“Yes, sir.”
“I need another drink,” Burgess said.
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Sergeant Hatchley volunteered to go for a round. The Queen’s Arms was busy.
Wednesday was farmers’ market day in Eastvale, and the whole town bustled with buyers and sellers. Glenys was too busy to exchange glances with Burgess even if she wanted to.
Burgess turned to Banks. “And I’m still not happy about Osmond. He’s on file, too, and I got the distinct impression he’s been lying every time I’ve talked to him.”
Banks agreed.
“We’ll have another go at him,” said Burgess. “You can come with me again. Who knows, that bird of his might be there. If I put a bit of pressure on her, he might appeal to you for help and let something slip.”
Banks reached for a cigarette to mask his anger. The last thing he felt like was facing Osmond and Jenny together again. But in a way Burgess was right. They were looking for a cop killer, and they needed results. As each day went by, the media outcry became more strident.
When PC Craig came in and walked over to their table, he seemed unsure whom to address. After looking first to Banks and then to Burgess, like a spectator following the ball at Wimbledon, he settled on Banks.
“We’ve just had a call, sir, from Relton. There’s a bloke in the pub there says he’s found a knife. I just thought… you know … it might be the one we’re looking for.”
“What are we waiting for?” Burgess jumped to his feet so quickly he knocked the table and spilt the rest of his beer. He pointed at Hatchley and Richmond. “You two get back to the station and wait till you hear from us.”
They picked up Banks’s white Cortina from the lot behind the police station.
Market Street and the square were so busy that Banks took the back streets to the main Swainsdale road.
Automatically, he reached forward and slipped a cassette into the player. “Do you mind?” he asked Burgess, turning the volume down. “Hello Central” came on.
“No. That’s Lightning Hopkins, isn’t it? I quite like blues 131
myself. I enjoyed that Billie Holiday the other day, too.” He leaned back in the seat and lit a cigar from the dashboard lighter. “My father bunked with a squadron of Yanks in the last war. Got quite interested in jazz and blues. Of course, you couldn’t get much of the real stuff over here at that time, but after the war he kept in touch and the Yanks used to send him seventy-eights. I grew up on that kind .of music and it just seemed to stick.”I Banks drove fast but kept an eye open for walkers on the verges. Even in March, the backpack brigade often took to the hills. As they approached Fortford, Burgess looked out at the river-meadows. “Very nice,” he said. “Wouldn’t be a bad place to retire to if it wasn’t for the bloody weather.”
They turned sharp left in Fortford, followed the unfenced minor road up the daleside to Relton and parked outside the pub. Banks had been to the Black Sheep before; it was famous in the dale because the landlord brewed his own beer on the premises, and you couldn’t get it anywhere else. Black Sheep bitter had won prizes in national competitions.
If beer wasn’t the first thing on Banks’s mind when they entered, he certainly couldn’t refuse the landlord’s offer of a pint. Burgess declined the local brew and asked for a pint of Watney’s.
Banks knew there were shepherds in the area, but they were an elusive breed, and he’d never seen one before. Farmers who tended their own sheep were common enough, but on the south Swainsdale commons, they banded together to hire three shepherds. Most of the sheep were heughed; they grew up on the farms and never strayed far. But not all of them; winter was a hard time, and many animals got buried under drifts. The shepherds know the moors, every gully and sink-hole, better than anyone else, and to them, sheep are as different from one another as people.
Jack Crocker’s face had as many lines as a tough teacher gives out in a week, and its texture looked as hard as tanned leather. He had a misshapen blob of a nose, and his eyes were so deeply hooded they looked as if they had been perpetually
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screwed up against the wind. His cloth cap and old, flapping greatcoat set the final touches. His crook, a long hazel shaft with a metal hook, leaned against the wall.
“Christ,” Banks heard Burgess mutter behind him. “A bloody shepherd!”
“I don’t mind if I do,” Crocker said, accepting a drink. “I were just fetching some ewes in for lambing, like, and I kicked that there knife.” He placed the knife on the table. It was a flick-knife with a five-inch blade and a worn bone handle. “I didn’t touch it, tha knows,” he went on, putting a surprisingly smooth and slender forefinger to the side of his nose. “I’ve seen telly.”
“How did you pick it up?” Burgess asked. Banks noticed that his tone was respectful, not hectoring as usual. Maybe he had a soft spot for shepherds.
“Like this.” Crocker held the ends of the handle between thumb and second finger. He really did have beautiful hands, Banks noticed, the kind you’d picture on a concert pianist.
Burgess nodded and took a sip of his Watney’s. “Good. You did the right thing, Mr Crocker.” Banks took an envelope from his pocket, dropped the knife in, and sealed it.
“Is it fright one, then? T’one as killed that bobby?”
“We can’t say yet,” Banks told him. “We’ll have to get some tests done. But if it is, you’ve done us a great service.”
“T’weren’t owt. It’s not as if I were looking fer it.” Crocker looked away, embarrassed, and raised his pint to his lips. Banks offered him a cigarette.
“Nay, lad,” he said. “In my job you need all t’breath you can muster.”
