Past Reason Hated (4 page)

‘What have we got so far?’
Gristhorpe asked at eight o’clock the following morning. As Banks knew from experience, the superintendent liked to call regular conferences in the early stages of an investigation. Although he had been at the scene the previous evening, he would now leave the fieldwork to his team and concentrate on co-ordinating their tasks and dealing with the press. Gristhorpe, unlike some supers Banks had worked with, believed in letting his men get on with the job while he handled matters of politics and policy.

In the conference room, the four of them – Gristhorpe, Banks, Richmond and Susan Gay – reviewed the events of the previous evening. Nothing had come in yet from forensics or from Dr Glendenning who was just about to start the post-mortem. The only new information they had obtained had resulted from the house-to-house enquiry. Three people had been visiting number eleven Oakwood Mews separately that evening. Nobody could describe them clearly – after all, it had been dark and snowing, and the street was not well lit – but two independent witnesses seemed to agree that one man and two women had called there.

The man had called first, around seven o’clock, and Caroline had admitted him to the house. Nobody had seen him leave. Not very long after, a woman had arrived, talked briefly to Caroline on the doorstep, then left without entering the house. One witness said she thought it might have been someone collecting for charity, what with it being Christmas and all, but then a collector wouldn’t have missed the opportunity of knocking on everyone else’s door as well, would she? And no, there had been no obvious signs of a quarrel.

The final visitor – according to the sightings – called shortly after the other woman left and went inside the house. Nobody had noticed her leave. That, as far as they could pin down, was the last time Caroline Hartley had been seen alive by anyone but her killer. Other visitors may have called between about half past seven and eight, but nobody had seen them. Everybody had been watching
Coronation Street.

‘Any ideas about the record?’ Gristhorpe asked.

‘I think it might be important,’ Banks said, ‘but I don’t know why. According to Veronica Shildon, it wasn’t hers, and the Hartley girl didn’t like classical music.’

‘So where did it come from?’ Susan Gay asked.

‘Tolliver said that one of the witnesses thought the man who called was carrying a shopping bag of some sort. It could have been in there – a present, say. That would explain the wrapping paper we found.’

‘But why would anyone bring a woman a present of something she didn’t like?’

Banks shrugged. ‘Could be any number of reasons Maybe it was someone who didn’t know her tastes well. Or it might have been intended for Veronica Shildon. All I’m saying is that it’s odd and I think we ought to check it out. It’s also strange that someone should put it on the turntable and deliberately leave it to repeat
ad infinitum
We can be reasonably certain that Caroline wouldn’t have played it, so who did, and why? We might even be dealing with a psycho. The music could be his calling card.’

‘All right,’ Gristhorpe said after a short silence. ‘Susan, why don’t you get down to Pristine Records and see if they know anything about it.’

Susan made a note in her book and nodded.

‘Alan, you and Detective Sergeant Richmond here can see what you can get out of Veronica Shildon.’ He paused. ‘What do you make of their relationship?’

Banks scratched the little scar by the side of his right eye. ‘They were living together. And sleeping together, as Ear as I could tell. Nobody’s spelled it out yet, but I’d say it’s pretty obvious. Christine Cooper implied much the same.’

‘Could that give us an angle?’ Gristhorpe suggested. ‘I don’t know much about lesbian relationships, but anything off the beaten track could be worth looking into.’

‘A jealous lover, something like that?’ Banks said.

Gristhorpe shrugged. ‘You tell me. I just think it’s worth a bit of scrutiny.’

The meeting broke up and they went their separate ways, but not before Sergeant Rowe came up to them in the corridor with a form in his hand.

‘There’s been a break-in at the community centre,’ he said, waving the sheet. ‘Any takers?’

‘Not another!’ Banks groaned. It was the third in two months. Vandalism was becoming as much of a problem in Eastvale as it seemed to be everywhere else in the country.

‘Aye,’ said Rowe. ‘Dustbin men noticed the back door broken open when they picked up the rubbish half an hour ago. I’ve already notified the people involved with that amateur dramatic society. They’re the only ones using the place at the moment – except for your wife, sir.’

Rowe was referring to Sandra’s new part-time job managing Eastvale’s new gallery, where she arranged exhibitions of local art, sculpture and photography. The Eastvale Arts Committee had applied as usual for its grant, fully expecting significant cuts, if not an outright refusal. But that year, whether due to some bureaucratic blunder or a generous fiscal whim, they had been given twice what they had asked for and found themselves looking for ways to spend the money before someone asked for it back. The cheque didn’t bounce; months passed and they received no letter beginning, ‘Due to a clerical oversight, we are afraid . . .’ So the large upstairs room in the community centre was set aside and redecorated for gallery space.

‘Any damage upstairs?’ Banks asked.

‘We don’t know yet, sir.’

‘Where’s the caretaker?’

‘On holiday, sir. Gone to the in-laws in Oldham for Christmas.’

‘All right, we’ll take care of it. Susan, drop by there before you go to the record shop and see what’s going on. It shouldn’t take too long.’

Susan Gay nodded and set off.

Banks and Richmond turned down by the side of the police station towards King Street. The snow had stopped early in the morning, leaving a covering about six inches thick, but the sky was still overcast, heavy with more. The air was chill and damp. On the main streets cars and pedestrians had already churned the snow into brownish-grey slush, but in those narrow, winding alleys between Market Street and King Street it remained almost untouched except for the odd set of footprints and the patches that shopkeepers had shovelled away from the pavement in front of their doors.

This was the real tourist Eastvale. Here, the antique dealers hung up their signs and antiquarian booksellers advertised their wares alongside numismatists and bespoke tailors. These weren’t like the cheap souvenir shops on York Road; they were specialty shops with creaking floors and thick, mullioned windows, where unctuous, immaculately dressed shopkeepers called you ‘sir’ or ‘madam’.

Oakwood Mews was a short cul-de-sac, a renovated terrace with only ten houses on each side. Black-leaded iron railings separated each small garden from the pavement. In summer, the street blossomed in a profusion of colours, with many houses sporting bright hanging and window boxes. It had even won a ‘prettiest street in Yorkshire’ prize several years ago, and the plaque to prove it was affixed to the wall of the first house. Now, as Banks and Richmond approached number nine, the street looked positively Victorian. Banks almost expected Tiny Tim to come running up to them and throw his crutches away.

Banks knocked on the Coopers’ door. It was made of light, panelled wood, and the shiny knocker was a highly polished brass lion’s head. A wealthy little street this, obviously, Banks thought, even if it was only a terrace block of small houses. They were brick built, pre-war, and had recently been restored to perfection.

Christine Cooper answered the door in her dressing gown and invited them in. Unlike the more cosy, feminine elegance of number eleven, the Cooper place was almost entirely modern in decor: assemble-it-yourself Scandinavian furniture and off-white walls. The kitchen, into which she led them, boasted plenty of shelf- and surface-space and every gadget under the sun, from microwave to electric tin opener.

‘Coffee?’

Banks and Richmond both nodded and sat down at the large pine breakfast table. It had been set close to a corner to save space, and someone had fixed bench seating to the two adjacent walls. Both Banks and Richmond sat on the bench with their backs to the wall. Banks had no trouble fitting himself in, as he was only a little taller than regulation 172 centimetres; but Richmond had to shift about to accommodate his long legs.

Mrs Cooper faced them from a matching chair across the table. The electric coffee-maker was already gurgling away, and they had to wait only a few moments for their drinks.

‘I’m afraid Veronica isn’t up, yet,’ Mrs Cooper said ‘Your doctor gave her a sleeping pill and she was out like a light as soon as we got her into bed. I explained everything to Charles. He’s been very understanding.’

‘Where is your husband?’ Banks asked.

‘At work.’

‘What time did he get home last night?’

‘It must have been after eleven. We sat up and talked about . . . you know . . . for a while, then we went to bed about midnight.’

‘He certainly works long hours.’

Mrs Cooper sighed. ‘Yes, especially at this time of year. You see, he runs a chain of children’s shops in North Yorkshire, and he’s constantly being called from one crisis to another. One place runs out of whatever new doll all the kids want this year and another out of jigsaw puzzles. I’m sure you can imagine the problems.’

‘Where was he yesterday evening?’

Mrs Cooper seemed surprised at the question, but she answered after only a slight hesitation. ‘Barnard Castle. Apparently the manager of the shop there reported some stock discrepancies.’

There was probably nothing in it, Banks thought, but Charles Cooper’s alibi should be easy enough to check.

‘Maybe you can give us a bit more background on Caroline Hartley while we’re waiting for Mrs Shildon,’ he said.

Richmond took out his notebook and settled back in the corner seat.

Mrs Cooper rubbed her chin. ‘I don’t know if I can tell you much about Caroline, really. I knew her, but I didn’t feel I
really
knew her, if you know what I mean. It was all on the surface. She was a real sparkler, I’ll say that for her. Always full of beans. Always a smile and a hello for everyone. Talented, too, from what I could gather.’

‘Talented? How?’

‘She was an actress. Oh, just amateur like, but if you ask me, she’d got what it takes. She could take anybody off. You should have seen her impression of Maggie Thatcher. Talk about laugh!’

‘Was this theatrical work local?’

‘Oh, yes. Only the Eastvale Amateur Dramatic Society.’

‘Was this her first experience with theatre?’

‘I wouldn’t know that. It was only a small part, but she was excited about it.’

‘Where does she come from?’

‘Do you know, I can’t say. I know nothing about her past. She could be from Timbuktu for all I know. As I said before, we weren’t
really
close.’

‘Do you know if she had any enemies? Did she ever tell you about any quarrels she might have had?’

Mrs Cooper shook her head, then blushed.

‘What is it?’ Banks asked.

‘Well,’ Mrs Cooper began, ‘it’s nothing really, I don’t suppose, and I don’t want to go getting anybody into trouble, but when two women live together like . . . like they did, then somebody somewhere’s got to be unhappy, haven’t they?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Veronica’s ex-husband. She was a married woman before she came here. I shouldn’t think he’d be very happy about things, would he? And I’ll bet there was someone in Caroline’s life, too – a woman or a man. She didn’t seem the kind to be on her own for too long, if you know what I mean.’

‘Do you know anything about Veronica Shildon’s ex-husband?’

‘Only that they sold the big house they used to have outside town and split the money. She bought this place and he moved off somewhere. The coast, I think. The whole thing seemed very hush-hush to me. She’s never even told me his name.’

‘The Yorkshire coast?’

‘Yes, I think so. But Veronica can tell you all about him.’

‘You didn’t see him in the neighbourhood yesterday evening, did you?’

Mrs Cooper pulled her robe together at the front, looking down and making a double chin as she did so. ‘No. I told you all I saw or heard last night. Besides, I wouldn’t recognize him from Adam. I’ve never seen him.

Banks heard stairs creak and looked around to see Veronica Shildon standing in the doorway. She was dressed as she had been the previous evening – tight jeans, which flattered her slim, curved hips, trim waist and flat stomach, and a high-necked, chunky-knit green sweater, which brought out the colour in her eyes. She was tall, about five foot ten, and poised. Banks thought there was something odd about seeing her in such casual wear; she looked as if she belonged in a pearl silk blouse and a navy business suit. She had taken the time to brush her short hair and put a little make-up on, but her face still looked drawn underneath it all, and her eyes, disarmingly honest and naked, were still red from crying.

Banks tried to stand up, but he was too closely wedged in by the table.

‘I’m sorry to bother you so soon,’ he said, ‘but the quicker we get moving the more chance we have.’

‘I understand,’ she said. ‘Please don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right.’

She swayed a little as she walked towards the table. Mrs Cooper took her elbow and guided her to a chair, then brought her some coffee and disappeared, muttering something about things to attend to.

‘In cases like this,’ Banks began, ‘it helps if we know what the person was doing, where she was, previous to the incident.’ He knew he sounded trite, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to say ‘victim’ and ‘murder’.

Veronica nodded. ‘Of course. As far as I know Caroline went to work, but you’ll have to check that. She runs the Garden Café on Castle Hill Road.’

‘I know it,’ Banks said. It was an elegant little place, very up-market, with a stunning view of the formal gardens and the river.