Past Reason Hated Page 31

  ‘And Faith?’

  ‘I can’t remember. I doubt I paid much attention.’

  ‘What did she usually wear? Jeans? Skirt and blouse? Dress?’

  ‘She usually wore a skirt and blouse. She is a teacher, believe it or not. She came straight from school. But I don’t know for sure what she was wearing that day.’

  ‘What about her overcoat?’

  ‘What she always wore, I suppose.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘A long coat, like a light raincoat with epaulettes, but lined.’

  ‘Belted?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And her footwear?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Was she wearing boots or shoes?’

  ‘Boots, I should think. Because of the weather.’

  ‘But you can’t be sure?’

  ‘No. I can’t say I pay Faith’s feet much attention.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me all this earlier?’ Banks asked.

  Teresa sighed and shifted in her chair. ‘I don’t know. It didn’t seem all that important. And I didn’t want any trouble, anything spoiling the play. It was bad enough with Caroline getting murdered. When I heard about her being gay, I was sure her death must have had something to do with her private life, that it didn’t involve any of us. I know I sound hard, but this play is important to me, believe it or not. If I do well, the TV people will hear about me . . .’

  Banks stood up. ‘I see.’

  ‘And as for Faith,’ Teresa went on. ‘I know I sounded bitchy right now, but it was only because I was annoyed at what she’d said to you. She’d no right to go talking about my personal life. But she’s not a killer. Not Faith. And certainly not over a petty incident like that.’

  Banks buttoned his overcoat and headed for the door. ‘Thanks very much,’ he said. ‘You’ve been a great help. And he left her reaching for another cigarette from the engraved silver box.

  Damn them all! he cursed as he walked out into the cold night. Of course Faith could have killed Caroline Perhaps not over a petty matter, such as the argument Teresa had described, but there could have been another reason. A woman like Caroline Hartley, whether intentionally or not, causes violent emotion in all who come into contact with her. Even Veronica Shildon had admitted to Banks that she’d never understood lust until she met Caroline.

  Faith could have simmered for a while after the row – it would certainly have been a blow to her pride – and then, if she had something else against Caroline, too, she could have gone to visit her and remonstrate. Faith certainly worked hard at her Mae West role, but what if it was just an act? What if her true inclination lay elsewhere, or she leaned both ways?

  It didn’t seem likely that James Conran would kill the goose he hoped would lay a golden egg. He had high hopes for Caroline as an actress and he was sexually attracted to her as a woman. He didn’t know she was gay. Given his masculine pride and confidence, he probably assumed that she would come around eventually; it was just a matter of time and persistence. Still, there might have been something else in the relationship that Banks didn’t know about.

  Caroline had seemed to bring out the worst in both Faith and Teresa. How could he be sure either of them was telling him the truth? Instead of feeling that he had cleverly played one off against the other, he was beginning to feel that he might be the one who had been played. Cursing actors, he pulled up in front of his house feeling nothing but frustration.

  TWO

  The bell was ringing in the distance. All around lay dark jungle: snakes slithered along branches, phosphorescent insects hummed in the air and squat, furry creatures lurked in the lush foliage. But the bell was ringing in the dark and she had to find her way through the jungle to discover why. There were probably booby traps, too – holes lightly covered with grass matting that would give way under her weight to a thirty-foot drop onto sharpened bamboo shoots. And . . .

  She was at least half awake now. The jungle had gone, a figment of the night. The ringing was coming from her telephone, in the living room. Hardly a dangerous journey, after all, though one she was loath to make, being so comfortably snuggled up under the warm blankets.

  She looked at the bedside clock. Two twenty-three in the morning. Bloody hell. And she hadn’t got to bed until midnight. Slowly, without turning on the light, she made her way through to the living-room by touch. She fumbled the receiver and put it to her ear.

  ‘Susan?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Sergeant Rowe here. Sorry to disturb you, lass, but it’s important. At least it might be.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘We’ve caught the vandals.’

  ‘How? No, wait. I’m coming in. Give me fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Right you are, lass. They’ll still be here.’

  Susan replaced the receiver and shook her head to clear the cobwebs. Luckily, she hadn’t drunk too much at dinner She put on the living-room light, squinting in the brightness, then went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. There was no time for make-up and grooming, just a quick wash, a brush through the hair and out into the cold quiet night. With luck, there would be fresh coffee at the station.

  Holding her coat around her she shivered as she got into the car. It started on the third try. Driving slowly because of the ice, she took nearly ten minutes to get to the car park behind the station. She nipped in through the back door and walked to the front desk.

  ‘They’re upstairs,’ Sergeant Rowe said.

  ‘Any background information?’

  ‘Aye. Tolliver and Wilson caught them trying to jemmy their way into the Darby and Joan Club on Heughton Drive. Our lads had enough sense to let them jemmy open the lock and step over the threshold before pouncing. A slight altercation ensue—’ Sergeant Rowe stopped and smiled at his use of jargon – ‘in which said officers managed to apprehend the suspects. In other words, they put up a bit of a fight but came off worst.’

  ‘Do we know who they are?’

  ‘Rob Chalmers and Billy Morley. Both spent time in remand homes.’

  ‘How old are they?’

  ‘We’re in luck. One’s eighteen, the other seventeen.’

  Susan smiled. ‘Not a case for the juvenile court, then. Have they been cautioned?’

  ‘Charged and cautioned. We’ve jot the jemmy and the gloves they were wearing bagged and ready for testing.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They’re not saying owt. Been watching American cop shows like the rest. Refuse to talk till they’ve seen their lawyer. Lawyers! I ask you.’

  ‘And I assume said lawyers are on their way?’

  Rowe scratched his bulbous nose. ‘Bit of trouble tracking them down. I think we might manage it by morning.’

  ‘Good. Where are they?’

  ‘Interview rooms upstairs. Tolliver’s with one, Wilson’s with the other.’

  ‘Right.’

  Susan poured herself a mug of coffee and went upstairs, still feeling the same thrill as she had on her first day in CID. She took a few sips of the strong black liquid, hung her coat up in the office, then took a quick glance in her compact mirror and applied a little make-up. At least now she didn’t look as if she had got straight out of bed. Satisfied, she smoothed her skirt, ran her hand through her curls, took a deep breath and walked into the first interview room.

  PC Tolliver stood by the door, a bruise by the side of his left eye and a crust of blood under his right nostril. Sitting, or rather slouching, behind the table, legs stretched out, arms behind his head, was a youth with dark, oily, slicked-back hair, as if he had used half a jar of Brylcreem. He was wearing a green parka, open over a torn T-shirt, and faded, grubby jeans. Susan could smell beer on his breath even at the door. When he saw her walk in, he didn’t move. She ignored him and looked over at Tolliver.

  ‘All right, Mike?’

  ‘I’ll mend.’

  ‘Who’ve we got?’

  ‘Robert S. Chalmers, ag
e eighteen. Unemployed. Previous form for assault, damage to property, theft – all as a juvenile. A real charmer.’ Susan winced in acknowledgement of his joke. Bad puns were a thing with PC Tolliver.

  Susan sat down. Tolliver went to the chair by the small window in the corner and took out his notebook.

  ‘Hello, Robert,’ she said, forcing a smile.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  The animosity that came from him was almost overwhelming. Susan tensed up inside, determined not to react. On the outside she remained calm and cool. He had acted in this hostile way partly because she was a woman, she was sure. A thug like Chalmers would take it as an insult that they sent a small woman rather than a burly man to interrogate him. He would also expect to be able to deal with her easily. To him, women were probably creatures to be used and discarded. There wouldn’t be any shortage of them in his life. He was good-looking in a surly, James Dean, early Elvis Presley way, his upper lip permanently curved in a sneer.

  ‘I hear you’ve been attempting to gain unlawful entry to the Darby and Joan Club,’ she said. ‘What’s the problem, can’t you wait till you’re sixty-five?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘It’s not funny, Robert. It’s aggravated burglary. Do you know how much time you can get for that?’

  Chalmers glared at her. ‘I’m not saying anything till my lawyer gets here.’

  ‘It might help you if you did. Co-operation. We’d mention that in court.’

  ‘I told you, I ain’t saying nothing. I know you bastards. You’d fit me up with a verbal.’ He moved in his chair and Susan saw him wince slightly with pain.

  ‘What’s wrong, Robert?’

  ‘Bastard over there beat me up.’ He grinned. ‘Don’t worry, love, he only bruised a rib or two – he didn’t damage my tackle.’

  Susan bit her tongue. ‘Be sensible, Robert, like your friend William.’

  Susan saw a flicker of apprehension in the boy’s eyes, but they quickly regained their hard-bitten look and he laughed. ‘I’m not stupid, you know, love,’ he said. ‘Pull the other one.’

  Susan stared at him, long and hard, and made her assessment. Was it worth pushing at him? She decided not. He’d been through this kind of thing too many times before to fall for the usual tricks or to scare easily. Maybe his accomplice would be softer.

  She stood up. ‘Right, I’ll just go and have another word with your mate, then. He’ll be able to fill in all the details. That should give us enough.’

  Though hardly anything perceptible changed in Chalmers’s expression, Susan somehow knew that what she had said worried him. Not that the other had talked; he wouldn’t fall for that. But that Billy Morley was less tough, more nervous, more likely to crack. Chalmers just shrugged and resumed his slouch, gritting his teeth for a second as he shifted. He put his hands in his pockets and pretended to whistle at the ceiling.

  Susan went to the next room, stopping to lean against the wall on the way to take a few deep breaths. No matter how often she came across them, people like Chalmers frightened her. They frightened her more than the people who committed crimes out of passion or greed. She could hear her father’s voice going on about the younger generation. In his day, the story went, people were frightened of coppers, they respected the law. Now, though, they didn’t give a damn; they’d as soon thump a policeman and run. She had to admit there was a lot of truth in what he said. There had always been gangs, youngsters had always been full of mischief and sometimes gone too far, but they certainly used to run when the police arrived. Now they didn’t seem to care. Why had it happened? Was television to blame? Partly, perhaps. But it was more than that. Maybe they had become cynical about those in authority after reading about too many corrupt politicians, perverted judges and bent coppers. Everyone was on the fiddle; nothing really mattered any more. But it wasn’t Susan’s job to analyse society, just to get the truth out of the bastards. Taking a final deep breath, she walked into the next office to confront Billy Morley.

  This lad, guarded by PC Wilson, who sported a small cut over his left eye, seemed a little more nervous than his friend. Skinny to the point of emaciation, he had a spotty, weasly face and dark, beady eyes that darted all over the place. He was sitting straight up in his chair rubbing his upper arm and licking his thin lips.

  ‘You the lawyer?’ he said hopefully. ‘This bastard here nearly broke my arm. Hit me with his stick.’

  ‘You were resisting arrest,’ PC Wilson said.

  ‘I wasn’t doing nothing of the kind. I was minding my own business.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Wilson. ‘You and your jemmy.’

  ‘It’s not mine. It’s—’

  ‘Well?’ asked Wilson.

  He folded his arms. ‘I’m not saying anything.’

  By this time Susan had sat down and arranged herself as comfortably as she could in the stiff, bolted-down chair. First she gave PC Wilson the signal to fade into the background and take notes, then she took a good look at Morley. He didn’t frighten her nearly as much as Chalmers. Basically, she thought, he was weak – especially alone. He was also the younger of the two. Chalmers, she suspected, was a true hard case, but Morley was just a follower and probably a coward at heart. Chalmers had known that, and the knowledge had flitted across his face for a moment. Being a woman would put Susan at an advantage with someone like Morley, who probably jumped each time his mother yelled.

  ‘I’m not your solicitor, William,’ Susan said. ‘I’m a detective constable. I’ve come to ask you a few questions. It’s a serious charge you’re facing. Do you understand that?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Aggravated burglary. Under section ten of the Theft Act, you could do life. Add to that resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer, and I’m pretty sure any judge would come down hard on you.’

  ‘Bollocks! That’s crap! You can’t get life.’ He shook his head. ‘Not just for . . . I don’t believe you.’

  ‘It’s true, William. You’re not a juvenile now, you’re an adult. No more fun and games.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But nothing. I’m telling you, William, it doesn’t look good. Do you know what aggravated burglary means?’

  Morley shook his head.

  Susan clasped her hands on the table in front of her. ‘It means committing a burglary while carrying an offensive weapon.’

  ‘What offensive weapon?’

  ‘The jemmy.’

  Susan was interpreting the law with a certain amount of licence. ‘Aggravated burglary’ usually involved firearms or explosives.

  She shook her head. ‘The best we could do for you is drop the charge to going equipped for stealing. That’s thirteen years. Then there’s malicious damage to property . . . Whichever way it cuts, William, you’re in a lot of trouble. You can only help yourself by talking to me.’

  Morley pinched his long, sharp nose and sniffed. ‘I want my lawyer.’

  ‘What were you after?’ Susan asked. ‘Did someone tell you there was money there?’

  ‘We weren’t after no money. We – I’m not saying anything till my law—’

  ‘Your solicitor may be some time, William. Solicitors like a good night’s sleep. They don’t enjoy getting up at two thirty in the morning just to help a pathetic little creep like you. It’ll be better if you co-operate.’

  Morley gaped at her, as if her insulting words, delivered in such a matter of fact, even tone, had pricked him like darts. ‘I told you,’ he stammered. ‘I want—’

  Susan rested her hands on the table, palms down, and spoke softly. ‘William, be sensible for once in your life. Look at the facts. We already know the two of you broke into the Darby and Joan Club. You used a jemmy. It’ll have your fingerprints on it. You must have handled it at some time. It’s being tested right now. And there’ll be fibres we can match with the gloves you were wearing, too. We also have two very reliable witnesses. PC Wilson here and his colleague caught you red-handed. There’s no getting around that
, solicitor or no solicitor. We’ve followed correct procedure so far. You’ve been warned and charged. Right now we’re reviewing your options, so to speak.’

  ‘He hit me,’ Morley whined. ‘He’s broke my arm. I need a doctor.’

  For a moment Susan thought that might be true. Morley was pale and his sharp, narrow brow looked clammy. Then she realized it was fear.

  ‘Look at his eye, William,’ she said. ‘Nobody’s going to believe he attacked you for no reason.’

  Morley fell silent for a while. Susan could almost hear him thinking, trying to decide what to do.

  ‘It’ll go easier for you if you tell us what you were up to,’ she said gently. ‘Perhaps you were only trespassing.’ That would never wash, she knew. Trespassing, in itself, wasn’t an offence except in certain special circumstances, such as poaching and espionage, and breaking the lock of a club with a jemmy was a long way from simple trespass. Still, it wouldn’t do Morley any harm to let him look on the bright side.

  He remained silent, chewing at the edge of his thumb.

  ‘What’s wrong, William? Are you frightened of Robert? Is that what it is?’ She was about to tell him Chalmers had already talked, tried to put the blame on him, but realized just in time that such a ploy could ruin any advantage she had. He might suspect a trick then, no doubt having seen such tactics used on television, and her carefully constructed house of cards would fall down.

  ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’ll be helping him too.’

  Ten seconds later, Morley took his thumb from his mouth and said, ‘We weren’t burgling anything. That wasn’t it at all.’

  ‘What were you doing there, then?’ Susan asked.

  ‘Just having fun.’

  ‘What do you mean, fun?’

  ‘You know, it was something to do. Smashing things and stuff. It wasn’t no aggravated burglary, or whatever you call it. You can’t charge us with that.’

  ‘It looks like burglary to us, William. Are you trying to tell me you were going to vandalize the place?’

  ‘We weren’t going to take anything or hurt anyone. Nothing like that.’