Authors: Peter Robinson
Ramsden brushed back his forelock, which this time actually had slipped over his eyes, then he drained his glass and stood up. ‘Put that way, I suppose it does,’ he said. ‘But
I think your instinct is wrong. Things aren’t the same as they were before. For one thing, there are other people around now, too. If you think Harry’s death had anything to do with
Penny, I suggest you follow your instinct to Jack Barker. He’s been hanging around with her a lot lately, so I hear. Now good day, Chief Inspector, and thanks for the drink.’
Banks watched Ramsden thread his way between the tables and turned his attention back to the cricket match just in time to see a wicket fall dramatically. The bails flew high in the air and the
bowler threw up his arms and yelled, ‘Owzat!’
Banks thought about his talk with Ramsden and wondered if there was anything in what he’d said about Barker. ‘Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for
love.’ So his daughter Tracy, playing the fair Rosalind, had said in
As You Like It
, which had been Eastvale Comprehensive’s school play that term. But it wasn’t true; many
had killed and many had died for love. And Penny Cartwright was certainly the kind of woman to stir up such strong feelings.
Suddenly, the air roared and screamed as two F-111s from a nearby US airbase shot overhead. They flew so low that Banks could almost see the pilots’ faces. It was a common enough
occurrence in the dales; jet bombers frequently ripped through the peaceful landscape and shattered the idyll as they broke the sound barrier. On the hillside below Crow Scar, scared sheep huddled
together and ran for the cover of a drystone wall. People at the tables put their hands over their ears and screwed up their faces.
The planes broke the spell for Banks. There was paperwork to be done that afternoon. Grabbing his jacket, he drained his glass and left the cricketers to finish their game.
Dinner in the Banks household that evening was a lively affair. It seemed like ages since the family had all sat down together and enjoyed one of Sandra’s delicious
concoctions: chicken in tarragon and white-wine sauce. She had a wonderful knack of making the most inexpensive cuts of meat taste like gourmet creations. This skill, Banks thought, was
characteristic of someone with inborn good taste and a poor working-class background. All it took, said Sandra, clearly delighted with the compliments, was the right cooking method and a little
care with the sauce.
Most of the conversation was taken up by the children’s accounts of their day trip to York.
‘The Minster was smashing,’ enthused Tracy, the bright fourteen-year-old with a passion for history. ‘Do you know, Daddy, there’s more stained glass in there than in any
other cathedral in Europe?’
Banks expressed interest and surprise. Architecture had not, so far, been one of his interests, but it was becoming more and more appealing. At the moment he was still reading up on the geology
of the dales.
‘And the Five Sisters are simply stunning,’ Tracy went on.
‘Five Sisters?’ Banks asked. ‘In a minster?’
‘Oh, Daddy,’ Tracy laughed, ‘you don’t know anything, do you? The Five Sisters are lancet windows in the north transept. They’re made of grisaille glass. Thirteenth
century, I think. And the Rose Window—’
‘It was boring,’ cut in Brian, who all the while had been feeling left out. ‘Just a lot of old statues of dead kings and stuff. Junk, it was. Boring.’
‘You’re just a philistine,’ Tracy retorted, pronouncing the word with both difficulty and authority. ‘I’ll bet you didn’t even notice that monument to
Archbishop Scrope.’
‘Scrope? Who’s he?’ Banks asked. While sympathizing with Brian, he didn’t feel justified in cheating Tracy out of her excitement. She was at an age now when one of her
great thrills was to educate her parents, whom she thought dreadfully ignorant of the past that surrounded them. Very soon, Banks mused sadly, all that would be forgotten, at least for a few years,
and life would be all clothes, pop music, make-up, hairstyles and boys.
‘He was a rebel,’ Tracy informed him. ‘Henry the Fourth had him executed in 1405.’
‘Oh shut up with all them dates, clever clogs,’ Brian burst out. ‘You think you know it all.’ And before Tracy could respond, he turned to his father and launched into
his own account.
‘We went on a boat down the river, Dad, and she felt seasick.’ He cast a look of pitying contempt at his sister. ‘And we passed this big chocolate factory. Me and some of the
boys wanted to go on a tour but the teacher wouldn’t let us. She just wanted to show us history and stuff and all those silly old narrow streets.’
‘The Shambles,’ Tracy interrupted. ‘And Stonegate and Petergate. Anyway, the chocolates would only have made you sick.’
‘It didn’t need chocolates to make
you
sick, did it?’ Brian taunted her.
‘That’s enough, Brian!’ Sandra cut in. ‘Stop it, both of you!’
And so it went on; Brian sulked and Tracy scowled at him until they both went upstairs to watch television while Sandra cleared the table and Banks helped her with the dishes. Finally, still
arguing, they were packed off to bed, and Banks suggested a nightcap.
‘I’ve got a new job,’ Sandra said, pouring the Scotch. ‘Well, not really new, just different.’
Banks asked what it was. Sandra worked as a dentist’s receptionist three mornings a week in Eastvale.
‘Mr Maxwell’s going on holiday, shutting up shop for three weeks, and Peggy Matthews – that’s Mr Smedley’s receptionist – is off at the same time,
too.’
‘Not together, I hope?’
Sandra laughed. ‘No. Fine bedfellows they’d make, I’m sure. Maxwell’s going to the Greek Islands and Peggy’s off to Weymouth. Anyway, apparently Smedley asked if he
could borrow me while the boss was away. Maxwell asked me and I said yes. It’s all right, isn’t it? I didn’t think we had any plans.’
‘Yes, it’s fine if you want to. I can’t really plan anything until this Steadman business is settled.’
‘Good. Smedley’s a real perfectionist, so I hear. Especially when it comes to fitting caps and crowns, matching the colours and all that. They say he’s one of the best in
Yorkshire.’
‘You might get to meet the local gentry, then. Who knows?’
Sandra laughed. ‘Well, Peggy did say that Mrs Steadman goes there. She’s having some root canal work done. She’s a bit of a local celebrity now.’
‘It’s amazing, isn’t it?’ Banks said. ‘The husband gets murdered and people suddenly line up to look at the wife as if she were bloody royalty.’
‘It’s only natural, though. We all have some morbid curiosity.’
‘Not me. Look,’ Banks said, ‘we haven’t been out for a long time, and there’s supposed to be a good folk singer on in Helmthorpe tomorrow. Do you fancy
going?’
‘Changing the subject, eh? Helmthorpe? Isn’t that where the Steadmans live?’
‘Yes.’
‘This isn’t work, is it, Alan? It’s not connected to the case?’
‘Cross my heart. We’ll just go and listen to some good folk music like we’ve done plenty of times before. Ask Harriet and David along, too.’
‘If they can get a sitter. It’s such short notice. What about Jenny Fuller? Think she might like to come?’
‘She’s in France,’ Banks said. ‘Don’t you remember? That wine-tasting tour. Took off as soon as term ended.’
‘Lucky her. All right, then, I’ll call Harriet. As long as you promise it’s nothing to do with work! I don’t much fancy sitting there like a spare part while you grill
some suspect.’
‘Scout’s honour. And I’m not sure I like what you’re implying. I don’t grill people.’
Sandra smiled. Banks moved closer and put his arm around her. ‘You know—’ he began.
‘Ssshhh . . .’ Sandra put her finger to his lips. ‘Let’s go to bed.’
‘What’s wrong with the sofa?’ Banks asked, and pulled her gently towards him.
Sally Lumb was finding it difficult to get to sleep. She had put aside
Wuthering Heights
because her eyes were getting tired, but sleep just would not come.
First she thought of Kevin. She would have to give in soon or he’d be off after someone more experienced. He was right on the edge and she couldn’t tease him for much longer. She
didn’t want to, anyway. The last time they’d been together, the day they saw Penny Cartwright, she had let him put himself close to her sex; she had felt his heat and hardness right at
her very entrance and it made her tremble and go all wet, just like it said in the books. It had been cruel to stop him then, she knew, but they had no protection; she didn’t want to get
pregnant. There were ways around that, though. Next time . . .
Turning over and praying for sleep to come, she started thinking about the implications of what she had remembered that afternoon. Not the car on Saturday night – that was nothing –
but something she hadn’t fully perceived at the time that now had more sinister far-reaching possibilities. It was her first real clue, and she had to decide what to do about it. She
wouldn’t go to the police, that was for certain – a proper fool she’d make of herself if she was wrong! Besides, she was already determined to solve the affair herself. Perhaps
she might even become a heroine.
And the police were fools anyway; she could easily one-up them. That man from London had treated her like a silly child. And what had he done that was so wonderful? Given up an exciting
metropolitan life for the boredom of Swainsdale, that’s what he’d done. Lord, the man could have been working for Scotland Yard!
And so, as her mind tossed and turned towards sleep, the first step became clear. If she was right, then someone was in danger; a warning had to be given. She would arrange a secret meeting, and
maybe after that, if her suspicions were proved correct, she could go about setting a trap. That thought worried her, as she really would be making herself vulnerable. But she could always rope
Kevin in; he was a big strong lad, and he’d do anything for her.
As Sally finally drifted into the dream world that usually puzzled and irritated her, she could see the lights of London strung out before her like a diamond necklace. Why stop there? the dream
insisted. And the images progressed, built up from magazine photographs and television programmes:
Vogue
models sashayed down the Champs Elysées, famous actresses stepped out of
limousines under the neons of Sunset Strip, and all the well-known television personalities she had ever seen chatted over cocktails at a party in Manhattan . . . But soon it all faded, and what
she remembered in the morning was a rather absurd image of being in Leeds, a place she had visited several times on shopping expeditions with her mother. In the dream it felt like a foreign city.
There were uniformed policemen all over the place, and Sally had to push her bicycle because she didn’t have a licence – at least, not one that was valid in Leeds. She was there, she
vaguely remembered, because she was searching for a bird, a white one that had flown from her garden, a vast dark expanse like a tilled field after rain. She didn’t know if the bird had been
her pet, her responsibility, or just a wild creature she had taken a fancy to, but it was important, and she was there in an alien familiar city pushing her bicycle among the policemen looking for
it . . .
Banks slipped Finzi’s choral setting of ‘Intimations of Immortality’ into the car stereo as he turned off the A1 at the Wetherby roundabout and took the A58
to Leeds. It was eleven thirty on Friday morning, just five days after the discovery of Steadman’s body. Hatchley, under the weather on Thursday morning after his visit to Darlington, had
checked Hackett’s alibi thoroughly and found that it held. Barnes, too, was out of the running; though he was unmarried and had no one to confirm that he went straight home after visiting Mrs
Gaskell, his finances were in order and there had never been even the slightest hint of malpractice or wrongdoing of any kind during his twenty years as a doctor in Helmthorpe.
In his office earlier that morning, Banks had completed the mass of paperwork he had started the day before: transcripts of interviews, maps and timetables of people’s movements, lists of
unasked or unanswered questions. He had gone over the forensic evidence again, but found nothing new. Constable Weaver and his reinforcements were still asking questions around the village, the
campsite and outlying farms, but the likelihood of their turning up new evidence after so long was fast diminishing.
The hushed choir entered, repeating the opening theme, ‘There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream . . .’ over the baritone’s solo line, and Banks forgot his frequently
distasteful job for a few moments. Finzi’s music made Wordsworth’s poem bearable.
The drive, which he took slowly, turned out to be quite pleasant once he’d left the Great North Road and its never-ending stream of lorries. It was the quickest way, the same route as he
had taken on his last trip to Leeds, to interview a pawnbroker in connection with a series of robberies. But that had been a grey, rainy day in late October. Now it was summer and he drove through
the kind of peaceful green countryside one so often finds close to large English cities.
Banks puffed at his pipe as Finzi played on, not bothering to relight it after the second time it went out, and soon found himself in the Seacroft area. He had to concentrate hard on directions;
the tower blocks all looked much the same and there were few landmarks to go by. He came out finally through an underpass near the city centre and parked close to the Town Hall. From there, he
could see the high white tower of the library building, something Gristhorpe had told him about that morning in his potted history of the city and its architecture.
Banks had no fixed ideas about how to approach the academics; he intended to play it by ear. He had called earlier and arranged to have lunch with Darnley and Talbot in a pub near the
university. Though term was officially over, they still travelled to their offices almost every day to carry on with their research or simply to get out from under their wives’ feet. Darnley,
to whom Banks had spoken, seemed quite excited by the prospect of a chat with the police, or so he had said in a rather detached way, as if he were discussing the mating habits of lemurs.