‘Because if you’re stuck for somewhere,’ he went on, ‘you can always join us for Christmas dinner. I know you don’t get enough time off to really go anywhere.’
‘Thanks,’ Susan said, ‘but it’s all right. Sheffield’s not that far.’
Banks nodded. Richmond, he knew, would be spending the day with his family in town. Gristhorpe was coming to the Banks’s this year. For their first two Christmases up north, Banks and his family had gone out to his farmhouse where Mrs Hawkins, the woman ‘what did for him’, had done them proud. This year, however, Mrs Hawkins and her husband had been invited to their daughter’s in Cambridge. It would be the first Christmas away for them, but as the daughter had recently borne them a grandchild, they could hardly refuse. Gristhorpe had played hard to get at first, but had succumbed without too much of a fight at Banks’s third invitation. Banks suspected that it was actually Sandra’s telling Gristhorpe that the house was now a ‘smoke-free environment’ that had finally tipped the balance.
At five o’clock, Banks decided it was time to leave. He had had three pints of Theakston’s bitter, just about the right amount to work up an appetite. Sandra would be expecting him for dinner. He was due to help with the big meal tomorrow – mostly the dull stuff, he imagined, chopping vegetables and setting the table, as his cooking skills were limited – but tonight was Sandra’s treat.
He said his goodbyes and wandered out into the snow, which had been falling on and off all day. Opposite, the blue lamp outside the police station shed its avuncular light. Banks didn’t know why he hated it so much, but he did. It was phoney, a kind of cheap nostalgia for a time when things were simpler – or at least we fooled ourselves into believing they were simpler – when the goodies wore white and the baddies wore black. Maybe it really had been like that, but Banks doubted it. Certainly nothing could ever have been simple for the Caroline Hartleys and Veronica Shildons of this world.
Anyway, he told himself, no more gloomy thoughts. He stuck on his headphones and fiddled with the Walkman in his pocket. The music he’d chosen was his own tribute to the season: Benjamin Britten’s A Ceremony of Carols. It was difficult, though, to put the case out of his mind: not the investigation, the details or the leads, but the sheer fact of Caroline Hartley’s brutal murder. Even at the pub he had felt at times like a spectator, watching everyone celebrate, but was held back from joining in by what he had seen at number eleven Oakwood Mews. Still, it was Christmas Eve and he had to make an effort to be jolly for his family’s sake.
The snow was crisp and squeaky. At last Eastvale had the white Christmas it had been screaming for during the past three or four rainy ones. Coloured lights winked on and off in windows, and Banks felt for a moment that fleeting sense of peace and relaxation in the air that seems to arise and flourish briefly when the commercial fervour of the season begins to abate.
He remembered his own childhood Christmases: the sleepless nights before the big day; the early mornings opening presents; the disappointment the year his parents hadn’t been able to buy him the bicycle he wanted because his father was out of work; the joy two years later when he got an even better one than he had expected.
At home, the decorations were up, the lights were on and the children were brimming with excitement and curiosity about their presents. At least Tracy was. Brian, being seventeen, was much more cool about the whole thing.
‘No, you can’t open them tonight,’ Banks told his daughter.
‘But Laura Collins says they do at her house. Oh, go on, Dad. Please!’
‘No!’ Banks wasn’t about to have a lifetime’s tradition changed because of Laura Collins. Tracy pouted for a while, but she wasn’t the kind to sulk for long.
Brian kept quiet, as though he didn’t even care whether he got a present. All that interested him was pop music, and Banks had bought him a second-hand guitar he’d spotted in a shop window. Of course, it would mean a bit of noise to put up with. Banks didn’t have much regard for his son’s taste, but far be it from him to stand in the way of the lad’s musical ambitions. Euterpe, like God, works in mysterious ways; raucous pop music might inspire someone to learn the guitar, but tastes change, and the talent might well end up in the service of jazz, blues or classical music.
Tracy had been a good deal less specific in her demands, but both Banks and Sandra had thought it a good idea to acknowledge that she was no longer a little girl. She was, after all, fifteen, and though her interest in history remained steady, and had even extended to take in literature, she had a new look in her eyes when the subject of boys came up. Banks had also noticed the odd pop star poster surreptitiously making its way onto her bedroom wall. So rather than books, they had bought her some fashionable new clothes and a make-up kit. When Banks looked at his children now, it was with a tinge of sadness in his heart. Next year he would be forty, and soon he would lose them to their own lives completely.
After a tasty beef stew with dumplings – a frugal dinner to counterbalance tomorrow’s blow-out – came that time of evening when Banks could start to relax: the children out or occupied in their rooms, the television turned off, a tumbler of good Scotch, quiet music and Sandra beside him on the sofa. When he went for his refill, he remembered the photograph he had brought home in his briefcase along with the record Vic Manson had sent over that afternoon. He had hardly looked at it, but something about it rang a bell. Sandra, with her knowledge of photography, should be able to help him. He took the photograph out and handed it to her.
‘What do you think of that?’
Sandra examined it close up, then held it at arm’s length. ‘Do you mean technically?’
‘Any way you like.’
‘Well, it’s obviously good, a professional job. You can tell that by the lighting and the way he’s made it seem like a relaxed pose. She looks very studious. A striking woman. Good quality paper, too.’
‘Why would someone have a photograph like that taken?’
‘Well, lots of people have portraits done . . . but I see what you mean.’
‘There’s something about it I can’t put my finger on,’ Banks said. ‘Somehow, I think it’s more than a portrait. I just wondered if you had any ideas.’
‘Hmm. That look in her eyes. Very intelligent, a bit haughty. I wonder if that was her or the photographer.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Some photographers really capture a person’s essence in their portraits, but some create an image – you know, for pop stars or advertising. I’m just not sure what this is.
‘That’s it!’ Banks slapped the chair arm. ‘An image. A pose. Why would someone want a photographer to create an image?’
Sandra put the photograph carefully aside on the coffee table. ‘For publicity, I suppose.’
‘Right. That’s what was bothering me. It must be a publicity picture of some kind. That gives us a chance of tracking her down.’
‘You need to find this woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll still have a hell of a job. It could be for anything – modelling, movies, theatre.’
Banks shook his head. ‘Caroline had an interest in theatre, but I get the impression that’s more of a recent passion. Still, she could be an actress. She’s attractive, yes, but she’s no model. You said it yourself – look at the intelligence, the arrogance in that tilt of the head and the eyes. And Veronica Shildon said the woman wrote poetry.’
‘A book jacket?’
‘Those are the lines I was thinking along. It could be a publicity still for an author’s tour or something. That should narrow things down a bit. We can check with publishers and theatrical agents.’ Banks paused for a moment, then went on. ‘Speaking of Caroline Hartley, did you ever meet her?’
‘I met her a couple of times with the group, when I went for a drink with Marcia after working late in the gallery. But I didn’t know her. I never even spoke to her.’
‘What was your impression?’
‘I can only tel
l you how she acted as part of a group in a pub. She was very beautiful. You couldn’t help but notice her smooth complexion and her eyes. Notice and envy.’ Sandra put her hand to her own cheek which Banks had always thought of as soft and unblemished. ‘In looks, she reminded me a bit of that actress who played Juliet in the old film. What’s her name? . . . Olivia Hussey. And mostly she was vivacious, sparkling. Though she did seem to have her quiet periods, as if the energy was a bit of a hard act to keep up sometimes.’
‘Quiet periods?’
‘Yes. I just remember her staring into space sometimes, looking a bit lost. Never for long, because there was always somebody wanting to attract her attention, but it was noticeable.’
‘Did she seem especially close to anyone else in the group?’
‘I don’t know. She chatted and laughed with them all, but only in a general, friendly way.’
‘You never saw her arguing with anyone?’
‘No.’
‘Did you know she was a lesbian?’
‘Not until you told me. But why would I?’
‘I don’t know. I just wondered if it was in any way obvious to you.’
‘No – to both questions.’
‘Did you ever notice anyone obviously chatting her up?’
Sandra laughed. ‘Well, most of the men did, yes.’
‘How did she react?’
‘I’d say she played them along nicely. If anything, I’d have said she was a flirt, a bit of a tease, really. But now I know the truth . . .’
‘Self-protection, I suppose. What about the women?’
Sandra shook her head. ‘I didn’t notice anything.’
‘Did James Conran usually turn up for a drink? He’s the only one I’ve met apart from Marcia, the costume manager.’
‘Usually, yes. He seems like a pleasant fellow. A bit theatrical, highly strung. Drinks a fair bit. I mean, a lot of actors are really shy, aren’t they? They have to get themselves tanked up and play parts to express themselves And he’s a bit of a practical joker. Nothing serious, he just likes arranging for someone’s drink to be all tonic and no gin, for example, or having the barman tell someone there’s none of their favourite pub grub left. I’d say he’s a bit of a ladies’ man, too. You know, that vulnerable look, the dedicated, suffering artist. He’s pretty sure of himself really, I’ll bet. He just finds the act useful. And I know for a fact he’s been having it off with Olivia.’
‘Olivia who?’
‘I don’t know her real name. The actress who’s playing Olivia. They had a bit of a tiff in the pub one night, in the corridor that leads to the toilets, and I happened to overhear them arguing. She seemed to think now he’d got what he wanted he wasn’t interested any more, and she told him that was fine with her, because she hadn’t liked it much anyway.’
‘When was this?’
‘Quite early on in rehearsals. I can’t remember exactly. Mid-November, maybe?’
‘Did he ever make a pass at you?’
‘No. He knew I was married to a tough detective who’d beat him to a pulp if he did.’
Banks laughed. ‘What about Caroline?’
‘You mean did he come on to her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, he contrived to sit next to her often enough and arrange for the occasional bit of accidental body contact. I’d say he was putting the moves on her, yes.’
No wonder Conran had been so tetchy when Banks had asked about his relationship with Caroline. People often denied their true relationships with victims, especially with murder victims.
‘How did she react?’ he asked.
‘She pretended she didn’t notice, but she was always polite and friendly towards him. After all, he is the director.’
‘I should hardly think directors of local amateur dramatic societies have casting couches.’
‘No, but they could make a person’s life difficult if they wanted.’
‘I suppose so. What about this Olivia? Might she have had good reason to resent Caroline’s presence?’
‘Not that I noticed. Look, Alan, do you think you could pack it in for a while? It’s Christmas Eve. I’m not used to being interrogated in my own home. You know I’m glad to be of help whenever I can, but I didn’t know Caroline Hartley was going to get herself murdered, so I didn’t pay a lot of attention to who she did or didn’t talk to.’
Banks scratched his head. ‘Sorry love. I can’t seem to let it drop, can I? Another drink?’
‘Please. I don’t mean to be—’
Banks held up his hand. ‘It’s okay. You’re right. Not another word.’
He brought the drinks and turned out the main lights. All they had left was the light from the Christmas tree, from the fake log in the electric fire and a red candle he lit and placed on the low table. He could hear a monotonous pop song playing upstairs on Brian’s portable cassette player.
When he sat down again, he put his arm around Sandra.
‘That’s more like it,’ she said.
‘Mmm. Tell me something. Do you think you could ever see yourself going to bed with another woman?’
‘What do you have in mind? Inviting Jenny Fuller over for a threesome?’
‘Unfortunately Jenny’s away for Christmas.’
Sandra hit him gently on the chest. ‘Beast.’
‘No, seriously. Could you?’
Sandra was quiet for a moment. Her dark eyebrows knit together and tiny candle flames burned in her blue eyes. Banks sipped his drink and wished he could have a cigarette. Maybe later, while Sandra was getting ready for bed, he could nip outside in the cold and have a few quick drags. That should soon cure him of the habit.
‘Well, hypothetically, the idea doesn’t offend me, Sandra said finally. ‘I mean, it’s nothing I think about much, but it doesn’t disgust me. It’s hard to explain. I’ve had crushes, what schoolgirl or schoolboy hasn’t? But they never led to anything. I can’t say I’ve thought about it a lot over the years, but there’s something about the idea of being with another woman that’s sort of comforting in a way. It doesn’t feel threatening to me, when I think about it. I’m probably not making much sense, but I’ve had a few drinks, and you did ask.’
‘I think I understand,’ Banks said.
‘Men always like the idea of two women together, don’t they? It excites them.’
Banks had to admit that it did, but he didn’t know why. So far, he hadn’t allowed himself to picture the sexual side of Veronica’s relationship with Caroline, though he guessed they had been a passionate couple. And where there’s passion, he mused, snuggling closer to Sandra, there’s often likely to be violence, even murder.
THREE
Susan left the pub shortly after Banks, and as soon as she got home to the bare, empty flat, she felt dizzy. First she drank a large glass of water, then she turned on the television and lay down on the sofa. The picture looked blurred. Suddenly she started to feel horribly depressed and nauseated. She remembered the lies she had told Banks about going home to Sheffield for Christmas. She had no intention of going. She would phone and tell her parents she couldn’t make it because she was working on an important case. A murder. And she would spend the day in her flat doing a few domestic chores and reading that new American book on homicide investigation. She had enough food – a tin of spaghetti, a frozen chicken dinner – so she didn’t need to go out and risk being seen by someone. Because she only lived half a mile or so from Banks, she would have to be careful.
She had bought and wrapped her presents days ago. She would try to pay a visit home next week or early in the new year. Somehow, it was easier on non-festive occasions. The forced enjoyment of the season only exacerbated her discomfort. For the same reason, she had always hated and avoided New Year’s Eve parties.
The TV picture still looked blurred. When she closed her eyes, the world spun around and seemed to pull her into a swirling vortex that made her stomach heave. She opened her eyes again quickly. She felt sick but didn�
�t want to get up. The third time she tried, her thoughts settled down and she fell into an uneasy sleep.
In her dream she moved into a room like the one Gary Hartley lived in, and she called it home. A high-ceilinged, dark, cold place crumbling around her as she stood there. And when she looked at the far wall it wasn’t a wall at all but a mesh of cobwebs beyond which more ruined rooms with dusty floorboards and walls of flaking plaster stretched to infinity. When she went over to investigate, a huge fat spider dropped from the ceiling and hung inches from her nose. It seemed to be grinning at her.
Susan’s own scream woke her. As soon as she came to consciousness she realized that she had been struggling for some time to get out of the nightmare. Her clothes were mussed up and a film of cold sweat covered her brow. Frantically, she looked around her at the room. It was the same, thank God. Dull, empty, characterless, but the same.
She staggered to the kitchen and splashed her face with cold water. Too much to drink. That Old Peculiar was powerful stuff. And Richmond had insisted on buying her a brandy and Babycham. No wonder she felt the way she did. She cursed herself for the fool she was and prayed to God she hadn’t made an idiot of herself in front of the others.
She looked at her watch: seven o’clock. Her head felt a little clearer now, despite the dull ache behind her eyes.
She couldn’t shake the dream, though, or the sense of panic it had caused in her. She made tea, paced about the room while the kettle boiled, switching TV channels; then, suddenly, she knew she had to do something about her bare, joyless flat. She couldn’t go home, but neither could she spend Christmas Day in such a miserable place. The visit to Gary Hartley had shaken her up even more than she’d realized.
Panicking that it might be too late, she looked at her watch again. Twenty to eight. Surely some places in the shopping centre would be staying open extra hours tonight? Every year, Christmas seemed to get more and more commercial. They wouldn’t miss a business opportunity like Christmas Eve, all those last-minute, desperate shoppers, guilty because they’ve forgotten someone. Susan hadn’t forgotten anyone except herself. She grabbed her coat and dashed for the door. Still time. There had to be.
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