reach anyone on the phone. If you did happen to be lucky enough, all you got for your trouble was a drunken babble in the earpiece. Police work may never stop completely, but it does slow down at times. The only coppers working harder than ever now would be the road patrols chasing after drunken drivers.
Richmond had talked to Caroline’s staff at the Garden Café, but found out nothing more about her. No, they had never suspected she might be a lesbian; she had kept her private life to herself, just as Conran had said. She was cheerful and friendly, yes, good with customers, but a closed book when it came to her personal life. She never talked about boyfriends or shared her problems, as some of the other women did.
Richmond had also dropped in on Christine Cooper and taken her through her story again. The details matched word for word. He had first taken the initiative of phoning his mother and asking her what had happened on the 22 December broadcasts of Emmerdale Farm and Coronation Street. Passing himself off as a fan who had missed his favourite programmes, he asked Christine Cooper to give him a blow by blow description of them, which she did. That accounted for her whereabouts between seven and eight o’clock. Caroline Hartley had last been seen alive around seven-twenty, answering the door to a female visitor. Unless Christine Cooper had nipped out during the commercials and stabbed her with the handy kitchen knife, or unless she was such a cunning killer she had videotaped the television programmes in case someone asked about them, then it looked as if she was out of the running. So far, Richmond had not been able to satisfy himself about her husband’s alibi, but he planned to pay a visit to Barnard Castle after Christmas, when the shop reopened.
The only new fact he had discovered, via the PNC, was that Caroline Hartley had been arrested for soliciting in London five years ago. That seemed to back up what her brother, Gary, had said about her life there, but it still left a lot unsaid. Had Gary actually known what she was doing, or had he made an inspired guess? Both he and Caroline’s father said that Caroline had never contacted them during her time in London. Were they lying? If so, why?
For the moment, though, the festive season chased away day to day concerns. Even Susan Gay was knocking back the Old Peculiar and chatting with the others more easily than she usually did.
‘What are you doing over the holidays?’ Banks asked her over the racket.
‘Going home.’
‘Because if you’re stuck for somewhere,’ he went on, ‘you can always join us for Christmas dinner. I know you don’t get enough time off to really go anywhere.’
‘Thanks,’ Susan said, ‘but it’s all right. Sheffield’s not that far.’
Banks nodded. Richmond, he knew, would be spending the day with his family in town. Gristhorpe was coming to the Banks’s this year. For their first two Christmases up north, Banks and his family had gone out to his farmhouse where Mrs Hawkins, the woman ‘what did for him’, had done them proud. This year, however, Mrs Hawkins and her husband had been invited to their daughter’s in Cambridge. It would be the first Christmas away for them, but as the daughter had recently borne them a grandchild, they could hardly refuse. Gristhorpe had played hard to get at first, but had succumbed without too much of a fight at Banks’s third invitation. Banks suspected that it was actually Sandra’s telling Gristhorpe that the house was now a ‘smoke-free environment’ that had finally tipped the balance.
At five o’clock, Banks decided it was time to leave. He had had three pints of Theakston’s bitter, just about the right amount to work up an appetite. Sandra would be expecting him for dinner. He was due to help with the big meal tomorrow – mostly the dull stuff, he imagined, chopping vegetables and setting the table, as his cooking skills were limited – but tonight was Sandra’s
Richmond had talked to Caroline’s staff at the Garden Café, but found out nothing more about her. No, they had never suspected she might be a lesbian; she had kept her private life to herself, just as Conran had said. She was cheerful and friendly, yes, good with customers, but a closed book when it came to her personal life. She never talked about boyfriends or shared her problems, as some of the other women did.
Richmond had also dropped in on Christine Cooper and taken her through her story again. The details matched word for word. He had first taken the initiative of phoning his mother and asking her what had happened on the 22 December broadcasts of Emmerdale Farm and Coronation Street. Passing himself off as a fan who had missed his favourite programmes, he asked Christine Cooper to give him a blow by blow description of them, which she did. That accounted for her whereabouts between seven and eight o’clock. Caroline Hartley had last been seen alive around seven-twenty, answering the door to a female visitor. Unless Christine Cooper had nipped out during the commercials and stabbed her with the handy kitchen knife, or unless she was such a cunning killer she had videotaped the television programmes in case someone asked about them, then it looked as if she was out of the running. So far, Richmond had not been able to satisfy himself about her husband’s alibi, but he planned to pay a visit to Barnard Castle after Christmas, when the shop reopened.
The only new fact he had discovered, via the PNC, was that Caroline Hartley had been arrested for soliciting in London five years ago. That seemed to back up what her brother, Gary, had said about her life there, but it still left a lot unsaid. Had Gary actually known what she was doing, or had he made an inspired guess? Both he and Caroline’s father said that Caroline had never contacted them during her time in London. Were they lying? If so, why?
For the moment, though, the festive season chased away day to day concerns. Even Susan Gay was knocking back the Old Peculiar and chatting with the others more easily than she usually did.
‘What are you doing over the holidays?’ Banks asked her over the racket.
‘Going home.’
‘Because if you’re stuck for somewhere,’ he went on, ‘you can always join us for Christmas dinner. I know you don’t get enough time off to really go anywhere.’
‘Thanks,’ Susan said, ‘but it’s all right. Sheffield’s not that far.’
Banks nodded. Richmond, he knew, would be spending the day with his family in town. Gristhorpe was coming to the Banks’s this year. For their first two Christmases up north, Banks and his family had gone out to his farmhouse where Mrs Hawkins, the woman ‘what did for him’, had done them proud. This year, however, Mrs Hawkins and her husband had been invited to their daughter’s in Cambridge. It would be the first Christmas away for them, but as the daughter had recently borne them a grandchild, they could hardly refuse. Gristhorpe had played hard to get at first, but had succumbed without too much of a fight at Banks’s third invitation. Banks suspected that it was actually Sandra’s telling Gristhorpe that the house was now a ‘smoke-free environment’ that had finally tipped the balance.
At five o’clock, Banks decided it was time to leave. He had had three pints of Theakston’s bitter, just about the right amount to work up an appetite. Sandra would be expecting him for dinner. He was due to help with the big meal tomorrow – mostly the dull stuff, he imagined, chopping vegetables and setting the table, as his cooking skills were limited – but tonight was Sandra’s
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