one about the village cripple (who did unspeakable things with his crutch), then a rousing finale. With a bit of luck, that would be the end of the rugby songs. They had already performed ‘Dinah, Dinah, Show Us Yer Leg (A Yard Above Your Knees)’, ‘The Engineer’s Song’ and a lengthy, improvized version of ‘Mademoiselle from Armentieres’. The sulky DJ, who had been pretending to set up his equipment for the past hour, would soon get his chance to shine.
Banks passed the drinks along to the others and reached for a cigarette. Gristhorpe frowned at him, but Banks was used to that. Phil Richmond was also smoking one of his occasional panatellas, so the superintendent was having a particularly hard time of it. Sandra had stopped smoking completely, and Banks had agreed not to smoke in the house. Luckily, although most of the police station had been declared a non-smoking area, he was still permitted to light up in his own office. Things had got so bad, though, that even alleged criminals brought in for interrogation could legally object to any police officer smoking in the interview rooms. It was a sorry state of affairs, Banks mused: you could beat them to your heart’s content, as long as the bruises didn’t show, but you couldn’t smoke in their presence and get away with it.
Sandra raised her dark eyebrows and breathed a sigh of relief when ‘Four and Twenty Virgins’ came to an end. But her joy was short lived. The choir of rugby forwards refused to leave the stage without giving their rendition of ‘Good King Wenceslas’. Despite groans from the captive audience, a dirty look from the DJ and a positive flash of fury from Carol’s eyes, Sergeant Hatchley led them off:
Gristhorpe looked at his watch. ‘I think I’ll be off after this one. I just overheard someone say it’s snowing pretty heavily out there now.’
‘Is it?’ Sandra said. Banks knew she loved snow. They walked over to the window at the far end of the room and glanced out. Clearly satisfied with what she saw, Sandra pulled the long curtains open. It had been snowing only lightly when they had arrived for pre-dinner drinks at about five, but now the high window framed a thick swirl of white flakes falling on the rugby field. Others turned to look, oohing and aahing, touching their neighbours on the arm to tell them what was happening. As they walked back, Banks took Sandra in his arms and kissed her.
‘Got you,’ he said, then he looked up and Sandra followed his gaze to the mistletoe hanging above them.
Sandra took his arm and walked beside him back to the bar. ‘I don’t mean to be rude or anything,’ she said, ‘but when’s this racket going to end? Don’t you think someone should have a word with Jim? After all, it
Banks looked at Hatchley. Judging by his flushed face and the way he swayed, there wouldn’t be much of a wedding night for the bride.
Banks was just about to walk across and say something – only concerned that he might sound too much like the boss when he was just a wedding guest – when he was saved by the DJ. A long and loud blast of feedback issued from the speakers and stopped Hatchley and his mates in their tracks. Before they could regather their wits for a further onslaught, several quick-thinking members of the party applauded. At once, the singers took this as their cue for a bow and the DJ as his opportunity to begin the real music. He adjusted a couple of dials, skipped the patter, and before Hatchley and his mob even knew what had hit them the hall was filled with the sound of Martha and the Vandellas singing ‘Dancing in the Street’.
Sandra smiled. ‘That’s more like it.’
Banks glanced over at Richmond, who looked very pleased with himself. And well he might. There had just been a big change-around at Eastvale Regional Police Headquarters. Sergeant Hatchley had been a problem for some time. Not suitable material for promotion, he had stood in Richmond’s way, even though Richmond had passed his sergeant’s examination with flying colours and shown remarkable aptitude on the job. The trouble was, there just wasn’t room for two detective sergeants in the small station.
Finally, after months of trying to find a way out of the dilemma, Superintendent Gristhorpe had seized the first opportunity that came his way. Official borders had been redrawn and the region had expanded eastwards to take in a section of the North York Moors and a small stretch of coastline between Scarborough and Whitby. It seemed a good idea to place a small CID outpost on the coast to deal with the day-to-day matters that might arise there, and Hatchley came to mind as the man to head it. He was competent enough, just lazy and inattentive to detail. Surely, Gristhorpe had reasoned to Banks, he couldn’t do much damage in a sleepy fishing village like Saltby Bay?
Hatchley had been asked if he fancied living by the seaside and he had said yes. After all, it was still in Yorkshire. As the time of the move coincided with his impending marriage, it had seemed sensible to combine the two celebrations. Though Hatchley remained a sergeant, Gristhorpe had managed to wangle him a small pay increase, and – more important – he would be in charge He was to take David Craig, now a detective constable, with him. Craig, soaking up the ale at the other end of the bar, didn’t look too pleased about it.
Hatchley and his wife were off to Saltby Bay that night – or, the way things were going, the next morning – where he was to take two weeks’ leave to set up their cottage by the sea. His only complaint was that it wouldn’t be summer for a long time. Apart from that, Hatchley seemed happy enough with the state of affairs.
In Eastvale, Richmond had got his promotion to detective sergeant at last, and Susan Gay had been brought upstairs as their new detective constable. It was too early to know whether the arrangement would work, but Banks had every confidence in both Richmond and Gay. Still, he felt sad. He had been in Eastvale almost three years, and during that time he had grown to like and depend on Sergeant Hatchley, despite the man’s obvious faults. It had taken Banks until last summer to call the sergeant by his first name, but he felt that Hatchley, with Superintendent Gristhorpe, had been responsible for helping him adapt to Yorkshire ways after his move from London.
The music slowed down. Percy Sledge started singing ‘When a Man Loves a Woman’. Sandra touched Banks’s arm. ‘Dance?’
Banks took her hand and they walked towards the dance floor. Before they got there, someone tapped him gently on the shoulder. He turned and saw DC Susan Gay, snowflakes still melting on the shoulders of her navy coat and in her short, curly blonde hair.
‘What is it?’ Banks asked.
‘Can I have a word, sir? Somewhere quiet.’
The only quiet place was the toilets, and they could hardly go charging off into the gents’ or ladies’. The alternative was the corner opposite the DJ, which seemed to be deserted. Banks asked Sandra if she minded missing this one. She shrugged, being used to such privations, and went back to the bar. Gristhorpe, Banks noticed, gallantly offered her his arm, and they went onto the dance floor.
‘It’s a murder, at least a possible murder,’ DC Gay said, as soon as they had found a quieter spot. ‘I didn’t see the superintendent when I came in, so I went straight to you.’
‘Any details?’
‘Sketchy.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘About ten minutes. I sent PC Tolliver to the house and drove straight over here. I’m sorry to spoil the celebrations, but I couldn’t see what else-’
‘It’s all right,’ Banks said, ‘you did fine.’ She hadn’t, but that was hardly her fault. She was new to the job and a murder report had cropped up. What should she have done? Well, she could have gone to check out the scene herself, and she might have found, as nine times out of ten one did, that there had been some mistake, or a prank. Or she might have waited for the PC to call in and let her know the situation before running off and dragging her chief inspector away from his ex-sergeant’s wedding celebration. But Banks didn’t blame her. She was young yet, she would learn, and if they really were dealing with a murder, the time saved by Susan’s direct action could prove invaluable.
‘I’ve got the address, sir.’ She stood there looking at him, keen, expectant. ‘It’s on Oakwood Mews. Number eleven.’
Banks sighed. ‘We’d better go then. Just give me a minute.’
He went back to the bar and explained the situation to Richmond. The music speeded up again, into the Supremes’ ‘Baby Love’, and Gristhorpe led Sandra back from the dance floor. When he heard the news, he insisted on accompanying Banks to the scene, even though it was by no means certain they would find a murder victim there. Richmond wanted to come along, too.
‘No, lad,’ said Gristhorpe, ‘there’s no point. If it’s serious, Alan can fill you in later. And don’t tell Sergeant Hatchley. I don’t want it spoiling his wedding day. Though judging by the look on young Carol’s face he might have already done that himself.’
‘Are you taking the car?’ Sandra asked Banks.
‘I’d better. Oakwood Mews is a fair distance from here. There’s no telling how long we’ll be. If there’s time, I’ll come back and pick you up. If not, don’t worry, Phil will take good care of you.’
‘Oh, I’m not worried.’ She slipped her arm in Richmond’s and the new detective sergeant blushed. ‘Phil’s a lovely mover.’
Banks kissed her quickly and set off with Gristhorpe.
Susan Gay stood waiting for them by the door. Before they got to her, one of Hatchley’s rugby club cronies lurched over and tried to kiss her. From behind, Banks saw him put his arms around her, then double up and stagger back. Everyone else was too busy dancing or chatting to notice. Susan looked flushed when Banks and Gristhorpe got there. She put her hand to her mouth and muttered, ‘I’m sorry,’ while the rugby player pointed, with a hurt expression on his face, to the sprig of mistletoe over the door.
THREE
It was no false alarm; that much, at least, was clear from the expression on PC Tolliver’s face when Banks and the others reached number eleven Oakwood Mews. After Gristhorpe had issued instructions to send for Dr Glendenning and the scene-of-crime team, the three detectives went inside.
The first thing Banks noticed when he entered the hall was the music. Muffled, coming from the front room, it sounded familiar: a Bach cantata, perhaps? Then he opened the living-room door and paused on the threshold. The scene possessed a picturesque quality, he felt, which even extended, at first, to masking the ugliness of the corpse on the sofa.
A log fire crackled in the hearth. Its flames tossed shadows on the sheepskin rug and over the stucco walls. The only other light came from two red candles on the polished oak table in the far corner, and from the Christmas tree lights in the window. Banks stepped into the room. The flames danced and the beautiful music played
