THREE

When Susan Gay got to the Crooked Billet at six o’clock, James Conran wasn’t there. Casting around for a suitable place to sit, she caught the eye of Marcia Cunningham, the costumes manager, who beckoned her over. Marcia seemed to be sitting with someone, but a group of drinkers blocked Susan’s view.

Susan elbowed her way through the after-work crowd, loosening her overcoat as she went. It was cold outside, and enough snow had fallen to speckle her shoulders, but in the pub it was warm. She took off her green woolly gloves and slipped them in her pocket, then, when she reached Marcia, removed her coat and hung it on a peg by the bar. She noted that the buttons of the pink cardigan Marcia was wearing were incorrectly fastened, making the thing look askew.

‘They’ve not finished yet,’ Marcia said. ‘What with it being so close to first night, or should I say twelfth night, James thought an extra half hour might be in order Especially with the new Maria. They didn’t need me, so he asked me to pass on his apologies if I saw you. He’ll be in a little later.’

‘Thank you.’ Susan smoothed her skirt and sat down.

‘How rude of me,’ Marcia said, indicating the woman beside her. ‘Susan Gay, this is Sandra Banks.’ Then she put her hand to her mouth. ‘Silly me, I’m forgetting you probably know each other already.’

Susan certainly recognized Sandra. With her looks, she would be hard to miss – that determined mouth, lively blue eyes, long blonde hair and dark eyebrows. She possessed a natural elegance. Susan had always envied her and felt awkward and dowdy when she was around.

‘Yes,’ Susan said, ‘we’ve met once or twice. Good evening, Mrs Banks.’

‘Please, call me Sandra.’

‘Sandra was just finishing up some work in the gallery so I popped in and asked if she’d like a drink.’

Susan noticed that their glasses were empty and offered to get a round. When she came back, there was still no sign of James or the others. She didn’t know how she was going to maintain small talk with Sandra Banks for the next twenty minutes or so, especially after the emotional scene she had just witnessed between Banks and Gary Hartley. She felt embarrassed. Strong emotion always made her feel that way, and when Banks had hugged the boy close she had had to avert her gaze. But she had seen her boss’s expression over the back of the boy’s head. It hadn’t given much away, but she had noticed compassion in his eyes and she knew from the set of his lips that he shared the boy’s pain.

Luckily, Marcia saved her. In appearance rather like one of those plump, ruddy-cheeked characters one sees in illustrations of Dickens novels, she had an ebullient manner to match.

‘Any closer to catching those vandals?’ she asked.

Conscious of Sandra watching her, Susan said, ‘Not yet, I’m afraid. A couple of kids did some damage to a youth club in the north end and we think it’s the same ones. We’ve got our eye on them.’

‘Do you think you’ll ever catch them?’

Susan caught Sandra smiling at the question and could hardly keep herself from doing the same. Her discomfort waned slightly. Instead of feeling resentful, under scrutiny, she was beginning to feel more as if she had an ally. Sandra had been through it all, knew what it was like to be police in the public eye. But Susan knew she would still have to be cautious. Sandra was, after all, the detective chief inspector’s wife, and if Susan made any blunders they would certainly be passed on to Banks.

‘Hard to say,’ she replied. ‘We’ve got a couple of leads and several likely candidates. That’s about all.’

What she hadn’t said was that they had at least found a pattern to the kind of places the kids liked to wreck. Most of them were community centres of some kind, never private establishments like cinemas or pubs. As there was a limited number of such social clubs in Eastvale, extra men had been posted on guard. Their instructions were to lie low, blend in and catch the kids in the act, rather than stand as sentries and scare them off. Soon they might put a stop to the trail of vandalism that had cost the town a fortune over the past few months.

‘It was such a mess,’ Marcia said, shaking her head. ‘All those costumes, ruined. I almost sat down and cried. Anyway, I took them home and now I’ve a bit of time I’m sorting through the remnants to see if I can’t resurrect some. I’ve put a couple together already. I hate waste.’

‘That sounds a hell of a job,’ said Sandra. ‘I don’t think I could face it.’

‘Oh, I love sewing, fixing things, making things. It makes me feel useful. And I see what I’ve done at the end. Job satisfaction, I suppose, though it’s a pity there’s no pay to match.’

Sandra laughed. ‘I’d offer to help but I’ve got two left thumbs when it comes to sewing. I can’t even get the bloody thread through the needle. Poor Alan has to sew his own buttons on.’

Susan tried to imagine Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks sewing buttons on a shirt, but she couldn’t.

‘It’s all right,’ Marcia said. ‘Keeps me out of mischief these cold winter evenings. Since Frank’s been gone I find I need to do more and more to occupy myself.’

‘Marcia’s husband died six months ago,’ Sandra explained to Susan.

‘Aye,’ said Marcia. ‘Just like that, he went. Good as new one moment, then, bang, curtains. And never had a day’s illness in his life. Didn’t drink and gave up his pipe years ago. Only sixty, he was.’

Susan shook her head. ‘It does seem unfair.’

‘Whoever told us life would be fair, love? Nobody did, that’s who. Anyway, enough of that. Walking out with Mr Conran are you?’

Susan felt herself blushing. ‘Well I… I…’

‘I know,’ Marcia went on. ‘It’s none of my business. Tell me to shut up if you want. I’m just an old busybody, that’s all.’

Now Susan couldn’t help laughing. ‘We’ve been out to dinner a couple of times, and to the pictures. That’s all.’

Marcia nodded. ‘I wasn’t probing into your sex life, lass, just curious, that’s all. What’s he like when he’s out of his director’s hat?’

‘He makes me laugh.’

‘There’s a few in that theatre over there could do with a laugh or two.’

Susan leaned forward. ‘Marcia, you know that girl who was killed, Caroline Hartley? Was there really anything between her and James?’

‘Not that I know of, love,’ Marcia answered. ‘Just larked around, that’s all. Besides, she was one of them, wasn’t she? Not that I… well, you know what I mean.’

‘Yes, but James didn’t know that. None of you did.’

‘Still,’ Marcia insisted, ‘nothing to it as far as I could see. Oh, he had his eye on her all right. What man wouldn’t? Maybe not your Playboy material, but dangerous as dynamite nonetheless.’

‘What makes you say that?’ Sandra chipped in.

‘I don’t really know. Maybe it’s hindsight. I just get feelings about people sometimes, and I knew from the start that one was trouble. Still, it looks as if she meant trouble for herself mostly, doesn’t it?’

‘Is James Conran a suspect?’ Sandra asked.

‘Your husband seems to think so,’ Susan said. ‘But everyone who had anything to do with Caroline Hartley is a suspect.’

‘Aren’t you worried about getting involved with him?’ Sandra asked.

‘A bit, I suppose. I mean, not that I think James is guilty of anything, just that being involved might blur my objectivity. It’s an awkward position to be in, that’s all. Besides,’ she laughed, ‘he’s my old teacher. It feels strange to be having dinner with him. I like him, but I’m keeping him at arm’s length. At least until this business is over.’

‘Good for you,’ Sandra said.

‘Anyway, I don’t see as it should matter. The chief inspector went off to London with Veronica Shildon, and I’d say she’s a prime suspect.’ Susan realized too late what she had implied, and wondered if an attempt to backtrack and make her meaning clear would only make things worse.