A Dedicated Man

GALLOWS VIEW

‘Peter Robinson is an expert plotter with an eye for telling detail’ –
New York Times

‘An impressive debut’ –
Publishers Weekly

‘Fans of P. D. James and Ruth Rendell who crave more contemporary themes should look no further than Peter Robinson’ –
Washington
Post

A DEDICATED MAN

‘Robinson’s profound sense of place and reflective study of human nature give fine depth to his mystery’ –
New York
Times

‘A deftly constructed plot . . . Robinson’s skill with the British police procedural has been burnished to a high gloss’ –
Chicago Tribune

WEDNESDAY’S CHILD

A dark, unsettling story . . . Impressive’ –
New York Times

DRY BONES THAT DREAM

‘Highly entertaining’ –
Scotland on Sunday

‘High-quality crime from one of Canada’s top crime-writers’ –
Toronto Star

INNOCENT GRAVES

‘Atmospheric’ –
Time Out

DEAD RIGHT

‘Every page here is readable and compelling’ –
Washington Times

‘This book has everything that makes a Peter Robinson book good . . . He writes absolutely perfect dialogue. And the plot keeps the reader guessing
until the end’ –
Mystery Scene

IN A DRY SEASON

A powerfully moving work’ – I
AN
R
ANKIN

A wonderful novel. From Robinson’s deft hand comes a multi-layered mystery woven around the carefully detailed portraits of characters all held
tightly in the grip of the past’ – M
ICHAEL
C
ONNELLY

‘This unsettling story, haunting and subtle in its blending of past and present, is the most powerful novel by the star of the middle-generation of
British crime writers’ – R
OBERT
B
ARNARD

COLD IS THE GRAVE

Absorbing’ –
Scotsman

‘Full of twists and surprises’ –
Chicago Tribune

‘Exhilarating’ –
Toronto Star

Peter Robinson
grew up in Yorkshire, but now lives in Canada.

His Inspector Banks series has won numerous awards in Britain, Europe, the United States and Canada. There are now fifteen novels published by Pan Macmillam in the series, of which
A
Dedicated Man
is the second.
Aftermath
, the twelfth, was a
Sunday Times
bestseller.

AN INSPECTOR BANKS MYSTERY

PAN BOOKS

For Jan

They were right, my dear, all those voices were right And still are; this land is not the sweet home that it looks,

Nor its peace the historical calm of a site Where something was settled once and for all . . .

W. H. AUDEN
‘In Praise of Limestone’

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

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 curtain 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 Kate Winslet or a Gwyneth Paltrow, 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 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, spreading out along the slope just above the old road, five or six blue dots which seemed to be moving in some kind of pattern. She put her finger to her lips,
thought for a moment, then frowned.

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.