A Dedicated Man

by Peter Robinson

  On Sunday, the first area searched was the wide stretch of moorland to the north of Helmthorpe above Crow Scar. Gristhorpe, in making his decision, realized he might have been influenced by the fact that Steadman’s body had been found on the northern slopes, but he reasoned that the area was, after all, the wildest spread of countryside – seven miles of rough high moors before the next dale – and had the greatest number of hiding places: old mines, steep quarries, potholes.

  The only result of Sunday’s effort was an accident in which a police constable drafted in from Askrigg fell down a twenty-foot bell pit. Fortunately, his fall was broken by accumulated water and mud, but it took over two hours of valuable time to rig up ropes and pull him out. Up on the moorland, two small parties got so bogged down in mud that they were unable to continue, and progress everywhere was slow.

  By Monday, the sun was out to stay and conditions had improved. Gristhorpe, who had been up since five in the morning, sat red-eyed in the communications room logging check-in calls from search parties, and the map before him soon began to look like a chessboard. This was one task he refused to delegate.

  At about three o’clock, the superintendent took Sergeant Rowe’s advice and dropped by Banks’s office to suggest a walk.

  They walked into Market Street, which was crowded with tourists from the nearby cities who, seeing an end to the rain, had decided on an afternoon out. It was also market day, and the cobbled square in front of the church was thronged with colourful stalls selling everything from Marks and Spencer rejects to dinner sets and toilet-bowl brushes. There were stalls of second-hand paperbacks, yards of plain and patterned material – cotton, linen, muslin, rayon, denim, cheesecloth – spilling over almost to the ground, and stalls piled with crockery and cutlery. Skilled vendors drew crowds by shouting out the virtues of their wares as they juggled plates and saucers. The people milled around to listen, take photographs and, occasionally, to buy things. In the narrow twisting side streets around the central market square – old alleys where the sun never penetrated and you could shake hands across second-storey bay windows – the small souvenir and local delicacy shops with magnifying-glass windows did good business. Everything, from toffee and tea to spoons and fluffy toys, was labelled ‘Yorkshire’, no matter where it had actually been made.

  Gristhorpe directed Banks to a small tea shop and the two of them settled down to tea and buns.

  Gristhorpe ran his hand through his thick messy mop of grey hair and smiled weakly. ‘Had to get out for a bit,’ he said, spooning sugar into his mug. ‘It gets so damn stuffy in that little room.’

  ‘You look all-in,’ Banks said, lighting a Benson and Hedges Special Mild. ‘Perhaps you should go home and get some sleep.’

  Gristhorpe grunted and waved away the smoke. ‘Thought you’d given that filthy habit up,’ he grumbled. ‘Anyway, I suppose I am tired. I’m not as young as I used to be. But it’s not just tiredness, Alan. Have you ever taken part in an operation like this before?’

  ‘Not a search in open country, no. I’ve looked for missing teens in Soho, but nothing like this, in these conditions. Do you think there’s any hope?’

  Gristhorpe shook his head slowly. ‘No. I think the girl’s been killed. Stupid bloody kid. Why couldn’t she have come to us?’

  Banks had no answer. ‘Have you been involved in this kind of search before?’ he asked.

  ‘More than twenty years ago now,’ Gristhorpe said, adding an extra spoonful of sugar to his tea. ‘And this makes it feel like only yesterday.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Young girl called Lesley Ann Downey. Only ten. And a lad called John Kilbride, twelve. You’ll have heard about all that, though: Brady and Hindley, the Moors Murders?’

  ‘You were in on that?’

  ‘Manchester brought some of us in for the search. It’s not that far away, you know. Still, that was different.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Brady and Hindley were involved in Nazism, torture, fetishism – you name it. This time it’s more calculated, if we’re right. I don’t know which is worse.’

  ‘The result’s the same.’

  ‘Aye.’ Gristhorpe gulped some tea and nibbled at his bun. ‘Getting anywhere?’

  Banks shook his head. ‘Nothing new. Hackett’s in the clear now. Barnes, too, by the looks of it. We’re stuck.’

  ‘It’s always like that when the trail goes cold. You know that as well as I do, Alan. If the answer isn’t staring you in the face within twenty-four hours, the whole thing goes stale. When you get stuck you just have to push a bit harder, that’s all. Sometimes you get lucky.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the time of Sally Lumb’s disappearance,’ Banks said, trying to waft his smoke away from Gristhorpe. ‘She was last seen on Helmthorpe High Street walking east around nine o’clock on Friday evening.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I was in Helmthorpe at that time, in the Dog and Gun with Sandra and a couple of friends. We went to listen to Penny Cartwright sing. Jack Barker was there too.’

  ‘So that lets them off the hook.’

  ‘No, sir. That’s just it. She finished her first set just after nine, then she and Barker disappeared from the pub for about an hour.’

  ‘Right after Sally had been seen in the village?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Better follow it up, then. What do you think?’

  ‘I’ve talked to them both a couple of times. They’re difficult, sharp. If I were easily swayed by sentiment, I’d say no, not a chance. Penny Cartwright seems sincere, and Barker’s a clever bugger but likeable enough when you take the time to chat to him. He swears blind he’d nothing to do with Steadman’s death. But I’ve met some damn good liars in my time. He’s got no alibi and he might have been jealous about Steadman and the Cartwright woman.’

  Gristhorpe ate the final few crumbs of his bun and suggested they carry on walking. They headed east and looped down by the river near the terraced gardens.

  ‘The Swain’s filling up,’ Gristhorpe said. ‘I hope we don’t have a bloody flood to contend with, too.’

  ‘Does that happen often?’

  ‘Often enough. Usually at spring thaw after a particularly snowy winter. But if you get enough water channelled down from the dales, it might break the banks here.’

  They turned up a dank waterside alley, where moss and lichen grew on the rough stone, skirted the base of Castle Hill and arrived back at the market square. Gristhorpe headed straight for the communications room and Banks accompanied him. There was nothing new.

  THREE

  Even Purcell’s ‘Hail Bright Cecilia’ failed to cheer Banks up as he drove into Helmthorpe that evening. When he walked along High Street past the gift shop with its revolving racks of postcards and the small newsagent’s with the evening papers outside fluttering in the light breeze, he could sense the mood of the village. Nothing was obvious; people went about their business as usual, shutting up shop for the day and coming home from work, but it felt like a place that had drawn in on itself. Even the air, despite the wind, seemed tight and grim. The small noises – footsteps, doors opening, distant telephones ringing – sounded eerie and isolated against the backdrop of the silent green valley sides and massive brow of Crow Scar, bright in the evening sun.

  Push, Gristhorpe had said, so push he would. Push hard enough, in the right places, and something would give. Push those closest to Steadman – Penny, Ramsden, Emma, Barker – for if none of them had actually done it, Banks was sure that one of them knew who had. He would probably have to revisit Darnley and Talbot too. There was something one of them had said – a chance remark, a throwaway line – that Banks felt was important, but he couldn’t remember what it was. It would return to him in time, he knew, but he couldn’t afford to sit and wait; he had to push.

  Would Sally Lumb have confronted any of them with her evidence? he asked himself as he took the short cut through the cemetery and turned right along the pathway to Grat
ly. It didn’t seem likely; she wasn’t a fool. But she had phoned someone, and had used a public call box for privacy. It must, then, have been someone she knew, someone she had no reason to fear.

  The sheep on his right fled and stood facing the drystone wall, their backs to him; the ones on his left scampered down the grassy terraces to the stream and stood bleating under the willows. Funny creatures, Banks thought. If they’re frightened, they simply run a short distance and turn their backs. It might be effective against people who wish them no harm, but he doubted if it would deter a hungry wolf.

  Emma Steadman was watching television but turned the sound down after Banks followed her into the living room. The place was much barer now that most of the books and records were gone; it was more of an empty shell than a home.

  Banks waited until Emma had made some tea, then sat opposite her at the low table.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you a few things for a while now,’ he said. ‘Mostly to do with the past.’

  ‘The past?’

  ‘Yes. Those wonderful summers you used to have up here when the Ramsden family ran the guest house.’

  ‘What about them? You don’t mind, do you?’ she asked, picking up some knitting. ‘It helps me relax, takes my mind off things. Sorry, go ahead.’

  ‘Not at all. It’s just that the impression I got was of your husband running around the dales with Penny Cartwright while Michael Ramsden buried his head in his books.’

  Emma smiled but said nothing.

  ‘And you never thought anything of it.’

  ‘Perhaps if you’d known my husband, Chief Inspector, you wouldn’t think anything of it, either.’

  ‘But something’s missing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You. What were you doing?’

  Emma sighed and put her knitting down on her lap. ‘Contrary to what you seem to believe, I’m not simply a passive housewife. I did have, and still do have, interests of my own. Back in Leeds I was involved in amateur dramatics for a while. On holidays in Gratly I used to knit and read. I even tried my hand at writing a few short stories – unsuccessfully, I’m afraid – but I can’t prove it; I threw them away. I also went for walks.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes, alone. Is that so strange?’

  Banks shrugged.

  ‘What you seem to forget is that we were only up here for a month or so at a time. During that period I spent a lot more time with my husband than you think. I did accompany them sometimes, especially if they went by car. But I’m very susceptible to the sun, so I never ventured far on sunny days unless I could find some shade. I still fail to see why you find all this so fascinating.’

  ‘Sometimes present events have their roots in the past. Did you enjoy your visits?’

  ‘They made a nice break. Leeds isn’t the cleanest city in the world, I enjoyed the fresh air, the landscape.’

  ‘One more thing. I’ve been given to believe that your husband was universally liked. Even Teddy Hackett, who had good reason to disagree with him, thought of him as a friend. Since I’ve been looking into his death though, I’ve found at least two people who didn’t feel the same way – Major Cartwright and Robert Kirk. We might regard them as cranks, but I’m beginning to wonder if there’s anyone else. Someone I don’t know about. You were a close group all those years ago, and your husband was still close to Michael Ramsden and Penny Cartwright when he died. Was there anybody else around? Anybody who might have held a grudge?’

  Emma Steadman pursed her lips and shook her head slowly.

  ‘Think about it.’

  ‘I am. Of course there were other people around, but I can’t imagine any of them had a reason to harm Harold.’

  ‘The point is, Mrs Steadman, that somebody did. And if none of you can help me find out who it was, I don’t know who can. Is there any reason why he was killed at this particular time rather than, say, a year ago, or five years ago?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘You must know something about his affairs. Was he planning to do anything with his money? Write a will, leave it to the National Trust or something? Was there any other land he was after, anyone else’s toes he was treading on?’

  ‘No. No to all those questions. And I think I would have known, yes.’

  ‘Well, that doesn’t leave much, does it?’

  ‘You think one of us did it, don’t you?’

  Banks kept silent.

  ‘Do you think I did it? For his money?’

  ‘You couldn’t have, could you?’

  ‘Maybe you think Mrs Stanton was lying to give me an alibi?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why keep bothering me? I only buried my husband a few days ago.’

  As Banks could think of no answer to that question, he sighed and got up to leave. Before Emma closed the door on him, he turned and spoke again: ‘Just consider what I said, will you? Try to remember any enemies your husband might have made, however insignificant they might have seemed at the time. Think about it. I’ll be back.’

  Penny Cartwright was listening to music, and when she grudgingly let Banks in, flashing him a ‘you again’ look, she didn’t bother to turn it down.

  ‘I won’t keep you,’ Banks said, sitting on a hard-backed chair by the window and lighting a cigarette. ‘It’s just about the other night.’

  ‘What night? There’s been a lot lately,’ Penny said, pouring herself a drink.

  ‘Friday night.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘You were singing at the Dog and Gun, remember?’

  Penny scowled at him. ‘Of course I remember. You were there too. What is this?’

  ‘Just refreshing your memory. Between sets you went off with Jack Barker. You were gone for about an hour. Where were you?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Look, it’s about time you got this right. I ask the questions; you answer. Understand?’

  ‘Oh, poor Inspector Banks,’ Penny cooed, ‘have I been undermining your authority?’ Her eyes challenged him. ‘What was the question again?’

  ‘Friday night, between sets. Where were you?’

  ‘We went for a walk.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Oh, hither and thither.’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘Not really. I go for a lot of walks. There’s a lot of places to walk around Helmthorpe. That’s why so many tourists come here in summer.’

  ‘Stop the games and tell me where you went.’

  ‘Or else?’

  After a thirty-second staring match, Penny looked away and reached for a cigarette.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘We came here.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Sex?’

  ‘That’s not the kind of question a lady answers. And it’s nothing to do with your investigation.’

  Banks leaned forward and spoke quietly. ‘Would it interest you to know that I’ve got a damned good idea why you came here? And I’ve got some colleagues back in Eastvale who’d be more than happy to come out here and prove it for me. Help me and you help yourself.’

  ‘I’m not admitting anything.’

  ‘Where were you at four o’clock on Friday afternoon?’

  ‘I was here practising. Why?’

  ‘Anybody with you?’

  ‘No. There usually isn’t when I practise.’

  ‘Did you receive any telephone calls?’

  Penny looked confused. ‘Telephone calls? No. What are you getting at?’

  ‘And you refuse to tell me what you did during the interval on Friday evening?’

  ‘Wait a minute. Sally. Sally Lumb. She disappeared on Friday, didn’t she? Christ, you bastard!’ She glared at Banks. Angry tears made her eyes glitter. ‘Are you implying that I had something to do with that?’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘If you already know, why do you want me to tell you?’


  ‘I need to hear it from you.’

  Penny sagged in her chair and looked away. ‘All right. So we came back here and smoked a couple of joints. Big deal. Is that what you wanted to hear? What are you going to do now, bring in the dogs and tear the place apart?’

  Banks stood up to leave. ‘I’m not going to do anything. I remember the difference between the last set and the first, how you seemed more remote, detached. If it’s any consolation to you,’ he said, opening the door, ‘I believe you, and I’m glad I was right.’

  But Penny didn’t move or say anything to make his exit easier.

  FOUR

  Later, as Penny lay in bed that night unable to sleep, the images came again, just as they had been coming ever since Harold Steadman’s death: those summers so long ago – innocent, idyllic. Or so they had seemed.

  It was a time she had had neither reason nor inclination to think about over the past ten years – the kind of period, like an idealized childhood, that one looks back on when one gets older and life loses its edge. Life had been too busy, too exciting, and when she finally had crashed, she had been as far in her mind from idyllic summers as ever a person could be. It had seemed, then, that her earlier life had been lived by somebody else. Next she had come back to Helmthorpe, where they were all together again. Now Harold was dead and that wretched detective was probing, asking questions, churning up memories, like tides stir sand.

  So she re-examined it. She reran the walks to Wensleydale along the Pennine Way and the drives to Richmond or the Lake District in Harold’s old Morris 1100 like old movies, and she spotted things she had never noticed at the time – little things, vague and unclear, but certainly disturbing. And the more she thought about old times, the less she liked what she was thinking.

  She turned over again and tried to cast the images from her mind. They were like dreams, she told herself. She had taken the truth, in all its purity, and warped it in her imagination. That must be what had happened. The problem was that now these dreams seemed so real. She couldn’t shake them, and she wouldn’t rest until she knew what was fantasy and what was reality. How could the past, something that had really happened, become so altered, so unclear? And as she finally drifted towards sleep, she began to wonder what she should do about it.