A Dedicated Man Page 21

  ‘And you never know when you have enough?’

  ‘Yes. But you can’t predict when that moment will come. It could be in the next ten seconds or the next ten years. You don’t know what the pattern will look like when it’s there, so you might not even recognize it at first. But, soon enough, you’ll know you’ve got a design and not just a filing cabinet full of odds and sods.’

  ‘What about money as a motive?’ Penny asked. ‘Harry was very well off.’

  ‘He didn’t leave a will, which was foolish of him. Naturally, it all goes to Mrs Steadman. It would have been more convenient for us if he’d left it all to the National Trust and we could have pulled in the first nutty conservationist we could find, but life isn’t as easy as fiction. Motive and opportunity just don’t seem to go together in this case.’

  ‘Well, that’s your problem, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Have I explained why I’m pestering you so much now?’

  ‘Very clearly, thank you,’ Penny said, giving him a mock bow.

  ‘You don’t see Michael much these days?’

  ‘No, not often. Occasionally in the Bridge. He was always especially awkward with me after we split up, though. You’re not suggesting that Michael is still in love with me, are you? Let me get this right. He thought Harry and I were having an affair all those years ago and backed off. But all the time he’s been holding a grudge. He worked his way into Harry’s confidence over the years just looking for an opportunity to do away with him, and finally took his revenge. Am I right?’

  Banks laughed, but it sounded hollow. Perhaps Ramsden did have sufficient motive, but he would have been hard-pushed to make an opportunity. First of all, he could hardly come to Helmthorpe and hang around in the car park all evening waiting, even if he was certain Steadman would be going there. And if Steadman had gone to York, how did his car get back to Helmthorpe? Ramsden could hardly have driven two cars, and he would have needed his own to get home. There were certainly no buses at that time of night, and he would not have risked arranging for a taxi.

  ‘It’s ludicrous,’ Penny said, as if she had been listening in on Banks’s thoughts. ‘I see what you mean when you say you’re stuck.’ She finished her drink, put down the glass, and stood up to leave.

  Banks stayed on, drinking rather gloomily and craving another cigarette. Then Hatchley walked in. The sergeant brought two pints over and wedged himself into the chair Penny had just left.

  ‘Any developments?’ Banks asked.

  ‘Weaver’s men have talked to someone who saw Sally Lumb in the public call box on Hill Road at four o’clock Friday afternoon,’ Hatchley reported. ‘And someone else thinks he saw her walking along Helmthorpe High Street at about nine o’clock.’

  ‘What direction?’

  ‘East.’

  ‘She could have been going anywhere.’

  ‘Except west,’ Hatchley said. ‘By the way, I’ve been in touch with a mate of mine in York. Keeps tabs on all the queers and perverts down there, and there’s nothing on Ramsden at all. Not a dicky bird.’

  ‘I didn’t think there would be,’ Banks said glumly. ‘We’re barking up the wrong tree, Sergeant.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but who’s going to lead us to the right ’un?’

  Banks watched the rain stream down the dirty window-pane and sighed. ‘Do you think the two are linked?’ he asked. ‘Steadman and the Lumb girl?’

  Hatchley wiped his lips with the back of his hand and burped. ‘Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? The girl has the only piece of real information we get about the dumping of Steadman’s body, and she goes missing.’

  ‘But she’d already told us what she knew.’

  ‘Did the killer know that?’ Hatchley asked.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, does it? He didn’t even know anybody had heard him burying Steadman below Crow Scar, unless . . .’

  ‘Unless the girl let him know.’

  ‘Right. Either intentionally or otherwise. But that still assumes she knew more than she told us, that she knew who it was.’

  ‘Not if it was unintentional,’ Hatchley pointed out. ‘A girl like that tells all her friends, maybe hints that she knows more than she does. This is a small place, remember. It’s not like London. It’s easy to be overheard here, and word travels quickly.’

  ‘The coffee bar,’ Banks muttered.

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘The coffee bar. The place she hung around with her friends. Come on, we’d better question those girls again. If they know what Sally knew, they could be in danger as well. I didn’t want them to think that Sally had been killed, or that her disappearance had anything to do with Steadman, but there’s no time for softly-softly any more.’

  Hatchley gulped down the rest of his pint, then dragged himself to his feet and plodded along behind.

  10

  ONE

  Anne Downes was both nervous and excited to find herself in the police station. Not that it was much of a place, but it was alive with important activity: people coming and going, phones ringing, the ancient telex machine clattering. The two other girls paid less attention to their surroundings and seemed more preoccupied with their internal sense of unease. Hazel was the worst, biting her nails and shifting position as if she had St Vitus’s dance; Kathy pretended to lounge coolly, casually uninterested in the whole affair, but she was biting her lower lip so hard it turned red.

  The policewoman had been friendly enough when she’d picked them up at the coffee bar and driven them the short distance to the station, and the small attractive chief inspector had smiled and said he wouldn’t keep them long. But they all knew there was something going on.

  Anne was the first to be called into the tiny interview room. Its walls were bare and the mere two chairs and a table made the place seem over-furnished. It was the kind of room that made you claustrophobic.

  Banks sat opposite Anne, and a policewoman with a notebook in her hand stood in the corner by a narrow barred window.

  ‘I’d just like to ask you a few questions, Anne,’ Banks began.

  She looked at him quizzically from behind the thick lenses and nodded.

  ‘First of all, I suppose you know why I want to see you again?’

  ‘Yes,’ Anne replied. ‘You think Sally’s been murdered because of something she knew.’

  Banks, taken aback by her directness, asked what her opinion was.

  ‘I’d say it’s possible, yes,’ Anne answered, her young brow furrowed in thought. ‘I’ve already told you that I don’t believe she’s run away or got lost, and that doesn’t leave much more to choose from, does it, especially with this other business going on?’

  She’d make a good detective, Banks thought – quick, perceptive, logical. ‘Have you got any other ideas?’ he asked.

  ‘Maybe I was wrong,’ Anne said, her voice beginning to shake.

  ‘Wrong about what?’

  ‘When I said Sally was all talk, all big ideas. Maybe she really did know something. Maybe she thought she’d make a name for herself by following it up.’

  ‘Why should she do that?’

  Anne adjusted her glasses and shook her head. The thick lenses magnified the tears forming in her eyes. ‘I don’t know,’ she answered.

  ‘Did she tell you anything at all that indicated she knew who the person was? Think about it. Anything.’

  Anne thought, and the tears held off. ‘No,’ she said finally. ‘She just hinted that she knew things, that she’d solved some kind of mystery. I mean, yes, she did sort of say that she knew who it was, but she didn’t give us any names or anything. She said she had to make sure; she didn’t want to cause any trouble.’

  ‘Do Sally’s parents have a telephone?’

  ‘Yes. They’ve had one for ages. Why?’

  ‘Can you think of any reason why Sally would use a public phone box on Friday afternoon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even if she wanted to call Kevin or some other boyfriend? I know th
at parents aren’t always understanding.’

  ‘There was only Kevin, and Sally’s mum and dad knew about him. They weren’t a hundred per cent keen, but he’s a nice enough boy, so they didn’t make a fuss about it.’

  ‘Did Sally say where she was going on Friday evening?’

  ‘No. I’d no idea she was going anywhere.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Anne,’ Banks said.

  The policewoman showed her out and brought Kathy Chalmers in next. Kathy was upset by then, but there were no tears, and although she seemed to realize dimly what it was all about, she had nothing to add.

  The last girl, Hazel Kirk, was another matter. She knew as well as the others what was going on, but she pretended ignorance. She said she couldn’t even remember whether Sally had said anything about knowing who the killer was. The more Banks questioned her, the more fidgety and edgy she became. Finally she burst into tears and told Banks to leave her alone. He nodded to the policewoman, who moved forward to speak to her, and left the room.

  Sergeant Hatchley was sitting on the edge of Weaver’s desk looking over reports from provincial police and railway authorities. He glanced up as Banks approached. ‘Any luck?’

  Banks shook his head. ‘The first one’s the most intelligent, but even she couldn’t tell us much. What she did say confirms our suspicions though. If Sally thought she knew who the killer was and arranged for a meeting, then we can be pretty sure what’s happened to her. It must have been someone she knew, someone she wasn’t afraid of. There’s got to be a motive, dammit, and it’s got to be right before our eyes.’ He banged his fist on the desk, surprising Hatchley with the sudden violence. It reminded the sergeant that his boss came from a tough patch. He wasn’t a plodder; he was used to action.

  ‘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. Th
at’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.’

  TWO

  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?