A Dedicated Man

by Peter Robinson

  ‘Writer, my arse!’ Hackett said. ‘I could turn out that junk in my coffee break.’

  Barker raised an eyebrow and grinned. ‘Maybe so, Teddy, but you don’t, do you? There’s the difference. Besides, I hear you’ve had to hire a secretary with a BA in English to translate your business letters for you.’

  ‘My English would hardly be a handicap if I was in your line of work. Anyway, there’s no room for fancy footwork in a business letter. You know that, Jack. Short and to the point.’

  ‘That’s what the reviewers said about my last book.’ Barker sighed. ‘Well, perhaps not in so many words.’

  And even Doc Barnes had to laugh at that.

  After that brief and traditional exchange the three of them fell silent, as if they knew that they had been talking and joking as usual just to fill the void of Harry’s absence, to pretend for as long as possible that nothing had changed, that nothing so brutal and final as murder had touched the cosy little group.

  Barker volunteered to buy another round and went to stand next to Banks at the bar. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘but aren’t you the policeman investigating Harry Steadman’s death?’ When Banks nodded, Barker stuck out his hand. ‘Jack Barker. I’m a friend of his.’

  Banks offered his condolences.

  ‘Look,’ Barker went on, ‘we were wondering – I mean, we were all pals of Harry’s and we spent a good deal of yesterday evening with him – would you care to join us in the snug? It’ll be a sight more comfortable and convenient than hauling us all in to the station individually for questioning.’

  Banks laughed and accepted the offer. ‘I reserve the right to haul you in if I want to, though,’ he added, only half in jest.

  Banks had been intending to drop in on them all along. He had been imitating the vampire, who will not enter his victim’s room until invited, and was pleased that his little trick had worked. Perhaps there was something in Gristhorpe’s advice after all. Curiosity had got the better of them.

  Barker looked happy enough to be bringing him back in tow, but the other two appeared uneasy. Banks, however, was experienced enough not to read too much into their reaction. He knew what discomfort the arrival of the police always caused. Even the most innocent of men and women begin to worry about that forgotten parking ticket or the little income tax fiddle as soon as a copper comes in range.

  A tense silence followed the introductions, and Banks wondered if they expected him to begin a formal interrogation, notebook in hand. Instead, he began to fill his pipe, glancing at them in turn as he did so. Barker looked suave in a forties film star kind of way, and Barnes was a little balding grey man with glasses. He had the shabby look of a backstreet abortionist about him, Banks thought. Finally, Hackett, the flashy one, started to chat nervously.

  ‘We were just talking about Harry,’ he said. ‘Sad business. Can’t think who’d want to do such a thing.’

  ‘Is that what you all think?’ Banks asked, keeping his eyes on the pipe.

  They all murmured their agreement. Hackett lit an American cigarette and went on: ‘It’s like this. Harry might have been a bit of a dotty professor type, and I don’t deny we teased him a bit, but it was all in good humour. He was a fine man, good-tempered, even-natured. He had a sharp mind – and a tongue to match when it came to it – but he was a good man; he never hurt a soul, and I can’t think why anyone would want to kill him.’

  ‘Somebody obviously felt differently,’ Banks said. ‘I hear he inherited a lot of money.’

  ‘Over a quarter of a million. His father was an inventor. Patented some electronic device and opened a factory. Did very well. I suppose the wife’ll get it now?’

  ‘That’s how it usually goes. What’s your opinion of Mrs Steadman?’

  ‘I can’t say I really know her well,’ Hackett answered. ‘She only came down here occasionally. Seems a good woman. Harry never complained, anyway.’

  Barnes agreed.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t add anything,’ Barker said. ‘I know her slightly better than the others – we were, after all, practically neighbours up in Gratly – but she seems unremarkable enough to me. Not much interested in Harry’s work. Stays in the background mostly. But she’s not stupid – and she knows how to cook a good dinner.’

  Banks noticed Barker look over his shoulder at the bar and turned to see what the attraction was. He was just in time to see a young woman with glossy black hair down to her waist. She wore a blue shawl over a white silky blouse, and a long loose skirt that curved from her slim waist over the graceful swell of her hips. He only glimpsed her face in profile for a moment as she walked out. It looked good: angular, high cheekbones, straight nose, like a North American Indian. Half obscured by her hair, a crescent of silver flashed where her jaw met her long neck.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he asked Barker.

  Barker smiled. ‘Oh, you noticed, I see. That’s Olicana.’ He pronounced the foreign word slowly.

  ‘Olicana?’

  ‘Yes. At least that’s what Harry used to call her. Apparently it’s what the Romans called Ilkely, the spirit of the place, the genius loci. Her real name is Penny Cartwright. Not half as exotic, is it?’

  ‘What happened last night?’ Banks asked with an abruptness that startled Barker. ‘Was it a normal evening’s drinking as far as you were all concerned?’

  ‘Yes,’ Barker answered. ‘Harry was on his way to York and dropped in for a couple of swift halves.’

  ‘He didn’t drink any more than usual?’

  ‘A little less, if anything. He was driving.’

  ‘Did he seem unusually excited or worried about anything?’

  ‘No.’ Barker assumed the role of spokesman. ‘He was always excited about his work – some rusty nail or broken cartwheel.’

  ‘Rusty nail?’

  ‘Yes. That’s how we used to joke about it. It was his field of study. Industrial archaeology. His one great passion, really. That and the Roman occupation.’

  ‘I see. I’ve been told that Mr Steadman was supposed to visit an old lead mine in Swaledale today. Know anything about that?’

  ‘I think he mentioned it, yes. We tried not to let him get away with too much shop talk, though. I mean, it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, is it, rusty nails?’

  ‘What time did he leave here last night?’

  Barker concentrated for a moment. ‘It’d be about a quarter to nine,’ he answered finally, and the others nodded in agreement.

  ‘When did you leave?’

  Barker glanced at Barnes and Hackett before answering. ‘I left about ten fifteen. I was alone by then and it was no fun.’

  Banks turned to the other two and they gave him their stories.

  ‘So you see,’ Barker concluded, ‘any one of us could have done it. Our alibis are all weak.’

  ‘Just a minute!’ Barnes cut in.

  ‘Only joking, Doc. Sorry, it was in poor taste. But it is true, isn’t it? Are we suspects, Inspector? It is Inspector, isn’t it?’

  ‘Chief Inspector,’ Banks answered. ‘And no, there aren’t any suspects yet.’

  ‘I know what that means. When there are no suspects, everybody’s a suspect.’

  ‘You write detective stories, don’t you, Mr Barker?’ Banks asked mildly. Barker flushed and the others laughed.

  ‘Defective stories, I always call them,’ Hackett chipped in.

  ‘Very droll,’ Barker growled. ‘There’s hope for you yet.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Banks went on, pushing the pace now he’d got them going. ‘You’re all well off. Why do you drink in a dump like this?’ He looked around at the peeling wallpaper and the scored, stained tables.

  ‘It’s got character,’ Barker replied. ‘Seriously, Chief Inspector, we’re not quite so well off as you think. Teddy here’s been living on credit ever since he bought up Hebden’s Gift Shop, and the doc’s making as much as he can fiddle from the NHS.’ Barnes just glared, not even bothering to interrupt. ‘And I’m just dying for some
one to buy the film rights to one of my books. Harry was loaded, true, but when it came, it came as a bit of a surprise to him, and he didn’t know what to do with it. Apart from quitting his job and moving up here to devote himself to his studies, he didn’t change his way of life much. He wasn’t really interested in money for its own sake.’

  ‘You say it came as a surprise to him,’ Banks said. ‘I thought he inherited it from his father. Surely he must have known that he was in for a sizeable inheritance?’

  ‘Well, yes he did. But he didn’t expect as much as he got. I don’t think he really paid much mind to it. Harry was a bit of an absent-minded prof. Took after his father. It seems that the old man had patents nobody knew about tucked away all over the place.’

  ‘Was Steadman mean, stingy?’

  ‘Good heavens, no. He always paid for his round.’

  Hackett smiled tolerantly while Barnes sighed and excused Barker’s flippancy. ‘What he’s trying to say in his charming manner,’ the doctor explained, ‘is that none of us feel we belong to the country club set. We’re comfortable here, and I’m not being facetious when I say it’s a damn good pint.’

  Banks looked at him for a moment then laughed. ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ he agreed.

  This was another thing Banks had picked up during his first year in the north – the passion a Yorkshireman has for his pint. The people in Swainsdale seemed to feel the same way about their beer as a man from, say, Burgundy would feel about wine.

  Banks got himself another drink and, by directing the conversation away from the murder, managed to get everyone talking more openly on general matters. They discussed ordinary things, it turned out, just like anyone else: politics, the economy, world affairs, sport, local gossip, books and television. They were three professionals, all more or less the same age, and all – except perhaps Barnes – just a little out of place in a small community that had its roots deep in agriculture and craftsmanship.

  FOUR

  Penny Cartwright locked and bolted the sturdy door behind her, drew the thick curtains tight and switched on the light. After she had put down her package and dropped her shawl over a chair, she went around the room lighting candles that stood, at various lengths, on saucers, in empty wine bottles and even in candlesticks.

  When the room was flickering with tiny bright flames which made the walls look like melting butter, she turned out the electric light, slipped a tape in the cassette player and flopped down on the sofa.

  The room was now as private and cosy as a womb. It was the kind of place that looked bright and happy in sunlight, and warm and intimate by candlelight. There were a few things tacked to the walls: a postcard-size reproduction of Henri Matisse’s The Dance, which a friend had sent her from New York; a framed copy of Sutcliffe’s photograph, Gathering Driftwood; and a glossy picture showing her singing at a concert she and the band had given years ago. Shadowed by candlelight, the alcoves at both sides of the fireplace overflowed with personal knick-knacks such as shells, pebbles and the kind of silly keepsakes one buys in foreign lands – things that always seem to bring back the whole atmosphere of the place and details of the day on which they were bought: a plastic key ring from Los Angeles, a miniature slide viewer from Niagara Falls, a tiny porcelain jar emblazoned with her zodiac sign, Libra, from Amsterdam. Mixed in with these were earrings, which Penny collected, of all shapes and colours.

  Penny took out papers and hash from a battered Old Holborn tin and rolled a small joint; then she unwrapped the half-bottle of Bell’s. There seemed no point getting a glass, so she drank straight from the bottle, and the whisky burned her tongue and throat as it sank to stir a warm glow deep inside her.

  The tape played unaccompanied traditional folk songs – a strong clear woman’s voice singing about men going off to war, lifeboat disasters, domestic tragedies and supernatural lovers of long ago. With part of her mind, Penny studied the vocal style critically; she admired the slight vibrato, but winced at the blurring on some of the high notes. As a professional, or an ex-professional, it was second nature to her to listen that way. Finally, she decided that she liked the woman’s voice, flaws and all. It had enough warmth and emotional response to the lyrics to make up for the occasional lapses in technique.

  One song, about a murder in Staffordshire over two hundred years ago, she knew well. She had sung it herself many times to appreciative audiences in pubs and concert halls. It had even been on the first record she had made with the band, and its modal structure had stood up well to the addition of electric guitars and percussion. But this time it sounded fresh. Though the song had nothing to do with the bad news she had heard that afternoon, murder was murder, whether it had been committed the previous night or two hundred years ago. Perhaps she would write a song herself. Others would sing it or listen to it in warm secure rooms hundreds of years in the future.

  The whisky and hash were doing their work; Penny was drifting. Suddenly, the memory of that summer so many years ago sprang clear as yesterday into her mind. There had been many good years, of course, many good times before the craziness of fame spoiled it all, but that summer ten years ago stood out more than the rest. As she relived it, she could smell the green warmth of the grass and catch the earth and animal scents on the feather-light breeze.

  Then the general memory crystallized into one particular day. It was hot, so hot that Emma had refused to move out of the shade for fear of burning her sensitive skin. And Michael, who was sulking for some reason, had stayed at home reading Chatterton’s poems. So it was just Penny and Harry. They had walked all the way over to Wensleydale, Harry, tall and strong, leading the way, and Penny keeping up the best she could. That day, they had sat high on the valley side above Bainbridge, below Semerwater, where they ate salmon sandwiches and drank chilled orange juice from a flask as they basked in the heat and looked down on the tiny village with its neat central green and Roman fort. They could see the whitewashed front of the fifteenth-century Rose and Crown, and the River Bain danced and sparkled as it tripped down the falls to join the gleaming band of the Ure.

  Then the scene dissolved, broke apart and shifted back in time. So vividly had Harry recreated the past in her mind that she felt she had been there. The valley bottom was marshy and filled with impenetrable thickets. Nobody ventured there. The hillmen built circular huts in clearings they made high on the valley sides near the outcrops of limestone and grits, and it was there that they went about the business of hunting, raising oats, and breeding a few sheep and cattle. A Roman patrol marched along the road just below where they sat, strangers in a cold alien landscape but sure of themselves, their helmets shining, heavy cloaks pinned at the chest with enamelled brooches.

  The two scenes overlapped: ten years ago and seventeen hundred years ago. It had all been the same to Harry. She could sense the stubborn pride of the Brigantes and the confidence of the Roman conquerors. She could even, in a way, understand why Queen Cartimandua had sided with the invaders, who brought new, civilized ways to that barbaric outpost. The tension spread throughout the dales as Venutius, the Queen’s ex-husband, and his rebellious followers prepared for their last stand at Stanwick, north of Richmond. Which they lost.

  Harry brought it all alive for her, and if there had been, sometimes, an inexplicable awkwardness and uneasiness between them, it had always disappeared when the past became more alive than the present. How bloody innocent I was then, Penny thought, laughing at herself, and all of sixteen, too. How long it took me to grow up, and what a road it was.

  Then she remembered the coins they had gone to see in the York museum – VOLISIOS, DUMNOVEROS and CARTIMANDUA, they were marked – and the pigs of lead stamped IMP, CAES: DOMITIANO: AVG. COS: VII, and, on the other side, BRIG. The Latin words had seemed like magical incantations back then.

  And so she drifted. The joint was long finished, the tape had ended, the level in the whisky bottle had gone down and the memories came thick and fast. Then, as suddenly as they had started, they
ceased. All Penny was left with was blankness inside; there were vague feelings but no words, no images. She worked at the bottle, lit new cigarettes from the stubs of old ones, and at some point during the evening the tears that at first just trickled down her cheeks turned into deep, heart-racking sobs.

  4

  ONE

  Monday morning dawned on Helmthorpe as clear and warm as the five previous days. While this wasn’t exactly unprecedented, it would have been enough to dominate most conversations had there not been a more sensational subject closer at hand.

  In the post office, old bent Mrs Heseltine, there to send her monthly letter to her son in Canada (‘Doin’ right well for ’imself . . .’E’s a full perfesser now!’), was holding forth.

  ‘Strangled by a madman,’ she repeated in a whisper. ‘And right ’ere in our village. I don’t know what the world’s coming to, I don’t. We’re none of us safe anymore, and that’s a fact. Best keep yer doors locked and not go out after dark.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Mrs Anstey said. ‘It was ’is wife as done it. Fer t’ money, like. Stands to reason. Money’s t’ root of all evil, you mark my words. That’s what my Albert used ter say.’

  ‘Aye,’ muttered Miss Sampson under her breath. ‘That’s because ’e never made any, the lazy sod.’

  Mrs Dent, having read every lurid novel in Helmthorpe library and some especially imported from Eastvale and York, was more imaginative than the rest. She put forward the theory that it was the beginning of another series of moors murders.

  ‘It’s Brady and Hindley all over again,’ she said. ‘They’ll be digging ’em up all over t’ place. There was that Billy Maxton, disappeared wi’out a trace, and that there Mary Richards. You’ll see. Digging ’em up all over t’ place, they’ll be.’

  ‘I thought they’d run off to Swansea together, Billy Maxton and Mary Richards,’ chipped in Letitia Stanford, the spindly postmistress. ‘Anyway, they’ll be questioning us all, no doubt about that. That little man from Eastvale, it’ll be. I saw ’im poking about ’ere all day yesterday.’