Past Reason Hated (12 page)

Banks scratched his head. ‘Sorry love. I can’t seem to let it drop, can I? Another drink?’

‘Please. I don’t mean to be—’

Banks held up his hand. ‘It’s okay. You’re right. Not another word.’

He brought the drinks and turned out the main lights. All they had left was the light from the Christmas tree, from the fake log in the electric fire and a red candle he lit and placed on the low table. He could hear a monotonous pop song playing upstairs on Brian’s portable cassette player.

When he sat down again, he put his arm around Sandra.

‘That’s more like it,’ she said.

‘Mmm. Tell me something. Do you think you could ever see yourself going to bed with another woman?’

‘What do you have in mind? Inviting Jenny Fuller over for a threesome?’

‘Unfortunately Jenny’s away for Christmas.’

Sandra hit him gently on the chest. ‘Beast.’

‘No, seriously. Could you?’

Sandra was quiet for a moment. Her dark eyebrows knit together and tiny candle flames burned in her blue eyes. Banks sipped his drink and wished he could have a cigarette. Maybe later, while Sandra was getting ready for bed, he could nip outside in the cold and have a few quick drags. That should soon cure him of the habit.

‘Well, hypothetically, the idea doesn’t offend me, Sandra said finally. ‘I mean, it’s nothing I think about much, but it doesn’t disgust me. It’s hard to explain. I’ve had crushes, what schoolgirl or schoolboy hasn’t? But they never led to anything. I can’t say I’ve thought about it a lot over the years, but there’s something about the idea of being with another woman that’s sort of comforting in a way. It doesn’t feel threatening to me, when I think about it. I’m probably not making much sense, but I’ve had a few drinks, and you did ask.’

‘I think I understand,’ Banks said.

‘Men always like the idea of two women together, don’t they? It excites them.’

Banks had to admit that it did, but he didn’t know why. So far, he hadn’t allowed himself to picture the sexual side of Veronica’s relationship with Caroline, though he guessed they had been a passionate couple. And where there’s passion, he mused, snuggling closer to Sandra, there’s often likely to be violence, even murder.

Susan left the pub shortly after Banks, and as soon as she got home to the bare, empty flat, she felt dizzy. First she drank a large glass of water, then she turned on the television and lay down on the sofa. The picture looked blurred. Suddenly she started to feel horribly depressed and nauseated. She remembered the lies she had told Banks about going home to Sheffield for Christmas. She had no intention of going. She would phone and tell her parents she couldn’t make it because she was working on an important case. A murder. And she would spend the day in her flat doing a few domestic chores and reading that new American book on homicide investigation. She had enough food – a tin of spaghetti, a frozen chicken dinner – so she didn’t need to go out and risk being seen by someone. Because she only lived half a mile or so from Banks, she would have to be careful.

She had bought and wrapped her presents days ago. She would try to pay a visit home next week or early in the new year. Somehow, it was easier on non-festive occasions. The forced enjoyment of the season only exacerbated her discomfort. For the same reason, she had always hated and avoided New Year’s Eve parties.

The TV picture still looked blurred. When she closed her eyes, the world spun around and seemed to pull her into a swirling vortex that made her stomach heave. She opened her eyes again quickly. She felt sick but didn’t want to get up. The third time she tried, her thoughts settled down and she fell into an uneasy sleep.

In her dream she moved into a room like the one Gary Hartley lived in, and she called it home. A high-ceilinged, dark, cold place crumbling around her as she stood there. And when she looked at the far wall it wasn’t a wall at all but a mesh of cobwebs beyond which more ruined rooms with dusty floorboards and walls of flaking plaster stretched to infinity. When she went over to investigate, a huge fat spider dropped from the ceiling and hung inches from her nose. It seemed to be grinning at her.

Susan’s own scream woke her. As soon as she came to consciousness she realized that she had been struggling for some time to get out of the nightmare. Her clothes were mussed up and a film of cold sweat covered her brow. Frantically, she looked around her at the room. It was the same, thank God. Dull, empty, characterless, but the same.

She staggered to the kitchen and splashed her face with cold water. Too much to drink. That Old Peculiar was powerful stuff. And Richmond had insisted on buying her a brandy and Babycham. No wonder she felt the way she did. She cursed herself for the fool she was and prayed to God she hadn’t made an idiot of herself in front of the others.

She looked at her watch: seven o’clock. Her head felt a little clearer now, despite the dull ache behind her eyes.

She couldn’t shake the dream, though, or the sense of panic it had caused in her. She made tea, paced about the room while the kettle boiled, switching TV channels; then, suddenly, she knew she had to do something about her bare, joyless flat. She couldn’t go home, but neither could she spend Christmas Day in such a miserable place. The visit to Gary Hartley had shaken her up even more than she’d realized.

Panicking that it might be too late, she looked at her watch again. Twenty to eight. Surely some places in the shopping centre would be staying open extra hours tonight? Every year, Christmas seemed to get more and more commercial. They wouldn’t miss a business opportunity like Christmas Eve, all those last-minute, desperate shoppers, guilty because they’ve forgotten someone. Susan hadn’t forgotten anyone except herself. She grabbed her coat and dashed for the door. Still time. There had to be.

Christmas Day
in the Banks household passed the way Christmas Days usually pass for small families: plenty of noisy excitement and too much to eat and drink. Downstairs at nine o’clock – a great improvement over the ridiculously early hours they had woken up on Christmas mornings past – Brian and Tracy opened their presents while Sandra and Banks sipped champagne and orange juice and opened theirs. Outside, framed in the bay window, fresh snow hung heavy on the roofs and eaves of the houses opposite and formed a thick, unmarked carpet across street and lawns alike.

Banks and Sandra were happy with their presents – mostly clothes, book or record tokens and the inevitable aftershave, perfume and chocolates. Brian quickly disappeared upstairs with his guitar, and Tracy spent an hour in the bathroom preparing herself for dinner.

Gristhorpe arrived about noon. They ate at one thirty, got the dishes out of the way as quickly as possible, then watched the Queen’s Message, which Banks found as dull and pointless as ever. The rest of the afternoon the adults spent variously chatting, drinking and dozing. Around teatime, Banks and Sandra made a few phone calls to their parents and distant friends.

In deference to Gristhorpe’s tin ear, Banks refrained from playing music most of the time, but later in the evening, when Brian and Tracy had gone up to their rooms and the three adults sat enjoying the peace, he couldn’t restrain himself. Off and on, he had been thinking about Caroline Hartley and was anxious to check out the music. He was sure that it had some connection with the murder. Now he could hold back no longer. He searched through his cassette collection for the Vivaldi he thought he had. There it was: the
Magnificat,
with
Laudate pueri
and
Beatus vir
on the same tape.

First he put on the record that Vic Manson had sent over from forensics. The familiar music, with its stately opening and pure, soaring vocal, disturbed him with the memory of what he had seen in Veronica Shildon’s front room three days ago. He could picture again the macabre beauty of the scene: blazing fire, Christmas lights, candles, sheepskin rug, and Caroline Hartley draped on the sofa. The blood had run so thickly down her front that she had looked as if she were wearing a bib, or as if an undergarment had slipped up over her breasts. Carefully, he removed the needle.

‘I was enjoying that,’ Sandra said. ‘Better than some of the rubbish you play.’

‘Sorry,’ Banks said. ‘Try this.’

He put the cassette in the player and waited for the music to start. It was very different. The opening was far more sprightly, reminiscent of ‘Spring’ from
The Four Seasons.

‘What are you after?’ Sandra asked.

Banks stopped the tape. ‘They’ve got the same title, by the same composer, but they’re different.’

‘Any fool can hear that.’

‘Even me,’ Gristhorpe added.

‘Claude Ivers was right then,’ Banks muttered to himself. He could have sworn he had a piece by Vivaldi called
Laudate pueri,
but he hadn’t recognized the music he heard at the scene.

The sleeve notes for the record told him very little. He turned to the cassette notes and read through the brief biographical sketch: Vivaldi – affectionately called ‘
il prete rosso
’ because of his flaming red hair – had taken holy orders, but ill health prevented him from working actively as a priest. He had served at the
Pietà,
a kind of orphanage-cum-conservatory for girls in Venice, from 1703 to 1740 and would have been asked to compose sacred music when there was no choirmaster.

The blurb went on, outlining the composer’s career and trying to pin down dates of composition. The
Laudate pueri
had probably been written for a funeral at the
Pietà.
One of its sections – the antiphon, ‘
Sit nomen Domini
’ – revealed the liturgical context as a burial service for very young children. There was more about Vivaldi’s setting being hardly solemn enough for a child’s funeral, but Banks was no longer paying attention. He went back to the word sheet enclosed in the record sleeve and read through the translation: so few words so much music.

According to the translator, ‘
Sit nomen Domini benedictum ex hoc nunc et usque in saeculum
’ meant, ‘Blessed be the name of the Lord; from henceforth now and for ever’. What that had to do with funerals or children Banks had no idea. He realized he didn’t know enough about the liturgy. He would have to talk to a churchman if he really wanted to discover the true relevance of the music.

The main point, however, was that what Banks now knew how the music tied in with the information he had got from Glendenning’s post-mortem. Caroline Hartley had given birth to a child. According to Banks’s theories so far, this had either been the reason for her flight to London or it had occurred while she had been there. Another chat with Veronica Shildon might clear that up.

Where was the child? What had happened to it? And who was the father? Perhaps if he could answer some of those questions he would know where to begin.

As far as musical knowledge went, Claude Ivers certainly seemed the most likely candidate to have brought the record. Already Banks was far from satisfied with his account of himself. Naturally, Ivers would deny having called at Veronica’s house on the night of the murder; he was known to have a grudge against Caroline Hartley. But he must have realized he had left the record. Why take such a risk? Surely he must understand that the police would have ways of finding out who had bought the record, even if there was no gift tag on the wrapping? Or did he? Like many geniuses, his connection with the practical realities of life was probably tenuous. And Ivers couldn’t have had anything to do with Caroline Hartley’s baby unless they had known one another some time ago. Very unlikely.

‘Put some carols on,’ Sandra said, ‘and stop sitting on the floor there staring into space.’

‘What? Oh, sorry.’ Banks snapped out of it and got up to freshen the drinks. He searched through the pile of records and tapes for something suitable. Kathleen Battle? Yes, that would do nicely. But even as ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’ began, his mind was on Vivaldi’s requiem for a dead child, Caroline Hartley’s baby and the photograph of Ruth, the mystery woman. Christmas, or not, Veronica Shildon was going to get another visit very soon. He went into the hall, took his cigarettes and lighter from his jacket pocket and slipped quietly out into the backyard for a peaceful smoke.

‘Veronica Shildon, this is Detective Constable Susan Gay.’

It was an embarrassing introduction, but it had to be made. Banks was well aware of the modern meaning of ‘gay’, but he was no more responsible for the word’s diminishment than he was for Susan’s surname.

Banks noticed the ironic smiled flit across Veronica’s lips and saw Susan give a long-suffering smile in return – something she would never have done in other circumstances.

Veronica stretched out her hand. ‘Good to meet you. Please sit down.’ She sat opposite them, back straight, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap. The excessive formality of her body language seemed at odds with the casual slacks and grey sweatshirt she was wearing. She offered them some sherry, which they accepted, and when she went to fetch it she walked as if she’d put in a lot of time carrying library books on her head.

Finally, when they all had their glasses to hide behind, Veronica seemed ready for questions. Starting gently, Banks first asked her about the furniture, whether she wanted the sofa cushions and the rug back. She said no, she never wished to see them again. She was going to redecorate the room completely, and as soon as the holidays were over and the shops had reopened, she was going to buy a new suite and carpet.

‘How are you managing with the flower shop?’ he asked.

‘I have a very trustworthy assistant, Patricia. She’ll take care of things until I feel ready again.’

‘Did Caroline ever have anything to do with your business? The shop, your partner . . .?’

Veronica shook her head. ‘David, my partner, lives in Newcastle and rarely comes here. He was a friend of Claude’s, one of the few that stuck with me when . . . Anyway, he regards the shop more as an investment than anything else.’

‘And Patricia?’