Peter Robinson - Past Reason Hated

‘What did she usually wear? Jeans? Skirt and blouse? Dress?’

‘She usually wore a skirt and blouse. She is a teacher, believe it or not. She came straight from school. But I don’t know for sure what she was wearing that day.’

‘What about her overcoat?’

‘What she always wore, I suppose.’

‘Which is?’

‘A long coat, like a light raincoat with epaulettes, but lined.’

‘Belted?’

‘Yes.’

‘And her footwear?’

‘How should I know?’

‘Was she wearing boots or shoes?’

‘Boots, I should think. Because of the weather.’

‘But you can’t be sure?’

‘No. I can’t say I pay Faith’s feet much attention.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me all this earlier?’ Banks asked.

Teresa sighed and shifted in her chair. ‘I don’t know. It didn’t seem all that important. And I didn’t want any trouble, anything spoiling the play. It was bad enough with Caroline getting murdered. When I heard about her being gay, I was sure her death must have had something to do with her private life, that it didn’t involve any of us. I know I sound hard, but this play is important to me, believe it or not. If I do well, the TV people will hear about me…’

Banks stood up. ‘I see.’

‘And as for Faith,’ Teresa went on. ‘I know I sounded bitchy right now, but it was only because I was annoyed at what she’d said to you. She’d no right to go talking about my personal life. But she’s not a killer. Not Faith. And certainly not over a petty incident like that.’

Banks buttoned his overcoat and headed for the door. ‘Thanks very much,’ he said. ‘You’ve been a great help. And he left her reaching for another cigarette from the engraved silver box.

Damn them all! he cursed as he walked out into the cold night. Of course Faith could have killed Caroline Perhaps not over a petty matter, such as the argument Teresa had described, but there could have been another reason. A woman like Caroline Hartley, whether intentionally or not, causes violent emotion in all who come into contact with her. Even Veronica Shildon had admitted to Banks that she’d never understood lust until she met Caroline.

Faith could have simmered for a while after the row – it would certainly have been a blow to her pride – and then, if she had something else against Caroline, too, she could have gone to visit her and remonstrate. Faith certainly worked hard at her Mae West role, but what if it was just an act? What if her true inclination lay elsewhere, or she leaned both ways?

It didn’t seem likely that James Conran would kill the goose he hoped would lay a golden egg. He had high hopes for Caroline as an actress and he was sexually attracted to her as a woman. He didn’t know she was gay. Given his masculine pride and confidence, he probably assumed that she would come around eventually; it was just a matter of time and persistence. Still, there might have been something else in the relationship that Banks didn’t know about.

Caroline had seemed to bring out the worst in both Faith and Teresa. How could he be sure either of them was telling him the truth? Instead of feeling that he had cleverly played one off against the other, he was beginning to feel that he might be the one who had been played. Cursing actors, he pulled up in front of his house feeling nothing but frustration.

The bell was ringing in the distance. All around lay dark jungle: snakes slithered along branches, phosphorescent insects hummed in the air and squat, furry creatures lurked in the lush foliage. But the bell was ringing in the dark and she had to find her way through the jungle to discover why. There were probably booby traps, too – holes lightly covered with grass matting that would give way under her weight to a thirty-foot drop onto sharpened bamboo shoots. And…

She was at least half awake now. The jungle had gone, a figment of the night. The ringing was coming from her telephone, in the living room. Hardly a dangerous journey, after all, though one she was loath to make, being so comfortably snuggled up under the warm blankets.

She looked at the bedside clock. Two twenty-three in the morning. Bloody hell. And she hadn’t got to bed until midnight. Slowly, without turning on the light, she made her way through to the living-room by touch. She fumbled the receiver and put it to her ear.

‘Susan?’

‘Mmm.’

‘Sergeant Rowe here. Sorry to disturb you, lass, but it’s important. At least it might be.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘We’ve caught the vandals.’

‘How? No, wait. I’m coming in. Give me fifteen minutes.’

‘Right you are, lass. They’ll still be here.’

Susan replaced the receiver and shook her head to clear the cobwebs. Luckily, she hadn’t drunk too much at dinner She put on the living-room light, squinting in the brightness, then went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. There was no time for make-up and grooming, just a quick wash, a brush through the hair and out into the cold quiet night. With luck, there would be fresh coffee at the station.

Holding her coat around her she shivered as she got into the car. It started on the third try. Driving slowly because of the ice, she took nearly ten minutes to get to the car park behind the station. She nipped in through the back door and walked to the front desk.

‘They’re upstairs,’ Sergeant Rowe said.

‘Any background information?’

‘Aye. Tolliver and Wilson caught them trying to jemmy their way into the Darby and Joan Club on Heughton Drive. Our lads had enough sense to let them jemmy open the lock and step over the threshold before pouncing. A slight altercation ensue-’ Sergeant Rowe stopped and smiled at his use of jargon – ‘in which said officers managed to apprehend the suspects. In other words, they put up a bit of a fight but came off worst.’

‘Do we know who they are?’

‘Rob Chalmers and Billy Morley. Both spent time in remand homes.’

‘How old are they?’

‘We’re in luck. One’s eighteen, the other seventeen.’

Susan smiled. ‘Not a case for the juvenile court, then. Have they been cautioned?’

‘Charged and cautioned. We’ve jot the jemmy and the gloves they were wearing bagged and ready for testing.’

‘And?’

‘They’re not saying owt. Been watching American cop shows like the rest. Refuse to talk till they’ve seen their lawyer. Lawyers! I ask you.’

‘And I assume said lawyers are on their way?’

Rowe scratched his bulbous nose. ‘Bit of trouble tracking them down. I think we might manage it by morning.’

‘Good. Where are they?’

‘Interview rooms upstairs. Tolliver’s with one, Wilson’s with the other.’

‘Right.’

Susan poured herself a mug of coffee and went upstairs, still feeling the same thrill as she had on her first day in CID. She took a few sips of the strong black liquid, hung her coat up in the office, then took a quick glance in her compact mirror and applied a little make-up. At least now she didn’t look as if she had got straight out of bed. Satisfied, she smoothed her skirt, ran her hand through her curls, took a deep breath and walked into the first interview room.

PC Tolliver stood by the door, a bruise by the side of his left eye and a crust of blood under his right nostril. Sitting, or rather slouching, behind the table, legs stretched out, arms behind his head, was a youth with dark, oily, slicked-back hair, as if he had used half a jar of Brylcreem. He was wearing a green parka, open over a torn T-shirt, and faded, grubby jeans. Susan could smell beer on his breath even at the door. When he saw her walk in, he didn’t move. She ignored him and looked over at Tolliver.