‘Don’t be an idiot, Sally. We’ve been through this before. You know what I think. It’s dangerous.’
‘How?’
‘What if the killer knew what you were doing? What if he thought you might be getting too close?’
Sally shivered. ‘I’ll be careful, don’t worry. Besides, you never get anywhere if you’re frightened of a bit of danger.’
Kevin gave up. Sally smoothed her skirt and lay on her back again. They were high on the southern slope of the dale, overlooking cross-shaped Gratly and Helmthorpe’s chequerboard pattern of slate roofs. Sally plucked a buttercup and held it to her chin. Kevin took the flower from her hand and trailed it over her throat and collarbone. She shuddered. He kissed her again and put his other hand up her skirt to caress the tender flesh of her thighs just below her panties.
Suddenly Sally heard a sound: a snapping twig or a thwacking branch. She sat up quickly, leaving Kevin with his face in the grass.
‘Someone’s coming,’ she whispered.
A few moments later, a figure appeared from the small copse by the beck side. Sally put her hand over her eyes to shield them from the sun and saw who it was.
‘Hello, Miss Cartwright,’ she called out.
Penny walked towards them, knelt on the grass and tossed back her hair. ‘Hello. It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ answered Sally. ‘We’re just having a breather. We’ve been walking most of the afternoon.’
‘I used to walk around these parts a lot, too, when I was your age,’ Penny said quietly, almost to herself. ‘It seems like centuries ago now, but it was only ten years. You’ll be surprised how quickly time passes. Enjoy it while you can.’
Sally didn’t know what to say; she felt embarrassed. After an uneasy silence, she said, ‘I’m sorry about your friend, Mr Steadman, really I am. He was a nice man.’
Penny seemed to return from a great distance to focus on her. At first Sally thought the commiseration had gone unheard, but Penny smiled warmly and said, ‘Thank you. Yes, he was.’ Then she got to her feet and brushed the scraps of grass from her long skirt. ‘I must be off, anyway. Mustn’t bore you young people with my memories.’
In silence, Sally and Kevin watched her walk up the hillside with a strong, determined stride. She looked a lonely, wild figure, Sally thought, like Catherine in Wuthering Heights : a woman of the moors, spirit of the place. Then she felt Kevin’s palm against her warm thigh again.
THREE
Further up the hillside, Penny paused as she stood on a stile and looked back on the dale she loved spread out below her. There was the church by her cottage. High Street and the whitewashed frontage of the Dog and Gun. On the other side of the river, past the cricket pitch and Crabtree’s Field, the commons sloped up, rougher and rougher, to Crow Scar, which that day was almost too bright to look at.
But she couldn’t gaze long without thinking of Harry, for he was the one who had shown her Swainsdale’s secrets, given it depth and life beyond its superficial beauties. And now she fancied she could see the collapsed section of Tavistock’s wall. The stones that had been used to cover Harry’s body seemed darker than the rest.
Looking back the way she had come, Penny saw the two young lovers fuse in a tight embrace on the grass. She smiled sadly. When she’d first approached them, she had noticed how flustered and embarrassed they had looked.
Again she thought of Harry. Suddenly, the memory of a picnic they’d had ten years ago came into her mind. It must have been on the exact spot where Sally and Kevin were lying. She remembered the view of the village clearly, and they had been near a small copse, as Emma had sat in the shade, knitting. The more she concentrated on it, the more details came back. It was just around the time when she and Michael had started drifting apart. He had been reading Shelley’s poetry. Penny could even remember the scuffed brown leather of the book’s cover; it was a second-hand edition she’d bought him for his birthday. She and Harry had spread the red checked cloth on the grass and started to unload the hamper. Somehow, their hands had touched by accident. Penny remembered blushing, and Harry had busied himself looking for the corkscrew. It was for the Chablis. Yes, they had drunk Chablis, a good vintage, that day, and now, ten years later, she felt the crisp flinty taste of the cool wine on her tongue again.
The picture faded as quickly as it had come. How innocent it had all been, how bloody innocent! Wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, she jumped down from the stile and strode sharply on.
FOUR
Hackett had already been waiting an hour when Banks got back from York, and he was not at all amused.
‘Look here,’ he protested, as Banks led him upstairs to the office. ‘You can’t do this to me. You can’t just drag me in like this without an explanation. I’ve got a business to run. I told you everything last night.’
‘You told me nothing last night.’ Banks took off his jacket and hung it on the back of the door. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Make yourself at home.’
The room was stuffy, so Banks reopened the window and the smells of Market Street wafted up: exhaust fumes, fresh-baked bread, something sweet and sickly from the chocolate shop. Hackett sat rigidly in his chair and lapsed into a tense affronted silence.
‘There’s nothing to get excited about,’ Banks told him, taking out his pipe and fiddling with it over the waste-paper basket.
‘Then why did your sergeant kidnap me like that and rush me over here, eh? I want my lawyer.’
‘Oh, do relax, Mr Hackett! There’s really no need for melodrama. You’ve been watching far too many American films on television. I’ve not brought you here to lay charges or anything like that. I’m sorry if Sergeant Hatchley seemed a little brusque – it’s just his manner. I’ve got a few questions to ask you, that’s all.’ He gave Hackett a sharp glance. ‘Just one or two little things we’d like to get cleared up.’
‘Why pick on me? What about Jack, or the doc?’
‘Do you know of any reason they might have had for killing Mr Steadman?’
‘Well, no, I didn’t mean to imply that. It’s just that . . .’
‘Did he ever say anything about them to you, give you any reason to think one of them might want him out of the way?’
‘No. That’s not what I meant, anyway. I’m not trying to put the blame on someone else. I just want to know why you picked on me to haul in like this.’
‘Crabtree’s Field.’ Banks picked up his pipe and reached for the matches.
Hackett sighed. ‘So that’s it. Someone’s been telling tales. I should have known you’d have found out before long.’
Banks lit his pipe and gazed at the ceiling. Some old juices trickled down the stem and caught in his throat; he coughed and pulled a face.
Hackett looked at him angrily. ‘You don’t give a damn, do you? Anyway, it’s nobody’s bloody business—’
‘It’s police business now, Mr Hackett,’ Banks interrupted. He put his pipe aside and drained the cold coffee left in his mug. ‘If it’s all the same to you, the sooner we get it cleared up, the better.’
Hackett shuffled in his chair and smoothed his droopy moustache. ‘It was nothing,’ he said. ‘Just a minor disagreement over an acre or two of land, that’s all.’
‘Countries have been invaded for less,’ Banks remarked, and went on to give Hackett the details as he had heard them.
‘Yes,’ Hackett agreed, ‘that’s more or less it. But I wouldn’t kill anyone for that, let alone a close friend like Harry. Even if he did want to wrap up the whole bloody dale and give it to the National Trust, I liked the man. I respected his principles, even though they weren’t the same as mine.’
‘But you did argue about the field?’ Banks persisted.
‘We argued about it, yes. But it was half in fun. The others will tell you. Harry liked a good argument as well as the next man. It wasn’t that important.’
‘Money is always important, Mr Hackett. How much did you expect
to make from the land if you got it?’
‘That’s impossible to say. I wouldn’t stand to make anything for ages, of course. I’d be out of pocket, in fact. There’s the purchase price, construction, publicity . . . It could have been years before I started showing a profit.’
‘So you were only in it for the fun?’
‘Not only that, no. I mean, I like business. It’s a way of life that suits me. I like doing deals. I like building things up. But of course I wouldn’t put out good money if I didn’t think the eventual returns would be substantial.’
‘Can we agree,’ Banks asked, ‘that you did hope at some point to make a considerable amount from your investment?’
‘Hell, yes. Eventually.’
‘And now?’
‘What about now? I don’t understand.’
‘Oh, come on, Mr Hackett. Don’t play the innocent. The pitch is clear now, isn’t it? The field’s yours.’
Hackett laughed and relaxed in his chair. ‘That’s just where you’re wrong, I’m afraid. You see, I think Harry pulled it off. At least there’s a freeze on the place right now. I suppose young Ramsden will carry on his master’s work and wrap it up. A bloody Roman camp! I ask you! What’s there but a few broken pots and stones? No wonder the bloody economy’s in the state it’s in. No room for initiative anymore.’
‘Oh,’ said Banks, feigning surprise, ‘I thought our government wanted to encourage small businesses.’
Hackett glared at him; whether for the slight about his fiscal proportions or for picking up a throwaway comment, Banks wasn’t quite sure. ‘You know what I mean, Chief Inspector. We’re hamstrung by these historical societies and tourist boards. They’re all a load of bloody romantics as far as I can see. It’s all a myth. The past wasn’t like that; it wasn’t neat and tidy like they all seem to think, for Christ’s sake. Life was nasty, brutish and short, as the man said. Just because I never went to university, it doesn’t make me an ignoramus, you know. I’ve read books, too. If you ask me, Harry walked around seeing the past through rose-coloured glasses. Penny Cartwright, too. In reality, life must have been bloody misery back then. Imagine them poor Roman sods freezing their balls off up north when they could have been lounging around in the sun on the seven hills drinking vino and rogering the local tarts. And as for the bloody Industrial Revolution, it was nothing but exploitation – hard, harsh work for most people. No, Chief Inspector, Harry hadn’t a bloody clue about the past, for all his degrees.’
‘Maybe you should move somewhere else,’ Banks suggested. ‘I doubt they care much for local history in Wigan, for example, or Huddersfield.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ Hackett said. ‘It’s all over the bloody place. They call it civic pride. They’re even flogging Bradford as the “gateway to Brontë country” now – and if they can get away with that they can do anything. Besides, I like it here. Don’t think just because I’m a businessman I lack a finer appreciation of nature. I’m as much for the environment as the next man.’
‘What were you doing on Saturday night?’ Banks asked, renewing the attack on his pipe with a cleaner.
Hackett scratched his receding hairline. ‘After I left the Bridge I went to a new club in Darlington. I drove up there, had a couple of drinks in a local, then went on to the club. I know the owner, like. We’ve done a bit of business together.’
‘So you left the Bridge at what time?’
‘About half nine.’
‘And drove straight to Darlington?’
‘Well, not exactly. I went home first to get changed.’
‘What time did you leave for Darlington?’
‘About ten to ten.’
‘And arrived?’
‘About half past, twenty to eleven.’
‘And you went to the club when?’
‘Half eleven, quarter to twelve.’
‘What’s it called?’
‘The KitKat Klub. Only been open a few weeks. It’s a sort of disco place, but not too loud. Caters for the more mature crowd.’
‘I suppose you knew people there, people who can corroborate your story?’
‘I talked to a few people, yes. And there’s Andy Shaw, the owner.’
Banks took down the details, including the name of the pub, and noticed how anxious Hackett looked throughout the process.
‘Anything else you can tell us, Mr Hackett?’
Hackett chewed on his lower lip and frowned. ‘No, nothing.’
‘Right then, off you go,’ Banks said. He stood up and walked over to open the door.
As soon as Hackett was out of the building, Banks called Sergeant Hatchley in and asked if he’d found anything in his search of Steadman’s study.
‘Nowt much of interest, no,’ Hatchley said. ‘A few manuscripts, letters to historical preservation societies – they’re on my desk if you want to look at them.’
‘Later.’
‘And he had one of those fancy computers – a word processor. I suppose he had to spend his brass on something. Remember how much wheeling and dealing it took us to get central admin to let us have one downstairs?’
Banks nodded.
‘And now they send bloody Richmond off t’ seaside to learn how to use the bugger.’ Hatchley shook his head slowly and left the office.
FIVE
It was about six thirty, after what passed for rush hour in that part of the country, when Banks pulled into Helmthorpe’s main car park. He had attended the brief inquest, given the press a snippet or two of information, and managed a quick dinner at home with Sandra and the kids.
Penny Cartwright was washing up the dinner dishes and enjoying the play of evening sunlight as it reflected from the shiny surfaces and skittered about the walls. When she heard a knock at the front door she quickly wiped her hands on her apron and went to answer it. She knew immediately that the dark-haired wiry man standing there was the policeman Barker had told her about. She hadn’t expected him to be so good-looking, though, and immediately felt unattractive in her apron with her hair tied back in a long ponytail.
‘You’d better come in,’ she said. ‘We wouldn’t want to give the neighbours too much to talk about.’ She pointed him to a worn armchair and slipped into the kitchen, where she quickly divested herself of the stained apron, untied her hair and brushed it swiftly so that it fell around her face and spilled over her shoulders.
If Banks was struck by the abrupt casual manner of his hostess, he was also struck by her beauty. She looked good in close-fitting jeans, and her striking hair framed a proud, high-cheekboned face without a trace of make-up. The combination of jet-black hair and sharp blue eyes added to the stunning effect.
Penny sat in a straight-backed chair by a writing table and asked Banks what she could do for him.
He began casually, trying to establish a friendly tone: ‘Maybe nothing, Miss Cartwright. I’m just talking to Mr Steadman’s friends, trying to get some idea of what he was like.’
‘Do you really need to know?’ Penny asked. ‘I mean, do you care?’
‘Perhaps not in the way that you do,’ Banks admitted. ‘After all, I didn’t know him. But it might help me to find out who killed him. And I care about that. Obviously somebody did, but all I’ve heard so far is how wonderful he was – the kind of man who didn’t have an enemy in the whole wide world.’
‘What makes you think you’ll get anything different out of me?’ Penny asked. Her lips curved slightly in a mocking smile.
‘Just fishing.’
‘Well, you won’t catch anything, Inspector. Not from me. It’s all absolutely true. I can’t imagine for the life of me who’d want to do a thing like that to him.’
Banks sighed. It was going to be a difficult evening. ‘Fortunately, Miss Cartwright,’ he said, ‘it’s not your life we’re concerned about, it’s Mr Steadman’s. And somebody brought that to an abrupt and cruel end. Do you know anything about his business affairs?’
‘Do you mean that fuss over Crabtree’s Fiel
d? Really, Inspector, does Teddy Hackett strike you as the murdering kind? He wouldn’t have the guts to kill a worm if his life depended on it. He might be a ruthless businessman – though the competition around here isn’t much cop and, if you ask me, he’s got by more on good luck than good management – but a killer? Hackett? Never.’
‘Stranger things have happened.’
‘Oh, I know. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,”’ she quoted.
‘It might not be a serious possibility,’ Banks went on, ‘but it’s the only one we’ve got so far.’
‘Typical bloody police, that is,’ Penny mocked. ‘Crucify the first poor bastard that comes out less than squeaky clean. Still,’ she added, ‘Hackett’s no great loss to society. Not like Harry.’
‘How long had you known Mr Steadman?’ Banks asked.
‘Depends on what you mean by “know”.’ Penny lit a long filter cigarette and went on. ‘I first met him years ago when I was a teenager and he and Emma came up to Gratly for their holidays. They’d been two or three times before I got to know them through Michael. That’s Michael Ramsden. They stayed at his parents’ bed-and-breakfast place, the house they live in now. I was about sixteen, and Michael and I were sweethearts at that time, so, naturally, I saw them quite often.’
Banks nodded and sucked on his pipe. That archaic word ‘sweethearts’ sounded wonderfully erotic coming from Penny’s lips. It seemed unselfconscious, at odds with her tight and aggressive manner.
‘We went on walks together,’ she continued. ‘Harry knew a lot about the countryside and its history. That was his real love. And then . . . well. It was a beautiful summer, but it passed, as all summers do.’
‘Ah, yes. “But where are the snows of yesteryear?” ’ Banks quoted back at her.
‘It was summer; there wasn’t much snow.’
Again Banks noticed that tiny twitch of a smile at the corners of her pale lips. ‘That would be about ten years ago, wouldn’t it?’ he asked.
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