Past Reason Hated by Peter Robinson Page A

success I decided to burn my bridges. Much as I enjoyed it, teaching made too many demands on my time and energy.’
    ‘How do you make your living now? Surely not from the Eastvale Amateur Dramatic Society?’
    ‘Good Lord, no! That’s just a hobby, really. I work as a freelance writer. I’ve also had a few plays produced on television, some radio work.’
    Banks looked around the room again. ‘Don’t you even watch your own work?’
    Conran laughed. ‘I do have a television, as a matter of fact. I don’t watch it very often so I keep it upstairs in the spare room. One of the advantages of being a bachelor. Plenty of space.’
    ‘Are you working on anything right now?’
    Conran beamed and sat forward, hands clasped in his lap. ‘As a matter of fact, I am. I’ve just got this wonderful commission from the BBC to dramatize John Cowper Powys’s novel, Weymouth Sands. It’ll be a hard task, very hard, but it pays well, and it’s an honour to be involved. I’m not the only writer in the project, of course, but still . . .’
    ‘You’re a long way from Weymouth,’ Banks remarked ‘Come from down there?’
    ‘Little Cheney, actually. You won’t have heard of it. It’s a small village in Dorset.’
    ‘I thought I could spot a trace of that Hardy country burr. Well, Mr Conran, sorry to have bothered you on Christmas Eve. Hope we haven’t kept you from your family.’
    ‘I have no family,’ Conran said, ‘and you haven’t kept me from anything, no.’ He stood up and shook hands, then helped Susan on with her coat.
    Back outside at the car, Banks turned to Susan and said, ‘Do you know, I think he fancies you.’
    Susan blushed. ‘He probably fancies anything in a skirt.’
    ‘You could be right. He seemed a bit edgy, didn’t he? I wonder if there’s more to this dramatic society than meets the eye? You know the kind of thing, fiery passions lurking beneath the surface of dull suburban life.’
    Susan laughed. ‘Could be,’ she said. ‘Or perhaps he’s just shaken up.’
    ‘And did I miss something,’ Banks said, ‘or did he tell us nothing at all?’
    ‘He told us nothing,’ Susan agreed. ‘But I certainly got the impression he knew much more than he let on.’
    Banks opened the car door. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I think he did, didn’t he. That’s the trouble with cases like this. Everybody’s got something to hide.’
TWO
    On Christmas Eve at four o’clock the Queen’s Arms was packed. Businessmen, off work early for the holidays, loosened their ties, smoked cigars and laughed themselves red in the face at dirty jokes; friends met for a last few drinks before parting to spend the holidays with their families; groups of female office workers drank brightly coloured concoctions and laughed about the way the mail-room boy’s hands had roamed during the office party. A large proportion of the Eastvale police force, denied their favourite spot by the fire, had pulled together two round tables with dimpled copper tops and cast-iron legs for their own party. It was a movable feast; men nipped over from the station for a quick one, then returned to cover for others. Even Fred Rowe managed to drop by for a couple of pints while young Tolliver took over the front desk. The only real continuity was provided by the CID – Gristhorpe, Banks, Richmond and Susan Gay – who had managed to hang on to their chairs amidst the chaos around them.
    Everyone seemed to be having a good time. The atmosphere was cheery with its blazing fire and green and red decorations. The only thing Banks found objectionable, especially after a couple of pints, was the music that Cyril, the landlord, had piped in for the occasion. It sounded like airport-music versions of Christmas carols Gristhorpe didn’t seem to mind, but he was tone-deaf.
    After the visit to Conran’s, they had achieved very little that day, and nothing more would be achieved by working longer. By mid-afternoon it had been almost impossible to