Past Reason Hated (23 page)

He turned his back on the river and started walking up the hill by the formal gardens back around the castle to the market square. Back at the station, as soon as he turned from the stairwell to the corridor that led to his upstairs office, he saw Susan Gay come rushing towards him with a sheet of paper flapping in her hand. She looked like the cat that had got the cream. Her eyes gleamed with success.

‘Found her,’ she announced. ‘Ruth. It’s a small London publishing company. Sappho Press. I faxed them the photo and they said they had it taken for a dust jacket and for general publicity.’

‘Good work,’ Banks said. ‘Tell me, what made you call that particular press out of the dozens we had listed?’

Susan looked puzzled. ‘I got as far as “S” in the alphabet. It took me all morning.’

‘Do you know who Sappho was?’

Susan shook her head.

Gristhorpe would have known, Banks thought, but you could hardly demand a degree in classics of everyone who wanted to join the police. On the other hand, perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea: an elite squad of literary coppers.

‘She was an ancient Greek poet from the isle of Lesbos,’ he said.

‘Is that . . .?’ Susan began.

Banks nodded.

She blushed. ‘Well I’d like to say I got the literary clue, like in Agatha Christie,’ she said, ‘but it was down to pure hard slog.’

Banks laughed. ‘Well done, anyway. Tell me the details.’

‘Her name’s Ruth Dunne and apparently she’s published a couple of books. Doing very well for herself in the poetry scene. The woman I spoke to said one of the bigger publishers might be after her soon. Faber and Faber perhaps.’

‘What kind of stuff does she write?’

‘Well, that’s another thing. They told me she started by writing the kind of thing the Sappho Press people support. I assumed it was feminist stuff, but now you mention it . . . Anyway, she’s moved away from that, they said, and it looks like she’s shifting into a broader market, whatever that means.’

‘Did you mention Caroline Hartley?’

‘Yes. It’s a funny thing. The editor recognized the name. She went to check and then told me Ruth Dunne’s second book was dedicated to someone called Caroline. I thought it was odd we didn’t find a copy among the victim’s things, don’t you?’

‘She liked to travel light,’ Banks said. ‘Still, it would have made it a lot easier for us if we had. Maybe they just lost touch with one another.’

Susan passed the paper over. ‘Anyway, she lives in Kennington. Here’s the address. What now?’

‘I’m going down there tomorrow. There’s a few things I want to talk to Ruth Dunne about. She’s the only link we have so far with Caroline Hartley’s child and her life down there. I think she might be able to tell us quite a lot.’

Perhaps I’m pushing too hard, Susan told herself later that evening. She was trying to decide what to wear for her first real date with James Conran, but she couldn’t help going over the past two days’ events in her mind. Banks had seemed so calm, so sure of himself, with Claude Ivers. Susan, left to her own devices, would have charged into his studio.

She also doubted that she would have left Redburn without bringing both Ivers and the Janowski woman in for a lengthy interrogation at the station. After all, they had both been at the Oakwood Mews house around the time of Caroline Hartley’s murder, and both had lied about it. She couldn’t understand Banks’s obsession with the record and the meaning of the music. In her experience, criminals weren’t intelligent enough to leave erudite musical clues behind them. Things like that only happened in the detective stories she had read as a teenager. But the music
had
been playing, she had to admit, and that was very odd indeed.

She decided on the blue cotton blouse and navy mid-length skirt. Neither were so close fitting that they would reveal what she thought of as an unacceptably thick waist. And she mustn’t overdress. Mario’s was a little up-market, but it wasn’t really posh.

The more she thought about the case, the more she thought about Veronica Shildon. Susan had felt intimidated by the woman’s reserve and poise; and the mysterious transition from happily married woman to lesbian disturbed her. It just didn’t seem possible.

Ivers could be right in blaming Caroline Hartley. Perhaps Veronica knew this too, deep down, and hated herself for allowing herself to fall so low. Then she found Caroline naked after seeing Patsy Janowski leave the house, and she hit out. That seemed as good an explanation as any to her. All they had to do was discover how Veronica had disposed of her bloody clothing. Surely if Banks put his mind to it, instead of dwelling on that damn music, he could come up with something. Gary Hartley, Susan thought, wasn’t capable of the crime. He might be bitter, but he was also weak, a captive in his father’s cold, decaying mansion.

Banks seemed to suspect everyone except Veronica Shildon – or at least he didn’t see her as a serious contender. Perhaps it was to do with his being a man, Susan thought. Men perceived things differently; they were unsuited to spotting subtle nuances. They were basically selfish and saw things only in relation to their own egos, whereas women spun a more general net of consciousness. She knew Banks was astute enough not to get side-tracked by his feelings, at least most of the time, but maybe he was attracted to Veronica Shildon. There was something in that tension between her strait-laced exterior and inner passions that a man might find sexy. And the fact that he couldn’t have her would only add to the excitement, make her seem more of a challenge. Didn’t men always want unattainable women?

Rubbish, Susan told herself sharply. She was letting her imagination run away with her. Time to apply a bit of lipstick.

When she was ready, she looked again at her small tree and the few trimmings she had hastily put up on Christmas Eve. They made the place look a bit more like a home. As she looked around the room, she couldn’t really see what was missing. The wallpaper, red roses on a cream background, was nice enough; the three-piece suite arranged around the gas fireplace looked a little shabby, but nonetheless cosy; and the bookcase added a learned look. There was a beautiful pine table, too, in the corner by the window, where she ate. So what was it?

Looking again at the Christmas trimmings, she realized with a shock what was missing. So simple, really. If she had been on a case looking objectively at a suspect’s apartment and had seen one just like this, she would have known immediately. But because it was her own, she hadn’t paid it the same attention. The one personal touch, the Christmas decorations, pointed out that there was nothing of
her
there; the room had no personality. The furniture, wallpaper, carpet could all belong to anyone. Where were the knick-knacks that people accumulate over the years? Where were the favourite prints on the walls, the framed photographs of loved ones on the mantelpiece, the ornaments on the windowsill? There were no books, only her textbooks, which she kept in the guest room she used as a study. And where was the music? She had a music centre her parents had bought for her twenty-first birthday, but all she ever listened to was the radio. She had no records or tapes at all.

The doorbell rang. Well, she thought, slipping on her coat, perhaps it’s time I started. A nice landscape on the wall, over there, a Constable print or something, a couple of china figurines on the mantelpiece, a few books, and a record of that music Banks played in the car on the way back from Redburn yesterday. She had felt embarrassed and stupid when he had asked what she wanted to listen to, because she had no idea. She heard music on the radio, pop and classical, and enjoyed some of it, but could never remember the names of performers or titles of the pieces.

For some reason she had asked for some vocal music, and he had played a tape of Kiri Te Kanawa singing highlights from
Madama Butterfly.
Even Susan had heard of Kiri Te Kanawa, the soprano from New Zealand who had sung at the wedding of Prince Charles to Lady Di. One song in particular sent shivers all the way up her spine and made the hackles at the back of her neck stand on end. Banks had told her the heroine was imagining the return of her lover in the aria, which translated as ‘One Fine Day’. Susan had taken a note of the title, and she would buy it for herself tomorrow, as a start to her collection. Perhaps she would also try to find out what happened in the story: did the lover return, as Butterfly dreamed?

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.

‘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.

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’.