The whole house would have to be searched thoroughly before the night was over, but the scene-of-crime team could do that later. What bothered Banks for the moment was the gap of almost ten minutes between Veronica Shildon’s arriving home and her knocking on her neighbour’s door. A lot could be accomplished in ten minutes.
Back downstairs, Banks led Vic Manson over to the turntable.
‘Can you get this record off and dust the whole area for prints? I want the cover and the inside sleeve bagged for examination, too.’
‘No problem.’ Manson set to it.
Everyone looked up when the music stopped. It had cast such a spell over the scene that Banks felt like a dancer cut off in the middle of a stately pavane. Now everyone seemed to notice for the first time exactly what the situation was. It was harsh and ugly, especially with all the lights on.
‘Have they found anything interesting yet?’ Banks asked Gristhorpe.
‘The knife. It was on their draining-board in the kitchen, all washed, but there are still traces of blood. It looks like one of their own, from a set. Did you notice that cake on the table in front of the sofa?’
Banks nodded.
‘It’s possible she’d used the knife to cut herself a slice earlier.’
‘Which would make it the handiest weapon,’ Banks said, ‘if it was still on the table.’
‘Yes. And there’s this.’ The superintendent held out a crumpled sheet of green Christmas wrapping paper with silver bells and red holly berries on it. ‘It was over by the music centre.’ He shrugged. ‘It might mean something.’
‘It could have come from the record,’ Banks said, and told Gristhorpe what Veronica had said.
Dr Glendenning, who had taken off his beard and hat and unbuttoned the top half of his Father Christmas outfit, walked over to them and stuck another cigarette in his mouth.
‘Dead three or four hours at the most,’ he said. ‘Bruise on the left cheek consistent with a hard punch or kick. It might easily have knocked her out. But cause of death was blood loss due to multiple stab wounds – at least seven, as far as I can count. Unless she was poisoned first.’
‘Thanks,’ Gristhorpe said. ‘Any way of telling how it happened?’
‘At this stage, no. Except for the obvious – it was a bloody vicious attack.’
‘Aye,’ said Gristhorpe. ‘Was she interfered with sexually?’
‘On a superficial examination, I’d say no. No signs of it at all. But I won’t be able to tell you any more until after the post-mortem, which I’ll conduct first thing tomorrow morning. You can have the lads cart her to the mortuary whenever they’re ready. Can I be off now? I hate to keep those poor wee kiddies waiting.’
Banks asked him if he would drop in on Veronica Shildon first and give her a sedative. Glendenning sighed but agreed. The ambulance men, who had been waiting outside, came in to take away the body. Glendenning had covered the hands with plastic bags to preserve any skin caught under the fingernails. As the ambulance men lifted her on to the stretcher, the cuts around her throat gaped open like screaming mouths. One of the men had to put his hand under her head so that the flesh didn’t rip back as far as the spine. That was the only time Banks saw Susan Gay visibly pale and look away.
With Caroline Hartley’s body gone, apart from the blood that had sprayed on to the sheepskin and the sofa cushions, there was very little left to indicate what horror had occurred in the cosy room that night. The forensic team bundled up the rug and cushions to take with them tor further examination, and then there was nothing left to show at all.
It was after ten thirty. PC Tolliver and another two uniformed constables were still conducting house-to-house enquiries in the area, but there was little else the CID could do until morning. They needed to know Caroline Hartley’s movements that evening: where she had been, who she had seen and who might have had a reason to want her dead. Veronica Shildon could probably tell them, but she was in no state to answer questions.
Gristhorpe and Susan Gay left first. Then, after leaving instructions for the scene-of-crime team to search the house thoroughly for any signs of blood-stained clothing, Banks returned to the rugby club to see if Sandra was still there. Snow swirled in front of his headlights and the road was slippery.
When Banks pulled up outside the rugby club in the northern part of Eastvale it was almost eleven o’clock. The lights were still on. In the foyer, he kicked the clinging snow off his shoes, brushed it from his hair and the shoulders of his camel-hair overcoat, which he hung up on the rack provided, and went inside.
He stood in the doorway and looked around the softly lit banquet hall. Hatchley and Carol had finally left, but plenty of others remained, still holding drinks. The DJ had taken a break and someone sat at the piano playing Christmas carols. Banks saw Sandra and Richmond sitting on their stools at the bar. He stood and watched them sing for a few moments. It was a curiously intimate feeling, like watching someone sleep. And like sleepers, their faces wore innocent, tranquil expressions as their lips mouthed the familiar words:
Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright
2
ONE
‘What have we got so far?’ Gristhorpe asked at eight o’clock the following morning. As Banks knew from experience, the superintendent liked to call regular conferences in the early stages of an investigation. Although he had been at the scene the previous evening, he would now leave the fieldwork to his team and concentrate on co-ordinating their tasks and dealing with the press. Gristhorpe, unlike some supers Banks had worked with, believed in letting his men get on with the job while he handled matters of politics and policy.
In the conference room, the four of them – Gristhorpe, Banks, Richmond and Susan Gay – reviewed the events of the previous evening. Nothing had come in yet from forensics or from Dr Glendenning who was just about to start the post-mortem. The only new information they had obtained had resulted from the house-to-house enquiry. Three people had been visiting number eleven Oakwood Mews separately that evening. Nobody could describe them clearly – after all, it had been dark and snowing, and the street was not well lit – but two independent witnesses seemed to agree that one man and two women had called there.
The man had called first, around seven o’clock, and Caroline had admitted him to the house. Nobody had seen him leave. Not very long after, a woman had arrived, talked briefly to Caroline on the doorstep, then left without entering the house. One witness said she thought it might have been someone collecting for charity, what with it being Christmas and all, but then a collector wouldn’t have missed the opportunity of knocking on everyone else’s door as well, would she? And no, there had been no obvious signs of a quarrel.
The final visitor – according to the sightings – called shortly after the other woman left and went inside the house. Nobody had noticed her leave. That, as far as they could pin down, was the last time Caroline Hartley had been seen alive by anyone but her killer. Other visitors may have called between about half past seven and eight, but nobody had seen them. Everybody had been watching Coronation Street.
‘Any ideas about the record?’ Gristhorpe asked.
‘I think it might be important,’ Banks said, ‘but I don’t know why. According to Veronica Shildon, it wasn’t hers, and the Hartley girl didn’t like classical music.’
‘So where did it come from?’ Susan Gay asked.
‘Tolliver said that one of the witnesses thought the man who called was carrying a shopping bag of some sort. It could have been in there – a present, say. That would explain the wrapping paper we found.’
‘But why would anyone bring a woman a present of something she didn’t like?’
Banks shrugged. ‘Could be any number of reasons Maybe it was someone who didn’t know her tastes well. Or it might have been intended for Veronica Shildon. All I’m saying is that it’s odd and I think we ought to check it out. It’s also strange that someone should put it on the turntable a
nd deliberately leave it to repeat ad infinitum We can be reasonably certain that Caroline wouldn’t have played it, so who did, and why? We might even be dealing with a psycho. The music could be his calling card.’
‘All right,’ Gristhorpe said after a short silence. ‘Susan, why don’t you get down to Pristine Records and see if they know anything about it.’
Susan made a note in her book and nodded.
‘Alan, you and Detective Sergeant Richmond here can see what you can get out of Veronica Shildon.’ He paused. ‘What do you make of their relationship?’
Banks scratched the little scar by the side of his right eye. ‘They were living together. And sleeping together, as Ear as I could tell. Nobody’s spelled it out yet, but I’d say it’s pretty obvious. Christine Cooper implied much the same.’
‘Could that give us an angle?’ Gristhorpe suggested. ‘I don’t know much about lesbian relationships, but anything off the beaten track could be worth looking into.’
‘A jealous lover, something like that?’ Banks said.
Gristhorpe shrugged. ‘You tell me. I just think it’s worth a bit of scrutiny.’
The meeting broke up and they went their separate ways, but not before Sergeant Rowe came up to them in the corridor with a form in his hand.
‘There’s been a break-in at the community centre,’ he said, waving the sheet. ‘Any takers?’
‘Not another!’ Banks groaned. It was the third in two months. Vandalism was becoming as much of a problem in Eastvale as it seemed to be everywhere else in the country.
‘Aye,’ said Rowe. ‘Dustbin men noticed the back door broken open when they picked up the rubbish half an hour ago. I’ve already notified the people involved with that amateur dramatic society. They’re the only ones using the place at the moment – except for your wife, sir.’
Rowe was referring to Sandra’s new part-time job managing Eastvale’s new gallery, where she arranged exhibitions of local art, sculpture and photography. The Eastvale Arts Committee had applied as usual for its grant, fully expecting significant cuts, if not an outright refusal. But that year, whether due to some bureaucratic blunder or a generous fiscal whim, they had been given twice what they had asked for and found themselves looking for ways to spend the money before someone asked for it back. The cheque didn’t bounce; months passed and they received no letter beginning, ‘Due to a clerical oversight, we are afraid . . .’ So the large upstairs room in the community centre was set aside and redecorated for gallery space.
‘Any damage upstairs?’ Banks asked.
‘We don’t know yet, sir.’
‘Where’s the caretaker?’
‘On holiday, sir. Gone to the in-laws in Oldham for Christmas.’
‘All right, we’ll take care of it. Susan, drop by there before you go to the record shop and see what’s going on. It shouldn’t take too long.’
Susan Gay nodded and set off.
Banks and Richmond turned down by the side of the police station towards King Street. The snow had stopped early in the morning, leaving a covering about six inches thick, but the sky was still overcast, heavy with more. The air was chill and damp. On the main streets cars and pedestrians had already churned the snow into brownish-grey slush, but in those narrow, winding alleys between Market Street and King Street it remained almost untouched except for the odd set of footprints and the patches that shopkeepers had shovelled away from the pavement in front of their doors.
This was the real tourist Eastvale. Here, the antique dealers hung up their signs and antiquarian booksellers advertised their wares alongside numismatists and bespoke tailors. These weren’t like the cheap souvenir shops on York Road; they were specialty shops with creaking floors and thick, mullioned windows, where unctuous, immaculately dressed shopkeepers called you ‘sir’ or ‘madam’.
Oakwood Mews was a short cul-de-sac, a renovated terrace with only ten houses on each side. Black-leaded iron railings separated each small garden from the pavement. In summer, the street blossomed in a profusion of colours, with many houses sporting bright hanging and window boxes. It had even won a ‘prettiest street in Yorkshire’ prize several years ago, and the plaque to prove it was affixed to the wall of the first house. Now, as Banks and Richmond approached number nine, the street looked positively Victorian. Banks almost expected Tiny Tim to come running up to them and throw his crutches away.
Banks knocked on the Coopers’ door. It was made of light, panelled wood, and the shiny knocker was a highly polished brass lion’s head. A wealthy little street this, obviously, Banks thought, even if it was only a terrace block of small houses. They were brick built, pre-war, and had recently been restored to perfection.
Christine Cooper answered the door in her dressing gown and invited them in. Unlike the more cosy, feminine elegance of number eleven, the Cooper place was almost entirely modern in decor: assemble-it-yourself Scandinavian furniture and off-white walls. The kitchen, into which she led them, boasted plenty of shelf- and surface-space and every gadget under the sun, from microwave to electric tin opener.
‘Coffee?’
Banks and Richmond both nodded and sat down at the large pine breakfast table. It had been set close to a corner to save space, and someone had fixed bench seating to the two adjacent walls. Both Banks and Richmond sat on the bench with their backs to the wall. Banks had no trouble fitting himself in, as he was only a little taller than regulation 172 centimetres; but Richmond had to shift about to accommodate his long legs.
Mrs Cooper faced them from a matching chair across the table. The electric coffee-maker was already gurgling away, and they had to wait only a few moments for their drinks.
‘I’m afraid Veronica isn’t up, yet,’ Mrs Cooper said ‘Your doctor gave her a sleeping pill and she was out like a light as soon as we got her into bed. I explained everything to Charles. He’s been very understanding.’
‘Where is your husband?’ Banks asked.
‘At work.’
‘What time did he get home last night?’
‘It must have been after eleven. We sat up and talked about . . . you know . . . for a while, then we went to bed about midnight.’
‘He certainly works long hours.’
Mrs Cooper sighed. ‘Yes, especially at this time of year. You see, he runs a chain of children’s shops in North Yorkshire, and he’s constantly being called from one crisis to another. One place runs out of whatever new doll all the kids want this year and another out of jigsaw puzzles. I’m sure you can imagine the problems.’
‘Where was he yesterday evening?’
Mrs Cooper seemed surprised at the question, but she answered after only a slight hesitation. ‘Barnard Castle. Apparently the manager of the shop there reported some stock discrepancies.’
There was probably nothing in it, Banks thought, but Charles Cooper’s alibi should be easy enough to check.
‘Maybe you can give us a bit more background on Caroline Hartley while we’re waiting for Mrs Shildon,’ he said.
Richmond took out his notebook and settled back in the corner seat.
Mrs Cooper rubbed her chin. ‘I don’t know if I can tell you much about Caroline, really. I knew her, but I didn’t feel I really knew her, if you know what I mean. It was all on the surface. She was a real sparkler, I’ll say that for her. Always full of beans. Always a smile and a hello for everyone. Talented, too, from what I could gather.’
‘Talented? How?’
‘She was an actress. Oh, just amateur like, but if you ask me, she’d got what it takes. She could take anybody off. You should have seen her impression of Maggie Thatcher. Talk about laugh!’
‘Was this theatrical work local?’
‘Oh, yes. Only the Eastvale Amateur Dramatic Society.’
‘Was this her first experience with theatre?’
‘I wouldn’t know that. It was only a small part, but she was excited about it.’
‘Where does she come from?’
‘Do you know, I
can’t say. I know nothing about her past. She could be from Timbuktu for all I know. As I said before, we weren’t really close.’
‘Do you know if she had any enemies? Did she ever tell you about any quarrels she might have had?’
Mrs Cooper shook her head, then blushed.
‘What is it?’ Banks asked.
‘Well,’ Mrs Cooper began, ‘it’s nothing really, I don’t suppose, and I don’t want to go getting anybody into trouble, but when two women live together like . . . like they did, then somebody somewhere’s got to be unhappy, haven’t they?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Veronica’s ex-husband. She was a married woman before she came here. I shouldn’t think he’d be very happy about things, would he? And I’ll bet there was someone in Caroline’s life, too – a woman or a man. She didn’t seem the kind to be on her own for too long, if you know what I mean.’
‘Do you know anything about Veronica Shildon’s ex-husband?’
‘Only that they sold the big house they used to have outside town and split the money. She bought this place and he moved off somewhere. The coast, I think. The whole thing seemed very hush-hush to me. She’s never even told me his name.’
‘The Yorkshire coast?’
‘Yes, I think so. But Veronica can tell you all about him.’
‘You didn’t see him in the neighbourhood yesterday evening, did you?’
Mrs Cooper pulled her robe together at the front, looking down and making a double chin as she did so. ‘No. I told you all I saw or heard last night. Besides, I wouldn’t recognize him from Adam. I’ve never seen him.
Banks heard stairs creak and looked around to see Veronica Shildon standing in the doorway. She was dressed as she had been the previous evening – tight jeans, which flattered her slim, curved hips, trim waist and flat stomach, and a high-necked, chunky-knit green sweater, which brought out the colour in her eyes. She was tall, about five foot ten, and poised. Banks thought there was something odd about seeing her in such casual wear; she looked as if she belonged in a pearl silk blouse and a navy business suit. She had taken the time to brush her short hair and put a little make-up on, but her face still looked drawn underneath it all, and her eyes, disarmingly honest and naked, were still red from crying.
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