The Hanging Valley

by Peter Robinson

  ‘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 émigrés 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 Toronto?’

  ‘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 h
is 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.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Just what you told me, sir. I said he’d gone off to Toronto to talk to Anne Ralston.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what, sir?’

  ‘What happened next, man? How did they react?’

  Hatchley took a long pull at his beer and wiped his lips with the back of his hairy hand. ‘Oh, they just looked at one another and raised their eyebrows a bit.’

  ‘Can you be a bit more specific, Sergeant? What did Sam Greenock say?’

  ‘He didn’t really say anything. Seemed excited to hear the news. I got the impression it made him a bit angry. And Stephen Collier went distinctly pale. That poncy brother of his just looked down his nose like I was something the cat dragged in.’

  ‘Who else was there?’

  ‘Only John Fletcher.’

  ‘Did he react in any way?’

  Hatchley scratched his ear. ‘I’d say he got a bit tight-lipped. You wouldn’t really say he reacted, but it was as if it rang a bell somewhere and sent him off in his own world. More puzzled and worried than anything else.’

  Gristhorpe thought over the information and filed it away in his mind. ‘Good work, Sergeant,’ he said finally. ‘You did well.’

  Hatchley nodded and started casually rocking his empty pint glass on the table. ‘What now, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘We keep an eye on them. Tomorrow I’m going to send DC Richmond to stay at the Greenock Guest House for a few days. I don’t think his face is well known in Swainshead.’ Gristhorpe turned up his nose and leaned forward to grind out Hatchley’s cigarette butt, which still smouldered in the ashtray. ‘We keep an eye on them,’ he repeated. ‘And we watch very carefully for one of them to make a slip or try and make a run for it. All right, Sergeant. You don’t have to break the bloody glass on the table. I know it’s my round. Same again?’

  THREE

  Somewhere, with maddening metronomic regularity, a bell was ringing. Banks rubbed his eyes and saw the seat-belt sign was lit up. The no smoking sign was still out, so he lit a cigarette immediately to clear his head. Looking out of the window, he saw a vast urban area below. It was too far down to distinguish details, but he could make out the grid system of roads and fancied he could see cars flash in the sun.

  The attendant said something o
ver the PA system about a final descent, and passengers were then asked to extinguish their cigarettes. Banks’s ears felt funny. He swallowed and yawned to clear them, and the noise of the plane roared in again. All the way down he had to keep repeating the process every few seconds.

  The plane banked to the left and now individual buildings and moving vehicles stood out quite clearly. After a long turn, a great expanse of water came into sight on the right and a cluster of tall buildings appeared on the waterside. The plane was dropping quickly now, and within moments it touched the runway smoothly. The loud retro-jets kicked in. They felt like ropes tied to the back of the plane, dragging it to a halt. Several nervous passengers applauded.

  After some delay, the doors slid open and the slow line of people left the aircraft, running a gauntlet of fixed smiles from the attendants. Banks negotiated the stairs and corridors, then found himself in a long queue at Immigration. After that, there was another wait until the baggage came round on the carousel. Clutching his small suitcase, duty-free Scotch and cigarettes, he walked past the customs officers, who paid him no attention, and out into the throng of people waiting to welcome friends and relatives. As Gristhorpe suggested, he stood to one side and looked lost. It was easy.

  Soon he noticed an Adam’s apple the size of a tennis ball stuck in a long skinny neck below a head covered with long brown hair making its way through the crowd. As the head also wore a pair of ridiculously old-fashioned granny glasses, Banks risked a wave of recognition.

  ‘Gerry Webb,’ the man said, shaking hands. ‘Are you Chief Inspector Banks?’

  ‘Yes. Just call me Alan. I’m not here officially.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ Gerry said. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’

  They pushed their way through the crowds of relatives embracing long-lost children or parents, and took a lift to the multi-storey car park.

  ‘This is it,’ Gerry said, pointing proudly to a saffron Volkswagen bug. ‘I call her Sneezy because she’s a bit of a dwarf compared to most of the cars here, and she makes a funny noise when I try to start her in the mornings, especially during winter. Still, she gets me around.’ He patted Sneezy on the bonnet and opened the boot at the front. Case and duty-free securely stored, Banks got in the passenger door after a false start on the left.