Seth’s financial affairs, such as they were: he had a savings account at L2343.64, and a current account, which stood at L421.33.
It was after three-thirty when he got back to the station, and there was a message from Vic Manson to the effect that, yes, fibres matching those from the duster had been found on the typewriter keys. But, Manson had added with typical forensic caution, there was no way of proving whether the machine had been wiped before or after the message had been typed. The pressure of fingers on the keys often blurs prints.
Banks’s brief chat with Burgess over lunch had revealed nothing new, either.
Dirty Dick had seen Osmond and got nowhere with him. Early in the afternoon he was off to see Tim and Abha, and he was quite happy to leave Mara Delacey to Banks. As far as Burgess was concerned, it was all over bar the shouting, but he wanted more evidence to implicate Boyd or Cotton with extremist politics. Most of the time he’d had his eye on Glenys, and he’d kept reminding Banks that it was her night off that night. Cyril, fortunately, had been nowhere in sight.
Banks left a message for Burgess at the front desk summarizing what Lawrence Courtney had said about Seth’s will. Then he called Sergeant Hatchley, as Richmond was busy on another matter, to accompany him and to bring along the fingerprinting kit. He slipped the Muddy Waters cassette from his Walkman and hurried out to the car with it, a huffing and puffing Hatchley in tow. It was time to see if Mara Delacey was ready to talk.
“What do you think of Superintendent Burgess?” Banks asked Hatchley on the way.
They hadn’t really had a chance to talk much over the past few days.
“Off the record?”
“Yes.”
“Well…” Hatchley rubbed his face with a hamlike hand. “He seemed all right at first. Bit of zip about him. You know, get up and go. But I’d have thought a whiz-kid like him would have got a bit further by now.”
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“None of us have got any further,” Banks said. “What do you mean? The man’s only flesh and blood after all.”
“I suppose that’s it. He dazzles you a bit at first, then …”
“Don’t underestimate him,” Banks said. “He’s out of his element up here. He’s getting frustrated because we don’t have raving anarchists crawling out of every nook and cranny in the town.”
“Aye,” said Hatchley. “And you thought I was right wing.”
“You are.”
Hatchley grunted.
“When we get to the farm, I want you to have a look in Seth’s filing cabinet in the workshop,” Banks went on, pulling onto the Roman road, “and see if you can find more samples of his typing. And I’d like you to fingerprint everyone. Ask for their consent, and tell them we can get a magistrate’s order if they refuse.
Also make sure you tell them that the prints will be destroyed if no charges are brought.” Banks paused and scratched the edge of his scar. “I’d like to have them all type a few lines on Seth’s typewriter, too, but we’ll have to wait till it comes back from forensic. All clear?”
“Fine,” Hatchley said.
Zoe answered the door, looking tired and drawn.
“Mara’s not here,” she said in response to Banks’s question, opening the door only an inch or two.
“I thought she was under sedation.”
“That was last night. She had a good long sleep. She said she felt like going to the shop to work on some pots, and the doctor agreed it might be good therapy.
Elspeth’s there in case … just in case.”
“I’ll go down to the village, then,” Banks said to Hatchley. “You’ll have to manage up here. Will you let the sergeant in, Zoe?”
Zoe sighed and opened the door.
“Are you coming back up?” Hatchley asked.
Banks looked at his watch. “Why not meet in the Black Sheep?”
Hatchley smiled at the prospect of a pint of Black Sheep bitter, then his face fell. “How do I get there?”
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“Walk.”
“Walk?”
“Yes. It’s just a mile down the track. Do you good. Give you a thirst.”
Hatchley wasn’t convinced-he had never had any problems working up a thirst without exercise before-but Banks left him to his fate and drove down to Relton.
Mara was in the back bent over her wheel, gently turning the lip of a vase.
Elspeth led him through, muttered, “A policeman to see you,” with barely controlled distaste, then went back into the shop itself.
Mara glanced up. “Let me finish,” she said. “If I stop now, I’ll ruin it.” Banks leaned against the doorway and kept quiet. The room smelled of wet clay. It was also hot. The kiln in the back generated a lot of heat. Mara’s long brown hair was tied back, accentuating the sharpness of her nose and chin as she concentrated. Her white smock
