Past Reason Hated

by Peter Robinson

  Hatchley and his wife were off to Saltby Bay that night – or, the way things were going, the next morning – where he was to take two weeks’ leave to set up their cottage by the sea. His only complaint was that it wouldn’t be summer for a long time. Apart from that, Hatchley seemed happy enough with the state of affairs.

  In Eastvale, Richmond had got his promotion to detective sergeant at last, and Susan Gay had been brought upstairs as their new detective constable. It was too early to know whether the arrangement would work, but Banks had every confidence in both Richmond and Gay. Still, he felt sad. He had been in Eastvale almost three years, and during that time he had grown to like and depend on Sergeant Hatchley, despite the man’s obvious faults. It had taken Banks until last summer to call the sergeant by his first name, but he felt that Hatchley, with Superintendent Gristhorpe, had been responsible for helping him adapt to Yorkshire ways after his move from London.

  The music slowed down. Percy Sledge started singing ‘When a Man Loves a Woman’. Sandra touched Banks’s arm. ‘Dance?’

  Banks took her hand and they walked towards the dance floor. Before they got there, someone tapped him gently on the shoulder. He turned and saw DC Susan Gay, snowflakes still melting on the shoulders of her navy coat and in her short, curly blonde hair.

  ‘What is it?’ Banks asked.

  ‘Can I have a word, sir? Somewhere quiet.’

  The only quiet place was the toilets, and they could hardly go charging off into the gents’ or ladies’. The alternative was the corner opposite the DJ, which seemed to be deserted. Banks asked Sandra if she minded missing this one. She shrugged, being used to such privations, and went back to the bar. Gristhorpe, Banks noticed, gallantly offered her his arm, and they went onto the dance floor.

  ‘It’s a murder, at least a possible murder,’ DC Gay said, as soon as they had found a quieter spot. ‘I didn’t see the superintendent when I came in, so I went straight to you.’

  ‘Any details?’

  ‘Sketchy.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘About ten minutes. I sent PC Tolliver to the house and drove straight over here. I’m sorry to spoil the celebrations, but I couldn’t see what else—’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Banks said, ‘you did fine.’ She hadn’t, but that was hardly her fault. She was new to the job and a murder report had cropped up. What should she have done? Well, she could have gone to check out the scene herself, and she might have found, as nine times out of ten one did, that there had been some mistake, or a prank. Or she might have waited for the PC to call in and let her know the situation before running off and dragging her chief inspector away from his ex-sergeant’s wedding celebration. But Banks didn’t blame her. She was young yet, she would learn, and if they really were dealing with a murder, the time saved by Susan’s direct action could prove invaluable.

  ‘I’ve got the address, sir.’ She stood there looking at him, keen, expectant. ‘It’s on Oakwood Mews. Number eleven.’

  Banks sighed. ‘We’d better go then. Just give me a minute.’

  He went back to the bar and explained the situation to Richmond. The music speeded up again, into the Supremes’ ‘Baby Love’, and Gristhorpe led Sandra back from the dance floor. When he heard the news, he insisted on accompanying Banks to the scene, even though it was by no means certain they would find a murder victim there. Richmond wanted to come along, too.

  ‘No, lad,’ said Gristhorpe, ‘there’s no point. If it’s serious, Alan can fill you in later. And don’t tell Sergeant Hatchley. I don’t want it spoiling his wedding day. Though judging by the look on young Carol’s face he might have already done that himself.’

  ‘Are you taking the car?’ Sandra asked Banks.

  ‘I’d better. Oakwood Mews is a fair distance from here. There’s no telling how long we’ll be. If there’s time, I’ll come back and pick you up. If not, don’t worry, Phil will take good care of you.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not worried.’ She slipped her arm in Richmond’s and the new detective sergeant blushed. ‘Phil’s a lovely mover.’

  Banks kissed her quickly and set off with Gristhorpe.

  Susan Gay stood waiting for them by the door. Before they got to her, one of Hatchley’s rugby club cronies lurched over and tried to kiss her. From behind, Banks saw him put his arms around her, then double up and stagger back. Everyone else was too busy dancing or chatting to notice. Susan looked flushed when Banks and Gristhorpe got there. She put her hand to her mouth and muttered, ‘I’m sorry,’ while the rugby player pointed, with a hurt expression on his face, to the sprig of mistletoe over the door.

  THREE

  It was no false alarm; that much, at least, was clear from the expression on PC Tolliver’s face when Banks and the others reached number eleven Oakwood Mews. After Gristhorpe had issued instructions to send for Dr Glendenning and the scene-of-crime team, the three detectives went inside.

  The first thing Banks noticed when he entered the hall was the music. Muffled, coming from the front room, it sounded familiar: a Bach cantata, perhaps? Then he opened the living-room door and paused on the threshold. The scene possessed a picturesque quality, he felt, which even extended, at first, to masking the ugliness of the corpse on the sofa.

  A log fire crackled in the hearth. Its flames tossed shadows on the sheepskin rug and over the stucco walls. The only other light came from two red candles on the polished oak table in the far corner, and from the Christmas tree lights in the window. Banks stepped into the room. The flames danced and the beautiful music played on. On the wall above the stereo was a print of one of Gauguin’s Tahitian scenes: a coffee-skinned native woman, naked to the waist, carrying what looked like a bowl of red berries as she walked beside another woman.

  As he approached the sofa, Banks noticed that the sheepskin rug was dotted with dark blotches, as if the fire had spat sparks, which had seared the wool. Then he became aware of that sickling, metallic smell he had come across so often before.

  A log shifted on the fire; flames leapt in all directions and their light played over the naked body. The woman lay stretched out, head propped up on cushions in what would have been a very inviting pose had it not been for the blood that had flowed from the multiple stab wounds in her throat and chest and drenched the whole front of her body. It glistened like dark satin in the firelight. From what Banks could see, the victim was young and pretty, with smooth, olive skin and shoulder-length, jet-black hair. Bending over her, he noticed that her eyes were blue, the intense kind of blue that makes some dark-haired people all that much more attractive. Now their stare was cold and lifeless. In front of her, on the low coffee table, stood a half-empty teacup on a coaster and a chocolate layer cake with one slice missing. Banks covered one fingertip with his handkerchief and touched the cup. It was cold.

  The spell broke. Banks became aware of Gristhorpe’s voice in the background questioning PC Tolliver, and of Susan Gay standing silent beside him. It was her first corpse, he realized, and she was handling it well, better than he had. Not only was she not about to vomit or faint, but she, too, was glancing around the room, observing the details.

  ‘Who found the body?’ Gristhorpe asked PC Tolliver.

  ‘Woman by the name of Veronica Shildon. She lives here.’

  ‘Where is she now?’ Banks asked.

  Tolliver nodded towards the stairs. ‘Up there with the neighbour. She didn’t want to come back in here.’

  ‘I don’t blame her,’ said Banks. ‘Do you know who the victim is?’

  ‘Her name’s Caroline Hartley. Apparently, she lived here too.’

  Gristhorpe raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘Come on, Alan, let’s go and hear what she has to say. Susan, will you stay down here till the scene-of-crime team arrives?’

  Susan Gay nodded and stood aside.

  There were only two rooms and a bathroom upstairs. One room had been converted into a sitting room, or a study, with bookcases covering one wall, a small roll-top de
sk under the window and a couple of wicker armchairs arranged below the track-lighting. The bedroom, Banks noticed from the landing, was done out in coral and sea-green, with Laura Ashley wallpaper. If two women lived in the house and there was only one bedroom, he reasoned, then they must share it. He took a deep breath and went into the study.

  Veronica Shildon sat in one of her wicker chairs, head in hands. The neighbour, who introduced herself as Christine Cooper, sat beside her. The only other place to sit was the hard-backed chair in front of the desk. Gristhorpe took it and leaned forward, resting his chin on his fists. Banks stood by the door.

  ‘She’s had a terrible shock,’ Christine Cooper said. ‘I don’t know if she’ll be able to tell you much.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Cooper,’ Gristhorpe said. ‘The doctor will be here soon. He’ll give her something. Is there anyone she can stay with?’

  ‘She can stay with me if she wants. Next door. We’ve got a spare room. I’m sure my husband won’t mind.’

  ‘Fine.’ Gristhorpe turned towards the crying woman and introduced himself. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

  Veronica Shildon looked up. She was in her mid-thirties, Banks guessed, with a neat cap of dark-brown hair streaked with grey. Handsome rather than pretty, her thin face and lips, and everything in her bearing, spoke of dignity and refinement, perhaps even of severity. She held a crumpled tissue in her left hand and the fist of her right was clenched so tightly it was white. Even as he admired her appearance, Banks looked for any signs of blood on her hands or her clothing. He saw none. Her grey-green eyes, red around the rims, couldn’t quite focus on Gristhorpe.

  ‘I just got home,’ she said. ‘I thought she was waiting for me.’

  ‘What time was this?’ Gristhorpe asked.

  ‘Eight. A few minutes after.’ She didn’t look at him when she answered.

  ‘Where had you been?’

  ‘I’d been shopping.’ She looked up, but her eyes appeared to be staring right through the superintendent. ‘That’s just it, you see. I thought for a moment she was wearing the present I’d bought her, the scarlet camisole. But she couldn’t have been, could she? I hadn’t even given it to her. And she was dead.’

  ‘What did you do when you found her?’ Gristhorpe asked.

  ‘I . . . I ran to Christine’s. She took me in and called the police. I don’t know . . . Is Caroline really dead?’

  Gristhorpe nodded.

  ‘Why? Who?’

  Gristhorpe leaned forward and spoke softly. ‘That’s what we have to find out, love. Are you sure you didn’t touch anything in the room?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’

  Veronica Shildon shook her head. She was clearly too distraught to speak. They would have to leave their questions until tomorrow.

  Christine Cooper accompanied Banks and Gristhorpe to the study door. ‘I’ll stay with her till the doctor comes, if you don’t mind,’ she said.

  Gristhorpe nodded and they went downstairs.

  ‘Organize a house-to-house, would you?’ Gristhorpe asked PC Tolliver before they returned to the living room. You know the drill. Anyone seen entering or leaving the house.’ The constable nodded and dashed off.

  Back inside the front room, Banks noticed for the first time how warm it was and took off his raincoat. The music stopped, then the needle came off the record, returned to the edge of the turntable and promptly started on its way again.

  ‘What is that music?’ Susan Gay asked.

  Banks listened. The piece – elegant, stately strings accompanying a soprano soloist singing in Latin – sounded vaguely familiar. It wasn’t Bach at all, Italian in style rather than German.

  ‘Sounds like Vivaldi,’ he said, frowning. ‘But it’s not what it is bothers me so much, it’s why it’s playing, and especially why it’s been set to repeat.’

  He walked over to the turntable and knelt by the album cover lying face down on the speaker beside it. It was indeed Vivaldi: Laudate pueri, sung by Magda Kalmár. Banks had never heard of her, but she had a beautiful voice, more reedy, warm and less brittle than many sopranos he had heard. The cover looked new.

  ‘Should I turn it off?’ Susan Gay asked.

  ‘No. Leave it. It could be important. Let the scene-of-crime boys have a look.’

  At that moment the front door opened and everyone stood aghast at what walked in. To all intents and purposes, their visitor was Santa Claus himself, complete with beard and red hat. If it hadn’t been for the height, the twinkling blue eyes, the brown bag and the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, Banks himself wouldn’t have known who it was.

  ‘I apologize for my appearance,’ said Dr Glendenning ‘Believe me, I have no wish to appear frivolous. But I was just about to set off for the children’s ward to give out their Christmas presents when I got the call. I didn’t want to waste any time.’ And he didn’t. ‘Is this the alleged corpse? He walked over to the sofa and bent over the body. Before he had done much more than look it over, Peter Darby, the photographer, arrived along with Vic Manson and his team.

  The three CID officers stood in the background while the specialists went to work collecting hair and fabric samples with tiny vacuum cleaners, dusting for prints and photographing the scene from every conceivable angle. Susan Gay seemed enthralled. She must have read about all this in books, Banks thought, and even taken part in demonstration runs at the police college, but there was nothing like the real thing. He tapped her on the shoulder It took her a few seconds to pull her eyes away and face him.

  ‘I’m just nipping back upstairs,’ Bank whispered ‘Won’t be a minute.’ Susan nodded and turned to watch Glendenning measure the throat wounds.

  Upstairs, Banks knelt in front of the armchair ‘Veronica,’ he said gently, ‘that music, Vivaldi, was it playing when you got home?’

  With difficulty, Veronica focused on him. ‘Yes,’ she said, with a puzzled look on her face. ‘Yes. That was odd I thought we had company.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Caroline . . . she doesn’t like classical music. She says it makes her feel stupid.’

  ‘So she wouldn’t have put it on herself?’

  Veronica shook her head. ‘Never.’

  ‘Whose record is it? Is it part of your collection?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you like classical music?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Do you know the piece?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but I recognize the voice.’

  Banks stood up and rested his hand on her shoulder. ‘The doctor will be up soon,’ he said. ‘He’ll give you something to help you sleep.’ He took Christine Cooper’s arm and drew her on to the landing. ‘How long have they been living here?’

  ‘Nearly two years now.’

  Banks nodded towards the bedroom. ‘Together?’

  ‘Yes. At least . . .’ She folded her arms. ‘It’s not my place to judge.’

  ‘Ever any trouble?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Rows, threats, feuds, angry visitors, anything?’

  Christine Cooper shook her head. ‘Not a thing. You couldn’t wish for quieter, more considerate neighbours. As I said, we didn’t know each other very well, but we’ve passed the time of day together now and then. My husband . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well . . . he was very fond of Caroline. I think she reminded him of our Corinne. She died a few years ago. Leukaemia. She was about Caroline’s age.’

  Banks looked at Christine Cooper. She seemed to be somewhere in her mid-fifties, a small, puzzled-looking woman with grey hair and a wrinkled brow. That would make her husband about the same age, or a little older perhaps. A paternal attachment, most likely, but he made a mental note to follow it up.

  ‘Did you notice anything earlier this evening?’ he asked.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Any noise, or anyone calling at the house?’


  ‘No. I can’t really say I did. The houses are quite solid, you know. I had my curtains closed, and I had the television on until eight o’clock, when that silly game show came on.’

  ‘You heard nothing at all?’

  ‘I heard doors close once or twice, but I couldn’t be sure whose doors.’

  ‘Can you remember what time?’

  ‘When I was watching television. Between seven and eight. I’m sorry I’m not more use to you. I just didn’t pay attention. I didn’t know it would be important.’

  ‘Of course not. Just one more small point,’ Banks said ‘What time did Mrs Shildon arrive at your house?’

  ‘Ten past eight.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. I was in the kitchen then. I looked at the clock when I heard someone shouting and banging on my door. I hadn’t heard any carol singers, and I wondered who could be calling at that time.’

  ‘Did you hear her arrive home?’

  ‘I heard her door open and close.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Just after eight – certainly not more than a minute or two after. I’d just switched the television off and gone to start on Charles’s dinner. That’s why I heard her. It was quiet then. I thought it was my door at first, so I glanced up at the clock. It’s a habit I have when I’m in the kitchen. There’s a nice wallclock, a present . . . but you don’t want to know about that. Anyway, I wasn’t expecting Charles back so early so I . . . Just a minute! What are you getting at? Surely you can’t believe—’

  ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Cooper, that’ll be all for now.’

  When Mrs Cooper had gone back into the study, Banks had a quick look through the bedroom for any signs of blood-stained clothing, but found nothing. The wardrobe was clearly divided into two halves: one for Veronica’s more conservative clothes and the other for Caroline’s, a little more modern in style. At the bottom sat a carrier bag full of what looked like unwrapped Christmas presents.