Past Reason Hated (37 page)

‘Yes.’

‘Well, it’s not really . . . I mean, it’s not clear at all, but you know I said there was a woman?’

‘The one crossing King Street?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about her?’

‘I didn’t get a good look or anything – I’m sure it wasn’t anyone I knew – but I do remember she was walking funny.’

‘In what way?’

‘Just . . . funny.’

‘Did she have a limp, a wooden leg?’

‘No, no, it was nothing like that. At least I don’t think so.’

‘A strange kind of walk? Some people have them. Bow-legged? Knock-kneed?’

‘Not even that. She was just struggling a bit. There was snow on the ground. Oh, I knew I shouldn’t have called you. It’s still not clear, and it’s probably nothing. I feel stupid.’

Banks could imagine her eyes ranging about the room, resting on the tongs by the fire, the old snuff-box on the mantelpiece. ‘You did right,’ he assured her.

‘But I’ve told you nothing, really.’

‘It might mean something. If you think of anything else, will you stop accusing yourself of idiocy and call me?’

He could almost hear her smile at the other end of the line. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think it’ll get any clearer.’

Banks said goodnight and broke the connection. For a moment he just sat on the edge of his desk, coffee in hand, staring at the calendar. It showed a wintry scene in Aysgarth, Wensleydale. Finally, he lit a cigarette and went over to the window. Outside, beyond the venetian blinds, the market square was deserted. The Christmas-tree lights still twinkled, but nobody passed to see them. It was that time of year when everyone had spent too much and drunk too much and seen too many people; now most Eastvalers were holed up in their houses keeping warm and watching repeats on television.

The day’s depression was still with him, and the mystery of Caroline Hartley’s death was still shrouded in fog. There had to be some way of making sense of it all, Banks told himself. He must have overlooked something. The only solution to his bleak mood was mental activity. As he stood at the window looking down on the forlorn Christmas lights, he tried to recreate the sequence of events in his mind.

First of all, he discounted the arrival of yet another visitor after the mysterious woman at seven twenty. He also accepted that by the time Patsy Janowski had called and talked to Caroline Hartley briefly at her door, Claude Ivers was busy doing his last-minute shopping in the centre and getting ready to head back to Redburn, and Veronica Shildon was shopping too.

A woman, perhaps the same one Patsy said walked strangely, knocked at Caroline’s door and was admitted to the house. What had happened inside? Had the woman been an ex-lover or a jilted suitor? Had she called to remonstrate and ended up losing her temper and killing Caroline? Presumably there could have been sex involved. After all, Caroline had been naked, and the kind of sex she was interested in wouldn’t oblige by leaving semen traces for the forensic boys to track down.

There was just no way of knowing. Caroline’s life had been full of mysteries, a breeding ground for motives. As a working hypothesis, Banks accepted that the crime was spur of the moment rather than a planned murder. The use of the handy knife and the lack of precaution about being seen, or caught by Veronica, who had been likely to arrive home at any moment, seemed to point that way. And unless Caroline had been involved in some unknown criminal activity, the odds were that passion of one kind or another lay at the root of her death.

After the murder came the clearing up. The killer had washed the knife, removed any possible fingerprints she might have left, and either put the Vivaldi record on the turntable or lifted up the arm. Given the savage nature of the wounds, the killer must also have got blood on her own clothing. If she had removed her coat before the deed, she could easily have covered her blood-spattered clothing with it and destroyed all evidence as soon as she got home.

Banks went to refill his coffee mug and returned to his office.

Something in Patsy Janowski’s sketchy description of the woman bothered him, but he couldn’t think what it was. He walked to the filing cabinet and dug out the reports on interviews with Caroline Hartley’s neighbours. Nothing much there helped, either. The details were vague, as the evening had been dark and snowy. Again, he read through the descriptions of the mystery woman: Mr Farlow had said she was wearing a mid-length, light trenchcoat with the belt fastened. He had seen her legs beneath it, and perhaps the bottom of a dress. She had been wearing a headscarf, so he had been able to say nothing about her hair. Mrs Eldridge had little to add, but what she remembered agreed with Farlow’s account.

Despite the coffee, Banks was getting tired. It really was time to go home. There was nothing to be gained by pacing the office. He slipped on his camel-hair overcoat and put the Walkman in his pocket. After he’d walked down the stairs and said goodnight to Sergeant Rowe at the front desk, he hesitated outside the station under the blue lamp and looked at the Queen’s Arms. A rosy glow shone warmly from its smoky windows. But no, he decided, best go home and spend some time with Sandra. It was a clear, quiet night. He would leave the car in the station car park and walk the mile or so home.

He put the headphones on, pressed the button and the opening of Poulenc’s ‘Gloria’ came on. As he walked on the crisp snow down Market Street, he looked at the patterns frost had made on the shop windows and wished that the odd bits and pieces of knowledge he had about the Hartley case could make similar symmetrical shapes. They didn’t. He began to walk faster. Christ, his feet were cold. He should have worn sheepskin-lined boots, or at least galoshes. But he had never really thought about walking home until the impulse struck him. Then something leaped into his mind as he turned into his cul-de-sac and saw the welcome lights of home ahead, something that made him forget his cold feet for the last hundred yards.

Patsy Janowksi had said the woman walked strangely. She couldn’t explain it any better than that. But Mr Farlowe said he was sure the visitor was a woman because he had seen her legs below her long coat. If that was the case, then her legs were bare; she either wasn’t wearing boots at all, or she was wearing very short ones. It had been snowing quite heavily that evening since about five o’clock, and the snow had been forecast as early as the previous evening, so even a woman going to work that morning would have known to take her boots. Even before the snow, the weather had been grey and cold. Most of December had been lined-boots and overcoat weather.

Now why would a woman be trudging around in the snow without boots at seven twenty that night? Banks wondered. She could have been in a hurry and simply slipped on the first pair of shoes that caught her eye. She could have come from somewhere she hadn’t needed boots. But that didn’t make sense. In such weather, most people wear boots to work, then change into more comfortable shoes when they get there. When it’s time to leave, they slip back into their boots for the journey home.

The woman might have arrived by car and parked close by. The nearest space, where Patsy said she and Ivers parked, was a fair distance to walk in the snow without boots. The woman might have driven to Caroline’s, found she couldn’t park any closer and ended up having to walk farther than she’d bargained for. Which meant it could have been someone who didn’t know the area well.

Given what Patsy had said about the walk, it sounded as if the woman had probably been wearing pumps or high heels – most likely the latter. That would explain her odd walk; trying to make one’s way through four or five inches of snow in high heels would be difficult indeed. And wet.

Was it, then, someone who had nipped out of a local function, committed the murder and dashed back before she was missed? There had probably been a lot of parties going on that night, Hatchley’s wedding reception among them. It couldn’t have been anyone from there, of course, as Banks knew most of the guests. But it was an interesting avenue to explore. If he could find someone who had been at such a function that night, someone who had a connection with Caroline Hartley, then maybe he’d get somewhere. Feeling a little more positive about things, he turned off the tape and went into the house.

Teresa Pedmore
rented a two-bedroom house on Nelson Grove, in a pleasant enough area of town south of the castle, close to the river. The houses were old but in good repair, and their inhabitants, though only renting, took pride in adding individual touches to the outside trim. A low blue gate led to Teresa’s house, where her matching door was edged in white. Lace curtains hung in the windows.

Teresa professed to be surprised to see Banks, though he was never sure what to believe when dealing with actors. Faith could have told Teresa about the visit Banks had paid her earlier, though he thought it unlikely. That would have meant confessing what she had said about Teresa.

The front door led straight into the living room. Cream and red striped wallpaper covered the walls, where a number of framed prints hung. Banks, who had learned what little he knew about art from Sandra, recognized a Constable landscape, a Stubbs horse and a Lowry. Perhaps the most striking thing about the room, though, was that it was furnished with antiques: a Welsh dresser, a Queen Anne writing desk, Regency table and chairs. The only contemporary items were the tan three-piece suite arranged in a semicircle around the hearth and a small television set. Remembering the importance of the music, Banks looked around for evidence of a stereo but could find none.

Teresa gestured towards one of the armchairs and Banks sat down. He was surprised by her taste and impressed with her farm-girl looks, the blushes of red in her creamy cheeks. Her wavy chestnut hair framed a rather chubby, heart-shaped face with a wide, full mouth, an oddly delicate nose that didn’t quite seem to belong and thick brows over large almond eyes. She certainly wasn’t good-looking in the overtly sexual way Faith Green was, but the fierce confidence and determination in her simplest movements and gestures more than compensated. She was as tall and well-shaped as Faith, and wore a white silky blouse and knee-length navy skirt.

She picked up an engraved silver box from the low table and offered him a cigarette, lighting it with an old lighter as big as a paperweight. It was years since Banks had been offered a cigarette from a box, and he would certainly never have expected it in a small rented terrace house in Eastvale.

The cigarette was too strong, but he persevered. His lungs soon remembered the old days of Capstan Full Strength and rallied to the task. Almost before he had a chance to say yes or no, Teresa was pouring amber liquid from a cut-glass decanter into a crystal snifter. As she handed Banks the glass, the edges of her wide mouth twitched up in a smile.

‘I suppose you’re wondering where I get my money from,’ she said. ‘Policemen are always suspicious about people living above their means, aren’t they?’ She sat down and crossed her long legs.

Banks swirled the glass in his hand and breathed in the fumes: cognac. ‘Ave you living above your means?’ he asked.

She laughed, a low, murmuring sound. ‘How clever of you. Not at all. It only looks that way. The furniture isn’t original, of course. I just like the designs, the look and feel of it. And one day, believe me, I’ll have real antiques. I think the only valuable objects in the room are the decanter and the cigarette box, and they belonged to my grandfather. Family heirlooms. The Lowry is a genuine, too, a present from a distant, wealthy relative. As for the rest, cognac and what have you . . . What can I say? I like to live well. I don’t drink a lot, but I drink the best. I make decent money, I don’t run a car, I have no children and my rent is reasonable.’

Banks, who wondered why she was telling him all this, nodded as if he were suitably impressed. Perhaps she was trying to paint a picture of herself as someone who had far too much class and refined sensibility to commit so tasteless an act as murder. He sipped the cognac. Courvoisier VSOP, he guessed. Maybe she was right.

‘I suppose you think I should have stayed on the farm,’ she went on. ‘Married a local farmer and started having babies.’ She made a dismissive gesture with her cigarette.

For Christ’s sake, Banks thought, do I look so old that people immediately assume I’m a fuddy-duddy? Still, Teresa couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three; there were sixteen or seventeen years between them, which made it technically possible for him to be her father. He just didn’t feel that old, and he could certainly understand young people wanting to escape what they felt to be claustrophobic social backgrounds.

‘What do you want to do?’ he asked.

‘Act, of course.’

She reminded Banks of Sally Lumb, another, albeit younger, Dales hopeful he had met during the Steadman case eighteen months ago. The memory made him feel sad. Such dreams often turn to pain. But what are we if we don’t dream? Banks asked himself. And at least try to make them come true.

‘James is trying to fix things so I get a part in
Weymouth Sands.
He’s doing the script for the BBC, you know. He knows all the casting people. It’s terribly exciting.’ The Dales accent was still there, despite the evidence of elocution lessons, and it made the upper-class phrase ‘terribly exciting’ sound very funny indeed. ‘More cognac?’

Banks noticed his snifter was empty. He shook his head. ‘No, no thanks. It’s very good, but I’d better not.’

Teresa shrugged. She didn’t press him. Fine cognac is, after all, very expensive.

‘You’re still on good terms with James Conran, then?’ Banks asked.

Her eyebrows rose. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘I heard rumours you’d had a falling out.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Are they true?’

‘It’s that common little tramp, Faith, isn’t it?’

‘Was James Conran paying too much attention to Caroline Hartley?’

The name stopped Teresa in her tracks. She reached for another cigarette from the box but didn’t offer Banks one this time. ‘It’s easy to exaggerate things,’ she continued quietly. ‘Everyone argues now and then. I’ll bet even you argue with your wife, don’t you? But it doesn’t mean anything.’