9
ONE
It was time to concentrate on the Steadman case again. However disturbing her disappearance was, Banks thought, Sally Lumb might turn up in Birmingham or Bristol any moment. But Steadman was dead and his killer was still free.
He told Weaver where he was going and drove up the hill to Gratly, turning right after the small low bridge in the centre of the hamlet and pulling up outside Jack Barker’s converted farmhouse by the side of the broad beck. The water was already running faster and louder over the series of terraced falls. In a day or two, when the rain percolated down from the moorlands and higher slopes, the stream would turn into a deafening torrent.
Banks realized as he rang the doorbell that he had not visited Barker at home before, and he wondered what the house would reveal of the man.
‘Oh, it’s you, Chief Inspector,’ a puzzled-looking Barker said, after keeping Banks waiting at the door for an unusually long time. ‘Come in. Excuse my surprise but I don’t get very many visitors.’
Banks took off his wet mac and shoes in the hall and followed Barker inside. Although it wasn’t cold, the rain had certainly put a damp chill in the stone, and Banks decided to keep his jacket on.
‘Do you mind if we talk in the study?’ Barker asked. ‘It’s warmer up there. I’ve just been working, and that’s where the coffee pot is. You look as if you could do with some.’
‘Good idea,’ Banks replied, following his host through a sparsely furnished living room and up a very narrow flight of stone stairs into a cosy room that looked out on the fell sides at the back of the house. Two walls were lined with books, and by a third, where the door was, stood a filing cabinet and a small desk stacked with papers. Barker’s work table, on which an electric typewriter hummed, stood directly by the window. Through the streaming rain, the sharply rising slope outside had the look of an Impressionist painting. At the centre of the room was a low coffee table. The red light of the automatic drip-filter machine was on, and the Pyrex pot was half full of rich dark coffee. By the table, there were two small but comfortable armchairs. The two men sat down with their coffee; both took black, no sugar.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you at work,’ Banks said, sipping the refreshing liquid.
‘Think nothing of it. It’s an occupational hazard.’
Banks raised an eyebrow.
‘What I mean is,’ Barker explained, ‘that if you work at home, you’re at home, aren’t you? Fair game for any salesman and bill collector. Somehow, the old Protestant work ethic won’t allow most people to accept that writing books in the comfort of one’s own home is really work, if you see what I mean. I can’t think why, mind you. It was common enough for weavers and loom operators to work at home before the Industrial Revolution. These days, work has to be something we hate, something we do in a noisy dirty factory or an antiseptic fluorescent office. No offence.’ But Banks could tell by the sparkle in his eyes that Barker was baiting him gently. ‘None taken,’ he replied. ‘As a matter of fact, I’d be happier to spend a bit more time in my office and less of it tramping about the dales in this weather.’
Barker smiled and reached for a cigarette from the packet on the table. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘I don’t seem to get many visitors, except salesmen. I take the phone off the hook, too. Work was going well. I’d just got to a good part, and it’s always been my practice to stop for a while when things get good. That way I feel excited about going back to work later.’
‘That’s an interesting work habit,’ Banks remarked, trying to ignore the craving he felt when Barker lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply.
‘Sorry,’ Barker said, offering him a cigarette as if he had read his mind.
Banks shook his head. ‘Trying to stop.’
‘Of course. You’re a pipe man, aren’t you? Please feel free. Pipe smoke doesn’t bother me at all.’
‘It broke.’
After the two of them had laughed at the absurdity of the broken pipe, Banks gave in. ‘Perhaps I will have a cigarette,’ he said. As he reached for one, he noticed Barker tense up to face the inevitable questions. The cigarette tasted good. Every bit as good as he remembered. He didn’t cough or feel dizzy. In fact, he felt no indication that he had ever given up cigarettes in the first place; it was like a reunion with a long lost friend.
‘So, what can I do for you this time?’ Barker asked, putting unnecessary emphasis on the last two words.
‘I suppose you’ve heard about the girl from the village, Sally Lumb?’ he asked.
‘No. What about her?’
‘You mean you don’t know? I’d have thought in a community this size the news would spread fast. People certainly knew about Harold Steadman soon enough.’
‘I haven’t been out since I walked Penny home after the folk club last night.’
‘The girl’s missing,’ Banks told him. ‘She didn’t go home last night.’
‘Good Lord!’ Barker said, looking towards the window. ‘If she’s wandered off and got lost in this weather… What do you think?’
‘It’s too early to know yet. She could have got lost, yes. But she grew up around here and she seemed like a sensible girl.’
‘Run away?’
‘Another possibility. We’re checking on it.’
‘But you don’t think so?’
‘We just don’t know.’
‘Have you got search parties out?’
‘We can’t in this weather.’
‘But still… Something’s got to be done.’
‘We’re doing all we can,’ Banks assured him. ‘Did you know her?’
Barker narrowed his eyes. ‘I wouldn’t say I really knew her, no. I’ve seen her around, of course, to say hello to. And she once came to me about a school project. Pretty girl.’
‘Very,’ Banks agreed.
‘I don’t suppose that’s what you came to talk to me about though, is it?’
‘No.’ Banks stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I wanted to ask you about Penny Cartwright.’
‘What about her?’
‘Are you in love with her?’
Barker laughed, but Banks could see the strain in his eyes. ‘What a question. I don’t know whether to tell you it’s none of your business or applaud your insight.’
‘You are, then?’
‘I’ll admit I’m rather smitten with Penny, yes. What red-blooded young bachelor wouldn’t be? But I don’t see what my feelings for her have to do with anything else.’
‘Was she having an affair with Harold Steadman, do you think?’
Barker gazed at Banks for a few moments. ‘Not that I know,’ he answered slowly. ‘But how would I know?’
‘You knew the two of them quite well.’
‘True. But a man’s private life… and a woman’s? If they wanted to conceal something like that from the world, it wouldn’t have been very difficult, would it? Even here, it could be done. Look, if you want my answer to your question, you’ll have to understand that it’s just an opinion, like yours. Certainly neither of them confided in me, or anything like that. And I’d say no, they weren’t having an affair. As you guessed, I am very fond of Penny and, given that, I’d naturally be interested in her relationships. As far as I can make out though, their friendship was based on mutual respect and admiration, not sexual desire.’
This was almost exactly what Banks had heard from Penny herself and from Emma Steadman. Indeed, the only person who seemed to think differently about Penny and Harold Steadman was the major, and he was very much a victim of his own obsessions. But what if he was right?
‘You seemed rather sharp last night when I mentioned Michael Ramsden,’ Banks said, changing tack. ‘Do you have any particular reason to dislike him?’
‘I don’t dislike him. I hardly even knew him. He’s been in the Bridge a few times with Harry, and he always seemed pleasant enough. I will admit that I found something a little sly about him, a bit off-putting, but that’s a minor personal reaction; it’s neither here
nor there.’
‘I suppose you knew about his relationship with Penny?’
‘Yes, and I’m quite willing to confess to a touch of instinctive lover’s jealousy. Come to that, I may have been envious of her relationship with Harry, too; it seemed so close and easy. But I’ve no claim on Penny’s emotions, sad to say. And as far as Ramsden was concerned, that was years ago. They can’t have been more than kids.’
‘Where were you then?’
‘What? On the night of the twelfth of February, nineteen sixty-three, between the hours of-’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Ten years ago?’
‘Yes.’
‘I lived in London then, in a poky little bedsit in Notting Hill writing real novels that nobody wanted to buy. Penny wasn’t around when I first came to Gratly – we didn’t meet till she came back – but I did see her play once down south.’
‘Why do you think Ramsden and Penny split up?’
‘How should I know? It’s not a question I’ve concerned myself with. Why does any young couple split up? I suppose they felt themselves moving in different directions. Christ, they were only kids.’
‘That was when Michael lived at home with his parents, wasn’t it? In the same house Steadman and his wife used to visit on holidays?’
‘Yes,’ Barker answered. ‘Ten years ago. It was just before Ramsden went off to university. Penny was just discovering her talent then. Harry told me he used to teach her folk songs he’d collected.’
‘And the kids just drifted apart?’
‘Well, Michael went to university, and Penny went all over the place with the group. That kind of folk music was still popular then. It still is, actually. I mean, there’s always a sizeable audience for it.’
‘How was Penny discovered?’
‘The usual way, as far as I know. An agent for a record company was scouting the provinces for new folk talent. He offered her a chance to make a demo and off she went. The rest is history, as they say.’
‘Has she talked to you about the past much, the time she spent away?’
‘Not a great deal, no.’ Barker seemed interested in the conversation now, despite himself. He poured more coffee and Banks cadged another cigarette. ‘I’m sure you know, Chief Inspector,’ he went on, ‘that we all have phases of our lives we’re not particularly proud of. Often circumstances give us the opportunity to behave in a careless irresponsible way, and most of us take it. It pains me to admit that I was once a very young Teddy boy and I even ripped a few seats in the local fleapit.’ He grinned. ‘You won’t arrest me, will you?’
‘I think the statute of limitation has run out on seat-ripping,’ Banks answered, smiling. ‘It would be rather difficult to prove, too.’
‘You make me feel old.’ Banks sighed. ‘But do you see what I mean? Penny was not only young and inexperienced, she was also, for the first time in her life, fairly well off, popular, in with the “in crowd”. I don’t doubt that she tried drugs and that sex was a fairly casual matter. “Make love, not war,” as they used to say. But the important thing is that she grew up, left all that behind and pulled her life together. Plenty of people don’t survive the modern music world, you know; Penny did. What I’d like to know is why on earth you seem so obsessed with the events of ten years ago.’
‘I don’t know,’ Banks answered, scratching the scar at the side of his eye. ‘Everybody speaks so highly of Steadman. He didn’t seem to have an enemy in the world. Yet somebody murdered him. Don’t you find that strange? He wasn’t robbed, and his body was taken up to the hillside below Crow Scar. We don’t know where he was killed. I suppose what I’m saying, Mr Barker, is that if the answer isn’t in the present, which it doesn’t seem to be, then it must be in the past, however unlikely that may seem to you.’
‘And has this background information given you any clues?’
‘None at all. Not yet. But there’s one more thing that’s been on my mind. Could Harold Steadman have been a homosexual?’
Barker almost choked on his coffee. ‘That takes the biscuit,’ he spluttered, wiping at the spilled liquid on his lap. ‘Where on earth did you get a wild idea like that?’
Banks saw no reason to tell him that he had got the idea from Sergeant Hatchley, who had said in the Queen’s Arms, in his usual manner, ‘About this Steadman business, those weekend trips to Ramsden’s place; do you think he was queer?’
Banks had admitted that it was an angle he had not considered; he had taken Steadman’s dedication to work at face value and presumed that the overnight visits took place for the reasons Ramsden and Mrs Steadman had given him.
‘Even assuming you’re right,’ Banks had said, ‘it doesn’t really help us much, does it? His wife can’t have killed him out of disgust – she has an alibi. And Ramsden would hardly have killed his lover, even if he could have.’
‘There’s blackmail, though,’ Hatchley had suggested. ‘Steadman was a rich man.’
‘Yes. It’s a possibility. Who do you think was blackmailing him?’
‘Could have been anyone he knew: Barker, the girl, Barnes, one of his old mates from Leeds.’
‘We’ll check it out, then,’ Banks had said. ‘Ask around about Ramsden, and I’ll ask some more questions in Helmthorpe. I wouldn’t hold out too much hope though. It doesn’t feel right to me.’
How did you ask someone if a friend was homosexual, he wondered. Just come right out with it? How would they know? Penny would certainly assume Ramsden was straight if he had been ten years ago, and there was still a chance that she knew more about Steadman’s sexual habits than she let on.
So now he sat in Barker’s study waiting for him to get over the shock and attempt an answer. When it came, it was disappointing. Barker simply denied the possibility and would only admit, when pushed, that anything however outlandish was possible, but that didn’t mean it was true.
‘Look,’ Barker said, leaning forward. ‘I realize that I must be a suspect in this business. I’ve no alibi and I seem unable to convince you that I really had nothing against Harry – I’m not gay either, just for the record – but I assure you that I did not kill him, and I’m perfectly willing to help in any way I can. I just don’t know how I can help, and, if you don’t mind my saying so, some of the directions you’re pursuing seem to me to be quite silly.’
‘I can understand that,’ Banks said, ‘but it’s for me to decide what’s relevant and what isn’t.’
‘You pick up bits and pieces from everyone and put them together. Yes, I suppose that’s true. None of us gets to touch any more than a small area of the elephant, do we? But you get to see the whole beast.’
Banks smiled at the analogy. ‘Eventually, yes,’ he said. ‘I hope so. What are you working on, or don’t you like to discuss work in progress?’
‘I don’t mind. As a matter of fact, you’ve just given me an idea. All that about putting the pieces together. I think I can use it. It’s another in the Kenny Gibson series. Have you read any?’
Banks shook his head.
‘Of course not,’ Barker said. ‘I ought to know by now that few real policemen read detective novels. Anyway, Kenny Gibson is a private eye in the Los Angeles area. Period stuff, the thirties. I get most of my background information from Raymond Chandler and the old Black Mask magazines, but don’t tell anyone! This time he’s working for a rich society woman whose husband has disappeared. The plot’s taken care of; it’s the characters and atmosphere that are really hard to do.’
‘Sex and violence?’
‘Enough to sell a few thousand copies.’
‘Just out of interest,’ Banks asked as he got up to leave, ‘do you have it all planned out in advance – the plot, the solution?’
‘Good Lord, no,’ Barker answered, following him down the stairs. ‘The plot takes care of itself as I go along. At least I hope it does. If it’s going well, there are fewer and fewer options at each turn until it’s perfectly clear who the criminal is. I’m n
ever really sure where I’m going from one day to the next. It’d be boring any other way, don’t you think?’
‘Perhaps,’ Banks answered, putting on his shoes and mac. ‘In writing, yes. In fiction. But in real life, I’m not so sure. It’d be a damn sight easier if I knew who the criminal was without having to write the whole book and make all the mistakes along the way. Anyway, goodbye, and thanks for your time.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Barker.
And Banks ducked quickly through the rain to his car.
TWO
On High Street, Banks glimpsed Penny Cartwright nipping into the Bridge. Consulting his watch and his stomach, he decided it was well past lunch time, and he could do with a pie and a pint if the landlord had any food left.
Penny was at the bar shaking her umbrella when she glanced over her shoulder and saw Banks enter.
‘Can’t a lady indulge her alcoholic cravings without the police turning up?’ she asked sharply.
‘Of course,’ Banks replied. ‘As a matter of fact, I’d be honoured if you’d join me for a late lunch.’
Penny looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Business or pleasure, Inspector?’
‘Just a chat.’
‘For “chat” read “interrogation”, I’ll bet. Go on then. I must be a fool. You’re buying.’
They were lucky enough to get two steak and mushroom pies and Penny asked for a double Scotch. Carrying the drinks, Banks followed her into the lounge.
‘Why don’t they do something with this place?’ he asked, looking around and turning his nose up.
‘Why should they? I wouldn’t have taken you for one of these horse-brass and bedpan types.’ Penny stood her umbrella by the fireplace and sat down, shaking her hair.
Banks laughed. ‘I always thought they were bed-warmers. And no, I’m not, not at all. Give me spittoons and sawdust any day. I was simply thinking that the owner might see renovations as a way to do more business in the long run.’
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