The Hanging Valley

by Peter Robinson

  He went on to make a careful search of the rest of the apartment, and he did take out every book and flip through the leaves, but he came up with nothing else. The postcard signed ‘Julie’ and the old photograph were all he had to go on. By the time he’d finished, his shirt was stuck to his back.

  Outside, Gregson seemed quite at ease smoking in his hot car.

  ‘Find anything?’ he asked.

  ‘Only an old photograph. Probably useless. What time is it?’

  ‘Ten after four.’

  ‘I suppose I’d better make my way home.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘Riverdale.’

  ‘That’s not far. How about a beer first?’

  ‘All right.’ It was impossible to resist the thought of an ice-cold beer.

  Gregson drove back downtown and pulled into a car park behind a grimy cinder-block building with a satellite dish on the roof.

  Despite the warm gold sunlight outside, the bar was dark and it took a while for Banks’ eyes to adjust. He did notice though, that it was cold, gloriously cold. There wasn’t any sawdust on the floor, but he got the feeling there ought to be. It was a high-ceilinged room as big as a barn, peppered with black plastic tables and chairs. At one end was the bar itself, a feeble glimmer of light in the distance, and at the other was a stage littered with amps and speakers. At the moment a rather flat-chested young girl was dancing half-naked in a spotlight to the Rolling Stones’ ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’. The volume was much too high. Against a third wall was a huge TV screen on which a game of baseball was in progress.

  A waitress sashayed over, shirt-ends tied in a knot under her ample breasts, and took their orders with a weary smile. Shortly, she returned with the drinks on a tray. As Banks looked around, other figures detached themselves from the gloom and he saw that the place was reasonably full. Smoke swirled and danced in the spot beam. Whatever this bar was, it wasn’t one of the English-style pubs where Bernard Allen went for his pint. The four glasses of draught beer in front of them were tiny and tapered to thick heavy stems.

  ‘Cheers.’ Gregson clinked glasses and practically downed his in one.

  ‘If you have to order two each at a time,’ Banks asked, leaning over and shouting against the music, ‘why don’t they switch to using bigger glasses?’

  Gregson shrugged and licked foam off his moustache. ‘Tradition, I guess. It’s always been like this as long as I can remember.’ He offered Banks a cigarette. It was stronger than the ones he usually smoked.

  The music ended and the girl left the stage to a smattering of polite applause.

  Gregson nodded towards the TV screen. ‘Get baseball back home?’

  Banks nodded. ‘We do now. My son likes it, but I’m a cricket man myself.’

  ‘Can’t figure that game at all.’

  ‘Can’t say I know much about baseball, either.’ Banks caught the waitress’s attention and put in another order, changing his to a bottle of Carlsberg this time. She smiled sweetly at him and made him repeat himself.

  ‘Likes your accent,’ Gregson said afterwards. ‘She heard you the first time. You’ll be all right there, if you’re interested.’

  ‘Married man.’

  ‘Ah. Still, while the cat’s away . . . And you are in a foreign country, a long way from home.’

  Banks laughed. ‘The problem is, I have to take myself with me wherever I go.’

  Gregson nodded slowly. ‘I know what you mean.’ He tapped the side of his square head. ‘There’s a few pictures stuck in here I wish I could throw out, believe me.’ He looked back at the screen. ‘Baseball. Greatest game in the world.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘Listen, if you’ve got a bit of time, how about taking in a game next Saturday? I’ve got tickets. Jays at home to the Yankees.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ Banks said. ‘Look, don’t get me wrong, but I got the impression you were distinctly pissed off with me a few hours ago. Now you’re inviting me to a baseball game. Any reason?’

  ‘Sure. You were out of line and I did my duty. Now I’m off duty and someone’s got to show you there’s more to Canada than snow, Mounties, beavers and maple trees.’

  ‘Fair enough. Don’t forget the Eskimos.’

  ‘Inuit, we call them now.’

  Banks finished his beer and Gregson ordered more. The spot came on again and an attractive young woman with long wavy black hair and brown skin came on to the stage.

  Gregson noticed Banks staring. ‘Beautiful, eh? She’s a full-blooded Indian. Name’s Wanda Morningstar.’

  She certainly was beautiful, in such an innocent natural way that Banks found himself wondering what the girl was doing taking her clothes off for a bunch of dirty old men in the middle of a summer’s afternoon. And, come to think of it, what the hell was he doing among them? Well, blame Gregson for that.

  More drinks came, and more strippers walked on and off the stage, but none could hold a candle to Wanda Morningstar. It was after ten when they finally left, and by then Banks felt unusually merry. Because the beer was ice-cold it had very little taste and therefore, he had assumed, little strength. Wrong. It was stronger than what he was used to, and he felt light-headed as he followed Gregson to the car.

  Gregson paused as he bent to put his key in the door. ‘No,’ he said to himself. ‘Time to take a cab. You’ve been leading me astray, Alan. It’d be damned embarrassing if I got done for drunken driving in my own city, wouldn’t it?’

  They walked out on to the street. It was still busy, and many of the shops were open – all-night groceries and the ubiquitous Mac’s Milk. Or was this one Mo’s, Mc’s or Mick’s? You’d never get anything but an off-licence open past five thirty in Eastvale, Banks reflected.

  Gregson waved and a cab pulled up. They piled in the back. The driver, an uncommunicative West Indian, nodded when he heard the directions. He dropped Banks off first outside Gerry’s house, then drove on with Gregson waving from the back.

  Banks walked into the hot room and slumped in front of the TV. A rerun of Perry Mason came on. Finally, a little dizzy and unable to keep his eyes open any longer, he went into the bedroom and lay down. The events of the day spun round chaotically in his mind for a while, but the last image, the one that lulled his consciousness to sleep, was of Wanda Morningstar dancing naked, not on a stage in a seedy bar but in a clearing somewhere in the wilderness, her dark skin gleaming in firelight.

  But the scene shifted, as it does in dreams, and it was no longer Wanda Morningstar dancing but Anne Ralston running ahead of him in her long Paisley skirt. It was a typical policeman’s dream too, for try as he might, he just couldn’t run fast enough. His feet felt as if they were glued to the earth. Every so often, she would pause and beckon him, smiling indulgently when she saw him try to drag himself along. He woke at six, covered with sweat. Outside, the birds were singing and an early-morning streetcar clattered by. He got up and took a couple of Gerry’s aspirins with a pint of water, then drifted off to sleep again.

  10

  ONE

  The sun had just gone down behind Adam’s Fell, silhouetting the steep hillside against its deep crimson glow. The guests milled around in the Colliers’ large garden. Doors to both parts of the house were open, allowing access to drinks and a huge table of cheeses, pâtés, smoked salmon and fresh fruit. Music drifted out from Stephen’s stereo. Now it was Mozart, but earlier there had been Motown and some ersatz modern pop. The crowd was mostly early to mid thirties, apart from one or two older landowners and friends of the family. There were a couple of bright young teachers from Braughtmore, several members of Stephen’s management staff, and a great assortment of entrepreneurs, some with political ambitions, from all over the dale. The parties were a fairly regular affair; they helped maintain the social status of the Colliers and introduce those who had something to those who might be willing and able to pay for it.

  Katie stood alone by the fountain, with a glass of white
wine in her hand. She had been holding it so long it was warm. Occasionally a well dressed young man would approach her and begin a conversation, but after a few minutes of her averted looks, blushes and monosyllabic answers, he would make an excuse to get away.

  As usual, Sam had insisted she come.

  ‘I didn’t buy you those bloody expensive dresses for nothing, you know,’ he had railed when she told him at the last minute that she didn’t want to go.

  ‘I didn’t ask you to buy them,’ Katie said quietly. ‘I don’t even want them.’ And it was true. She felt uncomfortable in finery, full of pride and vanity.

  ‘You’ll damn well do as I say. There’ll be some important people there and I want you to make a good impression.’

  ‘Oh, Sam,’ she pleaded, ‘you know I never do. I can’t talk to people at parties. I get all tongue-tied.’

  ‘Have a few drinks like everyone else, for a change. That’ll loosen you up. For Christ’s sake, can’t you let your hair down for once?’

  Katie turned away.

  Sam grasped her arm. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘you’re coming with me and that’s that. If you’re so worried about talking to people, then just stand around and look decorative. At least you can do that. But you are coming. Got it?’

  Katie nodded and Sam let go of her. Rubbing her arm, she went up to her room and picked out a cotton print dress just right for the occasion, gathered at the waist and cut low down the back. It looked particularly good if she tied her hair up. She decided to take a fringed woollen shawl, too; sometimes, even in July, the evenings got chilly. After Sam had approved of her appearance and suggested a bit more eye make-up, they left.

  She could see Sam in his white suit talking and laughing with a couple of local businessmen. He had a glass of wine too, though she knew he hated the stuff. He only drank it because that was the thing to do at the Colliers’ parties.

  Katie looked around for John Fletcher, but she couldn’t see him. John was always kind and, of all of them, she found him the easiest to talk to, or even to be silent with. She liked Stephen Collier, but felt more comfortable with John Fletcher. He was a sad and haunted man since his wife ran off, but at least she hadn’t gone because he mistreated her. Maureen Fletcher, Katie remembered, had been beautiful, vain, haughty and foolhardy. The small community of Swainshead couldn’t hold her. Katie thought John ought to be glad to be rid of her, but she never said anything to him. They never discussed anything personal, but he seemed, beyond the depths of his sadness, a good man.

  Katie shivered. The sunset had faded, leaving the sky above Adam’s Fell a deep dark violet colour. Even over the clinking glasses and the Motown music, which had started up again because some people wanted to dance, she could hear the eerie mournful call of a curlew high on the fell. She began to make her way into Nicholas’s part of the house to pick up her shawl where Sam had left it, then decided she wanted to go to the bathroom too. Pausing on the way, she admired the oak panelling and the old-fashioned style of his living room, with its watercolours of Nelson and Wellington on the walls, and its rows of leather-bound books. She wondered if he ever read them. On a small teak table by the Adam fireplace stood a bronze bust. Looking closer, Katie saw the name Oscar Wilde scratched into the base. She’d heard the name before somewhere, but it didn’t mean very much to her. What a beautiful place for a monster like Nicholas Collier to live. It would be difficult to clean though, she thought, taking in all the nooks and crannies with a professional eye.

  Finally, she found the toilet, which was more modern than the rest of the house. There, she poured her drink down the bowl and hid for a while, idly glancing at one of the copies of Yorkshire Life so thoughtfully set out by the bath. Then she got worried that Sam might be looking for her.

  On her way back down the hall, she met Nicholas coming up. He was walking unsteadily, and his bright eyes were glassy. A stubborn lock of hair near his crown stood straight up. He looked like a naughty schoolboy.

  ‘Ah, Katie my dear,’ he said, reaching out and holding her shoulders. His voice was slurred and his cheeks were flushed with drink. ‘Come to me, for thy love is better than wine.’

  Katie blushed and tried to wriggle free, but Nicholas only tightened his grip. He looked behind him.

  ‘Nobody around,’ he whispered. ‘Time for a little kiss, my rose of Sharon, my lily of the valley.’

  Katie struggled, but he was too strong. He held her head still, brought his mouth closer to hers and seemed to suffocate her with a long wet kiss. His breath tasted rank with wine, garlicky pâté and Stilton cheese. When he stopped, she gulped in the air. But he didn’t let her go. One hand was on her bare back now and the other was feeling her breasts.

  ‘Ah, thy breasts are like two young roes that are twins,’ he said, breathing hard. ‘Come on, Katie. In here. In the bedroom.’

  ‘No!’ Katie shouted. ‘If you don’t let me go I’m going to scream.’

  Nicholas laughed. ‘I like a girl with a bit of spirit. Come on, I’ll make you scream, sure enough. But not yet.’ He put one hand over her mouth and started dragging her along the hall. Suddenly, she heard a familiar voice behind them and Nicholas’s grip loosened. She shook herself free and turned to hear John Fletcher tell Nicholas to take his hands off her.

  ‘You go to hell!’ Nicholas said, clearly too far gone in temper to pull back. ‘Who are you to tell me what to do? You’re nothing but a jumped-up farm boy.’

  And suddenly, John hit him. It was a quick sharp blow to the mouth, and it stopped Nicholas in his tracks. He glared at John as the blood welled to his lips and a thin line trickled down his chin. Out in the garden, a glass smashed and somebody giggled loudly above Mary Wells’ ‘My Guy’. Nicholas bared his teeth at John, put his hand over his mouth and stalked off to the bathroom.

  Fletcher rubbed his knuckles. ‘Are you all right, Katie?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, yes, thank you.’ Katie stared down at the patterned carpet as she spoke. ‘I-I’m sorry . . . I’m so embarrassed. It’s not the first time he’s tried to touch me, but he’s never been that rough before.’

  ‘He’s drunk,’ Fletcher said, then smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.’

  ‘But what will he do? He looked so angry.’

  ‘He’ll cool off. Come on, let’s get back to the others.’

  Katie picked up her shawl, and they walked back into the garden, which was lit now by strategically placed antique lanterns. Katie excused herself, thanking John again, and sneaked around the side of the house into the street. She felt she needed to be out of there for a while, at least until her heart stopped beating so wildly and she could catch her breath again. Her flesh felt numb where Nicholas’s hands had touched her. She shuddered.

  There was no one in the street. Even the old men had gone from the bridge. The lights were on in the White Rose though, and Katie heard the sound of laughter and talk from inside. She thought the young policeman would be in there, the one nobody knew about but her. He hadn’t been invited to the party, of course, so he wouldn’t get the chance to spy on them that night. She wondered why he was really in the village. He hadn’t asked any searching questions of anyone; he just seemed to be there, somehow, always in sight.

  Sighing, Katie crept back into the garden. A slow song was playing and some of the couples held each other close. Suddenly, she felt a hand on her back and flinched.

  ‘It’s only me. Dance?’

  ‘B-but I . . . can’t . . .’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Stephen Collier said. ‘It’s easy. Just follow what I do.’

  Katie had no choice. She saw Sam looking on and smiling with approval from Stephen’s doorway. She felt like she had two left feet, and somehow her body just wouldn’t respond to the music at all. It felt like wood. Soon, she began to feel dizzy and everything went dark. At the centre of the darkness was a biting, sooty smell. She stumbled.

  ‘Hey, I’m not as bad as all that.’ Stephen supported her with one
arm and led her to the fountain.

  Katie regained her balance. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I told you I was no good.’

  ‘If I didn’t know better,’ Stephen said, ‘I’d say you’d had too much to drink.’

  Katie smiled. ‘About one sip of white wine. It’s too much for me.’

  ‘Katie?’ Stephen suddenly seemed earnest.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I enjoyed our little chat in your kitchen that time. It’s good to have someone . . . someone outside to talk to.’

  ‘Outside what?’

  ‘Oh, business, family . . .’

  The occasion seemed so long ago that Katie could hardly remember. And Stephen had ignored her ever since. She certainly hadn’t imagined it as an enjoyable occasion for either of them. But there was something so little-boyish about Stephen, especially now when he seemed so nervous and serious. The muscle in the corner of his left eye had developed a tic.

  ‘Remember what we talked about?’ he went on.

  Katie didn’t, but she nodded.

  He looked around and lowered his voice. ‘I think I’ve made my mind up. I think I’m going to leave Swainshead.’

  ‘But why?’

  Stephen noticed a couple of his senior executives heading in their direction. ‘We can’t talk here, Katie. Not now. Can I see you on Friday?’