Banks had managed no more than a couple of pulls on his beer when his pie arrived, delivered by Metcalfe himself, who had left his young helper to handle the bar. The pastry was a puffy, crusty hat plonked on top of the stewed beef and mushrooms, but it would do. Anything would do at the moment. The chips were crispy and hot.
Metcalfe leaned on the bar opposite him. One or two reporters eyed them enviously — Banks could almost see their ears twitching — but nobody made a move to get any closer. If they knew Banks, they also knew his reputation. ‘What can I help you with, Mr Banks?’ Metcalfe asked.
‘Nothing specific,’ said Banks. ‘I’m just after a spot of lunch and a nice chat. Case like this plays havoc with your meal times.’
‘I’ll bet it does.’ He jerked his head. ‘Up the road with that lot last night, were you?’
‘Until about four.’
‘I still can’t believe it,’ said Ollie. ‘Nobody around here can.’
‘Popular bloke, Mr Edgeworth?’
‘Very.’
‘Isn’t that always the case with these mass murderers and serial killers?’ Banks said. ‘Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, they say. Quiet as a mouse.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that. I’ve never met anyone who did such a thing before. Are you sure you’ve not got it wrong?’
‘Everything adds up so far.’
‘But why? Why would a man like Martin Edgeworth do something like that?’
‘What sort of a man was he?’
‘A decent one. Good sense of humour, took a keen interest in local events, clubbable, went to meetings and so on. He liked to cook. Said if he hadn’t been a dentist he’d have trained as a chef. Keen amateur photographer, too.’ He pointed to a picture of a landscape. ‘And very good. He took that one over there. Even paid to have it enlarged and framed specially for our wall.’
Banks glanced at the photo. ‘You mentioned clubs. What clubs?’
‘Well, the shooting club, for a start. Swainsdale Rifle and Pistol. But I suppose you know all about that.’
Banks was intending to visit the club after stopping in at the Edgeworth house. ‘Was he any good?’
‘I think he must have been. He went in for competitions, won awards and so forth. They did a lot of shooting on the army range about five miles up the road, too. Proper supervision there, see, so you can use the real McCoy. Or so he said.’
‘What about grouse and the like?’
‘Occasionally. But he got rid of his shotgun a while back.’
‘Why?’
‘Lost interest in shooting defenceless little birds, I should imagine.’
‘What did he do with it?’
‘I’ve no idea. Whatever it is people do with used shotguns. Sold it, I suppose, or handed it in to some government agency.’
‘Do you know if he had any strong political leanings or connections?’
Metcalfe laughed. ‘If you’d known Martin, you wouldn’t have got him started on politicians. Hated the lot of them. Thought they were only in it to line their own pockets.’
‘So he had strong views?’
‘I didn’t mean to suggest there was anything unnatural about his ideas. It was just pub banter, blethering, like. A joke or two. He just didn’t care much for politicians, that’s all.’
‘How long had Mr Edgeworth lived up at the house?’
Metcalfe scratched his head. ‘Twenty years or more. He was here when I took on this place from my uncle, and that’s seventeen years back.’
‘Was he always a regular here?’
‘Aye, certainly all the years I’ve been here. Dropped by most days for a jar or two. Not a big drinker, mind you. Just the odd pint or two now and then.’
‘Beer man?’
‘Occasional splash of single malt. Special occasions.’
‘Was he popular?’
‘Aye, I’d say that he was. Yes. Very.’
‘Any particular close friends, drinking companions?’
‘Geoff McLaren, manager of that gun club he belonged to. Nice bloke. George and Margie, a couple of friends of his from the club. Sometimes his old partner came in with him. Jonathan Martell.’
‘Did Mr Martell come here often?’
‘Now and then. He’s retired now, too. Lives out Sedburgh way.’
‘Did Mr Edgeworth bring any new friends in here during the past month or so, anyone you hadn’t seen before?’
‘Once in a while, aye. I mean, we didn’t live in each other’s pockets. He knew plenty of people, and I was quite happy if he wanted to meet any of them in here for a drink and a bite to eat.’
‘So he sometimes came in with people you didn’t know?’
‘Now and then. Yes.’
‘Singly or in groups?’
‘Both. I mean, but not with groups that often, not unless the family was around, like.’
‘Did he ever strike up conversations with strangers?’
Metcalfe considered the question. ‘Sometimes,’ he answered. ‘Martin was sociable enough. He’d get chatting with other customers from time to time. Especially the ramblers. Martin liked walking, himself, and he knew a lot about local history, so if a customer had a question I’d usually point them in his direction.’
‘Anyone in particular?’
‘Not as far as I recollect. Certainly not in the past few months.’
‘Anyone stand out for any reason at all shortly before the shootings? Say November, early December?’
‘We get a lot of people in, believe it or not. And that’s a busy time. I’m sorry, but I can’t remember anyone in particular. I’m not saying he didn’t come in with anyone just that no one stands out in my memory. Sorry.’
‘Who else did he come with regularly?’
‘Nobody special. I mean, most of my regulars knew him. I’m not saying he was a saint, but ask any one of them, and I don’t think you’ll hear a bad word.’
‘We’ll get around to that eventually,’ said Banks. ‘Had he been behaving any differently lately, say this past month or so?’
‘Not at all. Same as normal.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Friday night.’
That was the day before the murders. ‘And he behaved as normal?’
‘Aye.’
‘Was he with anyone?’
‘No. He came in by himself and sat by the fire with Les and Barry most of the time he was here. They’re regulars, like Martin. They’ll be gutted.’
Banks made a note of the names. ‘Did he say anything odd at all, anything that struck you as out of character or mysterious?’
‘No. Like I said, he was the same as ever. Said good evening to me and the other regulars, ordered his pint and we chatted for a bit. It wasn’t a busy night, as I remember. He didn’t stay long after his drink with Les and Barry, though. Only had the two pints. Something on telly he wanted to see.’
‘What did he talk to you about?’
‘Oh, this and that. The weather. Christmas, how commercial it is these days. What everyone’s holiday plans were.’
‘What were his?’
‘He was going to stop with his son and daughter-in-law in Derby. They’ve got a couple of wee ones. See, when Martin and Constance split, like, I know people say they don’t take sides and all, but they do. Kids especially. The daughter, Marie, were always much closer to her mother. Not that she didn’t come and see Martin now and then, of course, but when it comes to summat like Christmas, well, she’s with her mother, isn’t she? And she’s divorced, like. Lives in Norwich, too, which is a bit of a bugger to get to and from.’