The Hanging Valley

by Peter Robinson

  Banks turned right at the Swainshead junction and parked his car in one of the spaces outside the White Rose. As he crossed the bridge, the old men stopped talking and he felt their eyes boring holes into his back as he walked down to the Greenock Guest House.

  Though the door was open, he rang the bell. A young woman came rushing to answer it. She had a slender dancer’s body, but Banks also noticed an endearing awkwardness, a lack of self-consciousness about her movements that made her seem even more attractive. She stood before him drying her hands on her pinafore and blushed.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said in a soft voice. ‘I was just doing some washing. Please come in.’

  Though her accent was clearly Yorkshire, it didn’t sound like the Swainsdale variety. Banks couldn’t immediately place it.

  Her eyes were brown – the kind of brown one sees in sunlight filtered through a pint of bitter, thought Banks, amused at just how much of a Yorkshireman he must have become to yoke beer and beauty so audaciously. But her hair was blonde. She wore it tied up at the back of her neck, and it fell in stray wisps around her pale throat and ears. She wore no make-up, and her light complexion was completely smooth, her lips full and strawberry red without any lipstick. Between her lower lip and the curve of her chin was a deep indentation, giving her mouth a look somewhere between a pout and an incipient smile. She reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t think who.

  Katie, as she introduced herself, led him into a hall that smelled of lemon air-freshener and furniture polish, as clean and fresh as a good guest house should be. Neil Fellowes was waiting for him in room five, she said, and disappeared, head bowed, into the back of the house, where Banks guessed the Greenocks had their own living quarters.

  He walked up the thick-pile burgundy carpet, found the room and knocked.

  Fellowes answered immediately, as if he had been holding the doorknob on the other side. He looked much better than the previous day. His few remaining strands of colourless hair were combed sideways across his bald head, and thick-lensed wire-rimmed glasses perched on the bump near the bridge of his nose.

  ‘Come in, please er . . .’

  Banks introduced himself.

  ‘Yes, come in, Chief Inspector.’

  Fellowes was obviously a man who respected rank and title. Most people automatically called Banks ‘Inspector’, some preferred plain ‘Mister’, and others called him a lot worse.

  Banks glanced out of the window at the wide strips of grass on both sides of the Swain. Beyond the cottages and pub rose the overbearing bulk of a fell. It looked like a sleeping elephant, he thought, remembering a passage from Wainwright, the fell-walking expert. Or was it whale? ‘Nice view,’ he said, sitting down in the wicker chair by the window.

  ‘Yes,’ Fellowes agreed. ‘It doesn’t really matter which side of the house you stay in. At the back you can see Swainshead Fell, and over there it’s Adam’s Fell, of course.’

  ‘Adam’s Fell?’

  Fellowes adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. ‘Yes. After Adam and Eve. The locals do have a sense of humour – of a sort.’

  ‘Do you visit the area often, Mr Fellowes?’

  ‘No, not at all. I just like to research the terrain, so to speak, before I embark. By the way, Chief Inspector, I do apologize sincerely about yesterday. Finding that. . . that corpse was a great shock, and I never take liquor as a rule – or tobacco, I might add. I wouldn’t have thought of it myself, but Mr Greenock was kind enough . . .’ He slowed and stopped like an old gramophone winding down.

  Banks, who had taken note of Fellowes’ declaration of abstemiousness and let go of the cigarette packet he’d been toying with in his pocket, smiled and offered a cliché of consolation. Inwardly, he sighed. The world was becoming too full of non-smokers for his comfort, and he hadn’t yet succeeded in swelling their ranks. Perhaps it was time to switch brands again. He was getting tired of Silk Cut, anyway. He took out his notebook and went on.

  ‘What made you visit that spot in the first place?’ he asked.

  ‘It just looked so inviting,’ Fellowes answered. ‘So different.’

  ‘Had you ever been there before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you know of its existence?’

  ‘No. It’s certainly not mentioned in my guidebook. Locals would know it, I suppose. I really can’t say. Anyone could wander into it. It’s on the maps, of course, but it doesn’t show up as anything special.’

  ‘But you do have to make quite a diversion from the footpath to get there.’

  ‘Well, yes. Though I’d hardly say it’s that much of a haul.’

  ‘Depends on how fit you are,’ Banks said, smiling. ‘But you reckoned it would be worthwhile?’

  ‘I’m interested in wild flowers, Chief Inspector. I thought I might discover something interesting.’

  ‘When did you arrive in Swainshead?’

  ‘Three days ago. It was only a short break. I’m saving most of my holidays for a bicycle tour of Provence in autumn.’

  ‘I hope you have a less grim time of it there,’ Banks said. ‘Is there anything else you can remember about the scene, about what happened?’

  ‘It was all such a blur. First there was the orchis, then that awful smell, and . . . No. I turned away and headed back as soon as I’d . . . as soon as I refreshed myself in the beck.’

  ‘There was nobody else in the valley?’

  ‘Not that I was aware of.’

  ‘You didn’t get a feeling of being followed, observed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you didn’t find anything close to the body? Something you might have thought insignificant, picked up and forgotten about?’

  ‘Nothing, Chief Inspector. Believe me, the feeling of revulsion was sudden and quite overwhelming.’

  ‘Of course. Had you noticed anything else before you found the body?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The victim’s rucksack was missing. We think he must have been carrying his belongings with him but we can’t find them. Did you notice any signs of something being buried, burned, destroyed?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Chief Inspector, but no, I didn’t.’

  ‘Any idea who the victim was?’

  Fellowes opened his eyes wide. ‘How could I have? You must have seen for yourself how . . . how . . .’

  ‘I know what state he was in. I was simply wondering if you’d heard anything about someone missing in the area.’

  Fellowes shook his head.

  Banks closed his notebook and put it back in the inside pocket of his pale blue sports jacket.

  ‘There is one thing,’ Fellowes said hesitantly.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t like to cast aspersions. It’s only a very vague impression.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘And I wasn’t in full control of my faculties. It was just a feeling.’

  ‘Policemen have feelings like that, too, Mr Fellowes. We call them hunches and they’re often very valuable. What was this feeling you had?’

  Fellowes leaned forward from the edge of the bed and lowered his voice. ‘Well, Chief Inspector, I only really thought about it in bed last night, and it was just a kind of niggling sensation, an itch. It was in the pub, just after I arrived and, you know, told them what I’d seen. I sat at the table, quite out of breath and emotionally distraught . . .’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘Nothing happened. It was just a feeling, as I said. I wasn’t even looking, but I got the impression that someone there wasn’t really surprised.’

  ‘That you’d found a body?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was that all?’

  Fellowes took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Banks noticed how small his eyes looked without the magnifying lenses. ‘More than that,’ Fellowes went on. ‘I was looking away at the time, but I felt an odd sort of silence, the kind of silence in which glances are exchanged. It was very uncomfortable for a moment, th
ough I was too preoccupied to really notice it at the time. I’ve thought about it a lot since last night, and that’s the only way I can put it, as if a kind of understanding look passed between some of the people at the table.’

  ‘Who was there?’

  ‘The same people as when you arrived. There was the landlord over at the bar, then Sam Greenock, Stephen and Nicholas Collier and John Fletcher. I’d met them the previous day when I was enquiring about the best places to search for wild flowers.’

  ‘Did it seem to you as if they were all in on some kind of conspiracy?’

  ‘I’m not paranoid, if that’s what you’re getting at, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘But you were upset. Sometimes our senses can overreact.’

  ‘Believe what you wish. I simply thought you ought to know. And in answer to your question, no, I didn’t sense any gigantic conspiracy, just that someone at the table knew something.’

  ‘But you said you thought a glance was exchanged.’

  ‘That’s what it felt like.’

  ‘So more than one person knew?’

  ‘I suppose so. I can’t say how many or how I received the impression. It just happened.’

  Banks took his notebook out again and wrote down the names.

  ‘I don’t want to get anybody into trouble,’ Fellowes said. ‘I could be wrong. It could have happened just as you said, an overreaction.’

  ‘Let us worry about that, Mr Fellowes. We don’t usually ask people to stand up in a court of law and swear to their feelings. Is that all you can tell me?’

  ‘Yes. Will I be able to go home now? There’ll be trouble at work if I’m not back tomorrow.’

  ‘Better give me your address and phone number in case we need to talk to you again,’ Banks said.

  Banks made a note of Fellowes’ address and left, thinking what a celebrity the man would be at work for a while. He went out of the open door without seeing Katie Greenock and breathed in the fresh air by the beck. A young man dangled his legs over the bank, eating a sandwich from greaseproof paper and reading a thick paperback; the old men still huddled around the eastern end of the stone bridge; and there were three cars parked outside the White Rose. Banks looked at his watch: twenty past one. With a bit of luck the same crowd as yesterday would be there. He read over the names Fellowes had given him again and decided to make a start.

  THREE

  First things first, Banks thought, and headed for the bar. He ordered Cumberland sausage, beans and chips, then paid, took his numbered receipt, and waited while Freddie Metcalfe poured him a pint of Pedigree.

  ‘Is tha getting anywhere?’ Metcalfe asked, his biceps bulging as he pulled down on the pump.

  ‘Early days yet,’ Banks answered.

  ‘Aye, an’ it got to late days an’ all last time, and still tha didn’t find owt.’

  ‘That’s how it goes sometimes. I wasn’t here then.’

  ‘Thinks tha’s better than old Gristhorpe, does tha, eh?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘From down sahth, aren’t tha?’

  ‘Yes. London.’

  ‘London.’ Metcalfe placed the foaming brew on the cloth in front of Banks and scratched his hairy ear. ‘Bin there once. Full o’ foreigners, London. All them A-rabs.’

  ‘It’s a busy place,’ Banks said, picking up his beer.

  ‘Don’t get many o’ them arahnd ’ere. Foreigners, that is. That why tha came up ’ere, to get shut on t’ A-rabs, eh? Tha’ll find plenty o’ Pakis in Bradford, like, but I don’t reckon as I’ve ever seed a darkie in Swainshead. Saw one in Eastvale, once.’

  Banks, growing quickly tired of Metcalfe’s racist inanities, made to turn away, but the landlord grabbed his elbow.

  ‘Don’t tha want to ask me any questions then, lad?’ he said, his eyes glittering.

  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. ‘Betwe
en 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.’