Children of the Revolution

by Peter Robinson

  Still, he was home now, in his cosy cottage, with the prospect of music, perhaps a little Patrick Hamilton to read, and maybe even a DVD later – something from the new noir collection that the postman had left around the back that day. It was a long time since he’d seen Kiss Me Deadly or In a Lonely Place, for example. As he poured himself some wine and checked the chicken fried rice and Szechuan beef, which weren’t quite ready, he thought about the post-mortem he had attended earlier in the afternoon. He still felt slightly shaken by it. Some people said the more autopsies you attended, the more you got used to them, but for Banks it was the opposite. Each one was worse than the one before. It wasn’t the blood and guts, intestines and exposed fat layers, but he thought, perhaps in a fanciful way, it was the presence of death in the room that unnerved him, the aura of a violent end. He was starting to feel the same at murder scenes, too. This was no beautiful young woman raped and strangled, no innocent child killed to satisfy some paedophile’s fear of discovery; it was an emaciated, out-of-shape, unattractive man in late middle age. Nor was it a friend or acquaintance. Banks hadn’t known Miller, despite feeling some sense of kinship with him due to their closeness in age and their shared musical interests. But the older he got, the more he felt that when a man’s body is lying there twisted and abandoned on some remote railway track, or naked on the pathologist’s slab, and someone is pulling out his internal organs, it doesn’t have to be personal, it becomes somehow universal. Death with a capital D. The Reaper is in the building. He felt vaguely sick thinking about it; a healthy slug of Aussie red helped. Maybe retirement wasn’t such a bad idea. Could he really handle the extra years on the job if he got promoted? Did he really want to?

  That evening, he ate in the kitchen again, this time listening to an old episode of I’m Sorry I’ll Read That Again on Radio 4 Extra and half-heartedly working on a half-finished crossword from The Sunday Times on the table in front of him. He hadn’t realised before that ‘in crime scene’ was an anagram for ‘reminiscence’. Maybe the clue was trying to tell him something?

  When he had finished his meal, he filled up his glass, went into the entertainment room and put on Miles Davis’s film score from Ascenseur pour l’échafaud. He loved the atmospheric music, though he had never seen the film, and he thought he might check online later to see if it was available on DVD. He carried his wine and book into the conservatory and settled down to read. The wind rattled the flimsy structure, and the rain poured down the windows and roof as if someone were throwing bucketsful of water at them. Sometimes it felt as if the little island, and Banks’s little part of it in particular, had been under assault for months. He wondered how much more the old place could take. He had thought it was a solid enough conservatory, but there had been two leaks there already that summer, in addition to one in the main roof. If the wind got much worse, it could blow the whole damn structure away. Still, not much he could do about it now.

  As he listened to Miles’s haunting, muted trumpet on ‘Générique’, he thought again about his experience in the mortuary. Was it his own approaching mortality that made him feel that way? He had never really thought about it much, but Madame Gervaise’s remarks about retirement the other day had made him feel his age, as had seeing Miller’s body on the abandoned railway. It had been hard to believe they were almost the same age. He had always been reasonably healthy, even though he could have taken better care of himself. His blood pressure was a bit high, but his weight was fine, and his doctor had recently lowered the dosage of statins he took to control cholesterol, remarking that his ‘good’ cholesterol was getting much better. A bit less cheese and fewer takeaways would probably solve the problem altogether, but he would miss them too much, and would rather take a little pill every night and avoid grapefruit.

  So why was it that he found himself becoming so morbid? True, friends had died recently, including Paul Major, one of his old classmates, of lung cancer just last month. They hadn’t been in touch often over the years, weren’t really close, but he remembered when he and his friends used to gather around Paul’s Dansette on summer afternoons in the mid-sixties and listen to the Who, Bob Dylan and the Rolling Stones.

  Luckily, his elderly parents were both still alive, despite his father’s angina and his mother’s brush with cancer. They were still active, off on cruises all over the world since they had inherited his brother Roy’s fortune. Right now, while he was sitting in his rickety conservatory, they were somewhere in South-east Asia – Vietnam or Thailand, he wasn’t quite sure – spending his inheritance. And this was a couple who had thought Blackpool was a long way to go for their summer holidays when Banks was young. Banks sipped some wine. It must be his job, he thought. The homicide rate in North Yorkshire was hardly comparable to New York or even London, but one or two a year were quite enough, he found. Each death was a story, pathetic, tragic, even comic on occasion, but they accumulated and weighed him down like the snow on a rolling snowball. He became encrusted with death, heavy with it.

  Enough morbid thoughts, he decided. Maybe it was time to crack out the Chicken Dance CD, open the bubbly and invite a few friends over. As if.

  Miles played ‘Florence sur les Champs Élysées’ and Banks opened his Patrick Hamilton. He had hardly finished a paragraph when his mobile rang. He picked it up from the matching table beside his wicker chair and slid his thumb across the bottom.

  ‘Banks.’

  ‘Sir,’ came the familiar voice. ‘It’s me. DC Masterson. I’m sorry to bother you at home.’

  Banks thought he could hear the noise of a crowd and the overexcited voices of football commentators in the background. Gerry must be watching the game on TV. He had forgotten about the European Cup match tonight. Not that he really gave a toss about Manchester United. ‘It’s all right, Gerry. I’m open all hours. What is it? Something important?’

  ‘It could be, sir. I’ve traced the other numbers Gavin Miller called.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘I think so. One of them was ex-directory. That’s why it took me a bit more time.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Veronica Chalmers, sir.’

  ‘As in Lady Veronica Chalmers?’

  ‘Er, yes, sir. Gavin Miller rang her up a week ago yesterday just before two o’clock in the afternoon. They talked for close to seven minutes.’

  ‘There’s no mistake?’

  ‘No, sir. Seven minutes, less a few seconds.’

  ‘That’s quite a long time.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Just a week before his death. And he was the one who rang her?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t think anyone else used his mobile. Her number was also scribbled on his scratch pad, sir, along with the others he called. No names. She lives up on The Heights.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Right. Thanks again, Gerry. You’ve done a terrific job. Maybe you can do a bit of digging tomorrow morning, if you can spare a bit of time from HOLMES, and find out all you can about Lady Veronica Chalmers. But tread softly. We don’t want to set off any alarms. And it might be best if we keep her name to ourselves, just for the time being.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  4

  Brierley House stood in the area of Eastvale called The Heights, or what the locals knew as ‘Millionaires’ Row’, a short stretch of ten grand houses widely spaced along the hilltop that crested the town to the north, above the bend in the river. All built of local limestone, though in varying styles, most of them had high stone walls and wrought-iron gates. Most of the gates stood permanently open, though some were locked and linked by intercom with the houses themselves.

  The gates to Lady Veronica Chalmers’ house stood open, and as Banks drove down the winding gravel drive, past manicured lawns, flower beds and an ancient copper beech, he felt like Philip Marlowe going to visit Colonel Sternwood, though he doubted that he would find Lady Chalmers sitting in a hothouse. He parked next to a beautifully maintained old MG sports car. A red one.

  It w
as ten-thirty in the morning. As yet, neither Banks nor Gerry Masterson had told anyone about Gavin Miller’s phone call. Banks had considered ringing Lady Chalmers after he had heard the news from Gerry the previous evening, but had decided against it. Though he couldn’t imagine that she was involved in any way with Gavin Miller’s death, he didn’t want to give her too much time to think, or worry, before his visit. Those first impressions could be so important.

  There was a brass bell push beside the panelled yellow door, and when Banks pressed it, he heard the chimes ring inside. Nothing happened for a few moments, then he thought he heard a muffled voice followed by the click-clack of high heels across an uncarpeted area. When the door opened, a beautiful young woman with straight dark hair down to her shoulders, a flawless olive complexion, full lips and big loam-brown eyes smiled and asked him who he was and what he wanted. She had the merest hint of an accent, which Banks thought might be Greek or Italian, but he could have been wrong. In her early thirties, Banks guessed, she was casually but smartly dressed in a navy skirt and a buttoned white blouse, tucked into the waistband.

  Banks showed her his warrant card and said that he would like to see Lady Chalmers on a private matter. The young woman invited him to step into a spacious reception area with a marbled chessboard floor, high ceiling and a large fireplace, and bade him wait there while she went into one of the rooms, taking his warrant card with her. As she walked away, he noticed not only her fine figure, but that she wasn’t wearing high heels, just shoes that made a lot of noise on the floor. She returned a moment later and led Banks through another door. ‘Please make yourself comfortable,’ she said. ‘Lady Chalmers is on the telephone at the moment, but she will be with you in a short while.’ Then she turned and closed the door behind her.

  He was standing in a light and airy room with a number of interesting paintings on the walls, most of them abstract or impressionist in style. One interested him in particular, a striking contemporary portrait of a man and a woman standing some distance apart in a room not entirely unlike the one he was in. He thought he recognised the style, though not the actual painting, and when he walked closer to examine the signature and saw he was right, he swallowed and stared again.

  He turned his attention next to the large sliding glass doors and saw once again why these houses commanded the high prices they did. The doors led out to a flagged patio area, complete with white garden furniture and an expensive barbecue and outdoor dining set up. They wouldn’t have got much use out of that this summer, he thought. Stone steps led down to a lower garden, a lawn edged with shrubs and flowers, and more garden furniture. Bay trees, rose bushes and fuchsia stood against the drystone walls of the neighbouring houses, giving the garden a private, cosy feeling. The only flora showing any colour were the teardrop flowers of the fuchsia, still reddish-purple, like a fresh bruise.

  The view, of course, was stunning. Looking directly ahead to the south, Banks took in the vista of the town centre cupped in its hollow, the Norman church, the cobbled market square, the Swainsdale Centre and bus station, and the castle ruins up on their hill. Beyond, Hindswell Woods straggled up the slope on the other side of the valley and thinned out towards the summit, above whose ridge spread the ever-changing sky, dark and threatening where it seemed to rest on the line of the ridge itself, but lightening and showing gaps of blue higher up. Below the castle, the terraced gardens stepped down to the river and its waterfalls, which these days were running at full capacity. Banks could hear their deep rumbling even through the double-glazing. Across the river, slightly to the left, lay The Green, another desirable, if not quite as expensive, residential area of Eastvale, with its old trees, green space and ordered streets of Georgian semis.

  Banks sensed rather than heard someone enter the room and turned to see a woman standing there, smiling and holding out his warrant card. He took it and shook her hand. It felt warm and delicate in his. ‘Veronica Chalmers,’ she said with the slightly challenging smile of someone obviously aware of both her position and her effect on men. ‘My friends call me Ronnie.’

  Banks felt tongue-tied for a moment. He didn’t feel that he could call her Ronnie, but Lady Chalmers was a bit of a mouthful. He resolved to try not to use her name at all.

  Lady Veronica Chalmers was a remarkably beautiful woman. Banks put her age at mid-forties, only because of crinkling crows’ feet around her eyes, which he thought added to, rather than detracted from, her beauty. She was simply dressed in thigh-hugging designer jeans and a pale blue scallop-necked top. Her tousled blonde hair fell down over her shoulders in lustrous waves, and a shaggy fringe covered most of her forehead. She had a heart-shaped face and unusual green eyes flecked with amber. Her teardrop pendant and matching earrings, which he could just see among the shadows of her hair, echoed their colours. So here he was, in a house up on The Heights, surrounded by beautiful women. A man might think he had died and gone to heaven.

  Lady Chalmers gestured to a winged armchair, which sat at an angle to its partner in front of a low glass table. Facing the view, of course. ‘Do sit down. I’ve asked Oriana to bring us tea. I hope that’s all right?’ Her voice was naturally posh, educated, but not in any way patronising or arrogant. When she sat down opposite him and relaxed, crossing her legs, he noticed how smooth and pale her skin was. Alabaster came to mind.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Banks. ‘It’s an unusual name, Oriana.’

  ‘Yes. Oriana Serroni. It’s Italian, of course.’ Lady Chalmers looked towards the sliding doors. ‘Normally, I’d take tea outside,’ she said. ‘Even at this time of the year. But … well … you know what it’s been like lately.’

  ‘The deluge,’ said Banks.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful house.’

  ‘Thank you. We’re very lucky. Of course, it’s far too big for us, but Jem does do a lot of entertaining here.’

  ‘I take it that Jem would be Sir Jeremy, your husband?’

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid he’s away in New York at the moment, working on yet another a new production. He’s away a lot.’

  ‘I should imagine so,’ said Banks.

  He knew that Sir Jeremy Chalmers was a theatrical producer of international reputation, and a man of influential friends, including the chief constable and the local Member of Parliament, who also happened to be a cabinet minister, which made Banks more than a little nervous about his visit. What a theatrical producer actually did, though, and who he did it for, Banks had no idea. He had always assumed it was a euphemism for a wheeler and dealer, the money-man, what they used to call an ‘impresario’, but he was willing to admit there might be more to it than that. Sir Jeremy was known for his multi-million dollar musical productions along the lines of Les Mis and the Andrew Lloyd Webber spectacles. He had a reputation for taking on odd choices of source material – even odder than Sweeney Todd or The Phantom of the Opera – so much so that the joke was that his next production was likely to be The Texas Chainsaw Massacre III – The Musical, or the rather more highbrow Remembrance of Things Past, Part I. It hadn’t happened yet, but Banks wouldn’t be surprised if it did. Whatever Sir Jeremy did, it had made him a lot of money, which had bought him a beautiful wife and home, not to mention a knighthood.

  Banks nodded towards the painting that had engaged his attention. ‘I couldn’t help but notice, but is that really what I think it is?’

  Lady Chalmers’ eyes widened. ‘Why, surely you don’t think we’d allow any forgeries in our house, do you? Yes, it is. A genuine Hockney. It was a wedding present, actually.’

  ‘You know Hockney?’

  She gave an enigmatic smile. ‘Our paths crossed briefly in Los Angeles, many years ago. My first husband was an artist. Now Hockney’s come back home again, of course. Bridlington.’ Her expression took on a note of sadness. ‘It is such a beautiful painting, though, don’t you think? The positions of their bodies, the sense of space, the expressions on their faces. It says it all. The distance, the yearning.’<
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  She sounded wistful, and Banks had the strangest feeling, as he glanced over at the painting again, that the woman in the couple was her, perhaps with her first husband. It wasn’t an exact likeness, of course, but there was just something about it, the features, the bearing. He quickly dismissed the idea. ‘Absolutely stunning,’ he said. ‘It reminds me of a story I read about Joan Collins, I think it was, or maybe Jackie. Anyway, she said she loved one of Hockney’s paintings of a swimming pool, but she couldn’t afford the painting, so she bought the swimming pool instead.’

  Lady Chalmers laughed. ‘I haven’t heard that.’ She gestured towards the painting. ‘Of course, I would never have been able to afford the painting.’ She paused, then went on, head tilted to one side as she observed Banks closely. ‘I must say, you intrigue me. A policeman who knows something about art.’

  ‘I don’t know very much, I’m afraid. It’s not my main area of interest, I have to confess. You’d have to meet my DI for that. I’m more of a music aficionado.’

  ‘Of course.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Alan Banks. I should have known. The policeman with the rock musician son. I’ve read about you in the local newspaper. Samantha, my youngest, absolutely adores the Blue Lamps.’

  ‘My fame precedes me, clearly,’ said Banks. ‘I’m Brian Banks’s father, yes, for my sins.’ Though he liked to complain about it to his son, Banks was secretly proud to be the father of such a popular and accomplished musician. And the Blue Lamps were doing well. They’d had songs on CSI, Grey’s Anatomy and House, the line-up had settled down, and Brian was doing most of the songwriting. They had also been nominated for, though not won, a Mercury Award, there was a gig on Later … With Jools Holland coming up, and their third CD had made the charts. With any luck, Brian would be keeping Banks in his old age.

  At that moment, Oriana came in with the silver tea service, all poise and smiles.