The Hanging Valley (22 page)

“And you don’t have the resources. I know. You told me. Look, this is where I came in, so if you don’t mind—”

“Wait!” Gregson jumped to his feet and reached for his jacket. “Wait for what?”

Gregson pushed past him through the door. “Come on,” he said, half-turning. “Just come with me.”

“Where?”

“You’ll see.”

“What for?”

“I’m going to save you from yourself.”

Banks sighed and followed the sergeant down the corridor and down the lift to the car-park.

There was enough room for a soccer team on the front seat of Gregson’s car. With the open windows sucking in what hot wet air they could, the staff sergeant drove up Yonge Street and turned right at the Hudson’s Bay building. On the crowded street-corner, vendors sold ice-cream, T-shirts and jewellery; one man, surrounded by quite a crowd, was drawing large portraits in coloured chalk on the pavement.

Farther along, Banks recognized the stretch of the Danforth he’d walked the previous day: the Carrot Common shopping centre; the little Greek restaurant where he’d eaten lunch; Quinn’s pub. They came to an intersection called Coxwell, and Gregson turned left. A few blocks up, he pulled to a halt outside a small
apartment building. Sprinklers hissed on the well-kept lawn. Banks was tempted to run under one for a cold shower.

They walked up to the third floor, and Banks followed Gregson along the carpeted corridor to apartment 312.

“Allen’s place,” the staff sergeant announced.

“Why are you helping me?” Banks asked, as Gregson fitted the key in the door. “Why are you bringing me here? You said your department didn’t have the resources.”

“That’s true. We’ve got a hunt on for a guy who sodomized a twelve-year-old girl, then cut her throat and dumped her in High Park. Been looking for leads for two months now. Twenty men on the case. But this is personal time. I don’t like it that a local guy got killed any more than you do. So I show you where he lived. It’s no big deal. Besides, like I said, I’m saving you from yourself. You’d probably have broken in, and then I’d have had to arrest you. Embarrassing all around.”

“Thanks anyway,” Banks said.

They walked into the apartment.

“Building owner’s been bugging us to let him rent it out again, but we’ve been stalling. He knows he’s sitting on a gold mine. We’ve got a zero vacancy rate in Toronto these days. Still, Allen paid first and last month when he moved in, so I figure he’s got a bit of time left. To tell you the truth, we don’t know who’s gonna take care of the guy’s stuff.”

There wasn’t much: just a lot of books, Swedish assemble-it-yourself furniture, pots and pans, a few withered houseplants, and a desk and typewriter by the window. Bernard Allen had lived simply.

The room was hot and stuffy. There was no sign of an air-conditioner, so Banks went over and opened a window. It didn’t make much difference.

“What kind of search did your men do?” Banks asked. “Routine. We didn’t open up every book or read every letter, if that’s what you mean. The guy didn’t keep much personal stuff around, anyway. It was all in that desk drawer.”

Banks extracted a messy pile of bills and letters from the drawer. First, he put aside the bills then examined the sheaf of personal mail. They were all dated within the last six months or so, which
meant that he threw his letters out periodically instead of hoarding them like some people. There were letters from his parents in Australia and one brief note from his sister acknowledging the dates of his proposed visit. Banks read these carefully, but found nothing of significance.

It was a postcard from Vancouver dated about two weeks before Allen set off for England that proved the most revealing, but even that wasn’t enough. It read:

Dear Bernie,

Wrapping things up nicely out here. Weather great, so taking some time for sunbathing on Kitsilano Beach. It’ll be a couple more weeks before I get back, so I’ll miss you. Have a great trip and give my love to the folks in Swineshead! (Only joking—best not tell anyone you know me!) See you in the pub when you get back.

Love,

Julie.

It was perfectly innocent on the surface—just a postcard from a friend—so there was no reason why Gregson or his men should have been suspicious about it. But it was definitely from Anne Ralston, and it told Banks that she was going under the name of Julie now.

“Looks like you’ve found something,” Gregson said, looking over Banks’s shoulder.

“It’s from the woman I’m looking for. I think she knows something about Allen’s murder.”

“Look,” Gregson said, “are we talking about a criminal here? Are there charges involved?”

Banks shook his head. He wasn’t sure. Anne Ralston could certainly have murdered Raymond Addison and run for it, but he didn’t want to tell Gregson that and risk the local police scaring her off.

“No,” he said. “They used to know each other in Swainshead, that’s all.”

“And now they’ve met up over here?”

“Yes.”

“So?”

Banks told him about Ralston’s disappearance and the Addison murder, stressing that she wasn’t seriously implicated in any way.

“But she might have known something?” he said. “And told Allen. You think that’s what might have got him killed?”

“It’s possible. We know that she asked him to keep quiet about meeting her over here, and we know he didn’t.”

“Who did he talk to?”

“That’s the problem. Someone who makes it his business to make sure that everyone who counts knows.”

“It won’t be easy.”

“What?”

Gregson tapped the postcard. “Finding her. No address. No phone number. Nothing.”

Banks sighed. “Believe me, I know. And all we’ve got is her first name. I’m just hoping I can dig out some of the spots she might turn up. She mentioned the pub, so at least I was right about her drinking with him there.”

“Know how many pubs there are in Toronto?”

“Don’t bother to tell me. I’d only get discouraged. It’s the kind of job I should have sent my sergeant on.” Banks explained about Hatchley’s drinking habits and Gregson laughed.

“Can I have a good look around?” Banks asked.

“Go ahead. I’ll be down in the car. Lock up behind you.”

After the staff sergeant left, Banks puzzled over him for a moment. He was beginning to warm to Gregson and get some understanding of Canadians, especially those of distant British origin. They behaved with a strange mixture of patronage and respect towards the English. Perhaps they’d had British history rammed down their throats at school and needed to reject it in order to discover themselves. Or perhaps the English had simply become
passé
as far as immigrants went, and had been superseded by newer waves of Koreans, East Indians and Vietnamese.

The next item of interest Banks found was an old photograph album dating back to Allen’s university days. There were pictures of his parents, his sister, and of the Greenocks standing outside
a typical Armley back-to-back. But the most interesting was a picture dated ten years ago, in which Allen stood outside the White Rose with a woman named as Anne in the careful white print under the photo on the black page. The snap was a little blurred, an amateur effort with a Brownie by the look of it, but it was better than the one he’d got from Missing Persons. Anne looked very attractive in a low-cut T-shirt and a full, flowing Paisley skirt. She had long light-brown hair, a high forehead and smiling eyes. Her face was heart-shaped and her lips curved up slightly at the corners. That was ten years ago, Banks thought, carefully taking the photo from its silver corners and pocketing it. Would she look like that now?

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: those 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’s 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 way too loud. 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 draft 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 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 onto 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 onto 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 around 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.