him again, jog his memory a bit, he’ll remember. He’ll tell you it’s true. I was there.’
‘Come off it, man, tell us where you were!’ Hatchley’s loud voice boomed out from behind Hackett, unnerving him completely. During the preliminary part of the interrogation, the sergeant had remained so quiet that Hackett must have forgotten he was in the room. Now he half-turned and looked terrified to find a new, more aggressive adversary towering over him. He got to his feet but Hackett still had the advantage of height.
‘I don’t know what you’re getting at-’
‘We’re not getting at anything,’ Hatchley said. ‘We’re telling you loud and clear. You never went to the Cock and Bull, did you? That was just a cock and bull story, wasn’t it? You never went to any pub in Darlington. You waited for Steadman outside the Bridge, followed him to Penny Cartwright’s, waited there, then followed him to the Dog and Gun and back to the car park. There, where it was dark and quiet, you hit him on the head and hid him in the boot of your car. Later, when the whole village was asleep, you dumped him in the field on your way over the dale to Darlington, didn’t you? The timing’s just right, Hackett, we’ve checked. What with all the lies you’ve told us and the traces we’ll find in the boot of your car, we’ve got you by the short and curlies, mate.’
Hackett turned to Banks for sympathy and support. ‘You can’t let him bully me, accuse me like this,’ he spluttered. ‘It’s not…’
‘Not cricket?’ said Banks. ‘But you must admit, Mr Hackett, it is a possibility, isn’t it? A very strong possibility.’
Hackett flopped back down into the chair behind his desk and Hatchley walked over to stand in front of him. ‘Look, sir,’ the sergeant began softly, ‘we know you didn’t arrive at the club until after one o’clock, and that gives you plenty of time to dump Steadman’s body and get there. Don’t you think it would be easier all round if you told us what happened? Perhaps it was manslaughter? Perhaps you had an argument and came to blows; you didn’t mean to kill him. Is that how it happened?’
Hackett stared at him, wary of his apparent friendliness. Banks got up and walked over to the window, through which he appeared to be gazing at the river.
‘I walked around,’ Hackett said. ‘That’s all. I set off for Darlington as soon as I’d left the Bridge and got changed, then I stopped on the way. It was a lovely evening. I didn’t feel like a drink just then, so I went for a walk. I wanted to be alone.’
‘You and bloody Greta Garbo,’ Banks snarled from behind him, turning quickly from the window and knocking his pipe out in the thick glass ashtray. ‘I’m fast losing patience with you,’ he rushed on, raising his voice and glaring. It was a measure of Hackett’s terror and confusion that he now looked to the huge Hatchley as a benign presence.
‘But I-’
‘Shut up,’ Banks ordered him. ‘I don’t want to hear any more lies from you, Hackett. Get it? If I’m not satisfied your next story’s true I’ll have you in Eastvale nick before your feet touch the ground. Understand?’
Hatchley, enjoying himself tremendously, played the role of kindly uncle. ‘Best do as the chief inspector asks, sir,’ he advised the pale Hackett. ‘I’m sure it can’t do any harm if you’ve nothing to hide.’
Hackett stared at Hatchley for a good half-minute, then came that visible relaxation of tension, the moment that signalled the truth. Banks could feel it in his veins; he recognized it well from years of experience. Hackett was still so mixed up that he glowered at Hatchley and directed his statement toward Banks, who smiled and nodded at various points with benevolent understanding.
All in all, it was a great disappointment, but it did get one red herring out of the way. After leaving the Bridge, Hackett had gone home to shower and change, then he had driven to Darlington, where he first spent about two hours of uninhibited carnal bliss with a young married woman whose husband worked the night shift at the local colliery. After that, he had gone on to the KitKat Klub alone because he didn’t want to be seen with her locally. People would talk. Banks finally extracted her name and address from him, along with pleas and warnings about not letting her muscle-bound husband find out.
‘Please,’ he begged, ‘if you must talk to Betty, do it after ten at night. I’ll get her to come in. That’ll be even better, won’t it?’
‘If you don’t mind, Mr Hackett,’ Banks replied, ‘we’ll do it our way.’
‘Have a heart, Chief Inspector. Haven’t you ever had a bit on the side?’
The muscles in Banks’s jaw tightened. ‘No,’ he answered sharply. ‘And even if I had it wouldn’t make a jot of difference to your situation.’ He put his hands on the desk and leaned forward so that his face was only inches from Hackett’s. ‘What you don’t seem to realize is that this is a murder investigation. A friend of yours has been murdered, or don’t you remember, and all you’re concerned with is some bloody tart you’ve been poking in Darlington.’
‘She’s not a tart. And there’s no reason to ruin a perfectly good marriage, is there? That’s what you’ll be doing, you know.’
‘No. That’s what you’ve done. It’s what she’s done too. If I thought for a moment that you cared more about the marriage than about your own skin, I might just consider doing things differently.’
Banks nodded to Hatchley and the two of them left Hackett biting his fingernails and cursing the day he met nubile little Betty Fields in the Cock and Bull.
‘Fancy a trip to Darlington, Sergeant?’ Banks asked when they reached High Street. ‘Best if you check it out yourself.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Hatchley replied, grinning.
‘Right then. After ten o’clock tonight, if you can make it.’
‘What? But…’
‘If you don’t mind.’
‘It’s not that I mind. I’ve got a couple of mates up there I’ve not seen in a while. But what about Hackett?’
‘Simple really. Hackett’s right; I don’t see any point putting unnecessary strain on a marriage, even one as flimsy as Betty Fields’s. But he doesn’t know that, does he? By the next time he hears from his young lady he’ll be a gibbering wreck. Some of these miners are big chaps, so I’ve heard.’ He smiled as comprehension dawned on Hatchley. ‘You have to balance your cruelty with compassion, Sergeant. Come on, just one more visit to make then home. And by the way…’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘That was a terrible pun back there. Cock and bull story.’
‘Oh, I thought it was quite good myself.’
Taking advantage of the fine weather, Banks and Hatchley walked to Gratly. They took the short cut through the cemetery and along a narrow path through a field. Lynchets led down to the beck like a broad flight of green velvet stairs. Sheep grazed under a clump of ash trees in the lush green grass by the water.
This time, Banks was struck by the tranquillity and individuality of Gratly. At the centre of the hamlet was a low stone bridge under which a broad stream ran over several abrupt terraces and descended in a series of small waterfalls past a disused mill and down the valley side to the all-consuming Swain.
Gratly itself radiated like a cross from this central point, and ginnels and snickets here and there led to twisting backstreets and hidden outhouses. The houses were all old, built of local stone, but their designs varied. Some, originally weavers’ cottages, had many windows in their upper stories, while others looked like old farmhouses or labourers’ quarters. The sun on the light stone and the steady music of water as it trickled relaxed Banks, and he found himself thinking that this was no day and no place for his kind of business. The hamlet was silent and still; there were no signs of life at all.
Emma Steadman, wearing a brown apron over her shirt and slacks, answered the door at the second ring and invited them inside, apologizing for the mess. She stopped at the entrance to the front room and ushered the two men in, running a grimy hand over her moist brow. Banks saw immediately what she meant. All Steadman’s books had been taken down from the shelves and stood in untidy, precariously balanced piles on the floor.
The widow moved forlornly into the middle of the room and gestured around. ‘They’re all his. I can’t stand it, having them all over the place. I don’t know what to do with them.’ She seemed less frosty than when they had parted on Monday afternoon, vulnerable among the detritus of a shared life.
‘There’s a book dealer in Eastvale,’ Banks advised her. ‘I’m sure he’ll come out and appraise them if you give him a call. He’ll give you a fair price. Or what about Thadtwistle in Helmthorpe?’
‘Yes, that’s an idea. Thank you.’ Mrs Steadman sat down. ‘It’ll have to wait though, I’m afraid. I can’t face
