Past Reason Hated (43 page)

Conran screeched through Fortford, almost losing control as he took the bend by the pub. The car’s side scraped against the jutting stones in the wall and sent a shower of sparks out into the night. Banks slowed and the Cortina took the turn easily. He knew there was a long stretch of straight road before the next bend.

Conran had gained a hundred yards or so, but once around the corner, Banks put his foot down and set about catching up. The red tail-lights drew closer. Banks glanced ahead for landmarks and saw the drumlin within the six leaning trees silhouetted by the moon about a mile in front of them. Just before that, there would be another kink in the road.

He was right behind Conran’s car now, but there was no easy way to stop him. He couldn’t pull in front in such conditions on a narrow road. If he tried, Conran would easily be able to nudge him into the wall. All he could do was ride his tail and push, hoping Conran would panic and make a mistake.

A few moments later, it happened. Either through ignorance, or just plain panic, Conran missed the bend. Banks had already slowed enough to take it, but instead he eased on the brake as he watched Conran’s car slide up the heaped snow in slow motion, take off the top of the dry-stone wall, spraying sparks again as it went, and land with a loud thud in the field.

Banks turned off his engine. The silence after the accident was so deep he could hear the blood ring in his ears. On a distant hillside, a sheep bleated – an eerie sound on a winter’s night.

Banks got out of the car and climbed the wall to see what had happened. There was very little damage as far as he could tell by the moonlight. Conran’s car lay on its side, the two free wheels spinning. Conran himself had managed to get the passenger door open and was now struggling up the hillside, thigh-deep in snow. The farther he went, the deeper the snow became, until he could move no more. Banks walked in his wake and found him curled up and shivering in a cot of snow. He looked up as Banks came towards him.

‘Please let me go,’ he said. ‘Please! I don’t want to go to jail. I couldn’t stand being in jail.’

Banks thought of Caroline Hartley’s body, and of Susan Gay laid out on the floor, her face purple. ‘Think yourself bloody lucky we don’t still have hanging,’ he said, and dragged Conran up out of the snow.

Only the sound
of thin ice splintering underfoot accompanied Banks on his way to Oakwood Mews later that night. Eastvale was asleep, tucked up warm and safe in bed, and not even the faint sound of a distant car disturbed its tranquillity. But the town didn’t know what had gone on between Caroline Hartley and James Conran in that cosy, firelit room with the stately music playing. It didn’t know what folly, irony and pride had finally erupted in blood. Banks did. Sometimes, as he walked, he thought that his next step would break the crust over a great darkness and he would fall. He told himself not to be ridiculous, to keep going.

Apart from the dim, amber light shed by its widely spaced, black-leaded gas lamps, Oakwood Mews was as dark as the rest of the side street at that time of night. Not one light showed in a window. Easy, Banks thought, for a murderer to creep in and out unseen now.

For a moment, he stood by the iron gate and looked at number eleven. Should he? It was two thirty in the morning. He was tired, and Veronica Shildon was no doubt fast asleep. She wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep after what he had to tell her. Sighing, he opened the gate. He had a promise to keep.

He pressed the bell and heard the chimes ring faintly in the hall. Nothing happened, so he rang again and stood back. A few seconds later a light came on in the front upstairs window. Banks heard the soft footsteps and the turning of the key in the lock. The door opened an inch or two, on its chain. When Veronica saw who it was she immediately took off the chain and let him in.

‘I had an idea it was you,’ Veronica said. ‘Will you give me a few moments?’ She pointed him towards the living room and went back upstairs.

Banks turned on a shaded wall light and sat down. Embers glowed in the grate. It was cool in the room, but the memory of heat, at least, remained. Banks unfastened his heavy coat but didn’t take it off.

In a few minutes, Veronica returned in a blue and white track suit. She had combed her hair and washed the sleep out of her eyes.

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but I can’t stand sitting around in a dressing gown. It always makes me think I’m ill. Let me put this on.’ And she switched on a small electric heater. Its bar shone bright red in no time. ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea or something?’

‘Given the night I’ve had,’ Banks said, ‘a drop of whisky would be more welcome. That is, if you have any?’

‘Of course. Please forgive me if I don’t join you. I’d prefer cocoa.’

While Veronica made her cocoa, Banks sipped the Scotch and stared into the embers. It had all been so easy once they had got back to the station: wet clothes drying over the heater in the cramped office; steam rising; Conran spilling his guts in the hope of some consideration at sentencing. Now came the hard part.

Veronica sat in the armchair near the electric fire and folded her legs under her. She cradled the cocoa mug in both hands and blew on the surface. Banks noticed that her hands were shaking.

‘I always used to have cocoa before bed when I was young,’ she said. ‘It’s funny, they say it helps you sleep although it’s got caffeine in it. Do you understand that?’ Suddenly she looked directly at Banks. He could see the pain and fear in her eyes. ‘I’m prattling on, aren’t I?’ she said. ‘I assume you’ve got something important to tell me, or you wouldn’t be here at this time.’ She looked away.

Banks lit a cigarette and sucked the smoke in deeply. Are you sure you want to know?’ he asked.

‘No, I’m not sure. I’m frightened. I’d rather forget everything that happened. But I never got anywhere by denying things, refusing to face the truth.’

‘All right.’ Now he was there, he didn’t know where to start. The name, just the bald name, seemed inadequate but the
why
was even more meaningless.

Veronica helped him out. ‘Will you tell me who first?’ she asked. ‘Who killed Caroline?’

Banks flicked some ash into the grate. ‘It was James Conran.’

Veronica said nothing at first. Only the nerve twitching at the side of her jaw showed that she reacted in any way. ‘How did you find out?’ she asked finally.

‘I was slow,’ Banks replied. ‘Almost too slow. Given Caroline’s life, her past, I was sure there was a complex reason for her death. There were too many puzzles – Gary Hartley, Ruth Dunne, Colm Grey . . .’

‘Me.’

Banks shrugged. ‘I didn’t look close enough to home.’

‘Was there a complicated motive?’

Banks shook his head. ‘No, I was wrong. Some crimes are just plain . . . I was going to say accidents, but that’s not really the case. Stupid, perhaps, certainly pointless and often just sheer bad luck.’

‘Go on.’

‘As far as the evidence was concerned, we knew that Conran was attracted to Caroline, but there’s nothing unusual about that. She was a very beautiful woman. We also found out he tended to prefer her over other actresses in the cast, which gave rise to a certain amount of jealousy. Caroline dealt with normal male attention by doing what she knew best, what she’d learned on the game – teasing, flirting, stringing them along. It was an ideal way for her because it deflected suspicion away from her true sexual inclinations,’ he looked at Veronica, who was staring down into the murky cocoa, ‘and it kept them at a distance. Many flirts are afraid of real contact. It’s just a game.

‘But as I said, I was looking for deep, complex motives – something to do with her family, her time in London, her way of life. As it turns out, her death was to do with all those things, but not directly concerned with any of them.’

‘Another drink?’ Veronica had noticed his glass was empty and went to refill it. Banks didn’t object. Embers shifted with a sigh in the fire place. It was much warmer now the electric fire had heated the room. Banks took his coat off.

‘What happened?’ Veronica asked, handing him the tumbler.

‘On December the twenty-second, after rehearsal, everyone went their separate ways. Caroline came straight home, took a shower and made herself comfortable in the living room with a cup of tea and some chocolate cake. Your husband called with the present, which Caroline opened because he had said it was something special and she wanted to know what could be so special to you. I’m sure she intended to rewrap it before you found out. I’m speculating, of course. No one but Caroline was in the house at this time, so we’ll never know all the details. But I think I’m right. It couldn’t have happened any other way. Anyway, shortly after Claude Ivers left, Patsy Janowski arrived, checking up on him. She thought he was still involved with you.’ Veronica sniffed and shifted position. Banks went on. ‘She spoke to Caroline briefly at the door – very briefly, because it was cold and Caroline was only wearing her bathrobe – then she left. On her way down the street, she saw a woman who appeared to be walking oddly, heading across King Street, but thought nothing of it. By then it was dark and the air was filled with snow. It was difficult to look up and keep your eyes open without getting them full of cold snow.’

‘What about James Conran?’ Veronica asked. ‘How does he fit in?’

‘I was getting to that. It had been a particularly difficult rehearsal. He had insulted Faith Green by telling her that Caroline could play her part better, and Teresa Pedmore was probably still angry at him for being so obvious about his lust for Caroline in public. By this time, he was pretty well besotted with her, and he’s one of those types who’s like a little boy who breaks things when he doesn’t get his own way. Because of the bad atmosphere, everyone went their separate ways, including Caroline. After he locked up, Conran went to the Crooked Billet and drank several double Scotches very quickly. His row with Faith made him want Caroline all the more. After all he thought he was doing for her, he was getting very impatient that she didn’t seem to be keeping up her end of what he thought was the bargain.

‘Then he had an idea. He was always a bit of a theatrical type, the kind who got dressed up and recited “The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck” at parties when he was a kid, so he thought that, as a joke, he’d dress up as a woman and go and see Caroline.
Twelfth Night,
as you know, is about a woman who passes herself off as a man, and that’s where he got the idea. It would make her laugh, he thought, if he passed himself off as a woman, and when you make women laugh you soften them and break down their reserve. Also, he’d had enough drinks to make it seem a good idea and to make him feel brave enough. He knew where she lived, but he didn’t know that she lived with anyone.

‘He went back to the community centre – only he and Marcia Cunningham from the dramatic society had keys to the back door – chose a dress, a wig, and found some women’s shoes that fit him. But it must have been an uncomfortable walk for him. The shoes were a little too tight and pinched his toes, and it’s very hard to walk in high heels in the snow, I should imagine. Especially if you’re a man. That’s what Patsy Janowski noticed, but she didn’t realize what it meant.

‘He said Caroline seemed to recognize him, laughed and let him in. She had no reason not to. Apparently he’d done things like that in rehearsal – dressed up, played practical jokes, clowned around – so as far as she was concerned it wasn’t out of character for him. She may have been puzzled by his visit, even worried that you would come back and wonder what was going on, but as far as she knew, she had no reason to fear him.’

Veronica grimaced and massaged her right calf. Banks took a sip of fiery Scotch. ‘Are you sure you want me to go on?’ he asked. ‘It isn’t very pleasant.’

‘I didn’t expect it to be,’ Veronica said. ‘I’ve got a touch of cramp, that’s all. It’s not what you’re saying that’s making me grit my teeth. I want to know everything. But I think I’ve changed my mind about that drink.’ She limped to the cocktail cabinet, poured herself a glass of sherry and sat down again carefully. ‘Please go on. I’ll be fine.’

‘Conran was a little drunk and wanting his oats. Caroline must have seemed especially inviting dressed only in her bathrobe. Eventually, it happened. Conran made a pass and Caroline ducked it. According to him, she made some reference to the way he was dressed and told him she preferred real women. She accused him of playing some kind of sick joke. He was stunned. He had no idea. When he started to protest, she laughed at him and told him the clothes suited him, maybe he ought to consider going after some of the men in the cast. Then he hit her. She fell back on the sofa, stunned by the blow, and her robe fell open. He said he couldn’t help himself. He wanted her. And if rape was the only way he could get what he wanted, then so be it. He had to have her right there.’

Veronica was gripping the sherry glass tightly, her face pale. Banks paused and asked if she was all right.

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Go on.’ She closed her eyes.

‘He couldn’t do it,’ Banks said. ‘There she was, a beautiful, naked woman, just what he’d dreamed about ever since he’d met her, and he couldn’t function. He says he doesn’t remember the next part very well. Everything was red inside his eyes, he said. And then it was done. He saw what had happened. He’d picked up the knife from the table and stabbed Caroline. When the rage passed and the realization dawned, he didn’t panic, he started thinking clearly again. He knew he had to find some way of covering his tracks. First he washed the knife and rinsed the blood off his hands. When he went back into the room he was horrified by what he’d done. He said he sat down and just stared at Caroline, crying like a baby. That’s when he saw the record she’d opened. He knew the piece because he’d had a lot to do with church choral music ever since he was young. He knew that the
Laudate pueri
was played at the burial services of small children. That’s another reason I should have thought of him sooner, but then almost anyone could have known the significance of the music, or someone might simply have thought it sounded right.’