The Hanging Valley

by Peter Robinson

  ‘I’m not placing any blame, Mrs Culver. I simply want to know what happened. I want to nail Bernie’s killer.’

  Julie seemed to be thinking fast. Conflicting emotions flashed across her face. ‘I’m not guilty of anything,’ she said finally. ‘I’ve nothing to be afraid of. And I don’t believe you. Bernie could never have been a blackmailer.’

  The waitress brought their food. Before she left, they ordered another round of drinks, then Banks tucked into his roast while Julie picked at a Caesar salad. They remained silent while they ate. It wasn’t until they both pushed their plates aside and reached for their cigarettes that Julie started to talk again.

  ‘It’s been such a long time, you know,’ she began. ‘A lot’s happened. There’ve been long stretches when I haven’t thought about Swainshead at all.’

  ‘Not homesick?’

  ‘Me? I’m at home anywhere. Almost anywhere. Though I can’t say I cared for the Middle East much.’

  ‘Bernie was homesick.’

  ‘He was the type though, wasn’t he? If you’d known him you’d have understood. The place was in his blood. He couldn’t even really settle down in Leeds. Yes, Bernie wanted to go back. Which was a shame. I’d kind of been hoping . . .’

  ‘You and Bernie? Again?’

  She raised a thin dark-pencilled eyebrow. ‘You know about that?’

  ‘It was hardly a state secret.’

  ‘True. Anyway, why not? We were both free agents again.’

  ‘Tell me what happened five years ago that sent you running off around the world.’

  The waitress came to pick up their plates. Banks ordered a pint of Creemore this time and Julie asked for a coffee and a double cognac. All the spaces were occupied now. Next to them, a group of eight people had pulled two tables together.

  ‘It seems more like a million years ago,’ Julie said when she got her drink. ‘I suppose I was a naive young thing back then. My education really began after I left.’

  She was stalling for time, Banks thought, telling the story her own way. Perhaps she wasn’t sure yet whether she was going to tell him the truth or not. The best thing for now, he decided, was to let her go with it and subtly steer her in the right direction. ‘Where did you go?’ he asked.

  ‘First I went to Europe. I’d been saving up for quite a long time – kept my money under the mattress, believe it or not – just waiting for the day when I knew I would take off and never come back. I took a boat over to Holland and ended up in Amsterdam for a while. Then I bummed around France, Italy, Germany. To cut a long story short, I met a man. A Canadian. This’d be about a year later. He took me back to Vancouver with him and we got married.’ Julie blew out a steady stream of smoke. ‘Life was fine for a while . . . then he decided I wasn’t enough for him. Two can play at that game, I thought . . . Anyway, it ended.’

  ‘When did you first get in touch with Bernie?’

  ‘About eighteen months ago. That was after I split up with Charles. Bernie was having marriage problems of his own, I soon found out, and he seemed happy enough to hear from me. I might have got in touch with him earlier, but I’d been wary about doing so. I knew he was here, of course. He left Swainshead before I did. But I felt that I’d burned all my bridges.’

  ‘What made you contact him, then?’

  ‘Circumstances, really. I’m a freelance publicity agent. I started the business in Vancouver because I liked the idea and it gave me something to do while my husband was . . . not around.’ She tapped her cigarette against the glass ashtray. ‘It turned out I had a knack, a flair, so I decided to open an office in Toronto as well. I don’t know how much you understand about Canada, but Toronto is pretty much the centre of the universe here. I knew Bernie lived in the city, so I thought what the hell. Any trouble I might have caused would have blown over by now anyway.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  She narrowed her eyes and looked at him closely. ‘I had thought Bernie might not want to see me.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I went out with Stephen Collier.’

  ‘But Bernard was over here by then. What was that to him?’

  ‘It’s not that. Bernie and I were never much more than childhood sweethearts anyway. But we were close friends, like brother and sister. I was hoping that might change here . . .’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, it’s just that Stephen . . . well . . . he’s a Collier.’

  ‘And Bernie was very class conscious?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So he’d feel betrayed.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘He wrote me some pretty nasty letters at the time. Then, when I went away, we lost touch for a while. But when we met up again here it had all blown over. Bernie was compassionate. He understood. That’s why I can’t believe he was a blackmailer.’

  ‘He might not have been. I can’t be sure. He might just have opened his mouth out of turn.’

  Julie smiled. ‘That sounds more like him.’

  ‘What about Nicholas Collier?’ Banks asked. ‘Were you ever involved with him?’

  Julie raised her eyebrows. ‘What on earth do you think I am?’ she asked, smiling. ‘I didn’t get around that much. And credit me with some taste. Nicky really did nothing for me, though I caught him giving me the eye once or twice.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Banks said. ‘I’m not trying to insinuate you’re a—’

  ‘Tart? Slut? Harlot? Jezebel? Loose woman? Believe me, I’ve been called much worse.’ The old laughter lit up Julie’s eyes for a moment. ‘Do you know the difference between a slut and a bitch?’

  Banks shook his head.

  ‘A slut is a woman who sleeps with anyone; a bitch is a woman who sleeps with anyone but you.’

  Banks laughed. ‘That’s from the man’s point of view, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So what happened?’ he asked. ‘What made you leave when you did?’

  ‘You’re a persistent man, Mr Banks,’ Julie said, lighting another long white cigarette. ‘Even my tasteless jokes don’t seem to deflect you for very long. But I’m still not sure I ought to tell you.’

  Banks caught her eyes and held them. ‘Mrs Culver,’ he said quietly, ‘Bernard Allen – your childhood sweetheart, as you called him – was murdered. All murders are cruel and vicious, but this one was worse than many. First he was stabbed, and then his face was slashed and beaten in with a rock so nobody could recognize him. When we found him he’d been hidden away in the hanging valley for nearly two weeks and there were maggots crawling out of his eye sockets.’

  Julie turned pale and gripped her cognac glass so tightly Banks thought she was going to shatter it. Her jaw was clenched and a muscle just below her ear twitched. ‘Bastard,’ she whispered.

  The silent tension between them seemed to last for hours. Banks could hear the aimless chatter around him as if it were from a distant movie soundtrack: snippets of conversation about marathon running, beer, cricket and teaching native children up north, all in a medley of Canadian, Yorkshire, London and Scottish accents. Julie didn’t even seem to realize he was there any more. She was staring at the wall just to the left of him. He half turned and saw a photograph of a wooded valley. The leaves were russet, yellow and orange.

  He lit a cigarette. Julie finished her cognac and a little colour returned to her cheeks. The waitress came and they ordered another round.

  When they had their drinks, Julie shook her head and regarded Banks with something close to hatred. ‘For Bernie, then,’ she said, and began: ‘The night before I left I was supposed to see Stephen. We’d arranged to go to dinner at the Box Tree in Ilkley. He picked me up about half an hour late and he seemed unusually agitated – so much so that he pulled into a lay-by after we’d not gone more than four or five miles. And then he told me. He said there’d been some trouble and someone had got hurt. He didn’t say killed at that time, just hurt. He was in a terrible state. Then he said something about
the past catching up, that it was connected with something that had happened in Oxford.’

  ‘When he was at university there?’

  ‘I suppose so. He did go to Oxford. Anyway, this man, a private investigator, had turned up out of the blue and was intent on causing trouble. Stephen told me that Sam Greenock called and said there was someone looking for a Mr Collier. Sam was a bit suspicious about the newcomer asking questions and didn’t give anything away. The man said he was going for a short evening walk up the valley. Stephen said he went after him and they talked and the man was going to blackmail the family.’

  ‘About this event that had occurred in Oxford?’

  ‘Yes. According to Stephen, tempers were raised, they fought and the man was hurt, badly hurt. I told Stephen he should call an ambulance.

  ‘He got angry then and told me I didn’t understand. That was when he said the man was dead. He went on to say there was nothing to connect them. Sam would keep quiet if they humoured him and let him play the local squire. Stephen just had to tell someone, to unburden himself, and he didn’t really have anyone else he felt he could talk to but me.’

  ‘What was your reaction?’

  Julie lit a fresh cigarette from the stub of her old one. ‘You have to understand Stephen,’ she said. ‘In many ways he’s a kind, considerate, gentle man. But he’s also a businessman and he can be ruthless when he feels the need. But more than all that, he’s a Collier. There are few things more important to him than the good name of his family and its history. I wouldn’t say I was in love with him, but I thought a lot of him and I didn’t want to see him suffer. Needless to say, we didn’t have dinner that night. We stopped at the nearest pub and had a bit too much to drink, then we—’ Julie stopped. ‘The rest is of no interest. I never saw him again after that night.’

  ‘Why did you leave the next day? Did he suggest it to you?’

  ‘No. I think he trusted me. He knew I was on his side.’

  ‘So why did you go?’

  ‘For my own reasons. First, and perhaps least, I’d been thinking about making a break for a while. I’ve no family. My parents died ten years ago and I just kept on the cottage. I had no real ambitions, no plans for my life. I was getting bored with my job and I was realistic enough not to see myself as the future Mrs Stephen Collier. Stephen wasn’t going to propose, and I’d had hints from him that Nicholas didn’t consider me to be of the right class, as if I wasn’t aware of that already. These new events just hurried me along a bit. Secondly, I didn’t trust myself. I thought if the police came around and started asking me questions, they’d know something was wrong and they’d keep pressuring me until I gave Stephen away. I didn’t want to let that happen. I’m not a good liar, Mr Banks, as you can see.’

  ‘And third?’

  ‘Fear.’

  ‘Of Stephen?’

  ‘Yes. As I said, he’s a complex man. There’s a dark side to him. He’s vulnerable in some ways, but very practical in others. Sentimental and pragmatic. It can sometimes make for a frightening combination. Didn’t someone once say that Mafia dons are very sentimental people? Don’t they send flowers to the widow when they’ve killed someone? And weren’t the Nazis sentimental too? Anyway, he’d done it before, confided in me one day then cut me dead the next – no pun intended – just pretended we’d never been intimate at all. Basically, Stephen couldn’t get close to anyone. He’d try, and one of the ways he did it was by confiding. But then he’d regret it the next day and turn cold. What worried me was the importance of this confidence. It was the kind of thing he might not be able to live with, someone as weak as me knowing his secret.’

  ‘In other words, you were worried you might become his next victim.’

  ‘I know it sounds a horrible thing to say about someone you basically like and respect – even loved, perhaps, once – but yes, it did cross my mind. Much easier to disappear, as I’d been thinking of it anyway. And there was no one to make a fuss about my going.’

  ‘What kind of things did he confide in you about before?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much. Perhaps a slightly shady business deal; he was pleased if he’d put one over on somebody. Or an income tax fiddle. He hated the Inland Revenue.’

  ‘Nothing more?’

  ‘No. Not until that time.’

  They sipped their drinks and let the conversations flow around them. Julie seemed more relaxed now she had told her story, and Banks could see no traces of that hateful look left in her eyes.

  ‘Did he say anything else about this incident in Oxford?’ he asked.

  Julie shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘So you don’t know what happened there, or who else might have been involved?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry. At the time I never even thought to ask. It was all hard enough to take in as it was.’

  Banks sighed. Still, even if he hadn’t uncovered the whole story yet, he’d done well. The trip had been worthwhile. Julie rejoined the others. Banks said his farewells and left. It was about nine o’clock, a hot humid evening. Instead of taking the bus, he crossed Kingston Road and started walking towards the lake. The road sloped steeply at one point, crossed another main street with tram rails, then a hundred yards or so farther on ended at a beach.

  Couples walked hand in hand along the boardwalk or sat on benches and stared out at the water. Some people jogged by, sweating, and others ambled along with dogs on leashes. Banks made his way over the soft sand to where a group of rocks stuck out into the lake. He clambered as far forward as he could and sat down on the warm stone. Water slopped around just below his feet. The horizon was a broad mauve band; above it, the sky’s pink was tinged with misty grey. Banks lit a cigarette and wondered if it was the United States he could see in the distance or just a low narrow layer of mist.

  He’d got what he came for, though he still couldn’t put everything together. At least when he got back he would be able to question Stephen Collier more thoroughly, no matter what the man’s influence with the deputy chief constable. Collier had killed Raymond Addison, and he might even have killed Bernard Allen too. There was no proof as yet, but Banks would find some if it took him a lifetime. Collier wasn’t going to escape justice because of influence or social position, of that Banks would make sure.

  By the time he had finished his cigarette, the sun had gone down much lower and the sky had changed. The horizon was now grey and the mauve band much higher in the sky. The lake seemed scattered with pink, as if the colour had transformed itself into raindrops and shattered the ice-blue surface of the water. Carefully, Banks got to his feet on the angled rock and made his way back towards a streetcar stop.

  THREE

  Earlier that day, back in Swainsdale, Detective Constable Philip Richmond had sat on a knoll high on Adam’s Fell and unwrapped his cheese and pickle sandwiches. He flicked away the flies that gathered and poured some coffee from his flask. Up there, the air was pure and sharp; below, the sun glinted on the steel kegs in the back yard of the White Rose and flashed in the fountain playing in the Colliers’ huge garden behind the ugly Gothic mansion. The old men stood on the bridge, and the Greenocks’ front door was closed.

  Sam had driven off on one of his regular jaunts to Leeds or Eastvale, and Katie had gone for a walk with Stephen Collier up Swainshead Fell. He thought he could see them across in the north-east, near a patch of grass that was greener than that around it, but it could have been someone else.

  Sipping the bitter black coffee, Richmond had reminded himself that tomorrow was his last day in Swainshead. He was expected back at the station with a report on Sunday morning. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed himself – it had been very much like a week’s holiday – but he longed to get back to his Eastvale mates. Tomorrow the rugby team was playing Skipton, a game he would have to miss. There was always a good booze-up and sing-song after the match, and it would be a shame to miss that too. Jim Hatchley was usually there for the booze, of course. An honorary member they called him now he wasn
’t fit enough to play any more. But even the sergeant’s presence didn’t spoil Richmond’s fun: a few jars, a good sing-song, then, with a bit of luck, a kiss and a cuddle with Doreen on the way home. He prided himself on being a man of simple tastes, yet he also liked to think that nothing else about him was simple.

  Finishing his sandwich, he unwrapped a Kit-Kat and picked up The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch, the last of the four Philip K. Dick books he’d brought along. But he couldn’t concentrate. He began to wonder why nothing had happened during Banks’ absence. Was the killer certain that the chief inspector would find out nothing in Toronto? Or was there, perhaps, no connection at all between the Addison and Allen murders?

  Certainly there had been a bit of a fuss or flap, as Freddie Metcalfe had said, earlier in the week. But it had soon died down and everyone carried on as normal. Was it a false sense of security? The lull before the storm. Perhaps they knew who Richmond was and were being especially careful? He certainly couldn’t keep an eye on all of them.

  He stroked his moustache and turned back to his book. Not ours to reason why . . . But still, he thought, an arrest would have helped his career. A thrilling car chase, perhaps, or a cross-country marathon. He pictured himself bringing in the killer, arm twisted up his back, and throwing him in Eastvale nick under Banks’ approving smile. Then he laughed at himself, brushed a persistent wasp away and went back to Philip K. Dick.

  FOUR

  That Saturday, the afternoon of his last day in Toronto, Banks went to his first baseball game. The retractable roof was open and a breeze from the lake relieved some of the humidity at the SkyDome, where the Toronto Blue Jays were playing the New York Yankees, but the temperature was still almost thirty degrees. In England, people would have been fainting from the heat.

  Banks and Gregson sat in the stands, ate hot dogs and drank beer out of flimsy plastic cups.

  ‘Lucky to be drinking it at all,’ Gregson said when Banks complained. ‘It took a lot of doing, getting drinking allowed at ball games.’

  A fat boy of about twelve sitting next to Banks stopped shovelling barbecue-flavoured potato crisps into his maw to stand up and hurl obscene death threats at the Yankees’ pitcher. His equally obese mother looked embarrassed but made no attempt to control him.