Past Reason Hated (35 page)

Pasty closed her eyes. ‘No, I’m sure I didn’t . . . Except—’

‘What?’

‘I’m not very clear. There was a woman.’

‘Where?’

‘The end of the street. It was dark there . . . snowing. And she was some distance away from me. But I remember thinking there was something odd about her, I don’t know what. I’m damned if I can think what it was.’

‘Think,’ Banks encouraged her. The timing was certainly right. Patsy had called at about twenty past seven, and the killer – if indeed the last observed visitor was the killer – only two or three minutes later. There was a good chance that they had passed in the street.

Patsy opened her eyes. ‘It’s no good. It was ages ago now and I hardly paid any attention at the time. It’s just one of those odd little things, like a déjà vu.’

‘Did you think you knew this woman, recognized her?’

‘No. It wasn’t anything like that. I’d remember that. It was when I got to King Street. She was crossing over, as if she was heading for the mews. We were on opposite sides and I didn’t get a very close look. It was something else, just a little thing. I’m sorry, Chief Inspector, really I am. Especially,’ she added sharply, ‘as any information I might give could get us off the hook. I simply can’t remember.’

‘If you do remember anything at all about the woman,’ Banks said, ‘no matter how minor a detail it might seem to you, call me immediately, is that clear?’

Patsy nodded.

‘And you’re not off the hook yet. Not by a long chalk.’

Banks gestured for Hatchley to get up, a lengthy task that involved quite a bit of heaving and puffing, then they left. Banks almost slipped on the icy pathway, but Hatchley caught his arm and steadied him just in time.

‘Well,’ said the sergeant, stamping and rubbing his hands outside the Lobster Inn, ‘that’s that then. I don’t mind doing a bit of extra work, you know,’ he said, glancing longingly at the pub, ‘even when I’m supposed to be on my honeymoon. I know it’s not my case, but I wish you’d fill me in on a few more details.’

Banks caught his glance and interpreted the signals. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Over a pint?’

Hatchley beamed. ‘Well, if you insist . . .’

‘Susan, love, could I have a word?’

‘Of course.’

Susan and Marcia were sitting in the Crooked Billet with the entire cast of
Twelfth Night
after rehearsal. It had gone badly, and those who weren’t busy arguing were drowning their depression in drink. James didn’t seem too concerned, Susan thought, watching him listen patiently to Malvolio’s complaints about the final scene. But he was used to it; he’d directed plays before. She shifted along the bench to let Marcia Cunningham sit beside her. ‘What is it?’

Marcia looked puzzled. ‘I’m not sure. It’s nothing really. At least I don’t think it is. But it’s very odd.’

‘Police business?’

‘Well, it might have something to do with the break-in. You did say to mention anything that came up.’

‘Go on.’

‘But that’s just it, you see, love. It doesn’t make sense.’

‘Marcia,’ Susan said, ‘why don’t you just tell me? Get it off your chest.’

Marcia frowned. ‘It’s hard to explain. You’d probably think I was just being silly if I told you. Can’t you pop around and have a look for yourself? I don’t live far away.’

‘What, now?’

‘Whenever you can spare the time, love.’ Marcia looked at her watch. ‘I’ll have to be off in a few minutes, anyway.’

Susan recognized a deadline when she heard one. Now she was with CID she was never really off duty. She wouldn’t get anywhere if she put personal pleasure before the job, however fruitless the trek to Marcia’s might seem. And the vandalism was
her
case. A success so early in her CID career would look good. What could she do but agree? As Marcia couldn’t be induced to say any more, Susan would have to put James off and go with her. It wouldn’t take long, Marcia had assured her, so she wouldn’t have to cancel their dinner date, just postpone it for half an hour or so. James would understand. He certainly had plenty to occupy himself with in her absence.

‘All right,’ Susan said. ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘Thanks, love. It might be a waste of time but well, wait till you see.’

Susan told James she had to nip out for a while and would be back in half an hour or so, then she buttoned up her winter coat and left with Marcia. They walked northeast along York Road, past the excavated pre-Roman site, where the little burial mounds and hut foundations looked eerie under their carapace of moonlit ice.

‘It’s just down here.’ Marcia led Susan down a sloping street of pre-war semis opposite the site. Though the house itself was small, it had gardens at both front and back and a fine view of the river and the Green from the kitchen window. The furniture looked dated and worn, and swaths of material lay scattered here and there, along with stacks of patterns and magazines, in the untidy living room. Marcia didn’t apologize for the mess. Her sense of disorder, Susan realized, didn’t stop at the way she dressed.

On the mantelpiece above the electric fire stood a framed photograph of Marcia’s late husband, a handsome man, posing on the seafront at some holiday resort with a pipe in his mouth. Marcia switched on the fire. Susan took off her coat and knelt by the reddening element, rubbing her hands. She could smell dust burning as it heated up.

‘Sorry it’s so cold,’ Marcia said. ‘We wanted central heating, but since my Frank died I just haven’t been able to afford it.’

‘I don’t have it either,’ Susan said. ‘I always do this when I get home.’ She stood up and turned. ‘What is it you’ve got to show me?’

Marcia dragged a large box into the centre of the room. ‘It’s this. Remember I told you yesterday I was patching up some of the damage those hooligans did to the costumes?’

Susan nodded.

‘Well, I have. Look.’ She held up a long pearl gown with shoulder straps and plunging neckline.

Susan looked closely. ‘But surely . . .?’

‘Cut to shreds, it was,’ Marcia said. ‘Look.’ She pointed out the faint lines of stitching. ‘Of course, you’d never get away with wearing it for a banquet at the Ritz, but it’ll do for a stage performance. Even the nobs in the front row wouldn’t be able to see how it had been sewn back together.’

‘You’re a genius, Marcia,’ Susan exclaimed, touching the fabric. ‘You should have been a surgeon.’

Marcia shrugged. ‘Can’t stand the sight of blood. Anyway, it was just like doing a jigsaw puzzle really.’ And she showed Susan more dresses and gowns she had resurrected from the box of snipped-up originals. That so untidy a person should be able to bring such order out of chaos astonished Susan.

‘You didn’t bring me here just to praise you, did you?’ she said finally. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I told James I’d be back in half an hour.’

‘Sorry, love,’ Marcia said. ‘Just got carried away, that’s all. Forgot how impatient young love is.’

Susan blushed. ‘Marcia! The point.’

‘Yes, well.’ Marcia reached into the box and took out a simple burgundy dress. ‘This is the point. I worked on this one all afternoon.’ She held it up, and Susan could see that the sleeves had been cut off up to elbow-level and a large patch of the front, around the breasts, was also missing.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you finished?’

‘I’ve done all I could, love. That’s the point. This is it. All there was.’

‘I still don’t understand.’

‘And you a copper, too. It’s simple. I managed to sort out the bits and pieces of the other dresses here and patch them together, as you’ve seen.’

Susan nodded.

‘But when it came to this one, I couldn’t find all the pieces. Some of them’ve plain disappeared.’

‘Disappeared?’

‘Wake up, lass. Yes, disappeared. I’ve looked everywhere. Even back at the centre to see if they’d fallen on the floor or something. Not a trace.’

‘But it doesn’t make any sense,’ Susan said slowly. ‘Who on earth would want to steal pieces of a ruined dress?’

‘My point exactly,’ Marcia said. ‘That’s why I asked you to come here and see it for yourself. Who would do such a thing? And why?’

‘There has to be a simple explanation.’

Marcia nodded. ‘Yes. But what is it? Your lot didn’t take any for analysis or whatever, did they?’

Susan shook her head. ‘No. They must have dropped out somewhere. Maybe when you were bringing the box home.’

‘I looked everywhere. I’m telling you, love, if there’d been pieces I would’ve found them.’

Susan couldn’t help but feel disappointed. It was hardly an important discovery – certainly not one that would lead to the identity of the vandals – but Marcia was right in that it was mystifying. It was slightly disturbing, too. When Susan picked up the dress and held it in front of her, she shivered as if someone had just walked over her grave. It looked as if the arms had been deliberately cut off rather than torn, and two circles of fabric around the breasts had been snipped out in a similar way. Shaking her head, Susan folded the dress and handed it back to Marcia.

Chief Inspector Banks! Have you any news?’

‘No news,’ Banks said. ‘Maybe a few questions.’

‘Come in.’ Veronica Shildon led him into her front room. It looked larger and colder than it had before, as if even all the heat from the fiercely burning fire in the hearth couldn’t penetrate every shadowy corner. Two small, threadbare armchairs stood in front of the fire.

‘Christine Cooper let me have them until I get around to buying a new suite,’ Veronica said, noticing Banks looking at them. ‘She was going to throw them out.’

Banks nodded. After Veronica had taken his coat, he sat in one of the armchairs and warmed himself by the flames. ‘It’s certainly more comfortable than a hard-backed chair,’ he said.

‘Can I offer you a drink?’ she asked.

‘Tea would do nicely.’

Veronica brewed the tea and came to sit in the other armchair, placed so they didn’t face each other directly but at an angle that required a slight turning of the head to make eye-contact. The fire danced in the hollows of Veronica’s cheeks and reflected like tiny orange candle flames in her eyes.

‘I don’t feel I thanked you enough for letting me come to London with you,’ she said, crossing her legs and sitting back in the chair. ‘It can’t have been an easy decision for you to make. Anyway, I’m grateful. Somehow, seeing Ruth Dunne gave me more of Caroline than I’d had, if you can understand that.’

Banks, who had more than once spent hours with colleagues extolling the virtues and playfully noting the faults of deceased friends, knew exactly what Veronica meant. Somehow, sharing memories of the dead seemed to make them live larger in one’s mind and heart, and Veronica had had nobody in Eastvale to talk to about Caroline because nobody here had really known her.

Banks nodded. ‘I don’t really know why I
am
here, to tell the truth,’ he said finally. ‘Nothing I learned in London really helped. Now it’s early evening on a cold January day and I’m still no closer to the solution than I was last week. Maybe I’m just the cop who came in from the cold.’

Veronica raised an eyebrow. ‘Frustration?’

‘Certainly. More than that.’

‘Tell me,’ she said slowly, ‘am I . . . I mean, do you still believe that
I
might have murdered Caroline?’

Banks lit a cigarette and shifted his legs. The fire was burning his shins. ‘Ms Shildon,’ he said, ‘we’ve no evidence at all to link you to the crime. We never have had. Everything you told us checks out, and we found no traces of blood-stained clothing in the house. Nor did there appear to be any blood on your person. Unless you’re an especially clever and cold-blooded killer, which I don’t think you are, then I don’t see how you could have murdered Caroline. You also appear to lack a motive. At least I haven’t been able to find one I’m comfortable with.’

‘But surely you don’t take things at face value?’

‘No, I don’t. It’s a simple statistic that most murders are committed by people who are close to the victim, often family members or lovers. Given that, you’re obviously a prime suspect. There could have been a way, certainly, if you’d been planning the act. There could also be a motive we don’t know about. Caroline
could
have been having an affair and you
could
have found out about it.’

‘So you still think I might have done it?’

Banks shrugged. ‘It’s not so much a matter of what I think. It’s maybe not probable, but it certainly is possible. Until I find out exactly who did do it, I can’t count anybody from Caroline’s circle out.’

‘Including me?’

‘Including you.’

‘God, what a terrible job it must be, having to see people that way all the time, as potential criminals. How can you ever get close to anyone?’

‘You’re exaggerating. It’s my job, not my life. Do you think doctors go around all the time seeing everyone as potential patients, for example, or lawyers as potential clients?’

‘Of the latter I’m quite certain,’ Veronica said with a quiet laugh, ‘but as for doctors, the only ones I’ve known get very irritated when guests ask their advice about aches and pains at cocktail parties.’

‘Anyway,’ Banks went on, ‘people create their own problems.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Everyone lies, evades or holds back the full truth. Oh, you all have your own perfectly good reasons for doing it – protecting Caroline’s memory, covering up a petty crime, unwillingness to reveal an unattractive aspect of your own personality, inability to face up to things or simply not wanting to get involved. But can’t you see where that leaves us? If we’re faced with several people all closely connected to the victim, and they all lie to us, one of them could conceivably be lying to cover up murder.’

‘But surely you must have instincts? You must trust some people.’

‘Yes, I do. My instincts tell me that you didn’t kill Caroline, but I’d be a proper fool if I let my heart rule my head and overlooked an important piece of evidence. That’s the trouble, trusting your instincts can sometimes blind you to the obvious. Already I’ve told you too much.

‘Does your instinct tell you who did kill her?’