Peter Robinson - When the Music's Over

Burgess had phoned to share the news that some of the other cases against Caxton were strong enough, though no one else recollected a witness, or a second participant, the way Linda Palmer had. The earliest complainant to come forward so far was a seventy-year-old woman from 1962, and the most recent in her early forties, from 1988. According to Burgess, their accounts matched that of Linda Palmer in terms of the suddenness and brutality of his attacks, though both were roughly fondled, not actually raped. Like Hobbes’s view of life itself, Caxton’s attacks on women were nasty, brutish and short. He struck swiftly as a rattlesnake, and swift as a snake’s bite, it was over. Though Banks was willing to bet it didn’t seem that way to the victims; it certainly hadn’t to Linda Palmer.

The drive over the top end of the North York Moors had been spectacular, the roads far busier than usual because of the glorious weather. He had kept the music quiet — playing some acoustic Richard Thompson and a Keith Jarrett & Charlie Haden CD — and Winsome hadn’t complained. After a hurried lunch at a country inn outside Goathland, going over their preparatory notes one last time, they were ready for the interview.

Winsome had been reading up on Caxton’s biography during much of the journey, and as they crested the final rise before the imposing wrought-iron gates with a sculpted stone lion on top of each gatepost, she repeated to Banks, ‘I still don’t see what the point of this is, guv. It’s his word against hers. He’ll deny everything, if he’s got any sense. Stalemate.’

‘Maybe he’ll slip up,’ said Banks. ‘Perhaps we’ll rattle him. Who knows? Besides, don’t you want to get a look at how he lives, the lion in its lair? At least we’ll go away with some sense of the measure of the man, maybe even knowledge of a few of his weaknesses.’

‘I hope so,’ said Winsome. ‘But why not take him into custody for questioning? He’s got home advantage here. We could put him in an airless interview room, make him wait...’

‘We don’t want to make that move yet,’ said Banks. ‘Don’t forget, there are others. Linda Palmer wasn’t the only one. As Burgess said, there’ll be county forces queuing up to have a chat with him before long. We’re first in line. And when push comes to shove, we’ll be the ones to bring him in.’

Banks announced their arrival at the intercom by the gate, and without a word from the other end, the huge heavy gates in the high walls started to rumble open. As Banks drove along the narrow drive, he could see Caxton’s mansion ahead. Xanadu. Hardly a gesture towards originality in its name. Built in the style of a Palladian villa, with symmetrical wings on either side of the central portico, itself modelled on the Greek temple, it came complete with Doric columns and pilasters, all of white marble. In the rolling grounds to their right stood a Victorian folly, and a short distance from the north wing was a row of garages, most of them open. Banks could see expensive cars of all colours, makes and periods: an E-type Jag, a red Triumph MG6, an old Bentley and even a huge pink fifties Cadillac convertible with wings big enough for take-off. It was the sort of car that might have belonged to Elvis Presley. Maybe it had. Banks wondered if the Rolls that had picked up Linda Palmer nearly fifty years ago was really a Bentley. Even if it was, there wasn’t any chance of trace evidence after all that time. Still, there may have been other girls in the car, more recently, and the collection was worth the thorough search that the team would be carrying out after Banks and Winsome had left. Right now they were waiting just down the road, beyond the rise.

Banks pulled up in front of the portico steps, about as imposing as the ones in Rocky , and he and Winsome began to climb, more than half expecting a butler in full livery to answer the door at their ring.

The slight, dapper man with a silk handkerchief protruding from the top pocket of his jacket could have been a butler, but Banks doubted it. For a start, his suit cost more than Banks’s annual clothes allowance, more than his annual salary, in fact, if you included the gold cufflinks and matching tiepin that held down an old-school tie of some important sort. He had a few strands of wispy grey hair on his head and a thin grey moustache. He didn’t smile or reach out his hand to shake, just said, ‘Good afternoon. My name is Bernard Feldman. I’m Mr Caxton’s solicitor.’

‘That was quick,’ said Banks.

‘Word gets around.’

‘So I gather. Can we come in?’

Without replying, Feldman turned and started walking away from them. Banks and Winsome exchanged glances then started to follow him across the parquet floor of a foyer almost as big as a football field. The hall was dotted with Greek columns here and there, like something from a Cecil B. DeMille film set, and large reproductions of classical scenes in ornate gilded frames hung on the damasked walls. Banks couldn’t resist a quick detour to study them. Each had a brass plate under its frame, like in an art gallery, and he saw Leda and the Swan and the Rape of the Daughters of Leucippus by Rubens, two of Titian’s Danaë series and Tiepolo’s Apollo and Daphne . Certainly a theme there, he thought: naked women struggling in the grip of men. Not just tales from Greek mythology.

‘Mr Banks?’

Feldman had stopped to call him on. Banks walked over. ‘Just looking,’ he said.

‘They’re not the originals, of course.’

‘I think some of the world’s major art galleries would be rather upset if they were,’ Banks replied, not wishing to be thought a philistine. ‘Who painted them?’

‘A friend of Danny’s. I can’t remember his name. They’re quite valuable, for copies, apparently. I know nothing about art.’

‘Whoever it is, he’d make a good living as a forger,’ Banks said, gesturing back towards the paintings. In reality, he probably was. But it wasn’t forgery as long as you didn’t try to pass them off as genuine.

Feldman carried on walking, Banks and Winsome dutifully in tow. About ten minutes later, or so it seemed, they found themselves in an enormous glassed-in conservatory, like a section of a botanical garden or an expensive hotel restaurant. It stood before a full-size croquet lawn, which, in turn, overlooked the North Sea, sparkling today and matching the sky for blue, whitecaps dashing for the shore, which was hidden from their view at the bottom of the cliff. A few sailboats listed further out, catching the sea breeze. In the centre of the croquet lawn was a swimming pool. Tempting today, but not much use most of the time in this part of the world, Banks thought, which was probably why Caxton had an indoor pool, too.

‘Impressive,’ said Banks.

Feldman led them over to a glass-topped table where a man sat in a white wicker chair, bade Banks and Winsome be seated, and sent another man, who seemed to have appeared from nowhere — the real butler, maybe — off to bring tea and iced water. Only when all that was done did he introduce Banks and Winsome to Danny Caxton, who neither stood nor offered to shake hands.

‘Get to the point, then.’ Caxton’s voice was raspy, but strong and clear enough to make him still a presence to be reckoned with. ‘I’d like to get this silly business over and done with. The sooner the better.’

‘Us, too,’ said Banks.

For a moment, Banks felt his resolve falter, then he couldn’t help but notice how Caxton’s gaze lingered on Winsome’s breasts and slid lasciviously down over her thighs and legs. Despite the drooping shoulders, general emaciation, scrawny wattles, wrinkles and obvious signs of wear and tear, he appeared relatively spry for an eighty-five-year-old. The years had taken their greatest toll on his face, Banks thought. Once a handsome man, with what Banks’s father had scathingly referred to as matinee-idol looks, he was now more an example of Dorian Gray in reverse. Somewhere, perhaps, hidden away in an attic, was a painting of that handsome young man, but here was the lined and jowled reality, ravaged and wrinkled with the sins of the years. He was like an ageing bird of prey without its plumage.