A Dedicated Man ib-2

by Peter Robinson

  ‘What will you tell him?’

  She looked at him and frowned. ‘What is there to tell?’

  ‘The old man?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘He’s sharp,’ Barker repeated.

  Penny smiled. ‘Well, then, he’ll be able to find out all he wants to know, won’t he?’

  Barker leaned forward and took her hand. ‘Penny…’

  She shook him off gently. ‘No, Jack, don’t. Not now.’

  Barker slumped back in his chair.

  ‘Oh come on, Jack,’ Penny chided him. ‘Don’t behave like a sulky boy.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Penny gathered her gown around her and stood up. ‘Think nothing of it. You’d better go, though; I’m a bit unsteady on my pins today.’

  Barker got to his feet. ‘Are you singing this week?’

  ‘Friday. If my voice holds out. You’ll be there?’

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world, love,’ Barker answered. Then he left.

  FIVE

  The police station didn’t look at all like Sally expected. For one thing, the old Tudor-fronted building was modern inside, and the walls weren’t papered with ‘wanted’ posters. Instead, it was more like one of those pleasant open-plan offices with potted plants all over the place and nothing but screens separating the desks behind the reception area. It smelled of furniture polish and pine-scented air-freshener.

  She told the polite young man at the front desk that she wanted to see Chief Inspector Banks, the man in charge of the Helmthorpe murder. No, she didn’t want to tell the young man about it, she wanted the chief inspector. She had important information. Yes, she would wait.

  Finally, her persistence paid off and she was shown upstairs to a network of corridors and office doors with things like ‘Interview Room’ stencilled on them. There she was given a seat and asked if she would mind waiting a few moments. No. She folded her hands in her lap and stared ahead at a door marked, disappointingly, ‘Stationery Supplies’.

  The minutes dragged on. She wished she had brought a copy of Vogue to flip through like at the dentist’s. Suddenly sounds of scuffling and cursing came from the stairwell and three men fell into the corridor only feet from where she was sitting. Two of them were obviously police, and they were struggling with a handcuffed third who wriggled like an eel. Finally, they dragged him to his feet again and hauled him off down the hall. He was squirming and swearing, and at one point he managed to twist free and run back down the hall towards her. Sally was terrified. At least half of her was. The other half was thinking how exciting, how much like Hill Street Blues it was. The policemen caught him again before he got too close and hustled him into a room. Sally’s heart beat fast. She wanted to go home, but the chief inspector came out of his office and ushered her inside.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ he apologized. ‘It doesn’t happen often.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Sally asked, wide-eyed and pale.

  ‘A burglar. We think he broke into Merriweather’s Stereo Emporium last week.’

  Sally found herself sitting before a flimsy metal desk littered with paper clips, pens and important-looking folders. The air was thick with pipe smoke, which reminded her of her father. She coughed, and Banks, taking the hint, went to open the window. Fragments of conversation drifted up on the warm air from Market Street.

  Banks asked Sally what she wanted.

  ‘It’s private,’ she whispered, looking over her shoulder and leaning forward. She was unsettled by what she had just witnessed and found it much harder to get started than she had imagined. ‘I mean,’ she went on, ‘I want to tell you something but you have to promise not to tell anyone else.’

  ‘Anyone?’ The smile disappeared from his lips but still lingered in his lively brown eyes. He reached for his pipe and sat down.

  ‘Well,’ Sally said, turning up her nose at the smoke like she always did at home, ‘I suppose it’s up to you, isn’t it? I’ll just tell you what I know, shall I?’

  Banks nodded.

  ‘It was last Saturday night. I was up below Crow Scar in that little shepherd’s shelter – you know, the one that’s almost collapsed.’ Banks knew it. The derelict hut had been searched after the discovery of Steadman’s body. ‘Well, I heard a car. It stopped for about ten or fifteen minutes, then drove off.’

  ‘Did you see it?’

  ‘No. I only heard it. I thought it was maybe a courting couple or something at first. But they’d stay longer than that, wouldn’t they?’

  Banks smiled. It was clear from the girl’s desire for secrecy and her knowledge of the temporal requirements of courting exactly what she had been doing in the shepherd’s shelter.

  ‘Which direction did the car come from?’ he asked.

  ‘The village, I think. At least, it came from the west. I suppose it could have come from over the dale, up north, but there’s nothing much on that road for miles except moorland.’

  ‘Where did it go?’

  ‘Up along the road. I didn’t hear it turn round and come back.’

  ‘The road that leads to Sattersdale, right?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s plenty of other little roads that cross it. You could get almost anywhere from it.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘It was twelve fourteen when it stopped.’

  ‘Twelve fourteen? Not just after twelve, or nearly quarter past twelve? Most people aren’t so accurate.’

  ‘It was a digi-’ Sally stopped in her tracks. Banks was looking down at her wrist, on which she wore a small black watch with a pink plastic strap. It wasn’t digital.

  ‘Better tell the truth,’ he said. ‘And don’t worry, your parents needn’t know.’

  ‘I wasn’t doing anything wrong,’ Sally blurted out, then she blushed and calmed down. ‘But thank you. I don’t think they’d understand. Yes, I was with somebody. My boyfriend. We were just talking.’ This didn’t sound convincing, but Banks didn’t regard it as any of his business. ‘And then this car came,’ Sally continued. ‘We thought it was getting late anyway, so Kev, my boyfriend, looked at his watch – it’s a digital one with a light in it – and it said twelve fourteen. I knew I should have been home hours ago, but I thought I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. We just stayed where we were not paying it much mind really, then when we heard it go Kevin looked at his watch again and it said twelve twenty-nine. I remember because it was funny. Kevin said they hadn’t much time to…’

  Sally stopped and reddened. It had been all too easy, once she got going, to forget who she was talking to. Now, she realized, she had not only told this strange man with the pipe her boyfriend’s name but had also given him the impression that she knew all about what men and women did together at night in cars on lonely hillsides.

  But Banks didn’t pursue her romantic activities. He was far more concerned about the accuracy of the information he was getting than about her love life. Besides, she looked at least nineteen – old enough to take care of herself, whatever her parents thought.

  ‘I imagine Kevin, your boyfriend, could confirm these times?’ he asked.

  ‘Well… if he had to,’ she answered hesitantly. ‘I mean, I told him I wouldn’t mention his name. We don’t want any trouble. My mum and dad wouldn’t like it, see. I told them we were at his house watching telly. They’d tell his mum and dad where we really were and they’d stop us seeing each other.’

  ‘How old are you, Sally?’

  ‘Sixteen,’ she answered proudly.

  ‘What do you want to do with your life?’

  ‘I want to be an actress. At least, I want to be involved in films and theatre, that kind of thing. I’ve applied to the Marion Boyars Academy of Theatre Arts.’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ Banks told her. ‘I hope you get accepted.’ He noticed that she was already a dab hand at make-up. He had thought she was nineteen. Most girls of her age never seemed to know when enough was enough, but Sally obviously did. Her clothes sens
e was good too. She was dressed in white knee-socks and a deep-blue skirt, gathered at the waist, that came to just above her dimpled knees. On top she wore a white cotton blouse and a red ribbon in her gold-blonde hair. She was a beautiful girl, and Banks wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see her on stage or on television.

  ‘Is it true you’re from London?’ Sally asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did Scotland Yard send you?’

  ‘No. I moved here.’

  ‘But why on earth would you want to come up here?’

  Banks shrugged. ‘I can think of plenty of reasons. Fresh air, beautiful countryside. And I had hoped for an easier job.’

  ‘But London,’ Sally went on excitedly. ‘That’s where it all happens. I went there once on a day trip with the school. It was fabulous.’ Her wide eyes narrowed and she looked at him suspiciously. ‘I can’t understand why anyone would want to leave it for this godforsaken dump.’

  Banks noted that in about twenty seconds Sally’s opinion had undergone a radical reversal. At first she had been coquettish, flirtatious, but now she seemed disdainful, almost sorry for him, and much more brusque and businesslike in her manner. Again, he could hardly keep from smiling.

  ‘Did you know Harold Steadman?’

  ‘Is that who… the man?’

  ‘Yes. Did you know him?’

  ‘Yes, a bit. He often came to the school to give lectures on local history or geology. Boring stuff mostly about old ruins. And he took us on field trips sometimes to Fortford, or even as far as Malham or Keld.’

  ‘So the pupils knew him quite well?’

  ‘As well as you can know a teacher.’ Sally thought for a moment. ‘But he wasn’t really like a teacher. I mean, I know it was boring and all that, but he liked it. He was enthusiastic. And he even took us to his home for hot dogs and pop after some of the trips.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Yes, the pupils who lived in Helmthorpe or Gratly. There were about seven of us usually. His wife made us all some food and we just sat and talked about where we’d been and what we’d found. He was a very nice man.’

  ‘What about his wife, did you know her?’

  ‘Not really. She didn’t stick around with us. She always had something else to do. I think she was just shy. But Mr Steadman wasn’t. He’d talk to anybody.’

  ‘Was that the only time you saw him? At school, on trips?’

  Sally’s eyes narrowed again. ‘Well, apart from in the street or in shops, yes. Look, if you mean was he a dirty old man, the answer’s no.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ Banks said. But he was glad that she had reacted as if it was.

  He made her go through the story again while he took down all the particulars. She gave the information unwillingly this time, as if all she wanted was to get out of the place. When she finally left, Banks slouched back in his chair and grinned to think that all his appeal, all his glamour, had been lost in his move from London to Eastvale. Outside in the market square the clock chimed four.

  5

  ONE

  On Tuesday morning, having sent Sergeant Hatchley to Helmthorpe to check on Weaver’s progress, search Harold Steadman’s study and bring in Teddy Hackett for questioning, Banks set off for York to visit Michael Ramsden again.

  He drove into the ancient Roman city at about eleven o’clock through suburbs of red-brick boxes. After getting lost in the one-way system for half an hour, he found a parking space by the River Ouse and crossed the bridge to Fisher amp; Faulkner Ltd, a squat ugly brick building by the waterside. The pavements were busy with tourists and businessmen, and the huge Minster seemed to dominate the city; its light stone glowed in the morning sun.

  A smart male receptionist pointed him in the right direction, and on the third floor one of Ramsden’s assistants called through to the boss.

  Ramsden’s office looked out over the river, down which a small tour boat was wending its way. The top deck was bright with people in summer holiday clothes, and camera lenses flashed in the sun. The boat left a long V of ripples, which rocked the rowing boats in its wake.

  The office itself was small and cluttered; beside the desk and filing cabinets stood untidy piles of manuscripts, some stacked on the floor, and two bookcases displaying a set of Fisher amp; Faulkner’s titles. Even in a dark business suit, Ramsden still looked as if his clothes were too big for him; he had the distracted air of a professor of nuclear physics about to explain atomic fission to a layman while simultaneously working out complex formulae in his mind. He brushed back an invisible forelock and asked Banks to sit down.

  ‘You were a close friend of Harold Steadman’s,’ Banks began. ‘Could you tell me a little about him? His background, how you met, that kind of thing.’

  Ramsden leaned back in his swivel chair and crossed his long legs. ‘You know,’ he said, looking sideways towards the window, ‘I was always just a little bit in awe of Harry. Not just because he was nearly fifteen years my senior – that never really mattered – but because I don’t think we ever really got over the student-professor relationship. When we met, he was a lecturer at Leeds and I was just about to begin my studies in London, so we weren’t even at the same university. We weren’t in the same field, either. But these ideas get fixed in one’s mind nonetheless. I was eighteen and Harry was nearly thirty-three. He was a very intelligent, very dedicated man – an exact role model for someone like me at that time.

  ‘Anyway, although I was, as I said, just about to go to university in London, I always came home at Christmas and in summer. I’d help around the house, do odd jobs, make bacon and eggs for the guests. And I loved being at home, being in the Yorkshire countryside. It was best when Harry and Emma came to stay for their annual holidays. I’d walk for hours, sometimes alone, sometimes with Harold or Penny.’

  ‘Penny?’ Banks cut in. ‘Would that be Penny Cartwright?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. We were very close until I went off to London.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We used to go out together, in a casual sort of way. It was all very innocent. She was sixteen and we’d known each other nearly all our lives. She’d even stayed with us for a while after her mother died.’

  ‘How old was she then?’

  ‘Oh, about ten or eleven. It was tragic, really. Mrs Cartwright drowned in a spring flood. Terrible. Penny’s father had a nervous breakdown, so she stayed with us while he recovered. It seemed only natural. Later, when… well, you know, we were a bit older… Anyway, Harold was very knowledgeable and enthusiastic about the area. He took to Swainsdale immediately, and pretty soon he was teaching me more than I’d learned living there all my life. He was like that. I was impressed, of course, but as I was about to study English at university I was insufferably literary – always quoting Wordsworth and the like. I suppose you know he bought the house when my mother couldn’t afford to keep it on?’

  Banks nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ Ramsden went on, ‘they came every year, Harry and Emma, and when father died they were in a position to help us out a great deal. It was good for Harry, too. His work at the university was too abstract, too theoretical. He published a book called The Principles of Industrial Archaeology, but what he really wanted was the opportunity to put those principles into practice. University life didn’t give him time enough to do that. He fully intended to teach again, you know. But first he wanted to do some real pioneering work. When he inherited the money, all that became possible.

  ‘When I graduated, I went to work for Fisher and Faulkner in London first. Then they opened the northern branch and offered me this job. I missed the north and I’d always hoped to be able to make a living up here some day. We published Harold’s second book and he and I developed a good working relationship. The firm specializes in academic books, as you can see.’ He pointed towards the crowded bookshelves, and most of the titles Banks could make out had principles or a study of in them. ‘We do mostly literary criticism and local history,’ Ram
sden went on. ‘Next Harry edited a book of local essays, and since that we’ve been working on an exhaustive industrial history of the dale from pre-Roman times to the present. Harry published occasional essays in scholarly journals, but this was to be his major work. Everybody was looking forward to it tremendously.’

  ‘What exactly is industrial archaeology?’ Banks asked. ‘I’ve heard the term quite often lately, but I’ve only got a vague idea what it means.’

  ‘Your vague idea is probably as clear as anyone else’s,’ Ramsden replied. ‘As yet, it’s still an embryonic discipline. Basically, the term was first used to describe the study of the machinery and methods of the Industrial Revolution, but it’s been expanded a great deal to include other periods – Roman lead mines, for example. I suppose you could say it’s the study of industrial artefacts and processes, but then you could argue for a month about how to define “industrial”. To complicate matters even further, it’s very hard to draw the line between the subject as a hobby and as an academic discipline. For instance, if someone happens to be interested in the history of steam trains, he can still make a contribution to the field, even though he actually works nine to five in a bank most days.’

  ‘I see,’ Banks said. ‘So it’s a kind of hybrid area, an open field?’

  ‘That’s about it. Nobody’s yet come up with a final definition, which is partly why it’s so exciting.’

  ‘You don’t think Mr Steadman’s death could be in any way linked to his work, do you?’

  Ramsden shook his head slowly. ‘I can’t see it, no. Of course, there are feuds and races just like in any other discipline, but I can’t see any of it going that far.’

  ‘Did he have rivals?’

  ‘Professionally, yes. The universities are full of them.’

  ‘Could he have uncovered something that someone might wish to keep quiet?’

  Ramsden thought for a moment, his sharp chin resting in his bony hand. ‘You mean the unsavoury past of a prominent family, that kind of thing?’