‘The Toronto Metropolitan Police, sir. The RCMP’s federal. These days they mostly do undercover work and police the more remote areas.’
Banks grinned. ‘Well, you learn something new every day.’
When Richmond had left, he lit a cigarette and picked up the phone. There was a lot of messing about with the switchboard, but after a few minutes of clicks and whirrs, the phone started ringing at the other end. It wasn’t the harsh and insistent sound of an English telephone though; the rings were longer, as were the pauses between them.
When someone finally answered, it took Banks a while to explain who he was and what he wanted. After a few more clicks, he finally got through to the right man.
‘Chief Inspector Banks? Staff Sergeant Gregson here. And how’s the old country?’
‘Fine,’ said Banks, a little perplexed by the question.
‘My father was a Brit,’ Gregson went on. ‘Came from Derbyshire.’ He pronounced the e as in clergy, and shire came out as sheer. ‘Do you know it?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes. It’s just down the road.’
‘Small country.’
‘Right.’
Gregson cleared his throat and Banks could hear papers rustling three thousand miles away. ‘I can’t say we’ve got any good news for you,’ the Canadian said. ‘We’ve had a look around Allen’s apartment, but we didn’t find anything unusual.’
‘Was there an address book?’
‘Address book… let me see…’ More paper rustled. ‘No. No address book. No diary.’
‘Damn. He must have taken them with him.’
‘Makes sense, doesn’t it? If he was going on vacation he’d be sure to want to send pretty postcards to all his buddies back home.’
‘What about his friends? Have you seen any of them?’
‘We talked to his colleagues at work. There’s not many of them around. College finishes in early May, so teachers are pretty thin on the ground at this time of year. Nice work if you can get it, eh? Now they’re all off swimming in the lake and sunning themselves on the deck up at their fancy summer cottages in Muskoka.’
‘Is that like a villa in Majorca?’
‘Huh?’
‘Never mind. What did they have to say?’
‘Said he was a bit aloof, stand-offish. Course, a lot of Brits over here are like that. They think Canada’s still part of the Empire, so they come on like someone out of The Jewel in the Crown.’
‘Did you find his ex-wife?’
‘Yup. She’s been in Calgary for the past six months, so you can count her out.’
‘Apparently, there was a lover,’ Banks told him. ‘Someone at the college. That’s why they got divorced.’
‘Have you got a name?’
‘Sorry.’
Gregson sighed. ‘I’d like to help you, Chief Inspector, I really would,’ he said, ‘but we can’t spare the men to go tracking down some guy who ran off with Allen’s wife. We just don’t have the manpower.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Besides, people don’t usually steal a man’s wife and then kill him.’
‘They might if he was causing them problems. But you’re right, it’s not likely. Did he have any girlfriends?’
‘As I said, his colleagues thought he was a bit stuck-up. One of them even thought he was gay, but I wouldn’t pay much mind to that. Sometimes, with their accents and mannerisms and all, Brits do seem a bit that way to us North Americans.’
‘Yes,’ Banks said, gritting his teeth. ‘I think that just about covers it all. I can see now why they say you always get your man.’ And he hung up. Nothing. Still nothing. He obviously couldn’t expect any help from across the Atlantic.
Still feeling a residue of irrational anger at Gregson’s sarcasm, he walked over to the window and lit a cigarette. The drizzle had turned into steady rain now and the square below was bright with open umbrellas. As he gazed down on the scene, one woman caught his eye. She walked in a daze, as if she wasn’t sure where she was heading. She looked soaked to the skin, too; her hair was plastered to her head and the thin white blouse she wore was moulded to her form so that the outline of her brassiere stood out in clear relief. It took Banks a few moments to recognize Katie Greenock.
He grabbed his raincoat and made a move to go down and make sure she was all right, but when he looked out for her one last time, she was nowhere in sight. She had disappeared like a phantom. There was no sense in searching the town for her just because she was walking in the rain without an umbrella. Still, he was strangely disturbed by the vision. It worried him. For the rest of the wet afternoon he felt haunted by that slight and sensuous figure staring into an inner distance, walking in the rain.
PART TWO:
THE THOUSAND-DOLLAR CURE
8
ONE
The powerful jet engines roared and Banks felt himself pushed back in his seat. It was his first time in a jumbo. The plane lumbered along the runway at Manchester International Airport, fixtures and fittings shaking and rattling, as if defying anyone to believe that a machine of such bulk could fly. But it did. Soon, Lancashire was a chequerboard of wet fields, then it was lost completely under the clouds. The NO
SMOKING sign went off and Banks lit up.
In a few moments, the blue-uniformed stewardess with her shocking pink lipstick and impossibly white teeth - the same one who had managed to put such drama into the routine demonstration of the use of the life jacket - came around with more boiled sweets and personal headphones in plastic bags. Banks took a set, as he knew there would be a film later on, but he gave the designer music a miss and took out his own Walkman. Soon the plane was over Ireland, an occasional flash of green between the clouds, the Beatles were singing ‘Dear Prudence’, and all was well with the world.
Banks ordered Scotch on the rocks when the trolley came around and relaxed with his miniature Johnnie Walker Red. Closing his eyes, he settled back to reconsider the events that had led to his present unnatural position - about 35,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean, hurtling at a speed of roughly 600 miles an hour towards a strange continent.
It was Saturday, 3 July, almost a month since the Bernard Allen case had stalled. Banks had visited Swainshead once or twice and found things relatively quiet. Stephen and Nicholas Collier had remained polite in their arrogant way; Sam Greenock had been surly, as usual; Katie Greenock still seemed troubled and distracted; and John Fletcher had expressed passing interest in the progress of the case.
The problem was that there really wasn’t a case any more. Enquiries had turned up neither new witnesses nor motives. A number of people had had the opportunity to kill Bernard Allen, but no one had a clear reason. As long as the suspects stuck to their stories, it didn’t matter whether they were lying or telling the truth; there was no solid evidence to break the case. That was why it was vital for Banks to find Anne Ralston - she was the link between the Addison and Allen murders - and he had convinced Gristhorpe he could do it in a week.
‘How?’ the superintendent had asked. ‘Toronto’s a strange city to you. A big one, too.’
‘Where would you head if you were an Englishman living abroad?’
Gristhorpe rubbed his chin. ‘I’d seek out the expatriate community, I suppose. The club. I’d want to be among my own.’
‘Right. So, given we’re not dealing with the gentry, I’d expect Allen to hang around the English-style pubs. Every big city has them. His brother-in-law, Les Haines, told me Allen liked his ale and had found a pub where he could get imported British beer. There can’t be all that many of them in Toronto.’
‘But it’s Anne Ralston we’re looking for, remember that.’
‘I know. I’m just assuming that if Allen was a bit standoffish with his mates at work, he had a crowd of fellow йmigrйs he hung around with in his spare time. The odds are they’d meet up in a pub and stand at the bar quaffing pints. They might know the Ralston woman.’
‘So you want to go on a pub crawl of To
ronto?’
‘Looks like it, doesn’t it?’
‘Better not tell Jim Hatchley or you’ll get nowt out of him for a month or more. Why can’t you get the Toronto police to find her?’
‘For a start, I got the impression on the phone that they didn’t have time or didn’t give a damn, or both.
And anyway, they wouldn’t know how to question her, what to ask. Someone would have to brief them on two murder investigations, the sociology of the Yorkshire village, the history of-’
Gristhorpe held up his hand. ‘All right, all right, I get the point.’
‘And I think they’d scare her off, too,’ Banks added. ‘She was nervous enough about what she knew to warn Allen not to spread it around, so if she thinks the police are after her, the odds are she’ll scarper.’
‘Have you considered that she might not be using her own name?’
‘Yes. But I’ve got her photograph from our missing persons files - it’s a bit old, but it’s all we’ve got - and I think I know where to look. Being English myself gives me an advantage in that kind of environment, too. Do you think it makes sense?’
‘It’s all a bit iffy, but yes, yes I do, on the whole. If you can track down Allen’s drinking companions, there’s a good chance he’ll have told them about Anne Ralston. She might even drop in at his local herself from time to time, if she’s the kind that likes to be among her own.’
‘So you’ll see what you can do about getting me over there?’
Gristhorpe nodded. ‘Aye. I’ll see what I can do.’
About a week later, on a Thursday morning, the superintendent had asked Banks to come to his office.
Banks stubbed out his cigarette and carried his full coffee mug carefully along the corridor. As usual, Gristhorpe’s door was slightly ajar. Banks nudged it open with his shoulder and entered the cosy book-lined room. He took his usual seat and put his coffee on the desk in front of him.
Gristhorpe pushed a long envelope over the blotter.
‘You’ve done it?’
‘Open it.’
Inside was a return ticket on a charter flight from Manchester to Toronto.
‘There’s an important international conference on policing the inner city in London, Ontario. I thought you ought to go.’
‘But this ticket’s for Toronto.’
‘Aye, well, there isn’t an international airport in London.’
‘And Eastvale doesn’t have an inner city.’
Gristhorpe scratched his hooked nose. ‘We might have, one day. We did have a riot a few months ago, didn’t we? It pays to be prepared.’
‘Will you be expecting a report?’
‘Oh, a brief verbal account will do.’
Banks grinned.
‘There’s one catch, though.’
‘Oh?’
‘Money. All I could scrounge was the ticket and a bit of loose change for meals. You’ll have to supply most of your own pocket money.’
‘That’s all right. I’m not likely to be spending a fortune. What about accommodation, though?’
‘You’ll be staying with my nephew - at least, you can stay in his apartment. He’s off to Banff or some such place for the summer. Anyway, I’ve been in touch and he says he’ll be happy to meet you at the airport. I described you to him, so just stand around and look lost. He’s rather a lanky lad, as I remember. His hair’s a bit too long and he wears those silly little glasses - granny glasses, I think they’re called. He’s a nice enough lad - graduate student, organic chemistry or some such thing. He says he lives downtown, whatever that means. You told me a week, Alan. I’m depending on you.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Banks said, pocketing the ticket.
‘Find Anne Ralston and discover what she knows. I don’t care how you do it, outside torture. And for Christ’s sake, keep away from the local police. They wouldn’t appreciate your trespassing on their patch.
You’re a tourist, remember that.’
‘I’ve been wondering why you’re sending me,’ Banks said. ‘You’re very much concerned with this case yourself, especially the connection with the Addison murder. Why don’t you go?’
‘I would,’ Gristhorpe said slowly. ‘Believe me, I would.’ He looked sideways towards the open window. ‘I did my National Service in the RAF. I’d always hero-worshipped fighter pilots in the war and I suppose, in my folly, I wanted to be just like them. First time up one of the engines caught fire. If the pilot hadn’t been so damn good we’d have both been dead. Even so… I’ve never fancied the idea since.’
‘I can’t say I blame you,’ Banks said. ‘I’ll find her, don’t worry. At least I’ve an idea where to look.’
And that was that. Sandra and the children were excited and, of course, disappointed that they couldn’t go with him. Sergeant Hatchley acted as if Banks had been given a free holiday in an exotic place. And now here he was, high above the Atlantic Ocean, the pink lips and white teeth leaning over him with a tray of food.
Banks took off his headphones and arranged the tray in front of him. The main course appeared to be a small shrivelled chicken leg with pale wrinkled skin, accompanied by tiny potatoes and carrots covered in gravy. On further inspection, Banks discovered that one half of the meal was piping hot and the other still frozen solid. He called the attendant, who apologized profusely and took it away. When she delivered it again, the frozen side was warm and the other overcooked. Banks took a few mouthfuls and gave up in disgust. He also felt no inclination to investigate the mound of jelly-like substance with a swirl of cream on its top, or the limp lettuce leaves that passed for a salad. Instead, he turned to his cheese and biscuits which, being wrapped in cellophane, were at least fresh, and washed them down with a small plastic bottle of harsh red wine.
Feeling the onset of heartburn, Banks declined the offer of coffee and lit a cigarette. After the trays had been cleared, more drinks came. They really were very generous, Banks thought, and wondered what havoc a plane full of drunks might wreak - especially if the booze ran out. But it didn’t. He was kept well supplied with Johnnie Walker Red - a kind of sedation, he supposed, insurance against restless and troublesome passengers - and soon people were asked to pull down their blinds against the blazing sunlight in preparation for the movie. This turned out to be a dreadful cops-and-robbers affair full of car chases and shoot-outs in shopping precincts. After about ten minutes, Banks put his headset aside, closed his eyes and went over in his mind the questions he wanted to ask Anne Ralston. The jet engines were humming, the Scotch warmed his veins, and soon he fell into a deep sleep. The last thing he remembered was the crackly voice of the pilot saying they were soon going to reach the tip of Newfoundland and would then fly along the St Lawrence River.
TWO
While Banks was asleep somewhere over Quebec City, Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe sat hunched over a pint of Theakston’s bitter and a veal and egg pie in the Queen’s Arms, waiting for Sergeant Hatchley.
Frowning, he looked at his watch. He’d told Hatchley to arrive no later than seven thirty. He glanced out of the window at the market square, but saw no sign of the sergeant. It was still raining. That very morning the clouds had closed in again, draining the valley sides of their lush greens and flattening the majestic perspective of fells and moors.
At last Hatchley burst in and looked anxiously around for the superintendent. His hair was slicked down by the rain, emphasizing the bullet shape of his head, and the shoulders of his beige trench coat were splotched dark with wet patches.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he apologized, sitting opposite Gristhorpe. ‘The damn weather’s slowing down traffic all along the dale.’
Gristhorpe could smell the beer on his breath and guessed that he’d probably stopped for a quick one in Helmthorpe on his way, or maybe he had even made a minor diversion to the Black Sheep in Relton, where the landlord brewed his own prize-winning beer on the premises. He said nothing though. Without Banks around, Hatchley and Richmond were all he had, and
he had no wish to alienate the sergeant before putting his plan into action.
Gristhorpe accepted Hatchley’s offer of another pint and leaned back in his seat to avoid the drift of smoke when the sergeant lit a cigarette.
‘Did you tell them?’ Gristhorpe asked.
‘Aye, sir. Found them all in the White Rose.’
‘I hope you weren’t too obvious.’
Hatchley looked offended. ‘No, sir. I did it just like you said. When Freddie Metcalfe started probing and prodding about why I was there, I just told him it was a few loose ends I had to tie up, that’s all.’
‘And then?’
‘Ah, well. Then, sir, I got myself invited over to the table. It was all very casual, like, chatting about the cricket and the local markets as if we was old mates. Then Sam Greenock asked me where my boss was.’
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