Past Reason Hated Read online

  Despite the coffee, Banks was getting tired. It really was time to go home. There was nothing to be gained by pacing the office. He slipped on his camel-hair overcoat and put the Walkman in his pocket. After he’d walked down the stairs and said goodnight to Sergeant Rowe at the front desk, he hesitated outside the station under the blue lamp and looked at the Queen’s Arms. A rosy glow shone warmly from its smoky windows. But no, he decided, best go home and spend some time with Sandra. It was a clear, quiet night. He would leave the car in the station car park and walk the mile or so home.

  He put the headphones on, pressed the button and the opening of Poulenc’s ‘Gloria’ came on. As he walked on the crisp snow down Market Street, he looked at the patterns frost had made on the shop windows and wished that the odd bits and pieces of knowledge he had about the Hartley case could make similar symmetrical shapes. They didn’t. He began to walk faster. Christ, his feet were cold. He should have worn sheepskin-lined boots, or at least galoshes. But he had never really thought about walking home until the impulse struck him. Then something leaped into his mind as he turned into his cul-de-sac and saw the welcome lights of home ahead, something that made him forget his cold feet for the last hundred yards.

  Patsy Janowksi had said the woman walked strangely. She couldn’t explain it any better than that. But Mr Farlowe said he was sure the visitor was a woman because he had seen her legs below her long coat. If that was the case, then her legs were bare; she either wasn’t wearing boots at all, or she was wearing very short ones. It had been snowing quite heavily that evening since about five o’clock, and the snow had been forecast as early as the previous evening, so even a woman going to work that morning would have known to take her boots. Even before the snow, the weather had been grey and cold. Most of December had been lined-boots and overcoat weather.

  Now why would a woman be trudging around in the snow without boots at seven twenty that night? Banks wondered. She could have been in a hurry and simply slipped on the first pair of shoes that caught her eye. She could have come from somewhere she hadn’t needed boots. But that didn’t make sense. In such weather, most people wear boots to work, then change into more comfortable shoes when they get there. When it’s time to leave, they slip back into their boots for the journey home.

  The woman might have arrived by car and parked close by. The nearest space, where Patsy said she and Ivers parked, was a fair distance to walk in the snow without boots. The woman might have driven to Caroline’s, found she couldn’t park any closer and ended up having to walk farther than she’d bargained for. Which meant it could have been someone who didn’t know the area well.

  Given what Patsy had said about the walk, it sounded as if the woman had probably been wearing pumps or high heels – most likely the latter. That would explain her odd walk; trying to make one’s way through four or five inches of snow in high heels would be difficult indeed. And wet.

  Was it, then, someone who had nipped out of a local function, committed the murder and dashed back before she was missed? There had probably been a lot of parties going on that night, Hatchley’s wedding reception among them. It couldn’t have been anyone from there, of course, as Banks knew most of the guests. But it was an interesting avenue to explore. If he could find someone who had been at such a function that night, someone who had a connection with Caroline Hartley, then maybe he’d get somewhere. Feeling a little more positive about things, he turned off the tape and went into the house.

  13

  ONE

  Teresa Pedmore rented a two-bedroom house on Nelson Grove, in a pleasant enough area of town south of the castle, close to the river. The houses were old but in good repair, and their inhabitants, though only renting, took pride in adding individual touches to the outside trim. A low blue gate led to Teresa’s house, where her matching door was edged in white. Lace curtains hung in the windows.

  Teresa professed to be surprised to see Banks, though he was never sure what to believe when dealing with actors. Faith could have told Teresa about the visit Banks had paid her earlier, though he thought it unlikely. That would have meant confessing what she had said about Teresa.

  The front door led straight into the living room. Cream and red striped wallpaper covered the walls, where a number of framed prints hung. Banks, who had learned what little he knew about art from Sandra, recognized a Constable landscape, a Stubbs horse and a Lowry. Perhaps the most striking thing about the room, though, was that it was furnished with antiques: a Welsh dresser, a Queen Anne writing desk, Regency table and chairs. The only contemporary items were the tan three-piece suite arranged in a semicircle around the hearth and a small television set. Remembering the importance of the music, Banks looked around for evidence of a stereo but could find none.

  Teresa gestured towards one of the armchairs and Banks sat down. He was surprised by her taste and impressed with her farm-girl looks, the blushes of red in her creamy cheeks. Her wavy chestnut hair framed a rather chubby, heart-shaped face with a wide, full mouth, an oddly delicate nose that didn’t quite seem to belong and thick brows over large almond eyes. She certainly wasn’t good-looking in the overtly sexual way Faith Green was, but the fierce confidence and determination in her simplest movements and gestures more than compensated. She was as tall and well-shaped as Faith, and wore a white silky blouse and knee-length navy skirt.

  She picked up an engraved silver box from the low table and offered him a cigarette, lighting it with an old lighter as big as a paperweight. It was years since Banks had been offered a cigarette from a box, and he would certainly never have expected it in a small rented terrace house in Eastvale.

  The cigarette was too strong, but he persevered. His lungs soon remembered the old days of Capstan Full Strength and rallied to the task. Almost before he had a chance to say yes or no, Teresa was pouring amber liquid from a cut-glass decanter into a crystal snifter. As she handed Banks the glass, the edges of her wide mouth twitched up in a smile.

  ‘I suppose you’re wondering where I get my money from,’ she said. ‘Policemen are always suspicious about people living above their means, aren’t they?’ She sat down and crossed her long legs.

  Banks swirled the glass in his hand and breathed in the fumes: cognac. ‘Ave you living above your means?’ he asked.

  She laughed, a low, murmuring sound. ‘How clever of you. Not at all. It only looks that way. The furniture isn’t original, of course. I just like the designs, the look and feel of it. And one day, believe me, I’ll have real antiques. I think the only valuable objects in the room are the decanter and the cigarette box, and they belonged to my grandfather. Family heirlooms. The Lowry is a genuine, too, a present from a distant, wealthy relative. As for the rest, cognac and what have you . . . What can I say? I like to live well. I don’t drink a lot, but I drink the best. I make decent money, I don’t run a car, I have no children and my rent is reasonable.’

  Banks, who wondered why she was telling him all this, nodded as if he were suitably impressed. Perhaps she was trying to paint a picture of herself as someone who had far too much class and refined sensibility to commit so tasteless an act as murder. He sipped the cognac. Courvoisier VSOP, he guessed. Maybe she was right.

  ‘I suppose you think I should have stayed on the farm,’ she went on. ‘Married a local farmer and started having babies.’ She made a dismissive gesture with her cigarette.

  For Christ’s sake, Banks thought, do I look so old that people immediately assume I’m a fuddy-duddy? Still, Teresa couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three; there were sixteen or seventeen years between them, which made it technically possible for him to be her father. He just didn’t feel that old, and he could certainly understand young people wanting to escape what they felt to be claustrophobic social backgrounds.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ he asked.

  ‘Act, of course.’

  She reminded Banks of Sally Lumb, another, albeit younger, Dales hopeful he had met during the Steadm
an case eighteen months ago. The memory made him feel sad. Such dreams often turn to pain. But what are we if we don’t dream? Banks asked himself. And at least try to make them come true.

  ‘James is trying to fix things so I get a part in Weymouth Sands. He’s doing the script for the BBC, you know. He knows all the casting people. It’s terribly exciting.’ The Dales accent was still there, despite the evidence of elocution lessons, and it made the upper-class phrase ‘terribly exciting’ sound very funny indeed. ‘More cognac?’

  Banks noticed his snifter was empty. He shook his head. ‘No, no thanks. It’s very good, but I’d better not.’

  Teresa shrugged. She didn’t press him. Fine cognac is, after all, very expensive.

  ‘You’re still on good terms with James Conran, then?’ Banks asked.

  Her eyebrows rose. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘I heard rumours you’d had a falling out.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Are they true?’

  ‘It’s that common little tramp, Faith, isn’t it?’

  ‘Was James Conran paying too much attention to Caroline Hartley?’

  The name stopped Teresa in her tracks. She reached for another cigarette from the box but didn’t offer Banks one this time. ‘It’s easy to exaggerate things,’ she continued quietly. ‘Everyone argues now and then. I’ll bet even you argue with your wife, don’t you? But it doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘Did you argue with James Conran over Caroline?’

  Her eyes flashed briefly, then she drew on her cigarette, tilted her head back and blew out a long stream of smoke through narrow nostrils. ‘What has Faith been saying about me?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got a right to know.’

  ‘Look,’ Banks said, ‘I haven’t told you who passed on the information. Nor am I going to. It’s not important. What counts is that you answer my questions. And if you won’t do it here, you can come down to the police station and answer them.’

  ‘You can’t make me do that.’ Teresa leaned forward and flicked off a column of ash. ‘Surely?’

  ‘What did you do after the rehearsal on December the twenty-second?’

  ‘What? I . . . I came home.’

  ‘Straight home?’

  ‘No. I did some Christmas shopping first. Look—’

  ‘What time did you get home?’

  ‘What is this? Are you trying to imply I might have had something to do with Caroline Hartley’s death?’

  ‘I’m not implying anything, I’m asking questions. Banks pulled out one of his own Silk Cuts and lit up. ‘What time did you get home?’

  ‘I don’t know. How can I remember? It was ages ago.’

  ‘Did you go out again?’

  ‘No. I stayed at home and worked on my role.’

  ‘You didn’t have a date with Mr Conran?’

  ‘No. We . . . I . . .’

  ‘Were you still seeing him at that time?’

  ‘Of course I was.’

  ‘As a lover?’

  ‘That’s none of your damn business.’ She mashed her cigarette out and clasped her hands in her lap.

  ‘When did you and Mr Conran stop being lovers?’

  ‘I’m not answering that.’

  ‘But you did stop.’

  There was a pause, then she hissed, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Before Caroline Hartley’s murder?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did Caroline have anything to do with this parting?’

  ‘No. It was completely amicable on both sides. Things just didn’t work out that way. We’d never been very deeply involved, anyway, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘A casual affair?’

  ‘You could call it that, though neither of us is married.’

  ‘And Caroline Hartley came between you?’

  Teresa scratched her palm and looked down.

  ‘Am I right?’ Banks persisted.

  ‘Look,’ Teresa answered, ‘what if I say you are? It doesn’t mean anything, does it? It doesn’t mean I’d kill her. I’m not a fanatically jealous woman, but every woman has her pride. Anyway, it wasn’t Caroline I blamed.’

  ‘Was Conran having an affair with Caroline?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. We didn’t know she was gay, but even so there was something about her, something different. Elusive. She could keep the men at bay while seeming to draw them to her. It’s difficult to explain. No, I don’t think he even saw her outside rehearsals and the pub.’

  That seemed to square with what Veronica Shildon had said.

  ‘But he was attracted to her?’

  ‘A bit smitten, you might say,’ said Teresa. ‘That was what annoyed me, him chatting her up in public like that when everyone could see, the way he looked at her. That kind of thing. But then James is like that. He goes after anything in a skirt.’

  ‘Am I to take it you don’t care for him any longer?’

  ‘Not as a man, no. As a professional, I respect him a great deal.’

  ‘That’s a very neat distinction.’

  ‘Surely you sometimes have to work with people you respect but don’t like?’

  ‘Did you argue over his attentions to Caroline?’

  ‘I told him to stop drooling over her in public. I found it embarrassing. But that was only a part of it. What I said before was true. It wasn’t much of a relationship to begin with. It had run its course.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll get this part in Weymouth Sands?

  ‘James still appreciates me as an actress,’ she said, ‘which is more than he does that gossipy bitch who told you all about my personal life.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Faith bloody Green, obviously. There’s no need to be coy. You know damn well it was her who told you. And I can guess why.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why do you think? Because she couldn’t get him herself.’

  ‘Did she try?’

  Teresa gave Banks a disdainful look. ‘You’ve met Faith, Chief Inspector. What do you think the answer is?’

  ‘But Conran wasn’t interested?’

  ‘It appears not.’

  ‘Any reason?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Not his type, perhaps. Too much woman, too aggressive . . . I don’t know. I’m just guessing.’

  ‘What did he think of her? Did they have any arguments?’

  ‘If she’s been trying to imply I had a good reason for killing Caroline Hartley, it’s probably because she had an even better one.’

  Banks sat up. ‘Why? Over her interest in Conran?’

  Teresa sniffed. ‘No. It wasn’t that. I think she soon realized that her tastes run to rougher trade than James. It was just that she had to try, like she does with every man. No, it was something else that happened.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Teresa leaned forward and lowered her voice dramatically. ‘It was after rehearsal that night, the night Caroline was killed.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Most people left early because it was close to Christmas, but James wanted to spend half an hour or so with Faith and myself, just getting the blocking right. Our parts are large and very important, you see. Anyway, James wanted Faith to stay behind, so I left first. But I forgot my scarf, and it was cold outside, so I came back. I don’t think they heard me. I was in the props room, you know, where we leave our coats and bags, and I heard voices out in the auditorium. I’m not a naturally nosy person, but I wondered what was going on. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I walked a little closer and listened. And guess what?’

  ‘What?’

  Teresa smiled. ‘They were arguing. I bet she didn’t tell you about that, did she?’

  ‘What were they arguing about?’

  ‘Caroline Hartley. As far as I could gather, James was telling Faith that if she didn’t do a better job of learning her lines, he’d give her part to Caroline.’

  ‘What was Faith’s reaction?’

  ‘She walked out in a
huff. I had to be quick to hide behind a door without being seen.’

  ‘Can you remember their exact words?’

  ‘I can remember what Faith said to James before she left. She said, “You’d do anything to get into that little slut’s pants, wouldn’t you?” I wish I’d been there to see his face. Of course, he can’t have meant it about giving her part away. James would know quite well there wasn’t enough time for Caroline to take over Faith’s role. He was just trying to get her to try a bit harder.’

  ‘What happened after that?’

  ‘I don’t know. As soon as Faith had left, I got out of there pretty quickly. I didn’t want to be caught snooping.’

  ‘Where was Conran?’

  ‘Still in the auditorium, as far as I know.’

  ‘Could he have left by the front door?’

  Teresa shook her head. ‘No, we always use the back during rehearsals. The front’s kept locked after the gallery closes, unless there’s some sort of an event on.’

  ‘Who has the key to the back door?’

  ‘Only Marcia and James from the dramatic society, as far as I know. Usually one or the other would be last to leave. James, more often than not, as Marcia was always first to arrive, and she tended to disappear to the pub early if she knew she wasn’t needed.’

  ‘What time did this argument occur?’

  ‘Six. Maybe a little after.’

  ‘What were you wearing?’

  Teresa frowned and sat back in her chair. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What clothes were you wearing?’

  ‘Me? Jeans, a leather coat, my wool scarf. Same as usual for rehearsals.’

  ‘What about footwear?’

  ‘I had my boots on. It is winter, after all. I don’t see what—’