Past Reason Hated

able to satisfy himself about her husband’s alibi, but he planned to pay a visit to Barnard Castle after Christmas, when the shop reopened.

The only new fact he had discovered, via the PNC, was that Caroline Hartley had been arrested for soliciting in London five years ago. That seemed to back up what her brother, Gary, had said about her life there, but it still left a lot unsaid. Had Gary actually known what she was doing, or had he made an inspired guess? Both he and Caroline’s father said that Caroline had never contacted them during her time in London. Were they lying? If so, why?

For the moment, though, the festive season chased away day to day concerns. Even Susan Gay was knocking back the Old Peculiar and chatting with the others more easily than she usually did.

‘What are you doing over the holidays?’ Banks asked her over the racket.

‘Going home.’

‘Because if you’re stuck for somewhere,’ he went on, ‘you can always join us for Christmas dinner. I know you don’t get enough time off to really go anywhere.’

‘Thanks,’ Susan said, ‘but it’s all right. Sheffield’s not that far.’

Banks nodded. Richmond, he knew, would be spending the day with his family in town. Gristhorpe was coming to the Banks’s this year. For their first two Christmases up north, Banks and his family had gone out to his farmhouse where Mrs Hawkins, the woman ‘what did for him’, had done them proud. This year, however, Mrs Hawkins and her husband had been invited to their daughter’s in Cambridge. It would be the first Christmas away for them, but as the daughter had recently borne them a grandchild, they could hardly refuse. Gristhorpe had played hard to get at first, but had succumbed without too much of a fight at Banks’s third invitation. Banks suspected that it was actually Sandra’s telling Gristhorpe that the house was now a ‘smoke-free environment’ that had finally tipped the balance.

At five o’clock, Banks decided it was time to leave. He had had three pints of Theakston’s bitter, just about the right amount to work up an appetite. Sandra would be expecting him for dinner. He was due to help with the big meal tomorrow – mostly the dull stuff, he imagined, chopping vegetables and setting the table, as his cooking skills were limited – but tonight was Sandra’s treat.

He said his goodbyes and wandered out into the snow, which had been falling on and off all day. Opposite, the blue lamp outside the police station shed its avuncular light. Banks didn’t know why he hated it so much, but he did. It was phoney, a kind of cheap nostalgia for a time when things were simpler – or at least we fooled ourselves into believing they were simpler – when the goodies wore white and the baddies wore black. Maybe it really had been like that, but Banks doubted it. Certainly nothing could ever have been simple for the Caroline Hartleys and Veronica Shildons of this world.

Anyway, he told himself, no more gloomy thoughts. He stuck on his headphones and fiddled with the Walkman in his pocket. The music he’d chosen was his own tribute to the season: Benjamin Britten’s A Ceremony of Carols. It was difficult, though, to put the case out of his mind: not the investigation, the details or the leads, but the sheer fact of Caroline Hartley’s brutal murder. Even at the pub he had felt at times like a spectator, watching everyone celebrate, but was held back from joining in by what he had seen at number eleven Oakwood Mews. Still, it was Christmas Eve and he had to make an effort to be jolly for his family’s sake.

The snow was crisp and squeaky. At last Eastvale had the white Christmas it had been screaming for during the past three or four rainy ones. Coloured lights winked on and off in windows, and Banks felt for a moment that fleeting sense of peace and relaxation in the air that seems to arise and flourish briefly when the commercial fervour of the season begins to abate.

He remembered his own childhood Christmases: the sleepless nights before the big day; the early mornings opening presents; the disappointment the year his parents hadn’t been able to buy him the bicycle he wanted because his father was out of work; the joy two years later when he got an even better one than he had expected.

At home, the decorations were up, the lights were on and the children were brimming with excitement and curiosity about their presents. At least Tracy was. Brian, being seventeen, was much more cool about the whole thing.

‘No, you can’t open them tonight,’ Banks told his daughter.

‘But Laura Collins says they do at her house. Oh, go on, Dad. Please!’

‘No!’ Banks wasn’t about to have a lifetime’s tradition changed because of Laura Collins. Tracy pouted for a while, but she wasn’t the kind to sulk for long.

Brian kept quiet, as though he didn’t even care whether he got a present. All that interested him was pop music, and Banks had bought him a second-hand guitar he’d spotted in a shop window. Of course, it would mean a bit of noise to put up with. Banks didn’t have much regard for his son’s taste, but far be it from him to stand in the way of the lad’s musical ambitions. Euterpe, like God, works in mysterious ways; raucous pop music might inspire someone to learn the guitar, but tastes change, and the talent might well end up in the service of jazz, blues or classical music.

Tracy had been a good deal less specific in her demands, but both Banks and Sandra had thought it a good idea to acknowledge that she was no longer a little girl. She was, after all, fifteen, and though her interest in history remained steady, and had even extended to take in literature, she had a new look in her eyes when the subject of boys came up. Banks had also noticed the odd pop star poster surreptitiously making its way onto her bedroom wall. So rather than books, they had bought her some fashionable new clothes and a make-up kit. When Banks looked at his children now, it was with a tinge of sadness in his heart. Next year he would be forty, and soon he would lose them to their own lives completely.

After a tasty beef stew with dumplings – a frugal dinner to counterbalance tomorrow’s blow-out – came that time of evening when Banks could start to relax: the children out or occupied in their rooms, the television turned off, a tumbler of good Scotch, quiet music and Sandra beside him on the sofa. When he went for his refill, he remembered the photograph he had brought home in his briefcase along with the record Vic Manson had sent over that afternoon. He had hardly looked at it, but something about it rang a bell. Sandra, with her knowledge of photography, should be able to help him. He took the photograph out and handed it to her.

‘What do you think of that?’

Sandra examined it close up, then held it at arm’s length. ‘Do you mean technically?’

‘Any way you like.’

‘Well, it’s obviously good, a professional job. You can tell that by the lighting and the way he’s made it seem like a relaxed pose. She looks very studious. A striking woman. Good quality paper, too.’

‘Why would someone have a photograph like that taken?’

‘Well, lots of people have portraits done… but I see what you mean.’

‘There’s something about it I can’t put my finger on,’ Banks said. ‘Somehow, I think it’s more than a portrait. I just wondered if you had any ideas.’

‘Hmm. That look in her eyes. Very intelligent, a bit haughty. I wonder if that was her or the photographer.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Some photographers really capture a person’s essence in their portraits, but some create an image – you know, for pop stars or advertising. I’m just not sure what this is.

‘That’s it!’ Banks slapped the chair arm. ‘An image. A pose. Why would someone want a photographer to create an image?’

Sandra put the photograph carefully aside on the coffee table. ‘For publicity, I suppose.’

‘Right. That’s what was bothering me. It must be a publicity picture of some kind. That gives us a chance of tracking her down.’

‘You need to find this woman?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ll still have a hell of a job. It could be for anything – modelling, movies, theatre.’

Banks shook his head. ‘Caroline had an interest in theatre, but I get the impression that’s more of a recent passion. Still, she could be an actress. She’s attractive, yes, but she’s no model. You said it yourself – look at the intelligence, the arrogance in that tilt of the head and the eyes. And Veronica Shildon said the woman wrote poetry.’

‘A book jacket?’

‘Those are the lines I was thinking along. It could be a publicity still for an author’s tour or something. That should narrow things down a bit. We can check with publishers and theatrical agents.’ Banks paused for a moment, then went on. ‘Speaking of Caroline Hartley, did you ever meet her?’

‘I met her a couple of times with the group, when I went for a drink with Marcia after working late in the gallery. But I didn’t know her. I never even spoke to her.’

‘What was your impression?’

‘I can only tell you how she acted as part of a group in a pub. She was very beautiful. You couldn’t help but notice her smooth complexion and her eyes. Notice and envy.’ Sandra put her hand to her own cheek which Banks had always thought of as soft and unblemished. ‘In looks, she reminded me a bit of that actress who played Juliet in the old film. What’s her name?… Olivia Hussey. And mostly she was vivacious, sparkling. Though she did seem to have her quiet periods, as if the energy was a bit of a hard act to keep up sometimes.’

‘Quiet periods?’

‘Yes. I just remember her staring into space sometimes, looking a bit lost. Never for long, because there was always somebody wanting to attract her attention, but it was noticeable.’

‘Did she seem especially close to anyone else in the group?’

‘I don’t know. She chatted and laughed with them all, but only in a general, friendly way.’

‘You never saw her arguing with anyone?’

‘No.’

‘Did you know she was a lesbian?’

‘Not until you told me. But why would I?’

‘I don’t know. I just wondered if it was in any way obvious to you.’

‘No – to both questions.’

‘Did you ever notice anyone obviously chatting her up?’

Sandra laughed. ‘Well, most of the men did, yes.’

‘How did she react?’

‘I’d say she played them along nicely. If anything, I’d have said she was a flirt, a bit of a tease, really. But now I know the truth…’

‘Self-protection, I suppose. What about the women?’