their balls off up north when they could have been lounging around in the sun on the seven hills drinking vino and rogering the local tarts. And as for the bloody Industrial Revolution, it was nothing but exploitation – hard, harsh work for most people. No, Chief Inspector, Harry hadn’t a bloody clue about the past, for all his degrees.’
‘Maybe you should move somewhere else,’ Banks suggested. ‘I doubt they care much for local history in Wigan, for example, or Huddersfield.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ Hackett said. ‘It’s all over the bloody place. They call it civic pride. They’re even flogging Bradford as the “gateway to Bronte country” now – and if they can get away with that they can do anything. Besides, I like it here. Don’t think just because I’m a businessman I lack a finer appreciation of nature. I’m as much for the environment as the next man.’
‘What were you doing on Saturday night?’ Banks asked, renewing the attack on his pipe with a cleaner.
Hackett scratched his receding hairline. ‘After I left the Bridge I went to a new club in Darlington. I drove up there, had a couple of drinks in a local, then went on to the club. I know the owner, like. We’ve done a bit of business together.’
‘So you left the Bridge at what time?’
‘About half nine.’
‘And drove straight to Darlington?’
‘Well, not exactly. I went home first to get changed.’
‘What time did you leave for Darlington?’
‘About ten to ten.’
‘And arrived?’
‘About half past, twenty to eleven.’
‘And you went to the club when?’
‘Half eleven, quarter to twelve.’
‘What’s it called?’
‘The KitKat Klub. Only been open a few weeks. It’s a sort of disco place, but not too loud. Caters for the more mature crowd.’
‘I suppose you knew people there, people who can corroborate your story?’
‘I talked to a few people, yes. And there’s Andy Shaw, the owner.’
Banks took down the details, including the name of the pub, and noticed how anxious Hackett looked throughout the process.
‘Anything else you can tell us, Mr Hackett?’
Hackett chewed on his lower lip and frowned. ‘No, nothing.’
‘Right then, off you go,’ Banks said. He stood up and walked over to open the door.
As soon as Hackett was out of the building, Banks called Sergeant Hatchley in and asked if he’d found anything in his search of Steadman’s study.
‘Nowt much of interest, no,’ Hatchley said. ‘A few manuscripts, letters to historical preservation societies – they’re on my desk if you want to look at them.’
‘Later.’
‘And he had one of those fancy computers – a word processor. I suppose he had to spend his brass on something. Remember how much wheeling and dealing it took us to get central admin to let us have one downstairs?’
Banks nodded.
‘And now they send bloody Richmond off t’ seaside to learn how to use the bugger.’ Hatchley shook his head slowly and left the office.
FIVE
It was about six thirty, after what passed for rush hour in that part of the country, when Banks pulled into Helmthorpe’s main car park. He had attended the brief inquest, given the press a snippet or two of information, and managed a quick dinner at home with Sandra and the kids.
Penny Cartwright was washing up the dinner dishes and enjoying the play of evening sunlight as it reflected from the shiny surfaces and skittered about the walls. When she heard a knock at the front door she quickly wiped her hands on her apron and went to answer it. She knew immediately that the dark-haired wiry man standing there was the policeman Barker had told her about. She hadn’t expected him to be so good-looking, though, and immediately felt unattractive in her apron with her hair tied back in a long ponytail.
‘You’d better come in,’ she said. ‘We wouldn’t want to give the neighbours too much to talk about.’ She pointed him to a worn armchair and slipped into the kitchen, where she quickly divested herself of the stained apron, untied her hair and brushed it swiftly so that it fell around her face and spilled over her shoulders.
If Banks was struck by the abrupt casual manner of his hostess, he was also struck by her beauty. She looked good in close-fitting jeans, and her striking hair framed a proud, high-cheekboned face without a trace of make-up. The combination of jet-black hair and sharp blue eyes added to the stunning effect.
Penny sat in a straight-backed chair by a writing table and asked Banks what she could do for him.
He began casually, trying to establish a friendly tone: ‘Maybe nothing, Miss Cartwright. I’m just talking to Mr Steadman’s friends, trying to get some idea of what he was like.’
‘Do you really need to know?’ Penny asked. ‘I mean, do you care?’
‘Perhaps not in the way that you do,’ Banks admitted. ‘After all, I didn’t know him. But it might help me to find out who killed him. And I care about that. Obviously somebody did, but all I’ve heard so far is how wonderful he was – the kind of man who didn’t have an enemy in the whole wide world.’
‘What makes you think you’ll get anything different out of me?’ Penny asked. Her lips curved slightly in a mocking smile.
‘Just fishing.’
‘Well, you won’t catch anything, Inspector. Not from me. It’s all absolutely true. I can’t imagine for the life of me who’d want to do a thing like that to him.’
Banks sighed. It was going to be a difficult evening. ‘Fortunately, Miss Cartwright,’ he said, ‘it’s not your life we’re concerned about, it’s Mr Steadman’s. And somebody brought that to an abrupt and cruel end. Do you know anything about his business affairs?’
‘Do you mean that fuss over Crabtree’s Field? Really, Inspector, does Teddy Hackett strike you as the murdering kind? He wouldn’t have the guts to kill a worm if his life depended on it. He might be a ruthless businessman – though the competition around here isn’t much cop and, if you ask me, he’s got by more on good luck than good management – but a killer? Hackett? Never.’
‘Stranger things have happened.’
‘Oh, I know. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,”’ she quoted.
‘It might not be a serious possibility,’ Banks went on, ‘but it’s the only one we’ve got so far.’
‘Typical bloody police, that is,’ Penny mocked. ‘Crucify the first poor bastard that comes out less than squeaky clean. Still,’ she added, ‘Hackett’s no great loss to society. Not like Harry.’
‘How long had you known Mr Steadman?’ Banks asked.
‘Depends on what you mean by “know”.’ Penny lit a long filter cigarette and went on. ‘I first met him years ago when I was a teenager and he and Emma came up to Gratly for their holidays. They’d been two or three times before I got to know them through Michael. That’s Michael Ramsden. They stayed at his parents’ bed-and- breakfast place, the house they live in now. I was about sixteen, and Michael and I were sweethearts at that time, so, naturally, I saw them quite often.’
Banks nodded and sucked on his pipe. That archaic word ‘sweethearts’ sounded wonderfully erotic coming from Penny’s lips. It seemed unselfconscious, at odds with her tight and aggressive manner.
‘We went on walks together,’ she continued. ‘Harry knew a lot about the countryside and its history. That was his real love. And then… well. It was a beautiful summer, but it passed, as all summers do.’
‘Ah, yes. “But where are the snows of yesteryear?” ’ Banks quoted back at her.
