Past Reason Hated

involved.’

‘She did join you for drinks after rehearsals sometimes, didn’t she?’

‘Yes, usually. But you can hardly get to know somebody in a group situation like that.’

‘Who did she talk to?’

‘Everyone, really.’

‘How did she behave?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Was she comfortable with the group?’

‘As far as I could tell.’

‘Did you know she was a lesbian?’ Banks asked.

‘Caroline?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Do you have evidence to the contrary?’

‘Of course not,’ Conran snapped. ‘Stop twisting everything I say. What I mean is I’m surprised. She…’

‘She what?’

‘Well, you don’t expect things like that, do you? She seemed quite normal to me.’

‘Heterosexual?’

Conran looked at Susan as if pleading for support. ‘You’re doing it again. I’ve no knowledge of her sex life at all. All I’m saying is she seemed normal to me.’

‘So she didn’t tell you anything about her private life?’

‘No. She kept herself to herself. I knew nothing at all about what she did when she left the hall or the pub.’

‘Oh, come on! Surely some of the men in the cast must have tried it on with her. Maybe you even tried yourself Who wouldn’t? How did she respond?’

‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘It’s obvious enough. Was she cold, polite, friendly, rude…?’

‘Oh, I see. Well, no, she certainly wasn’t cold. She’d joke and flirt like the rest, I suppose. It’s not something I actually thought about. She was always friendly and cheerful, or so it seemed to me.’

‘Terrible waste, don’t you think? A beautiful woman like that, and no man stood a chance with her.’

Conran glanced down into his mug and muttered, ‘It takes all sorts, Chief Inspector.’

‘Who did she usually sit next to?’

‘It varied.’

‘Did you notice anything at all that hinted at a more than superficial relationship with anyone in the cast, male or female?’

‘No.’

Banks sipped some tea and leaned back in his chair. ‘In a close group like that, you must get all sorts of pressures. I’ve heard that actors sometimes have very fragile egos. Did you get many tantrums or rows? Any professional jealousies?’

‘Only over petty matters,’ Conran said, ‘like you’d get in any team situation. As I said, we’re in it for pleasure, not ambition or fame.’

‘”Petty matters”? Can you be a bit more specific?’

‘I honestly can’t remember any examples.’

‘Anything involving Caroline Hartley?’

He shook his head.

‘Was there any special reason why Caroline didn’t join you all for a drink after rehearsal on December twenty-second?’

‘Nobody went to the pub that evening. We didn’t always go, you know. It was a very casual thing.’

‘But you went?’

‘Yes. Alone. I wanted to mull over the rehearsal. I seem to be able to think better about things like that when there’s a bit of noise and festive activity around me.’

‘Drink much?’

‘A bit. I wasn’t drunk, if that’s what you mean?’

‘Had anything odd happened between four and six? Any fights, threats, arguments?’

‘There was nothing unusual, no. Everybody was tired, that’s all. Or they had shopping to do. Surely you can’t think one of the cast-’

‘Right now, I’m keeping an open mind.’ Banks put down his mug. ‘Why did you give up teaching, Mr Conran?’

If Conran was surprised by the abrupt change in questioning, he didn’t show it. ‘I’d always wanted to write. As soon as I had a little success I decided to burn my bridges. Much as I enjoyed it, teaching made too many demands on my time and energy.’

‘How do you make your living now? Surely not from the Eastvale Amateur Dramatic Society?’

‘Good Lord, no! That’s just a hobby, really. I work as a freelance writer. I’ve also had a few plays produced on television, some radio work.’

Banks looked around the room again. ‘Don’t you even watch your own work?’

Conran laughed. ‘I do have a television, as a matter of fact. I don’t watch it very often so I keep it upstairs in the spare room. One of the advantages of being a bachelor. Plenty of space.’

‘Are you working on anything right now?’

Conran beamed and sat forward, hands clasped in his lap. ‘As a matter of fact, I am. I’ve just got this wonderful commission from the BBC to dramatize John Cowper Powys’s novel, Weymouth Sands. It’ll be a hard task, very hard, but it pays well, and it’s an honour to be involved. I’m not the only writer in the project, of course, but still…’

‘You’re a long way from Weymouth,’ Banks remarked ‘Come from down there?’

‘Little Cheney, actually. You won’t have heard of it. It’s a small village in Dorset.’

‘I thought I could spot a trace of that Hardy country burr. Well, Mr Conran, sorry to have bothered you on Christmas Eve. Hope we haven’t kept you from your family.’

‘I have no family,’ Conran said, ‘and you haven’t kept me from anything, no.’ He stood up and shook hands, then helped Susan on with her coat.

Back outside at the car, Banks turned to Susan and said, ‘Do you know, I think he fancies you.’

Susan blushed. ‘He probably fancies anything in a skirt.’

‘You could be right. He seemed a bit edgy, didn’t he? I wonder if there’s more to this dramatic society than meets the eye? You know the kind of thing, fiery passions lurking beneath the surface of dull suburban life.’

Susan laughed. ‘Could be,’ she said. ‘Or perhaps he’s just shaken up.’

‘And did I miss something,’ Banks said, ‘or did he tell us nothing at all?’

‘He told us nothing,’ Susan agreed. ‘But I certainly got the impression he knew much more than he let on.’

Banks opened the car door. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I think he did, didn’t he. That’s the trouble with cases like this. Everybody’s got something to hide.’

TWO

On Christmas Eve at four o’clock the Queen’s Arms was packed. Businessmen, off work early for the holidays, loosened their ties, smoked cigars and laughed themselves red in the face at dirty jokes; friends met for a last few drinks before parting to spend the holidays with their families; groups of female office workers drank brightly coloured concoctions and laughed about the way the mail-room boy’s hands had roamed during the office party. A large proportion of the Eastvale police force, denied their favourite spot by the fire, had pulled together two round tables with dimpled copper tops and cast-iron legs for their own party. It was a movable feast; men nipped over from the station for a quick one, then returned to cover for others. Even Fred Rowe managed to drop by for a couple of pints while young Tolliver took over the front desk. The only real continuity was provided by the CID – Gristhorpe, Banks, Richmond and Susan Gay – who had managed to hang on to their chairs amidst the chaos around them.

Everyone seemed to be having a good time. The atmosphere was cheery with its blazing fire and green and red decorations. The only thing Banks found objectionable, especially after a couple of pints, was the music that Cyril, the landlord, had piped in for the occasion. It sounded like airport-music versions of Christmas carols Gristhorpe didn’t seem to mind, but he was tone-deaf.

After the visit to Conran’s, they had achieved very little that day, and nothing more would be achieved by working longer. By mid-afternoon it had been almost impossible to reach anyone on the phone. If you did happen to be lucky enough, all you got for your trouble was a drunken babble in the earpiece. Police work may never stop completely, but it does slow down at times. The only coppers working harder than ever now would be the road patrols chasing after drunken drivers.

Richmond had talked to Caroline’s staff at the Garden Cafe, but found out nothing more about her. No, they had never suspected she might be a lesbian; she had kept her private life to herself, just as Conran had said. She was cheerful and friendly, yes, good with customers, but a closed book when it came to her personal life. She never talked about boyfriends or shared her problems, as some of the other women did.

Richmond had also dropped in on Christine Cooper and taken her through her story again. The details matched word for word. He had first taken the initiative of phoning his mother and asking her what had happened on the 22 December broadcasts of Emmerdale Farm and Coronation Street. Passing himself off as a fan who had missed his favourite programmes, he asked Christine Cooper to give him a blow by blow description of them, which she did. That accounted for her whereabouts between seven and eight o’clock. Caroline Hartley had last been seen alive around seven-twenty, answering the door to a female visitor. Unless Christine Cooper had nipped out during the commercials and stabbed her with the handy kitchen knife, or unless she was such a cunning killer she had videotaped the television programmes in case someone asked about them, then it looked as if she was out of the running. So far, Richmond had not been