did it. I think her and Mr Steadman were having a torrid love affair and when she wanted him to leave his wife and marry her he wouldn’t do it so she killed him.’
‘Don’t be so stupid,’ Anne said. ‘If it was really like that she’d have killed Mrs Steadman, not him.’
That silenced Kathy, but Hazel picked up the thread. ‘Well if that wasn’t why,’ she said, ‘there could have been plenty of other reasons. Everybody knows she went away for ages and took drugs and was pro.. . prom…’
‘Promiscuous?’ suggested Anne.
‘Yes, promiscuous, clever clogs – that’s what I said. Maybe she had his baby or he knew something about her past. They’ve known each other a long time, you know.’
The others were silent, taking it all in. ‘You might be right about the last bit,’ Anne allowed, ‘but she wouldn’t kill him just because she had his baby, would she? I think it was Jack Barker.’
‘Why would he do it?’ Kathy asked.
‘Maybe he was just doing research for his next book,’ Hazel joked.
‘And maybe he’s in love with Penny Cartwright and wanted to get Mr Steadman out of the way so he could have her all to himself,’ Anne said. ‘And there’s another thing: I heard the police gave Teddy Hackett a nasty time the other day.’
‘He certainly looked a little pale when I saw him,’ Hazel added.
‘My dad heard them arguing a couple of weeks ago – Hackett and Mr Steadman,’ Anne said.
‘But they can’t think he did it,’ Hazel reasoned, ‘or they’d have arrested him in custody by now. I bet he’s got a skintight alibi.’
‘It’s “watertight”, you fool.’ Anne laughed. ‘And he can’t be “arrested in custody”, only “in custody”.’
‘All right, Miss Know-it-all. So what?’
‘I wonder who she was,’ Kathy said. ‘Teddy Hackett’s alibi.’
And they all laughed. To them, Hackett, with his droopy moustache, receding hairline, gold medallions and beer belly hanging over his fancy belt buckle, was a figure of ridicule, the male equivalent of mutton dressed as lamb.
‘What do you think, Sally?’ Anne asked. ‘You’re very quiet today.’
‘I’ve got a few ideas of my own,’ Sally replied slowly and quietly. ‘But I’ve got to check them out.’
And with that she walked out, leaving them all gaping again, not knowing whether to believe her or not.
8
ONE
By seven thirty, the lounge bar of the Dog and Gun was almost full. It was a long narrow room with only one vaguely demarcated aisle down the centre. The audience was clustered around small tables, and a white-jacketed waiter had been employed so that people wouldn’t have to move about to get drinks. He moved awkwardly among the crowd, a tray of black and amber drinks tottering menacingly at shoulder height. The jukebox had been unplugged for the evening, and piped folk music played softly enough to make conversation easy. Dim wall lights gave the room a dark orange glow, and at the bar the brass rail, polished hand pumps and coloured bottles by the mirrors gleamed. At the far end of the room was a low wooden platform, too makeshift to be dignified with the name of a stage, and on it stood a couple of microphones on stands, two large speakers, three stools and an amplifier with its red light on.
Banks and Sandra sat with Harriet and David about halfway down the room on the right-hand side. Harriet, pixieish in looks, animated and intelligent in character, drove a mobile library around the more remote dales villages. Her husband David was an assistant bank manager in Eastvale and, if truth be told, Banks found him a bit of a bore.
David had clearly said something that required more than a mere nod in response, but Banks had been watching a fresh-faced young camper, probably under eighteen, who was already displaying the effects of too much alcohol in his desire to show off to his girlfriend.
‘Pardon?’ Banks said, cupping his hand to his ear.
‘I said, I suppose you know all about computers yourself, being on the force,’ David repeated. ‘I’m afraid I’ve been boring you.’
‘Not at all,’ lied Banks. He tamped down the tobacco in his pipe and lit it in defiance of Sandra’s sharply aimed frown. ‘No, not at all. But yes, I know a little bit about computer languages.’ That old-fashioned phrase, ‘on the force’, made him smile. It was an odd way of looking at his job, he thought. On what force? The forces of law and order, no doubt. ‘May the force be with you.’ The force of good against evil? It was a stiff dry phrase that hardly did the job justice.
While telling David what little he did know about the subject, Banks noticed Penny Cartwright come in with Jack Barker. The two of them made their way to the front, where chairs had been saved for them. Shortly afterwards, a nervous spotty young man took the stage, tapped the microphones, said ‘testing’ in each one three or four times, then welcomed everyone to folk night at the Dog and Gun. One by one, conversations died down until all that could be heard was the barman ringing up sales and the steady humming of the amplifier. The microphone shrieked when the young man got too close, and he backed off quickly, pulling a face. Banks couldn’t catch the names of all the scheduled performers, but he gathered that Penny was set to sing two forty-minute sets, the first starting at eight thirty and the second at about ten fifteen.
After more notices and introductions, a duo clambered on to the stage. The boy had only a guitar, but the girl spread several ancient and obscure stringed instruments on the floor around her. First they launched into a Bob Dylan song, and what they lacked in talent, Banks thought, they made up for in enthusiasm. After the applause, the young man made jokes about the notes he had missed and apologized for the rawness of his technique. It worked: after that the audience wanted him to succeed and most people were willing to overlook the rough edges.
The girl said nothing but concentrated on tuning what looked to Banks like a mandolin. She played extremely well on the next number, a medley of old English dances. On the whole, the audience was respectful and attentive, but there were occasional, unavoidable interruptions as the waiter passed by and more drinks were ordered. Someone told the inebriated young camper to shut up, too.
Banks and David seemed to have settled into buying rounds, the two men drinking pints of bitter and the women lager and lime. Banks had to watch his intake because he didn’t want to appear even slightly intoxicated in the village where he was conducting a murder investigation. Two pints in an hour and a half wasn’t at all bad, he told himself, but it was only just after eight o’clock. He was aware that he tended to speed up towards closing time.
The first intermission came and people started making their ways to the toilets and the bar. As he walked down the narrow aisle, Jack Barker noticed Banks’s party and came over.
‘Good evening,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘What a surprise to find you here. I’d no idea you were a folkie.’ There was just enough of a twinkle in his eye to make the irony apparent. ‘Mind if I join you for a moment?’ He grabbed a nearby chair and pulled it up before Banks could object. ‘Is it just Miss Cartwright you’ve come to hear?’
‘Actually, it’s Ms Cartwright,’ Banks corrected him. ‘And yes, I’ve heard she’s very good.’ His tone was brusque; he wished Barker would go away.
‘You’re in for a real treat, Chief Inspector, a real treat. People come from miles away to hear Penny Cartwright, you know. She’s got a solid reputation in these parts, especially since she gave up fame and fortune to return to her roots. People appreciate that.’
From what Banks had heard, appreciation wasn’t quite the word for the gossip that had surrounded Penny’s return to her roots, but he kept quiet. Barker obviously wanted to show off, and, short of being rude, there was no way to stop him. Sandra returned from the Ladies and looked at Barker curiously. There was no escape, Banks realized, cursing himself; he would have to introduce them.
