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Past Reason Hated Page 19


  The doorbell rang again. Smiling, Susan went downstairs to the front door to meet James. He told her she looked beautiful. She didn’t believe him, but she felt wonderful as they got into his car and drove off into the icy night.

  THREE

  ‘Sorry about the mess,’ Veronica Shildon said as she let Banks in. He looked around. There was no mess, really. He sat down. Veronica stood by the kitchen door with her arms folded.

  ‘The reason I came,’ he said, ‘is to tell you that we’ve tracked down the woman in the picture.’

  Veronica shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Her name is Ruth Dunne. She’s a poet, as you said, published by a small feminist press, and she lives in London.’

  ‘You have an address?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me, Chief Inspector. I realize it might have been unethical.’

  ‘Ms Shildon, I never do anything unethical.’ His eyes twinkled when he smiled.

  ‘I – I didn’t meant . . .’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘Would you like some tea? I was just about to make some.’

  ‘Yes, please. It’s a bit nippy out there.’

  ‘If you’d like something stronger . . .?’

  ‘No, tea will do fine.’

  While Veronica made the tea, Banks looked around the room. It was in a state of flux. In the first place, there was hardly anywhere to sit. The suite was gone, leaving only a couple of hard-backed chairs at the table by the window. Also, the sideboard had been moved, and the Christmas tree, along with all the trimmings, was gone, even though it was only 29 December. Banks wondered if Veronica could have done it all herself.

  ‘Have you talked to her?’ Veronica asked, placing the tray on the table and sitting opposite him.

  ‘No, not yet. I’m going down there tomorrow morning. It wouldn’t be wise to phone ahead.’

  ‘You don’t mean she’s a suspect?’

  ‘Until I find out otherwise, she is, and I don’t want to give her any reason to run off if she thinks she’s sitting pretty.’

  ‘It must be an awful job you do,’ Veronica said.

  ‘Sometimes. But not as awful as the things the people we try to catch do.’

  ‘Touché.’

  ‘Anyway, I just thought I’d let you know.’

  ‘And I’m grateful.’ Veronica put her cup and saucer down. ‘I’d like to see her,’ she said. ‘Ruth Dunne. If it’s not too much of an imposition, may I travel down with you?’

  Banks scratched the scar by his right eye, then crossed his legs. He knew he should say no. Officially, Veronica Shildon was a major suspect in her lover’s murder. He had told her about Ruth Dunne only partly out of goodwill; mainly he had been interested in her reaction to the news. On the other hand, if he got her out of her normal environment, out of this house and out of Eastvale, he might be able to get her to open up a bit more about Caroline’s background. Was that worth the risk of her making a break for it? It would be easy for her to disappear in a city as large as London. But why should she? They had no real evidence against her; they couldn’t put her under arrest.

  ‘I’m going by train,’ he said. ‘I won’t be driving down. I never could stand driving in London.’

  ‘Are you trying to put me off? I know it’s an unusual request to make Chief Inspector, but I’ve heard about Ruth often enough from Caroline, though never more than her first name and what a good friend she was. Somehow, now that Caroline’s gone, I just feel I’d like to meet her There’s very little else left.’

  Banks sipped at his tea and let a minute pass. ‘On two conditions,’ he said finally. ‘First of all, I can’t allow you to be present at the interview, and second, you’ll have to wait until I’ve talked to her before you see her.’

  Veronica nodded. ‘That sounds fair.’

  ‘I haven’t finished yet.’

  ‘But that was two.’

  ‘I’ll make it three, then. I reserve the right to stop you seeing her at all if for any reason I feel it necessary.’

  ‘But why on earth . . .?’

  ‘It should be obvious. If Ruth Dunne turns out to be even more of a suspect than she is now, I can’t allow the two of you to discuss the case together. Do you agree to the terms?’

  Veronica nodded slowly. ‘I suppose I’ll have to.’

  ‘And you’ll also have to return with me.’

  ‘I was thinking of looking up an old friend,’ Veronica said. ‘Perhaps staying down for New Year . . .’

  Banks shook his head. ‘I’m already going out on a limb.’

  Veronica stood up. ‘Very well. I understand.’

  ‘Right,’ he said at the door. ‘Eight twenty from Eastvale, change at Leeds.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ she said, and closed the door behind him.

  FOUR

  Mario’s was a cosy restaurant in a narrow cul-de-sac of gift shops off North Market Street. It had a small bar at one end of the long room, stucco walls and small tables with red and white checked cloths and candles in orange pressed-glass jars. A man with a guitar sat on a stool at the far end quietly crooning Italian love songs.

  The place was full when James and Susan got there and they had to sit for ten minutes at the bar. James ordered a half litre of Barolo, which they sipped as they waited.

  He looked good, Susan thought. Clearly he had made some sartorial effort, replacing cords and polo-neck with grey slacks, a white shirt and a well-tailored, dark-blue sports jacket. His fair hair, thinning and combed forward flat against his skull, looked newly washed, and he had also shaved, as a couple of nicks under his chin testified. His grey eyes seemed bluer tonight, and they sparkled with life and mischief.

  ‘You’ll just love the cannelloni,’ he said, putting his fingers to his lips and making a kissing gesture.

  Susan laughed. How long was it since an attractive man had made her laugh? She had no idea. But very quickly she seemed to be getting over the idea of James Conran as drama teacher and moving towards . . . Well, she didn’t quite know and didn’t really want to contemplate just yet. At least not tonight. James chatted easily with the barman in fluent Italian and Susan sipped her wine, reading the labels of the liqueur bottles behind the bar. Soon, a white-jacketed waiter ushered them with a flourish to a table for two. Luckily, Susan thought, it wasn’t too close to the singer, now lost in the throes of ‘O Sole Mio’.

  They examined their menus in silence, and Susan finally decided to take James’s advice on the cannelloni. He ordered linguine in a white wine and clam sauce for himself. He had recommended that, too, but she was allergic to shellfish.

  ‘I must say again,’ he said, raising his glass in a toast, ‘that you look gorgeous tonight.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be stupid.’ Susan felt herself blush. She had done the best she could with her appearance, accenting her rather too thin lips and playing down the extra fat on her cheekbones with powder. She knew that she wasn’t bad looking; her large eyes were a beautiful ultramarine colour and her short, blonde hair, naturally thick and curly, gave her no trouble at all. If she could just lose a couple of inches from her waist and three or four from her hips, she thought, she’d be more inclined to believe compliments and wolf whistles. Still, it was a long time since she’d gone to such lengths for a date. She smiled and clinked glasses with James.

  ‘All you lack is confidence,’ he said, as if reading her thoughts. ‘You have to believe in yourself more.’

  ‘I do,’ Susan answered. ‘How do you think I’ve got where I am?’

  ‘I mean your personality, the image you project. Believe you’re lovely and people will see you that way.’

  ‘Is that what you do?’

  James winced in mock agony. ‘Oh, now you’re being cruel.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right. I’ll survive.’ He leaned forward. ‘Tell me, I’ve always wondered, what did you think of me when you
were at school? I mean, what did the girls think of me?’

  Susan laughed and put her hand to her mouth. ‘They thought you were gay.’

  James’s face showed no expression, but a sudden chill seemed to emanate from him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Susan said, feeling flustered. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it. I didn’t think so, if that’s any consolation. And it was just because you were in the arts.’

  ‘In the arts?’

  ‘Yes, you know how people in the performance arts always seem to be thought of as gay. If it’ll make you feel any better, they thought Mr Curlew was that way, too.’

  James stared at her, then burst into laughter. ‘Peter Curlew? The music teacher?’

  Susan nodded.

  ‘Well, that’s a good one. I do feel better now. Curly was a happily married man with four kids. Devoted family man.’

  Susan laughed with him. ‘That just shows you how wrong we were, I suppose. I liked the way he used to conduct to himself whenever he played a record for us. He really got quite worked up, in a world of his own.’

  ‘Of course, you lot were all snickering at him behind your hands, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m afraid we were.’ Susan felt strangely ashamed to admit it now, though she hadn’t thought of Mr Curlew for years.

  ‘He was a very talented pianist, you know. He could have gone a long way, but those years of dreary teaching broke his spirit.’

  Susan felt embarrassed. ‘How are you getting on without Caroline?’ she asked, to change the subject.

  James paused for a few seconds, as if deep in thought, before answering. ‘Fine, I suppose. It wasn’t a difficult part, it was just that, well, Caroline was special, that’s all. Are you any closer?’

  Susan shook her head. Not that she would have said even if they were closer to finding Caroline’s killer. She frowned. ‘Do you think anyone in the production could have been involved in her death?’

  He cupped his chin in his hand and thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘No, I can’t see it. Nobody knew her that well.’

  ‘Her killer didn’t need to know her well. She let him or her in, but he or she could have been merely an acquaintance, someone come to talk to her about something.’

  ‘I still can’t see it.’

  ‘There must have been friction with the other women, the leads.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Competition.’

  ‘Over what?’

  ‘Anything. Men. Lines. Parts.’

  ‘There wasn’t. I’m not saying we were a totally happy family, we had our ups and downs, our off days, but you’re grasping at straws. Remember, it’s the amateur dramatic society. People join for pleasure, not profit. I’d like to think, though, that we’re far from amateur in quality.’

  Susan smiled. ‘I’m sure you are. Tell me, what was Caroline Hartley really like?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Susan, it’s still very upsetting for me, such a loss. I just don’t want to – ah, look, here’s our food.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Delightful. And another half litre of your best Barolo, please, Enzo.’

  ‘Do you think we should?’ Susan asked. ‘I’ve still got half a glass left. I’m not certain I can drink any more.’

  ‘Well if you can’t, I can. I know I should be drinking white with the linguine, but what the hell, I prefer Barolo. Worry not, not a drop will be wasted. What did you do for Christmas?’

  ‘I – I . . .’

  ‘Well, what? Did you visit your parents?’ He gathered a forkful of food and lifted it to his mouth, his eyes probing her face for an answer all the time.

  Susan looked down at her plate. ‘I . . . not really, no, I didn’t. I was busy with the case.’

  ‘You don’t get on with them, do you?’ he said, still looking directly at her, with just a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. She found his gaze disconcerting and looked down at her plate again to cut off a bit of cannelloni.

  ‘I don’t suppose I do,’ she admitted when she’d finished chewing. She shrugged. ‘It’s nothing serious. Just that holidays at home can be awfully depressing.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ James said. ‘I’m an orphan myself and I always find Christmas terribly gloomy. It brings back memories of those awful orphanage dinners and enforced festivities. But you have a family. You shouldn’t neglect them, you know. One day, it’ll be too late.’

  ‘Look,’ Susan said, reaching for her glass, ‘when I want a lecture on a daughter’s responsibility, I’ll ask for one.’

  James stood up. ‘I’m sorry, really I am.’ He patted her arm. ‘Excuse me for a moment.’

  Susan held her anger in check and tossed back the last of her wine. The second half litre arrived. She refilled her glass and took a long swig. To hell with caution; she could get as pissed as the next person if she wanted to. Why couldn’t she talk about her parents without getting so damned emotional? she asked herself. She picked away at her cannelloni, which was very good, until James came back. Then she took a deep breath and put down her knife and fork.

  ‘I’m the one that should apologise,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to blow up like that. It’s just that it’s my problem, all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ James said. ‘Fine. So what did you do?’

  She sighed. ‘I stayed at home. I had quite a nice day actually. I’d dashed out and bought a small tree and a few decorations the night before, so the place looked quite seasonal. I watched the Queen’s message and a variety show and read a book on homicide investigation.’

  James laughed, a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth. ‘You read a textbook on homicide on Christmas Day?’

  Susan blushed. At that moment the manager walked by. He nodded at James as he passed.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ James said. ‘You sitting there by the Christmas tree listening to carols, reading about dead bodies and poisons and ballistics.’

  ‘Well it’s true,’ Susan said, managing a smile. ‘Anyway, if my job dis—’

  But she had no time to finish. Before she could even get the word out, a man appeared beside her and began singing into her ear. She didn’t know the song, but she could make out words like bella and amore. She wished she could shrink to nothing and disappear down a crack in the floor. James sat opposite, hands folded on his lap, watching with cool amusement in his eyes. When the singer had gone and Susan had grudgingly thanked him, she turned to James with fury in her eyes.

  ‘You set that up, didn’t you, when you went to the gents’? You talked to the manager. Go on, admit it.’

  ‘Very well.’ James turned his hands palms up. ‘Mea culpa. I just thought you might enjoy it, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life. I’ve a good mind—’ Susan dropped her napkin on the table and pushed back her chair, but James leaned forward and put his hand gently on her arm. She could see the mild amusement in his eyes turn to concern.

  ‘Don’t go, Susan. I just meant I thought it might cheer you up, after a Christmas spent alone. Honestly, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I never thought you wouldn’t like it. How could I know?’

  Looking at his eyes again, she could see he was sincere. Not so much that, but it hadn’t even occurred to him that the singer might embarrass her. She eased the chair towards the table again and relaxed.

  ‘All right,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘I’ll let you off just this once. But don’t you ever—’

  ‘I won’t,’ James said. ‘I promise. Scout’s honour. Cross my heart and hope to die. Come on, eat your cannelloni and drink your wine. Enjoy.’ And he let his hand rest on hers on the checked tablecloth for a long moment before taking it away.

  FIVE

  Banks switched off Milhaud’s ‘Creation’ as he pulled up outside Faith Green’s block of flats. It was a small unit, only three stories high, with six flats on each floor. He looked at his watch: 8.50. Plenty of time for Faith to have come home from the Crooked Billet, if she hadn’t gone out on a date.<
br />
  Luckily, she was in. When he knocked, he heard someone cross the room and saw the tiny peephole in the door darken.

  ‘Inspector Banks!’ Faith said as she pulled the door open with a dramatic flourish. ‘What a surprise. Do come in. Let me take your coat.’ She hung up his coat, then took his arm and led him into the spacious living room. A number of framed posters from old movies hung on the pastel-green walls: Bogart in Casablanca, Garbo in Camille, John Garfield and Lana Turner in The Postman Always Rings Twice. Faith gestured towards the modular sofa that covered almost two walls, and Banks sat down.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Maybe just a small Scotch, if you have it.’

  ‘Of course.’ Faith opened up a glass-fronted cocktail cabinet and poured them both drinks. Banks’s was about two fingers taller than he would have liked.

  ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ Faith asked in her husky voice. ‘If only you’d told me you were coming, I could have at least put my face on. I must look terrible.’

  She didn’t. With her beautiful eyes and silvery, pageboy hair, it would have been difficult for Faith Green to look terrible. She wore no make-up, but that didn’t matter. Her high cheekbones needed no highlights, her full, pink lips no colouring. In skin-tight black slacks and a dark-green silk blouse, her figure, slim at the waist, nicely curved at the hips and well-rounded at the bust, looked terrific. The perfume she wore was the same one Banks remembered from their brief chat at the Crooked Billet – very subtle, with a hint of jasmine.

  She settled close to Banks on the sofa and cradled a glass of white wine in her hands. ‘You should have phoned first,’ she said. ‘I gave you my number.’

  ‘Maybe you didn’t know I was married.’

  She laughed. ‘I’ve never known that to make very much difference to men.’ Given the way she was sitting and looking at him, he could well believe her. He fiddled for his cigarettes.

  ‘Oh, you’re not going to smoke, are you?’ She pouted. ‘Please don’t. It’s not that I’m so anti, but I just can’t bear my flat smelling of smoke. Please?’