flashed, ‘I don’t think I owe the police any bloody favours.’
‘That’s not the point. I don’t care about your personal feelings towards the police. What was important was the time. If nothing else, your information could help us pinpoint the time of the murder. When did he leave?’
‘About ten.’
‘Did he say where he was going?’
‘I assumed he was going to York. He’d mentioned it.’
‘But he didn’t mention any other calls he wanted to make first, any errands to run?’
‘No.’
It was another hour accounted for, anyway. Banks had nothing more to say; his session with Penny had exhausted him. She seemed irritated and the tension grew between them again, as tangible as a tightening hacksaw blade. Finally, Penny broke it.
‘Look,’ she began, ‘I’m sorry, I really am. I do care about Harry. The thing is that in my life involvement with the police has always meant trouble. I’ve never been involved in a murder investigation before, so I don’t know what matters and what doesn’t. When you’re a musician, young, in with a certain crowd, you get a very warped view of authority – police, customs men, immigration officials, security guards – they all seem against you; they’re all such a royal pain in the arse.’
Banks couldn’t help but grin. ‘Drugs?’ he asked.
Penny nodded. ‘Not me. I was never into it. Not in a heavy way. But you know how it is in London. There’s drugs all around you, whether you take them or not. Sure, I smoked a joint or two, maybe took some amphetamines to keep me awake on tour, but never the heavy stuff. Try and tell the drug squad that.’
Banks wanted to argue, to defend the police, but he was too tired and he knew there would be no point anyway. Besides, he also knew that the police were just like everyone else; a lot were bastards and a few weren’t. He had known a high-ranking officer in the drug squad who routinely planted illegal substances on people he wanted out of the way, and that was by no means rare or unusual behaviour. Also, he smelled something familiar in the air of Penny’s cottage. He knew what it was, but he didn’t care to pursue the matter any more than he wanted to tell her that his full title was Chief Inspector. People often got it wrong.
He stood up, and Penny walked to the door with him. He felt that she was seeking some kind words of reassurance from him, some forgiveness for acting in a way contrary to her feelings for Steadman. But he didn’t know how to give it. At the door he said, ‘I hear you sing, Miss Cartwright?’
‘Actually, it’s Ms,’ Penny corrected him, a playful smile lighting her eyes. ‘Yes, I sing.’
‘Locally?’
‘Sometimes. I’m at the Dog and Gun this Friday and Saturday. Competing with the disco in the Hare and Hounds.’
‘I’ll see if I can drop by, then,’ Banks said. ‘If nothing turns up.’
‘Feel free.’ There was a trace of doubt in Penny’s voice, as if she couldn’t quite believe that a policeman would be interested in traditional folk music, or in any kind of music for that matter.
Banks walked down the narrow cobbled street by the church wall, and as soon as he got to the corner he heard a hissing sound behind him and turned. An old woman stood at the door of the cottage next to Penny’s and beckoned him over. When he got close enough she whispered, ‘You’ll be that there policeman they’re all talking about.’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Banks,’ he said, reaching for his card. ‘At your service.’
‘Nay, nay lad, there’s no need for that. I believe thee,’ she said, waving it aside. ‘Been talking to ’er ladyship next door, I see.’ She jerked a shrivelled thumb in the direction of Penny’s cottage. Puzzled, Banks nodded.
‘Did she tell ’ee about Sat’day night?’
‘What about Saturday night?’
‘I thought she wouldn’t,’ the old woman said triumphantly, crossing her arms with great satisfaction. ‘A proper ruckus there were. T’ old major near flung ’im down t’ garden path.’
‘Flung who?’
‘Why, ’im as got ’isself murdered,’ she announced with obvious relish. ‘I don’t ’old wi’ married men sniffing around young lasses. And she’s a flighty one, yon missy is, you mark my words. There again, though,’ she laughed, ‘t’ major’s mad as an ’atter ’isself.’
‘What are you talking about, Mrs…?’
‘Miss,’ she said proudly. ‘Lived seventy-one years and never saw t’ need for a ’usband yet. Miss Bamford it is, young man, and I’m talking about Sat’day night when Major Cartwright popped in on ’is daughter and caught ’er wi’ that murdered chappie. ’Bout ten o’clock, it were. Now, don’t ask me what they was doing, cos I couldn’t say, but ’e flew off t’ handle, t’ old man did. Told ’im not to come around no more.’
‘You mean the major physically threw Mr Steadman out of Penny Cartwright’s house?’ Banks asked, trying to get things straight. He was sure that something was bound to have got lost in translation.
‘Well, not in so many words.’ Miss Bamford backed down; her chin retracted deep into the folds of her neck. ‘I couldn’t see proper, like. Pushed ’im, though – and that chap so pale and weakly from shutting ’imsen up wi’ books all day and night. I’ll bet she didn’t tell you about that, did she, yon Lady Muck?’
Banks had to admit that Penny had not told him about that. In fact, he had backed away from the whole issue of her father after she had challenged him to be direct.
‘Did she go out afterwards?’ he asked.
‘ ’Er Royal ’ighness? No. T’ door banged about eleven, but that were t’ major.’
‘Surely there’s a back door, too?’
‘Oh, aye,’ Miss Bamford answered. She hadn’t missed his meaning.
Banks thanked her. With a smug smile on her wrinkled face, the old woman shut her door. After a quick and puzzled glance back at Penny’s cottage, Banks walked towards his car and drove home.
6
ONE
‘So according to your mate in Darlington-’
‘Sergeant Balfour, sir. A good man.’
‘According to your Sergeant Balfour,’ Banks went on, ‘Hackett didn’t arrive at the KitKat Klub until after one o’clock in the morning, and nobody in the pub he mentioned remembered seeing him?’
‘That’s right. The landlord said he often dropped by, but last week it was on Friday, not Saturday.’
‘So the bastard’s been lying.’ Banks sighed. He was becoming more and more irritated with the inhabitants of Helmthorpe, and as many London villains would testify, the more annoyed he got the harder it was all round. ‘I suppose we’d better have him in again. No, wait.. .’ He glanced at his watch and stood up. ‘Better still, let’s have a drive into Helmthorpe. There’s a couple of things I want to do there.’
Sandra was using the Cortina, so they signed out a car from the pool and Banks let Hatchley drive. The hedgerows by the river were dotted with clumps of white, yellow and purple wild flowers, none of which Banks could name. A few dark clouds skulked about the sky, but the sun pierced through here and there in bright lances of light that picked out green patches on the shadowed dalesides. The effect reminded Banks of some paintings he’d seen in a London gallery Sandra had dragged him to, but he couldn’t remember the artist’s name: Turner, Gainsborough, Constable? Sandra would know. He made a mental note to look into landscape painting a bit more closely.
‘What do you think, then?’ Hatchley asked. He drove with one hand and lit a cigarette from the glowing red circle of the dashboard lighter. ‘About Hackett, I mean.’
‘Could be our man. He’s certainly hiding something.’
‘What about the others who were with Steadman that night?’
‘We just don’t know, do we? Any one of them could have done it. They’ve no real alibis, not even Barnes.’
‘But what motive could he have for killing Steadman? He’s got a good reputation locally, always has
