Authors: Peter Robinson
‘She usually finishes at three on a weekday, after the lunchtime crowd. They don’t open for tea off-season. On a normal day she’d come home, do some shopping, or perhaps drop by at the shop for a while to help out.’
‘Shop?’
‘I own a flower shop – or rather my partner and I do It’s mostly a matter of his money and my management. It’s just round the corner from here, down King Street.’
‘You said on a “normal” day. Was yesterday not normal?’
She looked straight at him and her eyes let him know that his choice of words had been inappropriate. Yesterday, indeed, had not been normal. But she simply said, ‘No. Yesterday after work they had a rehearsal. They’re doing
Twelfth Night
at the community centre. It’s quite a heavy rehearsal schedule as the director’s set on actually opening on twelfth night.’
‘What time did rehearsals run?’
‘Usually between four and six, so she would have been home at about quarter past six, if she’d come home immediately.’
‘And was she likely to?’
‘They often went for a drink after, but yesterday she came straight home.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I phoned to see if she was there and to tell her I’d be a bit late because I was doing some shopping.’
‘What time?’
‘About seven.’
‘How did she sound?’
‘Fine . . . she sounded fine.’
‘Was there any special reason for her not going for a drink with the others yesterday?’
‘No. She just said she was tired after rehearsal and she . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘We’ve both been so busy lately. She wanted to spend some time with me . . . a quiet evening at home.’
‘Where had you been that evening?’
Veronica didn’t show a flicker of resentment at being asked for an alibi. ‘I closed the shop at five thirty, then I went for my six o’clock appointment with Dr Ursula Kelly, my therapist. She’s Caroline’s too. Her office is on Kilnsey Street, just off Castle Hill. I walked. We do have a car but we don’t use it much in town, mostly just for trips away.’ She blew on her coffee and took a sip. ‘The session lasted an hour. After that, I went to the shopping centre to buy a few things. Christmas presents mostly.’ She faltered a little. ‘Then I walked home. I . . . I got here about eight o’clock.’
No doubt it would be possible to check her alibi in the shopping centre, Banks thought. Some shopkeepers might remember her. But it was a busy time of year for them, and he doubted that any would be able to recollect what day and what time they had last seen her. He could examine the receipts, too. Sometimes the modern electronic cash registers gave the time of purchase as well as the date.
‘Can you tell me exactly what happened, what you did, from the moment you left the shops and walked home last night?’
Veronica took a deep breath and closed her eyes. ‘I walked home,’ she began, ‘in the snow. It was a beautiful evening. I stopped and listened to the carol singers in the market square for a while. They were singing “O, Little Town of Bethlehem”. It’s always been one of my favourites. When I got home I . . . I called out hello to Caroline, but she didn’t answer. I thought nothing of it. She could have been in the kitchen. And then there was the music . . . well, that was odd. So I took the opportunity and crept upstairs to hide the presents in the wardrobe. Some were for her, you see, the . . .’ She paused, and Banks noticed her eyes fill with tears. ‘It seemed so important just to put them out of sight,’ she went on. ‘I knew there would be plenty of opportunity to wrap them later. While I was up there, I washed and changed and went back downstairs.
‘The music was still playing. I opened the door to the living room and . . . I . . . at first I thought she was wearing the new scarlet camisole. She looked so serene and so beautiful lying there like that. But it couldn’t be. I told you last night, I hadn’t give it to her then. I’d just bought her the camisole for Christmas and I’d put it in the bottom of the wardrobe with everything else. Then I went closer and . . . the smell . . . her eyes . . . Veronica put her mug down and held her head in her hands.
Banks let the silence stretch for a good minute or two. All they could hear was the soft ticking of Mrs Cooper’s kitchen wall clock and a dog barking in the distance.
‘I understand you were married,’ Banks said, when Veronica had wiped her eyes and reached out for her coffee again.
‘I still am, officially. We’re only separated, not divorced. He didn’t want our personal life splashed all over the newspapers. As you may have gathered, Caroline and I lived together.’
Banks nodded. ‘Why should the newspapers have been interested? People get divorced all the time for all kinds of reasons.’
Veronica hesitated and turned her mug slowly in a circle on the table. She wouldn’t met his eyes.
‘Look,’ Banks said, ‘I hardly need remind you what’s happened, how serious this is. We’ll find out anyway. You can save us a lot of time and trouble.’
Veronica looked up at him. ‘You’re right, of course,’ she said. ‘Though I don’t see how it can have anything to do with all this. My husband was – is, Claude Ivers. He’s not exactly a household name, but enough people have heard of him.’
Banks certainly had. Ivers had once been a brilliant concert pianist, but several years ago he had given up performance for composition. He had received important commissions from the BBC, and a number of his pieces had been recorded. Banks even had a tape of his, two wind quintets; they possessed a kind of eerie, natural beauty – not structured, but wandering, like the breeze in a deep forest at night. Veronica Shildon was right. If the press had got hold of the story she would have had no peace tor weeks.
News of the World
reporters would have been climbing the drainpipes and spying in bedroom windows, talking to spiteful neighbours and slighted lovers. He could just see the headlines:
MUSICIAN’S WIFE IN LESBIAN LOVENEST
.
‘Where is your husband now?’ Banks asked.
‘He lives in Redburn, out on the coast. He said the seclusion and the sea would be good for his work. He always did care about his work.’
Banks noticed the bitterness in her tone. ‘Do you ever see one another?’
‘Yes,’ she said. A smile touched her thin lips. ‘It was an acrimonious parting in many ways, but there
is
some affection left. We don’t seem able to stamp that out, whatever we do.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘About a month ago. We occasionally have dinner if he’s in town. I rarely visit the coast, but he comes here from time to time.’
‘To the house?’
‘He’s been here, yes, though he’s always worried someone will see him and know who he is. I try to tell him that people don’t actually recognize composers in the street any more than they do writers, that it’s only television and film stars have to put up with that, but . . .’ She shrugged.
‘Did he know Caroline?’
‘He could hardly
help
knowing her, could he? They’d met a few times.’
‘How did they get on?’
Veronica shrugged. ‘They never seemed to have much to say to one another. They were different as chalk and cheese. He thought she was a scheming slut and she thought he was a selfish, pompous ass. They had nothing in common but affection for me.’
‘Was there any open antagonism?’
‘Open? Good Lord no. That isn’t Claude’s way. He sniped from time to time, made sarcastic comments, cruel remarks, that kind of thing.’
‘Directed towards Caroline?’
‘Directed towards both of us. But I’m sure he blamed Caroline for leading me astray. That’s how he saw it.’
‘Was it that way?’
Veronica shook her head.
‘Was Caroline ever married?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Was she living with anyone before she met you?’
Veronica paused and gripped her coffee mug in both hands as if to warm them. Her fingers were long and tapered and she had freckles on the backs of her hands. She wore a silver ring on the middle finger of her right hand. As she spoke, she looked down at the table. ‘She was living with a woman called Nancy Wood. They’d been together about eight months. The relationship was going very badly.’
‘Where does Nancy Wood live?’
‘In Eastvale. Not too far from here. At least, she did the last I heard.’
‘Did Caroline ever see her after they split up?’
‘Only by accident once or twice in the street.’
‘So they parted on bad terms?’
‘Doesn’t everyone? Much as I admire Shakespeare, I’ve often wondered where the sweetness is in the sorrow.’
‘And before Nancy Wood?’
‘She spent some time in London. I don’t know how long or who with. A few years, at least.’
‘What about her family?’
‘Her mother’s dead. Her father lives in Harrogate. He’s an invalid – been one for years. Her brother Gary looks after him. I told one of your uniformed men last night. Will someone have called?’
Banks nodded. ‘Don’t worry, the Harrogate police will have taken care of it. Is there anything else you can tell me about Caroline’s friends or enemies?’
Veronica sighed and shook her head. She looked exhausted. ‘No,’ she said. ‘We didn’t have a lot of close friends. I suppose we tried to be too much to one another. At least that’s how it feels now she’s gone. You could try the people at the theatre. They were her acquaintances, at least. But we didn’t socialize very much together. I don’t think any of them even knew about her living with me.’
‘We’re still puzzled about the record,’ Banks said. ‘Are you sure it isn’t yours?’
‘I’ve told you, no.’
‘But you recognized the singer?’
‘Magda Kalmar, yes. Claude and I once saw her in
Lucia di Lammermoor
at the Budapest Opera. I was very impressed.’
‘Could the record have been intended as a Christmas present from your husband?’
‘Well, I suppose it could . . . but that means . . . no, I haven’t seen him in a month.’
‘He could have called last night, while you were out.’
She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t believe it. Not Claude.
Banks looked over at Richmond and nodded. Richmond closed his notebook. ‘That’s all for now,’ Banks said.
‘Can I go home?’ she asked him.
‘If you want.’ Banks hadn’t imagined she would want to return to the house so soon, but there was no official objection. Forensics had finished with the place.
‘Just one thing, though,’ he said. ‘We’ll need to have another good look through Caroline’s belongings. Perhaps Detective Sergeant Richmond can accompany you back and look over them now?’
She looked apprehensive at first, then nodded. ‘All right.’
They stood up to leave. Christine Cooper was nowhere in sight, so they walked out into the damp, overcast day and shut the door behind them without saying goodbye.
Veronica opened her front door and went in. Banks lingered at the black iron gate with Richmond. ‘I’m going to the community centre,’ he said. ‘There should be someone from the theatre group there since they’ve been notified of the break-in. How about we meet up at the Queen’s Arms, say twelve or twelve-thirty?’ And he went on to ask Richmond to check Veronica Shildon’s purchases and look closely at the receipts for corroboration of her alibi. ‘And check on Charles Cooper’s movements yesterday,’ he added. ‘It might mean a trip to Barnard Castle, but see if you can come up with anything by phone first.’
Richmond went into the house and Banks set off up the steep part of King Street with his collar turned up against the cold. The community centre wasn’t very far; the walk would be good exercise. As he trudged through the snow, he thought about Veronica Shildon. She presented an odd mixture of reserve and frankness, stoical acceptance and bitterness. He was sure she was holding something back, but he didn’t know what it was. There was something askew about her. Even her clothes didn’t seem to go with the rather repressed and inhibited essence that she projected. ‘Prim and proper’ was the term that sprang to mind. Yet she had left her husband, had gone and set up house with a woman.
All in all, she was an enigma. If anything, Banks thought, she seemed like a woman in the process of great change. Her reference to the analyst indicated that she was at least concerned with self-examination.
It seemed to Banks as if her entire personality had been dismantled and the various bits and pieces didn’t quite fit together; some were new, or newly discovered, and others were old, rusted, decrepit, and she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to discard them or not. Banks had an inkling of what the process felt like from his own readjustment after the move from London. But Veronica’s changes, he suspected, went far deeper. He wondered what she had been like as a wife, and what she would become in the future now that Caroline Hartley had been so viciously excised from her life. For the younger woman had had a great influence on Veronica’s life; Banks was certain of that. Was Veronica a killer? He didn’t think so, but who could say anything so definite about a personality in such turmoil and transition?
On her way to the community centre, DC Susan Gay thought over her behaviour of the previous day and found it distinctly lacking. She had felt even more miserable than usual when she went home from Oakwood Mews that night. Her small flat off York Road always depressed her It was so barren, like a hotel room, so devoid of any real stamp of her presence, and she knew that was because she hardly spent any time there. Mostly she had been working or off on a course somewhere. For years she had paid no attention to her surroundings or to her personal life. The flat was for eating in, sleeping in and, occasionally, for watching half an hour of television.
It seemed like a lifetime since she’d last had a boyfriend, or anyone more than a casual date, anyone who
meant
something to her. She accepted that she wasn’t especially attractive, but she was no ugly sister, either. People had asked her out; the problem was that she always had something more important to do, something related to her career. She was beginning to wonder if the normal sexual impulse had somehow drained away over the years of toil. That incident with the rugby player last night, for example. She knew she shouldn’t have responded with such obvious revulsion. He was only being friendly, even if he was a bit rough about it. And wasn’t that what mistletoe was for? But she had to overreact.