Past Reason Hated

by Peter Robinson

  ‘This way, sir.’ Susan pointed to Mr Hartley’s door and Banks pushed it open.

  If only Gary had turned off the electric fire, Banks thought later, the smell wouldn’t have been so bad. As it was, Susan put her hand over nose and mouth and staggered back, while Banks reached for a handkerchief. Neither advanced any further into the room. The old man lay back on his pillows, emaciated almost beyond recognition. Judging by the reddish discolouration of the veins in his scrawny neck, Banks guessed he had been dead at least two days. It would take an expert to fix the time more exactly than that, though, as there were many factors to take into consideration, not least among them his age, the state of his health and the warm temperature of the room.

  ‘Call the local CID,’ Banks told Susan, ‘and tell them to arrange for a police surgeon and a scene-of-crime team You know the drill.’

  Susan hurried downstairs and went to phone while Banks gently closed the door and returned to the front room. Gary looked at him as he entered. The boy seemed drained of all emotion, tired beyond belief. Banks motioned for Richmond to stand by the window, where Gary couldn’t see him, then sat down close to Gary and leaned forward.

  ‘Want to tell me about it, son?’ he asked.

  ‘What’s to tell?’ Gary lit a new cigarette from the stub of his old one. His long fingers were stained yellow with nicotine around the nails.

  ‘You know.’ Banks pointed at the ceiling. ‘What happened?’

  Gary shrugged. ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I told you he was sick.’

  ‘How did he die, Gary?’

  ‘He had cancer.’

  ‘How long has he been dead?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Why didn’t you call a doctor?’

  ‘No point, was there?’

  ‘When did you last look in on him, take him some food?’

  Gary sucked on his cigarette and looked away into the cold hearth, littered with butts and empty beer cans. Sweat formed on his pale brow.

  ‘When did you last go up and see him, Gary?’ Banks asked again.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Yesterday? The day before?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m no expert, Gary, but I’d say you haven’t been up there for at least three days, have you?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Did you kill him?’

  ‘He was sick, getting worse.’

  ‘But did you kill him?’

  ‘I never touched him, if that’s what you mean. Never laid a finger on the old bastard. I couldn’t bear . . .’

  Banks noticed the boy was crying. He had turned his head aside but it was shaking, and strange snuffling sounds came from between the fingers he had placed over his mouth and nose.

  ‘You deserted him. You left him up there to die. Is that what you did?’

  Banks couldn’t be sure, but he thought Gary was nodding.

  ‘Why? For God’s sake why?’

  ‘You know,’ he said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand and turning to face Banks angrily. ‘You told me. You know all about it. What he did . . .’

  ‘For what he did to Caroline?’

  ‘You know it is.’

  ‘What about Caroline? Did you kill her too?’

  ‘Why should I do that?’

  ‘I’m asking. She tried to kill you once. Did you?’

  Gary sighed and tossed his half-smoked cigarette into the grate. ‘I suppose so,’ he said wearily. ‘I don’t know. I think he did, but maybe we all did. Maybe this miserable bloody family killed her.’

  TWO

  By mid-afternoon the sun had disappeared behind smoke-coloured clouds and Banks had turned his desk lamp on. They sat in his office – Banks, Gary Hartley and Susan Gay – taking notes and waiting for a pot of coffee before getting started on the interrogation.

  Gary, sitting in a hard-backed chair opposite Banks, looked frightened now. He wasn’t fidgeting or squirming, but his eyes were filled with a kind of resigned, mournful fear. Banks, still not completely sure what had gone on in that large, cold house, wanted him to relax and talk. Fresh, hot coffee might help.

  While he waited, Banks glanced over the brief notes the forensic pathologist had made after his preliminary investigation of the scene. He’d estimated time of death at not less than two days and not more than three. For three days then, perhaps – since shortly after Banks’s and Richmond’s visit – the poor, frightened kid in front of them had sat in the cold ruin of a room, smoking and drinking, knowing the corpse of his father lay rotting upstairs in the heat of an electric fire. The doctor hadn’t called; he had no reason to as long as Mr Hartley had a full prescription of pain killers and someone to take care of his basic needs.

  ‘Rigor mortis disappeared . . . greenish discolouration of the abdomen,’ the report read, ‘reddish veins in neck, shoulders and thighs . . . no marbling as yet.’ The temperature would have speeded the process of decomposition considerably, Banks realized. Also, the air was dry, and some degree of mummification might have occurred if the old man had lain there much longer. Banks suspected that cause of death was starvation – Gary had simply left him to die – but it would be a while before more exact information about cause and time could be known. Older persons decompose more slowly than younger ones, and thin ones more slowly than fat ones. Bodies of diseased persons break down quickly. Stomach contents would have to be examined and inner organs checked for the degree of putrefaction.

  All very interesting, Banks thought, but none of it really mattered if Gary Hartley confessed.

  Finally, PC Tolliver arrived with the coffee and styrofoam cups. Susan poured Gary a cup and pushed the milk and sugar towards him. He didn’t acknowledge her. Banks walked over to the window and glanced out at the grey market square, then sat down to begin. He spoke quietly, intimately almost, to put the boy at ease.

  ‘Earlier, Gary, you seemed confused. You said you supposed that you had killed Caroline, then you told me you think your father killed her. Can you be a bit clearer about that?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I . . . I . . .’

  ‘Why not tell me about it, the night you killed her? Start at the beginning.’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Try. It’s important.’

  Gary screwed up his eyes in concentration, but when he opened them, he shook his head. ‘It’s all dark. All dark inside. And it hurts.’

  ‘Where does it hurt, Gary?’

  ‘My head. My eyes. Everywhere.’ He covered his face with his hands and shuddered.

  Banks let a few seconds pass, then asked, ‘How did you get to Eastvale?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘To Eastvale? Did you go by bus or train? Did you borrow a car?’

  Gary shook his head. ‘I didn’t go to Eastvale. I wasn’t in Eastvale.’

  ‘Then how did you kill Caroline?’

  ‘I’ve told you, I don’t know.’ He hung his head in his hands. ‘I just don’t know.’

  ‘What happened to your father, Gary?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘How did he die? Did you kill him?’

  ‘No. I didn’t go near him.’

  ‘Did you stop going up to his room? Did you stop feeding him?’

  ‘I couldn’t go. Not after Caroline, not after I knew. I thought about it and I carried on for a while, but I couldn’t.’ He looked at Banks, his eyes pleading. ‘You must understand. I couldn’t. Not after she was dead.’

  ‘So you stopped tending to him?’

  ‘He killed her.’

  ‘But he couldn’t have, Gary. He was an invalid, bed-ridden. He couldn’t have gone to Eastvale and killed her.’

  Suddenly, Gary banged the metal desk with his fist. Susan moved forward but Banks motioned her back.

  ‘I’ve told you it wasn’t in Eastvale!’ Gary yelled. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? Caroline didn’t die in Eastvale.’

  ‘But
she did, Gary. Come on, you know that.’

  He shook his head. ‘He killed her. And I killed her too.’

  Susan looked up from her notes and frowned. ‘Tell me how he killed her,’ Banks asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t there. But he did it like . . . like . . . Oh Christ, she was just a child . . . just a little child!’ And he put his head in his hands and sobbed, shaking all over.

  Banks stood up and put a comforting arm over his shoulder. At first, Gary didn’t react, but then he yielded and buried his head in Banks’s chest. Banks held on to him tightly and stroked his hair, then when Gary’s grasp loosened, he extricated himself and returned to his chair. Now he thought he understood why Gary was talking the way he was. Now he knew what had happened. Now he understood the Hartley family. But he still had no idea who had killed Caroline Hartley, and why.

  THREE

  When Susan Gay got to the Crooked Billet at six o’clock, James Conran wasn’t there. Casting around for a suitable place to sit, she caught the eye of Marcia Cunningham, the costumes manager, who beckoned her over. Marcia seemed to be sitting with someone, but a group of drinkers blocked Susan’s view.

  Susan elbowed her way through the after-work crowd, loosening her overcoat as she went. It was cold outside, and enough snow had fallen to speckle her shoulders, but in the pub it was warm. She took off her green woolly gloves and slipped them in her pocket, then, when she reached Marcia, removed her coat and hung it on a peg by the bar. She noted that the buttons of the pink cardigan Marcia was wearing were incorrectly fastened, making the thing look askew.

  ‘They’ve not finished yet,’ Marcia said. ‘What with it being so close to first night, or should I say twelfth night, James thought an extra half hour might be in order Especially with the new Maria. They didn’t need me, so he asked me to pass on his apologies if I saw you. He’ll be in a little later.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Susan smoothed her skirt and sat down.

  ‘How rude of me,’ Marcia said, indicating the woman beside her. ‘Susan Gay, this is Sandra Banks.’ Then she put her hand to her mouth. ‘Silly me, I’m forgetting you probably know each other already.’

  Susan certainly recognized Sandra. With her looks, she would be hard to miss – that determined mouth, lively blue eyes, long blonde hair and dark eyebrows. She possessed a natural elegance. Susan had always envied her and felt awkward and dowdy when she was around.

  ‘Yes,’ Susan said, ‘we’ve met once or twice. Good evening, Mrs Banks.’

  ‘Please, call me Sandra.’

  ‘Sandra was just finishing up some work in the gallery so I popped in and asked if she’d like a drink.’

  Susan noticed that their glasses were empty and offered to get a round. When she came back, there was still no sign of James or the others. She didn’t know how she was going to maintain small talk with Sandra Banks for the next twenty minutes or so, especially after the emotional scene she had just witnessed between Banks and Gary Hartley. She felt embarrassed. Strong emotion always made her feel that way, and when Banks had hugged the boy close she had had to avert her gaze. But she had seen her boss’s expression over the back of the boy’s head. It hadn’t given much away, but she had noticed compassion in his eyes and she knew from the set of his lips that he shared the boy’s pain.

  Luckily, Marcia saved her. In appearance rather like one of those plump, ruddy-cheeked characters one sees in illustrations of Dickens novels, she had an ebullient manner to match.

  ‘Any closer to catching those vandals?’ she asked.

  Conscious of Sandra watching her, Susan said, ‘Not yet, I’m afraid. A couple of kids did some damage to a youth club in the north end and we think it’s the same ones. We’ve got our eye on them.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll ever catch them?’

  Susan caught Sandra smiling at the question and could hardly keep herself from doing the same. Her discomfort waned slightly. Instead of feeling resentful, under scrutiny, she was beginning to feel more as if she had an ally. Sandra had been through it all, knew what it was like to be police in the public eye. But Susan knew she would still have to be cautious. Sandra was, after all, the detective chief inspector’s wife, and if Susan made any blunders they would certainly be passed on to Banks.

  ‘Hard to say,’ she replied. ‘We’ve got a couple of leads and several likely candidates. That’s about all.’

  What she hadn’t said was that they had at least found a pattern to the kind of places the kids liked to wreck. Most of them were community centres of some kind, never private establishments like cinemas or pubs. As there was a limited number of such social clubs in Eastvale, extra men had been posted on guard. Their instructions were to lie low, blend in and catch the kids in the act, rather than stand as sentries and scare them off. Soon they might put a stop to the trail of vandalism that had cost the town a fortune over the past few months.

  ‘It was such a mess,’ Marcia said, shaking her head. ‘All those costumes, ruined. I almost sat down and cried. Anyway, I took them home and now I’ve a bit of time I’m sorting through the remnants to see if I can’t resurrect some. I’ve put a couple together already. I hate waste.’

  ‘That sounds a hell of a job,’ said Sandra. ‘I don’t think I could face it.’

  ‘Oh, I love sewing, fixing things, making things. It makes me feel useful. And I see what I’ve done at the end. Job satisfaction, I suppose, though it’s a pity there’s no pay to match.’

  Sandra laughed. ‘I’d offer to help but I’ve got two left thumbs when it comes to sewing. I can’t even get the bloody thread through the needle. Poor Alan has to sew his own buttons on.’

  Susan tried to imagine Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks sewing buttons on a shirt, but she couldn’t.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Marcia said. ‘Keeps me out of mischief these cold winter evenings. Since Frank’s been gone I find I need to do more and more to occupy myself.’

  ‘Marcia’s husband died six months ago,’ Sandra explained to Susan.

  ‘Aye,’ said Marcia. ‘Just like that, he went. Good as new one moment, then, bang, curtains. And never had a day’s illness in his life. Didn’t drink and gave up his pipe years ago. Only sixty, he was.’

  Susan shook her head. ‘It does seem unfair.’

  ‘Whoever told us life would be fair, love? Nobody did, that’s who. Anyway, enough of that. Walking out with Mr Conran are you?’

  Susan felt herself blushing. ‘Well I . . . I . . .’

  ‘I know,’ Marcia went on. ‘It’s none of my business. Tell me to shut up if you want. I’m just an old busybody, that’s all.’

  Now Susan couldn’t help laughing. ‘We’ve been out to dinner a couple of times, and to the pictures. That’s all.’

  Marcia nodded. ‘I wasn’t probing into your sex life, lass, just curious, that’s all. What’s he like when he’s out of his director’s hat?’

  ‘He makes me laugh.’

  ‘There’s a few in that theatre over there could do with a laugh or two.’

  Susan leaned forward. ‘Marcia, you know that girl who was killed, Caroline Hartley? Was there really anything between her and James?’

  ‘Not that I know of, love,’ Marcia answered. ‘Just larked around, that’s all. Besides, she was one of them, wasn’t she? Not that I . . . well, you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, but James didn’t know that. None of you did.’

  ‘Still,’ Marcia insisted, ‘nothing to it as far as I could see. Oh, he had his eye on her all right. What man wouldn’t? Maybe not your Playboy material, but dangerous as dynamite nonetheless.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Sandra chipped in.

  ‘I don’t really know. Maybe it’s hindsight. I just get feelings about people sometimes, and I knew from the start that one was trouble. Still, it looks as if she meant trouble for herself mostly, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Is James Conran a suspect?’ Sandra asked.

  ‘Your husband seems to think so,’ Su
san said. ‘But everyone who had anything to do with Caroline Hartley is a suspect.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried about getting involved with him?’ Sandra asked.

  ‘A bit, I suppose. I mean, not that I think James is guilty of anything, just that being involved might blur my objectivity. It’s an awkward position to be in, that’s all. Besides,’ she laughed, ‘he’s my old teacher. It feels strange to be having dinner with him. I like him, but I’m keeping him at arm’s length. At least until this business is over.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Sandra said.

  ‘Anyway, I don’t see as it should matter. The chief inspector went off to London with Veronica Shildon, and I’d say she’s a prime suspect.’ Susan realized too late what she had implied, and wondered if an attempt to backtrack and make her meaning clear would only make things worse.

  All Sandra said was, ‘I’m sure Alan knows what he’s doing.’ And Susan could have sworn she noticed a ghost of a smile on her face.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to imply . . . just . . .

  ‘It’s all right,’ Sandra said. ‘I just wanted to point out that what he’s doing isn’t the same. I’m not criticizing you.

  ‘I don’t suppose I understand his methods yet.’

  ‘I’m not sure I do, either.’ Sandra laughed.

  Suddenly, Susan’s world turned pitch black. She felt a light pressure on her brow and cheeks and she could no longer see Sandra and Marcia. The bustling pub seemed to fall silent, then a voice whispered in her ear, ‘Guess who?’

  ‘James,’ she said, and her vision was restored.

  FOUR

  Banks felt unusually tired when he got home about eight o’clock that evening. The paperwork was done, and Gary Hartley had been sent back to Harrogate to face whatever charges could be made.

  Sandra had just got home herself, and both children were out. Over a dinner of left-over chicken casserole, Sandra told him about her evening with Susan and Marcia. In turn, Banks tried to explain Gary Hartley to her.

  ‘He’d always hated Caroline, all his life. She was the bane of his existence. She used to tease him, torment him, torture him, and he never had any idea why. She even tried to drown him once. To cap it all, she left home and he got lumbered with looking after his invalid father, who made it perfectly clear that he still preferred Caroline. When you look at it like that, it’s not a bad motive for murder, wouldn’t you say?’