Past Reason Hated (41 page)

The vague connection between the play and reality was beginning to make Banks feel very uneasy. By the fourth act, his attention began to wander – to thoughts of his recent interviews with Faith and Teresa and the pile of unread paperwork in his in-tray, including a report on the arrest of the vandals that Susan had stayed up half the night to prepare. Then his attention would return to the play in time to hear the Clown and Malvolio chatting about Pythagoras’s opinion of wild fowl, or Sebastian in raptures about the pearl Olivia had given him. He couldn’t maintain lasting concentration. There was something in his mind, a glimmer of an idea, disparate facts coming together, but he couldn’t grasp it, couldn’t see the complete picture yet. There was an element still missing.

By the final act, Banks’s back and buttocks hurt, and he found it difficult to keep still in the hard chair. Surreptitiously, he glanced at his watch. Almost ten. Surely not long to go. Even before he expected it, true identities were revealed, everybody was married off, except for Malvolio, and the Clown began to sing:

Then the music ended and the curtains closed. The audience applauded; the cast appeared to take bows. Soon the formalities were all over and everyone shuffled out of the hall, relieved to be leaving the hard seats.

‘Time for a drink?’ Banks said to Sandra as they fastened their coats on the front steps.

Sandra took his arm. ‘Of course. Champagne. It’s the only civilized thing to do after an evening at the theatre. Except go for dinner.’

‘There aren’t any restaurants open this late. Maybe Gibson’s Fish and—’

Sandra pulled a face and tugged his arm. ‘I’ll settle for a lager and lime and a packet of cheese and onion crisps.’

‘A cheap date,’ Banks said. ‘Now I know why I married you.’

They set off down North Market Street to the Queens’ Arms, which was much closer to the front exit of the community centre than was the usual cast watering-hole out the back, the Crooked Billet.

It was only twenty past ten when they got there, enough time for a couple of pints at least. The pub was quiet at first, but many of the theatre goers following Banks and Sandra seemed to have the same idea about a drink, and it soon got crowded. By then, Banks and Sandra had a small, dimpled, copper-topped table near the fireplace, where they warmed their hands before drinking.

They discussed the play against a background buzz of conversation, but Banks still felt uneasy and found it hard to concentrate. Instead, he couldn’t help but put together what he knew about the Caroline Hartley murder, trying different patterns to see if he could at least discover the shape of the missing piece.

‘Alan?’

‘What? Oh, sorry.’

‘What the hell’s up with you? I asked you twice what you thought about Malvolio.’

Banks sipped some beer and shook his head. ‘Sorry, love. I feel a bit distracted.’

‘There’s something bothering you, isn’t there?’

‘Yes.’

She put her hand on his arm. ‘About the case? It’s only natural, after seeing the play, isn’t it? After all, Caroline Hartley was supposed to be in it.’

‘It’s not just that.’ Banks couldn’t put his thoughts into words. All he could think of was the woman who walked strangely in the snow and Vivaldi’s burial music for a small child. And there was something about the play that snagged on his mind. Not the production details or any particular line, but something else, something obvious that he just couldn’t bring into focus. Faith and Teresa? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he felt not only puzzled but tense, too, the kind of edginess one has before a storm breaks. Often, he knew, that feeling signalled that he was close to solving the case, but there was even more this time, a sense of danger, of evil he had overlooked.

Suddenly he became aware of someone tapping him on the shoulder. It was Marcia Cunningham.

‘Hello, Mr Banks,’ she said. ‘Wondered if I’d find you here.’

‘I’d have thought you’d be at the Crooked Billet with the rest,’ Banks said.

Marcia shook her head. ‘It was all right during rehearsals, but I don’t know if I can handle the first-night post-mortems. Besides, I’m with a friend.’

She introduced Banks to the trim, middle-aged man standing behind her. Albert. There was one more chair at the table, and Banks offered his as well to the two newcomers. They demurred at first, then sat. Banks leaned against the stone fireplace.

‘Last orders!’ called Cyril, the landlord. ‘Last orders, please!’

In the scramble for the bar, Banks managed to get in another round. When he got back to the table Marcia Cunningham was chatting to Sandra.

‘I was just saying to Sandra,’ she repeated, ‘that I was wondering if you’d solved the little mystery of the dress?’

‘Pardon?’

‘The dress, the one with the pieces missing.’

‘I’m sorry, Marcia,’ Banks said, ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

Marcia frowned. ‘But surely young Susan must have told you?’

‘Whatever it is, I can assure you she didn’t. It was her case, anyway. I’ve been far too preoccupied with the Caroline Hartley murder.’

Marcia shrugged and smiled at Albert. ‘Well, I don’t suppose it’s very important, really.’

‘Why don’t you tell me anyway?’ Banks asked, realizing he might have been a little abrupt. He remembered what Veronica Shildon had said about people asking doctors for medical advice at cocktail parties. Sometimes being a policeman was much the same; you were never off duty. ‘We’ve caught the vandals, you know,’ he added.

Marcia raised her eyebrows. ‘You have? Have they told you why they did it?’

‘I haven’t had time to read Susan’s report yet. But don’t expect too much. People like that don’t have reasons you and I can fathom.’

‘Oh, I know that, Mr Banks. I was just wondering what they did with the pieces, that’s all.’

Banks frowned. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t follow.’

Marcia took a sip of mild and launched into her story. Albert sat beside her, still and silent as a faithful retainer. His thin face showed an intricate pattern of pinkish blood vessels just below the skin. He nodded from time to time, as if in support of what Marcia was saying.

‘What do you make of it, then?’ Marcia asked when she’d finished.

Banks looked at Sandra, who shook her head.

‘It’s odd behaviour for vandals, I’ll give you that,’ he said. ‘I can’t think of any reason—’ Then he suddenly fell silent, and the other images that had been haunting him formed into some kind of order – vague and shadowy as yet, without real substance, but still something resembling a pattern. ‘That’s if . . .’ he went on after a pause. ‘Look, Marcia, do you still have it, the dress?’

‘Of course. It’s at home.’

‘Could I see it?’

‘Any time you want. There’s nothing more I can do with it.’

‘How about now?’

‘Now? Well, I don’t know . . . I . . .’ she looked at Albert, who smiled.

‘Is it really so important, Alan?’ Sandra asked, putting a hand on his arm.

‘It might be,’ he said. ‘I can’t explain yet, but it might be.’

‘All right,’ Marcia said. ‘We were going home in a minute anyway. It’s not far.’

‘My car’s parked behind the station. I’ll give you a lift,’ Banks said. He turned to Sandra. ‘I’ll see you—’

‘No you won’t. I’m coming with you. I’m damned if I’m walking home alone.’

‘All right.’

They grabbed their coats and made for the door.

What did you think of it?’ James asked Susan after they had carried their drinks to a table for two in the Crooked Billet. His eyes were shining and he seemed to exude a special kind of energy. Susan thought that if she touched him now, she would feel an electric shock like the ones she sometimes got from static.

‘I enjoyed it,’ she said. ‘I thought the cast did a terrific job.’ As soon as she’d spoken she knew she had said the wrong thing, even before James’s eyes lost a little of their sparkle. It wasn’t that she hadn’t mentioned his direction, but that her comment had been hopelessly pedestrian. The trouble was, she knew nothing about Shakespeare beyond what James himself had tried to teach her at school. What a confession! And she had forgotten all that. She hadn’t got far reading
Twelfth Night
at home, either; the language was too difficult for her to grasp much of what was going on. Next to James, with all his knowledge and enthusiasm, she felt inadequate.

James patted her arm. ‘It could have been better,’ he said. ‘Especially the pacing of the third act, that scene . . .

And Susan sat back with relief to listen. He hadn’t wanted intelligent comments after all, just someone to sound out his theories on. That she could do, and for the next twenty minutes he asked for it. It wasn’t so difficult when he got technical. She found she could easily remember scenes that had seemed dull, awkward or over-long, and James confirmed that there were good reasons for this, things he hoped to put right before the next performance tomorrow night.

Occasionally, she drifted off into thoughts of work: her interviews with Chalmers and Morley, the torn dress she hadn’t yet told Banks about, the damn nuisance of having even more vandals to chase. But she put her lack of concentration down to tiredness. After all, she had been up most of the night before, and all day.

At eleven twenty, glasses empty and no prospect of another drink, James asked if Susan fancied a nightcap back at his house. A drink and a talk with a friend . . . what could be wrong with that? She couldn’t put him off forever. Besides, she needed to relax. She still felt nervous about being alone with him, but she reached for her coat and followed him out into the night anyway. It was just for a drink, after all; she wasn’t going to let him seduce her.

They pulled up in the alley at the back of the house, where James parked his car, and entered through the back door. Susan made herself comfortable in the armchair by the fire, while James busied himself with drinks in the kitchen. Before he settled, he put a compact disc of Beethoven’s ‘Pastoral’ Symphony on.

‘Makes me think of spring,’ he said, sitting down. ‘Somehow, if I close my curtains and relax, I can almost believe winter’s over.’

‘It soon will be,’ Susan said. She felt herself relaxing, becoming warm and heavy-limbed.

‘Perhaps when the good weather comes we could take a ride out into the dale now and then?’ James suggested. ‘Or even venture a little further afield? A short hike and a pub lunch?’

‘Sounds marvellous,’ Susan murmured. ‘Believe it or not, I’ve hardly ever made time to take advantage of the countryside.’

‘You know what they say, “All work and no play” . . .’

Susan laughed. James sat on the floor by her knees, his shoulder resting against the armchair so he could look at her when they talked. It was closer than she would have liked just yet, but not uncomfortably so.

‘How’s business, anyway?’ he asked. ‘Caught any big criminals lately?’

Susan shook her head. Then she told him about the previous evening. ‘So we’re still hot on the trail of your vandals,’ she said, cupping the large glass of brandy in both hands. ‘They’re a strange lot. Can you imagine why any young yob would snip up a dress and then run away with some of the pieces?’

‘What?’

Susan explained what Marcia had told her and what she had seen.

‘So Marcia still has the dress, then?’ he said.

‘What’s left of it.’

‘What’s she going to do with it?’

‘I don’t know,’ Susan answered. She was feeling drowsy and vulnerable from the heat and the brandy. ‘I suppose I should take it in for analysis. You never know . . .’

‘Never know what?’

‘What you might find.’ She looked down at the top of his head. ‘Why are you so interested, anyway, James?’

‘Just curiosity, that’s all. I suppose they must have had some reason for doing it. Maybe one of them cut himself and used it as a bandage. Another drink?’

Susan looked at her glass. ‘No thanks, I’d better not. Already she felt that warmth, tiredness and alcohol were making her let her guard down more than she cared to, and she certainly didn’t want to lose control.

‘Busy day at the nick tomorrow?’

Susan laughed. ‘Who knows?’

‘Excuse me while I get one.’

‘Of course.’

While he was gone, Susan listened to the music. She could have sworn she heard a cuckoo in one section, but doubted that anyone as serious as Beethoven would use such a frivolous gimmick.

‘Perhaps one of them was a fetishist,’ James suggested, after he had sat down at her feet again.

‘And liked to wear only little bits of women’s clothes? Don’t be silly, James. I don’t see why you have to keep harping on about it. It’s nothing.’

‘You’d be surprised the things people like to dress up in.’

‘Like you in that policeman’s uniform that day?’

‘That’s different. That was just a joke.’

‘I didn’t mean to suggest you were kinky or anything,’ Susan said. ‘But didn’t you tell me you were just a little bit shy of making a direct approach to a woman?’

‘Yes, well . . . Acting’s in my blood, I suppose. Hamming it up. Maybe there are deep-rooted psychological reasons. I don’t really know.’ He shrugged.

Susan laughed. ‘You’re always doing melodramatic things like that. Dressing up, arranging for that singer in Mario’s. A real practical joker, aren’t you?’

‘I told you,’ James said, a little irritably. ‘I’m just a bit insecure. It helps.’

‘Especially with women?’

‘Yes.’

As soon as Susan realized what she had said, a tiny shiver went up her spine. She could feel the chill, as palpable as the winter night outside, fall between them. James fell silent and Susan sipped at her brandy, thinking, and not liking what she thought: James’s penchant for play-acting and dressing up, the vandals’ denial of breaking into the community centre, James’s attraction to Caroline, the burgundy dress. No, it couldn’t be. Not possibly. It was too absurd. But her thoughts suddenly spanned two cases. It was like hot-wiring a car; the engine jumped to life. Now she could think of at least one good reason why the dress had been cut up the way it had.