Past Reason Hated

He passed the house, on Powis Terrace, and felt a twinge of nostalgia. That small room, now with lace curtains in the window, was where he and Sandra had first made love in those carefree days when he had been unhappy with his business studies courses but still hadn’t quite known what to do with his life.

Back then, the area had been very much a swinging sixties enclave with its requisite mixture of musicians, poets, artists, dopers, revolutionaries and general dropouts. It had suited Banks at the time. He enjoyed the music, the animated discussions and the aura of spontaneity, but he could never wholeheartedly turn on, tune in and drop out. He had wanted to get away from home, from the dull routine of Peterborough, and the Notting Hill flat had been both a cheap and exciting way of finding out what life was all about. Ah, to be eighteen again…

He walked up to the main intersection and took the Underground at Notting Hill Gate. He was on the Central line, and he still had some time to kill, so he got off at Tottenham Court Road, in the same general area he’d been in the previous evening. He was feeling vaguely depressed after his talk with Colm Grey, which had reduced a couple of his favourite theories to shreds, and thought a city walk in the bracing air might help blow away the blues.

Soho was another world in the daytime. The clubs and love shops and peep shows were still there, but somehow the glitz and sleaze only managed to look anaemic in daylight. The gaudy lights held no allure; they were washed out, paled by even the grey winter light. In the daytime, the siren-song of sex for hire was muted to a distant, nagging whine; there was no hiding the cheap, shabby reality of the product.

But another kind of vital street life took the ascendant – the world of markets, of business. Banks wandered among the stalls on Berwick Street, which seemed to sell everything from pineapples and melons to cotton panties, cups and saucers, watches, mixed nuts and egg cutters. Under one stall, a big brown dog lay sheltered watching the passers-by with mournful eyes.

Feeling better, he found a phone booth on Great Marlborough Street and called Barney Merritt at Scotland Yard. As Banks had expected, and hoped, Ruth Du

The stabbing of Reggie Becker was also as clear cut as could be. The killer, a seventeen-year-old prostitute called Brenda Meers, had stabbed Becker five times in broad daylight on Greek Street. At least two of the wounds had nicked major arteries and he had bled to death before the ambulance got there. Eyewitnesses abounded, though fewer came forward later than were present at the time. When asked why she had done it, Brenda Meers said it was because Reggie was trying to make her go with a man who wanted her to drink his urine and eat his faeces. She had been with him before and didn’t think she could stand it again. She had begged Reggie all morning not to make her go, but he wouldn’t relent, so she walked into Woolworth’s, bought a cheap sheath knife and stabbed him. As far as the police were concerned, Reggie Becker was no great loss, and Brenda would at least get the benefit of psychiatric counselling.

So that was that: the London co

He looked at his watch. Just time to buy Sandra and Tracy presents in Liberty’s, and maybe something for Brian from Virgin Records on Oxford Street. Then it would be time to meet Veronica for lunch and set off. He wondered what, if any, developments would be waiting for him back in Eastvale.

11

ONE

‘You don’t think he did it, do you?’ Susan Gay asked Banks over coffee and toasted teacakes in the Golden Grill. It was two, largely frustrating days after his return from London.

‘Gary Hartley?’ Banks shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t suppose it makes much sense. Gary finds out Caroline was abused as a child so he kills her? All I know is that she told him about it a couple of weeks before she was killed. But you’re right, we’ve no real motive at all. On the other hand, she did make his life a misery. Then she ran off and left him stuck with the old man. A thing like that can fester into hatred. The timing is interesting, too.’

‘Does he know anything about classical music?’

‘We’ll have to find out. He’s certainly well read. Look at all those books around the place, and the way he speaks, his vocabulary. He’s way beyond the range of most teenagers. He could easily have come across the information about Laudate pueri somewhere, then seen the record at Caroline’s.’

‘So you’re going to see him?’

‘Yes. And I’d like you to come along if you can spare the time. Anything happening with the break-ins?’

‘Nothing that can’t wait.’

‘Good. Remember, Gary’s lied to us before. I want to see the old man, too. Who knows, we might be able to get something out of him.’

‘He was pretty useless last time,’ Susan said. ‘I’m not convinced he’s all there.’ She shivered.

‘Cold?’

She shook her head. ‘Just the thought of that house.’

‘I know what you mean. Let Phil know, will you? I want the three of us in on this. I’ll be with the super, filling him in.’ Banks looked at his watch. ‘Say half an hour?’

Susan nodded and left.

Thirty minutes later they sat in an unmarked police Rover with Susan at the wheel and Banks hunched rather glumly in the back, missing his music. Sandra was using the Cortina to buy photographic supplies in York, so they had had to sign a car out of the pool. Susan’s driving was assured, though not as good as Richmond’s, Banks noted Sergeant Hatchley had been the worst, he remembered, a bloody maniac on the road.

Despite more snow, road conditions were clear enough. It was, in fact, much brighter in the north, for once, than it had been in London, and a weak winter sun shone on the distant snow-covered fells, spreading a pastel coral glow.

In under an hour they pulled into the familiar Harrogate street and rang Hartley’s doorbell. As expected, Gary answered. Giving nothing but a ‘you again’ look, he wandered back into the front room, leaving them to follow.

The room hadn’t been cleaned or tidied since their last visit, and a few more beer cans and tab ends had joined the wreckage on the hearth. The air smelled stale, like a pub after closing time. Banks longed to open the window to let in some air. Before he could get there, Richmond beat him to it, yanking back the heavy curtains and raising the window. Gary squinted at the burst of sunlight but said nothing.

‘We’ve got a few more questions to ask you,’ Banks said, ‘but first I’d like a word with your father.’

‘You can’t. He’s sick, he’s resting.’ Gary gripped the chair arm and sat up. He reached for a cigarette and lit it. ‘Doctor’s orders.’

‘I’m sorry, Gary. I already know most of it. I just need him to fill me in on a few details.’

‘What do you know? What are you talking about?’

‘Caroline… your father.’

Gary sagged back into his chair. ‘Oh God,’ he whispered. ‘You know?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you can hardly imagine he’s going to tell you anything, can you? He’s asleep, anyway. Practically in a bloody coma.’

Banks stood up. ‘Stay with him, will you, Phil? Susan, come with me.’

Susan followed Banks upstairs. They both heard Gary cry ‘No!’ as they went.

‘This way, sir.’ Susan pointed to Mr Hartley’s door and Banks pushed it open.

If only Gary had turned off the electric fire, Banks thought later, the smell wouldn’t have been so bad. As it was, Susan put her hand over nose and mouth and staggered back, while Banks reached for a handkerchief. Neither advanced any further into the room. The old man lay back on his pillows, emaciated almost beyond recognition. Judging by the reddish discolouration of the veins in his scrawny neck, Banks guessed he had been dead at least two days. It would take an expert to fix the time more exactly than that, though, as there were many factors to take into consideration, not least among them his age, the state of his health and the warm temperature of the room.