Peter Robinson: Past Reason Hated

‘I just got home,’ she said. ‘I thought she was waiting for me.’

‘What time was this?’ Gristhorpe asked.

‘Eight. A few minutes after.’ She didn’t look at him when she answered.

‘Where had you been?’

‘I’d been shopping.’ She looked up, but her eyes appeared to be staring right through the superintendent. ‘That’s just it, you see. I thought for a moment she was wearing the present I’d bought her, the scarlet camisole. But she couldn’t have been, could she? I hadn’t even given it to her. And she was dead.’

‘What did you do when you found her?’ Gristhorpe asked.

‘I… I ran to Christine’s. She took me in and called the police. I don’t know… Is Caroline really dead?’

Gristhorpe nodded.

‘Why? Who?’

Gristhorpe leaned forward and spoke softly. ‘That’s what we have to find out, love. Are you sure you didn’t touch anything in the room?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’

Veronica Shildon shook her head. She was clearly too distraught to speak. They would have to leave their questions until tomorrow.

Christine Cooper accompanied Banks and Gristhorpe to the study door. ‘I’ll stay with her till the doctor comes, if you don’t mind,’ she said.

Gristhorpe nodded and they went downstairs.

‘Organize a house-to-house, would you?’ Gristhorpe asked PC Tolliver before they returned to the living room. You know the drill. Anyone seen entering or leaving the house.’ The constable nodded and dashed off.

Back inside the front room, Banks noticed for the first time how warm it was and took off his raincoat. The music stopped, then the needle came off the record, returned to the edge of the turntable and promptly started on its way again.

‘What is that music?’ Susan Gay asked.

Banks listened. The piece – elegant, stately strings accompanying a soprano soloist singing in Latin – sounded vaguely familiar. It wasn’t Bach at all, Italian in style rather than German.

‘Sounds like Vivaldi,’ he said, frowning. ‘But it’s not what it is bothers me so much, it’s why it’s playing, and especially why it’s been set to repeat.’

He walked over to the turntable and knelt by the album cover lying face down on the speaker beside it. It was indeed Vivaldi: Laudate pueri, sung by Magda Kalmár. Banks had never heard of her, but she had a beautiful voice, more reedy, warm and less brittle than many sopranos he had heard. The cover looked new.

‘Should I turn it off?’ Susan Gay asked.

‘No. Leave it. It could be important. Let the scene-of-crime boys have a look.’

At that moment the front door opened and everyone stood aghast at what walked in. To all intents and purposes, their visitor was Santa Claus himself, complete with beard and red hat. If it hadn’t been for the height, the twinkling blue eyes, the brown bag and the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, Banks himself wouldn’t have known who it was.

‘I apologize for my appearance,’ said Dr Glendenning ‘Believe me, I have no wish to appear frivolous. But I was just about to set off for the children’s ward to give out their Christmas presents when I got the call. I didn’t want to waste any time.’ And he didn’t. ‘Is this the alleged corpse? He walked over to the sofa and bent over the body. Before he had done much more than look it over, Peter Darby, the photographer, arrived along with Vic Manson and his team.

The three CID officers stood in the background while the specialists went to work collecting hair and fabric samples with tiny vacuum cleaners, dusting for prints and photographing the scene from every conceivable angle. Susan Gay seemed enthralled. She must have read about all this in books, Banks thought, and even taken part in demonstration runs at the police college, but there was nothing like the real thing. He tapped her on the shoulder It took her a few seconds to pull her eyes away and face him.

‘I’m just nipping back upstairs,’ Bank whispered ‘Won’t be a minute.’ Susan nodded and turned to watch Glendenning measure the throat wounds.

Upstairs, Banks knelt in front of the armchair ‘Veronica,’ he said gently, ‘that music, Vivaldi, was it playing when you got home?’

With difficulty, Veronica focused on him. ‘Yes,’ she said, with a puzzled look on her face. ‘Yes. That was odd I thought we had company.’

‘Why?’

‘Caroline… she doesn’t like classical music. She says it makes her feel stupid.’

‘So she wouldn’t have put it on herself?’

Veronica shook her head. ‘Never.’

‘Whose record is it? Is it part of your collection?’

‘No.’

‘But you like classical music?’

She nodded.

‘Do you know the piece?’

‘I don’t think so, but I recognize the voice.’

Banks stood up and rested his hand on her shoulder. ‘The doctor will be up soon,’ he said. ‘He’ll give you something to help you sleep.’ He took Christine Cooper’s arm and drew her on to the landing. ‘How long have they been living here?’

‘Nearly two years now.’

Banks nodded towards the bedroom. ‘Together?’

‘Yes. At least…’ She folded her arms. ‘It’s not my place to judge.’

‘Ever any trouble?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Rows, threats, feuds, angry visitors, anything?’

Christine Cooper shook her head. ‘Not a thing. You couldn’t wish for quieter, more considerate neighbours. As I said, we didn’t know each other very well, but we’ve passed the time of day together now and then. My husband…’

‘Yes?’

‘Well… he was very fond of Caroline. I think she reminded him of our Corinne. She died a few years ago. Leukaemia. She was about Caroline’s age.’

Banks looked at Christine Cooper. She seemed to be somewhere in her mid-fifties, a small, puzzled-looking woman with grey hair and a wrinkled brow. That would make her husband about the same age, or a little older perhaps. A paternal attachment, most likely, but he made a mental note to follow it up.

‘Did you notice anything earlier this evening?’ he asked.

‘Like what?’

‘Any noise, or anyone calling at the house?’

‘No. I can’t really say I did. The houses are quite solid, you know. I had my curtains closed, and I had the television on until eight o’clock, when that silly game show came on.’

‘You heard nothing at all?’

‘I heard doors close once or twice, but I couldn’t be sure whose doors.’

‘Can you remember what time?’

‘When I was watching television. Between seven and eight. I’m sorry I’m not more use to you. I just didn’t pay attention. I didn’t know it would be important.’

‘Of course not. Just one more small point,’ Banks said ‘What time did Mrs Shildon arrive at your house?’

‘Ten past eight.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I was in the kitchen then. I looked at the clock when I heard someone shouting and banging on my door. I hadn’t heard any carol singers, and I wondered who could be calling at that time.’

‘Did you hear her arrive home?’

‘I heard her door open and close.’

‘What time was that?’

‘Just after eight – certainly not more than a minute or two after. I’d just switched the television off and gone to start on Charles’s dinner. That’s why I heard her. It was quiet then. I thought it was my door at first, so I glanced up at the clock. It’s a habit I have when I’m in the kitchen. There’s a nice wallclock, a present… but you don’t want to know about that. Anyway, I wasn’t expecting Charles back so early so I… Just a minute! What are you getting at? Surely you can’t believe-’