Past Reason Hated (36 page)

Banks shook his head and flicked a column of ash into the fire. ‘Unfortunately, no. Gary Hartley confessed, in a way, but . . .’ He told her what had happened in Harrogate Veronica sat forward and clasped her hands on her lap as he spoke.

‘The poor boy,’ she said when he’d finished. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘I don’t think so. He’s undergoing psychiatric tests right now. But the point is, whatever he did do, he didn’t kill Caroline. If anything, towards the end, when he knew the full story, he felt pity for her. It was his father he turned on, with years of pent-up hatred. I still can’t imagine what torture it must have been for both of them. The old man unable to help himself, unable to get out of bed, starving and lying in his own waste; and Gary downstairs getting drunk and listening to the feeble cries and taps growing fainter, knowing he was slowly killing his own father. Banks shuddered. ‘There are some things it doesn’t do to dwell on, perhaps. But none of this gets us any closer to Caroline’s killer.’

‘It’s the “why” I can’t understand,’ Veronica said. ‘Who could possibly have had a reason for killing Caroline?’

‘That we don’t know.’ Banks sipped some tea. ‘I thought it might have had something to do with her past, but neither Ruth Dunne nor Colm Grey, the father of her child, had anything to do with it. Unless there’s a very obscure connection, such as a dissatisfied customer come back to wreak revenge, which hardly seems likely, all we can surmise is that it was someone she knew, and someone who hadn’t planned to kill her.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘There was no sign of forced entry, and the weapon, it just came to hand.’

‘But she didn’t know many people,’ Veronica said. ‘Surely that would be a help.’

‘It is and it isn’t. If she didn’t know many people very well, then how could she offend someone so much they’d want to kill her?’

‘Why do you say offend? Maybe you’re wrong. Perhaps she found out something that someone didn’t want known, or she saw something she shouldn’t have.’

‘But according to what everyone tells me – yourself included – she wasn’t acting at all strangely prior to her death. Surely if something along those lines was bothering her she should have been.’

Veronica shook her head. ‘I don’t know . . . she could have been holding back, pretending . . . for my sake.’

‘But you didn’t get that impression? Your instinct didn’t tell you so?’

‘No. Then, I never known whether to trust my instincts or not. I’ve made mistakes.’

‘We all have,’ Banks said. ‘But you’re right to consider other motives. We shouldn’t overlook the possibility that someone had a very practical reason for wanting her out of the way. The problem is, it just makes the motive harder to get at, because it’s less personal. Let’s say, to be absurd, that she saw two spies exchanging documents. In the first place, how would she know they were doing anything illegal, and in the second, how would they know she was a threat?’ He shook his head. ‘That kind of thing only happens in books. Real murders are much simpler, in a way – at least as far as motive is concerned – but not necessarily easier to solve. Gary Hartley might have had a deep-seated reason to kill his sister, but he didn’t do it Your estranged husband had a motive, too. He blamed Caroline for the separation. But he seems happy enough in his new life with Patsy. Why would he do anything to ruin that? On the other hand, who knows what people really feel?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He could have done it, if Patsy Janowski is in it with him or is lying to protect him. He delivered the record, we know that for a fact. As to who put it on the turntable . . .’

Veronica shook her head slowly. ‘Claude couldn’t murder anyone. Oh, he has his moods and his rages, but he’s not a killer. Anyway, do you really think the music is important?’

‘It’s a clue of some kind, but it didn’t mean what I thought it did. I believe Caroline opened it out of curiosity. She wanted to know what Claude thought was so special to you. Beyond that, your guess is as good as mine. Maybe she would even play a little of it, again to satisfy her curiosity, but I can’t believe she’d leave the arm up so it would repeat forever.’

Veronica smiled. ‘That’s just like Caroline,’ she said quietly. ‘Such curiosity. You know, she always wanted to shake all her Christmas presents. It was well nigh impossible to stop her opening them on Christmas Eve.’

Banks laughed. ‘I know, my daughter’s the same.’

Veronica shook her head. ‘Such a child . . . in some ways.’

Banks leaned forward. ‘What did you say?’

‘About Caroline. I said she was such a child in so many ways.’

‘Yes,’ Banks whispered. ‘Yes, she was.’ He remembered something Ruth Dunne had said to him in London. He tossed his cigarette end into the fire and finished his tea.

‘Does it mean something?’ Veronica asked.

‘It might do.’ He stood up. ‘If it does, I’ve been a bit slow on the uptake. Look, I’d better go now. Much as I’d like to stay here and keep warm, I’ve got work to do. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right. You don’t have to apologize. I don’t expect you to keep me company. That’s not part of your job.’

Banks put the empty teacup on the table. ‘It’s not a task I despise,’ he said. ‘But there are a few points I have to review back at the station.’

‘When you find out,’ Veronica said, twisting the silver ring around her middle finger, ‘will you let me know?’

‘You’d find out soon enough.’

‘No. I don’t want to find out from the papers. I want
you
to let me know. As soon as you find out. No matter what the time, day or night. Will you do that for me?’

‘Is this some sort of desire for revenge? Do you need an object to hate?’

‘No. You once told me I was far too civilized for such feelings. I just want to understand. I want to know why Caroline had to die, what the killer was feeling.’

‘We might never know that.’

She put her hand on his sleeve. ‘But you will tell me, won’t you, when you know? Promise?’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Banks said.

Veronica sighed. ‘Good.’

‘What about the record?’ Banks said at the door. Technically, it’s yours, you know.’

Veronica leaned against the doorjamb and wrapped her arms around her to keep warm. ‘I can live in this house, she said, ‘especially when I get it redecorated and bring new furniture in. But do you know something? I think that if I ever heard that music again I’d go insane.’

Banks said goodnight and Veronica closed the door. It was a shame, he thought, that such a glorious and transcendent piece of music should be associated with such a bloody deed, but at least he thought he now knew why the record had been left playing, if not who had put it on.

Susan systematically picked the strips of glittering silver tinsel from her tiny artificial Christmas tree. Carefully, she replaced each flimsy strand on the card from which it came, to put away for next year. She did the same with the single string of lights and the red and green coloured balls, the only decorations she had bought.

When she had finished with the tree, she stood on a chair and untapped the intricate concertinas of coloured crêpe paper she had draped across the ceiling and folded them together. Apart from the Father Christmas above the mantelpiece, a three-dimensional figure that closed like a book when you folded it in half, that was it.

When she had put all traces of Christmas in the cupboard, Susan stood in the centre of her living room and gazed around. Somehow, even without all the festive decorations she had dashed out and bought at the last moment, the place was beginning to feel a little more like a home. There was still a lot to do – framed prints to buy, perhaps a few ornaments – but she was getting there Already she had found time to buy three records highlights from
Madame Butterfly, The Four Seasons
and a recording of traditional folk music, the kind she had heard a few times at university many years ago. The opening chords of ‘Autumn’ were playing as she walked into the kitchen to make some cocoa.

James hadn’t seen the inside of her flat yet. She would have to invite him soon if he was going to keep on taking her to dinner – not that he paid, Susan always insisted on going Dutch – but something held her back. Perhaps it was the same thing that had held her back so far from stopping in at his place for a nightcap. Damn it all, the man had been her teacher at school, and that was a difficult image to throw out. Still, at least she would make sure she had a few more books and records when she did invite him. She wouldn’t want him to think she lived in such a cultural vacuum.

She poured out her cup of cocoa and sat down to listen to the music, curling her feet under her in the small armchair. If she was honest with herself, she decided, her resistance to James had little to do with the fact that he had been her teacher, and was only partly related to his involvement in the case. As far as Susan was concerned, Veronica Shildon was guilty, and it was simply a matter of proving it, of finding evidence that she had returned earlier than she said and murdered her lover – such a distasteful word, Susan thought, when applied to a relationship like theirs – out of jealousy, self-disgust or some other powerful, negative emotion. Either that or the estranged husband had done it because Caroline had corrupted and stolen his wife. So, although James and the theatre crowd were officially suspects, Susan couldn’t believe that any of them were really guilty. No, it was something else that kept her at arm’s length from James.

She had for some reason stayed away from sexual relationships over the past few years. And, again if she was honest, it wasn’t only because of her career. That was important to her, yes, but many women could manage both a lover and a career. Some of her colleagues, and, stranger still, a couple of the more charming villains she had nicked, had asked her out, but she had always said no. Somehow they had all been too close to home. She didn’t want to be talked about around the station. She had dated occasionally, but had never been able to commit herself to anything. She supposed that, as far as the men were concerned, there always seemed to be a million things she would rather be doing than being with them, and they were right. Because of that, she had spent too many evenings alone in her soulless flat. But also, because of that, she had passed all her examinations and her career was flourishing.

She certainly found James attractive, as well as charming and lively company. He was a great ham, had a fine sense of the dramatic. But there was more to him than that, an intensity and a kind of masculine self-assurance. He would probably make a fine lover. So why was she avoiding the inevitable? Her excuse was the case, but her real reason was fear. Fear of what? she asked herself. He hadn’t even tried to touch her yet, though she was sure she had seen the desire in his eyes. Was she afraid of enjoying herself? Of losing control? Of feeling nothing? She didn’t know, but if she was to change her life in any way at all, she would have to find out. And that meant confronting it. So, when the case was over . . .

A skin had formed on the top of her cocoa. She had never liked that, ever since childhood. That sweet and sticky skin made her shudder when, inadvertently, she had sipped without looking and it had stuck like a warm spider’s web to her lips. Carefully, using her spoon, she pushed it to the edge of the cup, dredged it out and laid it in the saucer.

For some reason, that photo of Marcia Cunningham’s handsome husband with his pipe at a rakish angle came into her mind. He reminded her of James just a little. Not his looks, but his expression. She found herself looking at the mantelpiece. Now that the Father Christmas was gone, it seemed so empty. She would like to have a photo or two there, but of whom? Not her family, that was for certain. James? Much too early for that yet. Herself, the graduation picture from police college? It would do, for a start.

Then she remembered the dress Marcia had dragged her all that way to look at. There was a puzzle, to be sure. No doubt the vandals would have an explanation, when and if they were caught. Still, it was a strange thing for someone to do. Maybe they had taken strips of material to fasten around their foreheads as Rambo headbands or something. There was no telling what weird fantasies went on in the adolescent mind these days.

Susan put her cup down. The record had finished, and even though it wasn’t late she decided to go to bed and have an early night. There was still that American tome on homicide investigation for bedtime reading. Or should she do a little advance reading of Shakespeare from the cut-price
Complete Works
she had picked up at W. H. Smith’s?

In a couple of days it would be twelfth night, the first night of the play. She just hoped that no police business came up to stop her from attending. James seemed so much to want her there, even though her knowledge of Shakespeare left a lot to be desired. And she was looking forward to the evening. She couldn’t see how any of the present cases would get in her way. There wasn’t much else they could do on the Caroline Hartley murder until they got new evidence, or until Banks took his head out of the sand and gave Veronica Shildon a long, hard, objective interrogation. Besides, Susan was only a helper, a note-taker on that one. And as for the vandals, until they were caught red-handed there wasn’t much to be done about them, either. Picking up the heavy
Complete Works
from her bookshelf, she wandered off to bed.

‘A message for you, sir,’ Sergeant Rowe called out as Banks walked into the police station after his visit to Veronica Shildon. He handed over a piece of paper. ‘It was a woman called Patty Jarouchki, I think. Sounded American. Anyway, she left her number. Said for you to call her as soon as you can.’

Banks thanked him and hurried upstairs to his office, grabbing a black coffee on the way. The CID offices were quiet, the tapping of a keyboard from Richmond’s office the only sign of life. He picked up the phone and dialled the number Sergeant Rowe had given him. Patsy Janowski answered on the third ring.

‘You had a message for me?’ Banks said.

‘Yes. Remember you asked me to try and recall if I’d noticed anything unusual in the area?’