THREE
Further up the hillside, Penny paused as she stood on a stile and looked back on the dale she loved spread out below her. There was the church by her cottage. High Street and the whitewashed frontage of the Dog and Gun. On the other side of the river, past the cricket pitch and Crabtree’s Field, the commons sloped up, rougher and rougher, to Crow Scar, which that day was almost too bright to look at.
But she couldn’t gaze long without thinking of Harry, for he was the one who had shown her Swainsdale’s secrets, given it depth and life beyond its superficial beauties. And now she fancied she could see the collapsed section of Tavistock’s wall. The stones that had been used to cover Harry’s body seemed darker than the rest.
Looking back the way she had come, Penny saw the two young lovers fuse in a tight embrace on the grass. She smiled sadly. When she’d first approached them, she had noticed how flustered and embarrassed they had looked.
Again she thought of Harry. Suddenly, the memory of a picnic they’d had ten years ago came into her mind. It must have been on the exact spot where Sally and Kevin were lying. She remembered the view of the village clearly, and they had been near a small copse, as Emma had sat in the shade, knitting. The more she concentrated on it, the more details came back. It was just around the time when she and Michael had started drifting apart. He had been reading Shelley’s poetry. Penny could even remember the scuffed brown leather of the book’s cover; it was a second-hand edition she’d bought him for his birthday. She and Harry had spread the red checked cloth on the grass and started to unload the hamper. Somehow, their hands had touched by accident. Penny remembered blushing, and Harry had busied himself looking for the corkscrew. It was for the Chablis. Yes, they had drunk Chablis, a good vintage, that day, and now, ten years later, she felt the crisp flinty taste of the cool wine on her tongue again.
The picture faded as quickly as it had come. How innocent it had all been, how bloody innocent! Wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, she jumped down from the stile and strode sharply on.
FOUR
Hackett had already been waiting an hour when Banks got back from York, and he was not at all amused.
‘Look here,’ he protested, as Banks led him upstairs to the office. ‘You can’t do this to me. You can’t just drag me in like this without an explanation. I’ve got a business to run. I told you everything last night.’
‘You told me nothing last night.’ Banks took off his jacket and hung it on the back of the door. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Make yourself at home.’
The room was stuffy, so Banks reopened the window and the smells of Market Street wafted up: exhaust fumes, fresh-baked bread, something sweet and sickly from the chocolate shop. Hackett sat rigidly in his chair and lapsed into a tense affronted silence.
‘There’s nothing to get excited about,’ Banks told him, taking out his pipe and fiddling with it over the waste-paper basket.
‘Then why did your sergeant kidnap me like that and rush me over here, eh? I want my lawyer.’
‘Oh, do relax, Mr Hackett! There’s really no need for melodrama. You’ve been watching far too many American films on television. I’ve not brought you here to lay charges or anything like that. I’m sorry if Sergeant Hatchley seemed a little brusque – it’s just his manner. I’ve got a few questions to ask you, that’s all.’ He gave Hackett a sharp glance. ‘Just one or two little things we’d like to get cleared up.’
‘Why pick on me? What about Jack, or the doc?’
‘Do you know of any reason they might have had for killing Mr Steadman?’
‘Well, no, I didn’t mean to imply that. It’s just that…’
‘Did he ever say anything about them to you, give you any reason to think one of them might want him out of the way?’
‘No. That’s not what I meant, anyway. I’m not trying to put the blame on someone else. I just want to know why you picked on me to haul in like this.’
‘Crabtree’s Field.’ Banks picked up his pipe and reached for the matches.
Hackett sighed. ‘So that’s it. Someone’s been telling tales. I should have known you’d have found out before long.’
Banks lit his pipe and gazed at the ceiling. Some old juices trickled down the stem and caught in his throat; he coughed and pulled a face.
Hackett looked at him angrily. ‘You don’t give a damn, do you? Anyway, it’s nobody’s bloody business-’
‘It’s police business now, Mr Hackett,’ Banks interrupted. He put his pipe aside and drained the cold coffee left in his mug. ‘If it’s all the same to you, the sooner we get it cleared up, the better.’
Hackett shuffled in his chair and smoothed his droopy moustache. ‘It was nothing,’ he said. ‘Just a minor disagreement over an acre or two of land, that’s all.’
‘Countries have been invaded for less,’ Banks remarked, and went on to give Hackett the details as he had heard them.
‘Yes,’ Hackett agreed, ‘that’s more or less it. But I wouldn’t kill anyone for that, let alone a close friend like Harry. Even if he did want to wrap up the whole bloody dale and give it to the National Trust, I liked the man. I respected his principles, even though they weren’t the same as mine.’
‘But you did argue about the field?’ Banks persisted.
‘We argued about it, yes. But it was half in fun. The others will tell you. Harry liked a good argument as well as the next man. It wasn’t that important.’
‘Money is always important, Mr Hackett. How much did you expect to make from the land if you got it?’
‘That’s impossible to say. I wouldn’t stand to make anything for ages, of course. I’d be out of pocket, in fact. There’s the purchase price, construction, publicity… It could have been years before I started showing a profit.’
‘So you were only in it for the fun?’
‘Not only that, no. I mean, I like business. It’s a way of life that suits me. I like doing deals. I like building things up. But of course I wouldn’t put out good money if I didn’t think the eventual returns would be substantial.’
‘Can we agree,’ Banks asked, ‘that you did hope at some point to make a considerable amount from your investment?’
‘Hell, yes. Eventually.’
‘And now?’
‘What about now? I don’t understand.’
‘Oh, come on, Mr Hackett. Don’t play the innocent. The pitch is clear now, isn’t it? The field’s yours.’
Hackett laughed and relaxed in his chair. ‘That’s just where you’re wrong, I’m afraid. You see, I think Harry pulled it off. At least there’s a freeze on the place right now. I suppose young Ramsden will carry on his master’s work and wrap it up. A bloody Roman camp! I ask you! What’s there but a few broken pots and stones? No wonder the bloody economy’s in the state it’s in. No room for initiative anymore.’
‘Oh,’ said Banks, feigning surprise, ‘I thought our government wanted to encourage small businesses.’
Hackett glared at him; whether for the slight about his fiscal proportions or for picking up a throwaway comment, Banks wasn’t quite sure. ‘You know what I mean, Chief Inspector. We’re hamstrung by these historical societies and tourist boards. They’re all a load of bloody romantics as far as I can see. It’s all a myth. The past wasn’t like that; it wasn’t neat and tidy like they all seem to think, for Christ’s sake. Life was nasty, brutish and short, as the man said. Just because I never went to university, it doesn’t make me an ignoramus, you know. I’ve read books, too. If you ask me, Harry walked around seeing the past through rose-coloured glasses. Penny Cartwright, too. In reality, life must have been bloody misery back then. Imagine them poor Roman sods freezing
