Past Reason Hated

Banks and Sandra were happy with their presents – mostly clothes, book or record tokens and the inevitable aftershave, perfume and chocolates. Brian quickly disappeared upstairs with his guitar, and Tracy spent an hour in the bathroom preparing herself for dinner.

Gristhorpe arrived about noon. They ate at one thirty, got the dishes out of the way as quickly as possible, then watched the Queen’s Message, which Banks found as dull and pointless as ever. The rest of the afternoon the adults spent variously chatting, drinking and dozing. Around teatime, Banks and Sandra made a few phone calls to their parents and distant friends.

In deference to Gristhorpe’s tin ear, Banks refrained from playing music most of the time, but later in the evening, when Brian and Tracy had gone up to their rooms and the three adults sat enjoying the peace, he couldn’t restrain himself. Off and on, he had been thinking about Caroline Hartley and was anxious to check out the music. He was sure that it had some connection with the murder. Now he could hold back no longer. He searched through his cassette collection for the Vivaldi he thought he had. There it was: the Magnificat, with Laudate pueri and Beatus vir on the same tape.

First he put on the record that Vic Manson had sent over from forensics. The familiar music, with its stately opening and pure, soaring vocal, disturbed him with the memory of what he had seen in Veronica Shildon’s front room three days ago. He could picture again the macabre beauty of the scene: blazing fire, Christmas lights, candles, sheepskin rug, and Caroline Hartley draped on the sofa. The blood had run so thickly down her front that she had looked as if she were wearing a bib, or as if an undergarment had slipped up over her breasts. Carefully, he removed the needle.

‘I was enjoying that,’ Sandra said. ‘Better than some of the rubbish you play.’

‘Sorry,’ Banks said. ‘Try this.’

He put the cassette in the player and waited for the music to start. It was very different. The opening was far more sprightly, reminiscent of ‘Spring’ from The Four Seasons.

‘What are you after?’ Sandra asked.

Banks stopped the tape. ‘They’ve got the same title, by the same composer, but they’re different.’

‘Any fool can hear that.’

‘Even me,’ Gristhorpe added.

‘Claude Ivers was right then,’ Banks muttered to himself. He could have sworn he had a piece by Vivaldi called Laudate pueri, but he hadn’t recognized the music he heard at the scene.

The sleeve notes for the record told him very little. He turned to the cassette notes and read through the brief biographical sketch: Vivaldi – affectionately called ‘il prete rosso’ because of his flaming red hair – had taken holy orders, but ill health prevented him from working actively as a priest. He had served at the Pieta, a kind of orphanage-cum-conservatory for girls in Venice, from 1703 to 1740 and would have been asked to compose sacred music when there was no choirmaster.

The blurb went on, outlining the composer’s career and trying to pin down dates of composition. The Laudate pueri had probably been written for a funeral at the Pieta. One of its sections – the antiphon, ‘Sit nomen Domini’ – revealed the liturgical context as a burial service for very young children. There was more about Vivaldi’s setting being hardly solemn enough for a child’s funeral, but Banks was no longer paying attention. He went back to the word sheet enclosed in the record sleeve and read through the translation: so few words so much music.

According to the translator, ‘Sit nomen Domini benedictum ex hoc nunc et usque in saeculum’ meant, ‘Blessed be the name of the Lord; from henceforth now and for ever’. What that had to do with funerals or children Banks had no idea. He realized he didn’t know enough about the liturgy. He would have to talk to a churchman if he really wanted to discover the true relevance of the music.

The main point, however, was that what Banks now knew how the music tied in with the information he had got from Glendenning’s post-mortem. Caroline Hartley had given birth to a child. According to Banks’s theories so far, this had either been the reason for her flight to London or it had occurred while she had been there. Another chat with Veronica Shildon might clear that up.

Where was the child? What had happened to it? And who was the father? Perhaps if he could answer some of those questions he would know where to begin.

As far as musical knowledge went, Claude Ivers certainly seemed the most likely candidate to have brought the record. Already Banks was far from satisfied with his account of himself. Naturally, Ivers would deny having called at Veronica’s house on the night of the murder; he was known to have a grudge against Caroline Hartley. But he must have realized he had left the record. Why take such a risk? Surely he must understand that the police would have ways of finding out who had bought the record, even if there was no gift tag on the wrapping? Or did he? Like many geniuses, his connection with the practical realities of life was probably tenuous. And Ivers couldn’t have had anything to do with Caroline Hartley’s baby unless they had known one another some time ago. Very unlikely.

‘Put some carols on,’ Sandra said, ‘and stop sitting on the floor there staring into space.’

‘What? Oh, sorry.’ Banks snapped out of it and got up to freshen the drinks. He searched through the pile of records and tapes for something suitable. Kathleen Battle? Yes, that would do nicely. But even as ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’ began, his mind was on Vivaldi’s requiem for a dead child, Caroline Hartley’s baby and the photograph of Ruth, the mystery woman. Christmas, or not, Veronica Shildon was going to get another visit very soon. He went into the hall, took his cigarettes and lighter from his jacket pocket and slipped quietly out into the backyard for a peaceful smoke.

TWO

‘Veronica Shildon, this is Detective Constable Susan Gay.’

It was an embarrassing introduction, but it had to be made. Banks was well aware of the modern meaning of ‘gay’, but he was no more responsible for the word’s diminishment than he was for Susan’s surname.

Banks noticed the ironic smiled flit across Veronica’s lips and saw Susan give a long-suffering smile in return – something she would never have done in other circumstances.

Veronica stretched out her hand. ‘Good to meet you. Please sit down.’ She sat opposite them, back straight, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap. The excessive formality of her body language seemed at odds with the casual slacks and grey sweatshirt she was wearing. She offered them some sherry, which they accepted, and when she went to fetch it she walked as if she’d put in a lot of time carrying library books on her head.

Finally, when they all had their glasses to hide behind, Veronica seemed ready for questions. Starting gently, Banks first asked her about the furniture, whether she wanted the sofa cushions and the rug back. She said no, she never wished to see them again. She was going to redecorate the room completely, and as soon as the holidays were over and the shops had reopened, she was going to buy a new suite and carpet.

‘How are you managing with the flower shop?’ he asked.

‘I have a very trustworthy assistant, Patricia. She’ll take care of things until I feel ready again.’

‘Did Caroline ever have anything to do with your business? The shop, your partner…?’

Veronica shook her head. ‘David, my partner, lives in Newcastle and rarely comes here. He was a friend of Claude’s, one of the few that stuck with me when… Anyway, he regards the shop more as an investment than anything else.’

‘And Patricia?’

‘She’s only eighteen. I assume she has her own circle of friends.’

Banks nodded and sipped some sherry, then he slipped the signed photograph from his briefcase.

‘Are you sure you can’t tell me any more about this woman?’

Veronica looked at the photograph again. ‘It was something personal to Caroline,’ she answered. ‘I never pried. There were parts of her she kept hidden. I could accept that. All I know is that her name was Ruth and she wrote poetry.’

‘Where does she live?’

‘I’ve no idea, but Caroline lived in London for some years before she came up here.’

‘And you’ve never met this Ruth, never seen her?’

‘No.’

Banks bent to slip the photograph back into his briefcase and said casually, before he had even sat up to face her again, ‘Did you know that Caroline had a conviction for soliciting?’

‘Soliciting? I… I…’ Veronica paled and looked away at the wall so they couldn’t see her eyes. ‘No,’ she whispered.

‘Is there anything at all you can tell us about Caroline’s life in London?’

Veronica regained her composure. She sipped some sherry and faced them again. ‘No.’

Banks ran his hand through his cropped hair. ‘Come on, Ms Shildon,’ he said. ‘You lived with her for two years She must have talked about her past. As I understand it, you were undergoing therapy. Caroline too. Do you seriously expect me to believe that two people digging into their psyches like that never spoke to one another about important things?’

Veronica sat up even straighter and gave Banks a look as cold and grey as the North Sea. ‘Believe what you want, Chief Inspector. I’ve told you what I know. Caroline lived in London for a number of years. She didn’t have a very happy time there. What she was working through in analysis was private.’

‘How was she when you met her?’

‘When I…?’

‘When you first met.’

‘I’ve told you. She was living with Nancy Wood. She seemed happy enough. It wasn’t a… it was just a casual relationship. They shared a flat, I believe, but there was no deep commitment. What else can I say?’

‘Was she more, or less, disturbed back then than she has been lately?’

‘Oh, more. Definitely more. As I said, she seemed happy enough. At least on the surface. But she had some terrible problems to wrestle with.’

‘What problems?’

‘Personal ones. Psychological problems, like the ones we all have. Haven’t you read the poem: “They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They don’t mean to, but they