‘Talking about records, sir . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you think you could play something different on the way back? I don’t mean to be rude, sir, but that music you were playing on the way over was so boring it nearly put me to sleep.’
Banks laughed and drove off. ‘Your wish is my command.’
TWO
‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mr Banks. It’s a rare treat seeing you in here.’
‘Sorry, Vicar. There’s something about my job that disinclines me to believe in a benevolent deity.’
‘You catch your criminals sometimes, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, there you are. The Lord works in mysterious ways.’
The Reverend Piers Catcott’s eyes twinkled. He was a slight man in his late forties, who looked more like an accountant than a minister: spectacles, thinning silver hair, slight stoop and an anaemic, well-scrubbed complexion. He was also, Banks had discovered from their discussions and arguments over pints in the Queen’s Arms, an extraordinarily erudite and intelligent man. Pity, Banks thought, about the superstition he deemed fit to embrace.
‘Still,’ Catcott said, ‘I don’t think you made the supreme sacrifice of entering this hallowed place just to argue theology, did you?’
Banks smiled. ‘That’s right, Vicar. We can do that much better in the pub. No, it’s just some background information I want. Knowledge, rather. I want to pick your brains.’
‘Oh dear, I should think that’ll be much more comfortable sitting down. That is if you’ve no objection to taking a pew. Or we could go into the vestry?’
‘A pew’ll do fine,’ Banks said, ‘as long as you don’t expect me to kneel.’
The small church was dim and cool. Weak evening sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows. Banks had seen more of it from the outside than in, though he had been in once or twice to look at the Celtic cross and stone font. The pews creaked as they sat down.
‘What’s the liturgy?’ Banks asked.
‘Oh, come on, Mr Banks,’ Catcott said with a thin-lipped smile. ‘Surely even a heathen like yourself knows that?’
‘Humour me.’
Catcott put a pale, slender forefinger to his lips. ‘Very well. The liturgy. The word is often used to refer to the Book of Common Prayer, of course, but the meaning goes back a long time beyond that, a long time. Essentially, it’s simply the order of services in the church. As even you probably know, we have different services at different times of the year – Christmas, Easter, Harvest Festival and the like. And, you might remember from your misspent youth, we sing different hymns and have different lessons according to the nature of the service. Do you follow so far?’
Banks nodded.
‘There is a liturgical calendar to cover the year’s worship Advent, the fourth Sunday before Christmas, came first, then Christmas itself, ending with Epiphany, the sixth of January, or twelfth night, to you. Then we have the Pre-Lenten season, followed by Lent, when you’re supposed to give up bad habits – ‘ here he paused and cast a narrow-eyed look at Banks – ‘and the last three are Eastertide, Pentecost and Trinity. But what on earth do you want to know all this for? Surely you’re not thinking of—’
‘No, I’m not. And believe me, Vicar, you’d be better off not knowing. I’m particularly interested in the music that goes along with these services.’
‘Liturgical music? Well, that’s a slightly different matter. It’s very complicated. Goes back to Gregorian chants. But basically, each part of the year has its own biblical texts, and early composers set these to music. People still do it, of course – Vaughan Williams, Finzi and Britten did quite a bit – but it’s rarely part of a normal church service these days. What you’re probably talking about are biblical texts, or parts of texts, set to music. Actually, most of them were abolished in 1563.’
‘What kind of music are you talking about?’
‘All kinds, right from early polyphonic motets. A composer would take a text, perhaps a psalm, and set it to music. In Latin, of course.’
‘Like a Gloria or a Magnificat?’
‘Actually, the Gloria is part of the Mass, which has its own liturgy. I told you, it can get quite complicated.’
Banks remembered the section titles from his tapes of masses and requiems: Kyrie Eleison, Agnus Dei, Credo. ‘I think I’m getting the idea,’ he said. ‘What about Laudate pueri?’
‘Ah, yes, “Laudate pueri, Dominum . . .” It means ‘Praise the Lord, ye children.” That was a popular liturgical work. Based on Psalm 112, if my memory serves me right.’
‘Do you know Vivaldi’s settings?’
‘Indeed I do. Magnificent.’
‘It says in the notes to my tape that the piece may have been used as part of the burial service for a small child. Is that right?’
Catcott rubbed his smooth chin. ‘That would make sense, yes.’
‘Would that be fairly common knowledge?’
‘Well, you knew it, didn’t you? I’d say any reasonably well-educated person might have a chance of knowing.’
‘Would someone like Claude Ivers know?’
‘Ivers? Of course. I remember reading an article about him in Gramophone and he’s extremely knowledgeable about sacred music. Pity he doesn’t see fit to write any himself instead of that monotonous stuff he churns out.’
Banks smiled. Catcott had sown the seeds of another Queen’s Arms argument, but there was no time to pursue the point now.
‘Thank you, Vicar.’ Banks stood up and shook hands with Catcott, then headed out. His footsteps echoed on the cold stone. Just before he got to the door he heard the vicar call out from behind him, ‘The collection box for the restoration fund is to your right.’
Banks felt in his pocket for a pound, dropped it in the box and left.
THREE
Fortunately, Charles Cooper was at home when Banks and Richmond called just after teatime that day. Mrs Cooper flitted about the kitchen offering coffee, but Banks suggested he and Richmond retire with her husband somewhere private. Mrs Cooper seemed worried by that, but she raised no real objection. They settled for the living room, dominated by a huge television screen, and Richmond took out his notebook.
Cooper, Banks noticed, looked a few years older than his wife. He had a weak chin and a veined nose; his sparse grey hair was combed straight back. He was an odd shape, mostly skin and bone with rounded shoulders, but he had a substantial pot-belly bulging through his grey pullover.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you at last,’ said Cooper. ‘Of course, I’ve heard all about the business from my wife. Dreadful.’
He seemed nervous and fidgety, Banks thought, though his tone seemed calm and genuine enough.
‘What did you do on the evening of December the twenty-second?’ Banks asked.
‘I worked,’ Cooper said with a sigh. ‘I seemed to do nothing else around that time.’
‘I understand you’re general manager of a chain of toy shops?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And on the twenty-second you were dealing with some stock shortages in the Barnard Castle branch?’
Cooper nodded.
‘What time did you leave?’
He paused. ‘Well, let me see . . . I got home about eleven.’
‘Yes, but what time did you leave the shop?’
‘It’s about a half-hour drive, a little slower in the snow. I suppose it’d be about ten fifteen.’
‘You left the shop at ten fifteen and came straight home?’
‘Why, yes. Look, is—’
‘Are you sure, Mr Cooper?’
Cooper looked towards the sideboard and nervously licked his lips. ‘I ought to know,’ he said.
Richmond glanced up from his notes. ‘It’s just that the lady who works there told me you left about six, Mr Cooper. Would she have any reason to lie?’
Cooper looked from Richmond to Banks and back. ‘I . . . I don’t understand.’
Banks l
eaned forward. ‘It’s perfectly simple,’ he said. ‘You left the shop at six o’clock, not at ten fifteen, as you led us to believe. What were you doing all that time?’
Cooper pursed his lips and looked down at the liver spots on the backs of his hands.
‘What was your relationship with Caroline Hartley?’ Banks asked.
‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘I didn’t have a relationship with her.’
‘Were you fond of her?’
‘I suppose so. We were just acquaintances.’
‘She didn’t remind you of your late daughter, Corinne?’
Cooper turned red. ‘I don’t know who told you that, but it’s not true. And you’ve no right to bring my daughter into it. It’s exactly as I said. We were neighbours. Yes, I liked the girl, but that’s all.’
‘You didn’t attempt to start an affair with her?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! She was young enough to be my . . . Besides, you know as well as I do she wasn’t interested in men.’
‘But you did try?’
‘I did no such thing.’ He grasped the chair arms and started to get up. ‘I think you ought to leave now.’
‘We’ll leave when we’re satisfied, Mr Cooper,’ Banks said. ‘Please sit down.’
Cooper slumped back in his chair and started twisting his hands in his lap.
‘Do have a drink if you want,’ Banks said. ‘That is what’s on your mind, isn’t it?’
‘Damn you!’ Cooper jumped up with surprising agility, took a bottle of Scotch from the sideboard and poured himself three fingers. He didn’t offer any to Banks or Richmond. He sat down again and drank half of it in one gulp.
‘We’re not satisfied yet, Mr Cooper,’ Banks said. ‘We’re not satisfied at all. You’ve been lying to us. Now, that’s nothing new. In our business, we expect it.’ He jerked his thumb towards the wall. ‘But a young woman was brutally murdered next door on December the twenty-second, a woman you liked, who reminded you of your daughter. Now I’d think that unless you killed her yourself you’d want to help, you’d want to tell us the truth.’
‘I didn’t kill her, for God’s sake. Why on earth would I do that?’
‘You tell me.’
‘I told you, I didn’t kill her. And whatever I did that night has no bearing whatsoever on what happened next door.’
‘Let me be the judge of that.’
Cooper swirled his drink and took another long sip.
‘We’ll stay until you tell us,’ Banks said. ‘Unless you’d prefer to get your coat and—’
‘All right, all right.’ Mr Cooper waved his free hand. ‘I did leave the shop at six, but I wasn’t anywhere near Eastvale until eleven, I swear it.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Does it really matter?’
‘We have to check.’
Cooper got up and poured himself another drink. He cocked his ear towards the living-room door, then, satisfied by the sound of washing-up water running in the kitchen, spoke quietly.
‘I drink, Mr Banks,’ he said. ‘Simple as that. Ever since Corinne . . . well, you don’t need to know about that. But Christine doesn’t approve.’ He looked at his glass. ‘Oh, she’s not a teetotaller or anything. She’ll allow the occasional glass of Scotch after dinner, but more than one and I can even smell the disapproval. So I drink elsewhere.’
‘Where were you drinking that night?’ Banks asked.
‘Tan Hill,’ said Cooper. ‘It’s an isolated spot. I like it up there.’
‘Were you alone?’
‘No. There’s a group of regulars.’
‘Names?’
Cooper gave the names and Richmond wrote them down.
‘What time did you leave?’
‘About ten thirty. I daren’t be too late. And I keep some breath mints in the car so Christine can’t smell anything.’
‘Anything else to tell us?’
Cooper shook his head. ‘No, nothing. That’s it. Look, I’m sorry, I . . . I didn’t mean to cause any problems. It’s really nothing to do with poor Caroline’s death at all.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Banks, and got up to leave with Richmond.
‘There is one small thing,’ Cooper said before they got to the door.
Banks turned. ‘Yes?’
‘The driving. I mean, I’d had a few drinks. I wasn’t drunk, honestly. You won’t do anything to my licence, will you?’
‘I shouldn’t worry about that,’ Banks said. ‘I think the statute of limitations has just about run out.’ He made a mental note to find out the licence number of Cooper’s car and alert the local police patrols.
‘Fancy a trip to Tan Hill?’ Banks asked Richmond outside.
‘Tonight?’
‘Sooner the better, don’t you think?’
Richmond looked at his watch and frowned. ‘Well, I did have a . . . er—’
‘Take her with you,’ Banks said. ‘It’s a routine enquiry. Won’t take long.’
Richmond touched his moustache. ‘Not a bad idea,’ he said. ‘Not bad at all.’
‘Off you go then. I’ll see if I can get anything more out of the people across the street.’
FOUR
It was a cold night – spiky, needle-sharp cold rather than the damp, numbing chill of the sea mist – and the crusts of ice over puddles on the pavements cracked as Banks walked over them, hands deep in his fur-lined car-coat pockets. He decided to call first on Patrick Farlowe, who had originally said he was sure he had noticed two women and a man call at the house on separate occasions between about six and seven thirty on 22 December.
Farlowe was finishing his dinner when Banks arrived, and there was still a little wine left in the bottle. Banks accepted a glass and the invitation to join Farlowe in the den while his wife cleared the table. They certainly lived well in Oakwood Mews, Banks noted: remains of sirloin steaks on the plates, fine cutlery, a cut-glass vase holding two long-stemmed roses. The wine was a decent Crozes-Hermitage.
The den was an upstairs study with two walls of dark bookcases, a deep, leather armchair by a standard lamp and a small teak table beside it for resting cups of coffee, pencils and notepads. The light gleamed on the dark, varnished surfaces of the wood. The Hartley place in Harrogate would have been a larger version of this, Banks thought, before Gary let it fall to ruin.
Farlowe relaxed in his armchair and Banks took the swivel chair in front of the writing desk. One sniff of the clean, leather-scented air tipped him off that this was a non-smoking room.
‘We’re very grateful for the information you gave us,’ Banks began, ‘but I was wondering if you remembered anything else about that evening.’
Farlowe, a small, roly-poly man with tufts of grey hair over his ears, still wearing a three-piece suit, pressed his damp lips together and scratched the side of his nose. Finally he shook his head. The roll of pink fat around his neck wobbled. ‘Can’t say as I do, no.’
‘Do you mind if we go over a couple of points?’
‘Not at all. Be pleased to.’
Banks sipped some wine and asked about the timing.
Farlowe strained to remember for a moment, then answered. ‘I know the first one, the man, called at about seven o’clock because we’d just had supper and I was in the front room turning the Christmas-tree lights on. Then I caught a glimpse of the woman standing on the doorstep when I went to replace a burnt-out bulb a bit later. The door was open and she was talking to the Hartley woman.
‘Did you get a clear look at her?’
‘No. She had her back to me. Nicely shaped, though.’
‘So there’s no doubt it was a woman?’
‘None at all.’
‘What was she wearing?’
He put a pudgy finger to his lips and whistled while trying to recall the scene. ‘Let me see . . . It was a winter jacket of some kind, padded or thickly lined. Waist-length, no longer, because I could see the outline of her hips That’s how I knew it was a woman. A youngish one, I’d say
. And she wore tight jeans. Lovely long legs she had. He winked.
‘What about her hair?’
‘It was wrapped in a scarf. I really couldn’t see it at all. And she was silhouetted by the hall light of the house, of course, so I couldn’t make out any detail. It was only a quick glimpse I got. I already told all this to your constable the other night.’
‘I know, and I’m sorry to put you through it again, sir Sometimes, believe it or not, people do remember more when they’re given a few days to think about it. What was Caroline Hartley wearing?’
‘As far as I could tell, it was some kind of bathrobe. She held it wrapped tight around her while she stood at the door, as if she was feeling the cold. I’m sorry I can’t be of any more help. I’d like to see the blighter caught, of course. Don’t like the idea of a murderer stalking the neighbourhood.’
‘The third visitor,’ Banks asked. ‘Can you be clearer about the time?’
‘I have given the matter some thought,’ Farlowe said, reaching for a decanter on the table beside him. ‘Port?’
Banks tossed back the rest of his wine and held his glass out. ‘Please. And . . .?’
‘I’m trying to recollect why I was at the front window again, but it’s slipped my mind. Perhaps I’d heard a noise or something . . .’ He tapped the side of head. ‘That’s it! I remember. I heard some music and I went out to see if we had carol singers in the street. Plagued by them we are.’ He made them sound like an infestation of rodents. ‘I consider I’ve handed out my fair share this year. Should be restricted to Christmas Eve, if you ask me. Anyway, it was only the wife, putting the radio on.’
‘Do you remember the time?’
‘No. All I remember, now I come to think about it, is hearing “Away in a Manger” and heading for the window. But there was no one at the door. I noticed a woman going into the house over the street, the house where the woman was murdered.’
‘Can you add anything to your earlier description?’
‘I’m sorry. It all happened so fast. I have to admit, I was rather angry at the thought of more singers and I just caught the figure out of the corner of my eye.’
‘But you’re sure it was a woman?’
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