Authors: Peter Robinson
‘The Dog and Gun’s a kind of family place with tables out back by the river and a little enclosed area for the kiddies to play in, and the Hare and Hounds is more for the younger
set. They have a disco there every Friday and Saturday in season and you get a lot of the campers going along. That’s when we get most of our bother here – the odd fight, that kind of
thing. Some nights during the week they have folk music, too. A bit more civilized, if you ask me.’
Weaver sniffed and nodded towards the wall. ‘And then there’s this place. It’s fairly new by village standards – Victorian, I’d say at a pinch. And it’s all
that’s left for the serious drinkers. The only people who drink here are the locals and a few visitors who know about the beer. It’s a pretty well-guarded secret. Course, on weekends
you do get a few hikers and whatnot in the public bar. They’ve all read their good beer guides these days, it seems. But they never cause much trouble; they’re a quiet lot,
really.’
‘Why did Steadman drink here, do you think?’
‘Steadman?’ Weaver seemed surprised to be so quickly jolted back to business. ‘Liked the beer, I suppose. And he was pally with a few of the regulars.’
‘But he had money, didn’t he? A lot of money. He certainly didn’t get that house on the cheap.’
‘Oh yes, he had money. Rumour has it he inherited over a quarter of a million from his father. His pals have money too, but they’re not nobs. Much more down-to-earth.’
Banks was still puzzled why someone so well off would drink in such a dump, good beer or not. By rights, Steadman ought to have been chugging champagne by the magnum to wash down his caviar.
Those were London terms, though, he reminded himself: ostentatious display of wealth. Maybe people with over a quarter of a million who lived in Helmthorpe by choice were different. He doubted it.
But Steadman certainly sounded unusual.
‘Liked his drink, did he?’
‘Never known him drink too much, sir. I think he just enjoyed the company here.’
‘Glad to get away from the wife?’
Weaver reddened. ‘I wouldn’t know about that, sir. Never heard anything. But he was a funny sort of chap.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, sir, like I said, he used to be a professor at Leeds University. When he inherited the money, he just packed in his job, bought the old Ramsden house and moved up here.’
‘Ramsden house?’ Banks cut in. ‘That wouldn’t have anything to do with Michael Ramsden, would it?’
Weaver raised an eyebrow. ‘As a matter of fact, sir, yes,’ he answered. ‘It was his parents’ house. Used to be a bed-and-breakfast place when Steadman and his wife
started coming up here for their holidays ten years ago or more. Young Michael went to university and landed a good job with a publishing firm in London. Then, when old Mr Ramsden died, the mother
couldn’t afford to keep on the house, so she went off to live with her sister in Torquay. It all happened at just the right time for Steadman.’
Banks looked at Weaver in astonished admiration. ‘How old are you?’ he asked.
‘Twenty-one, sir.’
‘How do you manage to know so much about things that happened before your time?’
‘Family, sir. I was born and raised in the area. And Sergeant Mullins. He runs the show around here usually, but he’s on holiday right now. There’s not much escapes Sergeant
Mullins.’
Banks sat in silence for a moment and enjoyed his beer as he sifted the information.
‘What about Steadman’s drinking companions?’ he asked finally. ‘What kind of people are they?’
‘He brought them all together, sir,’ Weaver answered. ‘Oh, they all knew each other well enough before he moved up here, like, but Steadman was a friendly sort, interested in
everything and everyone. When he wasn’t busying himself with his books or poking around ruins and abandoned mines he was quite a socializer. There’s Jack Barker, for one – you
might have heard of him?’
Banks shook his head.
‘Writer. Mystery stories.’ Weaver smiled. ‘Quite good really. Plenty of sex and violence.’ He blushed. ‘Nothing like the real thing, of course.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Banks said, smiling. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, sir, he’s been here three or four years. Don’t know where he started from. Then there’s Doc Barnes, born and raised hereabouts, and Teddy Hackett, local
entrepreneur. He owns the garage over there, and a couple of gift shops. That’s all, really. They’re all fortyish. Well, Doc Barnes is a bit older and Barker’s in his late
thirties. An odd group, when you think about it. I’ve been in here a few times when they were together and from what I could hear they’d take the mickey out of Steadman a bit, him being
an academic and all that. But not nasty like. All in good fun.’
‘No animosity? You’re certain?’
‘No, sir. Not as far as I could tell. I don’t get in here as often as I’d like. Wife and kid, you see.’ He beamed.
‘Work, too.’
‘Aye, that keeps me busy as well. But I seem to spend more time giving directions to bloody tourists and telling the time than dealing with local affairs. Whoever said “If you want
to know the way, ask a policeman” ought to be shot.’
Banks laughed. ‘The locals are a fairly law-abiding lot, then?’
‘On the whole, yes. We get a few drunks now and then. Especially at the Hare and Hounds disco, as I said. But that’s mostly visitors. Then there’s the odd domestic dispute. But
most of our troubles come from tourists leaving their cars all over the place and making too much noise. It’s a peaceful place, really, though there’s some as would say it’s
boring.’
At this point, Sergeant Hatchley walked in and joined them. He was a bulky, fair-haired and freckle-faced man in his early thirties, and he and Banks had developed a tolerable working
relationship despite some early hostilities – partly due to north-south rivalry and partly to Hatchley’s having hoped for the job Banks got.
Hatchley bought a round of drinks and they all ordered steak and kidney pies, which turned out to be very tasty. Not too much kidney, as Weaver remarked. Banks complimented the landlord and was
rewarded with an ambiguous ‘Aye.’
‘Anything new?’ Banks asked the sergeant.
Hatchley lit a cigarette, lounged back in his chair, rubbed a hand like a hairy ham across his stubbly cheek, and cleared his throat.
‘Nowt much, by the look of things. Old Tavistock went looking for a stray sheep and dug up a fresh corpse. That’s about the strength of it.’
‘Was it unusual for him to go poking around by that wall? Would other people be likely to go there?’
‘If you’re thinking that anyone could expect to dump a body there and leave it undiscovered for weeks, then you’re barking up the wrong tree. Even if old Tavistock hadn’t
gone out looking for his bloody sheep, someone would’ve come along soon enough – hikers, courting couples.’
Banks sipped some more beer. ‘So he wasn’t dumped there for concealment, then?’
‘Shouldn’t think so, no. Probably put there just so we’d have to leg it halfway up to Crow bloody Scar.’
Banks laughed. ‘More likely so we wouldn’t know where he was killed.’
‘Aye.’
‘Why wasn’t Steadman reported missing, sir?’ Weaver cut in. He seemed anxious to restore to the chief inspector the respect that Hatchley appeared to be denying him.
Banks told him. Then he told Hatchley to get back to the Eastvale station, find out as much as he could about Steadman’s background and collate any reports that came in.
‘What about the press?’ Hatchley asked. ‘They’re all over the place now.’
‘You can tell them we’ve found a body.’
‘Shall I tell them who it is?’
Banks sighed and gave Hatchley a long-suffering look. ‘Don’t be so bloody silly. Not until we’ve got a formal identification you can’t, no.’
‘And what will you be doing, sir?’
‘My job.’ Banks turned to Weaver. ‘You’d better get back to the station, lad. Who’s in charge?’
Weaver blushed again, his pinkness deepening to crimson. ‘I am, sir. At least, I am at the moment. Sergeant Mullins is away for two weeks. Remember I told you about him, sir?’
‘Yes, of course. How many men have you got?’
‘There’s only two of us, sir. It’s a quiet place. I called some of the lads in from Lyndgarth and Fortford to help with the search. There’s not more than half a dozen of
us altogether.’
‘All right, then,’ Banks said, ‘it looks like you’re in charge. Get a request for information printed up and distributed – shops, pubs, church notice board. Then
start a house-to-house enquiry up Hill Road. That body wasn’t carried all the way up there, and somebody might just have seen or heard a car. At least it’ll help us narrow down the time
of death. All right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And don’t worry. If you need any more men, let Eastvale station know and they’ll see what they can do. I’m going to pay Michael Ramsden a visit myself, but if you ask
for Sergeant Rowe, I’ll make sure he has full instructions.’
He turned to Hatchley again. ‘Before you go back, go and tell the men up in the field that they’re temporarily transferred to Helmthorpe and they’re to take their orders from
Constable Weaver here. They’ll probably understand the situation already, but make it official. And check the car park for a beige Sierra.’ He gave Hatchley the number of the car and
handed him the keys. ‘It’s Steadman’s car,’ he added, ‘and while it doesn’t look as if he got to use it last night, you never know. It might tell us something.
Get forensic on to it right away.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Hatchley said through clenched teeth as he left. Banks could almost hear the ‘three bags full, sir’ that the sergeant probably added when he got outside.
He grinned broadly at the nonplussed young constable and said, ‘Don’t mind him; he’s probably just got a hangover. Now, off you go, Weaver. Time to get to work.’
Alone, he slipped his new pipe from his jacket pocket and stuffed it with shag. Drawing in the harsh tobacco, he coughed and shook his head. He still couldn’t get used to the damn thing;
maybe mild cigarettes would be better, after all.
Excited, Sally had watched Banks drive off towards the village and followed in the same direction. She stopped to pick a campion by the hedgerow and casually admired its
pinkish-purple colour, the petals like a baby’s splayed fingers. Then, thinking about what she had to tell her friends, she let it drop and hurried on her way.
She had actually seen the man, the policeman in charge, close up, and had had to stifle a giggle as he lost his footing climbing the low wall. It was obvious he wasn’t used to bounding
about the northern countryside; perhaps he’d been sent up by Scotland Yard. She found his gaunt angled face under the short neat black hair attractive, despite a nose that had clearly been
broken and imperfectly reset. The sharp restless eyes expressed energy and power, and the little white scar beside his right eye seemed, to Sally, a mark of exotic experience. She imagined
he’d got into a fight to the death with a blood-crazed murderer. Even though he seemed too short for a policeman, his wiry body looked nimble and strong.
At the western edge of the village, near the Bridge, was a coffee bar where Sally and her friends hung out. The coffee was weak, the Coke warm and the Greek owner surly, but the place boasted
two video games, an up-to-date jukebox and an ancient pinball machine. Of course, Sally would rather have expertly applied a little make-up and passed for eighteen in one of the pubs –
especially the Hare and Hounds on disco night – but in such a small community everyone seemed to know a little about everyone else’s business, and she was worried in case word got back
to her father. She had been in pubs in Eastvale with Kevin, though even that was risky with the school so close by, and in Leeds and York, which were safer, and nobody had ever questioned her about
her age.
The door rattled as she pushed it open and entered to the familiar bleeping of massacred aliens. Kathy Chalmers and Hazel Kirk were engrossed in the game, while Anne Downes looked on coolly. She
was a bookish girl, plain and bespectacled, but she wanted to be liked; and if that meant hanging around with video-game players, then so be it. The others teased her a bit, but never maliciously,
and she was blessed with a sharp, natural wit that helped her hold her own.
The other two were more like Sally, if not as pretty. They chewed gum, applied make-up (unlike Sally, they did this badly) and generally fussed about their hair and clothes. Kathy had even got
away with a henna treatment. Her parents had been furious, but there was nothing much they could do after the fact. It was Hazel, the sultry, black-haired one, who spoke first.
‘Look who’s here,’ she announced. ‘And where have you been all weekend?’ The glint in her eye implied that she knew very well where Sally had been and who she had
been with. Under normal circumstances Sally would have played along, hinting at pleasures she believed Hazel had only read about in books, but this time she ignored the innuendo and got herself a
Coke from the unsmiling Greek. The espresso machine was hissing like an old steam engine and the aliens were still bleeping in their death throes. Sally leaned against the column opposite Anne and
waited impatiently for a silence into which she could drop her news.
When the game was over, Kathy reached for another coin, a manoeuvre that necessitated arching her back and stretching out her long legs so that she could thrust her hand deep enough into the
pocket of her skintight Calvin Kleins. As she did this, Sally noticed the Greek ogling from behind his coffee machine. Choosing her moment for best dramatic effect, she finally spoke: ‘Guess
what. There’s been a murder. Here in the village. They dug up a body under Crow Scar. I’ve just come from there. I’ve
seen
it.’
Anne’s pale eyes widened behind her thick lenses. ‘A murder! Is that what those men are doing up there?’
‘They’re conducting a search of the scene,’ Sally announced, hoping she’d got the phrasing right. ‘The scene of the crime. And the forensic team was there too,
taking blood samples and tissue. And the police photographer and the Home Office pathologist. All of them.’