A Dedicated Man (14 page)

‘I’m asking
you
.’ Things were taking the kind of turn he had hoped to avoid, but with someone as anti-establishment as Penny Cartwright, he reflected, it was bound to
happen. She had been toying with him all along. He pressed on: ‘Still no answer?’

‘I told you, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘For God’s sake, what do you want me to say?’

‘Was their marriage normal?’

‘Normal! Ha! What the bloody hell does that mean? Yes, I suppose so. I’ve never been married myself, so I’m hardly the best person to ask.’

‘Were they happy?’

‘I should think so. As I said, I don’t really know. It’s not as if I was his confidante or his shoulder to cry on.’

‘Did he need one?’

Penny sighed and rested her head in her hands. ‘Look,’ she protested tiredly, ‘this is getting us nowhere. What do you want from me?’

Banks ignored her question and pressed on: ‘What were you to Mr Steadman?’

‘Harry and I were friends. Just friends; I told you. We had interests in common.’

‘And his wife didn’t object?’

‘She never said anything to me. Why should she? Harry never said anything, either.’

‘You do know her, then?’

‘Of course I bloody well know her. Harry and I weren’t carrying on a clandestine relationship, like you seem to think. I went to their house for dinner plenty of times. She was
always very kind and charming. She was a good cook, too.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘When Emma was around?’

‘Yes.’

‘Nothing much. Just the usual stuff. She didn’t really share Harry’s passions. She likes music – mostly classical, though. Christ, what do you talk about when you go to
someone’s house for dinner?’

‘Were you having an affair with Harold Steadman?’

At last, the inevitable question. And Banks felt a fool the moment it was out. If he had been expecting a burst of pent-up anger or a howl of derisive laughter in reply, he couldn’t have
been more surprised. His question seemed instead to deflate the interview of all its mounting tension, and Penny gazed at him steadily, a spark of amusement in her sapphire eyes, as if, in fact,
she had goaded him into bluntness.

‘No, Inspector,’ she said, ‘I was not having an affair with Harry Steadman, or with anyone else, for that matter. In fact, I’m not having an affair with Emma Steadman, or
with my father, either. Everything is exactly as I’ve told you. I just didn’t feel that way about Harry, nor he about me, as far as I could tell.’ Banks thought Steadman must have
been mad. ‘He didn’t excite me physically,’ she went on, lighting another cigarette and walking around the small room as she smoked it. ‘Only my mind, my imagination. And I
liked him very much. I think he was a good man, a bright, sweet person. Perhaps I even loved him in a platonic sort of way, but that’s as far as it went.’ She tossed her hair back and
sat down facing him, chin held high. Bright tears shone in her eyes but they never began to flow. ‘There you are, Inspector,’ she said with dignity. ‘I’ve bared my soul for
you. Aren’t you pleased?’

Banks was moved by the obvious intensity of her feeling, but he didn’t want to let his disadvantage show.

‘When did you last see him?’ he asked.

Her eyes reflected a chain of options running through her mind. It was a phenomenon Banks had often observed in people who were trying to decide quickly whether to lie or tell the truth.

Penny opened her mouth, then closed it. She took a final drag on her cigarette, ground it out half smoked and whispered, ‘Saturday. Saturday evening.’

‘What time?’

‘About nine.’

‘After he’d left the Bridge?’

‘Yes. He dropped by here.’

‘Then why the hell didn’t you tell me before? You knew damn well you were holding back important information.’

Penny shrugged. ‘You didn’t ask me. I didn’t want to get involved.’

‘Didn’t want to get involved?’ Banks echoed scornfully. ‘You say you liked the man, that he helped you, and you couldn’t be bothered to help us try and find his
killer?’

Penny sighed and began to wind a strand of hair around her index finger. ‘Look, Inspector,’ she said, ‘I know it sounds shabby, but it’s true. I don’t see how his
visit to me could help you in any way. And, dammit,’ she flashed, ‘I don’t think I owe the police any bloody favours.’

‘That’s not the point. I don’t care about your personal feelings towards the police. What was important was the time. If nothing else, your information could help us pinpoint
the time of the murder. When did he leave?’

‘About ten.’

‘Did he say where he was going?’

‘I assumed he was going to York. He’d mentioned it.’

‘But he didn’t mention any other calls he wanted to make first, any errands to run?’

‘No.’

It was another hour accounted for, anyway. Banks had nothing more to say; his session with Penny had exhausted him. She seemed irritated and the tension grew between them again, as tangible as a
tightening hacksaw blade. Finally, Penny broke it.

‘Look,’ she began, ‘I’m sorry, I really am. I do care about Harry. The thing is that in my life involvement with the police has always meant trouble. I’ve never
been involved in a murder investigation before, so I don’t know what matters and what doesn’t. When you’re a musician, young, in with a certain crowd, you get a very warped view
of authority – police, customs men, immigration officials, security guards – they all seem against you; they’re all such a royal pain in the arse.’

Banks couldn’t help but grin. ‘Drugs?’ he asked.

Penny nodded. ‘Not me. I was never into it. Not in a heavy way. But you know how it is in London. There’s drugs all around you, whether you take them or not. Sure, I smoked a joint
or two, maybe took some amphetamines to keep me awake on tour, but never the heavy stuff. Try and tell the drug squad that.’

Banks wanted to argue, to defend the police, but he was too tired and he knew there would be no point anyway. Besides, he also knew that the police were just like everyone else; a lot were
bastards and a few weren’t. He had known a high-ranking officer in the drug squad who routinely planted illegal substances on people he wanted out of the way, and that was by no means rare or
unusual behaviour. Also, he smelled something familiar in the air of Penny’s cottage. He knew what it was, but he didn’t care to pursue the matter any more than he wanted to tell her
that his full title was Chief Inspector. People often got it wrong.

He stood up, and Penny walked to the door with him. He felt that she was seeking some kind words of reassurance from him, some forgiveness for acting in a way contrary to her feelings for
Steadman. But he didn’t know how to give it. At the door he said, ‘I hear you sing, Miss Cartwright?’

‘Actually, it’s Ms,’ Penny corrected him, a playful smile lighting her eyes. ‘Yes, I sing.’

‘Locally?’

‘Sometimes. I’m at the Dog and Gun this Friday and Saturday. Competing with the disco in the Hare and Hounds.’

‘I’ll see if I can drop by, then,’ Banks said. ‘If nothing turns up.’

‘Feel free.’ There was a trace of doubt in Penny’s voice, as if she couldn’t quite believe that a policeman would be interested in traditional folk music, or in any kind
of music for that matter.

Banks walked down the narrow cobbled street by the church wall, and as soon as he got to the corner he heard a hissing sound behind him and turned. An old woman stood at the door of the cottage
next to Penny’s and beckoned him over. When he got close enough she whispered, ‘You’ll be that there policeman they’re all talking about.’

‘Detective Chief Inspector Banks,’ he said, reaching for his card. ‘At your service.’

‘Nay, nay lad, there’s no need for that. I believe thee,’ she said, waving it aside. ‘Been talking to ’er ladyship next door, I see.’ She jerked a shrivelled
thumb in the direction of Penny’s cottage. Puzzled, Banks nodded.

‘Did she tell ’ee about Sat’day night?’

‘What about Saturday night?’

‘I thought she wouldn’t,’ the old woman said triumphantly, crossing her arms with great satisfaction. ‘A proper ruckus there were. T’ old major near flung ’im
down t’ garden path.’

‘Flung who?’

‘Why, ’im as got ’isself murdered,’ she announced with obvious relish. ‘I don’t ’old wi’ married men sniffing around young lasses. And she’s
a flighty one, yon missy is, you mark my words. There again, though,’ she laughed, ‘t’ major’s mad as an ’atter ’isself.’

‘What are you talking about, Mrs . . . ?’

‘Miss,’ she said proudly. ‘Lived seventy-one years and never saw t’ need for a ’usband yet. Miss Bamford it is, young man, and I’m talking about Sat’day
night when Major Cartwright popped in on ’is daughter and caught ’er wi’ that murdered chappie. ’Bout ten o’clock, it were. Now, don’t ask me what they was doing,
cos I couldn’t say, but ’e flew off t’ handle, t’ old man did. Told ’im not to come around no more.’

‘You mean the major physically threw Mr Steadman out of Penny Cartwright’s house?’ Banks asked, trying to get things straight. He was sure that something was bound to have got
lost in translation.

‘Well, not in so many words.’ Miss Bamford backed down; her chin retracted deep into the folds of her neck. ‘I couldn’t see proper, like. Pushed ’im, though –
and that chap so pale and weakly from shutting ’imsen up wi’ books all day and night. I’ll bet she didn’t tell you about that, did she, yon Lady Muck?’

Banks had to admit that Penny had not told him about that. In fact, he had backed away from the whole issue of her father after she had challenged him to be direct.

‘Did she go out afterwards?’ he asked.

‘ ’Er Royal ’ighness? No. T’ door banged about eleven, but that were t’ major.’

‘Surely there’s a back door, too?’

‘Oh, aye,’ Miss Bamford answered. She hadn’t missed his meaning.

Banks thanked her. With a smug smile on her wrinkled face, the old woman shut her door. After a quick and puzzled glance back at Penny’s cottage, Banks walked towards his car and drove
home.

‘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.