A Dedicated Man Read Free Page A

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 dared 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 Bank’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 meal times, ablutions and sleep; it dominates conversation and puts up an invisible barrier between the
investigator and his family.
    He looked down at the village spread out crookedly by a bend in the river, its grey slate roofs gleaming in the sun. The clock on the square church tower said twelve thirty. Sighing, he nodded
to Weaver, and the two of them set off towards the car.
    They passed through the small crowd, ignoring the local reporter’s tentative questions, and got into the Cortina. Banks cleared the cassettes from the passenger seat so that Weaver could
sit beside him.
    ‘Tell me what you know about Steadman,’ Banks said as he reversed into a gateway and turned around.
    ‘Lived here about eighteen months,’ Weaver began. ‘Used to come regular for holidays and sort of fell in love with the place. He inherited a fortune from his father and set
himself up here. Used to be a university professor in Leeds. Educated chap, but not stuck-up. Early forties, bit over six-foot