Past Reason Hated

by Peter Robinson

  ‘But it must have happened then,’ Marcia said. ‘I’d have noticed if it had been done before. And certainly no one from the cast would have done it.’

  ‘I’m not saying it was done before,’ Banks said. ‘What I’m saying is that it’s possible vandals didn’t do this.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘Look at this.’ Banks passed the dress to Sandra, who studied the remains of its front. ‘Look at those spots.’

  ‘What are they? Paint?’

  ‘Could be. But I don’t think so. They’re hard to see because the dress is so dark. And we can’t be sure, not without forensic examination, but if I’m right . . .’

  ‘What are you getting, Alan?’ Sandra asked. ‘You’re not making much sense, you know.’

  ‘The last person entering Caroline Hartley’s house was a woman, according to all our witnesses. And Patsy Janowski said she saw a woman who walked funny at the end of the street. I thought it was because she might have been wearing high heels.’

  ‘But that’s stupid,’ Sandra said. ‘In that weather?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that the killer wore this dress?’ Marcia asked. ‘I can’t believe it.’ She pointed at the dress. ‘And that’s . . . that’s blood!’

  ‘The way Caroline Hartley was stabbed,’ Banks said, ‘there was no way the murderer could have avoided blood stains. If she was wearing the dress, it would have been easy enough to put her raincoat on again and get away from the scene, get time to think. I don’t think the murder was planned, not right from the start. But then there was still a blood-stained dress to explain. Why not simply cut off the sleeves and the stained front, then stage a break-in and cut up the other dresses? That would raise much less suspicion than just doing away with the dress altogether. If our killer had done that, Marcia would have missed it and started to wonder what might have happened. But how could the killer know that Marcia would be so diligent as to try and sew them back together again?’

  ‘But that means,’ Marcia said slowly, ‘that the killer was someone who knew about our costumes, someone who had access to them. It means—’

  ‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘And if she was wearing shoes, not boots, what does that suggest?’

  ‘We don’t have any boots,’ Marcia said. ‘Not that I know of. Shoes, yes, but not boots.’

  ‘The killer couldn’t find any suitable boots to complete the disguise, so had to make do with women’s shoes.’

  ‘I still don’t understand,’ Marcia said.

  ‘It was the play gave me the idea, that and what Patsy said. All that stuff about a woman walking funny, and a play about confused identity. Couldn’t it have been a man dressed as a woman? Would any of the shoes have been big enough?’

  ‘Well . . . yes, of course,’ Marcia said. ‘We have all kinds of sizes. But why? Why would anybody dress up and do that?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Banks said. ‘A sick joke? Maybe someone knew Caroline was a lesbian, someone who wanted her badly. Do you have a plastic bag?’

  ‘I think so . . . somewhere.’ Marcia gestured vaguely, her brows knit together.

  ‘There’s one in the larder, by the newspapers, love,’ said Albert, who had remained silent until now. ‘I’ll go and get it.’

  Albert brought the bag and Banks put the dress in it.

  ‘What about the break-in?’ Marcia asked.

  ‘It could have been staged later, when the killer discovered what he’d done.’ Banks looked at his watch. ‘It’s after eleven thirty,’ he said. ‘Let’s try the Crooked Billet and see if they’re still there.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Marcia.

  ‘Susan and Conran,’ Banks said. ‘I assume they are together.’ He turned to Marcia. ‘When did you tell Susan about this dress?’

  ‘The other day. She couldn’t make anything of it.’

  ‘That’s hardly surprising. Does James Conran know?’

  ‘I haven’t told him,’ Marcia said.

  ‘Has Susan?’

  ‘I don’t know. I mean, she’s seeing him. She might have mentioned it. Why?’

  Banks looked at Sandra. ‘I don’t want to alarm anyone,’ he said, ‘but if I’m right, we’d better try to find Susan right away. Excuse us, Marcia, Albert.’ And he took Sandra by the arm and led her to the door.

  ‘But why?’ Sandra asked.

  ‘Because I think James Conran’s the killer,’ Banks said on their way down the path. ‘I think he wanted Caroline Hartley so badly he went over to the house to see her. I don’t know why he dressed up, or what happened in there, but he’s the only one in the society apart from Marcia who had access to the prop room.’

  They got in the car and Banks cursed the ignition until it started on his fourth attempt. ‘Don’t you see?’ he said as he skidded off. ‘According to Faith and Teresa, Conran was the last one to leave the centre. And even if he did go to the pub, he had a key. He could have easily gone back there and changed. Why do you think he was paying so much attention to Susan? He wanted to know how the investigation was going, how close we were.’

  ‘My God,’ said Sandra. ‘Poor Susan.’

  FOUR

  James blocked Susan’s way. ‘She asked for it, you know,’ he said. ‘She was nothing but a prick-teaser, then she . . .’

  ‘Then she what?’ Susan felt real fear now, like ice in her spine. Her mind was racing in search of a way out. If only she had told Banks about the dress, then maybe he would have been able to put two and two together before she had. If only she could keep Conran talking. If only . . .

  ‘You know what,’ he said. ‘It turned out she didn’t like men, she was just playing, leading me on, just like you were, playing me for a fool.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Stop lying. It’s too late now. What are you going to do?’ James asked.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Turn me in? Can’t you let it go?’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot.’

  ‘What is it with you, Susan? Just what makes you tick? Professional all the way?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Susan muttered, ‘but it doesn’t really matter any more, does it?’

  ‘You could forget this ever happened,’ James said, moving forward and reaching for her hand. She noticed a sheen of sweat on his forehead and upper lip.

  She snatched her hand away. ‘No, I couldn’t. Don’t be a bloody fool, James. Let me go. Don’t make things worse.’ He was still rational, she thought; James was no madman, just troubled. She could talk sense to him, and he might listen. The main problem was that he was highly strung and, at the moment, in a state of near panic. She would have to be very careful how she handled him.

  ‘Where do you want to go?’ he asked.

  ‘To the phone,’ she said calmly.

  Conran stood aside and let her pass. But no sooner had she picked up the receiver than he grabbed it from her and pulled her back into the front room.

  ‘No!’ he said. ‘I can’t let you. I’m not going to jail. Not just because of that perverted slut. Don’t you see? It wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, James. What’s the alternative?’

  Conran licked his lips and looked around the room like a caged animal. ‘I could get out of here. Go away. You’d never have to see me again. Just don’t try to stop me.’

  ‘I have to. You know that.’

  ‘I mean it. I don’t want to hurt you. Look, we could go together. I’ve got some money saved up. Wherever you want. We could go somewhere warm.’

  ‘James,’ Susan said softly, ‘you’ve got a problem. You don’t necessarily have to go to jail. Maybe you can get help. A doctor—’

  ‘What do you mean, problems? I don’t have any problems.’ Conran pointed at his chest. ‘Me? You tell me I’ve got problems? She was the one with the problem. Not me. I’m not queer. I’m not a homosexual. I’m normal.’

  His face was flushed and sweaty now and he was breathing fast. Susan wasn’t
sure if she could talk him down and persuade him to give himself up. Not if he didn’t want to.

  ‘Nobody says you’re not normal,’ she said cautiously. ‘But you’re obviously upset. You need help. Let me help you, James.’

  ‘I’m not going with you,’ he said. ‘And if you phone, I won’t be here when your friends arrive.’

  ‘You’re making it worse,’ Susan said. ‘At least if you come in with me, it’ll look good. It’s no use running. We’ll get you in the end. You know we will.’

  ‘I don’t care. I’m not going to jail. You don’t understand. I couldn’t live in jail. The things they do in there . . . I’ve heard about them.’ He shuddered.

  ‘I told you, James. It might not mean prison. Perhaps you can get help in a hospital.’

  ‘No! There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m perfectly normal. I’ll not have doctors poking about in my head.’

  Susan got up and walked towards the front door. She held her breath as she turned her back on him. Before she even got to the hallway, she felt his hands around her neck. They were strong and she couldn’t pry them apart. Because he was standing behind her, all she could do was wriggle, and it didn’t help. She flailed back with her hands but met only empty air. She tried to swing her hips back into his groin, but she couldn’t reach him. Her throat hurt and she couldn’t breathe. She lashed back with one foot, felt it connect and heard him gasp. But his grip never slackened. She felt all the life and sensation going out of her body, like water down the drain. Her knees buckled and he let her sink forward to the floor, his hands still locked tight around her throat. The blackness had seeped in everywhere now. She thought she could hear someone hammering on the door, then she heard nothing at all.

  FIVE

  ‘I’ll call an ambulance and stay with her,’ Sandra said, kneeling over Susan.

  Banks nodded and dashed back to the Cortina. He had heard Conran’s car start up as they broke in. There was only one way his back lane led, and that was to the main Swainsdale road. Once there, he could turn back towards Eastvale or head out into the dale. As Banks negotiated the turns, he radioed for help from Eastvale and from Helmthorpe, which had one patrol car. If Conran didn’t turn off on one of the side roads, at least they could make sure the main road was blocked and he could get no further than the dale’s largest village. At the junction, Conran turned left into Swainsdale.

  The Cortina skidded on a patch of ice. Banks steadied it. He knew the road like the back of his hand. Narrow for the most part, with drystone walls on either side, it dipped and meandered, treacherous in the icy darkness. He kept Conran’s tail-lights in view, about a couple of hundred yards ahead.

  When he got closer, he put his foot down. Conran did the same. It was almost like racing through a dark tunnel, or doing a slalom run. Snow was piled almost as high as the walls at the roadsides. Beyond, the fields stretched up the daleside, an endless swath of dull pearl in the moonlight.

  Conran screeched through Fortford, almost losing control as he took the bend by the pub. The car’s side scraped against the jutting stones in the wall and sent a shower of sparks out into the night. Banks slowed and the Cortina took the turn easily. He knew there was a long stretch of straight road before the next bend.

  Conran had gained a hundred yards or so, but once around the corner, Banks put his foot down and set about catching up. The red tail-lights drew closer. Banks glanced ahead for landmarks and saw the drumlin within the six leaning trees silhouetted by the moon about a mile in front of them. Just before that, there would be another kink in the road.

  He was right behind Conran’s car now, but there was no easy way to stop him. He couldn’t pull in front in such conditions on a narrow road. If he tried, Conran would easily be able to nudge him into the wall. All he could do was ride his tail and push, hoping Conran would panic and make a mistake.

  A few moments later, it happened. Either through ignorance, or just plain panic, Conran missed the bend. Banks had already slowed enough to take it, but instead he eased on the brake as he watched Conran’s car slide up the heaped snow in slow motion, take off the top of the dry-stone wall, spraying sparks again as it went, and land with a loud thud in the field.

  Banks turned off his engine. The silence after the accident was so deep he could hear the blood ring in his ears. On a distant hillside, a sheep bleated – an eerie sound on a winter’s night.

  Banks got out of the car and climbed the wall to see what had happened. There was very little damage as far as he could tell by the moonlight. Conran’s car lay on its side, the two free wheels spinning. Conran himself had managed to get the passenger door open and was now struggling up the hillside, thigh-deep in snow. The farther he went, the deeper the snow became, until he could move no more. Banks walked in his wake and found him curled up and shivering in a cot of snow. He looked up as Banks came towards him.

  ‘Please let me go,’ he said. ‘Please! I don’t want to go to jail. I couldn’t stand being in jail.’

  Banks thought of Caroline Hartley’s body, and of Susan Gay laid out on the floor, her face purple. ‘Think yourself bloody lucky we don’t still have hanging,’ he said, and dragged Conran up out of the snow.

  15

  ONE

  Only the sound of thin ice splintering underfoot accompanied Banks on his way to Oakwood Mews later that night. Eastvale was asleep, tucked up warm and safe in bed, and not even the faint sound of a distant car disturbed its tranquillity. But the town didn’t know what had gone on between Caroline Hartley and James Conran in that cosy, firelit room with the stately music playing. It didn’t know what folly, irony and pride had finally erupted in blood. Banks did. Sometimes, as he walked, he thought that his next step would break the crust over a great darkness and he would fall. He told himself not to be ridiculous, to keep going.

  Apart from the dim, amber light shed by its widely spaced, black-leaded gas lamps, Oakwood Mews was as dark as the rest of the side street at that time of night. Not one light showed in a window. Easy, Banks thought, for a murderer to creep in and out unseen now.

  For a moment, he stood by the iron gate and looked at number eleven. Should he? It was two thirty in the morning. He was tired, and Veronica Shildon was no doubt fast asleep. She wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep after what he had to tell her. Sighing, he opened the gate. He had a promise to keep.

  He pressed the bell and heard the chimes ring faintly in the hall. Nothing happened, so he rang again and stood back. A few seconds later a light came on in the front upstairs window. Banks heard the soft footsteps and the turning of the key in the lock. The door opened an inch or two, on its chain. When Veronica saw who it was she immediately took off the chain and let him in.

  ‘I had an idea it was you,’ Veronica said. ‘Will you give me a few moments?’ She pointed him towards the living room and went back upstairs.

  Banks turned on a shaded wall light and sat down. Embers glowed in the grate. It was cool in the room, but the memory of heat, at least, remained. Banks unfastened his heavy coat but didn’t take it off.

  In a few minutes, Veronica returned in a blue and white track suit. She had combed her hair and washed the sleep out of her eyes.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but I can’t stand sitting around in a dressing gown. It always makes me think I’m ill. Let me put this on.’ And she switched on a small electric heater. Its bar shone bright red in no time. ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea or something?’

  ‘Given the night I’ve had,’ Banks said, ‘a drop of whisky would be more welcome. That is, if you have any?’

  ‘Of course. Please forgive me if I don’t join you. I’d prefer cocoa.’

  While Veronica made her cocoa, Banks sipped the Scotch and stared into the embers. It had all been so easy once they had got back to the station: wet clothes drying over the heater in the cramped office; steam rising; Conran spilling his guts in the hope of some consideration at sentencing. Now came the hard part.

  Veronica sat in the a
rmchair near the electric fire and folded her legs under her. She cradled the cocoa mug in both hands and blew on the surface. Banks noticed that her hands were shaking.

  ‘I always used to have cocoa before bed when I was young,’ she said. ‘It’s funny, they say it helps you sleep although it’s got caffeine in it. Do you understand that?’ Suddenly she looked directly at Banks. He could see the pain and fear in her eyes. ‘I’m prattling on, aren’t I?’ she said. ‘I assume you’ve got something important to tell me, or you wouldn’t be here at this time.’ She looked away.

  Banks lit a cigarette and sucked the smoke in deeply. Are you sure you want to know?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’m not sure. I’m frightened. I’d rather forget everything that happened. But I never got anywhere by denying things, refusing to face the truth.’

  ‘All right.’ Now he was there, he didn’t know where to start. The name, just the bald name, seemed inadequate but the why was even more meaningless.

  Veronica helped him out. ‘Will you tell me who first?’ she asked. ‘Who killed Caroline?’

  Banks flicked some ash into the grate. ‘It was James Conran.’

  Veronica said nothing at first. Only the nerve twitching at the side of her jaw showed that she reacted in any way. ‘How did you find out?’ she asked finally.

  ‘I was slow,’ Banks replied. ‘Almost too slow. Given Caroline’s life, her past, I was sure there was a complex reason for her death. There were too many puzzles – Gary Hartley, Ruth Dunne, Colm Grey . . .’

  ‘Me.’

  Banks shrugged. ‘I didn’t look close enough to home.’

  ‘Was there a complicated motive?’

  Banks shook his head. ‘No, I was wrong. Some crimes are just plain . . . I was going to say accidents, but that’s not really the case. Stupid, perhaps, certainly pointless and often just sheer bad luck.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘As far as the evidence was concerned, we knew that Conran was attracted to Caroline, but there’s nothing unusual about that. She was a very beautiful woman. We also found out he tended to prefer her over other actresses in the cast, which gave rise to a certain amount of jealousy. Caroline dealt with normal male attention by doing what she knew best, what she’d learned on the game – teasing, flirting, stringing them along. It was an ideal way for her because it deflected suspicion away from her true sexual inclinations,’ he looked at Veronica, who was staring down into the murky cocoa, ‘and it kept them at a distance. Many flirts are afraid of real contact. It’s just a game.