Gristhorpe shook his head slowly. ‘No. I think the girl’s been killed. Stupid bloody kid. Why couldn’t she have come to us?’
Banks had no answer. ‘Have you been involved in this kind of search before?’ he asked.
‘More than twenty years ago now,’ Gristhorpe said, adding an extra spoonful of sugar to his tea. ‘And this makes it feel like only yesterday.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Young girl called Lesley Ann Downey. Only ten. And a lad called John Kilbride, twelve. You’ll have heard about all that, though: Brady and Hindley, the Moors Murders?’
‘You were in on that?’
‘Manchester brought some of us in for the search. It’s not that far away, you know. Still, that was different.’
‘Sir?’
‘Brady and Hindley were involved in Nazism, torture, fetishism – you name it. This time it’s more calculated, if we’re right. I don’t know which is worse.’
‘The result’s the same.’
‘Aye.’ Gristhorpe gulped some tea and nibbled at his bun. ‘Getting anywhere?’
Banks shook his head. ‘Nothing new. Hackett’s in the clear now. Barnes, too, by the looks of it. We’re stuck.’
‘It’s always like that when the trail goes cold. You know that as well as I do, Alan. If the answer isn’t staring you in the face within twenty-four hours, the whole thing goes stale. When you get stuck you just have to push a bit harder, that’s all. Sometimes you get lucky.’
‘I’ve been thinking about the time of Sally Lumb’s disappearance,’ Banks said, trying to waft his smoke away from Gristhorpe. ‘She was last seen on Helmthorpe High Street walking east around nine o’clock on Friday evening.’
‘Well?’
‘I was in Helmthorpe at that time, in the Dog and Gun with Sandra and a couple of friends. We went to listen to Penny Cartwright sing. Jack Barker was there too.’
‘So that lets them off the hook.’
‘No, sir. That’s just it. She finished her first set just after nine, then she and Barker disappeared from the pub for about an hour.’
‘Right after Sally had been seen in the village?’
‘Yes.’
‘Better follow it up, then. What do you think?’
‘I’ve talked to them both a couple of times. They’re difficult, sharp. If I were easily swayed by sentiment, I’d say no, not a chance. Penny Cartwright seems sincere, and Barker’s a clever bugger but likeable enough when you take the time to chat to him. He swears blind he’d nothing to do with Steadman’s death. But I’ve met some damn good liars in my time. He’s got no alibi and he might have been jealous about Steadman and the Cartwright woman.’
Gristhorpe ate the final few crumbs of his bun and suggested they carry on walking. They headed east and looped down by the river near the terraced gardens.
‘The Swain’s filling up,’ Gristhorpe said. ‘I hope we don’t have a bloody flood to contend with, too.’
‘Does that happen often?’
‘Often enough. Usually at spring thaw after a particularly snowy winter. But if you get enough water channelled down from the dales, it might break the banks here.’
They turned up a dank waterside alley, where moss and lichen grew on the rough stone, skirted the base of Castle Hill and arrived back at the market square. Gristhorpe headed straight for the communications room and Banks accompanied him. There was nothing new.
THREE
Even Purcell’s ‘Hail Bright Cecilia’ failed to cheer Banks up as he drove into Helmthorpe that evening. When he walked along High Street past the gift shop with its revolving racks of postcards and the small newsagent’s with the evening papers outside fluttering in the light breeze, he could sense the mood of the village. Nothing was obvious; people went about their business as usual, shutting up shop for the day and coming home from work, but it felt like a place that had drawn in on itself. Even the air, despite the wind, seemed tight and grim. The small noises – footsteps, doors opening, distant telephones ringing – sounded eerie and isolated against the backdrop of the silent green valley sides and massive brow of Crow Scar, bright in the evening sun.
Push, Gristhorpe had said, so push he would. Push hard enough, in the right places, and something would give. Push those closest to Steadman – Penny, Ramsden, Emma, Barker – for if none of them had actually done it, Banks was sure that one of them knew who had. He would probably have to revisit Darnley and Talbot too. There was something one of them had said – a chance remark, a throwaway line – that Banks felt was important, but he couldn’t remember what it was. It would return to him in time, he knew, but he couldn’t afford to sit and wait; he had to push.
Would Sally Lumb have confronted any of them with her evidence? he asked himself as he took the short cut through the cemetery and turned right along the pathway to Gratly. It didn’t seem likely; she wasn’t a fool. But she had phoned someone, and had used a public call box for privacy. It must, then, have been someone she knew, someone she had no reason to fear.
The sheep on his right fled and stood facing the drystone wall, their backs to him; the ones on his left scampered down the grassy terraces to the stream and stood bleating under the willows. Funny creatures, Banks thought. If they’re frightened, they simply run a short distance and turn their backs. It might be effective against people who wish them no harm, but he doubted if it would deter a hungry wolf.
Emma Steadman was watching television but turned the sound down after Banks followed her into the living room. The place was much barer now that most of the books and records were gone; it was more of an empty shell than a home.
Banks waited until Emma had made some tea, then sat opposite her at the low table.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you a few things for a while now,’ he said. ‘Mostly to do with the past.’
‘The past?’
‘Yes. Those wonderful summers you used to have up here when the Ramsden family ran the guest house.’
‘What about them? You don’t mind, do you?’ she asked, picking up some knitting. ‘It helps me relax, takes my mind off things. Sorry, go ahead.’
‘Not at all. It’s just that the impression I got was of your husband running around the dales with Penny Cartwright while Michael Ramsden buried his head in his books.’
Emma smiled but said nothing.
‘And you never thought anything of it.’
‘Perhaps if you’d known my husband, Chief Inspector, you wouldn’t think anything of it, either.’
‘But something’s missing.’
‘What?’
‘You. What were you doing?’
Emma sighed and put her knitting down on her lap. ‘Contrary to what you seem to believe, I’m not simply a passive housewife. I did have, and still do have, interests of my own. Back in Leeds I was involved in amateur dramatics for a while. On holidays in Gratly I used to knit and read. I even tried my hand at writing a few short stories – unsuccessfully, I’m afraid – but I can’t prove it; I threw them away. I also went for walks.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes, alone. Is that so strange?’
Banks shrugged.
‘What you seem to forget is that we were only up here for a month or so at a time. During that period I
