He paused. ‘Well, let me see… I got home about eleven.’
‘Yes, but what time did you leave the shop?’
‘It’s about a half-hour drive, a little slower in the snow. I suppose it’d be about ten fifteen.’
‘You left the shop at ten fifteen and came straight home?’
‘Why, yes. Look, is-’
‘Are you sure, Mr Cooper?’
Cooper looked towards the sideboard and nervously licked his lips. ‘I ought to know,’ he said.
Richmond glanced up from his notes. ‘It’s just that the lady who works there told me you left about six, Mr Cooper. Would she have any reason to lie?’
Cooper looked from Richmond to Banks and back. ‘I… I don’t understand.’
Banks leaned forward. ‘It’s perfectly simple,’ he said. ‘You left the shop at six o’clock, not at ten fifteen, as you led us to believe. What were you doing all that time?’
Cooper pursed his lips and looked down at the liver spots on the backs of his hands.
‘What was your relationship with Caroline Hartley?’ Banks asked.
‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘I didn’t have a relationship with her.’
‘Were you fond of her?’
‘I suppose so. We were just acquaintances.’
‘She didn’t remind you of your late daughter, Corinne?’
Cooper turned red. ‘I don’t know who told you that, but it’s not true. And you’ve no right to bring my daughter into it. It’s exactly as I said. We were neighbours. Yes, I liked the girl, but that’s all.’
‘You didn’t attempt to start an affair with her?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! She was young enough to be my… Besides, you know as well as I do she wasn’t interested in men.’
‘But you did try?’
‘I did no such thing.’ He grasped the chair arms and started to get up. ‘I think you ought to leave now.’
‘We’ll leave when we’re satisfied, Mr Cooper,’ Banks said. ‘Please sit down.’
Cooper slumped back in his chair and started twisting his hands in his lap.
‘Do have a drink if you want,’ Banks said. ‘That
‘Damn you!’ Cooper jumped up with surprising agility, took a bottle of Scotch from the sideboard and poured himself three fingers. He didn’t offer any to Banks or Richmond. He sat down again and drank half of it in one gulp.
‘We’re not satisfied yet, Mr Cooper,’ Banks said. ‘We’re not satisfied at all. You’ve been lying to us. Now, that’s nothing new. In our business, we expect it.’ He jerked his thumb towards the wall. ‘But a young woman was brutally murdered next door on December the twenty-second, a woman you liked, who reminded you of your daughter. Now I’d think that unless you killed her yourself you’d want to help, you’d want to tell us the truth.’
‘I didn’t kill her, for God’s sake. Why on earth would I do that?’
‘You tell me.’
‘I told you, I didn’t kill her. And whatever I did that night has no bearing whatsoever on what happened next door.’
‘Let me be the judge of that.’
Cooper swirled his drink and took another long sip.
‘We’ll stay until you tell us,’ Banks said. ‘Unless you’d prefer to get your coat and-’
‘All right, all right.’ Mr Cooper waved his free hand. ‘I did leave the shop at six, but I wasn’t anywhere near Eastvale until eleven, I swear it.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Does it really matter?’
‘We have to check.’
Cooper got up and poured himself another drink. He cocked his ear towards the living-room door, then, satisfied by the sound of washing-up water running in the kitchen, spoke quietly.
‘I drink, Mr Banks,’ he said. ‘Simple as that. Ever since Corinne… well, you don’t need to know about that. But Christine doesn’t approve.’ He looked at his glass. ‘Oh, she’s not a teetotaller or anything. She’ll allow the occasional glass of Scotch after dinner, but more than one and I can even smell the disapproval. So I drink elsewhere.’
‘Where were you drinking that night?’ Banks asked.
‘Tan Hill,’ said Cooper. ‘It’s an isolated spot. I like it up there.’
‘Were you alone?’
‘No. There’s a group of regulars.’
‘Names?’
Cooper gave the names and Richmond wrote them down.
‘What time did you leave?’
‘About ten thirty. I daren’t be
‘Anything else to tell us?’
Cooper shook his head. ‘No, nothing. That’s it. Look, I’m sorry, I… I didn’t mean to cause any problems. It’s really nothing to do with poor Caroline’s death at all.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Banks, and got up to leave with Richmond.
‘There is one small thing,’ Cooper said before they got to the door.
Banks turned. ‘Yes?’
‘The driving. I mean, I’d had a few drinks. I wasn’t drunk, honestly. You won’t do anything to my licence, will you?’
‘I shouldn’t worry about that,’ Banks said. ‘I think the statute of limitations has just about run out.’ He made a mental note to find out the licence number of Cooper’s car and alert the local police patrols.
‘Fancy a trip to Tan Hill?’ Banks asked Richmond outside.
‘Tonight?’
‘Sooner the better, don’t you think?’
Richmond looked at his watch and frowned. ‘Well, I did have a… er-’
‘Take her with you,’ Banks said. ‘It’s a routine enquiry. Won’t take long.’
Richmond touched his moustache. ‘Not a bad idea,’ he said. ‘Not bad at all.’
‘Off you go then. I’ll see if I can get anything more out of the people across the street.’
FOUR
It was a cold night – spiky, needle-sharp cold rather than the damp, numbing chill of the sea mist – and the crusts of ice over puddles on the pavements cracked as Banks walked over them, hands deep in his fur-lined car-coat pockets. He decided to call first on Patrick Farlowe, who had originally said he was sure he had noticed two women and a man call at the house on separate occasions between about six and seven thirty on 22 December.
Farlowe was finishing his dinner when Banks arrived, and there was still a little wine left in the bottle. Banks accepted a glass and the invitation to join Farlowe in the den while his wife cleared the table. They certainly lived well in Oakwood Mews, Banks noted: remains of sirloin steaks on the plates, fine cutlery, a cut-glass vase holding two long-stemmed roses. The wine was a decent Crozes-Hermitage.
The den was an upstairs study with two walls of dark bookcases, a deep, leather armchair by a standard lamp and a small teak table beside it for resting cups of coffee, pencils and notepads. The light gleamed on the dark, varnished surfaces of the wood. The Hartley place in Harrogate would have been a larger version of this, Banks thought, before Gary let it fall to ruin.
Farlowe relaxed in his armchair and Banks took the swivel chair in front of the writing desk. One sniff of the clean, leather-scented air tipped him off that this was a non-smoking room.
‘We’re very grateful for the information you gave us,’ Banks began, ‘but I was wondering if you remembered anything else about that evening.’
Farlowe, a small, roly-poly man with tufts of grey hair over his ears, still wearing a three-piece suit, pressed his damp lips together and scratched the side of his nose. Finally he shook his head. The roll of pink fat around his neck wobbled. ‘Can’t say as I do, no.’
‘Do you mind if we go over a couple of points?’
‘Not at all. Be pleased to.’
Banks sipped some wine and asked about the timing.
Farlowe strained to remember for a moment, then answered. ‘I know the first one, the man, called at about seven o’clock because we’d just had supper and I was in the front room turning the Christmas-tree lights on. Then I caught a glimpse of the woman standing on the doorstep when I went to replace a burnt-out bulb a bit later. The door was open and she was talking to the Hartley woman.
‘Did you get a clear look at her?’
‘No. She had her back to me. Nicely shaped, though.’
‘So there’s no doubt it was a woman?’
‘None at all.’
