Authors: Peter Robinson
Before long, she became aware of a slight tickle up the side of her leg. She looked down and saw that James was touching her, very gently. She shifted in her seat – not too abruptly, she hoped – and he stopped.
The music ended and Susan finished what little she had left in her glass. ‘I’d better be going,’ she said, sitting forward in her chair.
‘Don’t go just yet,’ James said. ‘It’s been such a wonderful evening. I don’t want it to end.’
Susan laughed. Didn’t he feel the same unease she did? Maybe not. Better for her that he didn’t. She must act naturally, then investigate her vague fears later from a more secure position. Surely, she would then discover how absurd they were. No doubt the beer and brandy had caused her imagination to run wild. It was most important now, though, that she make an early exit without letting James see that she entertained any suspicions at all.
‘Don’t be such a romantic.’ She laughed. ‘There’ll be plenty of other evenings.’
She tried to sit up, but he was on his knees, blocking her way.
‘James!’
‘What’s the harm in it?’ he said, leaning forward towards her.
He put his hands on her shoulders and she pushed them off. ‘If this is what a first night does to you . . .’ she said, trying for a light tone. But she couldn’t think of a way to end her sentence.
Finally, he moved aside and she managed to get to her feet. She felt as if she were treading on thin ice. Did he know what she was beginning to suspect? How could he? Was it obvious that she was humouring him and trying to get out fast? All she knew was that she had to stay cool and get out of here. Maybe then she would be able to dismiss her fears. But she couldn’t stay, not after the frightening images had started in her mind. Crazy or not, she had to talk seriously to Banks about James, no matter how difficult it might be to swallow her pride and her feelings.
‘Don’t sulk,’ she said, tousling his hair. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’
‘Damn you!’ he said, jerking away from her touch. Anger flashed in his eyes. ‘What’s wrong with you? Don’t you think I’m man enough for you? You’re just like her, aren’t you?’
Susan felt as if she had been thrust under a cold shower. Every nerve-end tingled. She edged closer to the door. ‘Like who, James?’ she asked quietly.
He turned to face her, and she could see that he knew. It was too late. ‘You know damn well who I’m talking about, don’t you?’
‘I don’t even know what you’re talking about,’ Susan lied. Somehow, she thought, if she didn’t say the name, there was still a chance.
‘Don’t lie. You can’t fool me. I can tell. I can tell what you’re thinking. You’ve been toying with me, leading me on all this time, trying to get me to confess. It’s all been a game, hasn’t it?’ He moved quickly so that he was standing between Susan and the door.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what you mean. And move out of the way, please. I want to leave.’
Conran shook his head slowly. ‘You’re thinking about me and Caroline, aren’t you?’
There was no point pretending any longer. Susan looked at him and said, ‘You went to her, didn’t you? That night.’
‘It was an accident,’ Conran pleaded. ‘It was a ghastly accident.’
‘James, you’ve got to—’
‘No! That’s where you’re wrong. No, I don’t. It was all an accident. All that stupid bitch’s fault.’ And suddenly, he didn’t look like the James she knew any longer. Not at all like the James she knew and thought she trusted.
The four of them stood in Marcia Cunningham’s front room and looked at the remains of the dress.
‘Who would do something like that?’ Sandra asked.
‘That’s the point,’ Banks said. ‘No casual vandal would go to such trouble, at least not for any reason we can think of.’
‘But it must have happened then,’ Marcia said. ‘I’d have noticed if it had been done before. And certainly no one from the cast would have done it.’
‘I’m not saying it was done before,’ Banks said. ‘What I’m saying is that it’s possible vandals didn’t do this.’
‘Then who?’
‘Look at this.’ Banks passed the dress to Sandra, who studied the remains of its front. ‘Look at those spots.’
‘What are they? Paint?’
‘Could be. But I don’t think so. They’re hard to see because the dress is so dark. And we can’t be sure, not without forensic examination, but if I’m right . . .’
‘What are you getting, Alan?’ Sandra asked. ‘You’re not making much sense, you know.’
‘The last person entering Caroline Hartley’s house was a woman, according to all our witnesses. And Patsy Janowski said she saw a woman who walked funny at the end of the street. I thought it was because she might have been wearing high heels.’
‘But that’s stupid,’ Sandra said. ‘In that weather?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Are you suggesting that the killer wore this dress?’ Marcia asked. ‘I can’t believe it.’ She pointed at the dress. ‘And that’s . . . that’s blood!’
‘The way Caroline Hartley was stabbed,’ Banks said, ‘there was no way the murderer could have avoided blood stains. If she was wearing the dress, it would have been easy enough to put her raincoat on again and get away from the scene, get time to think. I don’t think the murder was planned, not right from the start. But then there was still a blood-stained dress to explain. Why not simply cut off the sleeves and the stained front, then stage a break-in and cut up the other dresses? That would raise much less suspicion than just doing away with the dress altogether. If our killer had done that, Marcia would have missed it and started to wonder what might have happened. But how could the killer know that Marcia would be so diligent as to try and sew them back together again?’
‘But that means,’ Marcia said slowly, ‘that the killer was someone who knew about our costumes, someone who had access to them. It means—’
‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘And if she was wearing shoes, not boots, what does that suggest?’
‘We don’t have any boots,’ Marcia said. ‘Not that I know of. Shoes, yes, but not boots.’
‘The killer couldn’t find any suitable boots to complete the disguise, so had to make do with women’s shoes.’
‘I still don’t understand,’ Marcia said.
‘It was the play gave me the idea, that and what Patsy said. All that stuff about a woman walking funny, and a play about confused identity. Couldn’t it have been a man dressed as a woman? Would any of the shoes have been big enough?’
‘Well . . . yes, of course,’ Marcia said. ‘We have all kinds of sizes. But why? Why would anybody dress up and do that?’
‘We don’t know,’ Banks said. ‘A sick joke? Maybe someone knew Caroline was a lesbian, someone who wanted her badly. Do you have a plastic bag?’
‘I think so . . . somewhere.’ Marcia gestured vaguely, her brows knit together.
‘There’s one in the larder, by the newspapers, love,’ said Albert, who had remained silent until now. ‘I’ll go and get it.’
Albert brought the bag and Banks put the dress in it.
‘What about the break-in?’ Marcia asked.
‘It could have been staged later, when the killer discovered what he’d done.’ Banks looked at his watch. ‘It’s after eleven thirty,’ he said. ‘Let’s try the Crooked Billet and see if they’re still there.’
‘Who?’ asked Marcia.
‘Susan and Conran,’ Banks said. ‘I assume they
are
together.’ He turned to Marcia. ‘When did you tell Susan about this dress?’
‘The other day. She couldn’t make anything of it.’
‘That’s hardly surprising. Does James Conran know?’
‘I haven’t told him,’ Marcia said.
‘Has Susan?’
‘I don’t know. I mean, she’s seeing him. She might have mentioned it. Why?’
Banks looked at Sandra. ‘I don’t want to alarm anyone,’ he said, ‘but if I’m right, we’d better try to find Susan right away. Excuse us, Marcia, Albert.’ And he took Sandra by the arm and led her to the door.
‘But why?’ Sandra asked.
‘Because I think James Conran’s the killer,’ Banks said on their way down the path. ‘I think he wanted Caroline Hartley so badly he went over to the house to see her. I don’t know why he dressed up, or what happened in there, but he’s the only one in the society apart from Marcia who had access to the prop room.’
They got in the car and Banks cursed the ignition until it started on his fourth attempt. ‘Don’t you see?’ he said as he skidded off. ‘According to Faith and Teresa, Conran was the last one to leave the centre. And even if he did go to the pub, he had a key. He could have easily gone back there and changed. Why do you think he was paying so much attention to Susan? He wanted to know how the investigation was going, how close we were.’
‘My God,’ said Sandra. ‘Poor Susan.’
James blocked Susan’s way. ‘She asked for it, you know,’ he said. ‘She was nothing but a prick-teaser, then she . . .’
‘Then she what?’ Susan felt real fear now, like ice in her spine. Her mind was racing in search of a way out. If only she had told Banks about the dress, then maybe he would have been able to put two and two together before she had. If only she could keep Conran talking. If only . . .
‘You know what,’ he said. ‘It turned out she didn’t like men, she was just playing, leading me on, just like you were, playing me for a fool.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Stop lying. It’s too late now. What are you going to do?’ James asked.
‘What do you think?’
‘Turn me in? Can’t you let it go?’
‘Don’t be an idiot.’
‘What is it with you, Susan? Just what makes you tick? Professional all the way?’
‘Something like that,’ Susan muttered, ‘but it doesn’t really matter any more, does it?’
‘You could forget this ever happened,’ James said, moving forward and reaching for her hand. She noticed a sheen of sweat on his forehead and upper lip.
She snatched her hand away. ‘No, I couldn’t. Don’t be a bloody fool, James. Let me go. Don’t make things worse.’ He was still rational, she thought; James was no madman, just troubled. She could talk sense to him, and he might listen. The main problem was that he was highly strung and, at the moment, in a state of near panic. She would have to be very careful how she handled him.
‘Where do you want to go?’ he asked.
‘To the phone,’ she said calmly.
Conran stood aside and let her pass. But no sooner had she picked up the receiver than he grabbed it from her and pulled her back into the front room.
‘No!’ he said. ‘I can’t let you. I’m not going to jail. Not just because of that perverted slut. Don’t you see? It wasn’t my fault.’
‘Don’t be a fool, James. What’s the alternative?’
Conran licked his lips and looked around the room like a caged animal. ‘I could get out of here. Go away. You’d never have to see me again. Just don’t try to stop me.’
‘I have to. You know that.’
‘I mean it. I don’t want to hurt you. Look, we could go together. I’ve got some money saved up. Wherever you want. We could go somewhere warm.’
‘James,’ Susan said softly, ‘you’ve got a problem. You don’t necessarily have to go to jail. Maybe you can get help. A doctor—’
‘What do you mean, problems? I don’t have any problems.’ Conran pointed at his chest. ‘Me? You tell me I’ve got problems? She was the one with the problem. Not me. I’m not queer. I’m not a homosexual. I’m normal.’
His face was flushed and sweaty now and he was breathing fast. Susan wasn’t sure if she could talk him down and persuade him to give himself up. Not if he didn’t want to.
‘Nobody says you’re not normal,’ she said cautiously. ‘But you’re obviously upset. You need help. Let me help you, James.’
‘I’m not going with you,’ he said. ‘And if you phone, I won’t be here when your friends arrive.’
‘You’re making it worse,’ Susan said. ‘At least if you come in with me, it’ll look good. It’s no use running. We’ll get you in the end. You know we will.’
‘I don’t care. I’m not going to jail. You don’t understand. I couldn’t live in jail. The things they do in there . . . I’ve heard about them.’ He shuddered.
‘I told you, James. It might not mean prison. Perhaps you can get help in a hospital.’
‘No! There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m perfectly normal. I’ll not have doctors poking about in my head.’
Susan got up and walked towards the front door. She held her breath as she turned her back on him. Before she even got to the hallway, she felt his hands around her neck. They were strong and she couldn’t pry them apart. Because he was standing behind her, all she could do was wriggle, and it didn’t help. She flailed back with her hands but met only empty air. She tried to swing her hips back into his groin, but she couldn’t reach him. Her throat hurt and she couldn’t breathe. She lashed back with one foot, felt it connect and heard him gasp. But his grip never slackened. She felt all the life and sensation going out of her body, like water down the drain. Her knees buckled and he let her sink forward to the floor, his hands still locked tight around her throat. The blackness had seeped in everywhere now. She thought she could hear someone hammering on the door, then she heard nothing at all.
‘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.