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    A Dedicated Man (An Inspector Banks Mystery)
    A Dedicated Man (An Inspector Banks Mystery)
    A Dedicated Man (An Inspector Banks Mystery)
    Ebook340 pages5 hours

    A Dedicated Man (An Inspector Banks Mystery)

    By Peter Robinson

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    An admired local historian is found dead and half-buried in a farmer’s field in the village of Gratly. A slimy land-developer, an editor, a local thriller writer, and a beautiful folk singer are all figures from the historian’s past, and all of them are suspects. Sally, a young would-be actress, knows more than she’s telling and wants to solve the case herself, but may find herself in danger. There’s trouble brewing beneath Gratly’s idyllic surface, and Chief Inspector Alan Banks must get to the bottom of the village’s secrets. Second in the critically acclaimed Inspector Banks Mystery Series.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherScribner
    Release dateNov 19, 2013
    ISBN9781476745237
    A Dedicated Man (An Inspector Banks Mystery)
    Author

    Peter Robinson

    Peter Robinson's DCI Banks became a major ITV1 drama starring Stephen Tompkinson as Inspector Banks and Andrea Lowe as DI Annie Cabbot. Peter's standalone novel Before the Poison won the IMBA's 2013 Dilys Award as well as the 2012 Arthur Ellis Award for Best Novel by the Crime Writers of Canada. This was Peter's sixth Arthur Ellis award. His critically acclaimed DCI Banks novels have won numerous awards in Britain, the United States, Canada and Europe, and are published in translation all over the world. In 2020 Peter was made a Grand Master by the Crime Writers of Canada. Peter grew up in Yorkshire, and divided his time between Richmond, UK, and Canada until his death in 2022.

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    Reviews for A Dedicated Man (An Inspector Banks Mystery)

    3.5/5

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    • 4/5
      Continuing my recent discovery and exploration of Peter Robinson’s fiction, I have just completed his second Inspector Banks novel, A Dedicated Man. As I mentioned earlier however, this is actually my third Banks novel since I only discovered Robinson with last year’s Careless Love. It seems that the good inspector has been enjoying something of a major-crime lull since the personal trauma he and wife Sandra suffered in Banks’s debut in Gallows View. All of that though abruptly ends via the brutal murder of a “dedicated man,” a retired college professor who has permanently relocated to Banks’s rather isolated Yorkshire location. Mainly because everyone seems to have loved and respected the victim to such a high degree, the case proves to be a particularly difficult one for Banks to get a handle on, but the inspector counts on his usual persistence, along with a well aimed hard push or two in the right direction, to get the job done. And it’s precisely that attitude that attracts me to Robinson’s Inspector Banks novels. I have always enjoyed a good police procedural and found them to be more satisfying than detective novels by writers who rely on one thrilling scene after another to carry their books to some kind of (usually preposterous) conclusion. For me the best crime fiction writers are those who combine elements of both styles with an emphasis on process over thrill. Thankfully, too, Inspector Banks is a “talker” and several times in A Dedicated Man he explains his crime solving philosophy to one or another of the locals in great detail.Robinson first tells the reader something that Banks learned the hard way:“Banks knew from experience that once a murder investigation begins there is no stopping and little slowing down even for family life. The crime invades mealtimes, ablutions, and sleep; it dominates conversation and puts up an invisible barrier between the investigator and his family.”There’s also this from Robinson explaining the inspector’s mindset:“Banks also liked the feeling of being an outsider. Not a stranger, as he had been among the anonymous, international crowds of London, but an outsider. He knew he always would be no matter how deep he put his roots.” (In Yorkshire)In a revealing conversation with a crime novelist who also is a suspect in the murder investigation, Banks says this:“In writing, yes. In fiction. But in real life, I’m not so sure. It’d be a damn sight easier if I knew who the criminal was without having to write the whole book and make all the mistakes along the way.”Later on when another suspect asks if he is close to solving the murder, he says:“I can’t see it if I am, but detection doesn’t work like that anyway. It’s not a matter of getting closer like a zoom lens, but of getting enough bits and pieces to transform chaos into a recognizable pattern…But you can’t predict when that moment will come. It could be in the next ten seconds or the next ten years. You don’t know what the pattern will look like when it’s there, so you might not even recognize it at first. But soon enough you’ll know you’ve got a design and not just a filing cabinet full of odds and sods.” I really like Chief Inspector Alan Banks. He may be a bit of a plodder, but he’s not going to quit before he gets the job done. So if police procedurals are for you, I think that author Peter Robinson just may be your guy. And knowing that I have something like 22 more Inspector Banks novels to enjoy makes me happy (hopefully there are many more to come yet).As posted on Book Chase: bookcase.blogpsot.com
    • 4/5
      Another good read by Peter Robinson. Quite different to the first book in the series.
    • 5/5
      An early Banks set back in the late 80s, when there were were few mobile phones and smoking was commonplace. A local man is killed of whom no-one appears to say a harsh word, but someone must have had a reason to kill him and Banks really struggles to get to grips with the case, until inspiration comes from an unlikely source. An excellent plot which had me guessing until the end (and page turning).
    • 3/5
      Peter Robinson published the first Inspector Banks mystery back in 1988. Since then, there have a been many more- the 21st was just published in January of this year! Since Dedicated Man is only #2, I have a ways to go, but I am already excited when I know that I can look forward to meeting characters who grow with each book. It's refreshing to be able to read an "old-fashioned" mystery story - no instant DNA analysis, no cell-phones, no CSI, etc. Banks is a steady, sure and intelligent plotter of facts, a listener who puts as much faith in what he doesn't hear from those he's interviewing as in what they say. His solving of the puzzle is not instantaneous, but rather slow, measured, and finally correct. It's a series I'm definitely going to continue.
    • 3/5
      I had hoped that I might have discovered a long series of police procedurals that I could work my way through, but I don't think I will be doing that. This is set in Yorkshire and features Chief Inspector Alan Banks, who is trying to solve murder case. He spends a lot of time questioning people quite gently in a Midsomer Murders kind of way, while knocking back pints (and more pints) of beer at lunch time and smoking a pipe.There were things about this novel which I enjoyed: Banks seemed to be a well-adjusted family man with no hidden past tragedy and his relationships with his colleagues were realistically portrayed. However, the standard of the writing was not great (favourite line: "I think I was responding to her sexual power unconsciously, and I was put off by her appearance") and the female characters were a bit off somehow. Penny Cartwright seemed to spend the novel having massive mood swings and behaving completely incoherently. Her back story was odd - I don't think people do make up incest-style gossip at all readily personally.While I'm glad the villain was who it turned out to be, I don't think we were given enough clues to work things out for ourselves and Banks kind of stumbled across the answer by discovering the baddies red-handed. Finally, the whole Poirot-style "this is how it went down" explanation at the end was very unprofessional, since it is addressed to his wife and two civilians (and he found out most of it from a confession).Disappointed.
    • 4/5
      Peter Robinson gives us an inside look at police procedures as Inspector Banks solves the mystery of Harry Steadman's murder, a man whom nobody seems to have had a problem with. Robinson's characters are well developed and the story holds your interest right down to the last page. I will definitely be continuing with this series.
    • 3/5
      This is the second of the Alan Banks mystery series. We like to listen to mysteries, especially British mysteries on car trips. Having exhausted some of our other favorite titles, this series seems like it will do well for that purpose.
    • 4/5
      When a well-liked local historian is found murdered, Inspector Banks has to really put his detective skills to work in order to figure out which of the many unlikely suspects is actually guilty. This is a solid whodunit with a very puzzling path to the resolution. The previous installment had a little more depth to the characters, but this was still enjoyable as a mystery, especially since Banks is allowed to be misled and confused, which adds to the realism. There are also some lovely descriptions of the Yorkshire Dales and its people. Because of the change in audiobook reader, I actually like this better than the first one, but that isn't really a reflection on the story as such. Recommended to anyone who enjoys a semi-cozy British mystery.
    • 4/5
      This is the second in Robinson's long-running series featuring Yorkshire-based detective Inspector Banks, but the first that I have read. Like Robinson I am a graduate of the University of Leeds, so I was curious to read the well-respected work of an a fellow alumnus, all the more so in this case because I studied History at Leeds and this novel centres around the murder of a former Leeds history lecturer. I didn't find Banks quite as intriguing or appealing a character as some other fictional detectives, though he could well grow on me since I was certainly impressed enough to want to explore the series further.
    • 5/5
      I really enjoyed this book. I feel sure that I have read some of his books before, but I can't be sure. The plotting was excellent and I enjoyed the fact that the clues were there for the reader to solve the mystery. Very subtle clues, but they were there nonetheless. The only downside is how dated the novel is, the references to a cassette tape player really through me for a bit. :) I am definitely planning on reading more by this author.
    • 4/5
      Inspector Banks visits the village of Gratly to investigate the murder of Harry Steadman, an academic with a passion for the past. A sixteen-year-old girl and her boyfriend were near the murder scene but really did not see anything useful. Suspicion falls to a network of Steadman's friends and associates, many whose relationship with the man dated back at least a decade. Since Steadman seemed to be well-liked, Banks begins investigating the past as well. The installment brings pleasure to the reader following Banks' investigation. While the clues to the murderer's identity exist, the less obvious conclusion keeps readers' attention to the last page. I listened to an the audio version read by James Langton who did a commendable job.
    • 4/5
      This second in the Inspector Banks series does not disappoint. I enjoyed it as much as I did the first one. In this book, Banks is on the trail of a pretty cold and calculating killer who has killed a local man and buried him under rocks in the open area in the area of Yorkshire where Banks lives. Banks finds he has to start sifting through some past history in order to figure out who did the deed, and unfortuanelty he isn't quick enough to find out who it is before another murder occurs. People will go to great lengths to keep the past buried. This is a pretty good series and for anyone who likes British procedurals, it certainly fills the bill.
    • 2/5

      I'm not getting on with the early entries in this series at all. Might go back to the later ones and see if I still enjoy those.

    • 3/5
      This is the first Inspector Banks novel I have read. I found it ok I liked the description of the lovely Yorkshire scenery. A local historian is found dead, Banks investigates then a local girl goes missing. Banks believes both cases must be linked. A few twists and turns then Banks finally gets the breakthrough he has been looking for. Not a bad book it is over 25 years old so no computers, mobile phones and the characters can smoke in the pub. Totally alien to modern days.
    • 4/5
      Good plot. A lot of emphasis on the English countryside, sometimes to the point of distracting from the story.
    • 4/5
      A good read. Good character development. Good mystery without tricks or wide stretches of the imagination. I want to return to Inspector Banks and fortunately Robinson has written other books with this protagonist. John Mark introduced me to this author.
    • 3/5
      I’ve read a few books by Peter Robinson and generally enjoyed them. The TV series based on the books is also pretty good although DCI Banks in the TV series is more of a loner than he appears in the books. I think I prefer the book version of DCI Banks. This book is only the second one in the series and perhaps not quite as good as the later ones.It is summertime in Yorkshire and the weather is glorious. Young lovers spend their time outdoors and tourists are crawling over the moors. But it is neither a young lover nor a tourist who discovers the body of Harry Steadman underneath a stone wall; rather it is a farmer and his dog looking for a lost sheep. The wall is located near to Gratly where Steadman lived but he didn’t make it to the wall on his own steam. Instead he was killed and transported there by someone. Two young lovers, Sally and Kevin, were in a deserted shepherd’s hut nearby and were able to tell the police that a car stopped on the road for about 15 minutes at 12:14 am. Banks and his crew are able to ascertain that Steadman was in the local pub until 8:45 pm. Later Banks learned that Steadman went to visit his friend Penny Cartwright after that and was thrown out by her father around 10 pm. Penny and Harry were just friends although other people in the village thought differently. It doesn’t seem that Harry’s wife Emma was one of them though. Banks is having a hard time establishing a motive for Steadman’s murder. Everyone claims he was well liked and that he didn’t have any enemies. His wife might have the strongest motive since she stood to inherit his sizable estate but she was watching TV with a neighbour all evening. She thought he was off with his friend and publisher doing research for a book on industrial archeology of the region. Banks had to break the news of his death to her. Banks continues to beat the bushes but it isn’t until Sally goes missing and is then found dead that the pieces start to fit together. I love the descriptions of the Yorkshire countryside and the small villages peppered throughout it. Someday I think I will have to be one of those annoying tourists that clutter up the landscape.
    • 3/5
       A much more laid back Banks appears in this installment. I wouldn't call him boring, as much as it seemed he was settling into his environ and trying to not rock the boat. But I got the feeling deep down he was wanting to to shake things up a bit and am hoping he's going to be more assertive in the next go 'round.
    • 2/5
      “A Dedicated Man” is the second book in the Inspector Alan Banks series from Peter Robinson. This time, a well-respected history professor is found dead. There is no apparent motive for his murder; everyone Banks speaks to describes the late professor as “a dedicated man” with no enemies.Banks hits a dead end in the investigation. So he turns, appropriately, to history. He investigates the background of people who know the professor years ago, trying to put together a picture of the relationships in case this sheds new light on the case. The professor’s wife, some of his local drinking buddies, a colleague from York and a couple of friends from the past – all come together like a puzzle to reveal a complex picture of interpersonal feuds and friendships that ultimately reveal the killer.
    • 4/5
      A Dedicated Man by Peter Robinson is the second in the Inspector Banks series, and was written in 1988. This time the Chief Inspector is called out to Helmthorpe in Swainsdale to investigate the murder of a local historian, Harry Steadman. Steadman was hit in the back of the head with a blunt weapon and dumped by a stone wall. Nice right? He was “a dedicated man”; very involved with his work and in a happy relationship with his wife, Emma. He has a strong working relationship with his assistant and editor Michael Ramsden, has a fan and good friend in Penny Cartwright, and often drinks with a local entrepreneur and author at a pub called the Bridge. And, as in all good mysteries, everyone is a suspect. Robinson’s gift is to drop numerous red herrings and make everyone look guilty, or at least appear to have reasonable motive.

      So Banks begins to investigate the life of Harry Steadman. But digging through the past can upset people, and the further Banks gets, the more obvious it becomes that the past is more dark and complicated than he could ever have imagined. The situation is made all the more complicated when a local teenager becomes involved and tries to take the case into her own hands. Sally Lumb, albeit bright and inquisitive, is young and naive, is privy to some fairly pertinent information regarding the case. Her poor decision making, however, lands her in trouble. Banks must then try to solve Sally’s mystery without alerting too many people to the fact that the killer may be ready to strike again.

      I love Peter Robinson’s books. I know that’s a big statement considering I’ve only read two, but his writing style and his emphasis on old fashioned detective work makes his books easy and enjoyable to read. They are quickly devoured, but delivered at such a thrilling pace that picking the killer is damn near impossible. Writing a good crime novel means giving away a little, but not too much information, to keep the reader guessing and to make the whole experience exciting. If you like good crime novels, I urge you to read Peter Robinson.
    • 3/5
      Alan Banks did not move to the end of Earth (well... Yorkshire but it kinda qualifies after London) just to be stuck with gruesome murders again. But being Detective Chief Inspector it is part of his job. And people don't get better and behave better just because they live in the countryside. Harry Steadman is a local historian and archeologist who does not seem to have any enemies in the small village of Gratly. And yet, someone hit him on the head hard enough to kill him - and then hid his body (not very expertly). Small villages tend to hide secrets and Harry is somewhat of an outsider - he moved there in the last years only although he was already known from long vacations he spent in the village before that. But anyone who had ever lived in a small place knows that these places also tend to generate a lot of rumors and trying to sort between rumor and fact is hard, especially if you really do not know the area.Alan Banks suspects from the beginning that there is something under all the rumors but even he gets surprised when the truth starts emerging. He spends the novel trying to stick to his decision to stop smoking cigarettes and instead take to a pipe (it is 1988 after all - these days, it would have been vaping I guess although then the Sherlock Holmes connection would be lost) and that makes him think of Holmes and his usual motto - eliminate the impossible and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. That is what ends up solving the case - but not before more lives are lost and a lot of happy memories shattered. The novel is dated - it was written in 1988 and it was a different world back then. On the other hand it is too new to be different enough to be interesting because of that. As such, it has its problems - you need to keep in mind when the book is written or the blatant sexism may make you want to stop reading. But then it is normal for books written in a different time - the dales of England in the late 80s may as well be a different world sometimes. It is not a great novel but it is a decent one and I enjoy the series.
    • 3/5
      Have been reading these out of order, and would suggest Robinson did improve in later novel. A retired archeologist is murdered and Banks investigates, Found Bank’s preoccupation with a pipe dull & time wasting. The characters all appeared to be in their late fifties, then it became apparent they were supposed to be much younger. A teenager does some sleuthing, and she and her friends seemed to come from the fifties rather than the 1970’s.Couldn’t quite understand why Robinson makes his detective a married man with children. They barely get walk-on parts.Then suddenly Banks put all the pieces together. The mystery was wrapped up rapidly, and Poirot-like he gives a long tell-not-show explanation to the once-suspects.

    Book preview

    A Dedicated Man (An Inspector Banks Mystery) - Peter Robinson

    CHAPTER 1

    I

    When the sun rose high enough to clear the slate roofs on the other side of the street, it crept through a chink in Sally Lumb’s curtains and lit on a strand of gold-blonde hair that curled over her cheek. She was dreaming. Minotaurs, bank clerks, gazelles and trolls cavorted through the barns, maisonettes and gothic palaces of her sleep. But when she awoke a few hours later, all she was left with was the disturbing image of a cat picking its way along a high wall topped with broken glass. Dreams. Most of them she ignored. They had nothing to do with the other kind of dreams, the most important ones that she didn’t have to fall asleep to find. In these dreams, she passed her exams and was accepted into the Marion Boyars Academy of Theatre Arts. There she studied acting, modelling and cosmetic technique, for Sally was realistic enough to know that if she lacked the dramatic talent of a Jessica Lange or a Kathleen Turner, she could at least belong to the fringes of the world of glamour.

    When Sally finally stirred, the bar of sunlight had shifted to the floor beside her bed, striping the untidy pile of clothes she had dropped there the night before. She could hear plates and cutlery clatter in the kitchen downstairs, and the rich smell of roast beef wafted up to her room. She got up. It was good policy, she thought, to get downstairs as soon as possible and help with the vegetables before her mother’s call—It’s on the table!—came grating up to her. At least by showing a willingness to help, she could probably avoid too probing an investigation into her lateness last night.

    Sally stared at herself in the full-length mirror of her old oak wardrobe. Even if there was still a little puppy fat around her hips and thighs, it would soon go away. On the whole, she decided, she had a good body. Her breasts were perfect. Most people, of course, complimented her on her long silky hair, but they hadn’t seen her breasts. Kevin had. Just last night he had caressed them and told her they were perfect. Last night they had gone almost all the way, and Sally knew that the next time, soon, they would. She looked forward to it with a mixture of fear and desire that, according to what she had read in magazines and books, would soon fuse into ecstasy in the heat of passion and longing.

    Sally touched her nipple with the tip of her forefinger and felt a tingle in her loins. The nipple hardened and she moved away from the mirror to get dressed, her face burning.

    Kevin was good. He knew how to excite her; ever since summer began he had played carefully with the boundaries of her desire. He had pushed them back a little further each time, and soon the whole country would be his. He was young, like Sally, but still he seemed to know instinctively how to please her, just as she imagined an experienced older man would know. She even thought she loved Kevin a bit. But if someone else came along—somebody more mature, more wealthy, more sophisticated, someone who was at home in the exciting, fast-paced cities of the world—well, after all, Kevin was only a farm boy at heart.

    Dressed in designer jeans and a plain white T-shirt, Sally drew back the curtains. When her eyes had adjusted to the glare, she looked out on a perfect Swainsdale morning. A few fluffy little clouds—one like a teddy bear, another like a crab—scudded across the piercing blue sky on a light breeze. She looked north up the broad slope of the valley side, its rich greens interrupted here and there by dark patches of heather and outcrops of limestone, to the long sheer wall of Crow Scar, and noticed something very odd. At first she couldn’t make it out at all. Then she squinted, refocused and saw, spread out along the slope just above the old road, five or six blue dots that seemed to be moving in some kind of pattern. She put a finger to her lips, thought for a moment, and frowned.

    II

    Fifteen miles away in Eastvale, the dale’s largest town, somebody else was anticipating a Sunday dinner of succulent roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks lay flat on his stomach in Brian’s room watching an electric train whizz around bends, over bridges, through signals and under papier-mâché mountains. Brian himself was out riding his bike in the local park, but Banks had long since given up the pretence that he only played with the trains for his son’s sake and finally admitted that he found the pastime even more relaxing than a hot bath.

    He heard the phone ring out in the hall, and a few seconds later his daughter, Tracy, shouted through, It’s for you, Dad!

    As Banks rushed downstairs, the aroma from the kitchen made his mouth water. He thanked Tracy and picked up the receiver. It was Sergeant Rowe, desk-officer at Eastvale Regional Headquarters.

    Sorry to bother you, sir, Rowe began, but we’ve just had a call from Constable Weaver over in Helmthorpe. Seems a local farmer’s found a body in one of his fields this morning.

    Go on, Banks urged, snapping into professional gear.

    Chap said he was looking for a stray sheep, sir, when he found this body buried by a wall. Weaver says he shifted one or two stones and it’s a dead ’un all right. Looks like someone bashed ’is ’ead in.

    Banks felt the tightening in his stomach that always accompanied news of murder. He had transferred from London a year ago, sickened by the spiralling of senseless violence there, only to find in the Gallows View case that things could be just as bad, if not worse, up north. The business had left both him and Sandra emotionally exhausted, but since then things had settled down. There’d been nothing but a few burglaries and one case of fraud to occupy his attention, and he had really begun to believe that murders, Peeping Toms and vicious teenagers were the exception rather than the rule in Eastvale.

    Tell Constable Weaver to get back up there with as many local men as he can muster and rope off the area. I want them to start a systematic search, but I don’t want anyone, else closer to the body than ten yards. Got that? The last thing he needed was half a dozen flatfoots trampling down the few square feet where clues were most likely to be found.

    Tell them to put everything they find into marked envelopes, he went on. They should know the procedure, but it won’t do any harm to remind them. And I mean everything. Used rubbers, the lot. Get in touch with Detective Sergeant Hatchley and Dr Glendenning. Tell them to get out there immediately. I’ll want the photographer and the forensic team too. Okay?

    Yes, sir, Sergeant Rowe replied. He knew that Jim Hatchley would be enjoying his usual Sunday lunchtime pint in The Oak and that it would give Banks a great deal of satisfaction to interrupt his pleasure.

    I suppose the super’s been informed?

    Yes, sir. It was him as said to tell you.

    It would be, Banks complained. "I don’t suppose he wanted to miss his Sunday dinner." But he spoke with humour and affection. Superintendent Gristhorpe, of all his new colleagues, was the one who had given him the most support and encouragement during the difficult transition from city to country.

    Banks hung up and slipped on his worn brown jacket with the elbow-patches. He was a small, dark man, in appearance rather like the old Celtic strain of Welshmen, and his physique certainly didn’t give away his profession.

    Sandra, Bank’s wife, emerged from the kitchen as he was preparing to leave. What is it? she asked.

    Looks like a murder.

    She wiped her hands on her blue checked pinafore. So you won’t be in for dinner?

    Sorry, love. Doesn’t look like it.

    And I don’t suppose there’s any point in keeping it warm?

    Shouldn’t think so. I’ll grab a sandwich somewhere. He kissed her quickly on the lips. Don’t worry, I’ll give you a call as soon as I know what’s happening.

    Banks drove his white Cortina west along the valley bottom by the riverside. He was entitled to a police car and driver, but he actually enjoyed driving and preferred his own company when travelling to and from a case. A generous mileage allowance more than compensated him for the cost.

    With one eye on the road and one hand on the wheel, he flipped through an untidy pile of cassette tapes on the passenger seat, selected one and slipped it into the deck.

    Though he swore that his passion for opera had not waned over the winter, he had to admit that he had been side-tracked into the world of English vocal and choral music. It was a change Sandra heartily approved of; she had never liked opera much in the first place, and Wagner had been the last straw for her. After she had finally gone so far as to attack one of his tapes with a magnet—the one with Siegfried’s Funeral March on it, Banks remembered sadly—he had got the message. With Ian Partridge singing Dowland’s I Saw My Lady Weepe, he drove on.

    Like the larger and more famous Yorkshire Dales, Swainsdale runs more or less from west to east, with a slight list towards the south, until the humble river loses itself in the Ouse. At its source near Swainshead, high in the Pennine fells, the River Swain is nothing more than a trickle of sparkling clear water, but in carving its way down towards the North Sea it has formed, with the help of glaciers and geological faults, a long and beautiful dale which broadens out as it approaches the Vale of York. The main town, Eastvale, dominated by its Norman castle, sits at the extreme eastern edge of the dale and looks out over the rich, fertile plain. On a clear day, the Hambleton Hills and the North York Moors are visible in the distance.

    He saw Lyndgarth on the valley side to the north, near the dark ruins of Devraulx Abbey, and passed through peaceful Fortford, where the remains of a Roman fort were still under excavation on a hillock opposite the village green. Ahead, he could see the bright limestone curve of Crow Scar high up on his right, and, as he drew closer, he noticed the local police searching a field marked off by irregular dry-stone walls. The limestone shone bright in the sun, and the walls stood out against the grass like pearl necklaces on an emerald velvet cushion.

    To get to the scene, Banks had to drive through Helmthorpe, the dale’s central market village, turn right at the bridge onto Hill Road, and then turn right again onto a narrow road that meandered north-eastwards about halfway up the valley side. It was a miracle that the track had ever been tarmacked—probably a gesture towards increasing tourism, Banks guessed. No good for tire-tracks, though, he thought gloomily.

    Being more used to getting around in the city than in the countryside, he scraped his knee climbing the low wall and stumbled over the lumpy sods of grass in the field. Finally, out of breath, he got to where a uniformed man, presumably Constable Weaver, stood talking to a gnarled old farmer about fifty yards up the slope.

    By the side of the north-south wall, loosely covered with earth and stones, lay the body. Enough of its covering had been removed to make it recognizable as a man. The head lay to one side, and, kneeling beside it, Banks could see that the hair at the back was matted with blood. A jolt of nausea shot through his stomach, but he quickly controlled it as he began to make mental notes about the scene. Standing up, he was struck by the contrast between the beautiful, serene day and the corpse at his feet.

    Anything been disturbed? he asked Weaver, stepping carefully back over the rope.

    Not much, sir, the young constable replied. His face was white and the sour smell on his breath indicated that he had probably been sick over the wall. Natural enough, Banks thought. Probably the lad’s first corpse.

    Mr Tavistock here,—he gestured towards the whiskered farmer—says he just moved those stones around the head to see what his dog was scratting at.

    Banks looked at Tavistock, whose grim expression betrayed a man used to death. Ex-army, most likely, and old enough to have seen action in two world wars.

    I were lookin’ fer one o’my sheep, Tavistock began in a slow, thick Yorkshire accent, and I saw that there damage to t’wall. I thought there’d bin a c’lapse. He paused and rubbed his grizzly chin. There shouldn’t’a bin no c’lapse in a Bessthwaite wall. Bin there sin’ eighteen thirty, that ’as. Anyroad, old Ben started scratting. At first I thought nowt on it, then . . . He shrugged as if there was nothing more to be said.

    What did you do when you realized what it was? Banks asked.

    Tavistock scratched his turkey neck and spat on the grass. Just ’ad a look, that’s all. I thought it might’a bin a sheep somebody’d killed. That ’appens sometimes. Then I ran ’ome,—he pointed to a farmhouse about half a mile away—and I called young Weaver ’ere.

    Banks was dubious about the ran, but he was glad that Tavistock had acted quickly. He turned away and gave instructions to the photographer and the forensic team, then took off his jacket and leaned against the warm stone wall while the boffins did their work.

    III

    Sally slammed down her knife and fork and yelled at her father: Just because I go for a walk with a boy it doesn’t mean I’m a tramp or a trollop or any of those things!

    Sally! Mrs Lumb butted in. Stop shouting at your father. That wasn’t what he meant and you know it.

    Sally continued to glare. Well that’s what it sounded like to me.

    He was only trying to warn you, her mother went on. You have to be careful. Boys try to take advantage of you sometimes. Especially a good-looking girl like you. She said it with a mixture of pride and fear.

    You don’t have to treat me like I’m a baby, you know, Sally said. I’m sixteen now. She gave her mother a pitying glance, cast another baleful look at her father, and went back to her roast beef.

    Aye, said Mr Lumb, and you’ll do as you’re told till you’re eighteen. That’s the law.

    To Sally, the man sitting opposite her was at the root of all her problems, and, of course, Charles Lumb fitted easily into the role his daughter had assigned him: that of an old-fashioned, narrow-minded yokel, whose chief argument against anything new and interesting was, What was good enough for my father and his father before him is good enough for you, too, young lady. There was a strong conservative streak in him, only to be expected of someone whose family had lived in the area for more generations than could be remembered. A traditionalist, Charles Lumb often said that the dale as he had loved it was dying. He knew that the only chance for the young was to get away, and that saddened him. Quite soon, he was certain, even the inhabitants of the Dales villages would belong to the National Trust, English Heritage or the Open Spaces Society. Like creatures in a zoo, they would be paid to act out their quaint old ways in a kind of living museum. The grandson of a cabinet-maker, Lumb, who worked at the local dairy factory, found it hard to see things otherwise. The old crafts were dying out because they were uneconomical, and only tourists kept one cooper, one blacksmith and one wheelwright in business.

    But because Lumb was a Yorkshireman through and through, he tended to bait and tease in a manner that could easily be taken too seriously by an ambitious young girl like Sally. He delivered the most outrageous statements and opinions about her interests and dreams in such a deliberately deadpan voice that anyone could be excused for not catching the gentle, mocking humour behind them. If he had been less sarcastic and his daughter less self-centred, they might both have realized that they loved each other very much.

    The thing was, though, Charles Lumb would have liked to see more evidence of common sense in his daughter. She was certainly a bright girl, and it would be easy for her to get into university and become a doctor or a lawyer. A damn sight easier, he reflected, than it was in his day. But no, it had to be this bloody academy, and for all he tried, he could see no value in learning how to paint faces and show off swimsuits. If he had thought she had it in her to become a great actress, then he might have been more supportive. But he didn’t. Maybe time would prove him wrong. He hoped so. At least seeing her on the telly would be something.

    Sally, after a few minutes’ sulking, decided to change the topic of conversation. Have you seen those men on the hill? she asked. I wonder what they’re doing?

    Looking for something, I shouldn’t wonder, her father replied drily, still not recovered from the argument.

    Sally ignored him. They look like policemen to me. You can see the buttons on their uniforms shining. I’m going up there to have a look after dinner. There’s already quite a crowd along the road.

    Well, make sure you’re back before midnight, her mother said. It cleared the air a bit, and they enjoyed the rest of their meal in peace.

    Sally walked up the hill road and turned right past the cottages. As she hurried on she danced and grabbed fistfuls of dry grass, which she flung up high in the air.

    Several cars blocked the road by the field, and what had looked, from a distance, like a large crowd turned out to be nothing more than a dozen or so curious tourists with their cameras, rucksacks and hiking-boots. It was open country, almost moorland, Sally knew, despite the dry-stone walls that criss-crossed the landscape and gave it some semblance of order. They were old and only the farmers remembered who built them.

    There was more activity in the field than she could recollect ever seeing in such an isolated place. Uniformed men crawled on all fours in the wild grass, and the area by the wall had been cordoned off with stakes and rope. Inside the charmed circle stood a man with a camera, another with a black bag and, seemingly presiding over the whole affair, a small wiry man with a brown jacket slung over his shoulder. Sally’s eyesight was so keen that she could even see the small patches of sweat under his arms.

    She asked the middle-aged walker standing next to her what was going on, and the man told her he thought there’d been a murder. Of course. It had to be. She’d seen similar things on the telly.

    IV

    Banks glanced back towards the road. He’d noticed a flashing movement, but it was only a girl’s blonde hair catching the sun. Dr Glendenning, the tall, white-haired pathologist, had finished shaking limbs and inserting his thermometer in orifices; now he stood, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, muttering about what a warm night it had been, as he made calculations in his little red notebook.

    It was just as well, Banks thought as he looked over at the spectators, that two of the forensic team had first examined the roadside. They had found nothing—no skid marks or tire-tracks on the tarmac, no clear footprints on the grassy verge—but it looked as if someone or something had been dragged up the field from the road.

    Glendenning confirmed that the victim had been killed elsewhere and merely dumped in an isolated spot. That would cause problems. If they had no idea where the man had been killed, they wouldn’t know where to start looking for the killer.

    The doctor rambled on, adjusting his column of figures, and Banks sniffed the air, feeling again that it was too fine a day and too beautiful a spot for such unpleasant business. Even the young photographer, Peter Darby, as he snapped the body from every conceivable angle, said that normally on such a day he would be out photographing Rawley Force at a slow shutter speed, or zooming in on petals with his macro lens, praying that a bee or a butterfly would remain still for as long as it took to focus and shoot. He had photographed corpses before, Banks knew, so he was used to the unpleasantness. All the same, it was worlds away from butterflies and waterfalls.

    Glendenning looked up from his notebook and screwed up his eyes in the sunlight. A half-inch of ash floated to the ground, and Banks found himself wondering whether the doctor performed surgery with a cigarette in his mouth, letting ash fall around the incision. Smoking was strictly prohibited at the scene of a crime, of course, but nobody ever dared to mention this to Glendenning.

    It was a warm night, he explained to Banks, with a Scottish lilt to his nicotine-ravaged voice. I can’t give an accurate estimate of time of death. Most likely, though, it was after dark last night and before sunrise this morning.

    Bloody wonderful! Banks thought. We don’t know where he was killed but we know it was sometime during the night.

    Sorry, Glendenning added, catching Banks’s expression.

    Not your fault. Anything else?

    Blow to the back of the head, if I may translate the cumbersome medical jargon into layman’s terms. Pretty powerful, too. Skull cracked like an egg.

    Any idea what weapon was used?

    Proverbial blunt instrument. Sharp-edged, like a wrench or a hammer. I can’t be more specific at this point, but I’d rule out a brick or a rock. It’s too neat and I can’t find any trace of particles. Full report after the autopsy, of course.

    Is that all?

    Yes. You can have him taken to the mortuary now if you’ve finished with the pictures.

    Banks nodded. He asked a uniformed constable to send for an ambulance, and Glendenning packed his bag.

    Weaver! Sergeant Hatchley! Come over here a minute, Banks called, and watched the two men walk over. Any idea who the dead man was? he asked Weaver.

    Yes, sir, the pale constable answered. His name’s Harry Steadman. Lives in the village.

    Married?

    Yes, sir.

    Then we’d better get in touch with his wife. Sergeant, would you go over to Mr Tavistock’s house and take an official statement?

    Hatchley nodded slowly.

    Is there a decent pub in Helmthorpe? Banks asked Weaver.

    I usually drink at The Bridge, sir.

    Food?

    Not bad.

    Right. Banks turned to Hatchley. We’ll go and see Mrs Steadman while you attend to Tavistock. Let’s meet up in The Bridge for a bite to eat when we’ve done. All right?

    Hatchley agreed and lumbered off with Tavistock.

    There was no chance of a roast beef dinner at home now. In fact, there would be few meals at home until the crime was solved. Banks knew from experience that once a murder investigation begins there is no stopping and little slowing down, even for family life. The crime invades mealtimes, ablutions and sleep; it dominates conversation and puts up

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