The Hanging Valley

by Peter Robinson

  ‘The longer you’re away, the more you idealize the image of home,’ Barry went on, eyes roving the room. The place was packed and noisy now. People stood three deep at the bar. Jack, Banks noticed, had been joined by a small pretty woman with short dark hair laid flat against her skull. The Lancastrian and his friends had left. ‘Of course, what people don’t realize is that the country’s changed beyond all recognition,’ Barry continued. ‘We’d be foreigners there now, but to us home is still the Queen’s Christmas message, the last night of the Proms, Derby Day, a Test Match at Lords, the FA Cup Final – without bloodshed! – leafy lanes, a green and pleasant land. Ordered and changeless. Bloody hell, even the dark Satanic mills have some sort of olde worlde charm for homesick expatriates.’

  ‘Damn right,’ Glen said. ‘I’d work in a bloody woollen mill in Bingley if it meant being back home. Well, maybe . . . It’s the wistfulness of the exile, you see, Chief Inspector. You get it a lot in poetry. Especially the Irish.’

  Banks was beginning to see what Jack had meant.

  ‘Bernie was just the same,’ Ian said. ‘You should have heard him going on about Yorkshire. It was bloody Dales this and bloody Dales that. You’d think he was talking about paradise. You’ll never catch me going back to live over there. Canada’s a great place as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘That’s because you’re in real estate,’ Glen said. ‘You’re making a bloody fortune. Is that all you care about – the material things? What about your soul, your roots?’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Glen. You’re getting tiresome.’

  ‘If he could have got a job over there,’ Banks asked, ‘do you think he would have gone back?’

  ‘Like a shot,’ Ian answered. The others agreed.

  ‘Did he ever mention anything about a job?’

  ‘He did say there was a chance of getting back to stay,’ Glen said. ‘Lucky bastard. But I didn’t know whether to believe him or not.’

  ‘What was this chance?’

  ‘He didn’t say. Very hush-hush, apparently.’

  ‘Why?’

  Glen scratched his shoulder and tried to unstick the shirt from his armpit. ‘Dunno. It was just one of those nights when you’ve had a few too many, if you know what I mean. Bernie said something about a plan he had to get himself back home.’

  ‘But he gave you no details?’

  ‘No. Said he’d let us know after he got back.’

  ‘Was it a job he mentioned?’

  ‘Not specifically, no. Just a chance to get back. I assumed it must have been some possible job offer. How else would he be able to live?’

  ‘How attached was he to teaching?’

  ‘He liked it up to a point,’ Glen answered. ‘It was something he was good at. He should have been teaching at university. He was good enough, but there aren’t any jobs. Like most of us though, he hated the conditions he had to work in and he despised the students’ wilful ignorance. They don’t know anything and they don’t want to know – unless it’s in a ballpark or on video. They expect you to spoon-feed them knowledge, then ask them to regurgitate it in a test. For that they expect to be given an A-plus, no matter how bad their writing or how inaccurate their answers. I could go on—’

  ‘You usually do, Glen,’ Barry cut in, ‘but I don’t think Mr Banks wants to hear it.’

  Banks smiled. ‘Actually, I am running out of time,’ he said. ‘I need to find Julie as quickly as possible. Do you know where she lives?’

  ‘No,’ said Ian. ‘She just comes in on a Friday after work for a couple of drinks.’

  ‘It’s somewhere near here, I think,’ Barry added. ‘She mentioned sunbathing in Kew Gardens once.’

  ‘Have you any idea what surname she’s using?’

  ‘It’s Culver, isn’t it?’ Barry said. ‘Or Cleaver, Carver, something like that.’

  None of the others could improve on Barry’s contribution.

  ‘Do you know where she works?’

  ‘In one of those towers near King and Bay,’ Ian answered. ‘The TD Centre or First Canadian Place. She complained that the elevators made her ears go funny.’

  ‘That’s a lot of help,’ Glen said. ‘Do you know how many businesses operate from those places?’

  Ian shrugged. ‘Well, that’s all I know. What about you?’

  Glen and Barry both shook their heads.

  ‘She should be in here at about six tomorrow though,’ Barry said. ‘She hasn’t missed a week yet.’

  ‘Fine. Look, would you do me a favour? If she turns up early or if I’m late, please don’t tell her I want to see her. It might scare her off. You know how some people react to the police.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not after her for something?’ Glen asked suspiciously.

  ‘Information. That’s all.’

  ‘All right,’ Glen agreed. ‘If it’s going to help catch Bernie’s killer, we’ll do whatever you want.’ He paused to pick up his pint glass and raise it for a toast. ‘There is one good thing in all this, you know. At least Bernie died in the place he wanted to live.’

  ‘Yes,’ Banks said. ‘There is that.’

  And they all drank to dying where they wanted to live.

  11

  ONE

  ‘John told me about Nick’s behaviour at the party the other night,’ Stephen Collier said. ‘I’m sorry. I warned you to stay away from him.’

  Katie looked down at the stony path and blushed. ‘I didn’t go seeking him,’ she said. ‘He’s an animal, a filthy animal.’

  ‘But he is my brother, Katie. He’s the only family I’ve got left. I know he acts outrageously sometimes, but . . . I promise it won’t happen again.’

  Katie remembered a phrase from the Bible: ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ Could Stephen keep Nicholas like an animal in a zoo? He looked strained, she thought. He poked at the stones and sods with his ashplant stick as they walked; his face was pale and the tic in his eye was getting worse.

  It was fine walking weather: warm but not hot, with a few high white clouds and no sign of rain. Sam was in Eastvale for the day – not that Katie’s walking out with Stephen would have mattered to him, she thought; he practically threw her at the Colliers as if she were his membership ticket to some exclusive club.

  They took the diagonal path up the side of Swainshead Fell, heading for the source of the river. The air was clear, and after a few minutes’ walking even Stephen’s pallid cheeks began to glow like embers.

  At last they reached their destination. The source of the River Swain was an unspectacular wet patch on the side of Swainshead Fell. All around it, the grass was greener and grew more abundantly than anywhere else. Only yards away was the source of another river, the Gaiel, which, when it reached the valley below, perversely turned north towards Cumbria.

  Stephen had brought a flask of coffee and some dark chocolate. They sat down to eat on the dry grass above the source and looked back on Swainshead. A lapwing went into his extended ‘pee-wit’ song as he wove through the air, plummeted and levelled out just before hitting the ground. His wings beat like sheets flapping in a gale.

  ‘He must be trying to attract a mate,’ Stephen said.

  ‘Or scare us away.’

  ‘Perhaps. Coffee? Chocolate?’

  Katie accepted the plastic cup of black coffee. She usually liked hers with plenty of milk and a spoonful of sugar, but she took it as it came without complaint. The dark bitter chocolate puckered her taste buds.

  ‘I shouldn’t be here, you know,’ she said, pushing back a stray wisp of fair hair behind her ear.

  ‘Relax,’ Stephen said. ‘Sam’s in Eastvale.’

  ‘I know. But that’s not the point. People will talk.’

  ‘Why should they? There’s nothing to talk about. Everybody knows we’re all friends. You’re so old-fashioned, Katie.’

  Katie flushed. ‘I can’t help it. I wish I could,’ she added in a whisper.

  ‘Look,’ Stephen went on in a soothing voice, ‘we’ve
just gone for a short walk up the fell side, as many people do. Where’s the harm in that? We’re not hiding from anyone, we’re not sneaking off. You act as if we’re guilty of something terrible.’

  ‘It just feels wrong,’ Katie said, managing a brief smile. ‘Oh, don’t mind me. I’m trying, I really am. I’m just not very good with people.’

  ‘Don’t you feel comfortable with me?’

  Katie fidgeted with the silver paper from the chocolate wrapper, folding it into a neat shiny square. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t feel afraid.’

  Stephen laughed. ‘At least that’s a start. But seriously, Katie, sometimes it’s necessary to talk. I told you the other night I’ve got nobody. Nick’s hardly the type to make a good listener, and the people at work are just that: employees, colleagues, not friends.’

  ‘What about all those guests at the party?’

  ‘Nick’s people, most of them. Or from work, business acquaintances. Don’t you ever need to talk to someone real, Katie? Don’t you ever have problems you want to let out and share?’

  Katie frowned and stared at him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, of course I do. But I’m no good at it. I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘Start with your life, Katie. Are you happy?’

  ‘I don’t know. Am I supposed to be?’

  ‘That’s what life’s for, isn’t it, to be enjoyed?’

  ‘Or suffered.’

  ‘Are you suffering?’

  ‘I don’t think I’m happy, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Why don’t you do something about it?’

  ‘There’s nothing I can do.’

  ‘But there must be. You must be able to change things if you want.’

  ‘I don’t see how. What would I do? Without the guest house I’ve got nothing. Where would I go? I don’t know anywhere outside Leeds and Swainsdale.’ She toyed with a stray tress of hair. ‘I could just see me down in London or somewhere like that. I wouldn’t last five minutes.’

  ‘Cities aren’t quite as bad as you think they are. You only see the worst on television. Many people live happy lives there.’

  ‘Still,’ Katie said, ‘I’d be lost.’ She finished the coffee and wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

  ‘Perhaps by yourself you would be.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Suddenly Stephen seemed closer, and somehow he seemed to be holding her hand. Katie tensed. She didn’t want to upset him. If he wanted to touch her she would have to let him, but her stomach clenched and the wind roared in her ears. His touch was oddly chaste though; it didn’t seem to threaten her at all.

  ‘I don’t know, Katie,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure what I’m saying. But I’ve got to go away. I can’t stay around here any longer.’

  ‘But why not?’

  She felt him trembling as he moved even closer and his grip tightened on her hand. ‘There are things you don’t know anything about, Katie,’ he said. ‘Dear, sweet Katie.’ And he brushed his fingers down her cheek. They felt cold.

  Katie wanted to move away, but she didn’t dare struggle. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she burst out. ‘Sam’s always telling me I know nothing, too. What is it? Am I so blind or so stupid?’ There were tears in her eyes now, blurring her vision of the valley below and the water that bubbled relentlessly from the source.

  ‘No,’ Stephen said. ‘No, you’re not blind or stupid. But things aren’t always what they seem; people aren’t what they pretend to be. Listen, let me tell you . . .’

  TWO

  The woman who sat opposite Banks in the dining section of the Feathers had changed considerably from the one in Bernard Allen’s photograph, but it was definitely the same person. She wore her hair cut short and tinted blonde now, and was dressed in a cream business suit. When she sat down and fished in her bag for a cigarette, Banks also noticed that the carefree laughter in her eyes had hardened into a wary, suspicious look. Her long cigarette had a white filter which soon became blotched with lipstick; she had a habit of tapping it on the edge of the ashtray even when there was no ash, and she held it straight out between the V of her first two fingers like an actress in an old movie, pursing her lips to inhale. Her nails were long and painted red.

  She had turned up at six, as Glen had said, and she and Banks had left the others to go and talk privately over dinner. There wasn’t much separation between the two areas of the pub except for the way the seating was arranged, and they could still hear the conversations at the bar and the tables.

  The waitress, a petite brunette with a twinkle in her eye and a cheeky smile, came up and gave them menus. ‘Something to drink?’ she asked.

  Julie ordered a White Russian and Banks a glass of red wine, just for a change.

  ‘I need to know why you left Swainshead in such a hurry,’ he said, when the waitress had gone for the drinks.

  ‘Can’t a woman do as she pleases? It’s not a police state, you know. Or it wasn’t when I was last there.’

  ‘Nor is it now. It was your timing that interested us.’

  ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘We tend to be suspicious of someone who disappears without a trace the day after a murder.’

  ‘That was nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Don’t play the innocent. What did you expect us to think? You could have been in danger yourself, or you could have been the killer. For all we knew you could have been buried down a disused mineshaft. You didn’t stop to let anyone know what had happened to you.’

  ‘Well, I’m telling you now. That killing had nothing to do with me.’

  ‘How do you know about it? You don’t seem at all surprised at my mentioning it, but the body wasn’t discovered until after you’d left.’

  Julie ground her cigarette into the ashtray. ‘Don’t try your tricks on me,’ she said. ‘I read the papers. I know what happened.’

  The waitress arrived with the drinks and asked if they were ready to order. Banks asked for a few more minutes and she smiled and went away. Julie turned to her menu.

  ‘What would you recommend?’ Banks asked.

  She shrugged. ‘The food’s always good here. It depends what you fancy. The prime-rib roast and Yorkshire pudding on special is excellent, if you don’t mind being reminded too much of home.’

  Banks looked around at the decor and the photos on the walls. ‘Not at all,’ he said, smiling.

  This time a different waitress came for their orders, an attractive woman with reddish blonde hair and a warm manner. Banks hoped he hadn’t offended the other.

  ‘Where did you go?’ he asked Julie, as soon as they’d ordered their meals.

  ‘None of your damn business.’ She sipped her White Russian.

  ‘A week after you left,’ Banks pressed on, ‘the body of a London private detective called Raymond Addison was discovered in Swainshead. He’d been murdered. Did you know anything about that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We’ve got good reason to think you did. Listen, if you want to make things difficult, Miss Ralston—’

  ‘It’s Culver, Mrs. Mrs Julie Culver. And it’s quite legal. Julie’s my middle name and Culver is my husband’s. Ex-husband’s, I should say.’

  ‘Why change your name if you’ve nothing to hide?’

  She shrugged. ‘It was a new start. Why not a new name?’

  ‘Not very convincing. But Mrs Culver it is. We’re on good terms with the Canadian government. We have extradition arrangements and a mutual help policy. If I wanted to, I could make enough fuss to have you sent back to England to answer my questions. This is the easy way.’

  Julie lit another cigarette. ‘I don’t believe you. I’m a Canadian citizen now. You can’t touch me at all.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ Banks said. ‘You’re connected to a murder in England. Don’t expect your government to protect you from that.’

  ‘But you can’t prove I had anything to do with it. It’s just a coincidence I went away then.’r />
  ‘Is it? What about your involvement with Stephen Collier?’

  Julie paled. ‘What about it? What’s he been telling you?’

  ‘Nothing. What does he know?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  Banks sighed. ‘A few weeks ago a friend of yours, Bernard Allen, was murdered in the hanging valley just over Swainshead Fell.’

  ‘I know the place,’ Julie said sadly. ‘I’ve been there with him. It always looked like autumn. But what makes you think his death had anything to do with me? I wasn’t even in the country. I was here. It could have been a thief or a psycho . . . or a . . .’

  There was something in her tone that let Banks know she was interested now, no longer so hostile. ‘In the first place,’ he said, ‘we know that you told him not to let anyone know he’d met you here, which is suspicious enough in itself. And in the second place, he did tell someone: a woman called Katie Greenock. Her heart seems to be in the right place, but she told her husband, Sam, who soon broadcasted it to the whole White Rose crowd. In the third place, Bernard had been talking about going home to stay, and there’s no evidence he had a job lined up. Then Bernard got killed before he had a chance to leave the dale. What does all that indicate to you?’

  ‘You’re the sleuth. You tell me.’ Julie blew cigarette smoke down her nose.

  Banks leaned forward. ‘The way I read it,’ he said, ‘is that you knew something about Raymond Addison’s murder. Something incriminating. I’m not sure who else was involved, or why, but it had to be someone with money. I’d guess that Stephen Collier played a large part. I think you told Bernard what you knew and he intended to use that knowledge to blackmail his way to what he wanted most – his return to Swainshead.’

  ‘My God! I . . . Are you trying to say I’m responsible for Bernie’s death?’