroline’s body.

‘Did you tell her what it was?’ Banks asked.

‘Not in so many words.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Just that it was something very special for Veronica.’

‘How did Caroline react?’

‘She didn’t. She just glanced at it, and I put it down.’

‘Did you argue with her?’

Ivers shook his head. ‘Not this time, no. It was cool between us, but civilized. I’ve told you, I was out again within five minutes.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘I drove over to the shopping centre – I wanted to buy a few last minute things I couldn’t get here in the village – then I came home.’

‘What things?’

Ivers frowned. ‘Oh, I can’t remember. Books, a sweater Patsy wanted, a case of decent claret… that kind of thing.’

‘You didn’t by any chance see your wife in the shopping centre, did you?’

‘No. I’d have mentioned it if I did. It’s a fairly large place, you know, and it was very busy.’

‘Why did you go to Eastvale that night in particular?’

‘Because it was so close to Christmas and Patsy and I… well, I always leave things till the last minute, and we just didn’t want to have to go anywhere over the next few days. I’m very involved in a complex piece of music right now. It’s all to do with the rhythms of the sea, so I don’t want to spend more time than necessary away from here. I have no other commitments until after the new year, so I thought I’d get the shopping and Veronica’s present out of the way, then my time would be my own.’ He returned to the chair and started to refill his pipe. ‘Believe me, it’s nothing more sinister than that. I haven’t killed anyone. I couldn’t. Not even someone I hated the way I hated Caroline Hartley. If I’d been stupid enough to believe that killing Caroline would bring back Veronica, I’d have done it two years ago. But I’ve got a new life now, with Patsy. It’s been tough getting here, but I’ve put Veronica behind me now.’

‘Yet you still took her a special Christmas present Rather a sentimental gesture, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I never claimed to have no feelings for her. After so long, you can’t help that. She put me through hell, but that’s over.’ He took Patsy’s hand. ‘I’m happier now than I’ve ever been.’

It was the second time Banks had heard someone refer to having a motive for killing Caroline some years ago but not in the present. Ivers’s story rang truer than Gary Hartley’s, though. In the first place, Ivers obviously did have a comfortable life with an attractive younger woman, a cosy cottage by the sea and his music. Gary Hartley had nothing. On the other hand, Ivers could easily have lost his temper and lashed out at something Caroline said. Sometimes, after all the big things have been endured and overcome, some apparently inconsequential matter sets off an explosion. There was no real evidence pointing either way, though the use of a knife so close to hand indicated a spontaneous act. If he charged Claude Ivers with murder now, he wouldn’t have had much of a case.

‘I’d like you to drop by the Eastvale police station tomorrow morning and sign a statement,’ Banks said, gesturing for Susan to close her notebook.

‘Must I…? My work…?’

‘Much as I love your music, Mr Ivers,’ Banks said, ‘I’m afraid you must.’ He smiled. ‘Look at it this way, it’s a hell of a lot better than being charged with murder and sitting in a cell with the drunks on New Year’s Eve.’

‘You’re not charging me?’

‘Not yet. But I want you to stay where I can find you. Any unexpected moves on your part will be considered as very suspicious behaviour indeed.’

Ivers nodded. ‘I wasn’t going anywhere.’

‘Good. See you tomorrow then.’

Banks and Susan made their way back down the winding path to the car. On their left, only partially obscured by wraiths of mist, the sea lay quiet and the small waves lapped and hissed on the sands. Banks wondered what Ivers’s winter sea music would sound like. Something along the lines of Peter Maxwell Davies’s Third Symphony perhaps, or the ‘Sea Interludes’ from Britten’s Peter Grimes? There was certainly a lot of potential in the idea.

They had just reached the road when Banks became aware of a figure running after them. It was Patsy Janowksi, and she hadn’t even bothered to put an overcoat on. They turned, and she stood facing them, shivering, with her arms wrapped around her chest. ‘I need to talk to you,’ she said. ‘Please. It’s really important.’

Banks nodded. ‘Go on.’

She looked around. ‘Is there somewhere we can go? I’m freezing.’

They were outside the Lobster Inn, and Banks could think of no better place to talk. They went inside and found the lounge almost deserted except for the landlord and a couple of gnarled old men chatting at the bar. The large room was cold and draughty, even by the hearth where they sat. The fire clearly hadn’t been lit long and the pub had not yet warmed up.

Banks walked to the bar. The two old men flicked their hooded eyes in his direction and continued talking in low voices, thick with local dialect. The landlord shuffled over and stood in front of Banks drying a glass. He neither spoke nor looked up. Banks found himself marvelling at Jim Hatchley for getting information out of such a taciturn old bugger. One day he’d have to ask Jim how he’d managed it.

He asked for three whiskies and the landlord ambled off without a word. The entire transaction took place in silence. When he got back to the table, Banks found Patsy and Susan Gay huddled around the meagre fire trying to get warm.

‘It’s not the cold I mind,’ Patsy was saying, ‘but the goddamn chill. It’s so damp it gets right in your bones.’

‘Where are you from?’ Banks asked.

‘Huntington Beach, California.’

‘Warm there?’

Patsy managed a smile. ‘All year round. They even play beach volley ball in winter. Don’t get me wrong, though. I love England, even the weather. I’m just not dressed right for outdoors today.’

Banks passed her the whisky. ‘Here. This should warm the cockles of your heart, as we say up here.’

‘Thank you.’ She took a sip and smacked her lips. Her eyes ranged around the pub and settled briefly, like a butterfly, on various objects: a dented ashtray, the range of wine glasses above the bar, an optic, the old fishing print on the far wall.

Banks lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. ‘What was it you wanted to tell us?’

Patsy frowned. ‘I know it must seem too late to you, that we’ve told so many lies, but Claude was telling the truth just now, honestly he was. We only lied because we knew he’d be the main suspect.’

‘You must have known we’d find out the truth sooner or later.’

She shook her head. ‘Claude said it’s only on television that things like that happen. Not in real life. Despite what he says, he has watched television. He said policemen in real life are just thick.’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh shit, I’m sorry.’

Banks smiled. ‘Where did you drive to that night?’

‘Well, that’s just what I came out to tell you. I know Claude can’t have killed Caroline Hartley because I went to see her after he’d left, and I can assure you she was still alive then.’

‘What do you mean?’

Patsy rubbed her temple and frowned. ‘What I say. Look, I know it’s not very nice, but I was… well, checking up on him.’

‘You suspected he was still involved with Veronica Shildon?’

‘Yes. He still loves her, there’s no doubt about that. You heard what he said. But I did hope he really had put her behind him… and I know he loves me, too. I suppose I’m just jealous, possessive. I’ve been burned before by people hung up on past relationships.’

‘Did you know him when he split up with her?’

‘No. We met afterwards. He was in real bad shape.’

‘In what way?’

‘In every way. Claude is a naturally confident man, used to getting what he wants and having his own way, but after he split with Veronica his self-esteem was at rockbottom. He felt betrayed and… well… sexually, too, he felt worthless and unwanted. He told me he never thought another woman would want him as long as he lived.’ She smiled and looked into the fire. ‘I know it sounds like a come-on, but it wasn’t. You have to know him. When we got together I helped him build up his confidence again. There was nothing wrong with him, really. It was all just the psychological mess caused by what that woman did to him.’

‘Caroline?’

‘No, Veronica. He always blamed Caroline, and I never contradicted him. But if anyone’s the bitch, Veronica is, the way she treated him. All of a sudden, she comes along and tells him, ‘I’m not really the woman you think I am. In fact, I never have been. It’s all been an illusion, an act, just to please you. But I can’t do it any more. I’ve seen the light. I’ve found someone else – a woman, in fact – and I’m leaving you to go and live with her.’ I’m sure you can imagine the impact of something like that on a man better than I can. Especially a man as sensitive and vulnerable as Claude. The bitch! Anyway, he never saw it that way. He always saw Caroline as the enemy, the wife-stealer, and Veronica as the victim. He thought she’d end up getting hurt, discarded, when Caroline had finished with her. After all, there was ten years between them.’ She held up her hand before anyone could say a word. ‘All right, I know, I know. I’m nobody to talk. There are nearly thirty years between Claude and me. But that’s different.’

Nobody challenged her. Banks had almost finished his whisky. He felt like another one. A single shouldn’t put him over the limit for driving. This time Susan offered to go and buy the drinks.

‘What are you trying to say, Ms Janowski?’ Banks asked, swirling the amber-gold liquid in the bottom of the glass. ‘That you were jealous of Claude Ivers’s relationship with his wife and that you followed him that night to find out if he was still seeing her secretly?’

‘I didn’t exactly follow him,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to understand how difficult all this has been for Claude and me. We’ve had one or two rows about his seeing Veronica, usually after he’s been for dinner with her and got back late. I don’t know… as I said, I must be a terribly jealous person, but I couldn’t just sit back and accept it. Oh, it’s not even as if I thought they were having an affair or anything. Sometimes an emotional attachment to another person can seem like just as much of a threat or betrayal as a sexual one – maybe even more so. Can you understand that?’ Banks nodded. Susan came back with the drinks. ‘Anyway,’ Patsy went on, ‘he didn’t tell me where he was going that evening, and I figured because of the rows we’d had, he was keeping it from me, you know, that he was going to see her. That got me all worried. I just couldn’t stay in the house alone, so I decided to call at Veronica’s to see if I was right.’

‘And what happened?’

‘I couldn’t see his car anywhere. You can’t park in the street, of course, but it wasn’t even anywhere in sight on King Street. Then I finally plucked up my courage and went to the house. I knocked on the door and Caroline Hartley answered. I didn’t think she’d recognize me because we’d hardly met, but she did. She must be very good with faces. She asked me in, but I didn’t want to go. I asked her if Claude was in the house and she laughed. She told me he had called but Veronica was out and he clearly hadn’t wanted to spend a minute longer than he had to with her. He’d left his present and gone. I thanked her and went back to the car. Then I drove home. That’s all.’

‘What time did you arrive at the house?’

‘About a quarter after seven, twenty after, maybe. It took about an hour and a quarter to drive from Redburn, then five minutes or so to walk from where I parked the car.’

‘Did you see anyone else approaching the house as you left?’

Patsy shook her head. ‘No. I don’t think so. The street was quiet. I… I can’t really remember. There were a few people in King Street, shoppers. I’m so confused about it.

‘Think,’ Banks said. ‘Try to rerun the scene in your mind. Let us know if you remember anything at all. It could be important. Will you try?’

Patsy nodded. ‘All right.’

‘Was Mr Ivers in when you got home?’

‘No. He got back later with the shopping.’

‘Didn’t you ask where he’d been?’

‘Yes. We had a row. A bad one. But we made up.’ She blushed and looked into the fireplace.

Banks lit a cigarette and let a few moments pass, then he asked, ‘How did Caroline Hartley seem when you saw her?’

Patsy shrugged. ‘Fine, I guess. I never really thought about it. She was obviously being sarcastic about Claude, but that was only to be expected.’

‘She didn’t seem worried or frightened when she answered the door?’

‘Not at all.’

‘What was she wearing?’

‘Some sort of kimono-style bathrobe, as if she’d just come out of the shower or something.’

‘Could you hear music playing?’

‘No.’

‘Can you remember exactly what she said to you?’

Patsy sipped some whisky and frowned. ‘Just that he’d been and gone and left some boring classical record for Veronica. That’s all.’

‘She knew what the present was?’

‘Seemed to, yes. She didn’t mention the title, the one you talked about the other day, but she did use the words ‘boring classical record”. I remember that because I took it as an insult to Claude.’

‘She could have been just guessing,’ Susan said. ‘After all, Mr Ivers is a classical musician, and he knows Veronica’s tastes. He’d hardly be likely to bring her the Rolling Stones or something, would he?’

‘Possibly not,’ Banks said. ‘Either that, or she’d opened it to see what was so special that she didn’t know about. Anyway, it doesn’t matter for now.’ He turned back to Patsy. ‘What happened next?’

‘Nothing. I told you. I left and drove home.’

Banks stubbed out his cigarette and looked closely at her. She stared back defiantly, lips close together, eyes serious. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I know what you’re thinking. I didn’t kill her. Think about it. I’d hardly do that, would I? With her out of the way there was more chance of my losing Claude back to Veronica, wasn’t there?’

It made a kind of sense, but Banks knew that murders are rarely so logically committed. Still, he felt inclined to believe her for the moment. For one thing, her story tallied with what the neighbours had seen: one man – Ivers, obviously – and two women. The one who had simply knocked at the door like a salesperson had been Patsy, then, asking after Ivers. And unless she had returned later, she was in the clear.

So if Patsy was the first woman visitor, and she was telling the truth, then who was the next: Faith Green? Teresa Pedmore? Veronica herself? Ruth, the mystery woman from London? Or had someone called even later than the last woman, someone none of the neighbours had seen? A man? It was possible. Gary Hartley? James Conran? Someone else from the dramatic society? The father of Caroline’s child? A psychopath? Even Ivers himself could have returned. He hadn’t been at home when Patsy got back to Redburn. Banks made a note to question the neighbours again and see if he could get a better description. It was unlikely, especially after so much time had elapsed, but still worth a try. At least someone might be able to tell them whether the woman who had knocked at the door and gone away was dressed the same as the one who did go in later.

Banks finished his drink. ‘Thank you, Ms Janowski,’ he said. ‘I think you’d better come along tomorrow with Mr Ivers and make a statement, all right?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Then she knocked back the rest of her drink and left.

‘What do you think?’ Banks asked Susan.

‘I don’t know. I’d want to keep an eye on them.’

‘Maybe I’ll ask Jim Hatchley to drop by once or twice over the next few days and make sure they’re not up to anything. Any ideas about what did happen that night?’

Susan paused, took a delicate sip of whisky, then said, ‘I’ve been wondering about Veronica Shildon. I know she doesn’t seem to have a motive, but I can’t help but keep coming back to her. Maybe everything wasn’t as wonderful as she made out between her and Caroline Hartley. I mean, what if she was jealous? What if she saw Patsy Janowski leaving the house and thought there was something to it? Maybe there even was something to it. Caroline Hartley could have taken her own robe off, and if Veronica had found her naked… She could have charged in, had a row with Caroline and killed her. Then she could have changed her clothes, sneaked out and come back later.’

They walked out into the cold and sat in the car while it warmed up. ‘It’s possible,’ Banks said. ‘But we checked the entire house for blood-stained clothing and found nothing. There were no pieces of charred cloth in the fire either. I’m not saying she couldn’t have found a way, just that I haven’t figured it out yet. We seem to have too many suspects. Too many motives and opportunities.’ He slammed the wheel with the flat of his hand. ‘I still keep coming back to that damn record, though. Why? Why would somebody put a record on and leave it to repeat?’

‘Perhaps Caroline herself put it on.’

‘She hated classical music. She may have opened it, but I doubt she’d have played it.’

‘But if Veronica had come back…?’

‘If it happened the way you suggest, and she’d seen Patsy leaving, she’d have been on the warpath. She’d hardly have stopped to listen to her Christmas present first, especially on December twenty-second. No. It doesn’t make sense.’ He spoke quietly, almost to himself. ‘But the music is for the burial of a very small child. Caroline’s child could be anything up to nine or ten by now. Maybe if I can track the kid down…’

‘That’s if whoever put the record on knew what it was and knew what it meant.’

‘Oh, the killer knew all right, I’m sure of that.’

‘Are you sure you’re not making too much of it, sir?’

‘I might be. But you’ve got to admit it’s a puzzle.’

‘Talking about records, sir…’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you think you could play something different on the way back? I don’t mean to be rude, sir, but that music you were playing on the way over was so boring it nearly put me to sleep.’

Banks laughed and drove off. ‘Your wish is my command.’

TWO

‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mr Banks. It’s a rare treat seeing you in here.’

‘Sorry, Vicar. There’s something about my job that disinclines me to believe in a benevolent deity.’

‘You catch your criminals sometimes, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, there you are. The Lord works in mysterious ways.’

The Reverend Piers Catcott’s eyes twinkled. He was a slight man in his late forties, who looked more like an accountant than a minister: spectacles, thinning silver hair, slight stoop and an anaemic, well-scrubbed complexion. He was also, Banks had discovered from their discussions and arguments over pints in the Queen’s Arms, an extraordinarily erudite and intelligent man. Pity, Banks thought, about the superstition he deemed fit to embrace.

‘Still,’ Catcott said, ‘I don’t think you made the supreme sacrifice of entering this hallowed place just to argue theology, did you?’

Banks smiled. ‘That’s right, Vicar. We can do that much better in the pub. No, it’s just some background information I want. Knowledge, rather. I want to pick your brains.’

‘Oh dear, I should think that’ll be much more comfortable sitting down. That is if you’ve no objection to taking a pew. Or we could go into the vestry?’

‘A pew’ll do fine,’ Banks said, ‘as long as you don’t expect me to kneel.’

The small church was dim and cool. Weak evening sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows. Banks had seen more of it from the outside than in, though he had been in once or twice to look at the Celtic cross and stone font. The pews creaked as they sat down.

‘What’s the liturgy?’ Banks asked.

‘Oh, come on, Mr Banks,’ Catcott said with a thin-lipped smile. ‘Surely even a heathen like yourself knows that?’

‘Humour me.’

Catcott put a pale, slender forefinger to his lips. ‘Very well. The liturgy. The word is often used to refer to the Book of Common Prayer, of course, but the meaning goes back a long time beyond that, a long time. Essentially, it’s simply the order of services in the church. As even you probably know, we have different services at different times of the year – Christmas, Easter, Harvest Festival and the like. And, you might remember from your misspent youth, we sing different hymns and have different lessons according to the nature of the service. Do you follow so far?’

Banks nodded.

‘There is a liturgical calendar to cover the year’s worship Advent, the fourth Sunday before Christmas, came first, then Christmas itself, ending with Epiphany, the sixth of January, or twelfth night, to you. Then we have the Pre-Lenten season, followed by Lent, when you’re supposed to give up bad habits – ‘ here he paused and cast a narrow-eyed look at Banks – ‘and the last three are Eastertide, Pentecost and Trinity. But what on earth do you want to know all this for? Surely you’re not thinking of-’

‘No, I’m not. And believe me, Vicar, you’d be better off not knowing. I’m particularly interested in the music that goes along with these services.’

‘Liturgical music? Well, that’s a slightly different matter. It’s very complicated. Goes back to Gregorian chants. But basically, each part of the year has its own biblical texts, and early composers set these to music. People still do it, of course – Vaughan Williams, Finzi and Britten did quite a bit – but it’s rarely part of a normal church service these days. What you’re probably talking about are biblical texts, or parts of texts, set to music. Actually, most of them were abolished in 1563.’

‘What kind of music are you talking about?’

‘All kinds, right from early polyphonic motets. A composer would take a text, perhaps a psalm, and set it to music. In Latin, of course.’

‘Like a Gloria or a Magnificat?’

‘Actually, the Gloria is part of the Mass, which has its own liturgy. I told you, it can get quite complicated.’

Banks remembered the section titles from his tapes of masses and requiems: Kyrie Eleison, Agnus Dei, Credo. ‘I think I’m getting the idea,’ he said. ‘What about Laudate pueri?’

‘Ah, yes, “Laudate pueri, Dominum…” It means ‘Praise the Lord, ye children.” That was a popular liturgical work. Based on Psalm 112, if my memory serves me right.’

‘Do you know Vivaldi’s settings?’

‘Indeed I do. Magnificent.’

‘It says in the notes to my tape that the piece may have been used as part of the burial service for a small child. Is that right?’

Catcott rubbed his smooth chin. ‘That would make sense, yes.’

‘Would that be fairly common knowledge?’

‘Well, you knew it, didn’t you? I’d say any reasonably well-educated person might have a chance of knowing.’

‘Would someone like Claude Ivers know?’

‘Ivers? Of course. I remember reading an article about him in Gramophone and he’s extremely knowledgeable about sacred music. Pity he doesn’t see fit to write any himself instead of that monotonous stuff he churns out.’

Banks smiled. Catcott had sown the seeds of another Queen’s Arms argument, but there was no time to pursue the point now.

‘Thank you, Vicar.’ Banks stood up and shook hands with Catcott, then headed out. His footsteps echoed on the cold stone. Just before he got to the door he heard the vicar call out from behind him, ‘The collection box for the restoration fund is to your right.’

Banks felt in his pocket for a pound, dropped it in the box and left.

THREE

Fortunately, Charles Cooper was at home when Banks and Richmond called just after teatime that day. Mrs Cooper flitted about the kitchen offering coffee, but Banks suggested he and Richmond retire with her husband somewhere private. Mrs Cooper seemed worried by that, but she raised no real objection. They settled for the living room, dominated by a huge television screen, and Richmond took out his notebook.

Cooper, Banks noticed, looked a few years older than his wife. He had a weak chin and a veined nose; his sparse grey hair was combed straight back. He was an odd shape, mostly skin and bone with rounded shoulders, but he had a substantial pot-belly bulging through his grey pullover.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you at last,’ said Cooper. ‘Of course, I’ve heard all about the business from my wife. Dreadful.’

He seemed nervous and fidgety, Banks thought, though his tone seemed calm and genuine enough.

‘What did you do on the evening of December the twenty-second?’ Banks asked.

‘I worked,’ Cooper said with a sigh. ‘I seemed to do nothing else around that time.’

‘I understand you’re general manager of a chain of toy shops?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And on the twenty-second you were dealing with some stock shortages in the Barnard Castle branch?’

Cooper nodded.

‘What time did you leave?’

He paused. ‘Well, let me see… I got home about eleven.’

‘Yes, but what time did you leave the shop?’

‘It’s about a half-hour drive, a little slower in the snow. I suppose it’d be about ten fifteen.’

‘You left the shop at ten fifteen and came straight home?’

‘Why, yes. Look, is-’

‘Are you sure, Mr Cooper?’

Cooper looked towards the sideboard and nervously licked his lips. ‘I ought to know,’ he said.

Richmond glanced up from his notes. ‘It’s just that the lady who works there told me you left about six, Mr Cooper. Would she have any reason to lie?’

Cooper looked from Richmond to Banks and back. ‘I… I don’t understand.’

Banks leaned forward. ‘It’s perfectly simple,’ he said. ‘You left the shop at six o’clock, not at ten fifteen, as you led us to believe. What were you doing all that time?’

Cooper pursed his lips and looked down at the liver spots on the backs of his hands.

‘What was your relationship with Caroline Hartley?’ Banks asked.

‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘I didn’t have a relationship with her.’

‘Were you fond of her?’

‘I suppose so. We were just acquaintances.’

‘She didn’t remind you of your late daughter, Corinne?’

Cooper turned red. ‘I don’t know who told you that, but it’s not true. And you’ve no right to bring my daughter into it. It’s exactly as I said. We were neighbours. Yes, I liked the girl, but that’s all.’

‘You didn’t attempt to start an affair with her?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! She was young enough to be my… Besides, you know as well as I do she wasn’t interested in men.’

‘But you did try?’

‘I did no such thing.’ He grasped the chair arms and started to get up. ‘I think you ought to leave now.’

‘We’ll leave when we’re satisfied, Mr Cooper,’ Banks said. ‘Please sit down.’

Cooper slumped back in his chair and started twisting his hands in his lap.

‘Do have a drink if you want,’ Banks said. ‘That is what’s on your mind, isn’t it?’

‘Damn you!’ Cooper jumped up with surprising agility, took a bottle of Scotch from the sideboard and poured himself three fingers. He didn’t offer any to Banks or Richmond. He sat down again and drank half of it in one gulp.

‘We’re not satisfied yet, Mr Cooper,’ Banks said. ‘We’re not satisfied at all. You’ve been lying to us. Now, that’s nothing new. In our business, we expect it.’ He jerked his thumb towards the wall. ‘But a young woman was brutally murdered next door on December the twenty-second, a woman you liked, who reminded you of your daughter. Now I’d think that unless you killed her yourself you’d want to help, you’d want to tell us the truth.’

‘I didn’t kill her, for God’s sake. Why on earth would I do that?’

‘You tell me.’

‘I told you, I didn’t kill her. And whatever I did that night has no bearing whatsoever on what happened next door.’

‘Let me be the judge of that.’

Cooper swirled his drink and took another long sip.

‘We’ll stay until you tell us,’ Banks said. ‘Unless you’d prefer to get your coat and-’

‘All right, all right.’ Mr Cooper waved his free hand. ‘I did leave the shop at six, but I wasn’t anywhere near Eastvale until eleven, I swear it.’

‘Where were you?’

‘Does it really matter?’

‘We have to check.’

Cooper got up and poured himself another drink. He cocked his ear towards the living-room door, then, satisfied by the sound of washing-up water running in the kitchen, spoke quietly.

‘I drink, Mr Banks,’ he said. ‘Simple as that. Ever since Corinne… well, you don’t need to know about that. But Christine doesn’t approve.’ He looked at his glass. ‘Oh, she’s not a teetotaller or anything. She’ll allow the occasional glass of Scotch after dinner, but more than one and I can even smell the disapproval. So I drink elsewhere.’

‘Where were you drinking that night?’ Banks asked.

‘Tan Hill,’ said Cooper. ‘It’s an isolated spot. I like it up there.’

‘Were you alone?’

‘No. There’s a group of regulars.’

‘Names?’

Cooper gave the names and Richmond wrote them down.

‘What time did you leave?’

‘About ten thirty. I daren’t be too late. And I keep some breath mints in the car so Christine can’t smell anything.’

‘Anything else to tell us?’

Cooper shook his head. ‘No, nothing. That’s it. Look, I’m sorry, I… I didn’t mean to cause any problems. It’s really nothing to do with poor Caroline’s death at all.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Banks, and got up to leave with Richmond.

‘There is one small thing,’ Cooper said before they got to the door.

Banks turned. ‘Yes?’

‘The driving. I mean, I’d had a few drinks. I wasn’t drunk, honestly. You won’t do anything to my licence, will you?’

‘I shouldn’t worry about that,’ Banks said. ‘I think the statute of limitations has just about run out.’ He made a mental note to find out the licence number of Cooper’s car and alert the local police patrols.

‘Fancy a trip to Tan Hill?’ Banks asked Richmond outside.

‘Tonight?’

‘Sooner the better, don’t you think?’

Richmond looked at his watch and frowned. ‘Well, I did have a… er-’

‘Take her with you,’ Banks said. ‘It’s a routine enquiry. Won’t take long.’

Richmond touched his moustache. ‘Not a bad idea,’ he said. ‘Not bad at all.’

‘Off you go then. I’ll see if I can get anything more out of the people across the street.’

FOUR

It was a cold night – spiky, needle-sharp cold rather than the damp, numbing chill of the sea mist – and the crusts of ice over puddles on the pavements cracked as Banks walked over them, hands deep in his fur-lined car-coat pockets. He decided to call first on Patrick Farlowe, who had originally said he was sure he had noticed two women and a man call at the house on separate occasions between about six and seven thirty on 22 December.

Farlowe was finishing his dinner when Banks arrived, and there was still a little wine left in the bottle. Banks accepted a glass and the invitation to join Farlowe in the den while his wife cleared the table. They certainly lived well in Oakwood Mews, Banks noted: remains of sirloin steaks on the plates, fine cutlery, a cut-glass vase holding two long-stemmed roses. The wine was a decent Crozes-Hermitage.

The den was an upstairs study with two walls of dark bookcases, a deep, leather armchair by a standard lamp and a small teak table beside it for resting cups of coffee, pencils and notepads. The light gleamed on the dark, varnished surfaces of the wood. The Hartley place in Harrogate would have been a larger version of this, Banks thought, before Gary let it fall to ruin.

Farlowe relaxed in his armchair and Banks took the swivel chair in front of the writing desk. One sniff of the clean, leather-scented air tipped him off that this was a non-smoking room.

‘We’re very grateful for the information you gave us,’ Banks began, ‘but I was wondering if you remembered anything else about that evening.’

Farlowe, a small, roly-poly man with tufts of grey hair over his ears, still wearing a three-piece suit, pressed his damp lips together and scratched the side of his nose. Finally he shook his head. The roll of pink fat around his neck wobbled. ‘Can’t say as I do, no.’

‘Do you mind if we go over a couple of points?’

‘Not at all. Be pleased to.’

Banks sipped some wine and asked about the timing.

Farlowe strained to remember for a moment, then answered. ‘I know the first one, the man, called at about seven o’clock because we’d just had supper and I was in the front room turning the Christmas-tree lights on. Then I caught a glimpse of the woman standing on the doorstep when I went to replace a burnt-out bulb a bit later. The door was open and she was talking to the Hartley woman.

‘Did you get a clear look at her?’

‘No. She had her back to me. Nicely shaped, though.’

‘So there’s no doubt it was a woman?’

‘None at all.’

‘What was she wearing?’

He put a pudgy finger to his lips and whistled while trying to recall the scene. ‘Let me see… It was a winter jacket of some kind, padded or thickly lined. Waist-length, no longer, because I could see the outline of her hips That’s how I knew it was a woman. A youngish one, I’d say. And she wore tight jeans. Lovely long legs she had. He winked.

‘What about her hair?’

‘It was wrapped in a scarf. I really couldn’t see it at all. And she was silhouetted by the hall light of the house, of course, so I couldn’t make out any detail. It was only a quick glimpse I got. I already told all this to your constable the other night.’

‘I know, and I’m sorry to put you through it again, sir Sometimes, believe it or not, people do remember more when they’re given a few days to think about it. What was Caroline Hartley wearing?’

‘As far as I could tell, it was some kind of bathrobe. She held it wrapped tight around her while she stood at the door, as if she was feeling the cold. I’m sorry I can’t be of any more help. I’d like to see the blighter caught, of course. Don’t like the idea of a murderer stalking the neighbourhood.’

‘The third visitor,’ Banks asked. ‘Can you be clearer about the time?’

‘I have given the matter some thought,’ Farlowe said, reaching for a decanter on the table beside him. ‘Port?’

Banks tossed back the rest of his wine and held his glass out. ‘Please. And…?’

‘I’m trying to recollect why I was at the front window again, but it’s slipped my mind. Perhaps I’d heard a noise or something…’ He tapped the side of head. ‘That’s it! I remember. I heard some music and I went out to see if we had carol singers in the street. Plagued by them we are.’ He made them sound like an infestation of rodents. ‘I consider I’ve handed out my fair share this year. Should be restricted to Christmas Eve, if you ask me. Anyway, it was only the wife, putting the radio on.’

‘Do you remember the time?’

‘No. All I remember, now I come to think about it, is hearing “Away in a Manger” and heading for the window. But there was no one at the door. I noticed a woman going into the house over the street, the house where the woman was murdered.’

‘Can you add anything to your earlier description?’

‘I’m sorry. It all happened so fast. I have to admit, I was rather angry at the thought of more singers and I just caught the figure out of the corner of my eye.’

‘But you’re sure it was a woman?’

‘Well, this one was wearing a light coat, belted, I think, because it came in at the waist, right down to mid-calves, and she definitely didn’t have any trousers on. I thought I could see the bottom of a dress or skirt, too, as if the coat was just a bit too short to cover the dress. And you could see her legs below that.’

‘What about height? Any idea?’

‘A little taller than the woman who answered the door, Caroline Hartley.’

‘Hair?’

He shook his head. ‘Again, her head was covered by a scarf of some kind.’

‘And this woman definitely entered the house?’

‘Oh, yes. She was walking in when I saw her.’

‘So you didn’t notice Caroline Hartley’s reaction to seeing her?’

‘No, not at all. I didn’t even see Caroline that time, just this other woman silhouetted as she walked in the door.’

‘So Caroline might not have let her in?’

‘I suppose that’s possible. But there didn’t seem anything suspicious about it. She didn’t seem to be pushing, and I didn’t hear any noise of forced entry or anything like that. It all seemed perfectly normal to me. I try to be a responsible neighbour. If I’d thought there was any trouble I would have called the police.’

‘Did you see her leave?’

‘No. But then I didn’t look out the window again. Anybody could have arrived or left between seven thirty and the time when… well, you know… and I wouldn’t have seen them.’

Banks finished his port and stood up. ‘Thank you for being so co-operative, Mr Farlowe. Also for the port. It was very good.’

Farlowe smiled. ‘Yes, it is, rather, isn’t it. The sixty-three vintage, you know.’ He struggled to get out of his armchair, floundering like a seal on a beach.

‘Please don’t bother showing me out,’ Banks said. ‘I’ll find my own way.’

‘Oh, very well. Fine, then. Bye.’ And Banks saw Mr Farlowe reach for the decanter again as he left the room. A suitable case for gout, that one. A lot of tipplers, it seemed, on Oakwood Mews.

On the way out, he met Mrs Farlowe in the hall. She had seen nothing that night, but she was able to tell him that the radio had been tuned to Radio Three, as always, when she turned it on. No, she couldn’t remember what time, but her husband was right. It was a carol service from King’s College. ‘Away in a Manger’ had been playing. Lovely tune, that one, isn’t it? Banks agreed and left.

From Mrs Eldridge at number eight Banks got no further information. She had seen the man go in first, then the woman knocking on the door at about seven fifteen. No, she hadn’t seen the man leave in the meantime, but the woman in the short coat and tight jeans definitely didn’t enter the house. And it wasn’t the same woman as the one who called later. This one was a bit taller and dressed differently. Some kind of long dress under her coat instead of jeans. The way it looked, unless Patsy Janowski had dashed off, changed clothes and added a few inches to her height in the interim, the third visitor couldn’t possibly have been her.

He needed to know who this third woman was. Unless someone else had come after her, someone nobody had seen arrive, or unless Claude Ivers had been in the house all the time and nobody had seen him leave, then she was the one, almost certainly, who had killed Caroline Hartley. Was it Veronica Shildon, as Susan had suggested? Banks didn’t think so – her love and grief seemed genuine – but he needed to talk to her again. There was a lot of ground yet to cover before he could hope to understand the people, and therefore the motives, involved in this case.

There was, however, one small, practical piece of information he carried away with him. Both Mr and Mrs Farlowe had said that the third woman entered the house – bidden or otherwise – when ‘Away in a Manager’ was being played on Radio Three. It should be possible to find out from the local BBC station what time the programme started, the order of carols in the concert and the length of each one. Given that information, it would be simple to work out at exactly what time the mysterious third woman had entered Caroline Hartley’s house and, in all likelihood, stabbed her to death with a kitchen knife.