objections to Richmond’s absence: in the first place, the sergeant had often said that he thought education was about as useful as a rubber with a hole in it; and secondly, even more serious, with Detective Constable Richmond away, Hatchley would have to do most of the legwork on the Steadman case himself.
‘I checked on Doc Barnes’s alibi this morning, like you asked,’ Hatchley said, reaching for his teacake.
‘And?’
‘It’s true – he was there with that Mrs Gaskell, all right. Seems she’s having a difficult pregnancy.’
‘What times?’
‘Arrived about nine thirty, according to the husband, and left at ten fifteen.’
‘So he could still have easily killed Steadman first and stuffed him in the boot of his car, or done it later.’
‘No motive,’ Hatchley said.
‘Not that we know of yet. What’s that?’ Banks pointed at the folder.
‘Gen on Steadman,’ Hatchley mumbled, his mouth half full of toasted teacake.
Banks browsed through the report as he ate. Steadman had been born in Coventry almost forty-three years ago, at a time when his father was busy setting up his electronics business. Educated at a local grammar school, he won a scholarship to Cambridge, where he got a first in history. After that, he did postgraduate work at Birmingham and Edinburgh, then landed a teaching job at Leeds University at the age of twenty-six. There he began to develop and pursue his interest in industrial archaeology, a new field then, and in local history. In his first year of teaching, two important things happened. First, just before Christmas that year his mother died, and second, at the end of the final term he married Emma Hartley, whom he had known for two years. Emma was the only daughter of a Norwich shopkeeper, and she had been working as a librarian in Edinburgh when Steadman was studying there. She was five years younger than her husband. They had no children.
The couple honeymooned in Gratly, staying at the house they now owned. Hatchley had put an asterisk by this piece of information, and when Banks turned to the note at the bottom of the page, it read: ‘Check with Ramsden. The house belonged to his parents.’ Banks knew this already, but he praised Hatchley’s thoroughness; it was so unusual it deserved encouragement.
As Steadman’s career continued to flourish – publications, praise, promotion – his father’s health steadily declined. When the old man had finally died two years ago, the son inherited a considerable fortune. He first took his wife on a European tour, then, after seeing out the university year, he bought the house in Gratly, left his job and began to concentrate on his own interests.
‘What do you make of it?’ Banks asked Hatchley, who had finished eating and was now picking his teeth with his fingernails.
‘Well, what would you do with all that money?’ the sergeant said. ‘I’m damned if I’d buy a house around here and spend all my time poking about ruins.’
‘You think it was foolish of him?’
‘Not much of a life, is it?’
‘But it’s what he wanted: independence to pursue his own studies.’
Hatchley shrugged as if there were no answer to such a silly statement. ‘You asked what I’d do.’
‘But you didn’t tell me.’
Hatchley slurped down the last of his coffee; it was syrupy at the bottom with undissolved sugar. ‘I reckon I’d make a few choice investments first. Just enough so I could live comfortably off the interest, like. Nothing risky. Then I’d take a few thousand and have a bloody good holiday.’
‘Where?’
‘Everywhere. Fleshpots of the world.’
Banks smiled. ‘And then?’
‘Then I’d come back and live off the interest.’
‘But what would you do?’
‘Do? Nowt much. Bit of this, bit of that. Might even go and live in Spain or the south of France. Or maybe one of those tax havens like Bermuda.’
‘You’d leave your job then?’
Hatchley looked at Banks as if he was insane. ‘Leave my job? Course I’d leave my job. Wouldn’t anyone?’
‘I suppose so.’ But Banks wasn’t sure what he would do himself. A holiday, yes. But afterwards? To him, Steadman had made an admirable choice; he had extricated himself from the pedestrian and stultifying elements of his work and turned to concentrate on its essence. Perhaps I’d set myself up like Sherlock Holmes – a dalesman, himself – Banks thought, if I suddenly found myself with a private income. Take only the most interesting cases… wear a deerstalker.
‘Come on,’ he said, shaking off the fantasy. ‘It’ll be a cold day in hell before you and I have to worry about problems like that.’
When Banks got back to his office, he found Emma Steadman waiting for him. She had just been to identify her husband’s body and was still distraught. There was little expression in her pale face, but the owlish eyes magnified by the lenses of her spectacles showed traces of recent tears. She sat upright on the hard chair, her hands clasped together on her lap.
‘I won’t keep you long,’ Banks said as he took his seat opposite her and started filling his pipe. ‘First, I’d like to know if your husband had any enemies. Is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to do him harm?’
‘No,’ she answered quickly. ‘Not that I can think of. Harold wasn’t the kind of man who made enemies.’
Banks decided not to point out the lack of reason in that statement; the bereaved relatives of murder victims frequently assumed that there could be no possible motive for the crime.
‘Was there anybody he argued with, then? Even a slight disagreement? It could be important.’
She shook her head, frowning. ‘No, I told you. He wasn’t… Just a minute. There was something. I don’t know how important it was though.’
‘Tell me.’
‘He had complained a bit about Teddy Hackett recently.’
‘Hackett? When was this?’
‘About a week ago. They were friends really, I know, but they had some kind of ongoing feud about land. Oh, I suppose it was just silly. Men often are, you know. Just like little boys. Anyway, I’m afraid I don’t know all the details. You’ll have to ask Mr Hackett.’
‘Do you have any idea what it was about?’
Mrs Steadman frowned again, this time in concentration. ‘I think it might have been something to do with Crabtree’s Field. That’s just a bit of overgrown land by the river. Harold was certain he’d located some Roman ruins there – he had some coins and bits of pottery he said were evidence – but Teddy Hackett was trying to buy the land.’
‘Why? What did he want with it?’
‘Knowing Hackett, it would be some vulgar project for making money. I don’t know exactly what he had in mind – a discotheque perhaps, or a fairground, video arcade, supermarket…’
‘Let me get this clear.’ Banks said, leaning forward. ‘What you’re saying is that Hackett wanted some land for development and your husband was trying to get it preserved as a historic site? Is that right?’
‘Yes. It wasn’t the first time, either. Last year, Harold wanted to start a small local museum in a shopfront on High Street, but Hackett bought the place up quickly and turned it into a gift shop. They argued about that, too. Harold was too trusting, too… nice. He wasn’t aggressive enough.’
‘There’s no one else you can think of? What about Dr Barnes? Did your husband ever say anything about him?’
‘Like what?’
‘Anything.’
‘No.’
‘Jack Barker?’
‘No. He thought Jack Barker was a bit of a cynic, a bit too flippant, but that’s all.’
‘What about visitors to the house? Did you have many?’
