‘Nutty but harmless.’
‘Certain?’
Weaver nodded. ‘Never been in trouble with us, sir. And he is very religious, like. Wouldn’t harm a fly.’
‘Religious people are often the most violent. Aren’t the Iranians religious? Anyway, have a chat with him, would you, and ask him what he argued with Harold Steadman about.’
‘There wasn’t any argument, sir,’ Weaver replied. ‘Kirk complained to the headmaster of Eastvale Comprehensive about letting someone with such lax moral standards as Harold Steadman mix with teenage girls.’
‘What?’
‘It’s true, sir,’ Weaver went on, grinning. ‘He’d seen Steadman with Penny Cartwright now and then, and to Kirk she was nothing less than the whore of Babylon. Remember, he was around when Penny left Helmthorpe in the first place; all those rumours of incest, then the Sodom and Gomorrah of the music business. Steadman would sometimes give Hazel and the other girls a ride home from school, and he’d take them on field trips and invite them to his house. Kirk complained. Nobody took him seriously, of course. I even overheard Steadman and his mates having a good chuckle over the business in the Bridge one night.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’ Banks asked. There was something in the icy quietness of his tone that sent danger signals to Weaver.
‘I- It didn’t seem important, sir.’
‘Didn’t seem important?’ Banks repeated. ‘We’re investigating a murder, laddie. Do you realize that? Everything’s important. Even if it’s not important it’s important if it has anything to do with the victim and his circle. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Weaver said shakily. ‘Will that be all, sir?’
‘Is that all?’
‘Sir?’
‘Is there anything else you ought to tell me?’
‘No, sir. I don’t think so, sir.’
‘Then that’s all. Come on, Sergeant Hatchley, let’s get back to civilization.’
‘Bit rough on him, weren’t you, sir?’ said Hatchley as they turned up their collars and walked to their cars.
‘It won’t kill him.’
‘Think there’s owt in it, this Kirk business?’
‘No. No more than there was in the major. Unless Kirk’s a serious nutter, and Weaver assures me he isn’t. Like nearly everything else in this case, there’s just too much damn gossip. That’s why it’s hard to tell the lies from the truth. Kirk, Major Cartwright – nothing but gossip. Better run a check on his background though, just to make sure. I suppose he thinks Steadman was trying to corrupt his angelic young Hazel.’
‘I wouldn’t blame him,’ Hatchley said. ‘The jeans these kids wear nowadays… You’d need a bloody shoehorn to get into them.’
Banks laughed. ‘Enough lewd thoughts about teenagers, Sergeant.’
‘Aye,’ Hatchley said. ‘It’s a bloody good job we can’t be arrested for what we think. Look, sir, there’s a tobacconist’s. And it’s open.’
TWO
It was late Sunday afternoon before the rain stopped completely, but the first search parties set out at mid-morning. By then it was only drizzling; the clouds had thinned, promising a fine day, and visibility was good. Plenty of locals had been willing to go out on Saturday, despite the weather conditions, but they had been warned against doing so.
The Sunday search was coordinated by Superintendent Gristhorpe, who had marked out areas on Ordnance Survey maps and assigned these to each small party. He directed operations from the communications room in Eastvale Regional Headquarters, and as the reports came in, he shaded the ground that had been covered.
Meanwhile, enquiries continued in the major cities. In addition to their regular duties, police on car and foot patrols in Newcastle, Leeds, London, Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham and other large cities were also keeping an eye out for the young blonde girl. Theatres, drama companies and acting schools were all checked carefully, and though numerous sightings were called in and followed up, they all proved to be false. Closer to home, Robert Kirk was investigated, questioned and let go. For one thing, he couldn’t drive, and certainly nobody had carried Harold Steadman all the way from Helmthorpe to Crow Scar.
Sally’s father, enraged with grief after receiving a letter from the Marion Boyars Academy of Theatre Arts saying they would be pleased to accept Sally as a student, had begun his search alone on Saturday in the rain. The weather so affected his rheumatism and his spirits that he was confined to bed by Dr Barnes the following day. Charles Lumb knew that Sally hadn’t run away, despite their differences; anxiety and anger gave way to resignation. Even if the searchers did find her, what state would she be in after three or more nights out in the wilds?
On Sunday, the first area searched was the wide stretch of moorland to the north of Helmthorpe above Crow Scar. Gristhorpe, in making his decision, realized he might have been influenced by the fact that Steadman’s body had been found on the northern slopes, but he reasoned that the area was, after all, the wildest spread of countryside – seven miles of rough high moors before the next dale – and had the greatest number of hiding places: old mines, steep quarries, potholes.
The only result of Sunday’s effort was an accident in which a police constable drafted in from Askrigg fell down a twenty-foot bell pit. Fortunately, his fall was broken by accumulated water and mud, but it took over two hours of valuable time to rig up ropes and pull him out. Up on the moorland, two small parties got so bogged down in mud that they were unable to continue, and progress everywhere was slow.
By Monday, the sun was out to stay and conditions had improved. Gristhorpe, who had been up since five in the morning, sat red-eyed in the communications room logging check-in calls from search parties, and the map before him soon began to look like a chessboard. This was one task he refused to delegate.
At about three o’clock, the superintendent took Sergeant Rowe’s advice and dropped by Banks’s office to suggest a walk.
They walked into Market Street, which was crowded with tourists from the nearby cities who, seeing an end to the rain, had decided on an afternoon out. It was also market day, and the cobbled square in front of the church was thronged with colourful stalls selling everything from Marks and Spencer rejects to dinner sets and toilet-bowl brushes. There were stalls of second-hand paperbacks, yards of plain and patterned material – cotton, linen, muslin, rayon, denim, cheesecloth – spilling over almost to the ground, and stalls piled with crockery and cutlery. Skilled vendors drew crowds by shouting out the virtues of their wares as they juggled plates and saucers. The people milled around to listen, take photographs and, occasionally, to buy things. In the narrow twisting side streets around the central market square – old alleys where the sun never penetrated and you could shake hands across second-storey bay windows – the small souvenir and local delicacy shops with magnifying-glass windows did good business. Everything, from toffee and tea to spoons and fluffy toys, was labelled ‘Yorkshire’, no matter where it had actually been made.
Gristhorpe directed Banks to a small tea shop and the two of them settled down to tea and buns.
Gristhorpe ran his hand through his thick messy mop of grey hair and smiled weakly. ‘Had to get out for a bit,’ he said, spooning sugar into his mug. ‘It gets so damn stuffy in that little room.’
‘You look all-in,’ Banks said, lighting a Benson and Hedges Special Mild. ‘Perhaps you should go home and get some sleep.’
Gristhorpe grunted and waved away the smoke. ‘Thought you’d given that filthy habit up,’ he grumbled. ‘Anyway, I suppose I am tired. I’m not as young as I used to be. But it’s not just tiredness, Alan. Have you ever taken part in an operation like this before?’
‘Not a search in open country, no. I’ve looked for missing teens in Soho, but nothing like this, in these conditions. Do you think there’s any hope?’
