All Sandra said was, ‘I’m sure Alan knows what he’s doing.’ And Susan could have sworn she noticed a ghost of a smile on her face.

‘I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to imply… just…

‘It’s all right,’ Sandra said. ‘I just wanted to point out that what he’s doing isn’t the same. I’m not criticizing you.

‘I don’t suppose I understand his methods yet.’

‘I’m not sure I do, either.’ Sandra laughed.

Suddenly, Susan’s world turned pitch black. She felt a light pressure on her brow and cheeks and she could no longer see Sandra and Marcia. The bustling pub seemed to fall silent, then a voice whispered in her ear, ‘Guess who?’

‘James,’ she said, and her vision was restored.

FOUR

Banks felt unusually tired when he got home about eight o’clock that evening. The paperwork was done, and Gary Hartley had been sent back to Harrogate to face whatever charges could be made.

Sandra had just got home herself, and both children were out. Over a dinner of left-over chicken casserole, Sandra told him about her evening with Susan and Marcia. In turn, Banks tried to explain Gary Hartley to her.

‘He’d always hated Caroline, all his life. She was the bane of his existence. She used to tease him, torment him, torture him, and he never had any idea why. She even tried to drown him once. To cap it all, she left home and he got lumbered with looking after his invalid father, who made it perfectly clear that he still preferred Caroline. When you look at it like that, it’s not a bad motive for murder, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Did he do it?’ Sandra asked.

Banks shook his head. ‘No. Not literally. When she told him what had happened when her mother had been in hospital having him, he suddenly realized why she hated him. She wanted to apologize, make up even, if she could. But Gary’s sensitive. It’s not something you can really work out in your mind. Christ, most people don’t even talk about it. And Caroline had blanked out the memory for years. It was always there, though, under the surface, shoving and cracking the crust. Gary just reacted emotionally. He was overwhelmed by what she said, and suddenly his whole world was turned upside-down. All his anger had been pointed in the wrong direction – at her – for so long.’

‘He killed his father?’

‘He sat in his room downstairs and let the old man starve to death.’

Sandra shivered. ‘Good God!’

She was right to be so appalled, Banks thought. It was an act of utmost cruelty, the kind for which a public ignorant of the facts might demand a return of the noose. But still, he couldn’t forget Gary’s pain and confusion; he couldn’t help but feel pity for the boy, no matter what atrocity he had committed. He gave Sandra the gist of their discussion.

‘I can see what he meant when he said her father had killed her,’ she said, ‘but why implicate himself too? You said he didn’t do it.’

‘But he blamed himself – for being born, if you like After all, that’s when it started. That’s when Caroline was left alone with her father. He couldn’t give us any concrete details of the crime because he hadn’t done it. But in his mind he was responsible. All he could say was that it was all dark to him. Dark and painful.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Sandra said, frowning.

‘I think he was describing being born,’ Banks said ‘Dark. Dark and painful.’

‘My God. And you said Caroline tried to drown him, too?’

‘Yes. He was about four and she was twelve. He can’t remember the details clearly, of course, and there’s no one else alive to tell what happened, but he thinks his mother left him for a moment to fetch some clean towels. She left the bathroom door open and Caroline walked in. He said he remembers how she pulled his feet and his head went under the water. The next thing he knew, he was up again in his mother’s arms gasping for air and Caroline was gone. Nobody ever spoke about it afterwards.’

‘He must have been terrified of her.’

‘He was. And he didn’t know why she was treating him that way. She didn’t know, either. He turned in on himself to shut it all out.’

‘Is he insane?’ Sandra asked.

‘Not for me to say. He’s in need of help, certainly. Just imagine the hatred of all those years boiling over, finding its true object at last. All the humiliation. His own life ruined, knowing he was only second-best to his sister. The only wonder is he didn’t do it sooner. It took Caroline’s murder and the truth about her childhood to set him free.’

Banks remembered the slouching figure that had shuffled out of his office after telling everything. He would be under care in Harrogate now, perhaps going through the whole story again at the hands of less sympathetic interrogators. After all, look at what he’d done. But Gary Hartley wouldn’t be hanged. He wouldn’t even be sent to jail. He would first be bound over for psychiatric evaluation, then he might well spend a good part of his life in mental institutions. Which was better? It was impossible for Banks to decide. Gary’s life was blighted, just as his sister’s had been, though, unlike Caroline, Gary hadn’t even managed to snatch his few moments of happiness.

‘Then who did kill Caroline Hartley?’ Sandra asked.

Banks scratched his head. ‘I’m buggered if I know. I’m pretty sure we can rule out Gary now, and her friends in London. When Caroline moved on, she always seemed to burn her bridges.’

‘Which leaves?’

‘Well, unless we’re dealing with a psycho, we’re back to the locals. Ivers and his girlfriend aren’t home-free yet, whatever they told us. They lied to us at the start, and Patsy Janowski has a good motive for corroborating everything Ivers might claim. She loves the man and wants to hang on to him. And then there’s the amateur crowd. I’ve been intending to have another talk with Teresa Podmore.’

‘And Veronica Shildon?’ Sandra asked. ‘Susan Gay seems to think you’ve been overlooking her.’

‘Susan’s prejudiced.’

‘Are you sure you’re not?’

Banks stared at her. ‘Don’t you know me better than that?’

‘Just asking.’

He shook his head. ‘Officially she’s a suspect, of course, but Veronica Shildon didn’t do it. I must be overlooking something.’

‘Any idea what?’

Banks brought his fist up slowly to his temple. ‘Damned if I know.’ Then he stood up. ‘Hell, it’s been a rough day. I’m having a stiff Scotch then I’m off to bed.’ He poured the drink and went into the hall to his jacket. When he came back he said, ‘And I’m having a bloody cigarette as well, house rule or no house rule.’

12

ONE

The wind numbed Banks to the marrow when he got out of his car near the Lobster Inn the following afternoon. It was 3 January – only three days to twelfth night. The sky was a pale eggshell blue, with a few wispy grey clouds twisting over the horizon like strips of gauze. But the sun had no warmth in it. The wind kicked up little white caps as it danced over the ruffled water and slid up the rough sea wall right onto the front. Banks dashed into the pub.

There already, ensconced in front of the meagre fire, sat Detective Sergeant Jim Hatchley, pint in one ham-like hand and a huge, foul-smelling cigar smouldering between two sausage-shaped fingers of the other. Banks thought he had put on weight; his bulk seemed to loom larger than ever. The sergeant shifted in his seat when Banks came over and sat opposite him.

‘Miserable old bugger saves all his coal till evening,’ he said, by way of greeting, gesturing over at the landlord who sat on a high stool behind the bar reading a tabloid. Bigger crowd then, you see.’

Banks nodded. ‘How’s married life treating you?’

‘Can’t complain. She’s a good lass. I could do without being at the bloody seaside in winter, though. Plays havoc with my rheumatism.’