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
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
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