Peter Robinson - A Dedicated Man

After about fifteen minutes, Banks broke the silence: ‘I suppose you know that somebody dismantled one of these walls last night to cover a body?’

‘Aye,’ Gristhorpe said, ‘I’ve heard. Come on inside, Alan, and I’ll make a pot of tea. If I’m not mistaken there are still a few of Mrs Hawkins’s scones left, too.’ He rhymed ‘scones’ with ‘on’, not, like a southerner, with ‘own’.

They settled into the deep worn armchairs, and Banks cast his eyes over the bookcases that covered one entire wall from floor to ceiling. There were books on all kinds of subjects – local lore, geology, criminology, topography, history, botany, travel – and shelves of leather-bound classics ranging from Homer, Cervantes, Rabelais and Dante to Wordsworth, Dickens, James Joyce, W. B. Yeats and D. H. Lawrence. Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice lay on the table; the position of the bookmark indicated that Gristhorpe had almost finished it. As always when he visited the superintendent, Banks mentally reminded himself that he should read more.

Gristhorpe’s office in Eastvale was much the same: books everywhere, and not all of them relevant to police work. He came from old dales farming stock, and his decision to join the police after university and army service had caused trouble. Nevertheless, he had persevered, and he had also helped out on the farm in his spare time. When Gristhorpe’s father saw that his son’s natural aptitude and capacity for hard work was getting him places, he stopped complaining and accepted the situation. Gristhorpe’s father had been sad to see the farm dwindle to little more than a large back garden before he died, but his pride in his son’s achievement and the status it gave him locally eased him, and his death was without acrimony.

Gristhorpe had told Banks all this during their frequent meetings, usually over a good single malt whisky after a wall-building session. The older man’s candour, along with more practical advice, made Banks feel like an apprentice, or protege. Their relationship had developed this way since the Gallows View affair, Banks’s dramatic introduction to northern police work. As he told what he knew about the Steadman murder, he was alert for any tips that might come his way.

‘It’s not going to be easy,’ Gristhorpe pronounced after a short silence. ‘And I won’t say it is. For one thing, you’ve all those tourists and campers to consider. If Steadman had an enemy from the past, it would be an ideal way of doing the job. They never keep records at campsites as far as I know. All they care about is collecting the money.’ He nibbled at his scone and sipped strong black tea. ‘Still, the killer could be a lot closer to home. Doesn’t look like you’ve got much physical evidence, though, does it? Somebody might have heard a car, but I doubt they’d have paid it much mind. I know that road. It swings north-east all the way over to Sattersdale. Still, I don’t suppose I need tell you your job, Alan. First thing is to find out as much as you can about Steadman. Friends, enemies, past, the lot. Nose about the village. Talk to people. Leave the donkey work to your men.’

‘I’m an outsider, though,’ Banks said. ‘I always will be as far as people around here are concerned. I look out of place and I sound out of place. Nobody’s going to give much away to me.’

‘Rubbish, Alan. Look at it this way. You’re a stranger in Helmthorpe, right?’ Banks nodded. ‘People notice you. They’ll soon get to know who you are. You don’t look like a tourist, and no villager will mistake you for one. You’re even a bit of a celebrity – at least for them as reads the papers around here. They’ll be curious, interested in the new copper, and they’ll want to find out what makes you tick. You’ll be surprised what they’ll tell you just to see how you react.’ He chuckled. ‘Before this is all over you’ll feel like a bloody priest in his confessional.’

Banks smiled. ‘I was brought up C. of E.’

‘Ah. We’re all Methodists or Baptists hereabouts,’ Gristhorpe said. ‘But some of us are more lapsed than others, and most of the daftest sects – your Sandemanians, for example – have all but disappeared.’

‘I hope I won’t have the same obligation to secrecy as a priest.’

‘Heavens, no!’ Gristhorpe exclaimed. ‘I want to know everything you find out. You’ve no idea what an opportunity this is for me to catch up on Helmthorpe gossip. But seriously, Alan, do you see what I mean? Take Weaver. He’s a pleasant enough lad. Trustworthy, competent, thorough. But as far as the villagers are concerned he’s a fixture, boring as a rainy day – though I shouldn’t make that comparison around these parts. See what I mean, though? Half the womenfolk in Helmthorpe probably changed his nappies when he was a nipper, and most of the menfolk’ve given him a clip around the ear once or twice. Nobody will tell Weaver anything. They won’t confide in him. There’s nothing in it for them. But you… You’re the exotic newcomer, the father confessor.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Banks said, finishing his tea. ‘I was thinking of dropping in at the Bridge tonight; Weaver told me Steadman used to drink there regularly with a few friends.’

Gristhorpe scratched his pitted red chin, and his bushy eyebrows merged in a furrow of concentration. ‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘Imagine it’ll be a bit of a wake tonight. Good time to pick up stray words. They’ll all know who’s been killed, of course, and probably how. Would that chap Barker be one of Steadman’s cronies, by the way?’

‘Yes. Jack Barker, the writer.’

‘Writer be damned!’ Gristhorpe almost choked on a mouthful of scone. ‘Just because he makes money from the claptrap doesn’t mean he’s a writer. Anyway, it’s a good idea. You’ll get something out of them, however useless it might seem at first. What time is it now?’

‘Ten to six.’

‘Supper?’

‘Yes, any time you’re ready.’ Banks had almost forgotten how hungry he was.

‘It won’t be owt special, you know,’ Gristhorpe called out as he went to the kitchen. ‘Just salad and leftover roast beef.’

Sally and Kevin raced the last few yards and collapsed, panting, by Ross Ghyll. They were high up on Tetchley Fell, on the south side of the dale, having walked to the source of one of the numerous becks that meander their way down to the Swain.

When they had caught their breath, Kevin kissed her, thrusting his tongue deep into her mouth, and they lay down together on the pale springy grass. He touched her breasts, felt the nipples harden through thin cotton, and slowly let his hand slide down between her legs. She was wearing jeans, and the pressure of the thick seam against her sex made her tingle with excitement. But she broke free and sat up, distracted.

‘I’m going to tell the police, Kevin,’ she said.

‘B-but we-’

She laughed and hit him lightly on the arm. ‘Not about this, stupid. About last night.’

‘But then they’ll know about us,’ he protested. ‘They’ll be sure to tell.’

‘No, they won’t. Why should they? You can tell them things in confidence, you know, like Catholics and priests. Besides,’ she added, twirling a strand of hair between her slim fingers, ‘my mum and dad know we were together. I told them we were at your house and we forgot about the time.’

‘I just don’t think we should get involved, that’s all. It could be dangerous, being a witness.’

‘Oh, don’t be daft. I think it’s rather exciting, myself.’

‘You would. What if the killer thinks we really saw something?’

‘Nobody knew we were up there. Nobody saw us.’

‘How do you know?’

‘It was dark, and we were too far away.’