A Dedicated Man Page 17

  ‘He certainly looked a little pale when I saw him,’ Hazel added.

  ‘My dad heard them arguing a couple of weeks ago – Hackett and Mr Steadman,’ Anne said.

  ‘But they can’t think he did it,’ Hazel reasoned, ‘or they’d have arrested him in custody by now. I bet he’s got a skintight alibi.’

  ‘It’s “watertight”, you fool.’ Anne laughed. ‘And he can’t be “arrested in custody”, only “in custody”.’

  ‘All right, Miss Know-it-all. So what?’

  ‘I wonder who she was,’ Kathy said. ‘Teddy Hackett’s alibi.’

  And they all laughed. To them, Hackett, with his droopy moustache, receding hairline, gold medallions and beer belly hanging over his fancy belt buckle, was a figure of ridicule, the male equivalent of mutton dressed as lamb.

  ‘What do you think, Sally?’ Anne asked. ‘You’re very quiet today.’

  ‘I’ve got a few ideas of my own,’ Sally replied slowly and quietly. ‘But I’ve got to check them out.’

  And with that she walked out, leaving them all gaping again, not knowing whether to believe her or not.

  8

  ONE

  By seven thirty, the lounge bar of the Dog and Gun was almost full. It was a long narrow room with only one vaguely demarcated aisle down the centre. The audience was clustered around small tables, and a white-jacketed waiter had been employed so that people wouldn’t have to move about to get drinks. He moved awkwardly among the crowd, a tray of black and amber drinks tottering menacingly at shoulder height. The jukebox had been unplugged for the evening, and piped folk music played softly enough to make conversation easy. Dim wall lights gave the room a dark orange glow, and at the bar the brass rail, polished hand pumps and coloured bottles by the mirrors gleamed. At the far end of the room was a low wooden platform, too makeshift to be dignified with the name of a stage, and on it stood a couple of microphones on stands, two large speakers, three stools and an amplifier with its red light on.

  Banks and Sandra sat with Harriet and David about halfway down the room on the right-hand side. Harriet, pixieish in looks, animated and intelligent in character, drove a mobile library around the more remote dales villages. Her husband David was an assistant bank manager in Eastvale and, if truth be told, Banks found him a bit of a bore.

  David had clearly said something that required more than a mere nod in response, but Banks had been watching a fresh-faced young camper, probably under eighteen, who was already displaying the effects of too much alcohol in his desire to show off to his girlfriend.

  ‘Pardon?’ Banks said, cupping his hand to his ear.

  ‘I said, I suppose you know all about computers yourself, being on the force,’ David repeated. ‘I’m afraid I’ve been boring you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ lied Banks. He tamped down the tobacco in his pipe and lit it in defiance of Sandra’s sharply aimed frown. ‘No, not at all. But yes, I know a little bit about computer languages.’ That old-fashioned phrase, ‘on the force’, made him smile. It was an odd way of looking at his job, he thought. On what force? The forces of law and order, no doubt. ‘May the force be with you.’ The force of good against evil? It was a stiff dry phrase that hardly did the job justice.

  While telling David what little he did know about the subject, Banks noticed Penny Cartwright come in with Jack Barker. The two of them made their way to the front, where chairs had been saved for them. Shortly afterwards, a nervous spotty young man took the stage, tapped the microphones, said ‘testing’ in each one three or four times, then welcomed everyone to folk night at the Dog and Gun. One by one, conversations died down until all that could be heard was the barman ringing up sales and the steady humming of the amplifier. The microphone shrieked when the young man got too close, and he backed off quickly, pulling a face. Banks couldn’t catch the names of all the scheduled performers, but he gathered that Penny was set to sing two forty-minute sets, the first starting at eight thirty and the second at about ten fifteen.

  After more notices and introductions, a duo clambered on to the stage. The boy had only a guitar, but the girl spread several ancient and obscure stringed instruments on the floor around her. First they launched into a Bob Dylan song, and what they lacked in talent, Banks thought, they made up for in enthusiasm. After the applause, the young man made jokes about the notes he had missed and apologized for the rawness of his technique. It worked: after that the audience wanted him to succeed and most people were willing to overlook the rough edges.

  The girl said nothing but concentrated on tuning what looked to Banks like a mandolin. She played extremely well on the next number, a medley of old English dances. On the whole, the audience was respectful and attentive, but there were occasional, unavoidable interruptions as the waiter passed by and more drinks were ordered. Someone told the inebriated young camper to shut up, too.

  Banks and David seemed to have settled into buying rounds, the two men drinking pints of bitter and the women lager and lime. Banks had to watch his intake because he didn’t want to appear even slightly intoxicated in the village where he was conducting a murder investigation. Two pints in an hour and a half wasn’t at all bad, he told himself, but it was only just after eight o’clock. He was aware that he tended to speed up towards closing time.

  The first intermission came and people started making their ways to the toilets and the bar. As he walked down the narrow aisle, Jack Barker noticed Banks’s party and came over.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘What a surprise to find you here. I’d no idea you were a folkie.’ There was just enough of a twinkle in his eye to make the irony apparent. ‘Mind if I join you for a moment?’ He grabbed a nearby chair and pulled it up before Banks could object. ‘Is it just Miss Cartwright you’ve come to hear?’

  ‘Actually, it’s Ms Cartwright,’ Banks corrected him. ‘And yes, I’ve heard she’s very good.’ His tone was brusque; he wished Barker would go away.

  ‘You’re in for a real treat, Chief Inspector, a real treat. People come from miles away to hear Penny Cartwright, you know. She’s got a solid reputation in these parts, especially since she gave up fame and fortune to return to her roots. People appreciate that.’

  From what Banks had heard, appreciation wasn’t quite the word for the gossip that had surrounded Penny’s return to her roots, but he kept quiet. Barker obviously wanted to show off, and, short of being rude, there was no way to stop him. Sandra returned from the Ladies and looked at Barker curiously. There was no escape, Banks realized, cursing himself; he would have to introduce them.

  Barker favoured the women with what Banks suspected was a well-practised Clark Gable smile.

  ‘Delighted,’ he said theatrically, taking Sandra’s hand. ‘I never imagined a policeman’s wife could be so charming and so beautiful.’ Banks was irritated; David simply looked on, a vacant grin on his face.

  It was not only Barker’s charm and social finesse that annoyed Banks. It was all very well socializing in the community, but to be seen with his wife openly fraternizing with a suspect jarred against his deepest instincts as a detective. It made him feel conspicuous, for one thing, and that was a feeling he disliked. Gristhorpe’s advice – get in there and let them talk to you – was all very well, but a line had to be drawn. He was off duty, and the whole thing was just too pally for his taste. He was sucking on his dead pipe, glowering and contributing monosyllables only when necessary.

  ‘How do you manage to fit in here?’ Sandra asked after Barker had told her his occupation. ‘Aren’t writers usually regarded with a good deal of suspicion?’

  Barker nodded. ‘True. They didn’t like me being here at first,’ he replied. ‘Not one bit. You’re right – people don’t trust writers in small communities, and they’ve good reason not to. Some communities have had bad experiences with chaps who live among them, fit in, then go and write devastating critiques, hardly even bothering to disguise names and identities. It’s like the way some Indians
see photographers – people who steal their souls. Quite right too, in my opinion. The kind of writers they have in mind are unscrupulous. They give us all a bad name.’

  ‘But don’t you think writers have to be a little ruthless?’ Harriet asked. ‘Especially if they’re to tell the truth.’

  ‘Perhaps. But the ones I’m talking about accept your hospitality, then strip you naked on the page. Some writers even worm their way into people’s confidence and set up situations, manipulate events just to see how their “characters” will react. I knew one chap, for example, who used to throw regular parties. This was in London. Real lavish dos they were, no expense spared – champers, single malt Scotch, beluga caviar, quail – more than anyone could hope to devour in an evening. When everyone got sozzled and started arguing, crying or pawing other people’s partners, there he was, sober as a judge, sitting in a corner making mental notes. It took people a long time to figure out what was going on – after all, they were having a good time – but sure enough, they’d appear, thinly disguised, in stories published in magazines, and their friends and colleagues would recognize them. A couple of marriages broke up, reputations were destroyed. All in the name of “art”. After a while, attendance dropped dramatically.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ Harriet asked, sitting on the edge of her chair.

  Barker shrugged. ‘Moved on, I suppose. I’ve no idea where he is now. Pastures new. He still publishes regularly.’

  ‘And is that what you do, Mr Barker?’ Sandra asked. ‘Move in on people and steal their souls.’

  Barker laughed. ‘Please, call me Jack,’ he said, and Banks felt his upper lip begin to curl. ‘No, that’s not what I do at all. At first everyone was suspicious of me, but then they always are like that with incomers, as they call us. After a while, out of curiosity I suppose, someone read a couple of my books, then someone else, and their comments got around. As soon as everyone realized I wrote hard-boiled private-eye stories set in southern California in the thirties, they decided I wasn’t a threat. Believe it or not, I even have a few fans here.’

  ‘I know,’ Harriet said. ‘I’ve carried enough of your books around in the mobile library.’

  Barker honoured her with a smile. ‘As soon as they get to know you’re harmless,’ he went on, ‘you’re as close to being accepted as you’ll ever be. It was the same with Harry.’

  ‘What about Harry?’ Banks asked, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. Sandra frowned at him for being a killjoy.

  ‘All I meant,’ Barker explained, ‘was that Harry was a writer too, in his way, but nobody ever worried about him because he wrote about the Romans and old lead mines. I mean, only people like Penny and Michael Ramsden were interested. That stuff’s as dry as dust to most people.’ He looked back at the ladies and smiled again, clearly hoping to get off on another track.

  ‘Do you know Ramsden well?’ Banks asked, unmoved by Barker’s discomfort and Sandra’s piercing glances. Harriet and Sandra began to chat between themselves, and David looked on, lost.

  ‘I’ve met him,’ Barker replied curtly.

  ‘What do you think of him?’

  ‘Pleasant enough fellow,’ he said, looking to the women for support in his levity. ‘But you can hardly expect a writer to say nice things about an editor, can you? I spend two days working on a fine descriptive paragraph, and my editor wants it cut out because it slows the action.’

  ‘Ramsden’s not your publisher, though, is he?’ Banks persisted.

  ‘Good Lord, no. He only deals with academic stuff.’

  ‘Did you know about Ramsden and Penny Cartwright?’

  ‘That was years ago. What on earth are you getting at?’

  ‘Just trying to sort out the tangle of relationships,’ Banks answered, smiling. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Look, they’re starting again,’ Barker said, rising. ‘Please excuse me.’ He gave a brief bow to Harriet and Sandra, then made his way back to the front. It was almost eight thirty. As the lights dimmed, Banks saw him talking to Penny and glancing back over his shoulder. The last thing he noticed before it got too dim was Barker whispering in Penny’s ear and Penny looking behind her and laughing.

  As the master of ceremonies began his rambling and incoherent introduction, Sandra leaned over to Banks. ‘You were a bit sharp with him, weren’t you?’ she said. ‘Was it really necessary? You did promise we were having a social evening.’

  Banks muttered a sullen apology and busied himself with his pipe. It wasn’t a new situation, the job interfering with his personal life, but it never ceased to cause friction. Perhaps Sandra had expected the move to change all that. A new life. What rubbish, Banks thought. Different landscapes, same old people with the same old failings. He gestured to the waiter to bring another round. Bugger it, let someone else drive home. It was a social occasion, after all, he reminded himself ironically.

  Penny Cartwright took the stage to much applause and several loud whistles from the back of the room. Banks was still furious with Barker for being so damn charming and witty, and with Sandra for encouraging him and with himself for spoiling it. He attacked the fresh pint of bitter with angry gusto and glared at his pipe as if it were at the root of all his troubles. It had gone out yet again and he was sick to death of tamping, emptying, cleaning, scraping and relighting it.

  Penny began with an unaccompanied ballad called ‘Still Growing’. It was a sad tale about an arranged marriage between a woman and a boy on the edge of manhood. The husband died young and the widow lamented, ‘O once I had a sweetheart, but now I have none. / Death has put an end to his growing.’ The story was simply and economically told, and Banks found himself entering into the music as he did with opera, his recent irritation wrapped up and put away in a dim corner of his mind. Her voice had both passion and control – it was that of a survivor singing about the lost and the less fortunate with honest sympathy. She was an alto, pitched lower than Banks had expected, husky on the low notes but pure and clear in the higher range.

  Banks clapped loudly when she finished, and Sandra turned to him with raised eyebrows and a smile of appreciation. Other songs in the same traditional folk vein followed, and sometimes Penny accompanied herself on guitar while another young woman playing the flute or the fiddle joined her. Mixed in with the stories of demon lovers and forbidden affairs were light-hearted jigs and reels and sensational broadside ballads, like ‘The Murder of Maria Marten’.

  Despite his enjoyment of the music, Banks found his mind wandering back to Barker’s reaction to the mention of Michael Ramsden. There had seemed to be a dislike beyond the general lack of love between writers and publishers. Ramsden had been a close friend of Steadman’s and had known Penny Cartwright since childhood. Did they still see each other, despite what they said? Was Barker simply jealous? And if he was jealous of Ramsden, wasn’t he also likely to have felt the same way about Steadman?

  Banks looked at Penny and noticed Barker’s finely chiselled handsome profile in silhouette. He was in love with her, of course. Ramsden had been right to suggest that possibility. And who could blame him? Her beauty was radiant; her talent was moving. But she and Ramsden had parted. Of course, it had happened years ago, before she had fully blossomed, and it could only have been puppy love. Still, such events endure in small communities. Perhaps to some of the more shrewish local gossips Penny would always be known as a wayward lass who lost that nice Michael Ramsden who had gone on and done so well for himself. And what did Ramsden really feel about their parting?

  Banks laid his pipe to rest in the ashtray and Penny announced ‘Like Musgrave and Lady Barnard’, the last song of the set.

  TWO

  At about nine o’clock, Sally Lumb left the house on Hill Road. Because it was Friday, her mother was at bingo in Eastvale with Mrs Crawford, and her father was down in the public bar of the Bridge playing in a local darts match. They wouldn’t be back till about eleven o’clock, which gave her plenty of time. There would be no awkward qu
estions to answer.

  Despite the gathering clouds, it was a warm evening: a bit too hot and sticky, if anything. Sally knew from experience that such signs meant a storm was on its way. She walked down the hill and turned left, by the Bridge, on to High Street. It was a quiet time in Helmthorpe; most people were either in the pubs or sat glued to the idiot box in their living rooms. There’d be nothing much stirring until closing time unless a party of campers got too rowdy at the Hare and Hounds disco and Big Cyril had to chuck them out.

  She walked on down the street and paused outside the Dog and Gun. The front door was open and she could hear singing from inside. Penny Cartwright, by the sound of it. Sally had heard her before but hadn’t known she was singing in the village that evening. She looked at her watch. Plenty of time. The words of the song drifted out on the humid air:

  ‘A grave, a grave,’ Lord Barnard cried,

  ‘To put these lovers in;

  But bury my lady on the top

  For she was of noble kin.’

  With the familiar tune in her mind, Sally walked on, pausing for a moment to listen to the broad beck flowing under the bridge at the eastern end of High Street. She quickened her pace and, leaving the road, struck out up the long wild southern slope of the dale, past where she and Kevin had seen Penny the other day. She had an appointment to keep, a warning to give. Everything would be sorted out soon.

  THREE

  During the intermission, Penny Cartwright walked by Banks on her way out of the pub and flashed him a cool smile of acknowledgment. Barker, following closely behind her, nodded and bowed to Harriet and Sandra.

  ‘She’s so talented and beautiful,’ Sandra said after they’d gone. ‘Surely she can’t be one of your suspects?’