A Dedicated Man Page 5

  The building was too austere for Banks, but he could see it was ideally suited to the environment. In a part of the country windswept and lashed by rain much of the year, any human dwelling had to be built like a fortress to provide even the most basic domestic comforts. Inside, though, Gristhorpe’s house was as warm and welcoming as the man himself.

  Banks knocked at the heavy oak door, surprised at how the hollow sound echoed in the surrounding silence, but got no answer. On such a fine afternoon, he reasoned, he was more likely to find Gristhorpe in his garden, so he walked around the back.

  He found the superintendent crouching by a heap of stones, apparently in the process of extending his wall. The older man got to his feet, red-faced, at the sound of footsteps and asked, ‘Is that the time already?’

  ‘It’s almost five,’ Banks answered. ‘I’m a few minutes early.’

  ‘Mmm . . . I seem to lose all track of time up here. Anyway, sit down.’ He gestured towards the rough grass by the stones. The superintendent was in his shirtsleeves, his ubiquitous Harris tweed jacket lying on the grass beside him. A gentle breeze ruffled his thick mop of silver hair. Below it, a red pockmarked face, upper lip all but obscured by a bristly grey moustache, grinned down at Banks. The oddest thing about Gristhorpe’s appearance – and it was a facet that disconcerted both colleagues and criminals alike – was his eyes. Deep set under bushy brows, they were those of a child: wide, blue, innocent. At odds with his six-foot-three wrestler’s build, they had been known to draw out confessions from even the hardest of villains and had made many an underling, caught out in a manufactured statement or an over-enthusiastic interrogation, blush and hide in shame. When all was well though, and the world seemed as fresh and clear as it did that day, Gristhorpe’s eyes shone with a gentle love of life and a sense of compassion that would have given the Buddha himself a good run for his money.

  Banks sat for a while and helped Gristhorpe work on the drystone wall. It was a project that the superintendent had started the previous summer, and it had no particular purpose. Banks had made one or two attempts at adding pieces of stone but had at first got them the wrong way around so that the rain would have drained inwards and cracked the wall apart if a sudden frost came. Often, he had chosen pieces that simply would not fit. Lately, however, he had improved, and he found the occasional wall-building afternoons with Gristhorpe almost as relaxing and refreshing as playing with Brian’s train set. A silent understanding had developed between them about what stone would do and who would fix it in place.

  After about fifteen minutes, Banks broke the silence: ‘I suppose you know that somebody dismantled one of these walls last night to cover a body?’

  ‘Aye,’ Gristhorpe said, ‘I’ve heard. Come on inside, Alan, and I’ll make a pot of tea. If I’m not mistaken there are still a few of Mrs Hawkins’s scones left, too.’ He rhymed ‘scones’ with ‘on’, not, like a southerner, with ‘own’.

  They settled into the deep worn armchairs, and Banks cast his eyes over the bookcases that covered one entire wall from floor to ceiling. There were books on all kinds of subjects – local lore, geology, criminology, topography, history, botany, travel – and shelves of leather-bound classics ranging from Homer, Cervantes, Rabelais and Dante to Wordsworth, Dickens, James Joyce, W. B. Yeats and D. H. Lawrence. Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice lay on the table; the position of the bookmark indicated that Gristhorpe had almost finished it. As always when he visited the superintendent, Banks mentally reminded himself that he should read more.

  Gristhorpe’s office in Eastvale was much the same: books everywhere, and not all of them relevant to police work. He came from old dales farming stock, and his decision to join the police after university and army service had caused trouble. Nevertheless, he had persevered, and he had also helped out on the farm in his spare time. When Gristhorpe’s father saw that his son’s natural aptitude and capacity for hard work was getting him places, he stopped complaining and accepted the situation. Gristhorpe’s father had been sad to see the farm dwindle to little more than a large back garden before he died, but his pride in his son’s achievement and the status it gave him locally eased him, and his death was without acrimony.

  Gristhorpe had told Banks all this during their frequent meetings, usually over a good single malt whisky after a wall-building session. The older man’s candour, along with more practical advice, made Banks feel like an apprentice, or protégé. Their relationship had developed this way since the Gallows View affair, Banks’s dramatic introduction to northern police work. As he told what he knew about the Steadman murder, he was alert for any tips that might come his way.

  ‘It’s not going to be easy,’ Gristhorpe pronounced after a short silence. ‘And I won’t say it is. For one thing, you’ve all those tourists and campers to consider. If Steadman had an enemy from the past, it would be an ideal way of doing the job. They never keep records at campsites as far as I know. All they care about is collecting the money.’ He nibbled at his scone and sipped strong black tea. ‘Still, the killer could be a lot closer to home. Doesn’t look like you’ve got much physical evidence, though, does it? Somebody might have heard a car, but I doubt they’d have paid it much mind. I know that road. It swings north-east all the way over to Sattersdale. Still, I don’t suppose I need tell you your job, Alan. First thing is to find out as much as you can about Steadman. Friends, enemies, past, the lot. Nose about the village. Talk to people. Leave the donkey work to your men.’

  ‘I’m an outsider, though,’ Banks said. ‘I always will be as far as people around here are concerned. I look out of place and I sound out of place. Nobody’s going to give much away to me.’

  ‘Rubbish, Alan. Look at it this way. You’re a stranger in Helmthorpe, right?’ Banks nodded. ‘People notice you. They’ll soon get to know who you are. You don’t look like a tourist, and no villager will mistake you for one. You’re even a bit of a celebrity – at least for them as reads the papers around here. They’ll be curious, interested in the new copper, and they’ll want to find out what makes you tick. You’ll be surprised what they’ll tell you just to see how you react.’ He chuckled. ‘Before this is all over you’ll feel like a bloody priest in his confessional.’

  Banks smiled. ‘I was brought up C. of E.’

  ‘Ah. We’re all Methodists or Baptists hereabouts,’ Gristhorpe said. ‘But some of us are more lapsed than others, and most of the daftest sects – your Sandemanians, for example – have all but disappeared.’

  ‘I hope I won’t have the same obligation to secrecy as a priest.’

  ‘Heavens, no!’ Gristhorpe exclaimed. ‘I want to know everything you find out. You’ve no idea what an opportunity this is for me to catch up on Helmthorpe gossip. But seriously, Alan, do you see what I mean? Take Weaver. He’s a pleasant enough lad. Trustworthy, competent, thorough. But as far as the villagers are concerned he’s a fixture, boring as a rainy day – though I shouldn’t make that comparison around these parts. See what I mean, though? Half the womenfolk in Helmthorpe probably changed his nappies when he was a nipper, and most of the menfolk’ve given him a clip around the ear once or twice. Nobody will tell Weaver anything. They won’t confide in him. There’s nothing in it for them. But you . . . You’re the exotic newcomer, the father confessor.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ Banks said, finishing his tea. ‘I was thinking of dropping in at the Bridge tonight; Weaver told me Steadman used to drink there regularly with a few friends.’

  Gristhorpe scratched his pitted red chin, and his bushy eyebrows merged in a furrow of concentration. ‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘Imagine it’ll be a bit of a wake tonight. Good time to pick up stray words. They’ll all know who’s been killed, of course, and probably how. Would that chap Barker be one of Steadman’s cronies, by the way?’

  ‘Yes. Jack Barker, the writer.’

  ‘Writer be damned!’ Gristhorpe almost choked on a mouthful of scone. ‘Just because he makes money from the claptrap doesn’t m
ean he’s a writer. Anyway, it’s a good idea. You’ll get something out of them, however useless it might seem at first. What time is it now?’

  ‘Ten to six.’

  ‘Supper?’

  ‘Yes, any time you’re ready.’ Banks had almost forgotten how hungry he was.

  ‘It won’t be owt special, you know,’ Gristhorpe called out as he went to the kitchen. ‘Just salad and leftover roast beef.’

  TWO

  Sally and Kevin raced the last few yards and collapsed, panting, by Ross Ghyll. They were high up on Tetchley Fell, on the south side of the dale, having walked to the source of one of the numerous becks that meander their way down to the Swain.

  When they had caught their breath, Kevin kissed her, thrusting his tongue deep into her mouth, and they lay down together on the pale springy grass. He touched her breasts, felt the nipples harden through thin cotton, and slowly let his hand slide down between her legs. She was wearing jeans, and the pressure of the thick seam against her sex made her tingle with excitement. But she broke free and sat up, distracted.

  ‘I’m going to tell the police, Kevin,’ she said.

  ‘B-but we—’

  She laughed and hit him lightly on the arm. ‘Not about this, stupid. About last night.’

  ‘But then they’ll know about us,’ he protested. ‘They’ll be sure to tell.’

  ‘No, they won’t. Why should they? You can tell them things in confidence, you know, like Catholics and priests. Besides,’ she added, twirling a strand of hair between her slim fingers, ‘my mum and dad know we were together. I told them we were at your house and we forgot about the time.’

  ‘I just don’t think we should get involved, that’s all. It could be dangerous, being a witness.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be daft. I think it’s rather exciting, myself.’

  ‘You would. What if the killer thinks we really saw something?’

  ‘Nobody knew we were up there. Nobody saw us.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It was dark, and we were too far away.’

  ‘He might see you going to the police station.’

  Sally laughed. ‘I’ll wear a disguise, then. Now you’re being really silly. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

  Kevin fell silent. Once again he felt he’d been outwitted and outreasoned by a mere girl.

  ‘I won’t tell them who you are if it bothers you so much,’ Sally went on, reassuring him. ‘I’ll just say that I was with a friend I’d rather not name. Talking.’

  ‘Talking!’ Kevin laughed and reached for her. ‘Is that what we were doing?’

  Sally giggled. His hand was on her breast again, but she pushed him away and stood up, brushing the grass from her jeans.

  ‘Come on, Sally,’ he pleaded. ‘You know you want it as much as I do.’

  ‘Do I now?’

  ‘Yes.’ He made a grab for her ankle but she stepped nimbly aside.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘But not now. Especially with someone who’s ashamed to admit he was with me last night. Besides, I have to be home for tea or my dad’ll kill me.’ And she was off like the wind. Sighing, Kevin got to his feet and plodded along behind her.

  THREE

  ‘When you hit someone over the head, Doc,’ Jack Barker asked, ‘does the blood gush, pour or just flow?’

  ‘That’s a pretty tasteless question at a time like this, isn’t it?’ Barnes said.

  Barker reached for his pint. ‘It’s for my book.’

  ‘In that case, I shouldn’t think accuracy matters, then, does it? Use the most violent word you can think of. Your readers won’t know any more than you do.’

  ‘You’re wrong there, Doc. You should see some of the letters I get. There’s plenty of ghouls among the reading public. Do you know how many of those little old ladies are hooked on gruesome forensic details?’

  ‘No. And I don’t want to, either. I see enough blood in my line of work as it is. And I still think you’re showing poor taste talking like that before poor Harry’s even in the ground.’

  It was early, and Barnes and Barker were the only members of the informal group sitting in the snug.

  ‘Death comes to us all in the end, Doc,’ Barker replied. ‘You ought to know that. You’ve helped enough people shuffle off their mortal coils.’

  Barnes scowled at him. ‘How can you be so bloody flippant? For God’s sake, have a bit of decency, Jack. Even you’ve got to admit that his death was an untimely one.’

  ‘It must have been timely enough for the killer.’

  ‘I don’t understand you, Jack. Never in a million years . . .’ Barnes sighed over his beer. ‘Still, I have to keep reminding myself you write about this kind of thing all the time.’

  ‘It’s just shock,’ Barker said, reaching for a cigarette. ‘Believe it or not, I didn’t personally witness every murder I’ve written about. And as you well know, I’ve never set foot on American soil either.’ He ran a hand across his slicked-back hair. ‘It’s a bloody sad business, all right. I know we used to tease the poor bugger about his rusty nails and pigs of lead, but I’ll miss him a lot.’

  Barnes acknowledged the eulogy with a curt nod.

  ‘Have the police been talking to you yet?’ Barker asked.

  The doctor seemed surprised. ‘Me? Goodness, no. Why should they?’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Doc. I know you’re an eminent GP, pillar of the community and all that crap. But that kind of thing doesn’t cut much ice with the CID, old man. And it doesn’t alter the fact that you were here last night with the rest of us and you left quite a bit earlier than usual.’

  ‘You surely don’t think the police would . . .’ he began. Then he relaxed and mumbled almost to himself, ‘Of course, they’ll have to check every angle. Leave no stone unturned.’

  ‘Cut the clichés,’ Barker said. ‘They hurt.’

  Barnes snorted. ‘I can’t see why; you write enough of them yourself.’

  ‘It’s one thing giving the public what it wants and the publishers what they pay for, but quite another to spout them out in intelligent company. Anyway, you look worried, Doc. What skeletons will they find in your cupboard?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Barnes said. ‘And I don’t think you should joke about a matter as important as this. After all, poor Harry is dead. And you know damn well where I had to go last night. Mrs Gaskell is already a week overdue with her delivery and, frankly, I’m getting a bit worried.’

  ‘I suppose she can give you an alibi, then?’

  ‘Of course she can, should it ever come to that. Besides, what possible motive could I have for harming Harry?’

  ‘Oh, still waters run murky and deep,’ Barker replied, mimicking the doctor’s own style of speech.

  At that moment, Teddy Hackett arrived, looking every inch the flamboyant entrepreneur. He was a vain dresser, always wearing a shirt with a monogram or an alligator embroidered on its top pocket, gold medallion and expensive designer jeans. He tried to look younger than he was, but his dark hair was receding fast at the temples and a flourishing beer belly hung over his belt, almost obscuring a hand-wrought silver buckle depicting a growling lion’s head.

  It was well known around the village that when Hackett wasn’t making money or drinking with his cronies, he was living it up in nightclubs in Leeds, Darlington or Manchester, turning on the charm for any attractive young woman who came his way. He had certainly done well for himself – the garage, a couple of gift shops – and he kept a keen eye open for anything else that came on the market. He was the kind of businessman who, given free rein, would probably buy up the whole dale and turn it into a gigantic funfair.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, easing into his chair with a brimming pint grasped in his fist. ‘What a turn-up for the book, hey?’

  Barnes nodded and Barker stubbed out his cigarette.

  ‘Got any details?’ Hackett asked.

  ‘No more than anyone else, I should think,’ Barker replied. ‘I bet the
doc’ll find out a thing or two after the autopsy.’

  Barnes reddened with anger. ‘That’s enough, Jack,’ he snarled. ‘These things are confidential. It’ll be done in Eastvale General by the pathologist, Glendenning. They’re bloody lucky to have him up here. One of the best in the country, or so I’ve heard.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s at it already. Dead keen, they say.’ He faltered, catching the unintentional pun a moment after he’d let it out. ‘Anyway, you can be sure it’ll go no further.’

  ‘Like young Joanie Lomax’s recent dose of clap, eh?’

  ‘You’re going too far, Jack. I know you’re upset like the rest of us. Why can’t you admit it instead of behaving like some bloody actress waiting for opening night reviews?’

  Barker shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  ‘Has anyone been questioned yet?’ Hackett asked.

  The other two shook their heads.

  ‘It’s just that I saw that detective fellow – I’m sure I recognize him from that photo in the local rag last autumn. He’s at the bar right now.’

  They all looked over and saw Banks leaning against the bar, foot on the rail, apparently enjoying a quiet pint alone.

  ‘That’s him,’ Barker confirmed. ‘I saw him leaving Emma’s this morning. What are you so nervous about anyway, Teddy? You’ve got nothing to hide, have you?’

  ‘Nothing, no. But we were all here last night with him, weren’t we? I mean, they’re sure to want to question us. Why haven’t they done it yet?’

  ‘You left after Harry, as I remember,’ Barker said.

  ‘Yes. It was Saturday night, wasn’t it? Had to get up to Darly for Freddy’s new club opening. Bloody good night it was, too. There were some real corkers around, Jack. Why don’t you come along with me sometime? Handsome young bachelor like yourself ought to get around and about a bit more.’

  ‘Ah,’ Barker replied, shaking his head. ‘Better things to do with my time than chase scrubbers in a disco, mate. A writer’s life . . .’