Children of the Revolution

by Peter Robinson

  ‘I’m sorry to be indelicate,’ said Annie, ‘but did you have a sexual relationship?’

  ‘We didn’t have intercourse, if that’s what you mean. Gavin was nervous and inexperienced. Not that I’m any great expert, myself. I didn’t sleep around. Don’t. But you could tell.’

  ‘Was he impotent?’ Annie asked.

  ‘I think he probably suffered from erectile dysfunction. Yes.’

  ‘How did he react to that?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did he get angry, tearful, apologetic?’

  ‘Not angry. Sort of resigned. He didn’t say anything, really, just withdrew into himself. We only tried the once. I always thought it was perhaps because I was too overconfident for him. A strong-minded, independent career woman. I suppose I can be a bit overbearing at times. Maybe I come on too strong.’

  ‘Do you think he would have preferred a more subservient woman?’

  ‘I’m sure he would have done.’

  ‘Was he angry when you split up with him?’

  ‘Perhaps more disappointed, hurt, but it came out as anger. He called me a few choice names.’

  ‘Did he harm you or threaten to harm you in any way?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that. He simply disappeared from my life. I never saw him again.’

  ‘After the trouble with the college?’

  ‘Yes. After he lost his job. He was desperate for someone to believe in him. He thought that someone was me. I probably let him down.’

  ‘Did you bear a grudge against him?

  ‘Good Lord, no. What are you getting at? It was me who dumped him, you know.’

  ‘Did you ever visit him in Coverton?’

  ‘No. I haven’t seen him since that time he came over to see me. He was still living in a poky flat in Eastvale then.’

  ‘Did he ever ask you for money?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘The girl who accused Gavin Miller of sexual misconduct said that he told her he would fix a test result for her if she had sex with him. Does that sound right to you? Do you think he would do something like that?’

  ‘How can you expect me to answer a question like that?’

  ‘I’m only asking whether you think it’s likely. Do you think he might resort to coercion, given the opportunity? Do you think that perhaps exerting power in that way over a woman might arouse him, or that he might even behave in a mercenary way and see the situation as one to be exploited?’

  ‘I really can’t … I mean, perhaps if she seemed vulnerable, if he thought he couldn’t possibly fail, then … yes. Perhaps he might. Perhaps it might excite him.’

  Annie and Winsome stood up to leave, then Annie asked, ‘Can you tell us where you were last Sunday evening, around ten o’clock?’

  ‘Is that when it …? When Gavin …’

  Annie just nodded.

  Dayle twisted the diamond ring Annie had noticed on the third finger of her left hand. She had twisted it a lot during the interview. ‘I was with Derek,’ she said. ‘My fiancé. We went out for dinner to the Blue Lion in East Witton, then we went back to his place in Ripon.’

  Annie thanked her and they left.

  Gerry Masterson waited for Banks at a copper-topped table in the Queen’s Arms that lunchtime, sipping her slimline tonic, quite relieved that Banks had asked her to continue her research and DS Jackman had gone with DI Cabbot to talk to the Snider woman, instead of her. DI Cabbot scared her. She looked around and saw there was no one else from the station in the lounge at the moment. Not that it mattered. This was not an assignation. Discretion was all Banks wanted, along with his lunch, of course, and Gerry thought she knew why.

  He had been to see the Chalmers woman that morning. Lady Veronica Chalmers. What he had found out, or concluded, Gerry had no idea yet – he hadn’t been very forthcoming over the telephone – but she bet that was what the hastily called meeting was about.

  She felt nervous. She was still the new girl, and Banks was the boss. There was Area Commander Gervaise, too, she supposed, but AC Gervaise was too remote to think about most of the time. Gerry hardly ever saw her except at some of the briefings, but Banks was right there, on the case, all the time. There was no escaping him. She liked him, but he still terrified her. There was an intensity and focus about him that made her feel nervous around him, a weight and depth of feeling that made her feel shallow. And she wasn’t. Sure, she liked playing football with the local women’s team, liked sport in general, but she read books, too, and she thought about things, important things; she worried about the environment, climate change, the polar ice caps, polluted oceans, the lot. Starving children, too. And war. She hadn’t joined any organisations, but that didn’t mean she didn’t care. But Banks always made her feel as if her caring was superficial. And the damnedest thing about it was that she knew he didn’t do it on purpose, that he would be mortified if he thought she felt that way. And she also knew that, when it came right down to it, he didn’t really feel anything more deeply or more powerfully than she did. Damn it, he never even mentioned climate change, pollution, war or starving children. It was all down to her own stupid feelings, her imagination, her lack of confidence. Annie Cabbot scared her because she was quick and fierce, with an abrasive tongue to match, and Winsome Jackman was tall and silent, mostly, and Gerry never felt that she was meeting Winsome’s exacting standards. But only Banks made her feel shallow. And she wasn’t, dammit, she wasn’t.

  She saw him walk through the door and glance around the room. He caught her eye, raised his eyebrows in greeting and walked over. Gerry touched her hair, tucking a stray wave behind her ear. She was proud of her flowing red hair; it was perhaps her only true vanity. She hated her freckles, though some boyfriends had said they found them sexy. The rest of her she thought was OK. She hoped she looked presentable. She guessed that Banks must have come from his office because he wasn’t wearing an overcoat, and it was chilly outside. He wore a navy blue suit, white shirt and a purple tie. When he sat down, she noticed that the top button of his shirt was undone and the knot in the tie was quite a loose one.

  ‘What did Lady Chalmers say, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘She admitted that a Gavin Miller called her a week ago last Monday. Something to do with alumni affairs. She was very vague about it, and very surprised when I told her the call lasted seven minutes. Nobody else was around when she took it.’

  ‘Do you believe her story?’

  ‘No. But I can’t think why she might be lying, or what she might have to do with the case. On the other hand, I just can’t see a seven-minute call about a donation to the alumni society, or Miller being involved in such a thing. She also seemed shocked when I showed her the photo, mentioned how old he looked.’

  ‘As if she remembered him when he didn’t look like that?’

  ‘Maybe. But I couldn’t say for certain. It was just a feeling I got. I may have been imagining things I’d like to be true. Anyway, can you check and find out whether he was involved in alumni affairs in any way?’

  ‘Of course. One of the numbers on his scratch pad was the University of Essex number. It may help.’

  ‘And maybe you can find out something about Lady Chalmers’ secretary, too, or whatever she is. Her name’s Oriana Serroni. Hungry?’

  ‘Ravenous, sir.’

  ‘Had a chance to look at the menu? I’m buying.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. The steak sandwich on a baguette sounds perfect.’

  ‘Steak it is.’ Banks got up and walked over to the bar, where Gerry watched him share a few words and a laugh with Cyril, the landlord. He came back carrying a pint in one hand and another slimline tonic in the other. Gerry thanked him for the drink.

  ‘No problem. Cheers.’ He took a sip of his beer. ‘Anyway. Lady Veronica Chalmers. What did you find out about her?’

  ‘Probably nothing you don’t already know, sir.’ Gerry opened the file in front of her, though she knew most of it off by heart. ‘She comes from a good old
wealthy Buckinghamshire family, the Bellamys. Raised in the old family manor house outside Aylesbury. Very lah-di-dah. Trust funds and all the rest. Family made their fortune in the colonies originally, mostly South Africa and India. Luckily, they invested wisely and were able to get their money out and carry on with their privileged existence after Partition. Her father was a bigwig at the National Gallery and a pretty well-known art expert and collector. Not exactly Sir Anthony Blunt, but … well, I’m sure you get the idea. All the best schools for Veronica, of course. Jolly hockey sticks, ponies and what have you. But apparently, she got a bit wayward when she hit her teens. The family wanted her to go to Oxbridge, and she could probably just have squeaked in, but she chose to go to the University of Essex instead.’

  ‘So she said. From debutante to Essex girl? Bit of an odd choice, isn’t it?’

  ‘Teenage rebellion. Making a statement. It happens often enough.’

  ‘OK. Carry on.’

  ‘Not much more to say, sir. She did do some postgraduate research work later at Cambridge, then decided against an academic life. She’d written a historical novel, which she got published. It did quite well. Then she wrote a couple of brief literary biographies of rather neglected figures in quick succession – Rumer Godden and Rosamond Lehmann – then she started a series of Regency romances under a pseudonym, Charlotte Summers, which she still writes. There’s been a spate of recent articles in the national press and the local papers. No doubt carefully orchestrated by her publicist.’

  ‘Cynic,’ said Banks. ‘What are they? Bodice-rippers?’

  ‘I suppose you could call them that.’

  ‘Read any?’

  Gerry felt herself blush. There came that shallow feeling again. ‘I must admit that I have, sir.’

  ‘Any good?’

  ‘I think so. They’re very well written, and the research seems convincing. To me, at any rate. But I’m no expert. They keep me turning the pages, anyway.’

  ‘Go on.’ Banks drank some more beer. Gerry thought he seemed to be enjoying her discomfort, but she realised that he probably didn’t even know she was uncomfortable.

  ‘She met her future husband, Jeremy Chalmers, in 1985, when he was working for the National Theatre, and they were married the following year. Both were living in London then. In Fitzrovia. Their first daughter, Angelina, was born in 1988, and a second daughter, Samantha, followed in 1992. Her husband was knighted in 2003. They’ve been living at Brierley House in Eastvale ever since Angelina was born. He’s from Yorkshire, the East Riding, and she said in one of the interviews that they had always dreamed of a place in the Dales. Her parents are deceased. One sister, Francesca, five years older, lived in Derbyshire, a few miles outside Buxton. She died two years ago of an inoperable brain tumour. She was married to Anthony Litton, semi-retired Harley Street specialist. Gynaecologist, I believe, and very much one for the upper crust. He still commutes between London and Derbyshire on occasion. They have one son, Oliver.’

  ‘Oliver Litton?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The Oliver Litton so hotly tipped to be our future Home Secretary?’

  ‘One and the same.’

  Banks whistled. ‘Some family. A knighthood and a future Home Secretary. Curious and curiouser. Any hint of a juicy scandal in Lady Chalmers’ life?’

  ‘None, either juicy or otherwise. There was one previous marriage, however, in 1981 after her postgraduate thesis, to an American artist called Chad Bueller, much against her parents’ wishes. It must have been the tail end of her rebellious phase. He was far from being a penniless artist, however, being both very successful and highly collectible. She went to live with him in Los Angeles, in Beverly Hills, believe it or not, but it didn’t last. It took her two years to find out that he preferred the company of members of his own sex, and she came back to England after the divorce. Published her first book shortly thereafter. It concerned Edward II. I remember doing it at school, sir. Christopher Marlowe. You know what happened to Edward II?’

  Banks flinched. ‘That red-hot poker business, wasn’t it? Go on.’

  ‘She met Jeremy Chalmers at a book signing, then started to settle down, and the rest is history.’

  Banks thought about the painting in the Chalmers’ living room, the way the couple were standing apart, the palpable sense of distance and tension between them. Was that the future Lady Chalmers and her gay husband? Perhaps just after she’d discovered the truth? No, he decided, he was being fanciful. She wouldn’t want to live with something like that on the wall, reminding her of what happened every time she walked into the room. On the other hand, it was a Hockney, and 1983 was a long time ago. ‘If she was in California from 1981 to 1983, there’s an overlap with Gavin Miller’s time over there, isn’t there?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Gerry, ‘but as far as I can work out, there are no missing years in Veronica Chalmers’ life. It seems doubtful that their paths would have crossed, with him doing his On the Road imitation and her living the life of Riley in Beverly Hills.’

  ‘True.’ Banks had driven a rented Cadillac convertible around Beverley Hills just last year, sometimes marvelling and sometimes gagging at the mishmash of imitated styles – Rhenish castles, English stately homes and Tudor mansions, Tuscan villas, French chateaux, all rubbing shoulders. Well, not quite, as there were often quite large spaces between them and acres of manicured lawn surrounding them. The place made The Heights look like a run-down council estate. Or ‘social housing’, as such places were being called now.

  Their sandwiches came, and both said nothing for a few moments while they ate. Then Banks washed his third bite down with a draught of beer. ‘There’s something I don’t quite understand,’ he said. ‘You told me that Lady Chalmers married this Chad Bueller person in 1981 and lived in LA for two more years, right?

  ‘Yes, sir. Until late 1983.’

  ‘Then she came home, met Jeremy Chalmers and married him in 1985, right?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Gerry said again, aware that her mouth was full and trying to cover it as inconspicuously as possible while she spoke. She passed her folder to Banks. ‘I made a copy for you, sir. It’s all in here, dates, details, places, everything. I’ve just given you the bare bones.’

  Banks tapped the folder. ‘Thank you. I appreciate that. But wouldn’t she have been only about seventeen in 1985? And that would mean she was far too young to get married in 1981? By my calculation, she’d have been about thirteen. Jerry Lee Lewis might have got away with it in Tennessee in the fifties, but I doubt that Chad Bueller did in California in the eighties.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Well, how old is she? I’d say not more than mid-forties.’

  Gerry checked her notes. ‘Mid-forties? Sir, Veronica Chalmers is fifty-nine. She was thirty when she married Chad Bueller.’

  Banks reran the images of Lady Veronica Chalmers in his mind: the lithe, trim body in tight jeans, the attractive crows’ feet around her startling eyes, the alabaster skin, natural long blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders. No extensions, as far as he could make out. No signs of the surgeon’s knife. ‘That’s hard to believe,’ he said. ‘She certainly doesn’t look it. I suppose I never was any good at guessing women’s ages.’

  Gerry smiled. ‘She must be remarkably well preserved, sir, if you thought she was in her forties. I suppose she can afford to stay young.’

  Banks glanced at her, and she thought she could see humour in his twinkling eyes. ‘Lady Chalmers is a very attractive woman, Gerry, and I don’t think it’s down to cosmetic surgery, though I suppose I could be wrong about that, too. No doubt the money does help to buy the right potions and creams.’

  ‘No doubt, sir. But does it mean anything? Her age?’

  ‘Other than that I was wrong? As a matter of fact,’ Banks said slowly, ‘I think it might mean a great deal. Here’s what I’d like you to do next.’

  5

  ‘What did you make of Ms Snider, then?’ Annie asked Winsome as they s
at in the cafeteria of Eastvale College drinking Coke Zero with their vegetarian curries, which to Annie tasted more like vegetable soup with a teaspoon of curry powder stirred in at the last minute. Jim Cooper had said over the telephone that he would join them there after his class, and they had seized the opportunity to take a break and get something to eat. The students bustled around them, occasionally casting curious glances in their direction. Annie didn’t blame them.

  For once, though, it wasn’t because Winsome happened to be a six-foot-two-inch Jamaican woman. The college was the only place in Eastvale – a town of close to 20,000 people – where you saw any kind of racial mix. There were blacks, Asians, all sorts, in addition to plenty of Europeans. Of course, you would see overseas students in town occasionally, shopping or having a night out at one of the pubs or clubs on the market square, but mostly they hung around the campus area, where most of them lived in bedsits or residences. There was plenty to do out there, on the south-eastern edge of town, quite a few pubs and a even a nightclub or two, plus the Union had bands every Saturday night. It wasn’t exactly The Who Live at Leeds, but they prided themselves on bringing in popular up-and-coming bands, and the students were an enthusiastic audience, the ticket sales good.

  But this time people were staring at them because she and Winsome were by far the oldest people in the refectory.

  Winsome swallowed a mouthful of curry and pulled a face. ‘I must say, I felt a bit sorry for Gavin Miller,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I can see what she meant about them being ill suited. It doesn’t sound as if he would have been at all comfortable with a woman like her.’

  ‘It just goes to show you, Winsome, it’s not always just a matter of having interests in common.’

  ‘I think I already knew that. I had a boyfriend once, back in Jamaica. Met him at church. Everyone said he was a nice boy and came from a good family. We both enjoyed Bible studies and cricket.’