Past Reason Hated by Peter Robinson

props room and watched Marcia picking up strands of slashed material and moaning.
    ‘All that work, all those people who gave us stuff. Why do they do this?’ Marcia asked again. ‘What bloody point is there?’
    Susan knew numerous theories of hooliganism, from poor potty training to the heartlessness of modern England, but all she said was, ‘I don’t know.’ People don’t want to hear theories when something they value has been destroyed. ‘And short of catching them red-handed, we can’t promise much, either.’
    ‘But this is the third time!’ Marcia said. ‘Surely by now you must have some kind of lead?’
    ‘There are a few people we’re keeping our eye on,’ Susan told her, ‘but it’s not as if they’ve stolen anything.’
    ‘Even that would be more understandable.’
    ‘What I mean is, we’d find no evidence even if we suspected someone. There’s no stolen property to trace them. Have you thought of employing a night watchman?
    Marcia snorted. ‘A night watchman? How do you think we can afford that? I know we got a bonanza grant this year, but we didn’t get that much. And most of it’s gone already on costumes and stuff.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Susan said. She realized this was an inadequate response, but what else was there to say? A constable walked the beat, but he couldn’t spend his whole night in the alley at the back of the community centre. There had been other break-ins, too, and other incidents of vandalism. ‘I’ll make out a report,’ she said, ‘and let you know if we come up with anything.’
    ‘Thanks a lot.’
    ‘Don’t be so rude, Marcia.’ James Conran reappeared and put his hand on Marcia’s shoulder. ‘She’s only trying to help.’ He smiled at Susan. ‘Aren’t you?’
    Susan nodded. His smile was so infectious she could hardly keep from responding, and the effort to maintain a detached expression made her flush.
    Marcia rubbed her face until her plump cheeks shone. I’m sorry, love,’ she said. ‘I know it’s not your fault. It’s just so bloody frustrating.’
    ‘I know.’ Susan put her notebook back in her handbag. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said.
    Before she could turn to leave, they heard footsteps coming along the corridor. Conran looked surprised. ‘There’s nobody else supposed to be coming here, is there?’ he asked Marcia, who shook her head. Then the door creaked open and Susan saw a familiar face peep around. It was Chief Inspector Banks. At first she was relieved to see him. Then she thought, why the hell is he here? Checking up on me? Can’t he trust me to do a simple job properly?
THREE
    Detective Sergeant Philip Richmond was glad that Veronica Shildon had not wanted to stand over him as he searched the two upper rooms. He never could tolerate the feel of someone looking over his shoulder. Which was one of the reasons he liked working with Banks, who usually left him to get on with the job his own way.
    The bedroom smelled of expensive cologne or talcum. As he looked at the large bed with its satiny coral spread, he thought of the two women in there together and the things they did to each other. The images embarrassed him and he got back to work.
    Richmond took the bag of presents out of Veronica’s half of the wardrobe and spread them on the bed: a Sheaffer fountain pen and pencil set, a green silk scarf, some Body Shop soaps and shampoos, a scarlet camisole, the latest Booker Prize winner . . . all pretty ordinary stuff The receipts were dated but none of them gave the time the purchase had been made. Richmond made a list of items and shops so the staff could be questioned.
    The dresser drawers contained mostly lingerie. Richmond picked his way through it methodically, but found nothing hidden away, nothing that shouldn’t be there. He moved on to the study.
    In addition to the books – none of them inscribed – there was also a roll-top desk in the corner under the window. There was nothing surprising in it: letters to