When the Music's Over

3

When the two detectives had gone, Linda Palmer breathed a deep sigh and refilled her glass with orange juice. It hadn’t been as terrible an ordeal as she had worried it would be, but she still felt shaken and wrung out. She had felt again while talking to them how terrified she had been all those years ago when she went to the police station in Leeds with her mother. It had taken a great deal of her inner reserves to appear as calm and relaxed about the whole thing as she had done today, shaking inside the whole time.

She wondered if she had seemed too detached to the detectives, too unemotional. Perhaps they hadn’t believed her. Weren’t victims supposed to behave differently? Cry, perhaps, or tremble with fear at their recollections? She worried that she may have been too flippant, too devil-may-care, laughed too often. She had wanted them to know that what had happened hadn’t ruined her life — that was important to her — though it had caused her a great deal of pain and suffering. She hoped she hadn’t gone too far in the direction of nonchalance to make them suspicious of her story. She hadn’t told them everything, of course, not all the myriad details that were etched somewhere in her memory and would, she knew, remain there for ever, along with the buried feelings that accompanied them. Though they weren’t easily accessible, the memories and feelings were still there, locked in the box she had put them in to retain her sanity in the months after the events of that summer’s day in Blackpool.

She drank some juice then felt in her jeans pocket for the packet of Marlboro Lights and disposable lighter. She didn’t smoke much, but she needed one now, despite the wonderful sweet-scented summer air. Go on, she told herself, pollute it. Make the birds cough on your second-hand smoke. Give the blue tits cancer.

Well, it was done now, set in motion, and things would be what they would be. Her life would never be the same, whatever the outcome. She wondered about the other women — she couldn’t bring herself to think of them as victims, though no doubt they were — and what they had gone through, what they remembered, what they were like now, how their lives had turned out. Perhaps it would have to be enough simply to know that they existed out there somewhere. There would be no collusion, of course. There would be no girly sessions in the pub. So what did he do to you, then, love? Nasty. You know he did exactly the same thing to me, and it hurt like hell. Was it your first time, too? The media would keep identities strictly secret, though how they could do that in these days of phone-hacking and a self-righteously obtrusive press she had no idea.

She didn’t even think she would mind all that much if people did know what she had been through, that she was one of the complainants against Danny Caxton. What if they did find out? What was the worst that could happen? The whole country would know that she, Linda Palmer, award-winning poet, was a victim of rape. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. At least she had a certain standing in the community, a respected voice, unlike those poor girls who were groomed in the inner-city areas and used as sex objects. Nobody listened to them; they were simply written off as drugged-up slags and sluts who deserved what they got.

Linda closed her eyes, listened to the water and felt the shadows of the leaves dancing on her eyelids. The river was a constant presence in her life, it seemed. She drew in a lungful of smoke and leaned back in her chair, which wobbled as she did so, stretching out her legs and opening her eyes again. Persy lay where she had settled, sleeping in the sun. Soon she would have to move, as her patch would fall into shadow. The kingfisher had appeared on his branch, still and watchful. As usual, when she saw him fly in the late sun, she thought of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem: ‘As Kingfishers Catch Fire’.

As Linda exhaled the smoke, she saw it in her mind as if it were the smoke coming from the funnel of a steam train. She could almost hear the rhythm, wheels clacking over the joins in the track, feel the gentle swaying of the carriage and creaking of old woodwork, the rattling of the doors. It was the summer of 1967, and they were going on their annual holiday. Two glorious weeks in Blackpool. Linda, her mum and dad, and for the first time her best friend Melanie, along with her mum and dad, too.

But was it a steam train that year? Hadn’t they stopped running by then? When did the diesels take over? Memory. Memory. She was sure it was a steam train, and they had a compartment to themselves, all six of them. She could remember seeing the smoke drift by the partially open window, remember its acrid smell. She could see the dark engine ahead when it turned a long curve, chugging and puffing along, carrying them towards...

Linda sat up and stubbed out her cigarette, startled by the power of her memory. She hadn’t let herself remember that holiday for many years, but talking about it to the detectives today, thinking about it after she had read the news item about the latest celebrity jailed for abusing girls years ago, then thinking about it again after her father’s death, had brought it back to the front of her mind from the dark box to which she had consigned it. Whether she wanted it to or not, the box was opening, and perhaps, just perhaps, she was strong enough now to face its contents. She thought about what Banks had said about writing things down. Writing was her business, after all. Perhaps it was time.

She had kept a diary back then, she remembered. Every year her Aunt Barbara bought her a Letts Schoolgirl Diary for Christmas. It had a thin pencil that slipped down the spine, a page for each week and all sorts of information about world capitals, flags, holidays, time zones and units of currency. There wasn’t a lot of room for writing, though it more than sufficed for most days, and she had made her carefully concise entries scrupulously every day, no matter whether or not she did anything interesting. The diaries were all gone now, of course, dumped in one of the many clear-outs she had experienced over the years. What would she have written on the nineteenth of August, 1967? she wondered. ‘Got raped. Not very nice.’ Oh stop being such a wag, Linda, she told herself. Get on with it.

Still she faltered, half unwilling to plunge herself into the darkness that surely awaited her inside the flimsy box she had constructed to hold her memories of those days, but she was already doing that, anyway, by talking to the police, wasn’t she? No doubt she would have to testify in court, too. When she thought of the burden of all that, of the jury’s eyes on her, the Sphinx-like judge with his hooded eyes — for it would surely be a man — the hawkish defence lawyer, cynical and aggressive in his attack, making it sound as if everything she said was a lie, like they were on television, she felt suffocated, and a sense of panic engulfed her. On the other hand, maybe all this was a way, not so much of exorcising the past, but of somehow domesticating it, transforming it, making it a part of herself rather than something separate, to be shut away in a box in the dark. She knew that despite all the analysis and self-probing she had subjected herself to over the years, she hadn’t succeeded in integrating herself with her experience. Whatever else a memoir might turn out to be, it would certainly be a leap into the unknown.

Persy rolled over and found the sun again. Linda picked up her notebook and pen and began to write. Let it be a steam train, then, she thought. The kingfisher sat on its branch across the river and continued searching for fish.

Annie experienced a sense of déjà vu as Gerry drove down the rough track to the farmhouse, though the weather was different from her last visit to a farm, when she was making inquiries about a stolen tractor. Back then, the freezing rain had lashed down on her, the ground had been a mass of churned-up mud and dung. Today the sky was blue, the sun beat down and a sleepy sort of torpor imbued the air. Even the farmyard smells were aromatic. Almost. From where she stood, Annie could see clearly the line of trees along the road from which she had just come.

It was a youngish man who opened the door. Early thirties, Annie guessed, his hairline already receding but otherwise trim and fit, with that weathered skin and healthy sort of glow that came from working outdoors.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

Annie and Gerry flashed their warrant cards, and a frown darkened his forehead. ‘But what could you possibly...?’

‘Mind if we come in for a minute, sir?’ Annie asked.

‘Oh, no, of course not. Sorry, I’m just... er... yes, please, come in.’

They followed him into a bright, airy living room. All the windows were open and a gentle cross-breeze helped cool the place. It also carried in the whiff of the farmyard smells. A woman sat on the sofa, and when she stood to greet them, Annie could see that she was very pregnant.

‘Sit down, please,’ Annie said. ‘Sorry to bother you. We won’t disturb you for long.’

‘But what is it?’ the woman asked, slowly subsiding back on to the sofa. ‘I’m Mandy, by the way. Mandy Ketteridge. My husband Toby. Please sit down.’

‘I’m DI Annie Cabbot, and this is my colleague DC Gerry Masterson. There’s nothing to worry about. Just a few routine questions.’ They sat in the flower-patterned armchairs opposite the matching sofa.

Toby sat beside his wife and took her hand in his. ‘Isn’t that what you always say when you mean business?’ he said. ‘That it’s just routine?’

‘You’ve been watching too much TV, sir.’

‘Probably.’ Toby looked lovingly at his wife. ‘As you can see, we don’t get out much these days.’

‘How long?’ Annie asked Mandy.

‘Eight and a half months.’

‘Is it your first?’

Mandy nodded. ‘Have you...?’

‘No,’ said Annie. ‘Never met the right fella.’

Toby squeezed his wife’s hand. ‘Mandy’s getting a little nervous, though the doctor assures her that everything is fine.’

I don’t bloody blame her, Annie thought. If it were me, I’d be scared stiff. ‘I’m sure it is,’ she said. She glanced at Gerry, who already had her notebook and pen out, and guessed that motherhood was probably the furthest thing from her mind at this stage of her career. Toby and Mandy were watching them both apprehensively.

‘It’s nothing to be worried about. Honestly,’ said Annie. ‘Our visit, I mean.’

‘Well, it’s not every day we have the police here,’ said Toby.

‘I should imagine not. You own the field that stretches up to Bradham Lane, don’t you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘There’s a section of the wall topped with barbed wire. How long has it been like that?’

‘About two years.’

‘Any reason?’

‘To stop people getting in.’

‘You were having problems?’

‘No,’ said Toby. ‘Not us, specifically. But Glen on the other side said he’d caught some lads trying to make off with several of his sheep one night. Passing them over the wall where they had a van waiting. We heard so much about rural crime and being vigilant and all, we thought that was the best solution. Why? Is it illegal?’

‘No. Nothing like that,’ said Annie. ‘There were a few strands of barbed wire in the ditch. Know anything about that?’

‘If someone got hurt,’ said Mandy, ‘we’re really sorry. The workmen who put the fence up must have left it there. To be honest, neither of us has been out there for ages. And who’d want to go in the ditch?’

Annie glanced at Gerry. ‘No one,’ she said. ‘Not willingly, at any rate.’

Mandy put her hand to her mouth. ‘Has something terrible happened? Has someone drowned or something?’

She certainly was jumpy, Annie thought, perhaps afraid she might have the baby right on the spot. Eight and a half months was a bit close for comfort, and she did look fit to burst. ‘It’s nothing like that,’ she said, thinking it was something far, far worse. And Mandy Ketteridge would hear about it soon enough. Perhaps better now she was primed rather than later. ‘Someone was found dead there. By the roadside. A girl. We think she was murdered.’

Toby squeezed his wife’s hand again. ‘Oh, my God,’ said Mandy, sounding oddly calmer now that it was out. ‘But... I mean... what has it to do with us?’

Annie gave her best smile. ‘Nothing, I hope.’

‘I’m afraid we can’t tell you anything,’ Toby said.

‘I’m not really suggesting you had anything to do with what happened,’ Annie explained. ‘It’s just that this is the nearest farmhouse to the scene and we wondered if either of you might have seen or heard anything.’

‘A murder? Near our house?’ Mandy sounded incredulous.

‘Yes. Is there anything you can tell us?’

‘When did it happen?’ Mandy asked.

‘We don’t know for certain, but we think during last night, or early morning. Say between one and three. Were you at home then?’

‘Yes,’ said Mandy. ‘Both of us. With me being so close to my time, Toby doesn’t like to leave me alone. Especially at night.’

‘We’re usually in bed before eleven,’ said Toby. ‘We watch the ten o’clock news then lock up and head for bed. Sometimes Mandy’s there already, this past while, reading. Or munching on a tuna and banana sandwich.’

‘Liar,’ said Mandy, nudging him gently. ‘I do not. Well, maybe just the once.’

‘And during the night?’ Annie went on.

A shadow crossed Mandy’s face, the flicker of a memory. ‘It was a warm night,’ she said. ‘Humid. Hardly a breath of air. We don’t have a fan, so we leave the bedroom windows open. It helps a bit. And I’ve not been sleeping very well.’ She gave a thin smile and patted her belly. ‘As you can imagine.’

‘Did you hear something last night?’

‘Mmm. It would have been about two o’clock, give or take a few minutes. I was lying awake. I wanted to go to the toilet, but I was so comfortable and... well... the baby was quiet. I wasn’t in the least bit sleepy, but I was trying to put off getting up, you know how you do.’

‘What happened?’

‘Well, it was all very sudden, but I thought I heard a car and some loud music. The music got even louder for a few moments, and I heard a car door slamming, then it all faded into the distance.’

‘Could you tell what direction it was travelling in?’

She thought for a moment. ‘I couldn’t swear to it, but I think it was going south, coming from up Eastvale way. At least, I seem to sort of vaguely remember the sound travelling in that direction, if you know what I mean. But I can’t be certain. I wasn’t really paying attention.’

‘Can you describe what you heard in any more detail?’

‘As I said, the music was quite loud at first, even when the door wasn’t open, like you get in the city sometimes.’ She squeezed her husband’s hand. ‘Toby always says they must have their stereo speakers on the outside.’

‘But sound carries well out here?’

‘Oh, yes. Especially with the windows open. It’s so quiet and flat between here and the road, and that’s the direction the bedroom faces.’

‘Did the car go by quickly?’

‘That’s just the thing. I mean, I could hear the engine, you know, first in the distance, then getting closer. Then I could see the light from the headlamps over the field, and I realised it must be going down the lane, which seemed odd, especially at that time of night, some kids playing loud music.’

‘You were watching by then?’

‘I was sitting on the edge of the bed. It was just the glow from the lights I could see, not the actual headlamps themselves, and — yes, of course. It must have been travelling south. That was the direction the lights were moving. Silly me. I’d forgotten.’

‘You thought it was kids?’

‘Well... that’s who does it, isn’t it? I don’t mean to sound prejudiced or anything, I don’t even really mind that much, but it’s usually kids who drive around with loud music playing.’

Annie thought of Banks. He liked it loud sometimes. ‘You mean like rap music, hip hop?’

‘No, no. Nothing like that. That was the strange thing. That’s what you’d expect.’ She smiled. ‘But it wasn’t like that at all. It was that song I’d heard on the radio a year or two ago. I remember it because I liked it. It was on all the time. The two Swedish girls.’

‘First Aid Kit?’ Gerry suggested.

‘That’s right. “My Silver Lining”. It just seemed odd that someone would be playing that song so loud in the middle of the night. I could hear it clearly because when the car slowed down...’

‘Slowed down?’ said Annie.

‘Yes. I distinctly heard it slow down. The engine changed sound, and that’s when I could hear the music even louder for a while as if...’

‘As if what?’

‘As if someone opened the door or something, just for a moment. Which they must have done because it closed a few seconds later. And I thought I heard laughing and yelling or whooping, but I’m not sure about that.’

‘So the car actually stopped for a while?’

‘No, I don’t think it stopped. At least, the engine never stopped. Just slowed down. It sounded as if it skidded a bit first. I heard the tyres squeal a bit. It must have been going fast. Maybe it idled for a few moments. I don’t know. All I know is it shot off again just a few moments later, after the door slammed shut. Burning rubber, as they say. And the music went back to what it was like before.’

‘How much later?’ Annie asked. ‘This could be important, Mandy.’

Mandy bit her lip. ‘Not long. I mean, seconds, not minutes. It was very fast.’

‘You seem to have a remarkable ear for details,’ Annie said. ‘Did you hear anything else?’

‘Well, I was just lying or sitting there in the dark with the windows open. You tend to notice every little sound, don’t you, every creak and animal noise. I didn’t hear anything else for a while. I went to the toilet, and when I got back to bed, a short while later I heard another car. No music this time. But it was odd, two cars out there so close together in one night.’

‘How much later?’

‘I’m not sure. Not long. About ten or fifteen minutes after the first one.’

‘Again, this could be important, Mandy. Think carefully. Was it the same car as the one before? Did it sound the same? Could you tell?’

Mandy frowned in concentration. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said finally. ‘I think it sounded different. But honestly, I couldn’t really tell. I’m not good at mechanical things.’

‘What did the second car do?’

‘It stopped.’

‘Completely?’

‘Yes. I couldn’t even hear the engine, but I could still see the glow from the headlamps through the trees.’

‘And it started up again?’

‘A few minutes later.’

Bingo, thought Annie. That was long enough to beat the girl to death. The second van, coming from the same direction ten or fifteen minutes later, when she had managed to stagger a quarter of a mile or so back up the road after being thrown naked out of a van.

‘Did you hear anything during the time it was stopped?’

‘I heard a car door slam, then someone’s voice. It might have been a scream and some shouting. I thought it was just someone being noisy. A drunk stopping to be sick or something, and her friend shouting at her. I’m sorry.’ She put her fist to her mouth and started sobbing. Toby put his arm around her.

‘You weren’t to know,’ Annie said. ‘It’s a wonder you could hear anything at all from so far away.’

‘My hearing’s good, as a rule. And as I said, sounds carry in the country in the dark. Mostly I just heard the car engines and the music in the distance, and the music was so loud and unusual. That’s why it seemed odd... I... I’m sorry. Perhaps if I’d realised what was happening, called the police...’

‘There was nothing you could have done,’ Annie reassured her. There was no way Mandy could have heard a girl being beaten to death almost a mile away, even if she had heard the music, the car engines and the whooping. And perhaps a scream. The victim would have stopped screaming soon after the first blow and the sounds of punching and kicking would have been muffled and wouldn’t have carried over the distance.

‘You said “her friend” a moment ago, when you mentioned being sick. Did you hear a woman’s voice?’

‘I must have done, I suppose.’

‘And a man’s? The friend shouting at her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was he angry?’

‘I don’t know. I could only hear sounds, not words or anything.’

‘But he shouted?’

‘Loud enough for me to hear. Yes.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’

‘Well, there is one thing. The second car turned and went back the way it came. The gears made a sort of crunching sound, like when you do a three-point turn in a hurry. And again I could see the direction from the glow of the lights. That seemed odd.’

‘It didn’t drive on down the lane?’

‘No.’

‘Did you hear anything, Mr Ketteridge?’

‘I was fast asleep,’ said Toby. He smiled. ‘Getting as much in as I can before the wee one comes along.’ He patted his wife’s knee and stood up. ‘I think my wife should rest now, if you don’t mind. You can see she’s distraught.’

Annie handed him her card. ‘If either of you thinks of anything else, please don’t hesitate to phone. And we may need to come back for a statement. We’ll be in touch.’

As they walked towards the door, Mandy looked over at them and said, ‘We’re not in any danger, are we? I mean, a murder so close to our home. There isn’t some sort of maniac on the loose, is there? Are you sure my baby’s not in any danger?’

‘No,’ said Annie. ‘I can’t think of any reason why you would be.’ Outside at the car she turned to Gerry. ‘I never knew you were a First Aid Kit fan.’

‘Hidden depths,’ said Gerry, with an enigmatic smile. ‘Hidden depths.’

The bottom of the door slid easily over the few scattered bills and junk mail the postman had delivered after Banks left for work that morning. He didn’t even bother bending to pick them up. They could wait.

His front door led directly into a small study where he kept his computer, a comfortable armchair, table lamp and couple of bookcases. It used to be his main living room, but that had changed after the fire, when the insurance had allowed him not only to have the gutted cottage restored, but to enlarge the kitchen, add a conservatory at the back and an entertainment room along one side. That was where he usually watched TV or DVDs, kept his audio and video equipment and entertained visitors. He had speakers rigged up all over the house, so he could listen to music in just about every room. And now there was an extra en suite bedroom upstairs for when Brian or Tracy wanted to stay.

The problem was that Banks rarely saw his children these days. Brian was either on the road with his band, the Blue Lamps, or in the recording studio, and Tracy was studying for a master’s degree in Newcastle, working part-time as a research assistant to one of the profs. She also had a boyfriend, Geoff, who lived in St Andrews, and she spent most of her spare time up there with him. Still, they both phoned from time to time, and both were happy and doing fine as far as Banks knew. For a while, Banks’s last girlfriend Oriana had lived with him on and off, but they had split up, amicably enough, a month ago and all vestiges of her presence were gone. Definitely off. She was a beautiful, intelligent and desirable young woman, and he missed her. But he was used to living alone, and he soon settled back into his old routines.

Banks first went upstairs to his bedroom, took off his suit and shirt and put on jeans and a T-shirt. It was another sultry evening, and back downstairs he opened the windows in the conservatory before pouring himself a large glass of Barossa’s best Shiraz and raising a silent toast to Peter Lehmann, his favourite winemaker, who had died not so long ago. He felt like listening to something a bit different from the string quartets and trios he had been playing lately, so he flipped through his CDs in the entertainment room and put on Lana del Rey’s Ultraviolence. He hadn’t expected to like her after all the hype over her first album, but he’d seen a performance clip from Glastonbury and had enjoyed both the sound and the summer dress she was wearing. He took easily to the spaced-out music, the sound-wash of distant, distorted, swirling guitars and haunting background vocals of her second album, and her delivery, attitude and lyrics intrigued him. She seemed curiously disengaged yet full of disturbed and conflicting emotions and imagery, the voice both vulnerable and threatening. It was often uncomfortable listening. Anyone who dared quote the old Crystals song ‘He Hit Me (And It Felt Like a Kiss)’ in this day and age had a lot of nerve. And if Del Rey’s version of Jessie Mae Robinson’s ‘The Other Woman’ wasn’t as powerful as Nina Simone’s, it was still pretty damn good.

Naturally, the title track ‘Ultraviolence’ got Banks thinking about the Caxton case, as well as the unidentified victim on Bradham Lane Annie had told him about. As detective superintendent, he was head of the Homicide and Major Crimes Unit, so in addition to the Caxton investigation, he also had to keep on top of any other cases the squad was handling. He knew he could trust Annie to do a thorough job, and he had no intention of dogging her every footstep. Yes, she herself had been raped — he remembered the shock he had felt when she had first recounted the experience to him in a cosy Soho bistro — but she would use her anger to fuel her search for who had beaten the poor girl to death. And if her foot slipped and happened to connect with his wedding tackle when she found him... well, these things happen to the best of us. Even in this day and age. Banks would probably be too busy to be of much use to her, but he would keep an eye on the case and try to be there if she needed him.

When Banks thought about his own assignment, he realised that he felt differently about Danny Caxton since he and Winsome had talked with Linda Palmer. It wasn’t simply that he believed her story — though he did — but that he had found her honesty, strength and intelligence in talking about it had inspired him. He wanted to get Caxton, however old and famous he was. Wanted to knock that ‘Big Smile’ right off his face. As easy as it was to be cynical about historical abuse claims — and Banks was as guilty of that as anyone — he didn’t doubt that bad things had happened back then, things that had not been investigated for a variety of reasons.

Banks wanted to find out why there had been no official investigation after Linda Palmer had reported the rape. That must have taken a lot of courage for a fourteen-year-old girl, even if her mother had pushed her into it and accompanied her to the police station. Why had nobody done anything? DCI Ken Blackstone, who worked out of the new Leeds District HQ on Elland Road, might be able to help him answer that question, and it would be good to see his old friend again. But he didn’t hold out a great deal of hope. Like memories, old police files become discoloured, crumble to dust and blow away in the wind. Or someone nicks them.

Banks was also interested in the other man Linda had mentioned. If someone else had been present, someone even younger than Caxton, there was always a chance that he was still alive. Tracking him down would not only result in the apprehension of another rapist, it could also help strengthen the case against Caxton, especially if the accomplice could be made to talk. From what Linda Palmer had said, he may have been a reluctant participant, which meant that he may have been plagued with conscience over the years, something that might make him keen to get things off his chest in the hope of making some sort of deal. But how to track him down? Even the scene of the crime no longer existed.

All in all, Banks knew that he had his work cut out. Everything his team came up with would be fed into the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System (HOLMES) along with information from all the other county force investigations into allegations against Danny Caxton. If something was there about the other man, it would turn up. The days when a rapist or killer could commit a crime in one county and no other counties would know about it were all but gone since the problems with the Yorkshire Ripper investigation. It still happened occasionally, mostly due to human error, which no number of computers could ever eliminate, but even before the NCA came along, the Ripper case had taught all the county forces a huge lesson.

Banks refilled his wine glass and replaced Lana del Rey with Mark Knopfler’s Tracker. There was a pleasant cross-breeze, but he still felt his T-shirt sticking to him. It was that time of day he loved, between sunset and dark — the gloaming, as the Anglo-Saxons called it — when the swifts had returned to their nests and the bats had yet to come out. The light seemed to possess an ethereal, ineffable quality, perhaps intensified by its transience, and Knopfler’s smooth vocals and flowing melodic guitar work provided a fitting accompaniment.

It never got truly dark for long in the northern summers, and Banks had found himself adapting his routine to the cycle of the day. It meant he didn’t get as much sleep, as he found it difficult to drop off while it was still light outside, so he tended to stop up later. But he rose early, and he usually stayed late at the office most evenings and ate a sandwich while he finished the day’s paperwork. Once home, he’d do exactly what he was doing now, if he didn’t nip down to the Dog and Gun for a quick pint and a chat with Penny Cartwright, or whoever happened to be there from the folk crowd.

He didn’t have much of a back garden, and, though he sometimes went out front and climbed over the wall to sit on the banks of Gratly Beck by the terraced falls, as often as not he spent his evenings in the conservatory. With the windows open, it was almost like being outside. There had been too few evenings spent this way since his promotion. So often he had been stuck with extra paperwork or away overnight on a course or at a conference. Where he was sitting, he could smell the sweetness of the honeysuckle clinging to its trellis, watch the shadows darken on the slopes of Tetchley Fell and the setting sun paint the sky orange and purple along the valley in the west. Times like this, he wondered how he had managed to live in Eastvale at all, let alone London. He imagined Linda Palmer sitting in her garden by the river composing poems. He wished he had that talent, or any writing ability at all. At least, he thought, he should read some of hers. And maybe also Ariel and Dart.

He had recently started working his way through an anthology of English verse he had found in the second-hand bookshop off the market square, often out in the garden with a cup of freshly brewed coffee first thing in the morning. Early encounters with Chaucer and Spenser had almost defeated him, but he had skipped them, along with a number of other unintelligible contemporaries, and moved on. The old ballads presented him with no problems. He already knew most of them from recordings by Martin Carthy, June Tabor and others. He also knew some of Thomas Campion’s songs from Emma Kirkby and Iestyn Davies recordings. Next he breezed through the selection of Shakespeare’s sonnets, then Tichborne’s ‘Elegy’ moved him almost to tears. Now he was feeling a bit bogged down in Pope and Dryden, who probably thought they were wittier than they really were, but he was certain there were more delights to come. Not knowing what was coming next was part of the fun.

It was well after dark and the bats were flitting all over the back garden. Mark Knopfler had finished a while ago. Wearily, Banks put his empty wine glass in the sink and went up to bed. It was no insult to the beauty of the music that he fell asleep with his earbuds in listening to John Tavener’s Lament for Jerusalem.