A Dedicated Man ib-2

by Peter Robinson

Reverend Caxton took a handful of earth and cast it down on the coffin. ‘For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to receive unto Himself the soul of our dear brother here departed; we therefore commit his body to the ground…’

  To pass the time, Sally studied the others covertly. Penny Cartwright was the most striking. Dressed in black from head to foot, her pale face in stark contrast, she wore just enough make-up to hide the bags under her eyes from all but the most discerning of onlookers, and to highlight her tragic, romantic cheekbones. She really did look extraordinarily beautiful, Sally thought, but in an intense, frightening and overwhelming way. On the other hand, Emma Steadman, in a conservative, unfashionable, charcoal-grey suit, didn’t look much. She could have done herself up a bit, at least for the funeral, Sally thought, mentally adding a touch of blusher, eyeliner and a slash of lipstick. Immediately, though, she felt ashamed of herself for thinking such worldly thoughts at a time like this; after all, Mrs Steadman had always been nice to her.

  ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ, who shall change our mortal body…’

  Between the two grieving women stood Michael Ramsden, who looked, to Sally, rather like one of those doomed tubercular young men in the black and white gothic films her mother liked to watch on Channel Four. At Penny’s other side was Jack Barker in a dark suit with a black armband. He really did look dashing and dangerous – that Errol Flynn moustache, the glint in his eyes – and Sally lost herself for a few moments in a swashbuckling fantasy.

  The policeman, Banks, didn’t detain her for long. True, he was handsome in a lean and bony kind of way and the scar was mysterious, but she had seen his true colours and found them lacking. He was soft; he had lived in London, had adventure all around him, countless opportunities for heroism, and he had given it all up to retire to this godforsaken part of the country. Old before his time, obviously. Dr Barnes looked as grey and insignificant as ever, and Teddy Hackett wore an ostentatious gold medallion which glinted in the sun against the background of his black shirt whenever he shifted from foot to foot.

  ‘… that it may be like unto His glorious body, according to the mighty working whereby He is able to subdue all things to Himself.’

  When Sally turned her attention back to the ceremony, it was all over. Slowly, as if reluctant to leave the deceased once and for all, the mourners edged away. Penny and Emma had their handkerchiefs out, and each hung on to the arm of the nearest man. In Penny’s case that was Jack Barker, and Sally noticed what an attractive couple they made. The others left in groups of two or three, and the policeman sidled away alone. Harold Steadman, lowered to rest, had become a part, in death, of the dale he had loved so much in life.

  TWO

  At one o’clock, after having spent an hour discussing their lack of progress with Constable Weaver in the Helmthorpe station, Banks sat alone at a white table in the back garden of the Dog and Gun sipping a pint of shandy. The tables around him were all full. Tourists chatted about their holidays, the weather, their jobs (or lack of them), and children buzzed around unhindered like the wasps that flitted from glass rims to the remains of gateaux and sticky buns left on paper plates.

  Banks didn’t mind the squealing and the chatter; he was always able to shut out distracting background noise when he wanted to. He sat in his shirtsleeves and fiddled with his pipe, dark suit jacket slung over the back of a chair. The pipe was a blasted nuisance. It kept going out or getting clogged up, and the bitter juices trickled down the stem on to his tongue. It suited him, though; it was a gesture towards establishing the kind of identity and image he wanted to develop and project.

  A wasp droned on to his sleeve. He brushed it away. Across the dazzling river with its overgrown banks the local club was playing cricket on a field of freshly mown grass. The slow pace of the game made it look like a Renaissance pavane. The harmony of white against green, the sharp crack of willow against leather, and the occasional smatterings of applause seemed to blend with the scent of the grass and enhance the sensation of peace. He rarely went to matches these days – and if he did, got bored after a few overs – but he remembered the famous England cricketers of his school days: Ted Dexter, ‘Fiery’ Fred Trueman, Ken Barrington, Colin Cowdrey; and the classroom games he had played with dice and paper, running his own county championship and Test Match series. The cliches about cricket were true, he reflected; there was something about the game that was essentially English – it made one feel that God was in his heaven and all was well with the Empire.

  Far from it, though, he realized with a jolt. Beyond the pitch, the valley side sloped up gently at first, veined with drystone walls, then steepened and peaked into the long sheer curve of limestone, Crow Scar, above which Banks actually fancied he could see crows wheeling. And about halfway between the pitch and the scar, as far as the eye’s imperfect perspective could make out, was the spot where Steadman’s body had been found.

  Banks didn’t like funerals, and in a way it seemed a pointless convention to attend the funerals of people he had never known. Not once had he caught a murderer that way: no graveside confessions, no mysterious stranger lurking behind the yew trees. Still, he did it, and when he probed his motives he found that it was because of a strange and unique bond he felt with the dead man, perhaps more intimate even than if he had known him. In a sense, Banks saw himself as the victim’s appointed avenger, and, in an odd way, he worked together with the dead man to redress the balance of nature; they were coworkers of light against darkness. In this case, Steadman was his guide from the spirit-world: a silent and shapeless guide perhaps, but present nonetheless.

  Banks looked back at the game just in time to see the batsman swipe a badly paced off-spinner towards the boundary. The bowler found his length in the next two deliveries though, and play slowed down as the batsman was forced to switch to defensive tactics. Banks, aided by the warm air, drifted back into a reverie about his first year and a half in Yorkshire.

  The landscape, it went without saying, he found beautiful. It was wild and rough, unlike the southern downs, but its scale inspired awe. And the people. Whatever he had heard about the stubborn intractability of the Yorkshire character, the gruffness, the slowness in taking to strangers, was all true to some extent, but like all generalizations didn’t do justice to the full reality. He had grown to appreciate the stoic humour, the quick wit and instinctive good sense, the friendliness beneath the crusty surface.

  Banks also liked the feeling of being an outsider. Not a stranger, as he had been among the anonymous international crowds of London, but an outsider. He knew he always would be, no matter how deep he put his roots.

  Knocking out his pipe, he tried to bring his mind to bear on the case again. It had the same sordid elements as any murder, but in such an environment it seemed even more of a blasphemy. The whole way of life in the small dale – the people, their priorities, beliefs and concerns – was different from that in London, or even in Eastvale. Gristhorpe had said that being an outsider would give him an advantage, a fresh perspective, but Banks wasn’t too sure; he seemed to be getting nowhere fast.

  He turned as a long shadow brushed across the white table and saw Michael Ramsden disappearing into the pub.

  ‘Mr Ramsden!’ he called after him. ‘A word, if you’ve got a moment to spare.’

  Ramsden turned. ‘Chief Inspector Banks. I didn’t see you there.’

  Banks thought he was lying, but it meant nothing. As a policeman, he was used to being avoided. Ramsden perched on the very edge of a chair, indicating through his body language that he had no intention of staying for more than a minute or two.

  ‘I thought you’d be at the funeral lunch,’ Banks said.

  ‘I was. You know what those things are like: all that false humour and bonhomie to cover up what’s really happened. And someone inevitably drinks too much and get silly.’ He shrugged. ‘I left. Was
there something you wanted to ask me?’

  ‘Yes. Are you certain you didn’t go out on Saturday night?’

  ‘Of course I’m certain. I’ve already told you.’

  ‘I know, but I want to make absolutely sure. Not even for half an hour or so?’

  ‘You’ve seen where I live. Where would I go?’

  Banks smiled. ‘A walk? A run? I’ve heard that writers get blocked sometimes.’

  Ramsden laughed. ‘That’s true enough. But no, not me, not on Saturday anyway. I was in all evening. Besides, Harry had a key; he would have let himself in and waited.’

  ‘Had he done that before?’

  ‘Once, yes, when I had to work late at the office.’

  ‘He wouldn’t, say, visit another friend in the area and come back later?’

  ‘I don’t think Harry really knew anyone else in the York area. Not well enough to drop in on, at least. Why do you want to know all this, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘We need to know where Mr Steadman was between ten fifteen and the time of death. But there’s something else,’ Banks went on quickly, sensing Ramsden’s restlessness. ‘I’d like to talk to you a bit more about the past – your relationship with Penny Cartwright.’

  Ramsden sighed and made himself more comfortable. A white-coated waiter passed by. ‘Drink?’ Banks asked.

  ‘Might as well, if you intend to keep me here a while. But it’s all so long ago – I don’t see how you expect me to remember. And I can’t imagine what any of it has to do with Harry’s death.’

  Banks ordered two pints of lager. ‘Just bear with me, that’s all. Ten years ago,’ he went on, ‘was a very important time in your life. It was summer, and you were eighteen, all set for university, courting the prettiest girl in Swainsdale. Harold and Emma Steadman came to stay at your parents’ guest house for a month, as usual. By all accounts that was a memorable summer – long walks, expeditions to local sites of interest. Surely you remember?’

  Ramsden smiled. ‘Yes, of course I do, now you put it like that. I just hadn’t realized it was so long ago,’ he said wistfully.

  ‘Time does seem to pass quickly,’ Banks agreed. ‘Especially when you lose your sense of continuity, then look back. Anyway, it came to an end. Things changed. What happened between you and Penny?’

  Ramsden sipped his lager and brushed away a troublesome wasp. ‘I’ve told you before. Like most teenage lovers, we just drifted apart.’

  ‘Did you ever regret it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The turn of events. Perhaps you could have been happily married to Penny now, and none of this would ever have happened.’

  ‘None of what? I fail to see the connection.’

  ‘Everything: Penny’s adventures in the music business, your bachelorhood.’

  Ramsden laughed. ‘You make it sound like a disease, Chief Inspector. I may be a bachelor, but that doesn’t mean I live a celibate life. I have lovers, a social life. I enjoy myself. As for Penny… well, it’s her life. Who’s to say things haven’t turned out for the best for her, too?’

  Banks tried to coax his pipe alight. A baby in a high chair two tables away started to cry. Its cheeks were smeared with strawberry jam. ‘Perhaps if Steadman hadn’t come along, though, and spirited her away…?’

  ‘What are you suggesting? That Harry and Penny were involved?’

  ‘Well, he was older, more mature. You have to admit it’s a possibility. She certainly spent a lot of time with him. Isn’t that why you split up? Didn’t you argue about Steadman?’

  Ramsden was on the edge of his seat again. ‘No, we didn’t,’ he said angrily. ‘Look, I don’t know who’s been telling you all this, but it’s lies.’

  ‘Did you split up because Penny wouldn’t give you what you wanted? Maybe she was giving it to Steadman?’

  This time Ramsden seemed on the point of getting up and hitting Banks, but he took a deep breath, scratched the back of his ear and smiled. ‘You know, you really are irritating,’ he said. ‘I should imagine people tell you things just to make you go away.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Banks admitted. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Maybe there’s some truth in the first part of your question. A man can only wait so long, as you probably know yourself. I was definitely ready, and Penny was a very beautiful girl. It’s only natural, isn’t it? We were both a bit naive, scared of sex, but it didn’t help that she kept saying no.’

  Banks laughed. ‘It certainly wouldn’t,’ he said knowingly. ‘I dare say I’d have been climbing the walls myself. But why do you think she kept saying no? Was it something to do with Steadman? Or did she have another boyfriend?’

  Ramsden thought, frowning, before he answered. ‘No, there wasn’t another boyfriend, I’m sure of that. I think it was just a matter of morality. Penny was brought up to be a nice girl, and nice girls don’t. As for Harry, I don’t think he did what you’re suggesting. I’m sure I’d have known, somehow. I suppose at times I was a bit peeved about how close they were. Not that I thought there was anything going on, mind, but they did spend a lot of time together, time she could have spent with me. Harry was so much more sure of himself than I was. I was shy and clumsy. So yes, I might have been a bit envious, but I didn’t feel the kind of jealousy you have in mind.’

  ‘Oh? What kind of jealousy do I have in mind?’

  ‘You know. The kind that eats away at you and ends in murder,’ he answered, deepening his voice for dramatic effect.

  Banks laughed. Ramsden had nearly finished his drink and looked anxious to leave, but there were a couple more areas Banks wanted to probe. ‘What about her father, the major? Do you think he had anything to do with you two drifting apart?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no. As far as I know, he approved of me. He’s a bit cracked, but he never really gave us any trouble.’

  ‘Did you ever get together with Penny again later? You were both in London at times, weren’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so. But I never saw her. Once it was over, that was it.’

  ‘What did you do while she was off with Steadman?’

  ‘It wasn’t the way you make it sound, Chief Inspector. Often we all went together; sometimes I just didn’t want to go with them. I read a lot. I’d just discovered the pleasures of literature. My sixth-form English teacher, Mr Nixon, was a brilliant inspiring man, and he managed to undo, in one year, all the damage that the others had done. For the first time, I could enjoy Shakespeare, Eliot, Lawrence, Keats, and the rest with a joy I’d not known before. What I’m saying is that I was a very romantic and introspective young man; I was happy enough to sit by a “babbling brook” and read Wordsworth.’

  ‘When you weren’t trying to get Penny into bed,’ said Banks, who had once, on Gristhorpe’s recommendation, tried Wordsworth and found him an insufferable bore.

  Ramsden blushed. ‘Yes, well… I was a normal adolescent; I don’t deny that.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Look, I don’t mean to seem rude, but I do have to get back to the office. Tell me, before I go, why this fascination with past events?’

  ‘I’m not really sure,’ Banks said, reaching for his glass. ‘I’m just following my instincts.’

  ‘And what do your instincts tell you?’

  ‘That Harold Steadman’s death wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment affair; it was premeditated and it probably had its roots in the past. You see, you were all together ten years ago – you, Penny Cartwright, her father, the Steadmans – and now you’re all back in more or less the same place. Eighteen months after Steadman comes to live in Gratly, he’s dead. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’

  Ramsden brushed back his forelock, which this time actually had slipped over his eyes, then he drained his glass and stood up. ‘Put that way, I suppose it does,’ he said. ‘But I think your instinct is wrong. Things aren’t the same as they were before. For one thing, there are other people around now, too. If you think Harry’s death had anything to do with Penny, I suggest you follow your instinct to
Jack Barker. He’s been hanging around with her a lot lately, so I hear. Now good day, Chief Inspector, and thanks for the drink.’

  Banks watched Ramsden thread his way between the tables and turned his attention back to the cricket match just in time to see a wicket fall dramatically. The bails flew high in the air and the bowler threw up his arms and yelled, ‘Owzat!’

  Banks thought about his talk with Ramsden and wondered if there was anything in what he’d said about Barker. ‘Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.’ So his daughter Tracy, playing the fair Rosalind, had said in As You Like It, which had been Eastvale Comprehensive’s school play that term. But it wasn’t true; many had killed and many had died for love. And Penny Cartwright was certainly the kind of woman to stir up such strong feelings.

  Suddenly, the air roared and screamed as two F-111s from a nearby US airbase shot overhead. They flew so low that Banks could almost see the pilots’ faces. It was a common enough occurrence in the dales; jet bombers frequently ripped through the peaceful landscape and shattered the idyll as they broke the sound barrier. On the hillside below Crow Scar, scared sheep huddled together and ran for the cover of a drystone wall. People at the tables put their hands over their ears and screwed up their faces.

  The planes broke the spell for Banks. There was paperwork to be done that afternoon. Grabbing his jacket, he drained his glass and left the cricketers to finish their game.

  THREE

  Dinner in the Banks household that evening was a lively affair. It seemed like ages since the family had all sat down together and enjoyed one of Sandra’s delicious concoctions: chicken in tarragon and white-wine sauce. She had a wonderful knack of making the most inexpensive cuts of meat taste like gourmet creations. This skill, Banks thought, was characteristic of someone with inborn good taste and a poor working-class background. All it took, said Sandra, clearly delighted with the compliments, was the right cooking method and a little care with the sauce.