Crocker nodded curtly and set off further up the slope, walking just as quickly and effortlessly as if he were on the
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flat. At least, Banks thought, turning around, it would be easier going down.
But before he had even completed the thought, he caught his foot in a patch of heather and fell face forward. He cursed, brushed himself off and” carried on.
Fortunately, Crocker had been going the other way and hadn’t seen his little accident, otherwise it would have been the talk of the dale by evening.
He got back over the stile without further incident and nipped into the Black Sheep for another quick pint and a warm-up. There was nothing he could do now but wait for Burgess to finish at the lab. Even then, there might be no results.
But a nice set of sweaty fingerprints on a smooth surface could survive the most terrible weather conditions, and Banks thought he had glimpsed flecks of dried blood in the joint between blade and handle.
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I
A sudden, heavy shower drove the merchants from the market square. It was almost time to pack up and leave anyway; market days in winter and early spring were often cold and miserable affairs. But the rain stopped as quickly as it started, and in no time the sun was out again. Wet cobblestones reflected the muted bronze light, which slid into the small puddles and danced as the wind ruffled them.
The gold hands on the blue face of the church clock stood at four-twenty.
Burgess hadn’t returned from the lab yet. Banks sat waiting by his window, the awkward Venetian blind drawn up, and looked down on the scene as he smoked and drank black coffee. People crossed the square and splashed through the puddles that had gathered where cobbles had been worn or broken away. Everyone wore grey plastic macs or brightly coloured slickers, as if they didn’t trust the sun to stay out, and many carried umbrellas. It would soon be dark. Already the sun cast the long shadow of the Tudor-fronted police headquarters over the square.
At a quarter to five, Banks heard a flurry of activity outside his office, and Burgess bounded in carrying a buff folder.
“They came through,” he said. “Took them long enough, but they did it-a clear set of prints and a match with Gill’s blood type. No doubt about it, that was the knife. I’ve
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already got DC Richmond running a check on the prints. If they’re on record we’re in business.”
He lit a Tom Thumb and smoked, tapping it frequently on the edge of the ashtray whether or not a column of ash had built up. Banks went back to the window. The shadow had lengthened; across the square, secretaries and clerks on their way home dropped in at Joplin’s newsagent’s for their evening papers, and young couples walked hand in hand into the El Toro coffee bar to tell one another about the ups and downs of their day at the office.
When Richmond knocked and entered, Burgess jumped to his feet. “Well?”
Richmond stroked his moustache. He could barely keep the grin of triumph from his face. “It’s Boyd,” he said, holding out the charts. “Paul Boyd. Eighteen points of comparison. Enough to stand up in court.”
Burgess clapped his hands. “Right! Just as I thought. Let’s go. You might as well come along, Constable. Where’s Sergeant Hatchley?”
“I don’t know, sir. I think he’s still checking some of the witness reports.”
“Never mind. Three’s enough. Let’s bring Boyd in for a chat.”
They piled into Banks’s Cortina and headed for Maggie’s Farm. Banks played no music this time; the three of them sat in tense silence as the river-meadows rolled by, eerie in the misty twilight. Gravel popped under the wheels as they approached the farm, and the front curtain twitched when they drew up outside the building.
Mara Delacey opened the door before Burgess had finished knocking. “What do you want this time?” she asked angrily, but stood aside to let them in. They followed her through to the kitchen, where the others sat at the table eating dinner. Mara went back to her half-finished meal. Julian and Luna shifted closer to her.
“How convenient,” Burgess said, leaning against the humming refrigerator.
“You’re all here together, except one. We’re looking for Paul Boyd. Is he around?”
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Seth shook his head. “No. I’ve no idea where he is.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Last night, I suppose. I’ve been out most of the day. He wasn’t here when I came back.”
Burgess looked at Mara. Nobody said anything. “One of you must know where he is.
What’s it to be-now or down at the station?”
Still silence.
Burgess walked forward to pat Julian on the head, but the boy pulled a face and buried his head in Rick’s side. “It’d be a shame,” Burgess said, “if things got so that you couldn’t look after the kids here and they had to be taken away.”
“You’d never dare!” Mara said, her face flushed. “Even you can’t be as much of a bastard as that.”
Burgess raised his left eyebrow. “Can’t I, love? Are you sure you want to find out? Where’s Boyd?”
Rick got to his feet. He was as tall as Burgess and a good thirty pounds heavier. “Pick on someone your own
