Past Reason Hated (14 page)

Susan nodded. ‘Do you think we should bring her in to the station and press her a bit harder? I’m sure she knows something. Maybe if we kept her for a while, wore down her resistance . . .?’

Banks looked at Susan and saw a smart young woman with earnest blue eyes, tight blonde curls and a slightly snub nose gazing back at him. Good as she is, he thought, she’s got a long way to go yet.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It won’t do any good. She’s not holding back for reasons of guilt. It’s a matter of pride and privacy with her. You might break her, given time, but you’d have to strip her of her dignity to do so, and she doesn’t deserve that.’

Whether Susan understood or not, Banks didn’t really know. She nodded slowly, a puzzled look clouded her eyes, then she shoved her hands deep in the pockets of her navy-blue coat and marched up King Street beside him. The crusted ice crackled and creaked under their winter boots.

There were certainly no dressing rooms at the community centre, not even for the lead players; nor were there any lockers. Susan wondered how they would manage when the play opened and they had to wear costumes and make-up. As she nosed around idly, she reflected on her Christmas.

On Christmas morning she had weakened and considered going to Sheffield, but in the end she had phoned and said she couldn’t make it because of an important murder investigation. ‘A murder?’ her mother had echoed. ‘How lurid. Well, dear, if you insist.’ And that was that. She had spent the day studying and watching the old musicals on television. But at least, she remembered with a smile, she had been on time on Christmas Eve to buy a small tree and a few decorations. At least she had made the flat look a bit more like a home, even if there were still a few things missing.

There was not much else they could do about identifying the three visitors Caroline Hartley had received on the evening of her death until they had more information about the record and the woman in the photograph. They wouldn’t get that until the shops and businesses were back into the swing of things again in a day or two. Banks had suggested a second visit to Harrogate for the following day, and though Susan was hardly looking forward to that, she was interested in what Banks would make of the set-up there.

Susan wasn’t sure about Veronica Shildon at all, especially now that she had met her. The woman was too stiff and thin-lipped – the kind one could imagine teaching in an exclusive girls’ school – and her posh accent and prissy mannerisms stuck in her craw. The idea of the two women in bed together made Susan’s flesh crawl.

As she poked around, looking for anything that might have been connected with Caroline, she thought she heard a noise down the hallway. It could have come from anywhere. The backstage area, she had quickly discovered, was a warren of store rooms and cubby-holes. Slowly, she walked towards the stage entrance and peeked through a fire door. The lights were on in the auditorium, which seemed odd, but it was silent and she saw no one. Puzzled, she went to the props room.

Marcia had scrubbed the graffiti from the walls, Susan noticed, leaving only garish smears in places. The trunk of tattered costumes had gone. It was a shame about the vandals, she thought, but there was nothing, really, she could do. As she had told Conran and Marcia, the police had a good idea who the culprits were, but they didn’t have the manpower to put a round the clock watch on them and could hardly arrest them with no evidence at all. PCs Tolliver and Bradley had had a word with the suspected ringleaders, but the kids were so cool and arrogant they had given nothing away.

Again, Susan thought she heard a noise like something being dragged across a wood floor. She stood still and listened. It stopped, and all she could hear was her own heart beating. Not even a mouse stirred. She shrugged and went on poking about the room. It was no use. She would pick up nothing about Caroline Hartley here by osmosis.

The door creaked open slowly behind her. She turned, ready to defend herself, and saw a uniformed policeman silhouetted in the doorway. What the hell? As far as she knew, they hadn’t put a guard inside the place. She couldn’t make out who it was; his helmet was too low over his brow and its strap covered his chin. The light behind her in the store room was too dim to be much help.

He stood with his hands clasped behind his back and bent his knees. ‘Hello, hello, hello! What have we here?’

It was an assumed voice, she could tell that. Pretentiously deep and portentous. For a moment she didn’t know what to do or say. Then he walked into the room and closed the door.

‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘I shall have to ask you to accompany me to the Crooked Billet for a drink, and if you don’t come clean there, we’ll proceed to Mario’s for dinner.’

Susan squinted in the poor light and saw that under the ridiculous helmet stood James Conran himself. Out of angry relief, she said, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, taking off the helmet. ‘Couldn’t resist playing a little joke. I saw you when you peeked into the auditorium. I’d just dropped by to check out some blocking angles from the floor.’

‘But the uniform,’ Susan said. ‘I thought the costumes had all been destroyed.’

‘This? I found it under the stage with a lot more old stuff. Been there for years. I suppose our previous incarnation must have left it all behind.’

Susan laughed. ‘Do you always dress the part when you ask someone out to dinner?’

Conran smiled shyly. ‘I’m not the most direct or confident person in the world,’ he said, unbuttoning the high-collared police jacket. ‘Especially when I’m talking to an ex-pupil. You may be grown-up now, but you weren’t the last time I saw you. Maybe I need a mask to hide behind. But I did mean what I said. Would you consider at least having a drink with me?’

‘I don’t know.’ Susan had nothing to do, nowhere to go but home, but she felt she couldn’t just say yes. It was partly because he made her feel like that sixteen-year-old schoolgirl with a crush on the teacher again, and partly because he was connected, albeit peripherally, with a case she was working on.

‘I think I should arrest you for impersonating a police officer,’ she said.

He looked disappointed, and a faint flush touched his cheeks. ‘At least grant the condemned man his last wish, then. Surely you can’t be so cruel?’

Still Susan deliberated. She wanted to say yes, but she felt as if a great stone had lodged in her chest and wouldn’t let out the air to form the words.

‘Some other time, perhaps, then?’ Conran said. ‘When you’re not so busy.’

‘Oh, come on,’ Susan said, laughing. ‘I’ve got time for a quick one at the Crooked Billet at least.’ To hell with it, she thought. Why not? It was about time she had some fun.

He brightened. ‘Good. Just a minute then. Let me change back into my civvies.’

‘One thing first,’ Susan said. ‘Did Caroline or any of the cast keep any of their private things here? I can’t seem to find any lockers or changing areas.’

‘We just have to make do with what we have,’ Conran said. ‘It’s all right at the moment, but at dress rehearsal and after . . . well, we’ll see what we can do about some of those little cubby-holes off the main corridor.’

‘So there’s not likely to be anything?’

‘Afraid not. If people brought their handbags or briefcases to rehearsal, we just left them in here while we were on stage. The back door was locked, so nobody could sneak in and steal anything. Don’t go away,’ he said, and backed out of the room.

Susan put her hand over her mouth and laughed when he had gone. How shy and clumsy he seemed. But he did have charm and a sense of humour.

‘Right,’ he said, peeping around the door a couple of minutes later. ‘Ready.’

They left the community centre by the back door, locked up and made their way down the alley to York Road. There, midway between the bus station and the preRoman site, stood the Crooked Billet. Luckily it wasn’t too busy. They found a table by a whitewashed wall adorned with military emblems, and Conran went to fetch the drinks.

Susan watched him. His shirt hung out of the back of his trousers, under his sweater, he had rather round shoulders and his hair could have done with a trim at the back. Apart from that he was presentable enough. Slim, though more from lack of proper diet than exercise, she guessed; tall, and if not straight at least endearingly stooped. Very artistic, really. His eyes, she noticed as he came back, were two slightly different shades of blue-grey, one paler than the other. Funny, she had never noticed that at school.

‘Here,’ he said, putting a half of mild in front of her and holding out his pint. ‘Cheers.’ They clinked glasses.

‘How’s the investigation going?’ he asked.

Susan told him there was nothing to report on the vandalism. ‘I’m sorry about Caroline Hartley,’ she went on. ‘I noticed how upset you were when the Chief Inspector mentioned her death.’

Conran looked down and swirled the beer in his glass. ‘Yes. As I told you on Christmas Eve, I can’t say we were great friends. This was her first role with the company. I hadn’t known her very long. Obviously, I didn’t know her at all, really. But she was a joy to have around. Such childlike enthusiasm. And what talent! Untrained, but very talented. We’ve lost an important member of the cast. Not that that’s why I was upset. A Maria can easily be replaced.’

‘But not a Caroline Hartley?’

He shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Are you sure you weren’t in love with her?’

Conran started as if he’d been stung. ‘What? What on earth makes you ask that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Susan said. And she didn’t. The question had just risen, unbidden, to her lips. ‘Just that everyone says she was so attractive. After all, you are a bachelor, aren’t you?’

He smiled. ‘Yes. I’m sorry. It’s just that, well, here we are, having a drink together for the first time – our first date, so to speak – and you ask me if I was in love with another woman. Don’t you think that’s a bit odd?’

‘Maybe. But were you?’

Conran smiled from the corner of his mouth and looked at her. ‘You’re very persistent. I’d guess that’s something to do with your job. One day you must tell me all about it, all about your last ten years, why you joined the police.’

‘And the answer to my question?’

He held his hands out, as if for handcuffs, and said in a Cockney voice, ‘All right, all right, guv! Enough’s enough! I’ll come clean.’

The people at the next table looked over. Susan felt embarrassed, but she couldn’t help smiling. She leaned forward and put her elbows on the table. ‘Well?’ she whispered.

‘I suppose every man’s a little bit in love with every beautiful woman,’ Conran said quietly.

Susan blushed and reached for her drink. She didn’t consider herself beautiful, but did he mean to imply that she was? ‘That’s a very evasive answer,’ she said. ‘And besides, it sounds like a quote.’

Conran grinned. ‘But it’s true, isn’t it? Depending on one’s sexual preference, I suppose.’

‘I think it’s disgusting, the way she lived,’ Susan said. It’s abnormal. Not that I mean to speak ill of the dead,’ she blustered on, reddening, ‘but the thought of it gives me the creeps.’

‘Well, that was her business,’ Conran said.

‘But don’t you think it’s perverted?’

‘I can think of worse things to be.’

‘I suppose so,’ Susan said, feeling she’d let too much out. What was wrong with her? She had been so hesitant about going out with him in the first place, and now here she was, exposing her fears. And to him, of all people. Surely, being in the arts, he must have come across all kinds of perverts. But she hadn’t been able to help herself. The image of the two women in bed together still tormented her. And it was especially vivid as she had just come from talking to the cool, elegant Veronica Shildon. Slow down, Susan, she warned herself.

‘Do you have any idea who the killer is?’ Conran asked. Susan shook her head.

‘And what about your boss?’

‘I’m never sure I know what he thinks,’ Susan said. She laughed. ‘He’s an odd one is Chief Inspector Banks. I sometimes wonder how he gets the job done at all. He likes to take his time, and he seems so sensitive to other people and their feelings. Even criminals, I’ll bet.’ She finished her drink.

‘You make him sound like a wimp,’ Conran said, ‘but I doubt very much that he is.’

‘Oh no, he’s not a wimp. He’s . . .’

‘Sympathetic?’

‘More like empathetic, compassionate. It’s hard to explain. It doesn’t stop him from wanting to see criminals punished. He can be tough, even cruel, if he has to be. I just get the impression he’d rather do things in the gentlest way.’

‘You’re more of a pragmatist, are you?’

Susan wasn’t sure if he was making fun of her or not. It was the same feeling she often had with Philip Richmond. Her eyes narrowed. ‘I believe in getting the job done, yes. Emotions can get in the way if you let them.’

‘And you wouldn’t?’

‘I’d try not to.’

‘Another drink?’ Conran asked.

‘Go on, then,’ she said. ‘On two conditions.’

‘What are they?’

‘One, I’m buying. Two, no more shop talk. From either of us.’

Conran laughed. ‘It’s a deal.’

Susan picked up her handbag and went to the bar.

I’ve told you,’ Detective Sergeant Jim Hatchley said to his new wife. ‘It’s not exactly
work.
You ought to know me better than that, lass. Look at it as a night out.’

‘But what if I didn’t want a night out?’ Carol argued.

‘I’m buying,’ Hatchley announced, as if that was the end of it.

Carol sighed and opened the door. They were in the carpark at the back of the Lobster Inn, Redburn, about fifteen miles up the coast from their new home in Saltby Bay. The wind from the sea felt as icy as if it had come straight from the Arctic. The night was clear, the stars like bright chips of ice, and beyond the welcoming lights of the pub they could hear the wild crashing and rumbling of the sea. Carol shivered and pulled her scarf tight around her throat as they ran towards the back door.

Inside, the place was as cosy as could be. Christmas decorations hung from beams that looked like pieces of driftwood, smoothed and worn by years of exposure to the sea. The murmur of conversations and the hissing of pumps as pints were pulled were music to Hatchley’s ears. Even Carol, he noticed, seemed to mellow a bit once they’d got a drink and a nice corner table.