Authors: Peter Robinson
‘Got a cigarette?’ Banks asked.
‘Thought you’d stopped and taken up pipe puffing,’ Hatchley said, handing over his packet of Senior Service.
‘Not any more. I never could stand the blasted thing.’
Hatchley smiled and gave him a light. ‘Then I suggest, sir,’ he said, ‘that you start buying your own.’
The door of the interview room opened and a pacified Hazel Kirk came out to rejoin her waiting friends, who had all been whispering, wondering what was going on. The policewoman, looking
concerned, stood in the doorway and beckoned Banks over.
‘What is it?’ he asked, closing the door behind him.
‘The girl, sir,’ the PC began. ‘Why she was upset. It might mean something.’
‘Well? Go on.’
‘Sorry, sir. She got upset because Sally had told her she thought she knew who the killer was, and when she got home, Hazel told her parents.’ She paused, and Banks drew on his
cigarette waiting for her to continue. ‘They just laughed and said Sally Lumb always did have an overactive imagination, but the girl’s father had had a bit of a run-in with Steadman a
few weeks ago, and Hazel thought . . .’
‘Yes, I can imagine what she thought,’ Banks said. For all his virtues, Steadman had certainly been a thorn in the side of some locals. ‘What was it this time?’ he asked.
‘Arguments over land or charges of moral laxity?’
‘Sir?’
‘Sorry, it doesn’t matter,’ Banks said. ‘Go on. What’s the background?’
‘She didn’t say, sir. Wouldn’t. I’m brought in from Wensleydale. Constable Weaver might know something.’
‘Yes, of course. Thank you very much, Constable . . . ?’
‘Smithies, sir.’
‘Thank you very much, Constable Smithies. You did a good job calming her down and getting her to open up like that,’ Banks said, then left her blushing in the interview room.
Weaver was on the phone when Banks reached the desk, but he cut the conversation short.
‘The weather people from Reckston Moor, sir,’ he explained. ‘They say it’d be madness to send out search parties on the moors for at least twenty-four hours.’
‘Bloody northern weather,’ Banks cursed. Hatchley, eavesdropping, grinned and winked at Weaver, who ignored him.
‘They don’t expect the rain to let up for a while, and the land’s boggy. Visibility is as bad as you can get up the valley sides. It’s all moorland above there, sir, both
ways, miles of it.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Banks said. ‘And there’s nothing we can do about it, is there? Just make sure everything’s set to go the minute the situation improves. Have you
arranged for helicopters?’
‘Yes, sir. Superintendent Gristhorpe’s handling it. But they can’t go out in this weather.’
‘No, of course not. Look, you know that girl who was in here a few minutes ago?’
Weaver nodded. ‘Hazel Kirk. Yes.’
‘Know anything about her father?’
‘Robert Kirk. Family’s been here for generations. Came from Scotland originally.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He works at Noble’s in Eastvale. You know, the big shoe shop in that new shopping centre near the bus station.’
‘I know it. Anything else.’
‘He’s very active in the local church, sir,’ Weaver went on. ‘One or two people think he’s a bit of a religious nutter, if you know what I mean. Touch of the fire
and brimstone. Strong Presbyterian streak – his ancestors brought it with them from Scotland, if you ask me. Anyway, he’s always writing letters to the papers about too much sex on
television. His latest fad is a campaign to ban rock videos and bring censorship into the music business. There’s not much support for that round here though, sir. Nobody really cares one way
or another.’
‘What’s your opinion of him?’
‘Nutty but harmless.’
‘Certain?’
Weaver nodded. ‘Never been in trouble with us, sir. And he is very religious, like. Wouldn’t harm a fly.’
‘Religious people are often the most violent. Aren’t the Iranians religious? Anyway, have a chat with him, would you, and ask him what he argued with Harold Steadman
about.’
‘There wasn’t any argument, sir,’ Weaver replied. ‘Kirk complained to the headmaster of Eastvale Comprehensive about letting someone with such lax moral standards as
Harold Steadman mix with teenage girls.’
‘What?’
‘It’s true, sir,’ Weaver went on, grinning. ‘He’d seen Steadman with Penny Cartwright now and then, and to Kirk she was nothing less than the whore of Babylon.
Remember, he was around when Penny left Helmthorpe in the first place; all those rumours of incest, then the Sodom and Gomorrah of the music business. Steadman would sometimes give Hazel and the
other girls a ride home from school, and he’d take them on field trips and invite them to his house. Kirk complained. Nobody took him seriously, of course. I even overheard Steadman and his
mates having a good chuckle over the business in the Bridge one night.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’ Banks asked. There was something in the icy quietness of his tone that sent danger signals to Weaver.
‘I— It didn’t seem important, sir.’
‘Didn’t seem important?’ Banks repeated. ‘We’re investigating a murder, laddie. Do you realize that? Everything’s important. Even if it’s not important
it’s important if it has anything to do with the victim and his circle. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Weaver said shakily. ‘Will that be all, sir?’
‘Is that all?’
‘Sir?’
‘Is there anything else you ought to tell me?’
‘No, sir. I don’t think so, sir.’
‘Then that’s all. Come on, Sergeant Hatchley, let’s get back to civilization.’
‘Bit rough on him, weren’t you, sir?’ said Hatchley as they turned up their collars and walked to their cars.
‘It won’t kill him.’
‘Think there’s owt in it, this Kirk business?’
‘No. No more than there was in the major. Unless Kirk’s a serious nutter, and Weaver assures me he isn’t. Like nearly everything else in this case, there’s just too much
damn gossip. That’s why it’s hard to tell the lies from the truth. Kirk, Major Cartwright – nothing but gossip. Better run a check on his background though, just to make sure. I
suppose he thinks Steadman was trying to corrupt his angelic young Hazel.’
‘I wouldn’t blame him,’ Hatchley said. ‘The jeans these kids wear nowadays . . . You’d need a bloody shoehorn to get into them.’
Banks laughed. ‘Enough lewd thoughts about teenagers, Sergeant.’
‘Aye,’ Hatchley said. ‘It’s a bloody good job we can’t be arrested for what we think. Look, sir, there’s a tobacconist’s. And it’s
open.’
It was late Sunday afternoon before the rain stopped completely, but the first search parties set out at mid-morning. By then it was only drizzling; the clouds had thinned,
promising a fine day, and visibility was good. Plenty of locals had been willing to go out on Saturday, despite the weather conditions, but they had been warned against doing so.
The Sunday search was coordinated by Superintendent Gristhorpe, who had marked out areas on Ordnance Survey maps and assigned these to each small party. He directed operations from the
communications room in Eastvale Regional Headquarters, and as the reports came in, he shaded the ground that had been covered.
Meanwhile, enquiries continued in the major cities. In addition to their regular duties, police on car and foot patrols in Newcastle, Leeds, London, Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham and other
large cities were also keeping an eye out for the young blonde girl. Theatres, drama companies and acting schools were all checked carefully, and though numerous sightings were called in and
followed up, they all proved to be false. Closer to home, Robert Kirk was investigated, questioned and let go. For one thing, he couldn’t drive, and certainly nobody had carried Harold
Steadman all the way from Helmthorpe to Crow Scar.
Sally’s father, enraged with grief after receiving a letter from the Marion Boyars Academy of Theatre Arts saying they would be pleased to accept Sally as a student, had begun his search
alone on Saturday in the rain. The weather so affected his rheumatism and his spirits that he was confined to bed by Dr Barnes the following day. Charles Lumb knew that Sally hadn’t run away,
despite their differences; anxiety and anger gave way to resignation. Even if the searchers did find her, what state would she be in after three or more nights out in the wilds?
On Sunday, the first area searched was the wide stretch of moorland to the north of Helmthorpe above Crow Scar. Gristhorpe, in making his decision, realized he might have been influenced by the
fact that Steadman’s body had been found on the northern slopes, but he reasoned that the area was, after all, the wildest spread of countryside – seven miles of rough high moors before
the next dale – and had the greatest number of hiding places: old mines, steep quarries, potholes.
The only result of Sunday’s effort was an accident in which a police constable drafted in from Askrigg fell down a twenty-foot bell pit. Fortunately, his fall was broken by accumulated
water and mud, but it took over two hours of valuable time to rig up ropes and pull him out. Up on the moorland, two small parties got so bogged down in mud that they were unable to continue, and
progress everywhere was slow.
By Monday, the sun was out to stay and conditions had improved. Gristhorpe, who had been up since five in the morning, sat red-eyed in the communications room logging check-in calls from search
parties, and the map before him soon began to look like a chessboard. This was one task he refused to delegate.
At about three o’clock, the superintendent took Sergeant Rowe’s advice and dropped by Banks’s office to suggest a walk.
They walked into Market Street, which was crowded with tourists from the nearby cities who, seeing an end to the rain, had decided on an afternoon out. It was also market day, and the cobbled
square in front of the church was thronged with colourful stalls selling everything from Marks and Spencer rejects to dinner sets and toilet-bowl brushes. There were stalls of second-hand
paperbacks, yards of plain and patterned material – cotton, linen, muslin, rayon, denim, cheesecloth – spilling over almost to the ground, and stalls piled with crockery and cutlery.
Skilled vendors drew crowds by shouting out the virtues of their wares as they juggled plates and saucers. The people milled around to listen, take photographs and, occasionally, to buy things. In
the narrow twisting side streets around the central market square – old alleys where the sun never penetrated and you could shake hands across second-storey bay windows – the small
souvenir and local delicacy shops with magnifying-glass windows did good business. Everything, from toffee and tea to spoons and fluffy toys, was labelled ‘Yorkshire’, no matter where
it had actually been made.
Gristhorpe directed Banks to a small tea shop and the two of them settled down to tea and buns.
Gristhorpe ran his hand through his thick messy mop of grey hair and smiled weakly. ‘Had to get out for a bit,’ he said, spooning sugar into his mug. ‘It gets so damn stuffy in
that little room.’
‘You look all-in,’ Banks said, lighting a Benson and Hedges Special Mild. ‘Perhaps you should go home and get some sleep.’
Gristhorpe grunted and waved away the smoke. ‘Thought you’d given that filthy habit up,’ he grumbled. ‘Anyway, I suppose I am tired. I’m not as young as I used to
be. But it’s not just tiredness, Alan. Have you ever taken part in an operation like this before?’
‘Not a search in open country, no. I’ve looked for missing teens in Soho, but nothing like this, in these conditions. Do you think there’s any hope?’
Gristhorpe shook his head slowly. ‘No. I think the girl’s been killed. Stupid bloody kid. Why couldn’t she have come to us?’
Banks had no answer. ‘Have you been involved in this kind of search before?’ he asked.
‘More than twenty years ago now,’ Gristhorpe said, adding an extra spoonful of sugar to his tea. ‘And this makes it feel like only yesterday.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Young girl called Lesley Ann Downey. Only ten. And a lad called John Kilbride, twelve. You’ll have heard about all that, though: Brady and Hindley, the Moors Murders?’
‘You were in on that?’
‘Manchester brought some of us in for the search. It’s not that far away, you know. Still, that was different.’
‘Sir?’
‘Brady and Hindley were involved in Nazism, torture, fetishism – you name it. This time it’s more calculated, if we’re right. I don’t know which is
worse.’
‘The result’s the same.’
‘Aye.’ Gristhorpe gulped some tea and nibbled at his bun. ‘Getting anywhere?’
Banks shook his head. ‘Nothing new. Hackett’s in the clear now. Barnes, too, by the looks of it. We’re stuck.’
‘It’s always like that when the trail goes cold. You know that as well as I do, Alan. If the answer isn’t staring you in the face within twenty-four hours, the whole thing goes
stale. When you get stuck you just have to push a bit harder, that’s all. Sometimes you get lucky.’
‘I’ve been thinking about the time of Sally Lumb’s disappearance,’ Banks said, trying to waft his smoke away from Gristhorpe. ‘She was last seen on Helmthorpe High
Street walking east around nine o’clock on Friday evening.’
‘Well?’
‘I was in Helmthorpe at that time, in the Dog and Gun with Sandra and a couple of friends. We went to listen to Penny Cartwright sing. Jack Barker was there too.’
‘So that lets them off the hook.’
‘No, sir. That’s just it. She finished her first set just after nine, then she and Barker disappeared from the pub for about an hour.’
‘Right after Sally had been seen in the village?’
‘Yes.’
‘Better follow it up, then. What do you think?’
‘I’ve talked to them both a couple of times. They’re difficult, sharp. If I were easily swayed by sentiment, I’d say no, not a chance. Penny Cartwright seems sincere, and
Barker’s a clever bugger but likeable enough when you take the time to chat to him. He swears blind he’d nothing to do with Steadman’s death. But I’ve met some damn good
liars in my time. He’s got no alibi and he might have been jealous about Steadman and the Cartwright woman.’