Peter Robinson - Past Reason Hated

‘Anything else?’

‘It looked new, the record. As far as we can tell it was in mint condition, only been played a few times.’

‘How many?’

‘Can’t tell for sure – two or three at the most – but take our word, it was new.’

‘The paper?’

‘Common or garden Christmas wrapping paper. Could have come from anywhere. It does look like it had been wrapped around the record, though. It fits to a tee. But there’s no gift tag with the murderer’s name on, unfortunately.’

‘Well, at least we’ve got something. Thanks, Vic. Look, can you send the record over to me when you’ve done with it?’

‘Of course. Tomorrow okay?’

‘Fine. Don’t let me keep you any longer. And have a good Christmas.’

‘You too.’

Banks hung up, walked back to the window and lit a cigarette. What the hell was it about the music that bothered him? Why did it have to mean something? He would find out as much as he could about Vivaldi’s Laudate pueri, all four versions. Claude Ivers admitted he knew them, but that didn’t mean anything. He must have known that if he’d feigned ignorance, given his musical reputation, Banks would have immediately become even more suspicious. But Ivers knew more than he let on, that was for certain. And so did Patsy Janowski, she of the wandering eyes. Well, give them time, he thought, as he smoked and looked down on the Brueghel scene, they’re not going anywhere. Let them think they’re safe, then…

.James Conranlived in a small terrace house on the northwest edge of town, where Cardigan Drive met North Market Street and turned into the main Swainsdale road. At the far end of his living room, a manual typewriter sat on a table by the window. The view to the west along snow-shrouded Swainsdale was superb. Bookcases flanked the table on both sides with books on all subjects. Banks took a quick glance: history, theatre, music, but hardly any fiction. A small sofa and two matching armchairs formed a semicircle around the hearth, where a coal fire smouldered. On the wall above the mantelpiece hung a poster advertising a performance of The Duchess of Malfi at Stratford. There was no television set, but a music centre with a compact-disc player stood opposite the fireplace. Banks ran his eyes over the records and discs, most of them the works of classical composers: Beethoven, Zelenka, Bax, Stanford, Mozart, Elgar. There was some Vivaldi, including the Stabat Mater, but not the Laudate pueri.

Conran, having explained to Banks how Susan had once been one of his pupils, was now fussing over her and offering to make tea. Both she and Banks accepted.

‘Nice collection of discs,’ Banks observed. ‘Are you a musician?’

‘Merely a dabbler,’ Conran said. ‘I sang with the church choir when I was a boy, then with an amateur outfit in York. I also directed the choir at Eastvale Comprehensive for a few years – mostly, I might add, because no one else would take on the job. But that’s just about the limit of my musical abilities. I am a good listener, however.’

As Conran made tea in the kitchen, Banks continued reading book and record titles. It helped get a sense of people, he always thought, to discover their tastes in literature and music. Conran definitely read to learn, not for pleasure, which hinted at a certain amount of intellectual and artistic ambition. His record collection, while fairly eclectic, favoured choral works, perhaps an unconscious left-over from his choir days. The fact that he owned a compact-disc player showed he was serious about his listening. Though she said she liked classical music, Veronica Shildon only had an old stereo system, a turntable complete with arm and spindle for stacking records. No one who genuinely loved music would play it on such antiquated equipment, especially if they could afford better. No, Veronica Shildon’s priorities lay elsewhere than music – in decor, perhaps, in creating the sense of a cosy and comfortable home. But Conran clearly valued his artistic pleasures over material ones.

Banks warmed his hands by the fire. ‘I should imagine you got to know Caroline Hartley pretty well during rehearsals for Twelfth Night, ’ he said. ‘Can you tell us anything about her?’

‘Such as what?’

‘Anything at all. Her habits, moods, your impression of her. Believe me, every little bit helps.’

‘It’s very difficult,’ Conran said. ‘I mean, I didn’t know her that well. None of us did really.’

‘What was your relationship with her?’

Conran frowned. ‘Relationship? I’d hardly say we had a relationship. What are you implying?’

‘You were directing her in a theatrical production, isn’t that so?’

‘Well, yes… but-’

‘That’s a relationship.’

‘I see… I… I thought. Anyway, yes, I directed her on stage. It was a purely working relationship. You don’t really find out much about people when you’re busy telling them where to stand and how to speak, you know.’

‘What did you think of her?’

‘She was a very talented and attractive girl, a natural. It’s a real tragedy. She’d have gone far had she lived.’

‘Yet you only gave her a small part.’

‘It was her first performance. She needed more experience. But she was quick. It wouldn’t have taken her long to get to the top if she’d put her mind to it. Mercurial. I think that’s the best word to describe her talent.’

‘How did she get on with the rest of the cast?’

Conran shrugged. ‘All right, I suppose.’

‘Did she form any special relationships? Was she close to anyone in particular?’

‘Not that I know of. We’re all pretty chummy, really, when it comes down to it. After all, this isn’t the West End. It’s meant to be fun. That’s the reason I’m involved.’

‘She did join you for drinks after rehearsals sometimes, didn’t she?’

‘Yes, usually. But you can hardly get to know somebody in a group situation like that.’

‘Who did she talk to?’

‘Everyone, really.’

‘How did she behave?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Was she comfortable with the group?’

‘As far as I could tell.’

‘Did you know she was a lesbian?’ Banks asked.

‘Caroline?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Do you have evidence to the contrary?’

‘Of course not,’ Conran snapped. ‘Stop twisting everything I say. What I mean is I’m surprised. She…’

‘She what?’

‘Well, you don’t expect things like that, do you? She seemed quite normal to me.’

‘Heterosexual?’

Conran looked at Susan as if pleading for support. ‘You’re doing it again. I’ve no knowledge of her sex life at all. All I’m saying is she seemed normal to me.’

‘So she didn’t tell you anything about her private life?’

‘No. She kept herself to herself. I knew nothing at all about what she did when she left the hall or the pub.’

‘Oh, come on! Surely some of the men in the cast must have tried it on with her. Maybe you even tried yourself Who wouldn’t? How did she respond?’

‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘It’s obvious enough. Was she cold, polite, friendly, rude…?’

‘Oh, I see. Well, no, she certainly wasn’t cold. She’d joke and flirt like the rest, I suppose. It’s not something I actually thought about. She was always friendly and cheerful, or so it seemed to me.’

‘Terrible waste, don’t you think? A beautiful woman like that, and no man stood a chance with her.’

Conran glanced down into his mug and muttered, ‘It takes all sorts, Chief Inspector.’