Peter Robinson - A Dedicated Man

‘He sounds more like a murderer than a victim,’ Anne chipped in. ‘Who do you think did it?’

‘Well, it might not be anyone from around here,’ Kathy answered. ‘I mean, we don’t know, do we? It could have been a stranger.’

‘Of course it was someone from around here,’ Sally said, annoyed at the way her discovery seemed to have become common property. ‘You don’t think somebody would drive a body all the way from Leeds or somewhere like that just to dump it under Crow Scar, do you?’

‘They could have done.’ Kathy defended herself without much conviction.

‘Well, I’m not going out after dark until he’s been caught.’ Hazel hugged herself and shuddered. ‘It might be one of those sex murderers, another Ripper. It could even be Major Cartwright’s daughter up there, for all we know. Or that Mrs Caret, the new barmaid at the Dog and Gun.’

‘I shouldn’t worry,’ Kathy said. ‘Nobody would want to sex murder you.’ She spoke in the usual spirit of friendly banter, but somehow her joke flopped and the girls seemed distracted, each wrapped in her own thoughts. Kathy blushed. ‘Still,’ she said, ‘we’d better be careful.’

‘I’ll bet it was Jack Barker that did it,’ Anne suggested.

‘Who? That writer bloke?’ Sally said.

‘Yes. You know what kind of books he writes.’

‘I’ll bet you haven’t read any,’ Kathy taunted her.

‘Yes, I have. I’ve read The Butcher of Redondo Beach and The San Clemente Slasher. They’re lurid.’

‘I’ve read one too,’ Hazel said. ‘I can’t remember what it was called but it was about this man who went to his beach house somewhere in America and he found two people he’d never seen before chopped to pieces in his living room. It was grisly. I only read it because he lives here.’

‘That’s The Butcher of Redondo Beach,’ Anne informed her patiently. ‘That’s what it’s called.’

Sally was bored by the direction the conversation was taking, and, besides, she thought Jack Barker looked far too handsome and debonair to be a murderer. He was a bit like one of those old film stars her mother was always going on about – Errol Flynn, Clark Gable or Douglas Fairbanks – the ones who all looked the same with their oily, slicked-down hair and little moustaches. He was the type, she thought, who might shoot his adulterous wife (if he had one) in a fit of passion, but he certainly wouldn’t carry her body all the way up to Crow Scar afterwards, that was for sure. He was far too much of a gentleman to do that, whatever kind of books he wrote.

Sally finished her Coke and turned to leave, but before she did so she whispered, ‘The police will see me. I can tell you that for sure. I know something. I don’t know who’s dead or who the killer is yet, but I know something.’

And with that she exited quickly, leaving the others to gape after her and debate whether she was telling the truth or simply trying to draw attention to herself.

There are two routes to York from Helmthorpe. The first winds up through Gratly, continues diagonally across the dales, more or less as the crow flies, and eventually joins the main road a couple of miles outside the city; the second, longer but quicker, involves taking the main road back to Eastvale, then driving south-east on the busy York Road. Because it was a beautiful day and he was in no real hurry, Banks took the first route on his visit to Ramsden.

He slipped the cassette back into the player and to the strains of ‘O, Sweet Woods’ drove up the hill, turned left past the Steadman house and followed the road as it climbed the dale side slowly. He passed through the tiny hamlet of Mortsett and paused with his window down to look at an attractive cottage with a post office sign above its door and a board advertising Wall’s Ice Cream propped outside. Insects hovered and hummed in the still, warm air; it seemed unreal, an image of England from before the First World War.

Beyond Relton, at the junction with the Fortford road, he seemed to leave civilization behind. Soon, the greens of the hillsides gave way to the darker hues of the heather-covered moors, which continued for about two miles before dropping slowly into the next dale. It was like a slow roller coaster ride, and the only obstacles were the sheep that sometimes strayed on to the unfenced road, itself only a thin band hardly distinguishable from the landscape around it. Banks saw a few hikers, who stepped on to the rough grass when they heard his car, smiling and waving as he drove by.

The main road, busy with lorries and delivery vans, came as a shock. Following Mrs Steadman’s directions, Banks found the turn-off, a narrow track with a lonely red phone box on the corner, about a mile from York’s boundary. He turned left and, after a quarter of a mile, came to the converted farmhouse. He pulled into the smooth dirt driveway and stopped outside the new-looking garage.

Ramsden answered the door shortly after the first ring and asked who he was. When Banks showed some identification, he slipped off the chain and invited him in.

‘Can’t be too careful,’ he apologized. ‘Especially in such an isolated place as this.’

Ramsden was tall and pale, with the melancholic aspect of a Romantic poet. He had light-brown hair and, Banks soon noticed, a nervous habit of brushing back the stray forelock even when it hadn’t slid down over his brow. The jeans and sweatshirt he wore seemed to hang on him as if they were a size too big.

‘Please excuse the mess,’ he said as he led Banks into a cluttered living room and installed him by the huge empty fireplace. ‘As you can see I’m decorating. Just finished the first coat.’ A clear polythene sheet covered half the floor, and on it stood a stepladder, a gallon of pale blue paint, brushes, tray and rollers. ‘It’s not about that woman, is it?’ he asked.

‘What woman?’

‘An old lady not far from here was murdered by thugs a few months ago. I had a policeman around then.’

‘No, sir, it’s not about the woman. That would have been York Region. I’m from Eastvale CID.’

Ramsden frowned. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand then. Pardon me, I don’t mean to seem rude, but…’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Banks apologized, accepting the whisky and soda Ramsden had poured for him without asking. ‘This isn’t easy for me. Would you care to sit down?’

Ramsden looked alarmed. ‘What is it?’ he asked, fitting himself awkwardly into a small armchair.

‘You were expecting Mr Steadman to visit you last night?’

‘Harry? That’s right. We had some notes to go over before today’s field trip. Why? Has something happened?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid it has,’ Banks said as gently as he could, aware of the muscles in his stomach clenching tightly. ‘Mr Steadman is dead.’

Ramsden brushed back the phantom forelock. ‘I don’t follow. Dead? But he was coming here.’

‘I know that, Mr Ramsden. That’s why I wanted to tell you myself. Weren’t you surprised when he didn’t show up? Weren’t you worried?’

Ramsden shook his head. ‘No, no, of course I wasn’t. It wasn’t the first time he hadn’t come. But are you sure? About Harry, I mean. Can’t there have been some mistake?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘What on earth happened?’

‘We’re not certain about that yet, sir, but a farmer found his body this morning in a field under Crow Scar. It looks as if he was murdered.’

‘Murdered? Good God! Harry? I can’t believe it.’

‘You know no one who’d have a reason?’

‘Absolutely not. Nobody. Not Harry.’ He rubbed his face and stared at Banks. ‘I’m sorry, Chief Inspector, I can’t really think straight. I’m having trouble taking this all in. I’ve known Harry for a long time. A long time. This is such a shock.’