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Mullins.’
    Banks sat in silence for a moment and enjoyed his beer as he sifted the information.
    ‘What about Steadman’s drinking companions?’ he asked finally. ‘What kind of people are they?’
    ‘He brought them all together, sir,’ Weaver answered. ‘Oh, they all knew each other well enough before he moved up here, like, but Steadman was a friendly sort, interested in
everything and everyone. When he wasn’t busying himself with his books or poking around ruins and abandoned mines he was quite a socializer. There’s Jack Barker, for one – you
might have heard of him?’
    Banks shook his head.
    ‘Writer. Mystery stories.’ Weaver smiled. ‘Quite good really. Plenty of sex and violence.’ He blushed. ‘Nothing like the real thing, of course.’
    ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Banks said, smiling. ‘Go on.’
    ‘Well, sir, he’s been here three or four years. Don’t know where he started from. Then there’s Doc Barnes, born and raised hereabouts, and Teddy Hackett, local
entrepreneur. He owns the garage over there, and a couple of gift shops. That’s all, really. They’re all fortyish. Well, Doc Barnes is a bit older and Barker’s in his late
thirties. An odd group, when you think about it. I’ve been in here a few times when they were together and from what I could hear they’d take the mickey out of Steadman a bit, him being
an academic and all that. But not nasty like. All in good fun.’
    ‘No animosity? You’re certain?’
    ‘No, sir. Not as far as I could tell. I don’t get in here as often as I’d like. Wife and kid, you see.’ He beamed.
    ‘Work, too.’
    ‘Aye, that keeps me busy as well. But I seem to spend more time giving directions to bloody tourists and telling the time than dealing with local affairs. Whoever said “If you want
to know the way, ask a policeman” ought to be shot.’
    Banks laughed. ‘The locals are a fairly law-abiding lot, then?’
    ‘On the whole, yes. We get a few drunks now and then. Especially at the Hare and Hounds disco, as I said. But that’s mostly visitors. Then there’s the odd domestic dispute. But
most of our troubles come from tourists leaving their cars all over the place and making too much noise. It’s a peaceful place, really, though there’s some as would say it’s
boring.’
    At this point, Sergeant Hatchley walked in and joined them. He was a bulky, fair-haired and freckle-faced man in his early thirties, and he and Banks had developed a tolerable working
relationship despite some early hostilities – partly due to north-south rivalry and partly to Hatchley’s having hoped for the job Banks got.
    Hatchley bought a round of drinks and they all ordered steak and kidney pies, which turned out to be very tasty. Not too much kidney, as Weaver remarked. Banks complimented the landlord and was
rewarded with an ambiguous ‘Aye.’
    ‘Anything new?’ Banks asked the sergeant.
    Hatchley lit a cigarette, lounged back in his chair, rubbed a hand like a hairy ham across his stubbly cheek, and cleared his throat.
    ‘Nowt much, by the look of things. Old Tavistock went looking for a stray sheep and dug up a fresh corpse. That’s about the strength of it.’
    ‘Was it unusual for him to go poking around by that wall? Would other people be likely to go there?’
    ‘If you’re thinking that anyone could expect to dump a body there and leave it undiscovered for weeks, then you’re barking up the wrong tree. Even if old Tavistock hadn’t
gone out looking for his bloody sheep, someone would’ve come along soon enough – hikers, courting couples.’
    Banks sipped some more beer. ‘So he wasn’t dumped there for concealment, then?’
    ‘Shouldn’t think so, no. Probably put there just so we’d have to leg it halfway up to Crow bloody Scar.’
    Banks laughed. ‘More likely so we wouldn’t know where he was killed.’
    ‘Aye.’
    ‘Why wasn’t Steadman reported missing, sir?’ Weaver cut in. He seemed anxious to restore