Hanging Valley ib-4

by Peter Robinson

  ‘I want to talk about Bernard Allen.’

  ‘I’ve been through all that with the police. There wasn’t really much to say.’

  ‘What did they ask you?’

  ‘Just if I thought anyone had a reason to kill him, where my colleagues were over the last few weeks, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Did they ask you anything about his life here?’

  ‘Only what kind of person he was.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I told them he was a bit of a loner, that’s all. I wasn’t the only one they talked to.’

  ‘You’re the only one here now.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’ She grinned again, flashing her beautiful teeth.

  ‘If Bernard didn’t have much to do with his colleagues here, did he have a group of friends somewhere else, away from college?’

  ‘I wouldn’t really know. Look, I didn’t know Bernie that well…’ She hesitated. ‘Maybe it’s none of your business, but I wanted to. We were getting closer. Slowly. He was a hard person to get to know. All that stiff-upper-lip Brit stuff. Me, I’m a simple Irish-Jewish girl from Montreal.’ She shrugged. ‘I liked him.

  We did lunch up here a couple of times. I was hoping maybe he’d ask me out sometime but…’

  ‘It never happened?’

  ‘No. He was too damn slow. I didn’t know how much clearer I could make it without ripping off my clothes and jumping on him. But now it’s too late, even for that.’

  ‘How did he seem emotionally before he went to England?’

  Marilyn frowned and bit her bottom lip as she thought. ‘He hadn’t quite got over his divorce,’ she said finally. ‘So I guess he might have been off women for a while.’

  ‘Did you know his ex-wife?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘What about her lover?’

  ‘Yeah, I knew him. He used to work here. He’s a louse.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Every way. Strutting macho peacock. And she fell for it. I don’t blame Bernie for feeling bad, but he’d have been well rid of her anyway. He’d have got over it.’

  ‘But he was still upset?’

  ‘Yeah. Withdrawn, sort of.’

  ‘How did he get on with his students?’

  ‘Well enough, considering.’

  ‘Considering what?’

  ‘He cared about literature, but most of the students don’t give a damn about James Joyce or George Orwell. They’re here to learn about business or computers or electrical engineering - you know, useful stuff - and then they think they’ll walk into top high-paying jobs. They don’t like it when they find they all have to do English, so it makes our job a bit tough. Some teachers find it harder than others to adjust and lower their expectations.’

  ‘And Bernie was one?’

  ‘Yeah. He complained a lot about how ignorant they were, how half of them didn’t even know when the Second World War was fought or who Hitler was. And, even worse, they didn’t care anyway. Bernie couldn’t understand that. He had one guy who thought Shakespeare was a small town in Saskatchewan.

  That really got to him.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Banks said. ‘How could someone like that get accepted into a college?’

  ‘We have an open-door policy,’ Marilyn said. ‘It’s a democratic education. None of that elitist bullshit you get in England. We don’t send our kids away to boarding schools to learn Latin and take a lot of cold showers. All that Jane Eyre stuff.’

  Banks, who had not attended a public school himself, along with the majority of English children, was confused. ‘But don’t a lot of them fail?’ he asked. ‘Doesn’t it waste time and money?’

  ‘We don’t like to fail people,’ Marilyn said. ‘It gives them a poor self-image.’

  ‘So they don’t need to know much to get in, and they aren’t expected to know much more when they leave, is that it?’

  Marilyn smiled like a nurse with a particularly difficult patient.

  ‘What did Bernie think about that?’ Banks hurried on.

  She laughed. ‘Bernie loved youth, young people, but he didn’t have much respect for their intelligence.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like they had much.’

  ‘There, you see. That’s exactly the kind of thing he’d say. You’re so sarcastic, you Brits.’

  ‘But you liked him?’

  ‘Yeah, I liked him. We might have disagreed on a few things, but he was cute and I’m a sucker for an English accent. What can I say? He was a nice guy, at least as far as I could tell. I mean, he might not have thought much of his students, but he treated them well and did his damnedest to arouse some curiosity in them. He was a good teacher. What are you getting at, anyway? Do you think one of his students might have killed him over a poor grade?’

  ‘It sounds unlikely, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Not as much as you think,’ Marilyn said. ‘We once had a guy come after his English teacher here with a shotgun. Luckily, security stopped him before he got very far. Still,’ she went on, ‘I shouldn’t think an irate student would go to all the trouble of following him over to England and killing him there.’

  ‘What did Bernie do when he went home after work? Did he ever mention any particular place he went to?’

  Marilyn shook her head and the curls danced. ‘No. He did once say he’d had a few pints too many in the pub the night before.’

  ‘The pub?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He didn’t say which pub?’

  ‘No. He just said he’d had six pints when five was his limit these days. Look, what is all this? What are you after? You’re not one of those private eyes, are you?’

  Banks laughed. ‘No. I told you, I’m a friend of Bernie’s from England. Swainsdale, where he grew up. I want to piece together as much of his life as I can. A lot of people over there are hurt and puzzled by what happened.’

  ‘Yeah, well… me too. He wasn’t the kind of guy who gets himself killed. Know what I mean?’

  Banks nodded.

  ‘Swainsdale, you said?’ she went on. ‘Bernie was always going on about that place. At least the couple of times we talked he was. Like it was some paradise on earth or something. Especially since the divorce, he started to get homesick. He was beginning to feel a bit lost and out of place here. It can happen, you know.

  So he took the thousand-dollar cure.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The thousand-dollar cure. I guess it’s gone up now with inflation, but it’s when Brits take a trip back home to renew their roots. Used to call it the thousand-dollar cure. For homesickness.’

  ‘Did he ever talk of going back to Swainsdale to stay?’

  ‘Yeah. He said he’d be off like a shot if he had a job, or a private income. He said there was nothing for him here after he split up with Barbara. Poor guy. Like I said, he got withdrawn, dwelled on things too much.’

  Banks nodded. ‘There’s nothing else you can tell me? You’re sure he didn’t name any specific pub or place he used to hang out?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Marilyn grinned. ‘I’d remember if he had because I’d have probably dropped in there one evening.

  Just by chance, you know.’

  Banks smiled. ‘Yes. I know. Thanks anyway. I won’t waste any more of your time.’

  ‘No problem.’ Marilyn tossed her empty can into the waste-paper basket. ‘Hey!’ she called, as Banks left the staff lounge. ‘I think your accent’s cute, too.’

  But Banks didn’t have time to appreciate the compliment. Coming along the corridor towards him were two very large police officers.

  ‘Mr Banks?’ the taller one asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’d like you to come with us, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Just a few questions. This way, please.’

  There was hardly room for them to walk three abreast down the hallway, but they managed it somehow.

  Banks felt a bit like a sardine in a ti
n. As they turned the corner, he noticed from the corner of his eye Tom Jordan wringing his hands outside his office.

  Banks tried to get more out of the officers in the lift, but they clammed up on him. He felt a wave of irrational fear at the situation. Here he was, in a foreign country, being taken into custody by two enormous uniformed policemen who refused to answer his questions. And the feeling of fear intensified as he was bundled into the back of the yellow car. The air smelled of hot vinyl upholstery; a strong wire mesh separated him from the men in the front; and the back doors had no inside handles.

  THREE

  ‘What does tha write, then?’ Freddie Metcalfe asked, expertly refilling the empty pint glass with Marston’s Pedigree Bitter.

  ‘Science fiction,’ said Detective Constable Philip Richmond. In his checked Viyella shirt and light brown cords, he thought he looked the part. Posing as a writer would make him less suspicious, too. He would be expected to spend some time alone in his room writing and a lot of time in the pub, with perhaps the occasional constitutional just to keep the juices flowing.

  ‘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!

  FOUR

  ‘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.