A Dedicated Man (15 page)

Banks followed him into a sitting room dominated by a huge framed reproduction of a bare-breasted woman carrying a flag over a battlefield of dead and wounded soldiers; she was accompanied by a
small boy with a gun in each hand.

‘
Liberty Leading the People
,’ the major said, catching him staring at it. ‘Delacroix. That’s what we were fighting for, isn’t it?’

Luckily, Banks could recognize a rhetorical question when he heard one. He turned his attention to the terrier sniffing around his ankles and tried subtly shifting his feet to make it go away.
Banks didn’t like dogs – if anything, he was a cat man – but he liked it even less when their proud owners expected him to fuss over the damned animals as if they were newborn
babies. Kicking out a bit harder, Banks finally persuaded the pooch to slink off to its basket, from where it gazed at him with an expression of resentment mingled with arrogance. The major was
pouring drinks, so fortunately his back was turned.

Stale smoke made the warm room stuffy. Banks spotted an antique pipe rack on the wall above the fireplace and, hoping to establish a rapport, he sat in a straight-backed chair and coaxed his own
briar alight.

The major handed him a small whisky and soda, took a larger one for himself, and sat down in the scuffed leather armchair that had obviously been his since time immemorial.

Some military types, Banks found, regarded the police as fellow professionals, colleagues-in-arms almost, but others looked upon them as upstarts, petty dabblers who had not quite made the
grade. Major Cartwright seemed to be of the latter type. He looked at Banks with open hostility, the purple veins around his nose showing a clear predilection for early morning snifters.

‘What is it, then?’ he asked, as if he had been interrupted in the midst of planning a new assault on the Boers.

Banks explained about the murder, drawing only grunts and sharp nods, and tried as delicately as he could to mention that the major had probably been the last person, apart from the killer, to
see Steadman alive.

‘When would that be?’ Cartwright asked.

‘Saturday night, about ten o’clock.’

The major stared at him with icy blue eyes and sipped his whisky. ‘Who told you that?’

‘It doesn’t matter who told me, Major. Is it true?’

‘I suppose it was that busybody of a neighbour, eh? Silly old biddy.’

‘Did you see him and did you have an argument?’

‘You can’t be suggesting—’

‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just asking you a simple question.’

The major swirled the whisky in his glass for a moment, then answered, ‘All right, what if I did?’

‘You tell me.’

‘Nothing to tell, really. Found him hanging about my daughter again and told him to sling his hook.’

‘Why did you react so violently?’

‘It’s not right.’ Cartwright leaned forward in his chair. ‘A married man, older than her. What would you do? It’s not healthy.’ He slumped back again.

‘Did you assume they were having an affair?’

‘Now hold on a minute, young man. Hold your horses. I never said anything like that.’

‘Look,’ Banks pressed on, ‘I’m not making any accusations or charges. I’m asking you what you thought. If you didn’t think your daughter was likely to be
involved in anything unsavoury, then why did you practically kick Steadman down the street?’

‘She’s exaggerating, the old bag.’ Cartwright sniffed. He tossed back the rest of his drink, then got up and picked an old briar from the rack and filled it with twist from a
pouch. ‘We had words, yes, but I never laid a finger – or a toe – on him. Anyway, it’s a matter of principle, isn’t it? A married man. People talk.’

Banks found it hard to see the link between principle and the fear of gossip, but he ignored the issue. ‘Is that why you objected to a harmless relationship that both parties seemed to
enjoy?’ he asked instead. ‘Did you behave the same way over all your daughter’s friendships?’

‘Dammit, the man was married,’ the major repeated.

‘He was married ten years ago when they first met, but you didn’t object then, did you?’

‘That was all in the open. Always someone else around – young Michael. She was just a girl. Look, if they want to meet, they can do it openly, can’t they? In a pub with other
people there, for example. No reason to shut themselves up in private like that. They’re a sharp-tongued lot in this village, lad. You don’t know the half of it.’

‘Were you worried that they’d talk like they did about you and your daughter? Is that what you wanted to protect her from?’

The major whitened and sagged in his chair. All of a sudden his belligerence seemed to desert him and he looked his age. He got up slowly and mixed himself another drink. ‘Heard about
that, did you?’

Banks nodded.

‘You weren’t there,’ he said in a sad, bitter tone. ‘You can’t know what it was like for the two of us after my wife died. I couldn’t look after myself, had
to go into hospital for a while, had to send Penny away to the Ramsdens. But she came back and cared for me. Self lessly, God bless her. She’s an only child, you know. And then the vicious
gossip started. It only takes one to start the rumour – just one rotten bastard – then it spreads like the plague until everyone’s had enough of it and something better comes
along. And it’s just a game to them. They don’t even care whether it’s true or not; it just titillates their imaginations, that’s all. I blame them for driving her away.
They said it wasn’t natural, the two of us together. After she left, I sold the house and moved here.’

‘I thought she left to start a career in music?’

‘Oh, she’d have gone eventually. But she was too young. She shouldn’t have gone so soon; then things wouldn’t have turned out the way they did for her.’

‘She seems well enough adjusted to me. Maybe a little sharp at the edges.’

‘You didn’t know her before. Lost a lot of her spirit, her joy. Too young to be a cynic. Anyway, she couldn’t stand it here with people staring at her that way. Took a lot of
courage for her to come back.’

‘So you forgave her?’

‘Nothing to forgive, really. She thought she’d let me down, leaving me like that. There’d been rows, fights, yes. But I never stopped loving her. Steadman wasn’t a bad
sort, I know that. A bit wet, I always thought, but not a bad sort. I just wanted to spare her it all again. She’s bitter enough already. But it’s not the first time I’ve had
words with him. Ask anyone. My argument with Steadman wasn’t new.’

‘What happened on Saturday night?’

‘Nothing, really. I told him not to call on her alone after dark again. I’d told him before. I suppose I just made things worse, drawing attention to it.’

‘What did you do afterwards?’

‘When he’d gone?’

‘Yes.’

‘I stayed and talked to Penny for an hour or so. She was a bit upset with me but we settled things amicably enough.’

‘Can you remember what time you left?’

‘I can remember the church bells ringing eleven. It wasn’t long after that.’

‘And Steadman left at ten?’

‘That was when I arrived, yes.’

‘Did you notice anyone hanging around the area?’

‘No. It was quiet. Always is up there. There were a few people on High Street, but nothing unusual.’

‘Did Steadman say where he was going? Did he give you any idea at all what he intended to do next?’

Major Cartwright shook his head. ‘No, he just left. Sorry I can’t be of more help to you, Inspector.’

‘Never mind. Thanks for your time, anyway, Major.’

Cartwright turned and walked over to the drinks cabinet, leaving Banks to make his own way back downstairs.

With her head propped up on cushions, Sally lay in the back garden, sunbathing in her pale blue bikini. It was a luxury she felt entitled to as she had made temporary peace
with her parents by breaking a date with Kevin the previous evening in order to visit boring Aunt Madge in Skipton. There, she had sipped tea from tiny fragile china cups with gilded rims and red
roses painted on their sides, and had answered politely all the dull and predictable questions about her schoolwork. At least the television had been on – Aunt Madge never turned it off
– so she had been able to half-watch an old Elizabeth Taylor film while pretending to pay attention to the conversation, which ranged from the shocking state of the neighbour’s garden
to news of a distant cousin’s hysterectomy. The odd thing was that her parents hadn’t seemed to enjoy the evening much either; her father hardly said a word. They all seemed relieved
when the goodbyes had been said and they could troop out to the car.

With a sigh, Sally put down
Wuthering Heights
and rolled over on to her stomach. Her skin was already glowing pleasantly, and even with the lotion she would have to be careful how long
she spent outside.

She was puzzled and frustrated by the book. In the film – even the old black and white version with Laurence Olivier – Heathcliff had seemed so sexy and tragic. She remembered
sharing tissues with her mother while they watched it on television and her father had laughed at them. But the book was different; not the story – that was basically the same – but the
character of Heathcliff. True, he loved Catherine passionately, but in the book he was so much more cruel and violent. He seemed to want to destroy everyone around him. And worse, he was even more
interested in getting his hands on the house and property. That was the real reason he married Isabella – though he did appear to be taking revenge for Edgar marrying Catherine – and an
obsession with acquiring property was hardly romantic. He acted more like a demented (and much more handsome) Teddy Hackett than a true heroic figure.

She reached for her glass of Perrier. It was warm; the ice had all melted and the sparkle had vanished. Pulling a face, she rolled on to her back again and started thinking rather despondently
about her sleuthing. There wasn’t much to think about. She had no idea who the police suspected, what clues they had, what they knew about motives and opportunities. All she had to go on was
what anyone in the village would know about Steadman: that he seemed fond of Penny Cartwright, much to her father’s chagrin; that he worked a lot with Michael Ramsden; that he had been able
to help the Ramsden family by buying the house when the father died; that he was generally well liked; that he drank in the Bridge with Jack Barker, Teddy Hackett and Dr Barnes. He just
didn’t seem the type to go around inflaming people’s passions, like Heathcliff. But he must have done; somebody had killed him.

It had to be a man. Of that, Sally was sure. Steadman had been quite tall and must have weighed a bit; no woman could have manoeuvred his body over the wall and all that way up the field. But
that still left too many suspects. If only she had had the foresight to watch from the shelter that night. Sally began to apply her imagination to the facts. Everyone knew that Michael Ramsden had
once courted Penny Cartwright. What if he was still carrying a torch for her, like Heathcliff for Catherine, and was jealous of Steadman’s attentions? But she remembered seeing Ramsden
– and avoiding him – that evening she went drinking in Leeds with Kevin. He had been with a good-looking woman, and though Sally had only got a fleeting glance while pulling Kevin
quickly back out through the door before they were seen, she knew it wasn’t Penny. And he’d hardly be going out with someone else if he was still in love with her.

There was Jack Barker. At first she hadn’t suspected him, but now she could see him acting in the heat of passion. She’d noticed how often he’d been out walking with Penny
around the village lately and wondered if Barker might have seen Steadman as an obstacle. He wrote detective stories, after all, so he must know all about murder. Even though he was a gentleman, he
would hardly stand there with the gun smoking in his hand and wait for the police to come. Surely he would try and get rid of the body so he could remain free and win Penny’s love. She
wondered if he had an alibi and if there was any way of finding out.

And then there was Hackett. No love interest there, of course, but she’d heard rumours of arguments over property. People certainly seemed to get all steamed up about such things in
Wuthering Heights
.

She reached out for her suntan lotion. One more coat, another hour or so, then she’d go in. As far as catching the murderer was concerned, all she could do was try to remember all
she’d seen and heard in the village since the Steadmans came to Gratly eighteen months ago. Maybe there was something she’d overlooked: a word or gesture that had meant nothing or made
no sense at the time but took on more significance in the light of the murder. She had a good visual memory – it probably came from watching so many films – so she could review facial
expressions and body language. Maybe something would click if she worked at it.

The oil felt good as she massaged it slowly into her stomach and thighs, and she wished Kevin’s hands were rubbing it on her flushed skin. A bee droned around the neck of the open bottle,
then floated away. Sally picked up her book again, leaving oily fingerprints on the pages.

The two men walked slowly along Helmthorpe High Street deep in conversation. Banks had one hand in his trouser pocket, and the other held a light sports jacket slung casually
over his shoulder. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up above the elbows and he had loosened his tie enough to allow him to open his top button. Banks hated ties, and wearing them loosely
was his way of compromising. He walked with his head bowed, listening to Hatchley, who towered beside him. The sergeant had both hands clasped behind his back and his head was tilted back on his
thick neck as if he were examining the rooftops; a well cultivated beer belly hung over his tight belt. The weather was still undecided, and the sun popped in and out between quick-moving clouds
that raced over on the wind and cast their shadows across the bright face of Crow Scar.

‘Said he was in a bit of a state,’ Hatchley went on. ‘Shook up, like. Downed a quick double Scotch and went on his way.’