A Dedicated Man (7 page)

‘When you hit someone over the head, Doc,’ Jack Barker asked, ‘does the blood gush, pour or just flow?’

‘That’s a pretty tasteless question at a time like this, isn’t it?’ Barnes said.

Barker reached for his pint. ‘It’s for my book.’

‘In that case, I shouldn’t think accuracy matters, then, does it? Use the most violent word you can think of. Your readers won’t know any more than you do.’

‘You’re wrong there, Doc. You should see some of the letters I get. There’s plenty of ghouls among the reading public. Do you know how many of those little old ladies are
hooked on gruesome forensic details?’

‘No. And I don’t want to, either. I see enough blood in my line of work as it is. And I still think you’re showing poor taste talking like that before poor Harry’s even
in the ground.’

It was early, and Barnes and Barker were the only members of the informal group sitting in the snug.

‘Death comes to us all in the end, Doc,’ Barker replied. ‘You ought to know that. You’ve helped enough people shuffle off their mortal coils.’

Barnes scowled at him. ‘How can you be so bloody flippant? For God’s sake, have a bit of decency, Jack. Even you’ve got to admit that his death was an untimely one.’

‘It must have been timely enough for the killer.’

‘I don’t understand you, Jack. Never in a million years . . .’ Barnes sighed over his beer. ‘Still, I have to keep reminding myself you write about this kind of thing all
the time.’

‘It’s just shock,’ Barker said, reaching for a cigarette. ‘Believe it or not, I didn’t personally witness every murder I’ve written about. And as you well
know, I’ve never set foot on American soil either.’ He ran a hand across his slicked-back hair. ‘It’s a bloody sad business, all right. I know we used to tease the poor
bugger about his rusty nails and pigs of lead, but I’ll miss him a lot.’

Barnes acknowledged the eulogy with a curt nod.

‘Have the police been talking to you yet?’ Barker asked.

The doctor seemed surprised. ‘Me? Goodness, no. Why should they?’

‘Oh, come off it, Doc. I know you’re an eminent GP, pillar of the community and all that crap. But that kind of thing doesn’t cut much ice with the CID, old man. And it
doesn’t alter the fact that you were here last night with the rest of us and you left quite a bit earlier than usual.’

‘You surely don’t think the police would . . .’ he began. Then he relaxed and mumbled almost to himself, ‘Of course, they’ll have to check every angle. Leave no
stone unturned.’

‘Cut the clichés,’ Barker said. ‘They hurt.’

Barnes snorted. ‘I can’t see why; you write enough of them yourself.’

‘It’s one thing giving the public what it wants and the publishers what they pay for, but quite another to spout them out in intelligent company. Anyway, you look worried, Doc. What
skeletons will they find in your cupboard?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Barnes said. ‘And I don’t think you should joke about a matter as important as this. After all, poor Harry
is
dead. And you know damn
well where I had to go last night. Mrs Gaskell is already a week overdue with her delivery and, frankly, I’m getting a bit worried.’

‘I suppose she can give you an alibi, then?’

‘Of course she can, should it ever come to that. Besides, what possible motive could I have for harming Harry?’

‘Oh, still waters run murky and deep,’ Barker replied, mimicking the doctor’s own style of speech.

At that moment, Teddy Hackett arrived, looking every inch the flamboyant entrepreneur. He was a vain dresser, always wearing a shirt with a monogram or an alligator embroidered on its top
pocket, gold medallion and expensive designer jeans. He tried to look younger than he was, but his dark hair was receding fast at the temples and a flourishing beer belly hung over his belt, almost
obscuring a hand-wrought silver buckle depicting a growling lion’s head.

It was well known around the village that when Hackett wasn’t making money or drinking with his cronies, he was living it up in nightclubs in Leeds, Darlington or Manchester, turning on
the charm for any attractive young woman who came his way. He had certainly done well for himself – the garage, a couple of gift shops – and he kept a keen eye open for anything else
that came on the market. He was the kind of businessman who, given free rein, would probably buy up the whole dale and turn it into a gigantic funfair.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said, easing into his chair with a brimming pint grasped in his fist. ‘What a turn-up for the book, hey?’

Barnes nodded and Barker stubbed out his cigarette.

‘Got any details?’ Hackett asked.

‘No more than anyone else, I should think,’ Barker replied. ‘I bet the doc’ll find out a thing or two after the autopsy.’

Barnes reddened with anger. ‘That’s enough, Jack,’ he snarled. ‘These things are confidential. It’ll be done in Eastvale General by the pathologist, Glendenning.
They’re bloody lucky to have him up here. One of the best in the country, or so I’ve heard.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s at it
already. Dead keen, they say.’ He faltered, catching the unintentional pun a moment after he’d let it out. ‘Anyway, you can be sure it’ll go no further.’

‘Like young Joanie Lomax’s recent dose of clap, eh?’

‘You’re going too far, Jack. I know you’re upset like the rest of us. Why can’t you admit it instead of behaving like some bloody actress waiting for opening night
reviews?’

Barker shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

‘Has anyone been questioned yet?’ Hackett asked.

The other two shook their heads.

‘It’s just that I saw that detective fellow – I’m sure I recognize him from that photo in the local rag last autumn. He’s at the bar right now.’

They all looked over and saw Banks leaning against the bar, foot on the rail, apparently enjoying a quiet pint alone.

‘That’s him,’ Barker confirmed. ‘I saw him leaving Emma’s this morning. What are you so nervous about anyway, Teddy? You’ve got nothing to hide, have
you?’

‘Nothing, no. But we were all here last night with him, weren’t we? I mean, they’re sure to want to question us. Why haven’t they done it yet?’

‘You left after Harry, as I remember,’ Barker said.

‘Yes. It was Saturday night, wasn’t it? Had to get up to Darly for Freddy’s new club opening. Bloody good night it was, too. There were some real corkers around, Jack. Why
don’t you come along with me sometime? Handsome young bachelor like yourself ought to get around and about a bit more.’

‘Ah,’ Barker replied, shaking his head. ‘Better things to do with my time than chase scrubbers in a disco, mate. A writer’s life . . .’

‘Writer, my arse!’ Hackett said. ‘I could turn out that junk in my coffee break.’

Barker raised an eyebrow and grinned. ‘Maybe so, Teddy, but you don’t, do you? There’s the difference. Besides, I hear you’ve had to hire a secretary with a BA in English
to translate your business letters for you.’

‘My English would hardly be a handicap if I was in your line of work. Anyway, there’s no room for fancy footwork in a business letter. You know that, Jack. Short and to the
point.’

‘That’s what the reviewers said about my last book.’ Barker sighed. ‘Well, perhaps not in so many words.’

And even Doc Barnes had to laugh at that.

After that brief and traditional exchange the three of them fell silent, as if they knew that they had been talking and joking as usual just to fill the void of Harry’s absence, to pretend
for as long as possible that nothing had changed, that nothing so brutal and final as murder had touched the cosy little group.

Barker volunteered to buy another round and went to stand next to Banks at the bar. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘but aren’t you the policeman investigating Harry
Steadman’s death?’ When Banks nodded, Barker stuck out his hand. ‘Jack Barker. I’m a friend of his.’

Banks offered his condolences.

‘Look,’ Barker went on, ‘we were wondering – I mean, we were all pals of Harry’s and we spent a good deal of yesterday evening with him – would you care to
join us in the snug? It’ll be a sight more comfortable and convenient than hauling us all in to the station individually for questioning.’

Banks laughed and accepted the offer. ‘I reserve the right to haul you in if I want to, though,’ he added, only half in jest.

Banks had been intending to drop in on them all along. He had been imitating the vampire, who will not enter his victim’s room until invited, and was pleased that his little trick had
worked. Perhaps there was something in Gristhorpe’s advice after all. Curiosity had got the better of them.

Barker looked happy enough to be bringing him back in tow, but the other two appeared uneasy. Banks, however, was experienced enough not to read too much into their reaction. He knew what
discomfort the arrival of the police always caused. Even the most innocent of men and women begin to worry about that forgotten parking ticket or the little income tax fiddle as soon as a copper
comes in range.

A tense silence followed the introductions, and Banks wondered if they expected him to begin a formal interrogation, notebook in hand. Instead, he began to fill his pipe, glancing at them in
turn as he did so. Barker looked suave in a forties film star kind of way, and Barnes was a little balding grey man with glasses. He had the shabby look of a backstreet abortionist about him, Banks
thought. Finally, Hackett, the flashy one, started to chat nervously.

‘We were just talking about Harry,’ he said. ‘Sad business. Can’t think who’d want to do such a thing.’

‘Is that what you all think?’ Banks asked, keeping his eyes on the pipe.

They all murmured their agreement. Hackett lit an American cigarette and went on: ‘It’s like this. Harry might have been a bit of a dotty professor type, and I don’t deny we
teased him a bit, but it was all in good humour. He was a fine man, good-tempered, even-natured. He had a sharp mind – and a tongue to match when it came to it – but he was a good man;
he never hurt a soul, and I can’t think why anyone would want to kill him.’

‘Somebody obviously felt differently,’ Banks said. ‘I hear he inherited a lot of money.’

‘Over a quarter of a million. His father was an inventor. Patented some electronic device and opened a factory. Did very well. I suppose the wife’ll get it now?’

‘That’s how it usually goes. What’s your opinion of Mrs Steadman?’

‘I can’t say I really know her well,’ Hackett answered. ‘She only came down here occasionally. Seems a good woman. Harry never complained, anyway.’

Barnes agreed.

‘I’m afraid I can’t add anything,’ Barker said. ‘I know her slightly better than the others – we were, after all, practically neighbours up in Gratly –
but she seems unremarkable enough to me. Not much interested in Harry’s work. Stays in the background mostly. But she’s not stupid – and she knows how to cook a good
dinner.’

Banks noticed Barker look over his shoulder at the bar and turned to see what the attraction was. He was just in time to see a young woman with glossy black hair down to her waist. She wore a
blue shawl over a white silky blouse, and a long loose skirt that curved from her slim waist over the graceful swell of her hips. He only glimpsed her face in profile for a moment as she walked
out. It looked good: angular, high cheekbones, straight nose, like a North American Indian. Half obscured by her hair, a crescent of silver flashed where her jaw met her long neck.

‘Who’s that?’ he asked Barker.

Barker smiled. ‘Oh, you noticed, I see. That’s Olicana.’ He pronounced the foreign word slowly.

‘Olicana?’

‘Yes. At least that’s what Harry used to call her. Apparently it’s what the Romans called Ilkely, the spirit of the place, the
genius loci
. Her real name is Penny
Cartwright. Not half as exotic, is it?’

‘What happened last night?’ Banks asked with an abruptness that startled Barker. ‘Was it a normal evening’s drinking as far as you were all concerned?’

‘Yes,’ Barker answered. ‘Harry was on his way to York and dropped in for a couple of swift halves.’

‘He didn’t drink any more than usual?’

‘A little less, if anything. He was driving.’

‘Did he seem unusually excited or worried about anything?’

‘No.’ Barker assumed the role of spokesman. ‘He was always excited about his work – some rusty nail or broken cartwheel.’

‘Rusty nail?’

‘Yes. That’s how we used to joke about it. It was his field of study. Industrial archaeology. His one great passion, really. That and the Roman occupation.’

‘I see. I’ve been told that Mr Steadman was supposed to visit an old lead mine in Swaledale today. Know anything about that?’

‘I think he mentioned it, yes. We tried not to let him get away with too much shop talk, though. I mean, it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, is it, rusty nails?’

‘What time did he leave here last night?’

Barker concentrated for a moment. ‘It’d be about a quarter to nine,’ he answered finally, and the others nodded in agreement.

‘When did you leave?’

Barker glanced at Barnes and Hackett before answering. ‘I left about ten fifteen. I was alone by then and it was no fun.’

Banks turned to the other two and they gave him their stories.

‘So you see,’ Barker concluded, ‘any one of us could have done it. Our alibis are all weak.’

‘Just a minute!’ Barnes cut in.

‘Only joking, Doc. Sorry, it was in poor taste. But it is true, isn’t it? Are we suspects, Inspector? It
is
Inspector, isn’t it?’

‘Chief Inspector,’ Banks answered. ‘And no, there aren’t any suspects yet.’

‘I know what that means. When there are no suspects, everybody’s a suspect.’

‘You write detective stories, don’t you, Mr Barker?’ Banks asked mildly. Barker flushed and the others laughed.

‘Defective stories, I always call them,’ Hackett chipped in.

‘Very droll,’ Barker growled. ‘There’s hope for you yet.’

‘Tell me,’ Banks went on, pushing the pace now he’d got them going. ‘You’re all well off. Why do you drink in a dump like this?’ He looked around at the
peeling wallpaper and the scored, stained tables.