The Hanging Valley (26 page)

“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.”

“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 . . . 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?”

“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’s 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 about 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 naïve 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 by 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 ruth-
less 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 at 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.”