A Dedicated Man

6
ONE

‘So according to your mate in Darlington-’

‘Sergeant Balfour, sir. A good man.’

‘According to your Sergeant Balfour,’ Banks went on, ‘Hackett didn’t arrive at the KitKat Klub until after one o’clock in the morning, and nobody in the pub he mentioned remembered seeing him?’

‘That’s right. The landlord said he often dropped by, but last week it was on Friday, not Saturday.’

‘So the bastard’s been lying.’ Banks sighed. He was becoming more and more irritated with the inhabitants of Helmthorpe, and as many London villains would testify, the more annoyed he got the harder it was all round. ‘I suppose we’d better have him in again. No, wait.. .’ He glanced at his watch and stood up. ‘Better still, let’s have a drive into Helmthorpe. There’s a couple of things I want to do there.’

Sandra was using the Cortina, so they signed out a car from the pool and Banks let Hatchley drive. The hedgerows by the river were dotted with clumps of white, yellow and purple wild flowers, none of which Banks could name. A few dark clouds skulked about the sky, but the sun pierced through here and there in bright lances of light that picked out green patches on the shadowed dalesides. The effect reminded Banks of some paintings he’d seen in a London gallery Sandra had dragged him to, but he couldn’t remember the artist’s name: Turner, Gainsborough, Constable? Sandra would know. He made a mental note to look into landscape painting a bit more closely.

‘What do you think, then?’ Hatchley asked. He drove with one hand and lit a cigarette from the glowing red circle of the dashboard lighter. ‘About Hackett, I mean.’

‘Could be our man. He’s certainly hiding something.’

‘What about the others who were with Steadman that night?’

‘We just don’t know, do we? Any one of them could have done it. They’ve no real alibis, not even Barnes.’

‘But what motive could he have for killing Steadman? He’s got a good reputation locally, always has had.’

Banks fiddled with his pipe. ‘Could be blackmail. Maybe Barnes had something on Steadman, or vice versa. Maybe Steadman learned something that would ruin the doctor’s reputation.’

‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ Hatchley said. ‘But Steadman was rich; he didn’t need to blackmail anyone, surely? And if he was paying Barnes it’d be daft to kill the goose that laid the golden egg, wouldn’t it?’

‘Agreed. But it needn’t have been money. Perhaps Steadman felt morally bound to tell what he knew. From all accounts, he was just the kind of person who would. I know it’s all speculation at this point, but I still think we should look into the doctor’s finances and background, and find out if Steadman made any large bank withdrawals recently.’

‘Won’t do any harm, I suppose. Bloody hell!’ Hatchley swerved to avoid a wobbling cyclist and yelled out of the window, ‘Watch where you’re going, bloody road hog!’

Banks tightened his seat belt; he remembered one of the reasons why he preferred driving his own car on the job.

They arrived safely and parked by the river, where Steadman had left his car, and walked up the alley to High Street. It was about midday; tourists thronged the small ice-cream shop, and the locals were out shopping or gossiping by cottage gates up the narrow cobbled side streets. The two policemen were now well known in the village, and voices lowered as they passed. Banks smiled to himself; he enjoyed the effect his presence had on people. In London, nobody but the criminals he’d put away more than once knew who he was.

They paused by a newsagent’s, where racks of coloured postcards, maps and local guidebooks outside on the pavement flapped in the light breeze.

‘Let’s take Hackett together after lunch,’ Banks suggested.

‘All right.’ Hatchley looked at his watch. ‘Want to eat now?’

‘Not yet. Why don’t you drop in on Weaver and see if anything’s turned up? I want a word with Major Cartwright. Then we’ll have a pie and a pint at the Bridge and work out how to tackle Hackett.’

Hatchley agreed and walked off to the small local police station.

Nobody, Banks thought, could look more like a retired major than the man who opened the door next to Thadtwistle’s bookshop. He was elderly but trim-looking, with silver hair, a brick-red complexion and a grey handlebar moustache. After Banks had identified himself, the major grunted and led him up a narrow staircase. The flat turned out to be directly above the bookshop.

Banks followed him into a sitting room dominated by a huge framed reproduction of a bare-breasted woman carrying a flag over a battlefield of dead and wounded soldiers; she was accompanied by a small boy with a gun in each hand.

‘Liberty Leading the People,’ the major said, catching him staring at it. ‘Delacroix. That’s what we were fighting for, isn’t it?’

Luckily, Banks could recognize a rhetorical question when he heard one. He turned his attention to the terrier sniffing around his ankles and tried subtly shifting his feet to make it go away. Banks didn’t like dogs – if anything, he was a cat man – but he liked it even less when their proud owners expected him to fuss over the damned animals as if they were newborn babies. Kicking out a bit harder, Banks finally persuaded the pooch to slink off to its basket, from where it gazed at him with an expression of resentment mingled with arrogance. The major was pouring drinks, so fortunately his back was turned.

Stale smoke made the warm room stuffy. Banks spotted an antique pipe rack on the wall above the fireplace and, hoping to establish a rapport, he sat in a straight-backed chair and coaxed his own briar alight.

The major handed him a small whisky and soda, took a larger one for himself, and sat down in the scuffed leather armchair that had obviously been his since time immemorial.

Some military types, Banks found, regarded the police as fellow professionals, colleagues-in-arms almost, but others looked upon them as upstarts, petty dabblers who had not quite made the grade. Major Cartwright seemed to be of the latter type. He looked at Banks with open hostility, the purple veins around his nose showing a clear predilection for early morning snifters.

‘What is it, then?’ he asked, as if he had been interrupted in the midst of planning a new assault on the Boers.

Banks explained about the murder, drawing only grunts and sharp nods, and tried as delicately as he could to mention that the major had probably been the last person, apart from the killer, to see Steadman alive.

‘When would that be?’ Cartwright asked.

‘Saturday night, about ten o’clock.’

The major stared at him with icy blue eyes and sipped his whisky. ‘Who told you that?’

‘It doesn’t matter who told me, Major. Is it true?’

‘I suppose it was that busybody of a neighbour, eh? Silly old biddy.’

‘Did you see him and did you have an argument?’

‘You can’t be suggesting-’

‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just asking you a simple question.’

The major swirled the whisky in his glass for a moment, then answered, ‘All right, what if I did?’

‘You tell me.’

‘Nothing to tell, really. Found him hanging about my daughter again and told him to sling his hook.’

‘Why did you react so violently?’

‘It’s not right.’ Cartwright leaned forward in his chair. ‘A married man, older than her. What would you do? It’s not healthy.’ He slumped back again.

‘Did you assume they were having an affair?’

‘Now hold on a minute, young man. Hold your horses. I never said anything like that.’

‘Look,’ Banks pressed on, ‘I’m not making any accusations or charges. I’m asking you what you thought. If you didn’t think your daughter was likely to be involved in anything unsavoury, then why did you practically kick Steadman down the street?’

‘She’s exaggerating, the old bag.’ Cartwright sniffed. He tossed back the rest of his drink, then got up and picked an old briar from the rack and filled it with twist from a pouch. ‘We had words, yes, but I never laid a finger – or a toe – on him. Anyway, it’s a matter of principle, isn’t it? A married man. People talk.’

Banks found it hard to see the link between principle and the fear of gossip, but he ignored the issue. ‘Is that why you objected to a harmless relationship that both parties seemed to enjoy?’ he asked instead. ‘Did you behave the same way over all your daughter’s friendships?’

‘Dammit, the man was married,’ the major repeated.

‘He was married ten years ago when they first met, but you didn’t object then, did you?’

‘That was all in the open. Always someone else around – young Michael. She was just a girl. Look, if they want to meet, they can do it openly, can’t they? In a pub with other people there, for example. No reason to shut themselves up in private like that. They’re a sharp-tongued lot in this village, lad. You don’t know the half of it.’

‘Were you worried that they’d talk like they did about you and your daughter? Is that what you wanted to protect her from?’

The major whitened and sagged in his chair. All of a sudden his belligerence seemed to desert him and he looked his age. He got up slowly and mixed himself another drink. ‘Heard about that, did you?’

Banks nodded.

‘You weren’t there,’ he said in a sad, bitter tone. ‘You can’t know what it was like for the two of us after my wife died. I couldn’t look after myself, had to go into hospital for a while, had to send Penny away to the Ramsdens. But she came back and cared for me. Self lessly, God bless her. She’s an only child, you know. And then the vicious gossip started. It only takes one to start the rumour – just one rotten bastard – then it spreads like the plague until everyone’s had enough of it and something better comes along. And it’s just a game to them. They don’t even care whether it’s true or not; it just titillates their imaginations, that’s all. I blame them for driving her away. They said it wasn’t natural, the two of us together. After she left, I sold the house and moved here.’

‘I thought she left to start a career in music?’

‘Oh, she’d have gone eventually. But she was too young. She shouldn’t have gone so soon; then things wouldn’t have turned out the way they did for her.’

‘She seems well enough adjusted to me. Maybe a little sharp at the edges.’

‘You didn’t know her before. Lost a lot of her spirit, her joy. Too young to be a cynic. Anyway, she couldn’t stand it here with people staring at her that way. Took a lot of courage for her to come back.’

‘So you forgave her?’

‘Nothing to forgive, really. She thought she’d let me down, leaving me like that. There’d been rows, fights, yes. But I never stopped loving her. Steadman wasn’t a bad sort, I know that. A bit wet, I always thought, but not a bad sort. I just wanted to spare her it all again. She’s bitter enough already. But it’s not the first time I’ve had words with him. Ask anyone. My argument with Steadman wasn’t new.’

‘What happened on Saturday night?’

‘Nothing, really. I told him not to call on her alone after dark again. I’d told him before. I suppose I just made things worse, drawing attention to it.’

‘What did you do afterwards?’

‘When he’d gone?’

‘Yes.’

‘I stayed and talked to Penny for an hour or so. She was a bit upset with me but we settled things amicably enough.’

‘Can you remember what time you left?’

‘I can remember the church bells ringing eleven. It wasn’t long after that.’

‘And Steadman left at ten?’

‘That was when I arrived, yes.’

‘Did you notice anyone hanging around the area?’

‘No. It was quiet. Always is up there. There were a few people on High Street, but nothing unusual.’

‘Did Steadman say where he was going? Did he give you any idea at all what he intended to do next?’

Major Cartwright shook his head. ‘No, he just left. Sorry I can’t be of more help to you, Inspector.’

‘Never mind. Thanks for your time, anyway, Major.’

Cartwright turned and walked over to the drinks cabinet, leaving Banks to make his own way back downstairs.