Past Reason Hated (20 page)

‘Yet you still took her a
special
Christmas present Rather a sentimental gesture, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I never claimed to have no feelings for her. After so long, you can’t help that. She put me through hell, but that’s over.’ He took Patsy’s hand. ‘I’m happier now than I’ve ever been.’

It was the second time Banks had heard someone refer to having a motive for killing Caroline some years ago but not in the present. Ivers’s story rang truer than Gary Hartley’s, though. In the first place, Ivers obviously did have a comfortable life with an attractive younger woman, a cosy cottage by the sea and his music. Gary Hartley had nothing. On the other hand, Ivers could easily have lost his temper and lashed out at something Caroline said. Sometimes, after all the big things have been endured and overcome, some apparently inconsequential matter sets off an explosion. There was no real evidence pointing either way, though the use of a knife so close to hand indicated a spontaneous act. If he charged Claude Ivers with murder now, he wouldn’t have had much of a case.

‘I’d like you to drop by the Eastvale police station tomorrow morning and sign a statement,’ Banks said, gesturing for Susan to close her notebook.

‘Must I . . .? My work . . .?’

‘Much as I love your music, Mr Ivers,’ Banks said, ‘I’m afraid you must.’ He smiled. ‘Look at it this way, it’s a hell of a lot better than being charged with murder and sitting in a cell with the drunks on New Year’s Eve.’

‘You’re not charging me?’

‘Not yet. But I want you to stay where I can find you. Any unexpected moves on your part will be considered as very suspicious behaviour indeed.’

Ivers nodded. ‘I wasn’t going anywhere.’

‘Good. See you tomorrow then.’

Banks and Susan made their way back down the winding path to the car. On their left, only partially obscured by wraiths of mist, the sea lay quiet and the small waves lapped and hissed on the sands. Banks wondered what Ivers’s winter sea music would sound like. Something along the lines of Peter Maxwell Davies’s Third Symphony perhaps, or the ‘Sea Interludes’ from Britten’s
Peter Grimes?
There was certainly a lot of potential in the idea.

They had just reached the road when Banks became aware of a figure running after them. It was Patsy Janowksi, and she hadn’t even bothered to put an overcoat on. They turned, and she stood facing them, shivering, with her arms wrapped around her chest. ‘I need to talk to you,’ she said. ‘Please. It’s really important.’

Banks nodded. ‘Go on.’

She looked around. ‘Is there somewhere we can go? I’m freezing.’

They were outside the Lobster Inn, and Banks could think of no better place to talk. They went inside and found the lounge almost deserted except for the landlord and a couple of gnarled old men chatting at the bar. The large room was cold and draughty, even by the hearth where they sat. The fire clearly hadn’t been lit long and the pub had not yet warmed up.

Banks walked to the bar. The two old men flicked their hooded eyes in his direction and continued talking in low voices, thick with local dialect. The landlord shuffled over and stood in front of Banks drying a glass. He neither spoke nor looked up. Banks found himself marvelling at Jim Hatchley for getting information out of such a taciturn old bugger. One day he’d have to ask Jim how he’d managed it.

He asked for three whiskies and the landlord ambled off without a word. The entire transaction took place in silence. When he got back to the table, Banks found Patsy and Susan Gay huddled around the meagre fire trying to get warm.

‘It’s not the cold I mind,’ Patsy was saying, ‘but the goddamn
chill.
It’s so damp it gets right in your bones.’

‘Where are you from?’ Banks asked.

‘Huntington Beach, California.’

‘Warm there?’

Patsy managed a smile. ‘All year round. They even play beach volley ball in winter. Don’t get me wrong, though. I love England, even the weather. I’m just not dressed right for outdoors today.’

Banks passed her the whisky. ‘Here. This should warm the cockles of your heart, as we say up here.’

‘Thank you.’ She took a sip and smacked her lips. Her eyes ranged around the pub and settled briefly, like a butterfly, on various objects: a dented ashtray, the range of wine glasses above the bar, an optic, the old fishing print on the far wall.

Banks lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. ‘What was it you wanted to tell us?’

Patsy frowned. ‘I know it must seem too late to you, that we’ve told so many lies, but Claude was telling the truth just now, honestly he was. We only lied because we knew he’d be the main suspect.’

‘You must have known we’d find out the truth sooner or later.’

She shook her head. ‘Claude said it’s only on television that things like that happen. Not in real life. Despite what he says, he
has
watched television. He said policemen in real life are just thick.’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh shit, I’m sorry.’

Banks smiled. ‘Where
did
you drive to that night?’

‘Well, that’s just what I came out to tell you. I know Claude can’t have killed Caroline Hartley because I went to see her after he’d left, and I can assure you she was still alive then.’

‘What do you mean?’

Patsy rubbed her temple and frowned. ‘What I say. Look, I know it’s not very nice, but I was . . . well, checking up on him.’

‘You suspected he was still involved with Veronica Shildon?’

‘Yes. He still loves her, there’s no doubt about that. You heard what he said. But I did hope he really had put her behind him . . . and I know he loves me, too. I suppose I’m just jealous, possessive. I’ve been burned before by people hung up on past relationships.’

‘Did you know him when he split up with her?’

‘No. We met afterwards. He was in real bad shape.’

‘In what way?’

‘In every way. Claude is a naturally confident man, used to getting what he wants and having his own way, but after he split with Veronica his self-esteem was at rockbottom. He felt betrayed and . . . well . . . sexually, too, he felt worthless and unwanted. He told me he never thought another woman would want him as long as he lived.’ She smiled and looked into the fire. ‘I know it sounds like a come-on, but it wasn’t. You have to know him. When we got together I helped him build up his confidence again. There was nothing wrong with him, really. It was all just the psychological mess caused by what that woman did to him.’

‘Caroline?’

‘No, Veronica. He always blamed Caroline, and I never contradicted him. But if anyone’s the bitch, Veronica is, the way she treated him. All of a sudden, she comes along and tells him, ‘I’m not really the woman you think I am. In fact, I never have been. It’s all been an illusion, an act, just to please you. But I can’t do it any more. I’ve seen the light. I’ve found someone else – a woman, in fact – and I’m leaving you to go and live with her.’ I’m sure you can imagine the impact of something like that on a man better than I can. Especially a man as sensitive and vulnerable as Claude. The bitch! Anyway, he never saw it that way. He always saw Caroline as the enemy, the wife-stealer, and Veronica as the victim. He thought she’d end up getting hurt, discarded, when Caroline had finished with her. After all, there was ten years between them.’ She held up her hand before anyone could say a word. ‘All right, I know, I know. I’m nobody to talk. There are nearly thirty years between Claude and me. But that’s different.’

Nobody challenged her. Banks had almost finished his whisky. He felt like another one. A single shouldn’t put him over the limit for driving. This time Susan offered to go and buy the drinks.

‘What are you trying to say, Ms Janowski?’ Banks asked, swirling the amber-gold liquid in the bottom of the glass. ‘That you were jealous of Claude Ivers’s relationship with his wife and that you followed him that night to find out if he was still seeing her secretly?’

‘I didn’t exactly follow him,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to understand how difficult all this has been for Claude and me. We’ve had one or two rows about his seeing Veronica, usually after he’s been for dinner with her and got back late. I don’t know . . . as I said, I must be a terribly jealous person, but I couldn’t just sit back and accept it. Oh, it’s not even as if I thought they were having an affair or anything. Sometimes an emotional attachment to another person can seem like just as much of a threat or betrayal as a sexual one – maybe even more so. Can you understand that?’ Banks nodded. Susan came back with the drinks. ‘Anyway,’ Patsy went on, ‘he didn’t tell me where he was going that evening, and I figured because of the rows we’d had, he was keeping it from me, you know, that he was going to see her. That got me all worried. I just couldn’t stay in the house alone, so I decided to call at Veronica’s to see if I was right.’

‘And what happened?’

‘I couldn’t see his car anywhere. You can’t park in the street, of course, but it wasn’t even anywhere in sight on King Street. Then I finally plucked up my courage and went to the house. I knocked on the door and Caroline Hartley answered. I didn’t think she’d recognize me because we’d hardly met, but she did. She must be very good with faces. She asked me in, but I didn’t want to go. I asked her if Claude was in the house and she laughed. She told me he had called but Veronica was out and he clearly hadn’t wanted to spend a minute longer than he had to with her. He’d left his present and gone. I thanked her and went back to the car. Then I drove home. That’s all.’

‘What time did you arrive at the house?’

‘About a quarter after seven, twenty after, maybe. It took about an hour and a quarter to drive from Redburn, then five minutes or so to walk from where I parked the car.’

‘Did you see anyone else approaching the house as you left?’

Patsy shook her head. ‘No. I don’t think so. The street was quiet. I . . . I can’t really remember. There were a few people in King Street, shoppers. I’m so confused about it.

‘Think,’ Banks said. ‘Try to rerun the scene in your mind. Let us know if you remember anything at all. It could be important. Will you try?’

Patsy nodded. ‘All right.’

‘Was Mr Ivers in when you got home?’

‘No. He got back later with the shopping.’

‘Didn’t you ask where he’d been?’

‘Yes. We had a row. A bad one. But we made up.’ She blushed and looked into the fireplace.

Banks lit a cigarette and let a few moments pass, then he asked, ‘How did Caroline Hartley seem when you saw her?’

Patsy shrugged. ‘Fine, I guess. I never really thought about it. She was obviously being sarcastic about Claude, but that was only to be expected.’

‘She didn’t seem worried or frightened when she answered the door?’

‘Not at all.’

‘What was she wearing?’

‘Some sort of kimono-style bathrobe, as if she’d just come out of the shower or something.’

‘Could you hear music playing?’

‘No.’

‘Can you remember exactly what she said to you?’

Patsy sipped some whisky and frowned. ‘Just that he’d been and gone and left some boring classical record for Veronica. That’s all.’

‘She knew what the present was?’

‘Seemed to, yes. She didn’t mention the title, the one you talked about the other day, but she did use the words ‘boring classical record”. I remember that because I took it as an insult to Claude.’

‘She could have been just guessing,’ Susan said. ‘After all, Mr Ivers
is
a classical musician, and he knows Veronica’s tastes. He’d hardly be likely to bring her the Rolling Stones or something, would he?’

‘Possibly not,’ Banks said. ‘Either that, or she’d opened it to see what was so special that she didn’t know about. Anyway, it doesn’t matter for now.’ He turned back to Patsy. ‘What happened next?’

‘Nothing. I told you. I left and drove home.’

Banks stubbed out his cigarette and looked closely at her. She stared back defiantly, lips close together, eyes serious. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I know what you’re thinking. I didn’t kill her. Think about it. I’d hardly do that, would I? With her out of the way there was more chance of my losing Claude back to Veronica, wasn’t there?’

It made a kind of sense, but Banks knew that murders are rarely so logically committed. Still, he felt inclined to believe her for the moment. For one thing, her story tallied with what the neighbours had seen: one man – Ivers, obviously – and two women. The one who had simply knocked at the door like a salesperson had been Patsy, then, asking after Ivers. And unless she had returned later, she was in the clear.

So if Patsy was the first woman visitor, and she was telling the truth, then who was the next: Faith Green? Teresa Pedmore? Veronica herself? Ruth, the mystery woman from London? Or had someone called even later than the last woman, someone none of the neighbours had seen? A man? It was possible. Gary Hartley? James Conran? Someone else from the dramatic society? The father of Caroline’s child? A psychopath? Even Ivers himself could have returned. He hadn’t been at home when Patsy got back to Redburn. Banks made a note to question the neighbours again and see if he could get a better description. It was unlikely, especially after so much time had elapsed, but still worth a try. At least someone might be able to tell them whether the woman who had knocked at the door and gone away was dressed the same as the one who did go in later.

Banks finished his drink. ‘Thank you, Ms Janowski,’ he said. ‘I think you’d better come along tomorrow with Mr Ivers and make a statement, all right?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Then she knocked back the rest of her drink and left.

‘What do you think?’ Banks asked Susan.

‘I don’t know. I’d want to keep an eye on them.’

‘Maybe I’ll ask Jim Hatchley to drop by once or twice over the next few days and make sure they’re not up to anything. Any ideas about what did happen that night?’

Susan paused, took a delicate sip of whisky, then said, ‘I’ve been wondering about Veronica Shildon. I know she doesn’t seem to have a motive, but I can’t help but keep coming back to her. Maybe everything wasn’t as wonderful as she made out between her and Caroline Hartley. I mean, what if she was jealous? What if she saw Patsy Janowski leaving the house and thought there was something to it? Maybe there even
was
something to it. Caroline Hartley could have taken her own robe off, and if Veronica had found her naked . . . She could have charged in, had a row with Caroline and killed her. Then she could have changed her clothes, sneaked out and come back later.’