Peter Robinson - When the Music's Over

She caught his gaze. ‘Silly of me, I suppose.’

‘Not at all. Most of us try to be good people.’

‘What about the other case? The girl who was groomed and raped.’

‘A friend of her brother’s has confessed to the murder,’ said Banks. ‘That’s about all I can say right now.’

‘You believe him?’

‘No reason not to.’

‘Why?’

‘I wish I could say I understood, but I don’t, really. He was infatuated with her, even though she was a few years younger than he is, and he’s somewhat of a racist. The idea of her going with people of a different ethnic origin set his teeth on edge. He’d just heard, or so he says, and he couldn’t get the images out of his mind. He followed their van. When she came walking towards him, it didn’t go as he expected. The things she said, the way she reacted. Partly because she’d been on ketamine and partly because... well... he just lost it. Saw red. I suppose that’s believable enough. It’ll have to be, at any rate. It’s all we’re likely to get from him.’

‘ “An old black ram is tupping your white ewe.” ’

‘ Othello ,’ said Banks.

‘My, my, you are a literate copper. Not only Wordsworth, but Shakespeare, too. I suppose you did it at school?’

‘Yes. Amazing how you remember quotes like that when you’re a dirty-minded teenager.’

‘Iago uses sexual images like that to drive Othello over the edge.’

‘Maybe the girl’s brother did that to our suspect,’ Banks said. ‘But it probably wasn’t intentional. He’s not that bright.’

‘What about the men who raped her?’

‘They’ll go away for a long time. Rape, conspiracy to rape, sexual activity with a child, sexual assault. A range of charges. The CPS will throw the book at them. Something’s sure to stick.’

‘Good Lord. It’s all so sad. This is the sort of thing you deal with day after day, isn’t it?’

Banks sipped some wine. The strings held a long note, then the brass came in and another melody began. ‘Not every day, no.’

‘But it must get to you, seeing so much of the dark side, the cruel side of human nature.’

‘You’ve been there. You know what it’s like. Besides, it’s not all doom and gloom. I see plenty of good, too. Plenty of decent people trying to help others. They’re just not always who or where you expect them to be.’

‘I don’t think I could do your job.’

‘That’s just as well. The world will be a far better place if you stick at what you do already.’

‘You’ve read my poetry?’

‘Some. It’s really good. Of course, I know nothing about such—’

‘Oh, tosh. Do you think I write for reviewers and literary critics? Half the time I don’t even get reviewed. How many poetry reviews do you see in your weekend papers?’

‘The Observer does a few.’

‘Beyond the Observer .’

‘Dunno. That’s the only one I read, except for the Mail on Sunday . It’s true they don’t review much poetry.’

‘The Observer and the Mail ? Are you schizophrenic or something?’

Banks laughed. ‘No. It’s just that I find if I read both, the truth usually comes somewhere in between. And the Mail has a better TV guide.’

‘Well, that’s a novel way of looking at it. Are you still reading your poetry anthology in chronological order?’

‘I’m afraid I haven’t had much time for it lately, but I think I’ll take your advice and jump around more. After I’ve finished your poems, that is.’

Linda offered a top-up of wine. Banks hesitated for a moment. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Am I keeping you from something? It’s Saturday night, after all. Do you have plans for the evening? Maybe celebrating with your colleagues?’

‘No, not at all. We’ll do that next week when we know we have something to celebrate. I was just thinking of the drive home. But why not? A drop more won’t put me over the limit. As a matter of fact, I was going to drop my car at home and walk down to the Dog and Gun in Gratly. It’s folk night. I think Penny Cartwright’s back home. But there’s plenty of time for that.’

‘She is,’ said Linda. ‘I had coffee with her this afternoon.’

‘You know Penny?’

‘Known her for years. We’re old friends.’

‘She never said.’

Linda smiled. ‘She talked plenty about you.’

Banks felt himself blush. ‘Don’t tell me. She’s never forgiven me for suspecting her of murder thirty years ago.’

Linda laughed. ‘Something like that. I mean, really. It’s not something one gets over that easily, I shouldn’t imagine. How could you? But I think she likes you.’

‘That’s a surprise.’

The wind rustled through the leaves and birds called from the trees by the riverside. ‘Kingfisher not around?’ he asked.

‘Not today. But he’ll be back.’

They listened to the wind and the birds and the river for a while, Mahler’s notes and chords drifting between sound and silence through the evening air as if they belonged there, then Linda said, ‘Those numbers on Caxton’s arm. Did you find out what they were? Were they what I thought?’

‘Yes,’ said Banks.

‘Can you tell me?’

‘I don’t see why not. I knew from talking to Caxton’s ex-wife a while ago that he’d been sent to England as a young lad, when he was about three, I think.’

‘So he can’t have been in a concentration camp.’

‘No. He never went back. He was in England throughout the war.’

‘So what, then?’

‘She told me that his mother was in a camp and that his father fought with the Germans. This was in Poland.’

‘People did that?’

‘Apparently so. Places like Poland, Estonia and the other Baltic States were torn apart by the Russians and Germans. Some families fought against their own kin. Some found themselves in one side’s army one day and the enemy’s the next. Stalin or Hitler? Who would you choose?’

‘So where did the numbers come from?’

‘It was his mother’s camp number. He found out only years later, from someone who was with her then and survived. They have records.’

‘He has his mother’s concentration camp number tattooed on his arm?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t know whether that’s sick or sentimental.’

‘A bit of both, really,’ said Banks. ‘He can’t have had it done until after he was divorced, as his ex-wife had never seen it. Others must have, even though he always wore long sleeves, and he tried to keep it concealed. You saw it.’ Banks didn’t tell her that it was when he asked to look at Caxton’s arm that he had his stroke. No point making her feel guilty. She’d done the right thing in noting it down, and he’d done the right thing in asking to see it. The rest was just bad timing. He didn’t really know what was going to happen to his career because of what happened in that interview room. Neither he nor Winsome had behaved in any way offensively or aggressively during the interview, but Danny Caxton had keeled over and would most likely die. Adrian Moss had a hell of a job on his hands with this one, and for once Banks appreciated that he might prove a useful ally. Not that ACC McLaughlin and AC Gervaise weren’t a hundred per cent behind him. The chief constable and crime commissioner were waffling and waving this way and that in the prevailing winds, but that was only to be expected. The best Banks could do was tell the truth and try to protect Winsome from the shit storm as best he could. Even if there were no professional consequences, there would be a big fuss in the media for a few days.

The music was so quiet now that Banks could hardly hear it above the birds and the wind in the leaves. Occasionally he would catch a slow, soft phrase, then silence came again. Linda swallowed and turned towards the river. He couldn’t see her expression or the look in her eyes. ‘It always makes me cry, the end,’ she said. ‘You really have to hear it inside to get the full impact, but the quiet strings and silence alternate like a dying man’s breath for a while, and finally it just disappears into silence. More Shakespeare. “The rest is silence.” ’