The Hanging Valley (15 page)

“Thank you, Katie,” Banks said, walking to the door. “You’d better keep our rooms for us. I think we’ll be back this evening.”

Katie nodded wearily. Pale, slumped in the chair, she looked used and abused like a discarded mistress.

III

“Anne Ralston?” Gristhorpe repeated in disbelief. “After all these years?”

He and Banks knelt beside the pile of stones. Usually, when they worked on the wall together they hardly spoke, but today
there was pressing police business to deal with. Sandra had taken Brian and Tracy down into Lyndgarth after lunch to see a local craft exhibition, so they were alone with the twittering larks and the cheeky wagtails on the valley-side above the village.

“You can see how it changes things,” Banks said.

“I can indeed—if it had anything to do with Bernard Allen’s murder.”

“It must have.”

“We don’t even know that Anne Ralston’s disappearance was connected with Addison’s killing, for a start.”

“It’s too much of a coincidence, surely?” Banks said. “A private detective is killed and a local woman disappears on practically the same day. If it happened in London, or even in Eastvale, I’d be inclined to think there was no link, but in a small village like Swainshead . . . ?”

“Aye,” said Gristhorpe. “Put like that . . . But we need a lot more to go on. No, not that one—it’s too flat.” Gristhorpe brushed aside the stone Banks had picked up.

“Sorry.” Banks searched the pile for something better. “I’m working on the assumption that Anne Ralston knew something about Addison’s murder, right?”

“Right. I’ll go along with that just for the sake of argument.”

“If she did know something and disappeared without telling us, it means one of two things—either she was paid off, or she was scared for her own life.”

Gristhorpe nodded. “Or she might have been protecting someone,” he added.

“But then there’d be no need to run.”

“Maybe she didn’t trust herself to bear up under pressure. Who knows? Go on.”

“For five years nobody hears any more of her, then suddenly Bernard Allen turns up and tells Katie Greenock he’s been seeing the Ralston woman in Toronto. The next thing we know, Allen’s dead before he can get back there. Now, Katie said that Bernard had been told not to spread it around about him knowing Anne. Was she protecting him, or herself? Or both? We don’t know. What we do know, though, is that she didn’t want her whereabouts
known. Allen tells Katie, anyway, and she tells her husband. I think we can safely assume that Sam Greenock told everyone else. Allen must have become a threat to someone because he’d met up with Anne Ralston, who might have known something about Addison’s murder. Stephen Collier was closely associated with her, so he looks like a good suspect, but there’s no reason to concentrate on him alone. It could have been any of them—Fletcher, Nicholas, Sam Greenock, even Katie—they were all in Swainshead at the time both Addison and Allen were killed, and we’ve no idea what or who that private detective was after five years ago.”

“What about opportunity?”

“Same thing. Everybody knew the route Allen was taking out of Swainshead. He’d talked all about it in the White Rose the night before. And most of them also knew how attached he was to that valley. The killer could easily have hidden among the trees up there and watched for him.”

“All right,” Gristhorpe said, placing a through-stone. “But what about their alibis?”

“We’ve only got Fletcher’s word that he was at home. He could have got to the valley from the north without anyone knowing. He lives alone on the fell-side and there are no other houses nearby. As for the Colliers, Stephen says he was at the office and Nicholas at school. We haven’t checked yet, but if Nicholas wasn’t actually teaching a class and Stephen wasn’t in a meeting, either of them could have slipped out for a while, or turned up later. It would have been easy for Nicholas, again approaching from the north, and Stephen could have got up from a half a mile past Rawley Force. It’s not much of a climb, and there’s plenty of cover to hide the car off the Helmthorpe Road. I had a look on my way over here.”

“The Greenocks?”

“Sam could have got there from the road too. He went to Eastvale for supplies, but the shopkeepers can’t say exactly what time he got there. Carter’s doesn’t open till nine, anyway, and the chap in the newsagent’s says Sam usually drops in at about eleven. That gives him plenty of time. He might have had another motive, too.”

Gristhorpe raised his bushy eyebrows.

“The woman denies it, but I got a strong impression that something went on between Katie Greenock and Bernard Allen.”

“And you think if Sam got wind of it . . . ?”

“Yes.”

“What about Mrs Greenock?”

“She says she was home cleaning, but all the guests would have gone out by then. Nobody could confirm that she stayed in.”

“Have you checked the Colliers’ stories?”

“Sergeant Hatchley’s doing it tomorrow morning. There’s no one at the factory on a Sunday.”

“Well maybe we’ll be a bit clearer when we get all that sorted out.”

“I’m going back to Swainshead for another night. I’ll want to talk to Stephen Collier again, for one.”

Gristhorpe nodded. “Take it easy, though, Alan. I’ve already had an earful from the DCC about your last visit.”

“He didn’t waste any time, did he? Anyway, I could do with a bit of information on the Addison case and the Ralston woman’s disappearance. How did the alibis check out?”

Gristhorpe put down the stone he was weighing in his hand and frowned. Banks lit a cigarette—at least smoking was allowed in the open, if not in the house. He looked at the sky and noticed it had clouded over very quickly. He could sniff rain in the air.

“Everyone said they were at home. We couldn’t prove otherwise. It was a cold, dark February evening. We pushed Stephen Collier as hard as we dared, but he had a perfect alibi for the day of the girl’s disappearance: he was in Carlisle at a business meeting.”

“Was Walter Collier around in those days?”

“No. He was dead by then.”

“What was he like?”

“He was quite an impressive man. Complex. He had a lot of power and influence in the dale, some of which has carried over to the sons, as you’ve already found out. Now, you know how I feel about privilege and such, but you had to respect Walter—he never really abused his position. He was proud, especially of the family and its achievements, but he managed to be kind and considerate without being condescending. He was also a regular church-goer,
a religious man, but he liked the ladies and he could drink most villagers under the table. Don’t ask me how he managed to square that with himself. It’s rare for a Dales farmer, especially one from a family as long-established as the Colliers, to sell up. But Walter was a man of vision. He saw what things were coming to, so he shifted his interests to food processing and encouraged his sons to get good educations rather than strong muscles.”

“What was he like as a father?”

“I’d imagine he was a bit of a tyrant,” Gristhorpe answered, “though I can’t say for certain. Used to being obeyed, getting his own way. They probably felt the back of his hand more than once.”

Banks held out his palm and felt the first, hesitant drops of rain. “When Anne Ralston disappeared,” he asked, “were there no signs at all of what might have happened to her?”

“Nothing. There were a few clothes missing, that’s all.”

“What about money, bank accounts?”

“She didn’t have one. She got a wage-packet every two weeks from Collier Foods. What she did with the cash, I’ve no idea. Maybe she hid it under the mattress.”

“But you didn’t find any in the cottage?”

“Not a brass farthing.”

“So she could have packed a few things, a bit of money, and simply run off?”

“Yes. We never found out what happened to her, until now.” Gristhorpe stood up and scowled at the grey sky. A flock of rooks wheeled above the valley-side. “Better go inside.”

As they walked round to the side door, they saw Sandra and the children come hurrying up the drive with their coats thrown over their heads. Banks waved to them.

“It would be very interesting to have a chat with Anne Ralston, wouldn’t it?” he said. Gristhorpe looked at him and narrowed his eyes. “Aye, it would. But I’m not sure the department would be able to justify the expense.”

“Still . . .”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Gristhorpe said. Then Sandra, Brian and Tracy came racing into the house.

SEVEN

I

Katie finished her cleaning in a daze when Banks had gone, and she was so distracted she almost forgot to put the roast in on time. The Greenock Guest House always served a traditional Yorkshire Sunday dinner, both for guests and non-residents, at two o’clock. It was Sam’s idea. Thank God he was in the pub, his usual Sunday lunch-time haunt, Katie thought. He’d be bending elbows with the wonderful Colliers.

Perhaps Sam needn’t know what the policeman had made her tell. But the inspector would be sure to question him, she knew, and he would find out; he was bound to accuse her of betraying him.

With a start, she realized she was in room five, where the talk had taken place on the second morning of Bernie’s stay. But it wasn’t his words she thought of now. The rush of images almost overwhelmed her at first, but she forced herself to re-examine what had happened. Perhaps it hadn’t been such a sin, after all? Of course it was, she told herself; it was a double sin, for she was a married woman. But it had happened, she couldn’t deny that. The first time in all her married life.

That morning she had been cleaning the rooms as usual, when Bernie had come back to put on his walking-boots. The sky had brightened, he said, and he had decided to go for a good long walk after all. They’d talked for as much time as she dared take off from her chores, then he had sat on the bed while she washed the windows. All the time she had been aware of him watching her. Finally, when she felt his arms around her waist, she told him no. She had her back to him and he bent to kiss her neck where the
wisps of blonde hair were swept up and tied while she worked. She struggled, but he held her tight and his hands found her breasts. She dropped the chamois and it fell in the bucket and splashed water on the carpet.

Why did she let him? She had always liked him, but why this? Why let him do what she hated most? She thought perhaps it was because he offered her a chance of escape, and that this was the price she would have to pay. He was gentler than Sam. His mouth moved over her shoulder and his hands slid down along her stomach and over her thighs. She didn’t have the heart or the courage to put up a fight; men were so strong. Surely, she thought, it could do no harm as long as she didn’t feel pleasure. She couldn’t tell Sam. That would mean she’d have to lie, too. She would have to wash her mouth out with soap.

Then he said he loved her, that he’d always wanted her, as his hands unfastened her skirt. She struggled again, but less violently this time, and he backed her towards the bed. There, he finished undressing her. She was trembling, but so was he; even body language speaks ambiguously at times. She held onto the bedposts tightly as he bore down on her, and she knew he thought her groans were sounds of pleasure. Why did men want her like this? Why did they want to do these things to her?

He kissed her breasts and said he would take her back to Canada with him, and suddenly that seemed like the answer. She wanted to get away, she needed to. Swainshead and Sam were stifling her.

So she didn’t struggle any more. Bernard talked of the vast prairie skies and of lakes as boundless as oceans as his hands caressed her still body. Yes, he would take her with him, he said, he had always wanted her. Urgently, he drew himself along the length of her body and entered her. She bit her tongue in loathing and self-disgust, and he looked into her eyes and smiled as she made little strangled cries that must have sounded like pleasure.

After, as they dressed, Katie had tried to hide the shame of her nakedness from his gaze. He had laughed and told her he found her modesty very appealing. She said he’d better go, that Sam would be back, and he reminded her about Canada.

“I’ll send for you when I get back,” he promised. “I’ll find a place for us and I’ll send for you. Anne’s there, too. She wanted to get away, just like you. She’s happy now.”

“Yes,” she had said, anxious to get rid of him. “I’ll come with you.” Then he had kissed her and left the room.

After that morning, they had hardly spoken to one another— mostly because Sam had been around or Katie had contrived to avoid Bernie—but he kept giving her meaningful glances whenever nobody was looking. She believed him. He would send for her.

Not any more. All for nothing. All gone. All she had left was the guilt. “As ye sow, so shall ye reap,” her granny had always said. She had behaved wantonly, like that time she had swayed to the distant music. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t enjoyed it; now everything was a mess, Bernie was dead, and the police were all over the place. She was reaping what she had sown.

II

Stephen Collier sat in his spacious living-room reading a thick, leather-bound report when Banks and Hatchley called that evening. The French windows were open onto the patio and lawn, and the fountain played against a backdrop of dry-walled fell-side. A brief, heavy shower had cleansed the landscape and in the gentle evening light the grass was lush and green, the limestone outcrops bright as marble.

Stephen seemed surprised and annoyed at a second visit from the police so close on the heels of the first, but he quickly regained his composure and offered drinks.

“I’ll have a Scotch, please,” Banks said.

“Sergeant Hatchley?”

“Don’t mind if I do, sir.” Hatchley glanced towards Banks, who nodded his permission. After all, he had spoiled the sergeant’s weekend. Hatchley took out his notebook and settled in a corner with his drink.

“What can I do for you this time?” Stephen asked. “Do you want to see my brother, too?”

“Not at the moment,” Banks said. “I want to talk to you about Anne Ralston.”

Collier frowned. “Anne Ralston? What about her? That was years ago.”