‘What do you mean?’

‘Veronica’s ex-husband. She was a married woman before she came here. I shouldn’t think he’d be very happy about things, would he? And I’ll bet there was someone in Caroline’s life, too – a woman or a man. She didn’t seem the kind to be on her own for too long, if you know what I mean.’

‘Do you know anything about Veronica Shildon’s ex-husband?’

‘Only that they sold the big house they used to have outside town and split the money. She bought this place and he moved off somewhere. The coast, I think. The whole thing seemed very hush-hush to me. She’s never even told me his name.’

‘The Yorkshire coast?’

‘Yes, I think so. But Veronica can tell you all about him.’

‘You didn’t see him in the neighbourhood yesterday evening, did you?’

Mrs Cooper pulled her robe together at the front, looking down and making a double chin as she did so. ‘No. I told you all I saw or heard last night. Besides, I wouldn’t recognize him from Adam. I’ve never seen him.

Banks heard stairs creak and looked around to see Veronica Shildon standing in the doorway. She was dressed as she had been the previous evening – tight jeans, which flattered her slim, curved hips, trim waist and flat stomach, and a high-necked, chunky-knit green sweater, which brought out the colour in her eyes. She was tall, about five foot ten, and poised. Banks thought there was something odd about seeing her in such casual wear; she looked as if she belonged in a pearl silk blouse and a navy business suit. She had taken the time to brush her short hair and put a little make-up on, but her face still looked drawn underneath it all, and her eyes, disarmingly honest and naked, were still red from crying.

Banks tried to stand up, but he was too closely wedged in by the table.

‘I’m sorry to bother you so soon,’ he said, ‘but the quicker we get moving the more chance we have.’

‘I understand,’ she said. ‘Please don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right.’

She swayed a little as she walked towards the table. Mrs Cooper took her elbow and guided her to a chair, then brought her some coffee and disappeared, muttering something about things to attend to.

‘In cases like this,’ Banks began, ‘it helps if we know what the person was doing, where she was, previous to the incident.’ He knew he sounded trite, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to say ‘victim’ and ‘murder’.

Veronica nodded. ‘Of course. As far as I know Caroline went to work, but you’ll have to check that. She runs the Garden Café on Castle Hill Road.’

‘I know it,’ Banks said. It was an elegant little place, very up-market, with a stunning view of the formal gardens and the river.

‘She usually finishes at three on a weekday, after the lunchtime crowd. They don’t open for tea off-season. On a normal day she’d come home, do some shopping, or perhaps drop by at the shop for a while to help out.’

‘Shop?’

‘I own a flower shop – or rather my partner and I do It’s mostly a matter of his money and my management. It’s just round the corner from here, down King Street.’

‘You said on a “normal” day. Was yesterday not normal?’

She looked straight at him and her eyes let him know that his choice of words had been inappropriate. Yesterday, indeed, had not been normal. But she simply said, ‘No. Yesterday after work they had a rehearsal. They’re doing Twelfth Night at the community centre. It’s quite a heavy rehearsal schedule as the director’s set on actually opening on twelfth night.’

‘What time did rehearsals run?’

‘Usually between four and six, so she would have been home at about quarter past six, if she’d come home immediately.’

‘And was she likely to?’

‘They often went for a drink after, but yesterday she came straight home.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I phoned to see if she was there and to tell her I’d be a bit late because I was doing some shopping.’

‘What time?’

‘About seven.’

‘How did she sound?’

‘Fine… she sounded fine.’

‘Was there any special reason for her not going for a drink with the others yesterday?’

‘No. She just said she was tired after rehearsal and she…’

‘Yes?’

‘We’ve both been so busy lately. She wanted to spend some time with me… a quiet evening at home.’

‘Where had you been that evening?’

Veronica didn’t show a flicker of resentment at being asked for an alibi. ‘I closed the shop at five thirty, then I went for my six o’clock appointment with Dr Ursula Kelly, my therapist. She’s Caroline’s too. Her office is on Kilnsey Street, just off Castle Hill. I walked. We do have a car but we don’t use it much in town, mostly just for trips away.’ She blew on her coffee and took a sip. ‘The session lasted an hour. After that, I went to the shopping centre to buy a few things. Christmas presents mostly.’ She faltered a little. ‘Then I walked home. I… I got here about eight o’clock.’

No doubt it would be possible to check her alibi in the shopping centre, Banks thought. Some shopkeepers might remember her. But it was a busy time of year for them, and he doubted that any would be able to recollect what day and what time they had last seen her. He could examine the receipts, too. Sometimes the modern electronic cash registers gave the time of purchase as well as the date.

‘Can you tell me exactly what happened, what you did, from the moment you left the shops and walked home last night?’

Veronica took a deep breath and closed her eyes. ‘I walked home,’ she began, ‘in the snow. It was a beautiful evening. I stopped and listened to the carol singers in the market square for a while. They were singing “O, Little Town of Bethlehem”. It’s always been one of my favourites. When I got home I… I called out hello to Caroline, but she didn’t answer. I thought nothing of it. She could have been in the kitchen. And then there was the music… well, that was odd. So I took the opportunity and crept upstairs to hide the presents in the wardrobe. Some were for her, you see, the…’ She paused, and Banks noticed her eyes fill with tears. ‘It seemed so important just to put them out of sight,’ she went on. ‘I knew there would be plenty of opportunity to wrap them later. While I was up there, I washed and changed and went back downstairs.

‘The music was still playing. I opened the door to the living room and… I… at first I thought she was wearing the new scarlet camisole. She looked so serene and so beautiful lying there like that. But it couldn’t be. I told you last night, I hadn’t give it to her then. I’d just bought her the camisole for Christmas and I’d put it in the bottom of the wardrobe with everything else. Then I went closer and… the smell… her eyes… Veronica put her mug down and held her head in her hands.

Banks let the silence stretch for a good minute or two. All they could hear was the soft ticking of Mrs Cooper’s kitchen wall clock and a dog barking in the distance.

‘I understand you were married,’ Banks said, when Veronica had wiped her eyes and reached out for her coffee again.

‘I still am, officially. We’re only separated, not divorced. He didn’t want our personal life splashed all over the newspapers. As you may have gathered, Caroline and I lived together.’

Banks nodded. ‘Why should the newspapers have been interested? People get divorced all the time for all kinds of reasons.’

Veronica hesitated and turned her mug slowly in a circle on the table. She wouldn’t met his eyes.

‘Look,’ Banks said, ‘I hardly need remind you what’s happened, how serious this is. We’ll find out anyway. You can save us a lot of time and trouble.’

Veronica looked up at him. ‘You’re right, of course,’ she said. ‘Though I don’t see how it can have anything to do with all this. My husband was – is, Claude Ivers. He’s not exactly a household name, but enough people have heard of him.’

Banks certainly had. Ivers had once been a brilliant concert pianist, but several years ago he had given up performance for composition. He had received important commissions from the BBC, and a number of his pieces had been recorded. Banks even had a tape of his, two wind quintets; they possessed a kind of eerie, natural beauty – not structured, but wandering, like the breeze in a deep forest at night. Veronica Shildon was right. If the press had got hold of the story she would have had no peace tor weeks. News of the World reporters would have been climbing the drainpipes and spying in bedroom windows, talking to spiteful neighbours and slighted lovers. He could just see the headlines: MUSICIAN’S WIFE IN LESBIAN LOVENEST.