The Hanging Valley (18 page)

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 his 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 of 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 cling-wrapped 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, wet lettuce leaves that passed for a salad. Instead, he turned to his cheese and crackers 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 Johnny Walker Red—a kind of sedation, he guessed, 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.

II

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 traffic down 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 a bit 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?”

III

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 over 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 around on the carousel. Clutching his small suitcase, duty-free Scotch and cigarettes, he walked past the customs officers, who paid him no mind, 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 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.

“It always happens when people visit from England,” Gerry said, laughing. “Without fail. Just wait until you try and cross the road.”

The first things Banks noticed as Gerry drove out onto the expressway were the huge cars and the stifling heat. It was like trying to breathe at the bottom of a warm bath. In no time, his shirt was stuck to his skin. He took off his jacket and tossed it on the back seat. Even the draught through the open window was hot and wet.

“You’ve come in the middle of a heat wave, I’m afraid,” Gerry explained. “It’s been between thirty-three and thirty-six degrees for the past three days now. Above ninety percent humidity, too.”

“What’s a hundred like?”

“Funny, that,” Gerry said. “We never get a hundred. Not even during a thunderstorm. Summer can be a real bitch here. Toronto’s a city of extremes as far as climate is concerned. In winter it’s bloody cold, real brass-monkey weather, and in summer it’s so hot
and humid it’s unbearable, as you can tell. Pollution count goes way up, too.”

“What about spring?”

“We don’t have one. Just a lot of rain and then the sun. Fall’s the best. September, October. Warmish days, cool evenings. Beautiful.” He glanced sideways at Banks. “I suppose you were expecting icicles and snowmen?”

“Not exactly. But I didn’t expect the heat to be this bad.”

“You should see the Americans,” Gerry said. “I lived in Windsor for a while when I was doing my MSc, and I worked for customs during summer. They’d come over the border from the Detroit suburbs in the middle of July with skis on top of their cars and fur coats on the back seats. What a laugh that was. Americans know bugger all about Canada.”

“I can’t say I know much, myself,” Banks admitted.

“Worry not. Keep your eyes and ears open and all will be revealed.” Gerry had an odd accent, part Yorkshire and part North American, with a mixed vocabulary to match.

They swung eastwards around a bay. For a moment, Banks thought they were on the wrong side of the road. He tensed and the adrenalin prickled in his veins. Then, again, he realized he was in Canada.

On the right was Lake Ontario, a ruffled blue sheet with millions of diamonds dancing on it. The white triangular sails of yachts leaned at sharp angles. There seemed to be at least a cooler breeze coming from the water and Banks envied the idle rich who could spend their days sailing like that.

“Those are the Islands over there,” Gerry said, pointing towards a low hazy blur of green. “They’re just a long sandbar really, but everyone calls them islands. People live on the far ones, Ward’s and Algonquin, but the politicians want to chuck them off and make a heliport or a mini golf-course.”

“That sounds typical,” Banks said, recalling the various schemes for developing adventure playgrounds and safari parks in the Dales.