‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Barnes said. ‘And I don’t think you should joke about a matter as important as this. After all, poor Harry is dead. And you know damn well where I had to go last night. Mrs Gaskell is already a week overdue with her delivery and, frankly, I’m getting a bit worried.’
‘I suppose she can give you an alibi, then?’
‘Of course she can, should it ever come to that. Besides, what possible motive could I have for harming Harry?’
‘Oh, still waters run murky and deep,’ Barker replied, mimicking the doctor’s own style of speech.
At that moment, Teddy Hackett arrived, looking every inch the flamboyant entrepreneur. He was a vain dresser, always wearing a shirt with a monogram or an alligator embroidered on its top pocket, gold medallion and expensive designer jeans. He tried to look younger than he was, but his dark hair was receding fast at the temples and a flourishing beer belly hung over his belt, almost obscuring a hand-wrought silver buckle depicting a growling lion’s head.
It was well known around the village that when Hackett wasn’t making money or drinking with his cronies, he was living it up in nightclubs in Leeds, Darlington or Manchester, turning on the charm for any attractive young woman who came his way. He had certainly done well for himself – the garage, a couple of gift shops – and he kept a keen eye open for anything else that came on the market. He was the kind of businessman who, given free rein, would probably buy up the whole dale and turn it into a gigantic funfair.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said, easing into his chair with a brimming pint grasped in his fist. ‘What a turn-up for the book, hey?’
Barnes nodded and Barker stubbed out his cigarette.
‘Got any details?’ Hackett asked.
‘No more than anyone else, I should think,’ Barker replied. ‘I bet the doc’ll find out a thing or two after the autopsy.’
Barnes reddened with anger. ‘That’s enough, Jack,’ he snarled. ‘These things are confidential. It’ll be done in Eastvale General by the pathologist, Glendenning. They’re bloody lucky to have him up here. One of the best in the country, or so I’ve heard.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s at it already. Dead keen, they say.’ He faltered, catching the unintentional pun a moment after he’d let it out. ‘Anyway, you can be sure it’ll go no further.’
‘Like young Joanie Lomax’s recent dose of clap, eh?’
‘You’re going too far, Jack. I know you’re upset like the rest of us. Why can’t you admit it instead of behaving like some bloody actress waiting for opening night reviews?’
Barker shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
‘Has anyone been questioned yet?’ Hackett asked.
The other two shook their heads.
‘It’s just that I saw that detective fellow – I’m sure I recognize him from that photo in the local rag last autumn. He’s at the bar right now.’
They all looked over and saw Banks leaning against the bar, foot on the rail, apparently enjoying a quiet pint alone.
‘That’s him,’ Barker confirmed. ‘I saw him leaving Emma’s this morning. What are you so nervous about anyway, Teddy? You’ve got nothing to hide, have you?’
‘Nothing, no. But we were all here last night with him, weren’t we? I mean, they’re sure to want to question us. Why haven’t they done it yet?’
‘You left after Harry, as I remember,’ Barker said.
‘Yes. It was Saturday night, wasn’t it? Had to get up to Darly for Freddy’s new club opening. Bloody good night it was, too. There were some real corkers around, Jack. Why don’t you come along with me sometime? Handsome young bachelor like yourself ought to get around and about a bit more.’
‘Ah,’ Barker replied, shaking his head. ‘Better things to do with my time than chase scrubbers in a disco, mate. A writer’s life…’
‘Writer, my arse!’ Hackett said. ‘I could turn out that junk in my coffee break.’
Barker raised an eyebrow and grinned. ‘Maybe so, Teddy, but you don’t, do you? There’s the difference. Besides, I hear you’ve had to hire a secretary with a BA in English to translate your business letters for you.’
‘My English would hardly be a handicap if I was in your line of work. Anyway, there’s no room for fancy footwork in a business letter. You know that, Jack. Short and to the point.’
‘That’s what the reviewers said about my last book.’ Barker sighed. ‘Well, perhaps not in so many words.’
And even Doc Barnes had to laugh at that.
After that brief and traditional exchange the three of them fell silent, as if they knew that they had been talking and joking as usual just to fill the void of Harry’s absence, to pretend for as long as possible that nothing had changed, that nothing so brutal and final as murder had touched the cosy little group.
Barker volunteered to buy another round and went to stand next to Banks at the bar. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘but aren’t you the policeman investigating Harry Steadman’s death?’ When Banks nodded, Barker stuck out his hand. ‘Jack Barker. I’m a friend of his.’
Banks offered his condolences.
‘Look,’ Barker went on, ‘we were wondering – I mean, we were all pals of Harry’s and we spent a good deal of yesterday evening with him – would you care to join us in the snug? It’ll be a sight more comfortable and convenient than hauling us all in to the station individually for questioning.’
Banks laughed and accepted the offer. ‘I reserve the right to haul you in if I want to, though,’ he added, only half in jest.
Banks had been intending to drop in on them all along. He had been imitating the vampire, who will not enter his victim’s room until invited, and was pleased that his little trick had worked. Perhaps there was something in Gristhorpe’s advice after all. Curiosity had got the better of them.
Barker looked happy enough to be bringing him back in tow, but the other two appeared uneasy. Banks, however, was experienced enough not to read too much into their reaction. He knew what discomfort the arrival of the police always caused. Even the most innocent of men and women begin to worry about that forgotten parking ticket or the little income tax fiddle as soon as a copper comes in range.
A tense silence followed the introductions, and Banks wondered if they expected him to begin a formal interrogation, notebook in hand. Instead, he began to fill his pipe, glancing at them in turn as he did so. Barker looked suave in a forties film star kind of way, and Barnes was a little balding grey man with glasses. He had the shabby look of a backstreet abortionist about him, Banks thought. Finally, Hackett, the flashy one, started to chat nervously.
‘We were just talking about Harry,’ he said. ‘Sad business. Can’t think who’d want to do such a thing.’
‘Is that what you all think?’ Banks asked, keeping his eyes on the pipe.
They all murmured their agreement. Hackett lit an American cigarette and went on: ‘It’s like this. Harry might have been a bit of a dotty professor type, and I don’t deny we teased him a bit, but it was all in good humour. He was a fine man, good-tempered, even-natured. He had a sharp mind – and a tongue to match when it came to it – but he was a good man; he never hurt a soul, and I can’t think why anyone would want to kill him.’
‘Somebody obviously felt differently,’ Banks said. ‘I hear he inherited a lot of money.’
‘Over a quarter of a million. His father was an inventor. Patented some electronic device and opened a factory. Did very well. I suppose the wife’ll get it now?’
‘That’s how it usually goes. What’s your opinion of Mrs Steadman?’
‘I can’t say I really know her well,’ Hackett answered. ‘She only came down here occasionally. Seems a good woman. Harry never complained, anyway.’
Barnes agreed.
‘I’m afraid I can’t add anything,’ Barker said. ‘I know her slightly better than the others – we were, after all, practically neighbours up in Gratly – but she seems unremarkable enough to me. Not much interested in Harry’s work. Stays in the background mostly. But she’s not stupid – and she knows how to cook a good dinner.’
Banks noticed Barker look over his shoulder at the bar and turned to see what the attraction was. He was just in time to see a young woman with glossy black hair down to her waist. She wore a blue shawl over a white
