opening. She must have spent a lot of time opening buildings, Banks reflected.
He ventured inside past the statues of Victoria and Albert in the foyer and into the main hall, which appeared to have been recently restored. Enormous pillars of what looked like marble streaked with pink, green and blue were spaced along the walls, and the ceiling was divided into brightly coloured square panels, gilded around their edges. Mottoes and proverbs beloved of the pious Victorians adorned the high places: EXCEPT THE LORD BUILD THE HOUSE, THEY LABOUR IN VAIN THAT BUILT IT; EXCEPT THE LORD KEEP THE CITY, THE WATCHMAN WATCHETH BUT IN VAIN; WEAVE THE TRUTH WITH TRUST; and LABOUR OMNIA VINCIT. At the end stood a majestic pipe organ.
Banks glanced at his watch and walked out slowly; his footsteps echoed in the silence. Yes, it was impressive, and he could begin to see what Steadman found so fascinating about northern history.
But he also remembered Hackett’s outburst about false romanticized views of the past. The wealthy city officials and merchants had gone to great trouble to make sure that Queen Victoria’s route avoided the more squalid areas of the city: row upon row of overcrowded back-to-backs with leaky roofs and damp walls where the nameless masses lived. It was from their labours and in their name, the name of civic pride, that such glories as the Town Hall were built, yet they were condemned to live in squalor and then accused of becoming animals. There had even been one man, a chemist according to Gristhorpe, who had perfumed the air outside his shop as the royal progress passed. It all depended on what side you were on, Banks thought, as to what your perspective was.
He consulted his pocket map and walked up between the Town Hall and the library, carried on along Caverley Street past the Civic Hall, a white building with twin pointed towers and colourful gardens, then past the General Infirmary and Leeds Polytechnic and into the outer reaches of the university campus. Finally, he came to a quadrangle surrounded by modern office-style buildings. It was a long way from the dreaming spires of Oxford and Cambridge, but Leeds was supposed to be a red-brick university, even if there were no red bricks in sight.
He found Darnley’s office in the History Department with the help of an angular bespectacled secretary. After a quick firm handshake, Darnley was ready for a pub lunch.
‘Talbot’s going to meet us there,’ he explained. ‘He’s got a session with one of his doctoral students right now.’
He led Banks across a dirt path behind the building and on to a narrow cobbled street. The pub was actually part of a hotel, and it stood back from the road at the end of a short driveway. As it was such a warm sunny day, they sat at one of the outside tables.
Darnley was a tall man about forty, well built and fit. He had a trace of a northern accent and did not seem at all the absent-minded professor type that Banks had expected. His short brown hair was neatly combed and although his suit seemed half a size too big, it was of good quality. It had probably been a perfect fit when he bought it, Banks guessed, but like many men of his age, fearing heart attacks and other plagues of the sedentary life, he had begun to exercise.
The two men sipped draught Guinness, squinting in the bright sun, and Banks laid his pipe, tobacco and lighter on the table.
‘Aha, a pipe-smoker, I see,’ Darnley noted. ‘Touch of the Maigret, eh? Thought of taking it up myself but it’s too much trouble. Wasted years trying to stop smoking, cutting down, switching to milder brands, and in the end I found the only way to bloody well stop was cold turkey.’
‘It can’t have been as easy as you make it sound,’ Banks said, stuffing his pipe with rubbed flake and tamping it gently.
‘No, no, it wasn’t.’ Darnley laughed. ‘I had a few relapses. But I’ve been playing a lot of squash and tennis lately and running a few miles each day. You’d be surprised how that kind of thing puts you off smoking. You’d never believe it, but a year or so ago I was overweight, drinking too much – ugh!’
‘Doctor’s orders?’
‘Told me point-blank. “Go on like you are doing, and I’ll give you another ten years at most.” It was a toss- up which would go first – heart, liver or lungs. Anyway, he said if I shaped up the sky’s the limit. Well, not in so many words, but I got the point.’ He watched Banks light his pipe. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘I suppose you need props in your business. False sense of security and all that.’
Banks smiled and admitted it helped. He liked the look of curiosity and intelligence in Darnley’s eyes.
‘I hope you don’t think you need it with me? I mean, I’m not a suspect, am I?’ He was smiling, but the tension showed in the tight set of his lips.
‘Not yet,’ Banks replied, returning his gaze.
‘Touche. You mean if I start to put myself forward as one, all offers are welcome?’
‘I shouldn’t worry about it,’ Banks assured him. He was still trying to work out the best approach to this edgy intelligent man whose quick playful exterior no doubt masked a mind like a steel trap and covered up a complex, perhaps even devious, personality.
He decided to play along a little longer, certain that the arrival of Talbot would alter the light-hearted mood. ‘You might as well tell me where you were last Saturday night, though,’ he asked.
Darnley looked at him, bright eyes twinkling but hard. ‘Do you know, Chief Inspector, I have no alibi at all for last weekend. I had a lot of work to do so I stayed in all Saturday evening marking examination papers and reading a new account of the Peterloo massacre. Of course, my wife was at home too, but I don’t suppose she counts, does she?’
Banks laughed. ‘I wouldn’t know till I asked her, would I?’
‘You’re a canny man, as the Scots say. No, I don’t suppose you would.’
‘Why weren’t you at the funeral yesterday?’
‘Wasn’t invited, was I? Neither of us. Actually, I didn’t even know about it. I only knew about Harry because I read it in the Yorkshire Evening Post.’
‘You’d lost touch?’
‘Sort of, yes.’
After a little more banter and a good draught of stout, Darnley seemed to relax more. Trying to establish the conversation as one between professionals, Banks asked the professor about his job: ‘I suppose you need props, too? It can’t be easy standing up there alone in front of a hundred or so students and just talking for an hour.’
‘Put like that, it does sound rather awful,’ Darnley conceded. ‘You get used to it, of course, but you’re right, there’s always a bit of stage fright till you get going. I’ve always got my notes to fall back on, though. No teacher worth his salt dries up in front of a class. You can always waffle and students would never know the difference. Sometimes I think I could tell them that Adolf Hitler was one of the heroes of twentieth-century politics and they’d just write it down without question. But props… yes… One tends to find a position one is comfortable in. Funny thing, that. Some people pace back and forth, some hunch over the lectern, and others sit on the edge of a desk and fold their arms. One chap I knew always used to play with his keys while he was lecturing. Trouble was, they were in his trouser pocket and the students all thought he was playing with himself.’
They both laughed. ‘What about Harry Steadman?’ Banks asked casually.
Darnley squinted. ‘Harry was good,’ he answered. ‘It’s true we’ve been out of touch and I’ve not seen much of him since he left, but we were quite close at one time, and I was sorry to hear about his death. I’d say we were colleagues rather than friends, if there’s a difference. He was exceptionally bright – but I suppose you know that already. Ambitious, yes, but only in his field. He genuinely believed in what he was doing: teaching, research, breaking new ground. He thought it all had some real value for society. And, believe me, that’s rare these days. There’s so much cynicism around in education, especially as the government doesn’t seem to set much store by us any more.’
Banks nodded. ‘It’s the same with crime. You’re fighting a losing battle, or so it seems most of the time, and that’s no good for anyone’s professional pride.’
‘But at least the government believes in your value: pay rises, recruitment, modern equipment.’
‘True,’ Banks agreed. ‘But it’s all long overdue.’ He didn’t want to get sidetracked into an argument, especially as he had many objections to the way the government seemed to look upon the police as a private army of paid bully boys to pit against people with genuine grievances and a constitutional right to air them. A copper with humanist socialist leanings would be a bit hard for Darnley to take, he thought. Besides, he was a detective – CID, a paid thinker – and he didn’t have to go on crowd control, bashing the bonces of the proletariat.
‘I’m envious,’ Darnley said. ‘That’s all. I just wish we could get a larger slice of the cake, too. Academics are
