Hanging Valley ib-4

by Peter Robinson

  Holding back his temper, Banks lit a cigarette and propped himself up against the bar. He had noticed that the three men he recognized from the previous day were only into the upper thirds of their pints, so he had enough time to banter with Metcalfe. He might just pick up some interesting titbit.

  ‘What do you want me to ask you?’ he opened.

  ‘Nay, tha’s t’ bobby. Tha should know.’

  ‘Do you get many walkers in here?’

  ‘Aye. We don’t fuss ’em abaht rucksacks and boo-its and whatnot like that stuck-up pillock on t’ main road.’

  ‘But I understand this is the “select” part of town?’

  ‘Aye.’ Metcalfe laughed. ‘Tha could say that. It’s t’ oldest, anyroads. And t’ Colliers drink ’ere, as did their father before them. Select, if tha likes, but dahn to earth, not stuck up.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘A right lad, were Walter Collier.’ Then he leaned forward and whispered, ‘Not like ’is sons, if tha knows what I mean. Wouldn’t know a cratch from a gripe, neither on ’em. And they was brought up by a farmer, too.’

  Banks, who didn’t know a cratch from a gripe either, asked why.

  ‘Eddication,’ Metcalfe said, intoning the word as if it were responsible for most of the world’s ills. ‘Fancy bloody Oxford eddication. Wanted ’em to ’ave a better chance than ’e’d ’ad, did old Walter. Farming don’t pay much, tha knows, an’ Walter were sharp enough to get out ’imself.’ Metcalfe turned up his nose.

  ‘Well, tha can see what eddication does.’

  ‘What are they like, Stephen and Nicholas?’ Banks asked.

  Metcalfe sniffed and lowered his voice. He was clearly enjoying his role as dispenser of local opinion.

  ‘Right bloody useless pair, if y’ask me. At least yon Nicholas is. Mr Stephen’s not so bad. Teks after old Walter, ’e does. Bit of a ladies’ man. Not that t’ other’s queer, or owt.’ Metcalfe laughed. ‘There were a bit o’ trouble wi’ a servant lass a few years back, when ’e were still a young lad, living at ’ome, like. Got ’er up t’ spout, Master Nicholas did. Old Walter ’ad to see ’er right, o’ course, and I’ve no doubt ’e gave t’ lad a right good thrashing. But it’s Mr Stephen that’s t’ ladies man. One after t’ other.’

  ‘What’s the difference in their ages?’

  ‘Nobbut a couple o’ years. Stephen’s t’ eldest.’

  ‘What happened to the farm land?’

  ‘Old Walter sold some on it,’ Metcalfe said, ‘and leased t’ rest. T’ Colliers are still t’ biggest landowners in t’ dale, mind thee. John Fletcher over there bought a goodly chunk on it.’ He wagged his chin in the direction of the table. The drinkers were now into the last thirds of their drinks, and Banks decided it would be a good time to approach them.

  ‘Tha still an’t asked me no real questions,’ Metcalfe protested.

  ‘Later,’ Banks said, turning. ‘I’d like to talk to these gentlemen here before they leave.’ Of the gentlemen in question, he recognized Nicholas Collier and Sam Greenock from the previous day; therefore, the third had to be John Fletcher.

  ‘Wait on a minute,’ Metcalfe said. ‘Dun’t tha want tha sausage and chips?’

  And as if on cue, a freckled little girl in a red dress, her hair in pigtails, appeared from the kitchens and called out, ‘Number seventy-five! Sausage, beans and chips.’

  Banks gave her his receipt and took the plate, then helped himself to the condiments from the bar.

  When he walked over to the table, the three men shifted around, scraping their chair legs on the flagged floor, and made room for him.

  ‘Do you mind if I eat at your table?’ he asked.

  ‘Not at all. Freddie been giving you a rough time, Inspector?’ Nicholas Collier asked. His smile showed his prominent teeth to great disadvantage; they were discoloured with nicotine and crooked as a badly built drystone wall. His speech, Banks noticed, bore traces of the local accent under its veneer of public school English.

  ‘No,’ he said, returning the smile. ‘Just entertaining me. Quite a fellow.’

  ‘You can say that again. He’s been behind the bar as long as I can remember.’ Nicholas leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Between you and me, I don’t think he quite approves of Stephen and myself.

  Anyway, have you met John, here?’

  The squat man with the five o’clock shadow was indeed John Fletcher, gentleman farmer. Stephen Collier, his brother said, was away dealing with some factory business.

  ‘Is this just a social visit or do you have some questions for us?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Just one, really,’ Banks said, spearing a mouthful of sausage. ‘Have you any idea who it was we found up there?’

  After a short silence Nicholas said, ‘We get quite a lot of visitors in the area, Inspector. Especially when we’re blessed with such a fine start to the year. There’s nobody local missing, as far as I know, so it must be a stranger. Can’t you check?’

  ‘Yes,’ Banks said. ‘Of course we can. We can go through every name in every hotel and guest house registration book and make sure everyone’s accounted for. But, like you I’m sure, we’re all for anything that saves extra effort.’

  Collier laughed. ‘Naturally. But no, I can’t think of anyone it might be.’

  ‘Your victim hadn’t necessarily come through Swainshead, you know,’ Sam pointed out. ‘He could have been heading south from Swaledale or beyond. Even from the Lake District. He could have set off from Helmthorpe too, or any number of other villages in the dale. Most of them have at least one or two bed and breakfast places these days.’

  ‘I know,’ Banks said. ‘Believe me, we’re checking.’ He turned to Fletcher. ‘I hear that you own quite a bit of land?’

  ‘Yes,’ Fletcher said, his dark eyes narrowing suspiciously. ‘Walter sold it to me when he gave up farming and went into the food business.’ He glanced at Nicholas, who nodded. ‘Neither Nick here nor his brother Stephen wanted to take over - in fact Walter hadn’t wanted them to, he’d been preparing to sell for quite a while - so I thought I’d give it a go.’

  ‘How is it working out?’

  ‘Well enough. I don’t know if you understand much about Dales farming, Mr Banks, but it’s a hard life.

  Old Walter himself had had enough, and he was one of those men - rare around these parts - with enough vision to get out and put what he’d got to better use. I’d never blame a farmer for wanting a different life for his sons. I’ve got no family myself,’ he said, and a hard look came into his eyes. ‘I’m not complaining, though. I make a living - the EEC and the National Parks Commission notwithstanding.’

  Banks turned to Nicholas. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I teach English at Braughtmore, just up the road here. It’s only a small public school of course, but it’s a start.’

  ‘But you don’t actually live there?’

  ‘No. Hardly necessary, really. The house is so close. The pupils live in. They have to; it’s so damn far from civilization. And we have housemasters. Some of the teachers live in the grounds, but a couple of others have chosen to settle here in the village. The school’s only five miles north, quite isolated. It’s a good school, though I say so myself. Do you have any children, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes. A boy and a girl.’

  ‘What school do they attend?’

  ‘Eastvale Comprehensive.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The corner of Collier’s lip twitched, giving just a fleeting hint of a sneer.

  Banks shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘Your brother runs the family business, I gather.’

  ‘Yes. Managing director of Collier Food Enterprises. It’s over the Lancashire border, about ten miles west, just off the main road. The arrangement suits us both perfectly. Stephen never had a great deal of academic ambition, despite the excellent education he received, but he’s bright and he’s put his mind to good enough use - making money. It was one of father’s wisest moves, buying up that old mill and setting up the food-processing operation
. And as for me, I’m happy with my books and a few pliant young minds to work on.’

  Again he bared his teeth in a smile.

  They had all finished their drinks and Banks was wondering how to edge them gently towards the murder again, when Fletcher stood up and excused himself. Immediately, the others looked at their watches and decided they ought to leave and take care of various tasks.

  ‘There’s nothing else, is there, Inspector?’ Nicholas asked.

  ‘No,’ Banks said. ‘Not yet.’

  Freddie Metcalfe ambled over to the table to pick up the plate and the empty glasses as Banks was stubbing out his cigarette.

  ‘Find owt aht yet?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Banks said, standing up. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Early days, eh?’

  And the deep chortling laughter followed Banks out into the street.

  FOUR

  Back at Eastvale police station things were quiet. Grabbing a cup of coffee from the filter machine on the way, Banks walked upstairs to his office, a plain room furnished with nothing but filing cabinets, metal desk and a calendar of local scenes. The illustration for May showed the River Wharfe as it flowed among the limestone boulders of Langstrothdale. More recently Banks had added, next to it, one more decoration: a broken pipe, which he had just rediscovered at the back of his drawer. It represented a vain attempt to project a rural image and wean himself from cigarettes at the same time, but he had cursed it constantly and finally thrown it at that very same wall in frustration over the Steadman case almost a year ago. It hung there like a piece of conceptual art to remind him of the folly of trying to be what one is not.

  There were quite a few cars parked in the cobbled market square outside, and visitors walked in and out of the small Norman church and the shops that seemed almost built into its frontage. The gold hands of the clock stood at three thirty against its blue face. Banks looked down on the scene, as he often did, smoking a cigarette and sipping his coffee. The police station itself was a Tudor-fronted building on narrow Market Street across from the Queen’s Arms, which curved around the corner so that one of its entrances stood on the side of the square opposite the church. Looking to his right, Banks could see along the street, with its coffee houses, boutiques and tourist shops, and in front was the busy square itself, with the NatWest bank, the El Toro coffee bar and Joplin’s newsagent’s on the opposite side.

  A knock at the door interrupted him. Sergeant Hatchley came in looking very pleased with himself. When he was excited about something he moved much faster than usual and seemed unable to stand still. Banks had come to recognize the signs.

  ‘I’ve tracked it down, sir,’ Hatchley said. ‘That bit of paper he had in his pocket.’

  The two of them sat down and Banks told the sergeant to carry on.

  ‘Like you said, I tried the London office. They said they’d check and get back to me. Anyway, they found out that that particular branch is in Canada.’

  ‘So our man’s a Canadian?’

  ‘Looks that way, sir. Unless, like I said before, he’d just been on holiday there. Anyway, at least we know there’s a close connection.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. Once he’d discovered the outlet was in Canada, the bloke from Wendy’s became very helpful.’

  Such helpfulness was a common enough occurrence, Banks knew from experience. He’d even invented a term for it: the amateur sleuth syndrome.

  ‘That particular branch is in Toronto, on Yonge Street near Dundas Street, if that means anything.’

  Banks shook his head. ‘Never been over the Atlantic. You?’

  Hatchley grunted. ‘Me? I’ve never been further west than Blackpool. Anyway, that narrows things down quite a bit, I’d say.’

  ‘It does,’ Banks agreed. ‘But it still doesn’t tell us who he was.’

  ‘I got on to the Canadian High Commission and asked a bloke there to check if anyone from Toronto had been reported missing over here lately, but nobody has.’

  ‘Too early yet, I suppose. If he is from Toronto, obviously everyone back there still thinks he’s on holiday.’

  ‘Aye, but that won’t last for ever.’

  ‘We haven’t got for ever. Who knows, he might have been a student and come over for the whole bloody summer. How’s Richmond doing?’

  ‘He’s covered quite a few places already - Lyndgarth, Relton, Helmthorpe, Gratly.’

  ‘Well, his task ought to be a bit easier now we know it’s a Canadian we’re after.’

  ‘There’s been quite a few Canadians staying locally,’ Hatchley said. ‘It’s easy enough to call the B and Bs and make a list from their records, but it’s damned hard to trace people’s movements after they’ve left.

  They don’t usually leave forwarding addresses, and it’s only once in a while a landlady is able to tell us where they said they were going next.’

  ‘There can’t be that many men from Toronto travelling alone,’ Banks said. ‘I’m sure if he was a member of a group or a family somebody would have reported him missing by now. Better stick at it. At least you’ve narrowed the field considerably. Heard anything from Dr Glendenning?’

  ‘The super called him a while ago. Still killing off those bloody maggots in disinfectant. Says he won’t be able to make a start till tomorrow morning at the earliest.’

  Banks sighed. ‘All right. You’d better go and help Richmond now. And thanks, Sergeant; you did a good job.’

  Hatchley nodded and left the office. They’d been working together for almost two years now, Banks realized, and he still couldn’t bring himself to call the sergeant Jim. Maybe one day he would, when it came naturally to his lips. He lit another cigarette and went back to the window, where he watched the people wander about in the square, and drummed a tattoo on the sill.

  FIVE

  ‘Sam’s not in,’ Katie said that evening when she opened the back door to find Stephen Collier standing there. ‘He’s having a night out with his old mates in Leeds.’

  ‘Can’t I come in, anyway?’ Stephen asked. ‘Just for a cup of tea?’

  ‘All right,’ Katie said, and led him through to the spotless kitchen. ‘Just five minutes, mind you. I’ve work to be doing.’ She turned away from him and busied herself with the kettle and teapot. She felt her face burning. It wasn’t right being alone in the house with a man other than her husband, even if it was someone as pleasant as Stephen. He had a reputation as a womanizer. Everybody knew that. Someone might even have seen him coming in.

  ‘Nick tells me the police were around today,’ Stephen said.

  Katie glanced at him over her shoulder. ‘It’s to be expected, isn’t it? One of our guests did find a dead body.’

  ‘He still here?’

  ‘No. He left this afternoon.’

  ‘Well,’ Stephen said. ‘I just thought I’d drop by to see if you were all right. I mean, it can be a bit of a shock to the system, something like that happening right on your doorstep, so to speak. Did the police ask a lot of questions?’

  ‘Not to me, no. Why should they?’

  ‘Just wondering,’ Stephen said. ‘How are things, anyway?’

  ‘All right, I suppose,’ Katie answered. Though she had known him for over five years and certainly preferred him to his brother, Katie hadn’t really spent much time alone with Stephen Collier before.

  Mostly, they had met socially at summer garden parties the Colliers liked to throw, in the pub and at occasional dinners. She liked Stephen. He seemed kind and thoughtful. Often at social functions she had caught him looking at her in an odd way. Not that way, not like Nicholas. It was a look she didn’t quite understand, and she had never been able to return his gaze for long without lowering her eyes. Now she was alone with him she felt shy and awkward; she didn’t really know how to behave. She brought the tea to the table and opened a packet of Fox’s Custard Creams.

  ‘Come on, Katie,’ Stephen said. ‘You’re not very convincing. You don’t sound all right to m
e.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Yes, you do. I can tell. I’ve felt some sort of bond with you right from the start. I’ve been worried about you these past few months.’

  ‘Worried? Why?’

  ‘Because you’re not happy.’

  ‘Of course I’m happy. That’s silly.’

  Stephen sighed. ‘I can’t make you open up, can I? But you can talk to me if you want, if you need to.

  Everybody needs somebody to talk to now and then.’

  Katie bit her lower lip and said nothing. She couldn’t talk to him. She couldn’t tell anyone the things that went on in her mind, the sins she dreamed of, the desperation she felt. She couldn’t tell him about her one chance of escaping from her miserable life, and what it had already cost her.