‘Why are you asking about Akhmatova, by the way?’ Linda asked. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever talked about her before.’
‘Someone mentioned her to me the other night,’ Banks said. ‘Why?’
‘I’m not sure you should be getting into poetry in translation just yet. Especially Akhmatova.’
‘Difficult, is she?’
‘Not especially. Not on the surface of it. But there are particular difficulties with just about anything Russian artists produced in the last century.’
‘Rather like with anything their politicians produce in this century.’
Linda laughed. ‘Well, they do have a complex history.’
Banks nodded. ‘I’m a big Shostakovich fan, but half the time I feel lost and stupid when I try to work out the context of his life, the secret meanings of his symphonies and quartets. What Stalin really defined as true socialist realist music and what he dismissed as “formalism” or unpatriotic bourgeois drivel.’
‘I know what you mean. I think you’d have to be Russian to even attempt an answer to those questions, though Julian Barnes wrote a fine book about Shostakovich recently.’
‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘I read it. But it must have been different for a poet. Music doesn’t carry meaning in the same way words do. It’s more subjective, perhaps.’
‘True. And it wasn’t only criticism of the party that went against you, it was also embrace of the personal, the romantic. Bourgeois individualism. Anna could sound like a lovesick schoolgirl, even in her sixties, but there was always some image, some phrase, metaphor or observation, that would pull the rug from under you, throw you sideways. Maybe it would be a cynical comment on her own emotions, or something like that, but it constantly changes and challenges your perception of what you’ve just read, puts everything in a different context.’
‘Most poetry does that for me,’ Banks said. ‘Like most cases.’
Linda laughed again. ‘Maybe that’s why so many people try to avoid poetry at all costs.’ She paused to drink some wine. ‘I visited Russia once, you know. Just Moscow and St Petersburg. I saw all the usual sights: the Kremlin, St Basil’s, the Hermitage, the Nevsky Prospekt, but I remember being struck constantly whenever I saw elderly people in the streets what some of them must have lived through. The suffering showed in the lines of the old women’s faces, in the hunched, stiff figures of the men. And even then, when I was there in the early nineties, there were still long queues for what little was in the shops. I thought of the famines, the siege of Leningrad, Stalingrad, the purges, all the depredations visited on that country – and no, I didn’t forget that so much harm was done by the Russians to themselves, not an invading army, though it must often have seemed that way. All in the name of Communism. And the terrible things they did to the countries around them – but there’s something very . . . I don’t know . . . something that really puts you in your place when you visit somewhere like that, with such a weight of history. Now Putin. Have you ever been there?’
‘No, but Doctor Zhivago’s always been one of my favourite films,’ Banks said.
‘I could have guessed. Julie Christie. Men.’
‘That, too. But I was thinking more of Zhivago and his wife’s family. In the film. They were from the aristocracy, too. And look what happened. That scene when Zhivago gets back to the family house in Moscow after all he’s been through and finds they have to share it with a lot of strangers always scares the hell out of me. I used to have nightmares about getting home and finding my parents gone and families I didn’t know living in all the rooms – including mine – and all the way up the stairs.’
‘It’s a frightening thought.’ Linda tapped his arm. ‘But you might have to get used to it, the way the housing crisis is going these days. There’s plenty of room for a few more families in your cottage.’ She glanced out of the window at the broad expanse of wintry moor. ‘And who knows? In a few years’ time all this may be covered with council estates.’
‘Social housing, please,’ said Banks. ‘It sounds much nicer.’
‘Have you read the novel? Doctor Zhivago.’
‘I’m ashamed to say I haven’t.’
‘You should.’
‘I will. If only there were movie versions of great poems, too.’
Linda laughed. ‘Or musicals.’
‘Well, there was Cats,’ Banks said. ‘But could you imagine Prufrock: The Musical?’
‘Or “Ode on a Grecian Urn”.’
‘ “Tintern Abbey”.’
‘ “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”.’
People turned to look at them laughing.
‘Anyway,’ Banks said when their laughter died down. ‘She sounds like a complicated person, this Akhmatova.’
‘I think she was. But fascinating. She certainly fascinated men.’
That made Banks think of Zelda, who had first mentioned Akhmatova to him. He told Linda a bit about their dinner the other night. He didn’t feel he could tell her anything about Zelda’s government work, but he talked about her sculpture, her excitement at moving up to Yorkshire and her interest in the arts.
‘I’d like to meet her,’ Linda said when he’d finished.
‘I’m sure it could be arranged.’
‘I already know Ray Cabbot. The local arts scene is pretty incestuous. But this Zelda is a more recent and exotic arrival.’
‘Then consider it a done deal. I’ll talk to them. We’ll work something out. Dinner or drinks or something.’ Banks felt pleased with himself. He had never considered himself a social arranger, but it felt good to think he was putting two people in touch, people he was certain had something in common, and could possibly even become good friends.
‘Fantastic.’
‘Shall we risk another one or call it a day?’
Linda glanced at her watch. ‘Oh, bugger it,’ she said. ‘Let’s have another. You can tell me all about your latest case.’
When Annie arrived at the hotel, a listed building in a discreet backstreet off the market square, she found Poppy in handcuffs, bedraggled and penitent, sitting beside her suitcase in the lounge, a burly uniformed constable on either side of her. She was wearing jeans and knee-high boots, and an afghan jacket over a torn black T-shirt with a picture of Courtney Love sticking her tongue out. Poppy’s long blond hair was greasy and straggly, and it looked as if it hadn’t been washed for a while. Though her features were drawn and she had bags under her eyes, she gave off the aura of a little girl lost. A chambermaid was busy clearing up the mess Poppy had made of the reception area, dirt, dead flowers and shattered pottery all over the floor.
Annie took a deep breath. At least the Panadol was working now, and her headache had receded to a dull and distant thumping in time with the beating of her heart.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked PC Kingsley. ‘Why is this woman in handcuffs?’
‘It was the only way we could restrain her, ma’am,’ said Kingsley. ‘She was going berserk, smashing things, threatening all sorts of—’
Annie held her hand up. ‘OK. Enough. Did she actually assault anyone?’
‘Well, no, not exactly, but—’
‘Then uncuff her.’
Kingsley swallowed. ‘Ma’am?’
‘You heard what I said. Uncuff her. This young woman has just lost her father. She’s bereaved. Whatever she’s done, I’m sure we can put it right.’ She glanced around at the reception area. ‘It’s nothing but cosmetic damage as far as I can see. I’m sure Ms Hadfield will be more than happy to pay for replacements for any objects she broke, and offer compensation for any inconvenience.’
The manager came up wringing his hands. ‘But what about the other guests, the trauma, the—’
‘I’m sure they’ll get over it, Mr . . .?’
‘Shadwell. Edgar Shadwell. I’m the night manager. I should have gone home ages ago, when my shift ended, but—’
‘Thanks for staying and helping take care of things,’ Annie said, showing
him her warrant card. Then she gently led him over to a part of the lobby where they couldn’t be overheard. ‘What exactly did Ms Hadfield do?’ she asked.
‘It all started about three in the morning. She telephoned the front desk and demanded room service. She wanted a cheeseburger and a bottle of vodka. We don’t have twenty-four-hour room service here, so I’m afraid the poor lad on reception had to say no.’
The cognac bribe obviously hadn’t lasted long, Annie thought. ‘And then?’
‘She didn’t take it well. She came storming down with her bathrobe half open, yelling at the top of her voice, waking all our guests, scaring the living daylights out of them. That’s when I came out of my office to see what was happening. She had a cigarette in her mouth, too, and we’re strictly a non-smoking hotel. Tim on the desk explained that we don’t have a kitchen on the premises. We use the restaurant next door for all our orders, you see, and they were closed, of course. As for the vodka, well, it was clear that she’d had more than enough already. We did manage to calm her down. Tim gave her a couple of extra minibar vodkas and she went back up to her room. Then it all started again this morning, when she refused to pay. That was when she became . . . well, you can see. Quite abusive. Quite violent.’
‘Of course. It’s all my fault, Mr Shadwell, and I do hope you’ll accept my apology.’
‘Your fault? Bu . . . b . . . b . . . but I don’t understand. How could it be your fault?’
‘I had to choose a hotel for Ms Hadfield very quickly, in the wake of her father’s sudden death. She couldn’t remain in the family home. I thought this place would suit her needs, but I obviously overestimated the hotel and underestimated her needs. I should have chosen one of the larger establishments.’
‘I don’t think you overestimated us, Inspector Cabbot. We do our best to keep our guests happy here at the Swan. We even go out of our way. But there are some things . . . limits . . .’
‘Yes, I quite understand. We’ll get it all sorted. Would you pass on the bill for the damages to me at Eastvale Police HQ? I’ll see that Ms Hadfield gets it and pays it.’
‘Of course. But you do understand—’
‘I do. But I’m afraid we have to go now. Once again, I apologise.’
Annie went back to Poppy and took her by the arm. Poppy didn’t complain or resist, she simply stood and picked up her suitcase with her free hand. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know yet,’ said Annie between clenched teeth. ‘But the first thing is to get you away from here.’
‘The sooner the better,’ said Poppy, rallying, her voice rising. ‘What a dump. I’m considering suing.’
Annie practically shoved her through the front door, annoyed that her mobile rang just as they reached her car down the street. ‘Yes?’ she answered, a trifle sharply.
‘Ooh, are we in a bit of a mood this morning?’
It was Frank Naylor from the search team at the Hadfield house. Annie knew Frank from the occasional departmental booze up. He was one of the good guys. At least he had never tried to grope her in a dark corner at the Christmas party.
‘What is it, Frank? I don’t have time for this. I’m in a hurry.’
‘You sound a bit hoarse. Not getting that cold that’s going around, are you?’
‘No. What is it, Frank?’
‘Ah. You’re hungover, aren’t you? Tell Uncle Frank the truth.’
‘Well, it is only half past ten on a Saturday morning,’ Annie said. ‘And I do happen to have been up late at a good friend’s birthday party last night, so, yes, you might reasonably come to that conclusion. Now what the hell do you want?’
Frank laughed down the line. ‘OK. No need to take it out on me. What you do in your own time and all that.’
‘Frank!’
‘All right, all right. There’s been a development here.’
‘What sort of development? Where?’
‘The Hadfield house. We’ve found something.’
‘What are you doing working weekends?’
‘We’re spread a bit thin, these days. And there’s still a bit of overtime left. Anyway, it’s probably better if you come and see it for yourself.’
‘Frank, I don’t have time for—’
‘No, really. It’s a bit hard to describe. A piece of jewellery.’
‘Are you at the house now?’
‘Yes.’
Annie looked at her watch. ‘I’m in Eastvale,’ she said. ‘It shouldn’t take me long to get there.’ At least the Hadfield house was on her way to her own cottage in Harkside. As soon as she’d dealt with Frank, she’d ship Poppy off to London, go home, have a long shower or bath and maybe just go back to bed. Some hope, the way this day was going.
‘Just be careful driving,’ Frank said. ‘You know how some people are still technically pissed from the night before even the morning after.’
Annie took a deep breath. ‘Frank?’ she said.
‘Yes?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘There’s not much to tell,’ Banks said.
‘I know you can’t give any details away. I’ve been through it, remember? On the receiving end.’
‘I remember,’ said Banks. ‘But there’s still not a lot to tell.’
‘I’ve read the newspaper reports, seen the TV news. It sounds tragic.’
‘What’s really tragic is that we don’t have a lot to go on. No, that’s too flippant,’ said Banks. ‘It is tragic. A young girl like Adrienne Munro, cut down in her prime, all her life ahead of her.’
‘And you’ve no idea why?’
Banks shook his head.
‘It is suicide, isn’t it?’
‘Even if I knew for certain, I couldn’t say. Cause of death is still under investigation.’
‘Then there’s the other case. Laurence Hadfield. Accidental death, the papers say. Is that yours, too?’
‘I’m officially Senior Investigating Officer, though Annie’s got the role in reality. It’s another puzzle.’
‘I know I’m just an overimaginative poet speaking,’ Linda said, ‘but has it crossed your mind that the two cases might be connected in some way?’ When Banks just guzzled some beer and didn’t say anything, she went on. ‘Unless, of course, you already know they are and you can’t tell me?
‘No, no. It’s not that. I don’t believe in coincidences any more than you do. It’s one of the first things I thought of, but I’ve learned over the years not to trust first impressions without evidence. It’s just that there’s no obvious connection between the victims, no evidence to tie them together, except they both died rather mysteriously within a short time of one another. They moved in very different circles. If I could find something to link them, anything, it would be different.’
‘What if there was a point of contact? If something brought the circles to intersect?’
‘We think it’s possible that Adrienne was involved with drugs in some way, but there’s no connection there with Hadfield. At least not yet. It’s more likely to be connected with someone at the college.’
‘I’ve heard of Laurence Hadfield,’ said Linda. ‘I even met him once, briefly. Maybe that’s why I’m interested.’
Banks’s ears pricked up. ‘Met him? Where? When? How?’
‘Aha,’ Linda teased. ‘Now he’s interested.’
‘If you know anything, you should tell me.’
‘It’s nothing relevant. Don’t get your hopes up. You’ll only be disappointed. It’s just that Mr Hadfield was a bit of a philanthropist, and his benevolent gestures even extended as far as the arts community. He was involved in setting up a local poetry award, mostly to encourage young people to write poetry. I had the honour of presenting it at a dinner a couple of years ago. We were at the same table. That’s all.’
‘What did you think of him?’
‘I didn’t really get the chance to form an impression. He was polite, said all the right things. It was pretty obvious he wasn’t really interested in po
etry, but that was hardly a surprise.’
‘So why not come up with an award for some other field?’
‘It’s my guess that the other fields weren’t doing too badly as far as the Arts Council budget was concerned. He saw a gap, or someone saw it for him. People like Hadfield are constantly searching for ways to unload their money that make them look good in the public eye.’
‘Isn’t that a bit cynical to say about someone who was so generous?’
Linda snorted. ‘For him it was a mere drop in the ocean. For the poet, it was an opportunity to spend a year concentrating on her writing. Have you any idea how much of a godsend that is? I’m sorry if I appear cynical, but I’m afraid philanthropists have often been in the business of whitewashing their business practices, the sources of their wealth, perhaps even seeking atonement, if you like. Basically, they all want to be loved, but they know that what they do makes them unlovable – things like propping up foreign dictatorships or orchestrating coups against moderate governments that might not exactly be marching in time with their financial interests, selling weapons to both sides, or being involved in practices that seriously damage the environment. Not all, of course. Some don’t give a damn about public perception or what harm they do, and others are genuinely selfless. But most fall somewhere in the middle.’
‘So Laurence Hadfield chose to share some of his good fortune with young, unknown poets. Isn’t that a good thing, whatever his motives?’
‘Of course it is.’
‘I mean, he wasn’t trying to impose a programme on them or anything, was he, or using his position to take advantage of . . . well, you know.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Linda. ‘All those impressionable young girls with their love poetry. But no, I don’t think he was. Someone told me he was involved in a lot of charities and good causes, that he donated time as well as money.’
‘So did Jimmy Savile.’
Linda glared at him. ‘But he had ulterior motives. I’m saying I don’t think Mr Hadfield did, other than the usual need to be thought well of in the community. Oh, maybe he flirted with the young lasses at the dinner a bit, but it was nothing serious.’
Careless Love Page 15
