‘I knew a chap used to write books once,’ Freddie went on. ‘Books about t’ Dales, wi’ pictures in ’em. Lived down Lower ’Ead.’ He placed the foaming pint in front of Richmond, who paid and drained a good half of it in one gulp. ‘I reckon one of them there detective writers would ’ave a better time of it round ’ere these days.’
‘Why’s that?’
Freddie leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Murder, that’s why,’ he said, then laughed and picked up a glass to dry. ‘Right baffled, t’ police are. It’s got that southron — little chap wi’ a scar by ’is eye — it’s got ’im running around like a blue-arsed fly, it has. And t’ old man, Gristhorpe — well, we all know he durst hardly show his face around ’ere since t’ last one, don’t we?’
‘Last what?’
‘Murder, lad! What’s tha think I’m talking about? Sheep-shagging?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Think nowt on it. I’m forgetting tha’s a foreigner. Tha sounds Yorkshire to me. Bit posh, mind you, but Yorkshire.’
‘Lancashire, actually,’ Richmond lied. ‘Bolton.’
‘Aye, well, nobody’s perfect. Anyroads, as I were saying — blue-arsed flies, t’ lot of ’em.’
An impatient customer interrupted Freddie’s monologue, and Richmond took the opportunity to sip more beer. It was eight thirty on Monday evening, and the White Rose was about half full.
‘Keep your eyes skinned, lad,’ Sergeant Hatchley had instructed him. ‘Watch out for anybody who looks like doing a bolt.’ The orders couldn’t have been more vague. What on earth, Richmond wondered, did someone about to do a bolt look like? Would he have to sit up all night and watch for the culprit stealing down by the Swain with his belongings tied in a bag on the end of a stick slung over his shoulder, faithful cat at his heels, like Dick Whittington? Richmond had no idea. All he knew was that all the suspects had been told Banks had gone to Toronto.
Richmond also had strict instructions not to identify himself and not to push himself forward in any way that might make the locals suspicious. In other words, he wasn’t to question anyone, no matter how casually. He could keep his ears open then, he was relieved to hear, especially for anything Sam Greenock might let slip over breakfast, or some titbit he might overhear in the White Rose. At least he’d pack away a few pints of Marston’s tonight. Maybe even smoke a panatella.
‘Where was I?’ Freddie asked, leaning on the bar again.
‘Murder.’
‘Aye, murder.’ He nodded in the direction of the table in the far corner and whispered again. ‘And them there’s all t’ suspects.’
‘What makes them suspects?’ Richmond asked, hoping he was not exceeding his brief by asking the question.
‘’Ow would I know? All I know is that t’ police ’ave spent a lot of time wi’ ’em. An’ since yesterday they’ve all been on hot coals. Look at ’em now. You wouldn’t think they ’ad a big party coming up, would you?’
It was true that the group hardly seemed jolly. John Fletcher chewed the stem of his stubby pipe; his dark brows met in a frown. Sam Greenock was staring into space and rocking his glass on the table. Stephen Collier was talking earnestly to Nicholas, who was trying very hard not to listen. Nicholas, in fact, seemed the only unconcerned one among them. He smiled and nodded at customers who came and went, whereas the other three hardly seemed to notice them.
Richmond wished he could get closer and overhear what they were saying, but all the nearby tables were full. It would look too suspicious if he went and stood behind them.
He ordered another pint. ‘And I’ll have a panatella too, please,’ he said. He felt like indulging in a rare treat: a cigar with his beer. ‘What party’s this?’ he asked.
‘A Collier do. Reg’lar as clockwork in summer.’
‘Can anyone go?’
Tha must be joking, lad.’
Richmond shrugged and smiled to show he was, indeed, jesting. ‘What’s wrong with them all, then?’ he asked. ‘You’re right. They don’t look like they’re contemplating a booze-up to me.’
Metcalfe scratched his mutton chops. ‘I can’t be certain, tha knows, but it’s summat to do wi’ that London copper taking off for Canada. Talk about pale! Ashen, they went. But I’ll tell tha summat, it were good for business. Double brandies all round!’ Freddie nudged Richmond and laughed. ‘Aye, there’s nobody drinks like a murder suspect.’
Richmond drew on his cigar and looked over at the table. Outside some enemy back in Toronto, it came down to these four. Come on, he thought to himself, make a bolt. Run for it, you bugger, just try it!
‘I don’t know what people do where you come from, but over here we like a bit of advance warning if some foreigner’s come to invade our territory.’
Banks listened. There was nothing he could say; he had been caught fair and square. Fortunately, Staff Sergeant Gregson of the Toronto Homicide Squad was nearing the end of what had been a relatively mild bollocking, and even more fortunately, smoking was allowed — nay, encouraged — in his office.
It was an odd feeling, being on the carpet. Not that this was the first time for Banks. There had been many occasions at school, and even one or two in his early days on the Metropolitan force, and they always brought back those feelings of terror and helplessness in the face of authority he had known as a working-class kid in Peterborough. Perhaps, he thought, that fear of authority might have motivated him to become a policeman in the first place. He knew he didn’t join in order to inflict such feelings on others, but it was possible that he did it to surmount them, to conquer them in himself.
And now here he was, tongue-tied, unable to say a word in his own defence, yet inwardly seething with resentment at Gregson for putting him in such a position.
‘You’ve got no power here, you know,’ Gregson went on.
Finally, Banks found his voice. Holding his anger in check, he said, ‘I wasn’t aware that I needed any special power to talk to people — either in England or in Canada.’
‘You won’t get anywhere being sarcastic with me,’ Gregson said, a smile tugging at the corners of his tightly clamped mouth.
He was a round man with a square head. His grey hair was closely cropped, and a brush-like wedge of matching moustache, nicotine-yellow around the ends of the bristles, sprouted under his squashed nose. As he spoke, he had a habit of running his fingers under the collar of his white shirt as if it was too tight. His skin had a pinkish plastic sheen, like a balloon blown up too much. Banks wondered what would happen if he pricked him. Would he explode, or would the air hiss out slowly as his features folded in on themselves?
‘What have you got against irony, Sergeant?’ Banks asked. That felt odd, too: being hauled up before a mere sergeant.
‘You know what they say about sarcasm being the lowest form of wit, don’t you?’ Gregson responded.
‘Yes. But at least it is a form of wit, which is better than none at all.’
‘I didn’t bring you here to bandy words.’
‘Obviously.’
Banks lit another cigarette and looked at the concrete and glass office blocks out of the window. His shirt was stuck with sweat to the back of the orange plastic chair. He felt his anger ebb into boredom. They were somewhere downtown in a futuristic air-conditioned building, but the office smelt of burning rubber and old cigar smoke. That was all he knew.
‘What are you going to do, then?’ Banks asked. ‘Arrest me?’
Gregson shrugged. ‘For what? You haven’t done anything wrong.’
Banks leaned forward. ‘Then why the bloody hell did you get Laurel and Hardy out there to bundle me in the back of a car and bring me here against my will?’