The Hanging Valley

by Peter Robinson

  ‘What did you do after he’d gone?’

  ‘I drove to Eastvale to do some shopping. I always do on a Friday morning.’

  ‘What shops did you go to?’

  ‘What is this? Are you trying to tell me I’m a suspect in the murder of my friend?’

  ‘Just answer the bloody question.’

  ‘All right, Inspector, there’s no—’

  ‘It’s Chief Inspector.’ Banks didn’t usually pull his rank, but Sam Greenock had rubbed him up the wrong way.

  ‘Chief Inspector, then. Where did I go? I went to Carter’s for some seeds, peat moss and fertilizer. Katie’s trying to get a vegetable patch going in the back garden. It’ll save us a bit of money in the long run.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No. But they’ll remember me there. I called in at a newsagent’s for some magazines – that one on King Street opposite the school road.’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘I’m a regular there, too.’

  ‘Thanks, that’ll do fine for a start. What kind of car do you drive?’

  ‘A Land Rover. It’s in the garage.’

  ‘And you, Mrs Greenock, what did you do after Bernard Allen left?’

  ‘Me? Housework. What else?’

  Banks turned back to Sam. ‘You met Allen in Leeds about ten years ago, is that right?’

  ‘Yes. In Armley. We lived just off Tong Road and the Allens came to live next door after they gave up the farm. Bernie and I were about the same age, so we palled up.’

  ‘What was he doing then?’

  ‘Just finishing at university. It was only York, so he was home most weekends and holidays. We used to go for a jar or two every Saturday night.’

  ‘How did the family take the move?’

  Sam shrugged. ‘They adapted. At first Mr Allen, Bernie’s dad, went around as if he’d been kicked out of paradise. It must have been very hard for him though, swapping farm work for a crummy factory job. Hard on the pride.’

  ‘Is that what he said?’

  ‘Never in so many words, no. You could just tell. He’s a tough old bird anyway, so they survived.’

  ‘And Bernard?’

  ‘He tried to fit in. But you know what it’s like. He got his degree and all, but he couldn’t get the kind of work he wanted. He lived at home and did all kinds of odd jobs – mushroom picking at Greenhill Nurseries, sweeping factory yards, production line . . . all dull routine work.’

  ‘Is that when he decided to go to Canada?’

  ‘After a year or so of it, yes. He’d had enough. Someone he knew from university had already gone over and said it wasn’t too hard to get teaching jobs in the colleges. He said they paid well, too.’

  ‘Who was this?’

  ‘His name was Bob Morgan. I think he and Bernie taught at the same place, Toronto Community College.’

  ‘Was Bernie homesick?’

  ‘I suppose so. I mean, you don’t forget your roots, do you? But he stayed. One thing leads to another. He made friends over there, got married, divorced.’

  ‘What was his state of mind while he was staying here?’

  ‘He was fine. Cheerful. Happy to be back.’

  ‘Did he talk about coming home to stay?’

  Sam shook his head. ‘He knew better than that. There aren’t any jobs for him.’

  ‘So he didn’t seem unusually homesick or depressed, and he didn’t say he was planning to come back.’

  ‘No.’

  Banks lit a cigarette and studied Katie’s profile. She was a blank; he had no idea what she was thinking.

  ‘How long have you been in Swainshead?’ he asked Sam.

  ‘Six years.’

  ‘And it’s going well?’

  Sam nodded. ‘Can’t complain. We’re hardly millionaires, but we like the life.’

  ‘And you, Mrs Greenock?’

  Katie turned and focused on him. ‘Yes. It’s better than cleaning rooms at the Queen’s Hotel.’

  ‘Did Bernie have any other friends in the village apart from you?’

  ‘Not really,’ Sam answered. ‘See, most of the kids he grew up with had moved away. A lot do these days. They see the good life on telly and soon as they’re old enough there’s no stopping them. Like Denny, Bernie’s older brother. Off to Australia like a shot, he was.’

  ‘Was Bernie friendly with the Colliers?’ Esther Haines had said not, but Banks thought she might have been prejudiced by her own opinions of Nicholas and Stephen.

  ‘Well, I’d hardly say they were friends. Acquaintances, more like. But we had an evening or two in the White Rose together. I think Bernie was always a bit uncomfortable around Stephen and Nick though, them having been his landlords so to speak, the local gentry and all.’

  Banks nodded. ‘Can you think of anyone in the village who might have wanted him out of the way?’

  ‘Bernie? Good Lord, no.’

  ‘He had no enemies?’

  ‘None that I know of. Not here.’

  ‘What about in Leeds?’

  ‘Not there either, as far as I know. Maybe somebody followed him over from Canada, an enemy he’d made there?’

  ‘Mrs Greenock,’ Banks said, turning to Katie again, ‘do you know of anyone with a reason for getting rid of Bernard Allen?’

  Katie hesitated before answering. ‘No. He was harmless. Just a friendly sort of person. Nobody would want to hurt him.’

  ‘One more thing: what was he carrying when he left here?’

  ‘Carrying?’ Sam said. ‘Oh, I see. His belongings. A big blue rucksack with his clothes, passport, money, a few books.’

  ‘And what was he wearing?’

  ‘I don’t really remember. Do you, Katie?’

  Katie shook her head. ‘It was a warm day, though,’ she said. ‘That I do remember. I think he was just wearing an open-necked shirt. White. And trousers, not jeans. It’s only the amateurs wear jeans for walking.’

  ‘They’re too heavy, you see,’ Sam explained. ‘Especially if they get wet. We try to give a bit of advice to our guests sometimes, and we always make sure we know where they’re going if they’re due back in the evening. That way, if they don’t return, we can let the Mountain Rescue post know where they were heading.’

  Banks nodded. ‘Very sensible. Have you any vacancies at the moment?’

  ‘I think so,’ Sam said.

  ‘Six and eight,’ Katie added.

  ‘Good, we’ll take them.’

  ‘You’re staying here?’

  ‘There’ll be quite a lot of questions to ask in Swainshead,’ Banks said, ‘and it’s fifty miles to Eastvale and back. We’ll be staying here tonight at least.’

  ‘One’s a single,’ Katie said. ‘The other’s a double.’

  Banks smiled at her. ‘Fine. Sergeant Hatchley will take the single.’ It was patently unfair, Banks knew. He was much more slightly built than the well padded Hatchley, and a good four or five inches shorter. But rank, he reflected, did have its privileges.

  ‘Don’t sulk, Sergeant,’ he said as they walked over to the car to pick up their overnight bags. ‘My room might be bigger, but it’s probably right next to the plumbing. What did you think of Mrs Greenock?’

  ‘Not bad if you like those wand-like figures,’ Hatchley said. ‘Prefer ’em with a bit of meat on their bones, myself.’

  ‘I wasn’t asking you to rate her out of ten on looks. What about her attitude?’

  ‘Didn’t say much, did she? Seemed in a bit of a daze to me. Think there might be more to her than meets the eye?’

  ‘I think there might indeed,’ said Banks. ‘In fact, I got the distinct impression that she was holding something back.’

  TWO

  The Greenocks ate their lunch in silence, then Sam dashed out. Katie, who had lost her appetite and merely played with her food, piled the dishes in the washer, set the controls and turned it on. There was still shopping to do and the evening meal to prepare, but she felt she could afford to relax for a f
ew minutes.

  As she lay down on the sofa and looked out on the slopes of Swainshead Fell beyond the back garden, she thought of Bernie helping her clear the dishes, talking about Toronto, watching cricket on the telly. She remembered the little presents he had brought each time – no doubt picked up at the airport at the last minute, for Bernie was like that – jars of pure maple syrup, a box of cigars or a bottle of malt Scotch for Sam, Opium perfume or Chanel No. 5 for Katie. She’d never had the heart to tell him that she didn’t wear perfume, that the one time she had tried she had felt like a tramp, even though it had been White Linen, and had scrubbed it off straight away. Now the three little bottles lay in the dark inside her dresser drawer, untouched.

  Bernie had even helped her with the garden sometimes; he might not have had green fingers, but he could wield a trowel or a hoe well enough. Bernie: so considerate, so kind. But the dark images began to crowd out her thoughts. Frowning, she pushed them away. Instead she saw endless prairies of golden wheat swaying in the breeze, heard the sea beating against a rough coastline where redwood forests reared as tall as the sky. Bernie had told her all about Canada, all the places he’d been. She’d never get to see them now, she realized, because Bernie was dead.

  Fellowes’ words came back to her, what he’d said in his drunken stupor when he grasped her hand by the bed: ‘Moving,’ he’d said. ‘Moving.’ And she hadn’t understood at the time. Now she did. If Bernie had been lying up there for two weeks he would have been like that dead lamb she had seen on Adam’s Fell last year. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  She’d given a bad impression to the police, she knew that, but at the time she had been unable to help herself. The lean dark one, the one who seemed too short to be a policeman, would want to talk to her again, that was for sure. How could she keep her secret? She pictured her grandmother standing over her, lined face stern and hard, eyes like black pinheads boring into her. ‘Secrets, girl, secrets are the devil’s doing. God loves a pure and open heart.’ But she had to keep this secret.

  There were so many things, it seemed, one had to do in life that went against God’s commandments. How could a person live without sinning? She was no longer even sure that she knew what was right or wrong. Sometimes she thought it was a sin to breathe, to be alive. It seemed you had to sin to survive in today’s world. It was wrong to keep secrets and tell lies; but was it wrong to keep your word, your promise? And if you had broken it once for a special reason, was it all right to break it again?

  Wearily, Katie got up and prepared to go to the shops down in Lower Head. Work and duty, they were the only constants in life. Everything else was a trap, a trick, a temptation to betrayal. The only way to survive was to shun pleasure. She picked up her purse and shopping basket and pulled a face at the nasty soap taste in her mouth as she left the house.

  THREE

  After Banks and Hatchley had carried their bags to their rooms, they walked over to the White Rose for lunch. The place was busy with Saturday tourists who had let their curiosity lead them to the northern part of Swainshead, but none of the regulars was present. Luckily, Freddie Metcalfe was too busy to chat. They both ordered gammon and chips and carried their pints over to a corner table.

  ‘I want you to get on to Richmond after lunch,’ Banks said, ‘and have him check to see if anyone in Swainshead has connections with Canada, specifically with Toronto. I know it sounds like a big job, but tell him to start with the people we already know: the Greenocks, Fletcher, the Colliers. You might also add,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘Freddie Metcalfe over there, and Neil Fellowes too.’

  ‘The bloke who found the body? But he’s from Pontefract.’

  ‘No matter. Remember, we thought Allen was from Canada at first, then from Leeds. And while we’re on the subject, have him check on the brother-in-law, Les Haines. I want to know if he’s made any trips to this area in the past few weeks. Ask him to get as much background as he can on all of them. I’m sure the superintendent will be able to get him some help from downstairs. And get someone to go to Carter’s and that newsagent’s to check Greenock’s alibi. Tell them to make sure they get the times as exact as possible.’

  ‘Don’t you believe him?’

  Banks shrugged. ‘He could be telling the truth. He could also have driven to a convenient spot along the main road and approached the valley from the other side.’

  The little waitress brought over their food and they ate in silence. At the bar they could hear Freddie Metcalfe enthralling visitors with examples of Yorkshire humour filched from The Dalesman, and at the next table two middle-aged women from Lancashire were talking about lager louts: ‘They get right confident after a few drinks, young ’uns do.’

  When they had finished eating, Banks sent Hatchley to radio in to Richmond, then he stood outside the pub for a moment and took a deep breath of fresh air. It was June 1, another fine day. Nobody knew what the Dales had done to deserve such a long stretch of good weather, but according to a radio Banks overheard, it certainly wasn’t any thanks to Yorkshire County Cricket Club, currently 74 for 6 at Somerset.

  Banks wanted to talk to the Colliers, but first he returned to his room to change his shirt. On his way back down, he spotted Mrs Greenock in the hall, but she seemed to see or hear him coming and scuttled off into the back before he could catch her. Smiling, he walked back out into the street. He knew he could have followed her and confronted her with his suspicions there and then, but decided instead to let her play mouse to his cat until she tired of it.

  There were plenty of people on the grassy banks of the River Swain that afternoon. Three children fished for tiddlers with nets at the end of cane rods while their parents sat and watched from deckchairs, dad with a knotted handkerchief over his head reading the Daily Mail and mum knitting, glancing up occasionally to make sure the offspring were still in sight.

  The Dales were getting as crowded and noisy as the coast, Banks thought as he crossed the bridge. There was even a small group of teenagers farther down, towards Lower Head, wearing cut-off denim jackets with the names of rock bands inked on the back. Two of them, a boy and a girl, Banks assumed, were rolling on the grass in an overtly sexual embrace while tinny music rattled out of a portable stereo placed close to one prostrate youth’s ear.

  Many of his colleagues, Banks knew, would have gone over and told them to move on, accused them of disturbing the peace and searched them for drugs. But despite his personal distaste for some gangs of youngsters and their music, Banks made it a rule never to use his power as a policeman to force his own will on the general public. After all, they were young, they were enjoying life, and apart from the noise, they were really doing no one any harm.

  Banks passed the old men on the bridge and made a mental note to have a chat with them at some point. They seemed to be permanent fixtures; maybe they had seen something.

  He met Sergeant Hatchley at the car and they headed for the Collier house.

  ‘Have you noticed,’ Banks said, ‘how Allen seemed to have a different story for everyone he talked to? He was upset; he was cheerful. He was coming home; he wasn’t.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Hatchley, ‘it’s just that all the people he talked to have a different story for us.’

  Banks gave the sergeant an appreciative glance. Thinking things out wasn’t Hatchley’s strong point, but there were times when he could be quite surprising.

  ‘Good point,’ Banks said. ‘Let’s see what the Colliers have to add.’

  Gristhorpe was right; the Collier house was a Victorian monstrosity. But it had its own grotesque charm, Banks thought as he walked up the crazy paving with Hatchley. Most Dales architecture was practical in nature and plain in style, but this place was for show. It must have been the great-grandfather who had it built, and he must have thought highly indeed of the Collier status.

  Banks rang the bell on the panelled door and Stephen Collier answered, a frown on his face. He led them through a high-ceilinged hall into a sittin
g room at the back of the house. French windows opened on to a patio. In the centre of the large lawn stood an elaborate stone fountain. White dolphins and cherubim curled about the lip of the bowl.

  The room itself contrasted sharply with the exterior of the house. Off-white walls created a sense of light and space on which the ultra-modern Swedish pine and chrome and glass furnishings made hardly any encroachment at all. Abstract paintings hung over a blue-tiled mantelpiece: bold and violent splashes of colour reminiscent, in their effect on Banks’s eyes, of the Jackson Pollocks Sandra had insisted he look at in a London gallery years ago.

  The three of them sat in white wicker chairs around a table on the patio. Banks half-expected a servant to arrive with a tray of margaritas or martinis, but Collier himself offered them drinks. It was warm, so both men eagerly accepted a cold bottle of Beck’s lager.

  Before he went to fetch the drinks, Stephen Collier rapped on the French windows of the next room and beckoned to Nicholas. Banks had wanted to talk to them separately, but it wasn’t important at this point. Stretching, he got up and walked over as Nicholas emerged on to his half of the patio. He was just in time to catch a glimpse of a much darker room, all oak panelling, leather-bound books and oil paintings of ancestors gleaming on the walls.

  Nicholas smiled his horsy yellow smile and held out his hand.

  ‘It’s an interesting set-up you’ve got here,’ Banks said.

  ‘Yes. We couldn’t bear to get rid of the house, however ugly it might seem from the outside. It’s been in the family for years. Lord knows what prompted my great-greatgrandfather to build such a folly – ostentatious display of wealth and position, I suppose. And it’s so inappropriate for the area.’ Despite the deprecating tone, Banks could tell that Nicholas was proud of the house and the status of his family.

  ‘Do you share the place?’ Banks asked Nicholas after they had sat down at the table.

  ‘Sort of. It’s divided into two halves. We thought at first that one of us could take the upstairs and the other the downstairs, but it’s better like this. We’ve got the equivalent of two completely separate houses. Stephen and I have very different tastes, so the two halves make quite a contrast. You must let me show you round my half one day.’