Past Reason Hated Read online

  Critical acclaim for Peter Robinson and the Inspector Banks series

  GALLOWS VIEW

  ‘Peter Robinson is an expert plotter with an eye for telling detail’ – New York Times

  ‘An impressive debut’ – Publishers Weekly

  ‘Fans of P. D. James and Ruth Rendell who crave more contemporary themes should look no further than Peter Robinson’ – Washington Post

  A DEDICATED MAN

  ‘Robinson’s profound sense of place and reflective study of human nature give fine depth to his mystery’ – New York Times

  ‘A deftly constructed plot . . . Robinson’s skill with the British police procedural has been burnished to a high gloss’ – Chicago Tribune

  A NECESSARY END

  ‘Another superior mystery’ – Publishers Weekly

  THE HANGING VALLEY

  ‘Highly recommended’ – Kirkus Review

  PAST REASON HATED

  ‘The characterizations are unfailingly sharp and subtle’ – New York Times

  WEDNESDAY’S CHILD

  ‘A dark, unsettling story . . . Impressive’ – New York Times

  DRY BONES THAT DREAM

  ‘Highly entertaining’ – Scotland on Sunday

  ‘High-quality crime from one of Canada’s top crime-writers’ – Toronto Star

  INNOCENT GRAVES

  ‘Atmospheric’ – Time Out

  DEAD RIGHT

  ‘Every page here is readable and compelling’ – Washington Times

  ‘This book has everything that makes a Peter Robinson book good . . . He writes absolutely perfect dialogue. And the plot keeps the reader guessing until the end’ – Mystery Scene

  IN A DRY SEASON

  ‘A powerfully moving work’ – IAN RANKIN

  ‘A wonderful novel’ – MICHAEL CONNELLY

  COLD IS THE GRAVE

  ‘Full of twists and surprises’ – Chicago Tribune

  ‘Exhilarating’ – Toronto Star

  AFTERMATH

  ‘It demonstrates how the crime novel, when done right, can reach parts that other books can’t . . . A considerable achievement’ – Guardian

  ‘Move over Ian Rankin – there’s a new gunslinger in town. If you haven’t caught up with him already, now is the time to start’ – Independent on Sunday

  ‘A taut thriller with more twists than the Leeds to Goole highway’ – Time Out

  PAST REASON HATED

  Peter Robinson grew up in Yorkshire, and now lives in Canada.

  His Inspector Banks series has won numerous awards in Britain, Europe, the United States and Canada. There are now fifteen novels published by Pan Macmillan in the series, of which Past Reason Hated is the fifth. Aftermath, the twelfth, was a Sunday Times bestseller.

  The Inspector Banks series

  GALLOWS VIEW

  A DEDICATED MAN

  A NECESSARY END

  THE HANGING VALLEY

  PAST REASON HATED

  WEDNESDAY’S CHILD

  DRY BONES THAT DREAM

  INNOCENT GRAVES

  DEAD RIGHT

  IN A DRY SEASON

  COLD IS THE GRAVE

  AFTERMATH

  THE SUMMER THAT NEVER WAS

  PLAYING WITH FIRE

  STRANGE AFFAIR

  Also by Peter Robinson

  CAEDMON’S SONG

  NOT SAFE AFTER DARK AND OTHER WORKS

  PETER

  ROBINSON

  PAST REASON HATED

  AN INSPECTOR BANKS MYSTERY

  PAN BOOKS

  First published 1991 by Penguin Books Canada

  This edition published 2002 by Pan Books

  This electronic edition published 2008 by Pan Books

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan Ltd

  Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Rd, London N1 9RR

  Basingstoke and Oxford

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-0-330-46941-8 in Adobe Reader format

  ISBN 978-0-330-46940-1 in Adobe Digital Editions format

  ISBN 978-0-330-46943-2 in Microsoft Reader format

  ISBN 978-0-330-46942-5 in Mobipocket format

  Copyright © Peter Robinson

  The right of Peter Robinson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Visit www. panmacmillan.com to read more about all our books and to buy them. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters so that you’re always first to hear about our new releases.

  This one is for the Usual Suspects

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  1

  ONE

  Snow fell on Swainsdale for the first time that year a few days before Christmas. Out in the dale, among the more remote farms and hamlets, the locals would be cursing. A heavy snowfall could mean lost sheep and blocked roads. In past years, some places had been cut off for as long as five weeks. But in Eastvale, most of those crossing the market square on the evening of 22 December felt a surge of joy as the fat flakes drifted down, glistening in the gaslight as they fell, to form a lumpy white carpet over the cobblestones.

  Detective Constable Susan Gay paused on her way back to the station from Joplin’s newsagents. Outside the Norman church stood a tall Christmas tree, a gift from the Norwegian town with which Eastvale was twinned. The lights winked on and off, and its tapered branches bent under the weight of half an inch of snow. In front of the tree, a group of children in red choirgowns stood singing ‘Once in Royal David’s City’. Their alto voices, fragile but clear, seemed especially fitting on such a beautiful winter’s evening.

  Susan tilted her head back and let the snowflakes melt on her eyelids. Two weeks ago she would not have allowed herself to do something so spontaneous and frivolous. But now that she was Detective Constable Gay, she could afford to relax a little. She had finished with courses and exams, at least until she tried for sergeant. Now there would be no more arguing with David Craig over who made the coffee. There would be no more walking the beat, either, and no more traffic duty on market day.

  The music followed her as she headed back to the station:

  And He leads His children on

  To the place where He is gone.

  Directly in front of her, the new blue lamp hung like a shopsign over the doorway of the Tudor-fronted police station. In an attempt to change the public image of the force, tarnished by race riots, sex scandals and accusations of high-level corruption, the government had looked to the past: more specifically, to the fifties. The lamp was straight out of Dixon of Dock Green. Susan had never actually seen the programme, but she understood the basic idea. The image of the kindly old copper on the beat had caused many a laugh around Eastvale Regional Headquarters. Would that life were s
imple, they all said.

  Her second day on the job and all was well. She pushed open the door and headed for the stairs. Upstairs! The inner sanctum of the CID. She had envied them all for so long – Gristhorpe, Banks, Richmond, even Hatchley – when she had brought messages, or stood by taking notes while they interrogated female suspects. No longer. She was one of them now, and she was about to show them that a woman could do the job every bit as well as a man, if not better.

  She didn’t have her own office; only Banks and Gristhorpe were allowed such luxuries. The hutch she shared with Richmond would have to do. It looked over the carpark out the back, not the market square, but at least she had a desk, rickety though it was, and a filing cabinet of her own. She had inherited them from Sergeant Hatchley, now exiled to the coast, and the first thing she had had to do was rip down the nude pin-ups from the cork bulletin board above his desk. How anybody could work with those bloated mammaries hanging over them was beyond her.

  About forty minutes later, after she had poured herself a cup of coffee to keep her awake while she studied the latest regional crime reports, the phone rang. It was Sergeant Rowe calling from the front desk.

  ‘Someone just phoned in to report a murder,’ he said.

  Susan felt the adrenalin flow. She grasped the receiver tighter. ‘Where?’

  ‘Oakwood Mews. You know, those tarted-up bijou terraces at the back of King Street.’

  ‘I know them. Any details?’

  ‘Not much. It was a neighbour who called. Said the woman next door went rushing into the street screaming. She took her in, but couldn’t get much sense out of her except that her friend had been murdered.’

  ‘Did the neighbour take a look for herself?’

  ‘No. She said she thought she’d better call us right away.’

  ‘Can you send PC Tolliver down there?’ Susan asked ‘Tell him to check out the scene without touching anything. And tell him to stay by the door and not let anyone in till we get there.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Rowe, ‘but shouldn’t—’

  ‘What’s the number?’

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘Right.’

  Susan hung up. Her heart beat fast. Nothing had happened in Eastvale for months – and now, on only her second day on the new job, a murder. And she was the only member of the CID on duty that evening. Calm down, she told herself, follow procedure, do it right. She reached for her coat, still damp with snow, then hurried out the back way to the car park. Shivering, she swept the snow off the windscreen of her red Golf and drove off as fast as the bad weather allowed.

  TWO

  Four and twenty virgins

  Came down from Inverness,

  And when the ball was over

  There were four and twenty less.

  ‘I think Jim’s a bit pissed,’ Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks leaned over and said to his wife, Sandra.

  Sandra nodded. In a corner of the Eastvale Rugby Club banquet room, by the Christmas tree, Detective Sergeant Jim Hatchley stood with a group of cronies, all as big and brawny as himself. They looked like a parody of a group of carol singers, Banks thought, each with a foaming pint in his hand. As they sang, they swayed. The other guests stood by the bar or sat at tables chatting over the noise. Carol Hatchley – née Ellis – the sergeant’s blushing bride, sat beside her mother and fumed. The couple had just changed out of their wedding clothes into less formal attire in readiness for their honeymoon, but Hatchley, true to form, had insisted on just one more pint before they left. That one had quickly turned into two, then three . . .

  The village butcher, he was there,

  Chopper in his hand.

  Every time they played a waltz,

  He circumcised the band.

  It didn’t make sense, Banks thought. How many times could you circumcise one band? Carol managed a weak smile, then turned and said something to her mother, who shrugged. Banks, leaning against the long bar with Sandra, Superintendent Gristhorpe and Philip Richmond, ordered another round of drinks.

  As he waited, he looked around the room. It was done up for the festive season, no doubt about that. Red and green concertina trimmings hung across the ceiling, bedecked with tinsel, holly and the occasional sprig of mistletoe. The club tree, a good seven feet tall, sparkled in all its glory.

  It was twenty past eight, and the real party was just beginning. The wedding had taken place at Eastvale Congregational Church late in the afternoon, and it had been followed by a slap-up meal at the rugby club at six. Now the speeches had been made, the plates cleared away and the tables moved for a good Yorkshire knees-up. Hatchley had hired a DJ for the music, but the poor lad was still waiting patiently for a signal to begin.

  Singing ‘Balls to your father,

  Arse against the wall.

  If you’ve never been shagged on a Saturday night.

  You’ve never been shagged at all.’

  ‘Four and Twenty Virgins’ was coming to a close. Banks could tell. There would be a verse about the village schoolmistress (who had unusually large breasts) and one about the village cripple (who did unspeakable things with his crutch), then a rousing finale. With a bit of luck, that would be the end of the rugby songs. They had already performed ‘Dinah, Dinah, Show Us Yer Leg (A Yard Above Your Knees)’, ‘The Engineer’s Song’ and a lengthy, improvized version of ‘Mademoiselle from Armentieres’. The sulky DJ, who had been pretending to set up his equipment for the past hour, would soon get his chance to shine.

  Banks passed the drinks along to the others and reached for a cigarette. Gristhorpe frowned at him, but Banks was used to that. Phil Richmond was also smoking one of his occasional panatellas, so the superintendent was having a particularly hard time of it. Sandra had stopped smoking completely, and Banks had agreed not to smoke in the house. Luckily, although most of the police station had been declared a non-smoking area, he was still permitted to light up in his own office. Things had got so bad, though, that even alleged criminals brought in for interrogation could legally object to any police officer smoking in the interview rooms. It was a sorry state of affairs, Banks mused: you could beat them to your heart’s content, as long as the bruises didn’t show, but you couldn’t smoke in their presence and get away with it.

  Sandra raised her dark eyebrows and breathed a sigh of relief when ‘Four and Twenty Virgins’ came to an end. But her joy was short lived. The choir of rugby forwards refused to leave the stage without giving their rendition of ‘Good King Wenceslas’. Despite groans from the captive audience, a dirty look from the DJ and a positive flash of fury from Carol’s eyes, Sergeant Hatchley led them off:

  Good King Wenceslas looked out

  Of his bedroom window.

  Silly bugger, he fell out . . .

  Gristhorpe looked at his watch. ‘I think I’ll be off after this one. I just overheard someone say it’s snowing pretty heavily out there now.’

  ‘Is it?’ Sandra said. Banks knew she loved snow. They walked over to the window at the far end of the room and glanced out. Clearly satisfied with what she saw, Sandra pulled the long curtains open. It had been snowing only lightly when they had arrived for pre-dinner drinks at about five, but now the high window framed a thick swirl of white flakes falling on the rugby field. Others turned to look, oohing and aahing, touching their neighbours on the arm to tell them what was happening. As they walked back, Banks took Sandra in his arms and kissed her.

  ‘Got you,’ he said, then he looked up and Sandra followed his gaze to the mistletoe hanging above them.

  Sandra took his arm and walked beside him back to the bar. ‘I don’t mean to be rude or anything,’ she said, ‘but when’s this racket going to end? Don’t you think someone should have a word with Jim? After all, it is Carol’s wedding day . . .’

  Banks looked at Hatchley. Judging by his flushed face and the way he swayed, there wouldn’t be much of a wedding night for the bride.

  Brightly shone his arse that night,

  Though the fr
ost was cruel . . .

  Banks was just about to walk across and say something – only concerned that he might sound too much like the boss when he was just a wedding guest – when he was saved by the DJ. A long and loud blast of feedback issued from the speakers and stopped Hatchley and his mates in their tracks. Before they could regather their wits for a further onslaught, several quick-thinking members of the party applauded. At once, the singers took this as their cue for a bow and the DJ as his opportunity to begin the real music. He adjusted a couple of dials, skipped the patter, and before Hatchley and his mob even knew what had hit them the hall was filled with the sound of Martha and the Vandellas singing ‘Dancing in the Street’.

  Sandra smiled. ‘That’s more like it.’

  Banks glanced over at Richmond, who looked very pleased with himself. And well he might. There had just been a big change-around at Eastvale Regional Police Headquarters. Sergeant Hatchley had been a problem for some time. Not suitable material for promotion, he had stood in Richmond’s way, even though Richmond had passed his sergeant’s examination with flying colours and shown remarkable aptitude on the job. The trouble was, there just wasn’t room for two detective sergeants in the small station.

  Finally, after months of trying to find a way out of the dilemma, Superintendent Gristhorpe had seized the first opportunity that came his way. Official borders had been redrawn and the region had expanded eastwards to take in a section of the North York Moors and a small stretch of coastline between Scarborough and Whitby. It seemed a good idea to place a small CID outpost on the coast to deal with the day-to-day matters that might arise there, and Hatchley came to mind as the man to head it. He was competent enough, just lazy and inattentive to detail. Surely, Gristhorpe had reasoned to Banks, he couldn’t do much damage in a sleepy fishing village like Saltby Bay?

  Hatchley had been asked if he fancied living by the seaside and he had said yes. After all, it was still in Yorkshire. As the time of the move coincided with his impending marriage, it had seemed sensible to combine the two celebrations. Though Hatchley remained a sergeant, Gristhorpe had managed to wangle him a small pay increase, and – more important – he would be in charge He was to take David Craig, now a detective constable, with him. Craig, soaking up the ale at the other end of the bar, didn’t look too pleased about it.