Past Reason Hated (33 page)

Susan certainly recognized Sandra. With her looks, she would be hard to miss – that determined mouth, lively blue eyes, long blonde hair and dark eyebrows. She possessed a natural elegance. Susan had always envied her and felt awkward and dowdy when she was around.

‘Yes,’ Susan said, ‘we’ve met once or twice. Good evening, Mrs Banks.’

‘Please, call me Sandra.’

‘Sandra was just finishing up some work in the gallery so I popped in and asked if she’d like a drink.’

Susan noticed that their glasses were empty and offered to get a round. When she came back, there was still no sign of James or the others. She didn’t know how she was going to maintain small talk with Sandra Banks for the next twenty minutes or so, especially after the emotional scene she had just witnessed between Banks and Gary Hartley. She felt embarrassed. Strong emotion always made her feel that way, and when Banks had hugged the boy close she had had to avert her gaze. But she had seen her boss’s expression over the back of the boy’s head. It hadn’t given much away, but she had noticed compassion in his eyes and she knew from the set of his lips that he shared the boy’s pain.

Luckily, Marcia saved her. In appearance rather like one of those plump, ruddy-cheeked characters one sees in illustrations of Dickens novels, she had an ebullient manner to match.

‘Any closer to catching those vandals?’ she asked.

Conscious of Sandra watching her, Susan said, ‘Not yet, I’m afraid. A couple of kids did some damage to a youth club in the north end and we think it’s the same ones. We’ve got our eye on them.’

‘Do you think you’ll ever catch them?’

Susan caught Sandra smiling at the question and could hardly keep herself from doing the same. Her discomfort waned slightly. Instead of feeling resentful, under scrutiny, she was beginning to feel more as if she had an ally. Sandra had been through it all, knew what it was like to be police in the public eye. But Susan knew she would still have to be cautious. Sandra was, after all, the detective chief inspector’s wife, and if Susan made any blunders they would certainly be passed on to Banks.

‘Hard to say,’ she replied. ‘We’ve got a couple of leads and several likely candidates. That’s about all.’

What she hadn’t said was that they had at least found a pattern to the kind of places the kids liked to wreck. Most of them were community centres of some kind, never private establishments like cinemas or pubs. As there was a limited number of such social clubs in Eastvale, extra men had been posted on guard. Their instructions were to lie low, blend in and catch the kids in the act, rather than stand as sentries and scare them off. Soon they might put a stop to the trail of vandalism that had cost the town a fortune over the past few months.

‘It was such a mess,’ Marcia said, shaking her head. ‘All those costumes, ruined. I almost sat down and cried. Anyway, I took them home and now I’ve a bit of time I’m sorting through the remnants to see if I can’t resurrect some. I’ve put a couple together already. I hate waste.’

‘That sounds a hell of a job,’ said Sandra. ‘I don’t think I could face it.’

‘Oh, I love sewing, fixing things, making things. It makes me feel useful. And I see what I’ve done at the end. Job satisfaction, I suppose, though it’s a pity there’s no pay to match.’

Sandra laughed. ‘I’d offer to help but I’ve got two left thumbs when it comes to sewing. I can’t even get the bloody thread through the needle. Poor Alan has to sew his own buttons on.’

Susan tried to imagine Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks sewing buttons on a shirt, but she couldn’t.

‘It’s all right,’ Marcia said. ‘Keeps me out of mischief these cold winter evenings. Since Frank’s been gone I find I need to do more and more to occupy myself.’

‘Marcia’s husband died six months ago,’ Sandra explained to Susan.

‘Aye,’ said Marcia. ‘Just like that, he went. Good as new one moment, then, bang, curtains. And never had a day’s illness in his life. Didn’t drink and gave up his pipe years ago. Only sixty, he was.’

Susan shook her head. ‘It does seem unfair.’

‘Whoever told us life would be fair, love? Nobody did, that’s who. Anyway, enough of that. Walking out with Mr Conran are you?’

Susan felt herself blushing. ‘Well I . . . I . . .’

‘I know,’ Marcia went on. ‘It’s none of my business. Tell me to shut up if you want. I’m just an old busybody, that’s all.’

Now Susan couldn’t help laughing. ‘We’ve been out to dinner a couple of times, and to the pictures. That’s all.’

Marcia nodded. ‘I wasn’t probing into your sex life, lass, just curious, that’s all. What’s he like when he’s out of his director’s hat?’

‘He makes me laugh.’

‘There’s a few in that theatre over there could do with a laugh or two.’

Susan leaned forward. ‘Marcia, you know that girl who was killed, Caroline Hartley? Was there really anything between her and James?’

‘Not that I know of, love,’ Marcia answered. ‘Just larked around, that’s all. Besides, she was one of
them,
wasn’t she? Not that I . . . well, you know what I mean.’

‘Yes, but James didn’t know that. None of you did.’

‘Still,’ Marcia insisted, ‘nothing to it as far as I could see. Oh, he had his eye on her all right. What man wouldn’t? Maybe not your
Playboy
material, but dangerous as dynamite nonetheless.’

‘What makes you say that?’ Sandra chipped in.

‘I don’t really know. Maybe it’s hindsight. I just get feelings about people sometimes, and I knew from the start that one was trouble. Still, it looks as if she meant trouble for herself mostly, doesn’t it?’

‘Is James Conran a suspect?’ Sandra asked.

‘Your husband seems to think so,’ Susan said. ‘But everyone who had anything to do with Caroline Hartley is a suspect.’

‘Aren’t you worried about getting involved with him?’ Sandra asked.

‘A bit, I suppose. I mean, not that I think James is guilty of anything, just that being involved might blur my objectivity. It’s an awkward position to be in, that’s all. Besides,’ she laughed, ‘he’s my old teacher. It feels strange to be having dinner with him. I like him, but I’m keeping him at arm’s length. At least until this business is over.’

‘Good for you,’ Sandra said.

‘Anyway, I don’t see as it should matter. The chief inspector went off to London with Veronica Shildon, and I’d say she’s a prime suspect.’ Susan realized too late what she had implied, and wondered if an attempt to backtrack and make her meaning clear would only make things worse.

All Sandra said was, ‘I’m sure Alan knows what he’s doing.’ And Susan could have sworn she noticed a ghost of a smile on her face.

‘I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to imply . . . just . . .

‘It’s all right,’ Sandra said. ‘I just wanted to point out that what he’s doing isn’t the same. I’m not criticizing you.

‘I don’t suppose I understand his methods yet.’

‘I’m not sure I do, either.’ Sandra laughed.

Suddenly, Susan’s world turned pitch black. She felt a light pressure on her brow and cheeks and she could no longer see Sandra and Marcia. The bustling pub seemed to fall silent, then a voice whispered in her ear, ‘Guess who?’

‘James,’ she said, and her vision was restored.

Banks felt unusually tired when he got home about eight o’clock that evening. The paperwork was done, and Gary Hartley had been sent back to Harrogate to face whatever charges could be made.

Sandra had just got home herself, and both children were out. Over a dinner of left-over chicken casserole, Sandra told him about her evening with Susan and Marcia. In turn, Banks tried to explain Gary Hartley to her.

‘He’d always hated Caroline, all his life. She was the bane of his existence. She used to tease him, torment him, torture him, and he never had any idea why. She even tried to drown him once. To cap it all, she left home and he got lumbered with looking after his invalid father, who made it perfectly clear that he still preferred Caroline. When you look at it like that, it’s not a bad motive for murder, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Did he do it?’ Sandra asked.

Banks shook his head. ‘No. Not literally. When she told him what had happened when her mother had been in hospital having him, he suddenly realized why she hated him. She wanted to apologize, make up even, if she could. But Gary’s sensitive. It’s not something you can really work out in your mind. Christ, most people don’t even talk about it. And Caroline had blanked out the memory for years. It was always there, though, under the surface, shoving and cracking the crust. Gary just reacted emotionally. He was overwhelmed by what she said, and suddenly his whole world was turned upside-down. All his anger had been pointed in the wrong direction – at her – for so long.’

‘He killed his father?’

‘He sat in his room downstairs and let the old man starve to death.’

Sandra shivered. ‘Good God!’

She was right to be so appalled, Banks thought. It was an act of utmost cruelty, the kind for which a public ignorant of the facts might demand a return of the noose. But still, he couldn’t forget Gary’s pain and confusion; he couldn’t help but feel pity for the boy, no matter what atrocity he had committed. He gave Sandra the gist of their discussion.

‘I can see what he meant when he said her father had killed her,’ she said, ‘but why implicate himself too? You said he didn’t do it.’

‘But he blamed himself – for being born, if you like After all, that’s when it started. That’s when Caroline was left alone with her father. He couldn’t give us any concrete details of the crime because he hadn’t done it. But in his mind he was responsible. All he could say was that it was all dark to him. Dark and painful.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Sandra said, frowning.

‘I think he was describing being born,’ Banks said ‘Dark. Dark and painful.’

‘My God. And you said Caroline tried to drown him, too?’

‘Yes. He was about four and she was twelve. He can’t remember the details clearly, of course, and there’s no one else alive to tell what happened, but he thinks his mother left him for a moment to fetch some clean towels. She left the bathroom door open and Caroline walked in. He said he remembers how she pulled his feet and his head went under the water. The next thing he knew, he was up again in his mother’s arms gasping for air and Caroline was gone. Nobody ever spoke about it afterwards.’

‘He must have been terrified of her.’

‘He was. And he didn’t know why she was treating him that way. She didn’t know, either. He turned in on himself to shut it all out.’

‘Is he insane?’ Sandra asked.

‘Not for me to say. He’s in need of help, certainly. Just imagine the hatred of all those years boiling over, finding its true object at last. All the humiliation. His own life ruined, knowing he was only second-best to his sister. The only wonder is he didn’t do it sooner. It took Caroline’s murder and the truth about her childhood to set him free.’

Banks remembered the slouching figure that had shuffled out of his office after telling everything. He would be under care in Harrogate now, perhaps going through the whole story again at the hands of less sympathetic interrogators. After all, look at what he’d done. But Gary Hartley wouldn’t be hanged. He wouldn’t even be sent to jail. He would first be bound over for psychiatric evaluation, then he might well spend a good part of his life in mental institutions. Which was better? It was impossible for Banks to decide. Gary’s life was blighted, just as his sister’s had been, though, unlike Caroline, Gary hadn’t even managed to snatch his few moments of happiness.

‘Then who
did
kill Caroline Hartley?’ Sandra asked.

Banks scratched his head. ‘I’m buggered if I know. I’m pretty sure we can rule out Gary now, and her friends in London. When Caroline moved on, she always seemed to burn her bridges.’

‘Which leaves?’

‘Well, unless we’re dealing with a psycho, we’re back to the locals. Ivers and his girlfriend aren’t home-free yet, whatever they told us. They lied to us at the start, and Patsy Janowski has a good motive for corroborating everything Ivers might claim. She loves the man and wants to hang on to him. And then there’s the amateur crowd. I’ve been intending to have another talk with Teresa Podmore.’

‘And Veronica Shildon?’ Sandra asked. ‘Susan Gay seems to think you’ve been overlooking her.’

‘Susan’s prejudiced.’

‘Are you sure you’re not?’

Banks stared at her. ‘Don’t you know me better than that?’

‘Just asking.’

He shook his head. ‘Officially she’s a suspect, of course, but Veronica Shildon didn’t do it. I must be overlooking something.’

‘Any idea what?’

Banks brought his fist up slowly to his temple. ‘Damned if I know.’ Then he stood up. ‘Hell, it’s been a rough day. I’m having a stiff Scotch then I’m off to bed.’ He poured the drink and went into the hall to his jacket. When he came back he said, ‘And I’m having a bloody cigarette as well, house rule or no house rule.’

The wind numbed
Banks to the marrow when he got out of his car near the Lobster Inn the following afternoon. It was 3 January – only three days to twelfth night. The sky was a pale eggshell blue, with a few wispy grey clouds twisting over the horizon like strips of gauze. But the sun had no warmth in it. The wind kicked up little white caps as it danced over the ruffled water and slid up the rough sea wall right onto the front. Banks dashed into the pub.

There already, ensconced in front of the meagre fire, sat Detective Sergeant Jim Hatchley, pint in one ham-like hand and a huge, foul-smelling cigar smouldering between two sausage-shaped fingers of the other. Banks thought he had put on weight; his bulk seemed to loom larger than ever. The sergeant shifted in his seat when Banks came over and sat opposite him.

‘Miserable old bugger saves all his coal till evening,’ he said, by way of greeting, gesturing over at the landlord who sat on a high stool behind the bar reading a tabloid. Bigger crowd then, you see.’

Banks nodded. ‘How’s married life treating you?’

‘Can’t complain. She’s a good lass. I could do without being at the bloody seaside in winter, though. Plays havoc with my rheumatism.’