Past Reason Hated

the whole story again at the hands of less sympathetic interrogators. After all, look at what he’d done. But Gary Hartley wouldn’t be hanged. He wouldn’t even be sent to jail. He would first be bound over for psychiatric evaluation, then he might well spend a good part of his life in mental institutions. Which was better? It was impossible for Banks to decide. Gary’s life was blighted, just as his sister’s had been, though, unlike Caroline, Gary hadn’t even managed to snatch his few moments of happiness.

‘Then who did kill Caroline Hartley?’ Sandra asked.

Banks scratched his head. ‘I’m buggered if I know. I’m pretty sure we can rule out Gary now, and her friends in London. When Caroline moved on, she always seemed to burn her bridges.’

‘Which leaves?’

‘Well, unless we’re dealing with a psycho, we’re back to the locals. Ivers and his girlfriend aren’t home-free yet, whatever they told us. They lied to us at the start, and Patsy Janowski has a good motive for corroborating everything Ivers might claim. She loves the man and wants to hang on to him. And then there’s the amateur crowd. I’ve been intending to have another talk with Teresa Podmore.’

‘And Veronica Shildon?’ Sandra asked. ‘Susan Gay seems to think you’ve been overlooking her.’

‘Susan’s prejudiced.’

‘Are you sure you’re not?’

Banks stared at her. ‘Don’t you know me better than that?’

‘Just asking.’

He shook his head. ‘Officially she’s a suspect, of course, but Veronica Shildon didn’t do it. I must be overlooking something.’

‘Any idea what?’

Banks brought his fist up slowly to his temple. ‘Damned if I know.’ Then he stood up. ‘Hell, it’s been a rough day. I’m having a stiff Scotch then I’m off to bed.’ He poured the drink and went into the hall to his jacket. When he came back he said, ‘And I’m having a bloody cigarette as well, house rule or no house rule.’

12

ONE

The wind numbed Banks to the marrow when he got out of his car near the Lobster Inn the following afternoon. It was 3 January – only three days to twelfth night. The sky was a pale eggshell blue, with a few wispy grey clouds twisting over the horizon like strips of gauze. But the sun had no warmth in it. The wind kicked up little white caps as it danced over the ruffled water and slid up the rough sea wall right onto the front. Banks dashed into the pub.

There already, ensconced in front of the meagre fire, sat Detective Sergeant Jim Hatchley, pint in one ham-like hand and a huge, foul-smelling cigar smouldering between two sausage-shaped fingers of the other. Banks thought he had put on weight; his bulk seemed to loom larger than ever. The sergeant shifted in his seat when Banks came over and sat opposite him.

‘Miserable old bugger saves all his coal till evening,’ he said, by way of greeting, gesturing over at the landlord who sat on a high stool behind the bar reading a tabloid. Bigger crowd then, you see.’

Banks nodded. ‘How’s married life treating you?’

‘Can’t complain. She’s a good lass. I could do without being at the bloody seaside in winter, though. Plays havoc with my rheumatism.’

‘Didn’t know you had it.’

‘Nor did I.’

‘Never mind. Just wait till spring. You’ll be the envy of us all then. Everyone will want to come and visit you on their weekends off.’

‘Aye, maybe. We’ll have to see about renting out the spare room for bed and breakfast. Carol’s got some fancy ideas about starting a garden, too. Sounds like a lot of back breaking work to me.’

And Banks knew what Hatchley felt about work, the dreaded four-letter word, back breaking or not. ‘I’m sorry to lumber you with this, Jim,’ he said. ‘Especially on your honeymoon.’

‘That’s all right. Gets me out of the house. We’re not spring chickens, you know. Can’t expect to be at it all the time.’ He winked. ‘Besides, a man needs time alone with his pint and his paper.’

Banks noticed a copy of the Sun folded in Hatchley’s pocket. From the little he could see, it looked to be open at page three. An attractive new wife, and he still ogled the naked page-three girl. Old habits die hard.

The landlord stirred; his newspaper began to rustle with impatience. Clearly it was all very well for him to be rude to customers, but customers were not expected to be rude to him by warming themselves in front of the sparse flames for too long without buying a drink. Banks walked over and the paper rose up again, covering the man’s beady eyes.

‘Two pints of bitter, please,’ Banks said, and slowly the paper came to rest on the bar. With a why-can’t-everyone-leave-me-alone sigh, the man pulled the pints and plonked them down in front of Banks, holding his other hand out for the money as soon as he had done so. Banks paid and walked back to Sergeant Hatchley.

‘Anything come up?’ Banks asked, reaching for a cigarette.

Hatchley pulled a cigar tube from his inside pocket. ‘Have one of these. Christmas present from the in-laws. Havana. Nice and mild.’

Banks remembered the last cigar he had smoked, one of Dirty Dick Burgess’s Tom Thumbs, and declined. ‘Best stick with the devil you know,’ he said, lighting the cigarette.

‘As you like. Well,’ Hatchley said, ‘there’s nowt been happening around here. I’ve been up with Carol a couple of evenings, for a drink, like, and noticed that Ivers and his fancy woman in here once or twice. Tall chap in need of a hair cut. Looks a bit like that Irish bloke from Camelot, Richard Harris, after a bad night. And that lass of his, young enough to be his granddaughter I’d say. Still, it takes all sorts. Lovely pair of thighs under them tight jeans, and a bum like two peaches in a wet paper bag. Anyroad, they’d come in about nine-ish, nod hello to a few locals, knock back a couple of drinks and leave about ten.’

‘Ever talk to them?’

‘No. They don’t know who I am. They keep themselves to themselves, too. The local constable’s a very obliging chap. I’ve had him keeping an eye open and he says they’ve done nothing out of the ordinary. Hardly been out of the house. Are they still in the running?’

Banks nodded. ‘There’s a couple of problems with the timing, but nothing they couldn’t have worked out between them.’

‘Between them?’

‘Yes. If they killed Caroline Hartley, they must have been in it together. It’s the only way they could have done it.’

‘But you’re not sure they did?’

‘No. I’m just not satisfied with their stories.’

‘What about their motive?’

‘That I don’t know. The husband had one, clearly enough, but the girl didn’t share it. It’d have to be something we don’t know about.’

‘Money?’

‘I don’t think so. Caroline Hartley didn’t have much. It would have to be something more obscure than that.’

‘Perhaps she’s the kind who’d do anything for him, just to hang on to him.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Or they didn’t do it?’

‘Could be that, too.’

‘Or maybe you’re over-complicating things as usual?’

Banks grinned. ‘Maybe I am.’

‘So what now?’ Hatchley asked.

‘A quick visit, just to let them know we haven’t forgotten them.’

‘Me too?’

‘Yes.’

‘But they’ll recognize me. They’ll know me in future.’

‘It won’t do them any harm to know we’re keeping an eye on them. Come on, sup up.’

Grudgingly, Sergeant Hatchley drained his pint and stubbed out his cigar. ‘Still another ten minutes left in that,’ he complained.

‘Take it with you.’

‘Never mind.’

Hatchley followed Banks out into the sharp wind. Thin ice splintered as they made their way up the footpath to Ivers’s cottage, from which a welcoming plume of smoke curled and drifted west. Hatchley groaned and panted as they walked. Banks knocked. This time, Ivers himself answered the door.

‘Come in. Sit down. Sit down,’ he said. Hatchley took the bulky armchair by the mullioned window and Banks lowered himself into a wooden rocker by the fire. ‘Have you caught him?’ Ivers asked. ‘The man who killed Caroline?’

Banks shook his head. ‘Afraid not.’

Ivers frowned. ‘Oh… well. Patsy! Patsy! Some tea, if you’ve got a minute.’

Patsy Janowski came in from her study, glared at Banks’s right shoelace and went into the kitchen.

‘How do you think I can help you again?’ Ivers asked.