Past Reason Hated (32 page)

So that was that: the London connection ruled out. But maybe he hadn’t wasted his time entirely. He now had a much fuller picture of Caroline Hartley, even if he did have to throw out that neat theory of a connection between the Vivaldi
Laudate pueri
and the child she had given birth to He still believed the music was important, but he could no longer tell how or where it fit.

He looked at his watch. Just time to buy Sandra and Tracy presents in Liberty’s, and maybe something for Brian from Virgin Records on Oxford Street. Then it would be time to meet Veronica for lunch and set off. He wondered what, if any, developments would be waiting for him back in Eastvale.

‘You don’t think
he did it, do you?’ Susan Gay asked Banks over coffee and toasted teacakes in the Golden Grill. It was two, largely frustrating days after his return from London.

‘Gary Hartley?’ Banks shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t suppose it makes much sense. Gary finds out Caroline was abused as a child so he kills her? All I know is that she told him about it a couple of weeks before she was killed. But you’re right, we’ve no real motive at all. On the other hand, she
did
make his life a misery. Then she ran off and left him stuck with the old man. A thing like that can fester into hatred. The timing is interesting, too.’

‘Does he know anything about classical music?’

‘We’ll have to find out. He’s certainly well read. Look at all those books around the place, and the way he speaks, his vocabulary. He’s way beyond the range of most teenagers. He could easily have come across the information about
Laudate pueri
somewhere, then seen the record at Caroline’s.’

‘So you’re going to see him?’

‘Yes. And I’d like you to come along if you can spare the time. Anything happening with the break-ins?’

‘Nothing that can’t wait.’

‘Good. Remember, Gary’s lied to us before. I want to see the old man, too. Who knows, we might be able to get something out of him.’

‘He was pretty useless last time,’ Susan said. ‘I’m not convinced he’s all there.’ She shivered.

‘Cold?’

She shook her head. ‘Just the thought of that house.’

‘I know what you mean. Let Phil know, will you? I want the three of us in on this. I’ll be with the super, filling him in.’ Banks looked at his watch. ‘Say half an hour?’

Susan nodded and left.

Thirty minutes later they sat in an unmarked police Rover with Susan at the wheel and Banks hunched rather glumly in the back, missing his music. Sandra was using the Cortina to buy photographic supplies in York, so they had had to sign a car out of the pool. Susan’s driving was assured, though not as good as Richmond’s, Banks noted Sergeant Hatchley had been the worst, he remembered, a bloody maniac on the road.

Despite more snow, road conditions were clear enough. It was, in fact, much brighter in the north, for once, than it had been in London, and a weak winter sun shone on the distant snow-covered fells, spreading a pastel coral glow.

In under an hour they pulled into the familiar Harrogate street and rang Hartley’s doorbell. As expected, Gary answered. Giving nothing but a ‘you again’ look, he wandered back into the front room, leaving them to follow.

The room hadn’t been cleaned or tidied since their last visit, and a few more beer cans and tab ends had joined the wreckage on the hearth. The air smelled stale, like a pub after closing time. Banks longed to open the window to let in some air. Before he could get there, Richmond beat him to it, yanking back the heavy curtains and raising the window. Gary squinted at the burst of sunlight but said nothing.

‘We’ve got a few more questions to ask you,’ Banks said, ‘but first I’d like a word with your father.’

‘You can’t. He’s sick, he’s resting.’ Gary gripped the chair arm and sat up. He reached for a cigarette and lit it. ‘Doctor’s orders.’

‘I’m sorry, Gary. I already know most of it. I just need him to fill me in on a few details.’

‘What do you know? What are you talking about?’

‘Caroline . . . your father.’

Gary sagged back into his chair. ‘Oh God,’ he whispered. ‘You know?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you can hardly imagine he’s going to tell you anything, can you? He’s asleep, anyway. Practically in a bloody coma.’

Banks stood up. ‘Stay with him, will you, Phil? Susan, come with me.’

Susan followed Banks upstairs. They both heard Gary cry ‘No!’ as they went.

‘This way, sir.’ Susan pointed to Mr Hartley’s door and Banks pushed it open.

If only Gary had turned off the electric fire, Banks thought later, the smell wouldn’t have been so bad. As it was, Susan put her hand over nose and mouth and staggered back, while Banks reached for a handkerchief. Neither advanced any further into the room. The old man lay back on his pillows, emaciated almost beyond recognition. Judging by the reddish discolouration of the veins in his scrawny neck, Banks guessed he had been dead at least two days. It would take an expert to fix the time more exactly than that, though, as there were many factors to take into consideration, not least among them his age, the state of his health and the warm temperature of the room.

‘Call the local CID,’ Banks told Susan, ‘and tell them to arrange for a police surgeon and a scene-of-crime team You know the drill.’

Susan hurried downstairs and went to phone while Banks gently closed the door and returned to the front room. Gary looked at him as he entered. The boy seemed drained of all emotion, tired beyond belief. Banks motioned for Richmond to stand by the window, where Gary couldn’t see him, then sat down close to Gary and leaned forward.

‘Want to tell me about it, son?’ he asked.

‘What’s to tell?’ Gary lit a new cigarette from the stub of his old one. His long fingers were stained yellow with nicotine around the nails.

‘You know.’ Banks pointed at the ceiling. ‘What happened?’

Gary shrugged. ‘Is he dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘I told you he was sick.’

‘How did he die, Gary?’

‘He had cancer.’

‘How long has he been dead?’

‘How should I know?’

‘Why didn’t you call a doctor?’

‘No point, was there?’

‘When did you last look in on him, take him some food?’

Gary sucked on his cigarette and looked away into the cold hearth, littered with butts and empty beer cans. Sweat formed on his pale brow.

‘When did you last go up and see him, Gary?’ Banks asked again.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Yesterday? The day before?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’m no expert, Gary, but I’d say you haven’t been up there for at least three days, have you?’

‘If you say so.’

‘Did you kill him?’

‘He was sick, getting worse.’

‘But did you kill him?’

‘I never touched him, if that’s what you mean. Never laid a finger on the old bastard. I couldn’t bear . . .’

Banks noticed the boy was crying. He had turned his head aside but it was shaking, and strange snuffling sounds came from between the fingers he had placed over his mouth and nose.

‘You deserted him. You left him up there to die. Is that what you did?’

Banks couldn’t be sure, but he thought Gary was nodding.

‘Why? For God’s sake why?’

‘You know,’ he said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand and turning to face Banks angrily. ‘You told me. You know all about it. What he did . . .’

‘For what he did to Caroline?’

‘You know it is.’

‘What about Caroline? Did you kill her too?’

‘Why should I do that?’

‘I’m asking. She tried to kill
you
once. Did you?’

Gary sighed and tossed his half-smoked cigarette into the grate. ‘I suppose so,’ he said wearily. ‘I don’t know. I think
he
did, but maybe we all did. Maybe this miserable bloody family killed her.’

By mid-afternoon the sun had disappeared behind smoke-coloured clouds and Banks had turned his desk lamp on. They sat in his office – Banks, Gary Hartley and Susan Gay – taking notes and waiting for a pot of coffee before getting started on the interrogation.

Gary, sitting in a hard-backed chair opposite Banks, looked frightened now. He wasn’t fidgeting or squirming, but his eyes were filled with a kind of resigned, mournful fear. Banks, still not completely sure what had gone on in that large, cold house, wanted him to relax and talk. Fresh, hot coffee might help.

While he waited, Banks glanced over the brief notes the forensic pathologist had made after his preliminary investigation of the scene. He’d estimated time of death at not less than two days and not more than three. For three days then, perhaps – since shortly after Banks’s and Richmond’s visit – the poor, frightened kid in front of them had sat in the cold ruin of a room, smoking and drinking, knowing the corpse of his father lay rotting upstairs in the heat of an electric fire. The doctor hadn’t called; he had no reason to as long as Mr Hartley had a full prescription of pain killers and someone to take care of his basic needs.

‘Rigor mortis disappeared . . . greenish discolouration of the abdomen,’ the report read, ‘reddish veins in neck, shoulders and thighs . . . no marbling as yet.’ The temperature would have speeded the process of decomposition considerably, Banks realized. Also, the air was dry, and some degree of mummification might have occurred if the old man had lain there much longer. Banks suspected that cause of death was starvation – Gary had simply left him to die – but it would be a while before more exact information about cause and time could be known. Older persons decompose more slowly than younger ones, and thin ones more slowly than fat ones. Bodies of diseased persons break down quickly. Stomach contents would have to be examined and inner organs checked for the degree of putrefaction.

All very interesting, Banks thought, but none of it really mattered if Gary Hartley confessed.

Finally, PC Tolliver arrived with the coffee and styrofoam cups. Susan poured Gary a cup and pushed the milk and sugar towards him. He didn’t acknowledge her. Banks walked over to the window and glanced out at the grey market square, then sat down to begin. He spoke quietly, intimately almost, to put the boy at ease.

‘Earlier, Gary, you seemed confused. You said you supposed that you had killed Caroline, then you told me you think your father killed her. Can you be a bit clearer about that?’

‘I’m not sure. I . . . I . . .’

‘Why not tell me about it, the night you killed her? Start at the beginning.’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Try. It’s important.’

Gary screwed up his eyes in concentration, but when he opened them, he shook his head. ‘It’s all dark. All dark inside. And it hurts.’

‘Where does it hurt, Gary?’

‘My head. My eyes. Everywhere.’ He covered his face with his hands and shuddered.

Banks let a few seconds pass, then asked, ‘How did you get to Eastvale?’

‘What?’

‘To Eastvale? Did you go by bus or train? Did you borrow a car?’

Gary shook his head. ‘I didn’t go to Eastvale. I wasn’t in Eastvale.’

‘Then how did you kill Caroline?’

‘I’ve told you, I don’t know.’ He hung his head in his hands. ‘I just don’t know.’

‘What happened to your father, Gary?’

‘He’s dead.’

‘How did he die? Did you kill him?’

‘No. I didn’t go near him.’

‘Did you stop going up to his room? Did you stop feeding him?’

‘I couldn’t go. Not after Caroline, not after I knew. I thought about it and I carried on for a while, but I couldn’t.’ He looked at Banks, his eyes pleading. ‘You must understand. I couldn’t. Not after she was dead.’

‘So you stopped tending to him?’

‘He killed her.’

‘But he couldn’t have, Gary. He was an invalid, bed-ridden. He couldn’t have gone to Eastvale and killed her.’

Suddenly, Gary banged the metal desk with his fist. Susan moved forward but Banks motioned her back.

‘I’ve told you it wasn’t in Eastvale!’ Gary yelled. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? Caroline didn’t die in Eastvale.’

‘But she did, Gary. Come on, you know that.’

He shook his head. ‘He killed her. And I killed her too.’

Susan looked up from her notes and frowned. ‘Tell me how he killed her,’ Banks asked.

‘I don’t know. I wasn’t there. But he did it like . . . like . . . Oh Christ, she was just a child . . . just a little child!’ And he put his head in his hands and sobbed, shaking all over.

Banks stood up and put a comforting arm over his shoulder. At first, Gary didn’t react, but then he yielded and buried his head in Banks’s chest. Banks held on to him tightly and stroked his hair, then when Gary’s grasp loosened, he extricated himself and returned to his chair. Now he thought he understood why Gary was talking the way he was. Now he knew what had happened. Now he understood the Hartley family. But he still had no idea who had killed Caroline Hartley, and why.

When Susan Gay got to the Crooked Billet at six o’clock, James Conran wasn’t there. Casting around for a suitable place to sit, she caught the eye of Marcia Cunningham, the costumes manager, who beckoned her over. Marcia seemed to be sitting with someone, but a group of drinkers blocked Susan’s view.

Susan elbowed her way through the after-work crowd, loosening her overcoat as she went. It was cold outside, and enough snow had fallen to speckle her shoulders, but in the pub it was warm. She took off her green woolly gloves and slipped them in her pocket, then, when she reached Marcia, removed her coat and hung it on a peg by the bar. She noted that the buttons of the pink cardigan Marcia was wearing were incorrectly fastened, making the thing look askew.

‘They’ve not finished yet,’ Marcia said. ‘What with it being so close to first night, or should I say
twelfth
night, James thought an extra half hour might be in order Especially with the new Maria. They didn’t need me, so he asked me to pass on his apologies if I saw you. He’ll be in a little later.’

‘Thank you.’ Susan smoothed her skirt and sat down.

‘How rude of me,’ Marcia said, indicating the woman beside her. ‘Susan Gay, this is Sandra Banks.’ Then she put her hand to her mouth. ‘Silly me, I’m forgetting you probably know each other already.’