‘But did you kill him?’
‘I never touched him, if that’s what you mean. Never laid a finger on the old bastard. I couldn’t bear…’
Banks noticed the boy was crying. He had turned his head aside but it was shaking, and strange snuffling sounds came from between the fingers he had placed over his mouth and nose.
‘You deserted him. You left him up there to die. Is that what you did?’
Banks couldn’t be sure, but he thought Gary was nodding.
‘Why? For God’s sake why?’
‘You know,’ he said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand and turning to face Banks angrily. ‘You told me. You know all about it. What he did…’
‘For what he did to Caroline?’
‘You know it is.’
‘What about Caroline? Did you kill her too?’
‘Why should I do that?’
‘I’m asking. She tried to kill
Gary sighed and tossed his half-smoked cigarette into the grate. ‘I suppose so,’ he said wearily. ‘I don’t know. I think
TWO
By mid-afternoon the sun had disappeared behind smoke-coloured clouds and Banks had turned his desk lamp on. They sat in his office – Banks, Gary Hartley and Susan Gay – taking notes and waiting for a pot of coffee before getting started on the interrogation.
Gary, sitting in a hard-backed chair opposite Banks, looked frightened now. He wasn’t fidgeting or squirming, but his eyes were filled with a kind of resigned, mournful fear. Banks, still not completely sure what had gone on in that large, cold house, wanted him to relax and talk. Fresh, hot coffee might help.
While he waited, Banks glanced over the brief notes the forensic pathologist had made after his preliminary investigation of the scene. He’d estimated time of death at not less than two days and not more than three. For three days then, perhaps – since shortly after Banks’s and Richmond’s visit – the poor, frightened kid in front of them had sat in the cold ruin of a room, smoking and drinking, knowing the corpse of his father lay rotting upstairs in the heat of an electric fire. The doctor hadn’t called; he had no reason to as long as Mr Hartley had a full prescription of pain killers and someone to take care of his basic needs.
‘Rigor mortis disappeared… greenish discolouration of the abdomen,’ the report read, ‘reddish veins in neck, shoulders and thighs… no marbling as yet.’ The temperature would have speeded the process of decomposition considerably, Banks realized. Also, the air was dry, and some degree of mummification might have occurred if the old man had lain there much longer. Banks suspected that cause of death was starvation – Gary had simply left him to die – but it would be a while before more exact information about cause and time could be known. Older persons decompose more slowly than younger ones, and thin ones more slowly than fat ones. Bodies of diseased persons break down quickly. Stomach contents would have to be examined and inner organs checked for the degree of putrefaction.
All very interesting, Banks thought, but none of it really mattered if Gary Hartley confessed.
Finally, PC Tolliver arrived with the coffee and styrofoam cups. Susan poured Gary a cup and pushed the milk and sugar towards him. He didn’t acknowledge her. Banks walked over to the window and glanced out at the grey market square, then sat down to begin. He spoke quietly, intimately almost, to put the boy at ease.
‘Earlier, Gary, you seemed confused. You said you supposed that you had killed Caroline, then you told me you think your father killed her. Can you be a bit clearer about that?’
‘I’m not sure. I… I…’
‘Why not tell me about it, the night you killed her? Start at the beginning.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Try. It’s important.’
Gary screwed up his eyes in concentration, but when he opened them, he shook his head. ‘It’s all dark. All dark inside. And it hurts.’
‘Where does it hurt, Gary?’
‘My head. My eyes. Everywhere.’ He covered his face with his hands and shuddered.
Banks let a few seconds pass, then asked, ‘How did you get to Eastvale?’
‘What?’
‘To Eastvale? Did you go by bus or train? Did you borrow a car?’
Gary shook his head. ‘I didn’t go to Eastvale. I wasn’t in Eastvale.’
‘Then how did you kill Caroline?’
‘I’ve told you, I don’t know.’ He hung his head in his hands. ‘I just don’t know.’
‘What happened to your father, Gary?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘How did he die? Did you kill him?’
‘No. I didn’t go near him.’
‘Did you stop going up to his room? Did you stop feeding him?’
‘I couldn’t go. Not after Caroline, not after I knew. I thought about it and I carried on for a while, but I couldn’t.’ He looked at Banks, his eyes pleading. ‘You must understand. I couldn’t. Not after she was dead.’
‘So you stopped tending to him?’
‘He killed her.’
‘But he couldn’t have, Gary. He was an invalid, bed-ridden. He couldn’t have gone to Eastvale and killed her.’
Suddenly, Gary banged the metal desk with his fist. Susan moved forward but Banks motioned her back.
‘I’ve told you it wasn’t in Eastvale!’ Gary yelled. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? Caroline didn’t die in Eastvale.’
‘But she did, Gary. Come on, you know that.’
He shook his head. ‘He killed her. And I killed her too.’
Susan looked up from her notes and frowned. ‘Tell me how he killed her,’ Banks asked.
‘I don’t know. I wasn’t there. But he did it like… like… Oh Christ, she was just a child… just a little child!’ And he put his head in his hands and sobbed, shaking all over.
Banks stood up and put a comforting arm over his shoulder. At first, Gary didn’t react, but then he yielded and buried his head in Banks’s chest. Banks held on to him tightly and stroked his hair, then when Gary’s grasp loosened, he extricated himself and returned to his chair. Now he thought he understood why Gary was talking the way he was. Now he knew what had happened. Now he understood the Hartley family. But he still had no idea who had killed Caroline Hartley, and why.
THREE
When Susan Gay got to the Crooked Billet at six o’clock, James Conran wasn’t there. Casting around for a suitable place to sit, she caught the eye of Marcia Cunningham, the costumes manager, who beckoned her over. Marcia seemed to be sitting with someone, but a group of drinkers blocked Susan’s view.
Susan elbowed her way through the after-work crowd, loosening her overcoat as she went. It was cold outside, and enough snow had fallen to speckle her shoulders, but in the pub it was warm. She took off her green woolly gloves and slipped them in her pocket, then, when she reached Marcia, removed her coat and hung it on a peg by the bar. She noted that the buttons of the pink cardigan Marcia was wearing were incorrectly fastened, making the thing look askew.
‘They’ve not finished yet,’ Marcia said. ‘What with it being so close to first night, or should I say
‘Thank you.’ Susan smoothed her skirt and sat down.
‘How rude of me,’ Marcia said, indicating the woman beside her. ‘Susan Gay, this is Sandra Banks.’ Then she put her hand to her mouth. ‘Silly me, I’m forgetting you probably know each other already.’
Susan certainly recognized Sandra. With her looks, she would be hard to miss – that determined mouth, lively blue eyes, long blonde hair and dark eyebrows. She possessed a natural elegance. Susan had always envied her and felt awkward and dowdy when she was around.
‘Yes,’ Susan said, ‘we’ve met once or twice. Good evening, Mrs Banks.’
‘Please, call me Sandra.’
‘Sandra was just finishing up some work in the gallery so I popped in and asked if she’d like a drink.’
Susan noticed that their glasses were empty and offered to get a round. When she came back, there was still no sign of James or the others. She didn’t know how she was going to maintain small talk with Sandra Banks for the next twenty minutes or so, especially after the emotional scene she had just witnessed between Banks and Gary Hartley. She felt embarrassed. Strong emotion always made her feel that way, and when Banks had hugged the boy close she had had to avert her gaze. But she had seen her boss’s expression over the back of the boy’s head. It hadn’t given much away, but she had noticed compassion in his eyes and she knew from the set of his lips that he shared the boy’s pain.
Luckily, Marcia saved her. In appearance rather like one of those plump, ruddy-cheeked characters one sees in illustrations of Dickens novels, she had an ebullient manner to match.
‘Any closer to catching those vandals?’ she asked.
