The Hanging Valley

by Peter Robinson

  Stephen returned with the drinks. Dressed all in white, he looked like a cricketer breaking for tea. Nicholas, however, with his slight stoop, pale complexion and comma of black hair over his forehead, looked more like an ageing umpire. It was hard to believe these two were brothers; even harder to accept that Stephen was the elder.

  After giving both of them time to register surprise and shock at the news of Bernard Allen’s death, of which he was certain they knew already, Banks lit a cigarette and asked, ‘Did you see much of him while he was here?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ Stephen answered. ‘He was in the pub a couple of times with Sam, so naturally we talked, but that’s about all.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Oh, just small talk, really. This and that. About Canada, places we’d both been to.’

  ‘You’ve visited Canada?’

  ‘I travel quite a bit,’ Stephen said. ‘You might think a small food-freezing plant in the Dales isn’t much, but there are other businesses connected. Import, export, that kind of thing. Yes, I’ve been to Canada a few times.’

  ‘Toronto?’

  ‘No. Montreal, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Did you ever see Bernard Allen over there?’

  ‘It’s a big country, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Did you get the impression that anything was bothering Allen while he was over here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about you?’ he asked Nicholas.

  ‘No, I can’t say I did. I’ve always found it a bit awkward talking to Bernard, to tell you the truth. One always feels he has a bit of a chip on his shoulder.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Nicholas said, grinning. ‘Surely you know what I mean. His father spent his life working on land rented from my father. They were poor. From where they lived they had a fine enough view of this place, and you can’t tell me that Bernard never thought it unfair that we had so much and he had so little. Especially when his father failed.’

  ‘I didn’t know Bernard Allen or his father,’ Banks said, peeling the foil from the neck of the Beck’s, which he preferred to drink straight from the bottle. ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘I’m not saying I knew him well myself, only that he became a bit of a lefty, a socialist. Up the workers and all that.’ Nicholas grinned again, showing his stained teeth. His eyes were especially bright.

  ‘Are you saying that Bernard Allen was a communist?’

  ‘I don’t know about that. I don’t know if he was a party member. All I know is he used to spout his leftist rot in the pub.’

  ‘Is this true?’ Banks asked Stephen.

  ‘Partly. My brother exaggerates a bit, Chief Inspector. It’s a tendency he has. We sometimes had arguments about politics, yes, and Bernard Allen had left-wing views. But that’s as far as it goes. I’d hardly say he was a proselytizer or that he toed some party line.’

  ‘His political opinions weren’t particularly strong, then?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say so, no. He said he left the country partly because Margaret Thatcher came into office. Well, we all know about unemployment, don’t we? Bernard couldn’t find work in England, so he left. You could hardly say he was running from country to country to escape political tyranny, could you?’

  ‘He just used to whine about it, that’s all,’ Nicholas cut in. ‘Expected the government to do everything for him without him having to lift a finger. Typical socialist.’

  ‘As you can gather, Chief Inspector,’ Stephen said with a strained smile, ‘my brother’s something of a young fogey. That hardly gave either of us reason to do away with Bernard, though.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Banks said. ‘And I was never suggesting it did. I just want to know as much about the victim as possible. Would you say that there was any real animosity between you – political arguments aside – over the farm?’

  ‘Do you mean did he blame us?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He blamed everyone but himself,’ Nicholas cut in.

  Stephen turned on him. ‘Oh, shut up, Nicky. You’re being bloody awkward, you know.’

  ‘Did he?’ Banks asked Stephen again.

  ‘Not that I ever knew of. It was nothing to do with us, really. As you know, Father was preparing to give up farming anyway, and he certainly hadn’t groomed us to take over. Nobody kicked Archie Allen off the land. He could have stayed there as long as he wanted to. It just wasn’t financially viable any more. Ask any farmer; they’ll tell you how things have changed over the past twenty years or so. If Bernard was holding a grudge, then it was a very unreasonable one. He didn’t strike me as an unreasonable person. Does that answer your question?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Banks said. He turned to Nicholas again. ‘I understand you knew Mr Allen’s sister, Esther.’

  Nicholas reddened with anger. ‘Who said that?’

  ‘Never mind who said it. Is it true?’

  ‘We all knew her,’ Stephen said. ‘I mean, we knew who she was.’

  ‘More than that,’ Banks said, looking at Nicholas, whose eyes were flashing. ‘Nicholas knows what I mean, don’t you?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Nicholas said. ‘Are you trying to suggest that there was anything more to it than a landlord–tenant relationship?’

  ‘Was there?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Didn’t you find her attractive?’

  ‘She was hardly my type.’

  ‘Do you mean she was of a lower class?’

  Nicholas bared his teeth in a particularly unpleasant smile. ‘If you want to put it that way, yes.’

  ‘And what about the servant girl? The one who used to work here.’

  ‘I insist you stop this at once, Chief Inspector,’ Stephen said. ‘I can’t see how it’s relevant. And I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that the deputy chief constable is a good friend of the family.’

  ‘I’m sure he is,’ Banks said. He wasn’t at all put out; in fact, he was enjoying their discomfort tremendously. ‘Just a couple of minor points, then we’ll be on our way. When was the last time you saw Bernard?’

  Nicholas said nothing; he appeared to be sulking. Stephen paused for a moment and answered in a businesslike manner, ‘I’d say it was in the White Rose the evening before he left. Thursday. I remember talking to him about Tan Hill in Swaledale.’

  ‘Is that where he was heading?’

  ‘Not specifically, no, but it’s on the Pennine Way.’

  ‘Did he talk about the hanging valley at all, the place where his body was found?’

  ‘No, not that I remember.’

  ‘Did either of you see him set off from Swainshead?’

  Both the Colliers shook their heads. ‘I’m usually at the office before nine,’ Stephen said. ‘And my brother would have been at Braughtmore.’

  ‘So you saw nothing of him after that Thursday evening in the White Rose?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Just one more thing: could you tell us where John Fletcher lives?’

  ‘John? He’s a couple of miles north of the village. It’s a big farmhouse on the eastern fell side. You can’t miss it; it’s the only one in sight.’

  ‘Fine, then.’ Banks nodded to Hatchley and they stood up to leave. Stephen Collier led them out and Nicholas followed, still sulking. As soon as the door closed, Banks could hear them start arguing.

  Hatchley turned up his nose in disgust. ‘What a pair of wankers,’ he said.

  ‘Aptly put,’ said Banks. ‘But we did learn a few things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I never told them what time Allen left Swainshead, so why should Stephen Collier make a point of mentioning nine o’clock?’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Hatchley. ‘I suppose he could have just been assuming that Allen would leave after breakfast. Or maybe it had been mentioned the night before?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Banks said. ‘Come to that, Sam Greenock could have told them
. Nicholas Collier seemed much more annoyed by my reference to Esther Haines than I thought he’d be. There could be much more to that than even she let on.’

  ‘I thought you were pushing it a bit there,’ Hatchley said. ‘I mean, the super did say to take it easy on them. They’re important.’

  Banks sniffed. ‘The problem is, Sergeant, that it’s all arse backwards, isn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Let’s say Nicholas Collier might have been messing around with Allen’s little sister, or Allen might have been bitter over losing the farm and eventually having to leave England. That gives him a motive for murder, but he’s the one who ends up dead. Odd that, don’t you think?’

  ‘Aye, when you put it like that,’ Hatchley said.

  ‘Get on the radio and see if Richmond has turned up anything yet, will you? I want a word with these blokes here.’

  Hatchley carried on to the car. Banks neared the bridge and steeled himself for the encounter with the old men. Three of them stood there silently, two leaning on walking sticks. No flicker of interest or concern showed on their weather-beaten faces when Banks approached them. He leaned against the warm stone and introduced himself, then asked if they had been out as early as nine o’clock a couple of weeks ago.

  No one said a word at first, then one of them, a gnarled, misshapen man, turned to face Banks. With his flat cap and dark brown clothing, he looked like some strange plant with the power to uproot itself and walk among people.

  He spat in the beck and said, ‘’Appen.’

  ‘Do you know Bernard Allen?’

  ‘Archie Allen’s lad? Aye, o’ course.’

  ‘Did you see him that morning?’

  The man was silent for a moment; he screwed up his eyes and contemplated Adam’s Fell. Banks took out his cigarettes and offered them around. Only one of them, a man with a huge red nose, took one. He grinned toothlessly at Banks, carefully nipped off the filter and put the other end in his mouth.

  ‘Aye,’ the spokesman said finally.

  ‘Where did he come from?’

  The man pointed towards the Greenock Guest House.

  ‘Did he stop anywhere on his way?’

  The man shook his head.

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘Up there.’ The man pointed with his stick to the footpath up Swainshead Fell.

  ‘And that was the last you saw of him?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘What was he wearing?’

  ‘Nay, lad, I don’t remember that. ’E was carrying one o’ them there ’aversacks on ’is back, that’s all I recollect. P’raps ’e was wearing a shirt. I don’t remember no jacket.’

  ‘Did you notice anyone go after him?’

  The man shook his head.

  ‘Could someone have followed him without you seeing?’

  ‘’Appen. There’s plenty o’ ways to get up t’ fell.’

  ‘We know he went to the hanging valley over the fell top,’ Banks said. ‘Are there many other ways to get there?’

  ‘A few. Tha can go from t’ main road, ’bout a mile past Rawley Force, and from further up t’ valley.’

  ‘How could anyone know where he was heading?’

  ‘That’s tha job, bobby, in’t it?’

  He was right. Someone could easily have watched Allen set off up the side of Swainshead Fell and then gone up by another route to head him off somewhere out of sight. And Sam Greenock had said he wouldn’t have been surprised if Bernard had visited the hanging valley. Anyone else could have known that too, and gone up earlier to wait for him there.

  Typically, as more information came to light the case was becoming more and more frustrating. Clearly it would be necessary to do a house-to-house in the village and ask the people with an eastern view if they had noticed anything that morning. It would also be useful to know if anyone had seen a car parked off the Helmthorpe road near the other access point. The trouble was that 17 May was so long ago most people would have forgotten.

  And those were only the most obvious ways in. Someone could surely have approached the hanging valley from almost any direction and lain in wait overnight if necessary, especially if he knew Bernard Allen was bound to pass that way. The break, if it came, didn’t look likely to come from establishing opportunity – just about everyone who had no alibi seemed to have had that – but from discovering a motive.

  Banks thanked the old men and walked off to find Sergeant Hatchley.

  6

  ONE

  Hatchley started the next day in a bad mood. He grumbled to Banks that not only was his bed too small but the noise of the plumbing had kept him awake.

  ‘I swear there was some bugger in there for a piss every five minutes. Flushed it every time, too. The bloody thing took at least ten minutes to quieten down again.’

  Banks, who had slept the sleep of the truly virtuous, overlooked the sergeant’s spurious arithmetic. ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘With a bit of luck you’ll be snug and warm in your own bed tonight.’

  ‘Not if I can help it.’

  ‘Carol Ellis?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘How long’s it been now?’

  ‘Over eighteen months.’

  ‘It’ll be wedding bells next, then?’

  Hatchley blushed and Banks guessed he wasn’t far from the truth.

  ‘Anyway,’ Banks went on. ‘I’m sorry to keep you away from your love life, but I think we’ll be finished here today unless Richmond comes up with anything else.’

  Hatchley had been on to the detective constable back in Eastvale, but Richmond had discovered nothing of importance except that Sam Greenock’s alibi seemed to hold. There remained, however, some doubt about the exact times he had called at Carter’s and the newsagent’s, so he wasn’t entirely out of the running.

  Also, Richmond had spoken to PC Weaver, who had called at the Greenocks’ to ask about Canadian visitors. Weaver said that in all cases he had both checked the register and made enquiries. It looked like Sam Greenock was lying. Weaver could have been covering himself, but he was a good officer and Banks tended to believe him.

  The previous evening, Banks and Hatchley had gone to interview John Fletcher, but he had been out. On the way back, they called in at the White Rose for a nightcap and had an early night. Mrs Greenock had still been skilfully managing to avoid them.

  Breakfast seemed to cheer Hatchley up. Delivered by Katie, who blushed and ran as soon as she put, or almost dropped, the plates in front of them, the main course consisted of two fried eggs, two thick rashers of Yorkshire bacon, Cumberland sausage, grilled mushrooms and tomato, with two slices of fried bread to mop it all up. Before that they had drunk grapefruit juice and eaten cereal, and afterwards came the toast and marmalade. By some oversight, the toast was actually hot, and Hatchley, his equilibrium much restored, recoiled in mock horror.

  ‘What’s on after we’ve talked to Fletcher?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ve got to put it all together, write up the interviews, see what we’ve got. I’m due for lunch with the super, so as far as I’m concerned you can take the rest of the day off and make an early start in the morning.’

  Sergeant Hatchley beamed.

  ‘I’ll drop you off at home,’ Banks said. ‘I’ve got to go back to Eastvale to pick up Sandra and the kids, anyway.’

  They finished their tea and left the room to the quiet Belgian couple by the window and the young married in the corner who hadn’t noticed anyone except each other. The Greenocks themselves were nowhere in sight.

  Outside, the three men Banks had spoken to the previous day were on the bridge as usual. The one who had acted as spokesman gave him a curt grudging nod of acknowledgement as he passed.

  Hatchley nudged him as they got in the car. ‘It usually takes an incomer two generations to get any sign of recognition from those characters. What did you do, slip ’em a tenner each?’

  ‘Southern charm, Sergeant,’ Banks said, grinning. ‘Sheer charm. That
and a lot of luck.’

  About two miles up the valley, they crossed the low bridge and took a narrow dirt road up the fell side. Fletcher’s farmhouse was a solid dark-stone construction that looked as if it had been extruded from the earth like an outcrop of rock. Around the back were a number of pens and ditches for dipping and shearing. This time, he was at home.

  ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t in,’ he said when Banks mentioned their previous visit. ‘I was doing a bit of business over in Hawes. Anyway, come in, make yourselves comfortable.’

  They followed him into the living room, a spartan kind of place with bare plastered walls, stiff-backed chairs and a solid table on which rested an old wireless and precious little else. Whatever money Fletcher had in the bank, he certainly didn’t waste any on luxurious living. The small window looked out across the valley. With a view like that, Banks thought, you’d hardly need paintings or television.

  One thing in particular caught Banks’s eye immediately, partly because it just didn’t seem to fit in this overtly masculine environment. Propped on the mantelpiece was a gilt-framed photograph of a woman. On closer inspec-tion, which Banks made while Fletcher went to brew tea, the photo proved doubly incongruous. The woman, with her finely plucked eyebrows, gay smile and long wavy chestnut hair, certainly didn’t look as if she belonged in Fletcher’s world. Banks could imagine her cutting a fine figure at society cocktail parties, sporting the latest hat at Ascot or posing elegantly at fashion openings, but not living in this godforsaken part of the world with a dark, squat, rough-cheeked sheep farmer.

  When Fletcher came back, Banks pointed to the photograph and asked who she was.

  ‘My wife,’ he said. ‘She’s been gone two years now.’ There was a distinct chill in his tone that harmonized with the lonely brooding atmosphere Banks sensed in the house.

  He didn’t like to ask, but curiosity, as it often did, got the better of him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Is she dead?’

  Fletcher looked sharply at him. ‘Not dead, no. If you must know, she left me.’

  And you’re still in love with her, Banks thought. At least that explained something of the heaviness that Fletcher seemed to carry around inside himself.