Authors: Peter Robinson
‘What’s her father like?’
‘The major? To do him justice, he never really recovered from his wife’s death. He’s a strange old bird. Lives right on High Street with his dog. Has a flat over old
Thadtwistle’s bookshop. There were rumours, you know, when Penny left. Look, I’m not sure I should be telling you this. It’s just silly local gossip.’
‘I shouldn’t worry about that, Mr Ramsden. I know a hawk from a handsaw.’
Ramsden swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘People said they were a bit too close, father and daughter, living together after the mother died. They say the old man
wanted her to take her mother’s place in his bed and that’s why she took off so young. Do you know what I’m saying? It’s not entirely uncommon around these parts.’
Banks nodded. ‘Do you believe it?’
‘Not for a moment. You know how vindictive gossip can be.’
‘But what did anyone have against the Cartwrights?’
Ramsden picked up his pencil again and started rolling it between his fingers. ‘People thought they were a bit stuck-up, that’s all. The major’s always been stand-offish, and
his wife wasn’t from around these parts. People in the dale used to be a lot more parochial than they are now so many outsiders have moved in. Even now most of them think of Penny as some
kind of scarlet woman.’
‘You were close to her. Did she say anything?’
‘No, she didn’t. And I think she would have done if anything unusual had been going on.’
‘Was she friendly with Mr Steadman?’
‘Yes, they were very good friends. Penny knows a lot about folk traditions through her music, you see, and Harold was always willing to learn. She even taught him some guitar. Also, she
was very disorientated for a while after she came back from her brush with fame and fortune, and I think Harry’s support meant a lot. He thought the world of her. They both loved going for
long walks, watching birds and wild flowers, talking about the past.’
There was plenty to follow up in that, Banks thought. But he had no more questions to ask. He already had more than enough information to digest and analyze.
He thanked Ramsden, said goodbye and walked back over the sluggish Ouse to his car.
He stopped at the first likely-looking village inn he saw and enjoyed a late, leisurely pub lunch of shepherd’s pie and a refreshing pint of shandy made from Sam Smith’s Old Brewery
bitter. As he drove back to Eastvale listening to Purcell’s airs, he began to go over the list of involved characters in his mind, trying to imagine motives and opportunities.
First there was Teddy Hackett. That field business might only be the tip of the iceberg, and if Steadman had been blocking similar projects, Hackett would have a good enough reason for wanting
rid of him.
Then there was Jack Barker. No obvious motive there but no alibi either, as Barker himself had admitted on Sunday evening. His glance at Penny Cartwright in the Bridge had spoken volumes, and if
there was more to her relationship with Steadman than Ramsden had told him, then jealousy may have provided a very strong motive.
As for Dr Barnes, his alibi hadn’t been nearly as solid as he had seemed to think, and though there was no motive apparent yet, Banks wasn’t willing to consider him out of the
running.
It seemed pointless to include Emma Steadman; for one thing she was left-handed, and for another she had been watching television with Mrs Stanton all evening. But there was the money. She did
have a great deal to gain from her husband’s death, especially if the two weren’t seeing eye to eye anymore. She could, possibly, have hired someone. It was unlikely, but he
couldn’t rule it out.
Ramsden seemed to have neither the motive nor the opportunity. In a way, Steadman was his bread and butter, an important client as well as an old friend. Perhaps he did envy Steadman, but that
was no reason to kill him. Banks couldn’t quite work Ramsden out. There was the business of the novel, for a start. He sensed that perhaps great things had been expected of Ramsden
artistically but had never really materialized. Why? Indolence? Lack of talent? He seemed to have a rather precious personality, and Banks guessed that he had been pampered as a child, most likely
by his mother, and led to believe that he was special and gifted. Now he was in his twenties and the talent hadn’t really made itself manifest.
Penny Cartwright remained a grey area. She might have had both motive and means, but they had yet to be discovered. Banks wanted very much to talk to her, and he decided to go to Helmthorpe that
evening. He would have to see her father, too, at some point.
One problem was that there was so much time to account for. If Steadman had left the Bridge at about a quarter to nine and his body had been dumped at twelve fourteen, where had he been and what
had he been doing during those three and a half hours? Surely someone must have seen him?
Slowly, Banks’s thoughts faded as the countertenor sang a mournful ‘Retir’d from any Mortal’s Sight’ and the poplars and privet hedges that lined the road gave way
to the first houses in Eastvale.
‘So you told him everything then?’
‘I didn’t mean to, Kevin, honest – not your name and all. But it just slipped out.’
Kevin leered and Sally’s expression darkened. She elbowed him in the ribs. ‘You’ve got a filthy mind, you have. It was the time that did it. Twelve fourteen. He could see I
hadn’t got a digital watch. Why do you have to wear that silly thing anyway?’
Kevin looked down at his watch as if examining it for faults. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘It beeps every hour,’ Sally went on, her voice softening. ‘No matter what you’re doing.’
Kevin leaned forward and kissed her. She squirmed beneath him and he slipped his hand under her blouse to hold her soft warm breast. Her body was pressed down hard against the ground, and the
moist sickly smell of grass filled the air. Insects buzzed and whined all around. Finally, she broke away and gasped for breath. Kevin lay back with his hands behind his head and stared at the
deep-blue sky.
‘What did you think of him, then, this hotshot from London?’ he asked.
Sally snorted. ‘Some hotshot. Fancy leaving London to come up here. The bloke must be barmy.’
Kevin turned to face her, leaning on one elbow and sticking a long stalk of grass between his teeth. ‘What did he say?’
‘Didn’t seem very interested, really. He just asked me a lot of daft questions. I don’t know why I bothered. I won’t be so fast to go out of my way and help the police
next time, that’s for sure.’
‘What do you mean, “next time”?’
‘I mean if I find out anything else.’
‘Why should that happen? It was only by chance we heard the car. We didn’t even know what it was.’
‘But we do now. Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know who did it?’
Kevin shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t want to get involved. Leave all that to the police. That’s what they get paid for.’
‘Well, isn’t that a typical small-minded attitude?’ Sally said scornfully.
‘It’s a sensible one, though.’
‘So? It’s no fun being sensible all the time.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘Nothing. I just might do a bit of snooping on my own, that’s all. I’ve lived here all my life. I ought to know what’s going on in the village.’
‘What can you do that the police can’t?’
‘I don’t know yet, but I bet I can do better than them. Wouldn’t it be exciting if I solved the case for them?’
‘Don’t be an idiot, Sally. We’ve been through this before. You know what I think. It’s dangerous.’
‘How?’
‘What if the killer knew what you were doing? What if he thought you might be getting too close?’
Sally shivered. ‘I’ll be careful, don’t worry. Besides, you never get anywhere if you’re frightened of a bit of danger.’
Kevin gave up. Sally smoothed her skirt and lay on her back again. They were high on the southern slope of the dale, overlooking cross-shaped Gratly and Helmthorpe’s chequerboard pattern
of slate roofs. Sally plucked a buttercup and held it to her chin. Kevin took the flower from her hand and trailed it over her throat and collarbone. She shuddered. He kissed her again and put his
other hand up her skirt to caress the tender flesh of her thighs just below her panties.
Suddenly Sally heard a sound: a snapping twig or a thwacking branch. She sat up quickly, leaving Kevin with his face in the grass.
‘Someone’s coming,’ she whispered.
A few moments later, a figure appeared from the small copse by the beck side. Sally put her hand over her eyes to shield them from the sun and saw who it was.
‘Hello, Miss Cartwright,’ she called out.
Penny walked towards them, knelt on the grass and tossed back her hair. ‘Hello. It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ answered Sally. ‘We’re just having a breather. We’ve been walking most of the afternoon.’
‘I used to walk around these parts a lot, too, when I was your age,’ Penny said quietly, almost to herself. ‘It seems like centuries ago now, but it was only ten years.
You’ll be surprised how quickly time passes. Enjoy it while you can.’
Sally didn’t know what to say; she felt embarrassed. After an uneasy silence, she said, ‘I’m sorry about your friend, Mr Steadman, really I am. He was a nice man.’
Penny seemed to return from a great distance to focus on her. At first Sally thought the commiseration had gone unheard, but Penny smiled warmly and said, ‘Thank you. Yes, he was.’
Then she got to her feet and brushed the scraps of grass from her long skirt. ‘I must be off, anyway. Mustn’t bore you young people with my memories.’
In silence, Sally and Kevin watched her walk up the hillside with a strong, determined stride. She looked a lonely, wild figure, Sally thought, like Catherine in
Wuthering Heights
: a
woman of the moors, spirit of the place. Then she felt Kevin’s palm against her warm thigh again.
Further up the hillside, Penny paused as she stood on a stile and looked back on the dale she loved spread out below her. There was the church by her cottage. High Street and
the whitewashed frontage of the Dog and Gun. On the other side of the river, past the cricket pitch and Crabtree’s Field, the commons sloped up, rougher and rougher, to Crow Scar, which that
day was almost too bright to look at.
But she couldn’t gaze long without thinking of Harry, for he was the one who had shown her Swainsdale’s secrets, given it depth and life beyond its superficial beauties. And now she
fancied she could see the collapsed section of Tavistock’s wall. The stones that had been used to cover Harry’s body seemed darker than the rest.
Looking back the way she had come, Penny saw the two young lovers fuse in a tight embrace on the grass. She smiled sadly. When she’d first approached them, she had noticed how flustered
and embarrassed they had looked.
Again she thought of Harry. Suddenly, the memory of a picnic they’d had ten years ago came into her mind. It must have been on the exact spot where Sally and Kevin were lying. She
remembered the view of the village clearly, and they had been near a small copse, as Emma had sat in the shade, knitting. The more she concentrated on it, the more details came back. It was just
around the time when she and Michael had started drifting apart. He had been reading Shelley’s poetry. Penny could even remember the scuffed brown leather of the book’s cover; it was a
second-hand edition she’d bought him for his birthday. She and Harry had spread the red checked cloth on the grass and started to unload the hamper. Somehow, their hands had touched by
accident. Penny remembered blushing, and Harry had busied himself looking for the corkscrew. It was for the Chablis. Yes, they had drunk Chablis, a good vintage, that day, and now, ten years later,
she felt the crisp flinty taste of the cool wine on her tongue again.
The picture faded as quickly as it had come. How innocent it had all been, how bloody innocent! Wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, she jumped down from the stile and
strode sharply on.
Hackett had already been waiting an hour when Banks got back from York, and he was not at all amused.
‘Look here,’ he protested, as Banks led him upstairs to the office. ‘You can’t do this to me. You can’t just drag me in like this without an explanation. I’ve
got a business to run. I told you everything last night.’
‘You told me nothing last night.’ Banks took off his jacket and hung it on the back of the door. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Make yourself at home.’
The room was stuffy, so Banks reopened the window and the smells of Market Street wafted up: exhaust fumes, fresh-baked bread, something sweet and sickly from the chocolate shop. Hackett sat
rigidly in his chair and lapsed into a tense affronted silence.
‘There’s nothing to get excited about,’ Banks told him, taking out his pipe and fiddling with it over the waste-paper basket.
‘Then why did your sergeant kidnap me like that and rush me over here, eh? I want my lawyer.’
‘Oh, do relax, Mr Hackett! There’s really no need for melodrama. You’ve been watching far too many American films on television. I’ve not brought you here to lay charges
or anything like that. I’m sorry if Sergeant Hatchley seemed a little brusque – it’s just his manner. I’ve got a few questions to ask you, that’s all.’ He gave
Hackett a sharp glance. ‘Just one or two little things we’d like to get cleared up.’
‘Why pick on me? What about Jack, or the doc?’
‘Do you know of any reason they might have had for killing Mr Steadman?’
‘Well, no, I didn’t mean to imply that. It’s just that . . .’
‘Did he ever say anything about them to you, give you any reason to think one of them might want him out of the way?’
‘No. That’s not what I meant, anyway. I’m not trying to put the blame on someone else. I just want to know why you picked on me to haul in like this.’
‘Crabtree’s Field.’ Banks picked up his pipe and reached for the matches.
Hackett sighed. ‘So that’s it. Someone’s been telling tales. I should have known you’d have found out before long.’
Banks lit his pipe and gazed at the ceiling. Some old juices trickled down the stem and caught in his throat; he coughed and pulled a face.