FIVE

‘I’ll call an ambulance and stay with her,’ Sandra said, kneeling over Susan.

Banks nodded and dashed back to the Cortina. He had heard Conran’s car start up as they broke in. There was only one way his back lane led, and that was to the main Swainsdale road. Once there, he could turn back towards Eastvale or head out into the dale. As Banks negotiated the turns, he radioed for help from Eastvale and from Helmthorpe, which had one patrol car. If Conran didn’t turn off on one of the side roads, at least they could make sure the main road was blocked and he could get no further than the dale’s largest village. At the junction, Conran turned left into Swainsdale.

The Cortina skidded on a patch of ice. Banks steadied it. He knew the road like the back of his hand. Narrow for the most part, with drystone walls on either side, it dipped and meandered, treacherous in the icy darkness. He kept Conran’s tail-lights in view, about a couple of hundred yards ahead.

When he got closer, he put his foot down. Conran did the same. It was almost like racing through a dark tunnel, or doing a slalom run. Snow was piled almost as high as the walls at the roadsides. Beyond, the fields stretched up the daleside, an endless swath of dull pearl in the moonlight.

Conran screeched through Fortford, almost losing control as he took the bend by the pub. The car’s side scraped against the jutting stones in the wall and sent a shower of sparks out into the night. Banks slowed and the Cortina took the turn easily. He knew there was a long stretch of straight road before the next bend.

Conran had gained a hundred yards or so, but once around the corner, Banks put his foot down and set about catching up. The red tail-lights drew closer. Banks glanced ahead for landmarks and saw the drumlin within the six leaning trees silhouetted by the moon about a mile in front of them. Just before that, there would be another kink in the road.

He was right behind Conran’s car now, but there was no easy way to stop him. He couldn’t pull in front in such conditions on a narrow road. If he tried, Conran would easily be able to nudge him into the wall. All he could do was ride his tail and push, hoping Conran would panic and make a mistake.

A few moments later, it happened. Either through ignorance, or just plain panic, Conran missed the bend. Banks had already slowed enough to take it, but instead he eased on the brake as he watched Conran’s car slide up the heaped snow in slow motion, take off the top of the dry-stone wall, spraying sparks again as it went, and land with a loud thud in the field.

Banks turned off his engine. The silence after the accident was so deep he could hear the blood ring in his ears. On a distant hillside, a sheep bleated – an eerie sound on a winter’s night.

Banks got out of the car and climbed the wall to see what had happened. There was very little damage as far as he could tell by the moonlight. Conran’s car lay on its side, the two free wheels spinning. Conran himself had managed to get the passenger door open and was now struggling up the hillside, thigh-deep in snow. The farther he went, the deeper the snow became, until he could move no more. Banks walked in his wake and found him curled up and shivering in a cot of snow. He looked up as Banks came towards him.

‘Please let me go,’ he said. ‘Please! I don’t want to go to jail. I couldn’t stand being in jail.’

Banks thought of Caroline Hartley’s body, and of Susan Gay laid out on the floor, her face purple. ‘Think yourself bloody lucky we don’t still have hanging,’ he said, and dragged Conran up out of the snow.

15

ONE

Only the sound of thin ice splintering underfoot accompanied Banks on his way to Oakwood Mews later that night. Eastvale was asleep, tucked up warm and safe in bed, and not even the faint sound of a distant car disturbed its tranquillity. But the town didn’t know what had gone on between Caroline Hartley and James Conran in that cosy, firelit room with the stately music playing. It didn’t know what folly, irony and pride had finally erupted in blood. Banks did. Sometimes, as he walked, he thought that his next step would break the crust over a great darkness and he would fall. He told himself not to be ridiculous, to keep going.

Apart from the dim, amber light shed by its widely spaced, black-leaded gas lamps, Oakwood Mews was as dark as the rest of the side street at that time of night. Not one light showed in a window. Easy, Banks thought, for a murderer to creep in and out unseen now.

For a moment, he stood by the iron gate and looked at number eleven. Should he? It was two thirty in the morning. He was tired, and Veronica Shildon was no doubt fast asleep. She wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep after what he had to tell her. Sighing, he opened the gate. He had a promise to keep.

He pressed the bell and heard the chimes ring faintly in the hall. Nothing happened, so he rang again and stood back. A few seconds later a light came on in the front upstairs window. Banks heard the soft footsteps and the turning of the key in the lock. The door opened an inch or two, on its chain. When Veronica saw who it was she immediately took off the chain and let him in.

‘I had an idea it was you,’ Veronica said. ‘Will you give me a few moments?’ She pointed him towards the living room and went back upstairs.

Banks turned on a shaded wall light and sat down. Embers glowed in the grate. It was cool in the room, but the memory of heat, at least, remained. Banks unfastened his heavy coat but didn’t take it off.

In a few minutes, Veronica returned in a blue and white track suit. She had combed her hair and washed the sleep out of her eyes.

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but I can’t stand sitting around in a dressing gown. It always makes me think I’m ill. Let me put this on.’ And she switched on a small electric heater. Its bar shone bright red in no time. ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea or something?’

‘Given the night I’ve had,’ Banks said, ‘a drop of whisky would be more welcome. That is, if you have any?’

‘Of course. Please forgive me if I don’t join you. I’d prefer cocoa.’

While Veronica made her cocoa, Banks sipped the Scotch and stared into the embers. It had all been so easy once they had got back to the station: wet clothes drying over the heater in the cramped office; steam rising; Conran spilling his guts in the hope of some consideration at sentencing. Now came the hard part.

Veronica sat in the armchair near the electric fire and folded her legs under her. She cradled the cocoa mug in both hands and blew on the surface. Banks noticed that her hands were shaking.

‘I always used to have cocoa before bed when I was young,’ she said. ‘It’s funny, they say it helps you sleep although it’s got caffeine in it. Do you understand that?’ Suddenly she looked directly at Banks. He could see the pain and fear in her eyes. ‘I’m prattling on, aren’t I?’ she said. ‘I assume you’ve got something important to tell me, or you wouldn’t be here at this time.’ She looked away.

Banks lit a cigarette and sucked the smoke in deeply. Are you sure you want to know?’ he asked.

‘No, I’m not sure. I’m frightened. I’d rather forget everything that happened. But I never got anywhere by denying things, refusing to face the truth.’

‘All right.’ Now he was there, he didn’t know where to start. The name, just the bald name, seemed inadequate but the why was even more meaningless.

Veronica helped him out. ‘Will you tell me who first?’ she asked. ‘Who killed Caroline?’

Banks flicked some ash into the grate. ‘It was James Conran.’

Veronica said nothing at first. Only the nerve twitching at the side of her jaw showed that she reacted in any way. ‘How did you find out?’ she asked finally.