his home for hot dogs and pop after some of the trips.’
‘Us?’
‘Yes, the pupils who lived in Helmthorpe or Gratly. There were about seven of us usually. His wife made us all some food and we just sat and talked about where we’d been and what
we’d found. He was a very nice man.’
‘What about his wife, did you know her?’
‘Not really. She didn’t stick around with us. She always had something else to do. I think she was just shy. But Mr Steadman wasn’t. He’d talk to anybody.’
‘Was that the only time you saw him? At school, on trips?’
Sally’s eyes narrowed again. ‘Well, apart from in the street or in shops, yes. Look, if you mean was he a dirty old man, the answer’s no.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ Banks said. But he was glad that she had reacted as if it was.
He made her go through the story again while he took down all the particulars. She gave the information unwillingly this time, as if all she wanted was to get out of the place. When she finally
left, Banks slouched back in his chair and grinned to think that all his appeal, all his glamour, had been lost in his move from London to Eastvale. Outside in the market square the clock chimed
four.
5
ONE
On Tuesday morning, having sent Sergeant Hatchley to Helmthorpe to check on Weaver’s progress, search Harold Steadman’s study and bring in Teddy Hackett for
questioning, Banks set off for York to visit Michael Ramsden again.
He drove into the ancient Roman city at about eleven o’clock through suburbs of red-brick boxes. After getting lost in the one-way system for half an hour, he found a parking space by the
River Ouse and crossed the bridge to Fisher & Faulkner Ltd, a squat ugly brick building by the waterside. The pavements were busy with tourists and businessmen, and the huge Minster seemed to
dominate the city; its light stone glowed in the morning sun.
A smart male receptionist pointed him in the right direction, and on the third floor one of Ramsden’s assistants called through to the boss.
Ramsden’s office looked out over the river, down which a small tour boat was wending its way. The top deck was bright with people in summer holiday clothes, and camera lenses flashed in
the sun. The boat left a long V of ripples, which rocked the rowing boats in its wake.
The office itself was small and cluttered; beside the desk and filing cabinets stood untidy piles of manuscripts, some stacked on the floor, and two bookcases displaying a set of Fisher &
Faulkner’s titles. Even in a dark business suit, Ramsden still looked as if his clothes were too big for him; he had the distracted air of a professor of nuclear physics about to explain
atomic fission to a layman while simultaneously working out complex formulae in his mind. He brushed back an invisible forelock and asked Banks to sit down.
‘You were a close friend of Harold Steadman’s,’ Banks began. ‘Could you tell me a little about him? His background, how you met, that kind of thing.’
Ramsden leaned back in his swivel chair and crossed his long legs. ‘You know,’ he said, looking sideways towards the window, ‘I was always just a little bit in awe of Harry.
Not just because he was nearly fifteen years my senior – that never really mattered – but because I don’t think we ever really got over the student-professor relationship. When we
met, he was a lecturer at Leeds and I was just about to begin my studies in London, so we weren’t even at the same university. We weren’t in the same field, either. But these ideas get
fixed in one’s mind nonetheless. I was eighteen and Harry was nearly thirty-three. He was a very intelligent, very dedicated man – an exact role model for someone like me at that
time.
‘Anyway, although I was, as I said, just about to go to university in London, I always came home at Christmas and in summer. I’d help around the house, do odd jobs, make bacon and
eggs for the guests. And I loved being at
‘Us?’
‘Yes, the pupils who lived in Helmthorpe or Gratly. There were about seven of us usually. His wife made us all some food and we just sat and talked about where we’d been and what
we’d found. He was a very nice man.’
‘What about his wife, did you know her?’
‘Not really. She didn’t stick around with us. She always had something else to do. I think she was just shy. But Mr Steadman wasn’t. He’d talk to anybody.’
‘Was that the only time you saw him? At school, on trips?’
Sally’s eyes narrowed again. ‘Well, apart from in the street or in shops, yes. Look, if you mean was he a dirty old man, the answer’s no.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ Banks said. But he was glad that she had reacted as if it was.
He made her go through the story again while he took down all the particulars. She gave the information unwillingly this time, as if all she wanted was to get out of the place. When she finally
left, Banks slouched back in his chair and grinned to think that all his appeal, all his glamour, had been lost in his move from London to Eastvale. Outside in the market square the clock chimed
four.
5
ONE
On Tuesday morning, having sent Sergeant Hatchley to Helmthorpe to check on Weaver’s progress, search Harold Steadman’s study and bring in Teddy Hackett for
questioning, Banks set off for York to visit Michael Ramsden again.
He drove into the ancient Roman city at about eleven o’clock through suburbs of red-brick boxes. After getting lost in the one-way system for half an hour, he found a parking space by the
River Ouse and crossed the bridge to Fisher & Faulkner Ltd, a squat ugly brick building by the waterside. The pavements were busy with tourists and businessmen, and the huge Minster seemed to
dominate the city; its light stone glowed in the morning sun.
A smart male receptionist pointed him in the right direction, and on the third floor one of Ramsden’s assistants called through to the boss.
Ramsden’s office looked out over the river, down which a small tour boat was wending its way. The top deck was bright with people in summer holiday clothes, and camera lenses flashed in
the sun. The boat left a long V of ripples, which rocked the rowing boats in its wake.
The office itself was small and cluttered; beside the desk and filing cabinets stood untidy piles of manuscripts, some stacked on the floor, and two bookcases displaying a set of Fisher &
Faulkner’s titles. Even in a dark business suit, Ramsden still looked as if his clothes were too big for him; he had the distracted air of a professor of nuclear physics about to explain
atomic fission to a layman while simultaneously working out complex formulae in his mind. He brushed back an invisible forelock and asked Banks to sit down.
‘You were a close friend of Harold Steadman’s,’ Banks began. ‘Could you tell me a little about him? His background, how you met, that kind of thing.’
Ramsden leaned back in his swivel chair and crossed his long legs. ‘You know,’ he said, looking sideways towards the window, ‘I was always just a little bit in awe of Harry.
Not just because he was nearly fifteen years my senior – that never really mattered – but because I don’t think we ever really got over the student-professor relationship. When we
met, he was a lecturer at Leeds and I was just about to begin my studies in London, so we weren’t even at the same university. We weren’t in the same field, either. But these ideas get
fixed in one’s mind nonetheless. I was eighteen and Harry was nearly thirty-three. He was a very intelligent, very dedicated man – an exact role model for someone like me at that
time.
‘Anyway, although I was, as I said, just about to go to university in London, I always came home at Christmas and in summer. I’d help around the house, do odd jobs, make bacon and
eggs for the guests. And I loved being at
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