‘Where is your husband now?’ Banks asked.

‘He lives in Redburn, out on the coast. He said the seclusion and the sea would be good for his work. He always did care about his work.’

Banks noticed the bitterness in her tone. ‘Do you ever see one another?’

‘Yes,’ she said. A smile touched her thin lips. ‘It was an acrimonious parting in many ways, but there is some affection left. We don’t seem able to stamp that out, whatever we do.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘About a month ago. We occasionally have dinner if he’s in town. I rarely visit the coast, but he comes here from time to time.’

‘To the house?’

‘He’s been here, yes, though he’s always worried someone will see him and know who he is. I try to tell him that people don’t actually recognize composers in the street any more than they do writers, that it’s only television and film stars have to put up with that, but…’ She shrugged.

‘Did he know Caroline?’

‘He could hardly help knowing her, could he? They’d met a few times.’

‘How did they get on?’

Veronica shrugged. ‘They never seemed to have much to say to one another. They were different as chalk and cheese. He thought she was a scheming slut and she thought he was a selfish, pompous ass. They had nothing in common but affection for me.’

‘Was there any open antagonism?’

‘Open? Good Lord no. That isn’t Claude’s way. He sniped from time to time, made sarcastic comments, cruel remarks, that kind of thing.’

‘Directed towards Caroline?’

‘Directed towards both of us. But I’m sure he blamed Caroline for leading me astray. That’s how he saw it.’

‘Was it that way?’

Veronica shook her head.

‘Was Caroline ever married?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Was she living with anyone before she met you?’

Veronica paused and gripped her coffee mug in both hands as if to warm them. Her fingers were long and tapered and she had freckles on the backs of her hands. She wore a silver ring on the middle finger of her right hand. As she spoke, she looked down at the table. ‘She was living with a woman called Nancy Wood. They’d been together about eight months. The relationship was going very badly.’

‘Where does Nancy Wood live?’

‘In Eastvale. Not too far from here. At least, she did the last I heard.’

‘Did Caroline ever see her after they split up?’

‘Only by accident once or twice in the street.’

‘So they parted on bad terms?’

‘Doesn’t everyone? Much as I admire Shakespeare, I’ve often wondered where the sweetness is in the sorrow.’

‘And before Nancy Wood?’

‘She spent some time in London. I don’t know how long or who with. A few years, at least.’

‘What about her family?’

‘Her mother’s dead. Her father lives in Harrogate. He’s an invalid – been one for years. Her brother Gary looks after him. I told one of your uniformed men last night. Will someone have called?’

Banks nodded. ‘Don’t worry, the Harrogate police will have taken care of it. Is there anything else you can tell me about Caroline’s friends or enemies?’

Veronica sighed and shook her head. She looked exhausted. ‘No,’ she said. ‘We didn’t have a lot of close friends. I suppose we tried to be too much to one another. At least that’s how it feels now she’s gone. You could try the people at the theatre. They were her acquaintances, at least. But we didn’t socialize very much together. I don’t think any of them even knew about her living with me.’

‘We’re still puzzled about the record,’ Banks said. ‘Are you sure it isn’t yours?’

‘I’ve told you, no.’

‘But you recognized the singer?’

‘Magda Kalmar, yes. Claude and I once saw her in Lucia di Lammermoor at the Budapest Opera. I was very impressed.’

‘Could the record have been intended as a Christmas present from your husband?’

‘Well, I suppose it could… but that means… no, I haven’t seen him in a month.’

‘He could have called last night, while you were out.’

She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t believe it. Not Claude.

Banks looked over at Richmond and nodded. Richmond closed his notebook. ‘That’s all for now,’ Banks said.

‘Can I go home?’ she asked him.

‘If you want.’ Banks hadn’t imagined she would want to return to the house so soon, but there was no official objection. Forensics had finished with the place.

‘Just one thing, though,’ he said. ‘We’ll need to have another good look through Caroline’s belongings. Perhaps Detective Sergeant Richmond can accompany you back and look over them now?’

She looked apprehensive at first, then nodded. ‘All right.’

They stood up to leave. Christine Cooper was nowhere in sight, so they walked out into the damp, overcast day and shut the door behind them without saying goodbye.

Veronica opened her front door and went in. Banks lingered at the black iron gate with Richmond. ‘I’m going to the community centre,’ he said. ‘There should be someone from the theatre group there since they’ve been notified of the break-in. How about we meet up at the Queen’s Arms, say twelve or twelve-thirty?’ And he went on to ask Richmond to check Veronica Shildon’s purchases and look closely at the receipts for corroboration of her alibi. ‘And check on Charles Cooper’s movements yesterday,’ he added. ‘It might mean a trip to Barnard Castle, but see if you can come up with anything by phone first.’

Richmond went into the house and Banks set off up the steep part of King Street with his collar turned up against the cold. The community centre wasn’t very far; the walk would be good exercise. As he trudged through the snow, he thought about Veronica Shildon. She presented an odd mixture of reserve and frankness, stoical acceptance and bitterness. He was sure she was holding something back, but he didn’t know what it was. There was something askew about her. Even her clothes didn’t seem to go with the rather repressed and inhibited essence that she projected. ‘Prim and proper’ was the term that sprang to mind. Yet she had left her husband, had gone and set up house with a woman.

All in all, she was an enigma. If anything, Banks thought, she seemed like a woman in the process of great change. Her reference to the analyst indicated that she was at least concerned with self-examination.

It seemed to Banks as if her entire personality had been dismantled and the various bits and pieces didn’t quite fit together; some were new, or newly discovered, and others were old, rusted, decrepit, and she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to discard them or not. Banks had an inkling of what the process felt like from his own readjustment after the move from London. But Veronica’s changes, he suspected, went far deeper. He wondered what she had been like as a wife, and what she would become in the future now that Caroline Hartley had been so viciously excised from her life. For the younger woman had had a great influence on Veronica’s life; Banks was certain of that. Was Veronica a killer? He didn’t think so, but who could say anything so definite about a personality in such turmoil and transition?