‘Teenage rebellion. Making a statement. It happens often enough.’
‘OK. Carry on.’
‘Not much more to say, sir. She did do some postgraduate research work later at Cambridge, then decided against an academic life. She’d written a historical novel, which she got published. It did quite well. Then she wrote a couple of brief literary biographies of rather neglected figures in quick succession — Rumer Godden and Rosamond Lehmann — then she started a series of Regency romances under a pseudonym, Charlotte Summers, which she still writes. There’s been a spate of recent articles in the national press and the local papers. No doubt carefully orchestrated by her publicist.’
‘Cynic,’ said Banks. ‘What are they? Bodice-rippers?’
‘I suppose you could call them that.’
‘Read any?’
Gerry felt herself blush. There came that shallow feeling again. ‘I must admit that I have, sir.’
‘Any good?’
‘I think so. They’re very well written, and the research seems convincing. To me, at any rate. But I’m no expert. They keep me turning the pages, anyway.’
‘Go on.’ Banks drank some more beer. Gerry thought he seemed to be enjoying her discomfort, but she realised that he probably didn’t even know she was uncomfortable.
‘She met her future husband, Jeremy Chalmers, in 1985, when he was working for the National Theatre, and they were married the following year. Both were living in London then. In Fitzrovia. Their first daughter, Angelina, was born in 1988, and a second daughter, Samantha, followed in 1992. Her husband was knighted in 2003. They’ve been living at Brierley House in Eastvale ever since Angelina was born. He’s from Yorkshire, the East Riding, and she said in one of the interviews that they had always dreamed of a place in the Dales. Her parents are deceased. One sister, Francesca, five years older, lived in Derbyshire, a few miles outside Buxton. She died two years ago of an inoperable brain tumour. She was married to Anthony Litton, semi-retired Harley Street specialist. Gynaecologist, I believe, and very much one for the upper crust. He still commutes between London and Derbyshire on occasion. They have one son, Oliver.’
‘Oliver Litton?’
‘Yes.’
‘The Oliver Litton so hotly tipped to be our future Home Secretary?’
‘One and the same.’
Banks whistled. ‘Some family. A knighthood and a future Home Secretary. Curious and curiouser. Any hint of a juicy scandal in Lady Chalmers’ life?’
‘None, either juicy or otherwise. There was one previous marriage, however, in 1981 after her postgraduate thesis, to an American artist called Chad Bueller, much against her parents’ wishes. It must have been the tail end of her rebellious phase. He was far from being a penniless artist, however, being both very successful and highly collectible. She went to live with him in Los Angeles, in Beverly Hills, believe it or not, but it didn’t last. It took her two years to find out that he preferred the company of members of his own sex, and she came back to England after the divorce. Published her first book shortly thereafter. It concerned Edward II. I remember doing it at school, sir. Christopher Marlowe. You know what happened to Edward II?’
Banks flinched. ‘That red-hot poker business, wasn’t it? Go on.’
‘She met Jeremy Chalmers at a book signing, then started to settle down, and the rest is history.’
Banks thought about the painting in the Chalmers’ living room, the way the couple were standing apart, the palpable sense of distance and tension between them. Was that the future Lady Chalmers and her gay husband? Perhaps just after she’d discovered the truth? No, he decided, he was being fanciful. She wouldn’t want to live with something like that on the wall, reminding her of what happened every time she walked into the room. On the other hand, it was a Hockney, and 1983 was a long time ago. ‘If she was in California from 1981 to 1983, there’s an overlap with Gavin Miller’s time over there, isn’t there?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Gerry, ‘but as far as I can work out, there are no missing years in Veronica Chalmers’ life. It seems doubtful that their paths would have crossed, with him doing his On the Road imitation and her living the life of Riley in Beverly Hills.’
‘True.’ Banks had driven a rented Cadillac convertible around Beverley Hills just last year, sometimes marvelling and sometimes gagging at the mishmash of imitated styles — Rhenish castles, English stately homes and Tudor mansions, Tuscan villas, French chateaux, all rubbing shoulders. Well, not quite, as there were often quite large spaces between them and acres of manicured lawn surrounding them. The place made The Heights look like a run-down council estate. Or ‘social housing’, as such places were being called now.
Their sandwiches came, and both said nothing for a few moments while they ate. Then Banks washed his third bite down with a draught of beer. ‘There’s something I don’t quite understand,’ he said. ‘You told me that Lady Chalmers married this Chad Bueller person in 1981 and lived in LA for two more years, right?
‘Yes, sir. Until late 1983.’
‘Then she came home, met Jeremy Chalmers and married him in 1985, right?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Gerry said again, aware that her mouth was full and trying to cover it as inconspicuously as possible while she spoke. She passed her folder to Banks. ‘I made a copy for you, sir. It’s all in here, dates, details, places, everything. I’ve just given you the bare bones.’
Banks tapped the folder. ‘Thank you. I appreciate that. But wouldn’t she have been only about seventeen in 1985? And that would mean she was far too young to get married in 1981? By my calculation, she’d have been about thirteen. Jerry Lee Lewis might have got away with it in Tennessee in the fifties, but I doubt that Chad Bueller did in California in the eighties.’
‘Sir?’
‘Well, how old is she? I’d say not more than mid-forties.’
Gerry checked her notes. ‘Mid-forties? Sir, Veronica Chalmers is fifty-nine. She was thirty when she married Chad Bueller.’
Banks reran the images of Lady Veronica Chalmers in his mind: the lithe, trim body in tight jeans, the attractive crows’ feet around her startling eyes, the alabaster skin, natural long blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders. No extensions, as far as he could make out. No signs of the surgeon’s knife. ‘That’s hard to believe,’ he said. ‘She certainly doesn’t look it. I suppose I never was any good at guessing women’s ages.’
Gerry smiled. ‘She must be remarkably well preserved, sir, if you thought she was in her forties. I suppose she can afford to stay young.’
Banks glanced at her, and she thought she could see humour in his twinkling eyes. ‘Lady Chalmers is a very attractive woman, Gerry, and I don’t think it’s down to cosmetic surgery, though I suppose I could be wrong about that, too. No doubt the money does help to buy the right potions and creams.’
‘No doubt, sir. But does it mean anything? Her age?’
‘Other than that I was wrong? As a matter of fact,’ Banks said slowly, ‘I think it might mean a great deal. Here’s what I’d like you to do next.’
Chapter 5
‘What did you make of Ms Snider, then?’ Annie asked Winsome as they sat in the cafeteria of Eastvale College drinking Coke Zero with their vegetarian curries, which to Annie tasted more like vegetable soup with a teaspoon of curry powder stirred in at the last minute. Jim Cooper had said over the telephone that he would join them there after his class, and they had seized the opportunity to take a break and get something to eat. The students bustled around them, occasionally casting curious glances in their direction. Annie didn’t blame them.
For once, though, it wasn’t because Winsome happened to be a six-foot-two-inch Jamaican woman. The college was the only place in Eastvale — a town of close to 20,000 people — where you saw any kind of racial mix. There were blacks, Asians, all sorts, in addition to plenty of Europeans. Of course, you would see overseas students in town occasionally, shopping or having a night out at one of the pubs or clubs on the market square, but mostly they hung around the campus area, where most of them lived in bedsits or residences. There was plenty to do out there, on the south-eastern edge of town, quite a few pubs and a even a nightclub or two, plus the Union had bands every Saturday night. It wasn’t exactly The Who Live at Leeds, but they prided themselves on bringing in popular up-and-coming bands, and the students were an enthusiastic audience, the ticket sales good.