The Hanging Valley (29 page)

Katie closed the window and turned to get into bed. It was after ten-thirty. Sam would probably be back soon. There was a chance that if she pretended to be asleep . . .

But sleep didn’t come easily. She thought of Stephen again, of his chaste touch. Life might not have been so bad if he had taken her away with him. She knew he would want to have her eventually—it would be part of the price—but he seemed a gentle person, like Bernard had been, and perhaps he wouldn’t be too demanding. The images blurred in her mind as sleep came closer: her grandmother brandishing the hairbrush, black eyes flashing, Bernard breathing hard as he pulled at her clothes. . . . She heard the back door open and close noisily. Sam. Quickly, she turned over and pulled the covers up to her ears. Her feet were cold.

III

“What do you think, then, Alan?”

Banks and Gristhorpe sat at the dining-room table later that night and sipped duty-free Bell’s. The children were in bed and Sandra was leafing through the book Banks had brought her from Toronto. Banks felt better after the short nap he had taken late in the afternoon.

“It stinks. I track down Anne Ralston in Toronto and she tells me Stephen Collier practically confessed to killing Addison because of some scandal he was involved in at Oxford. Then, when I get back I find Collier’s conveniently dead—accidental death. It’s too pat.”

“Hmm.” Gristhorpe sipped his Scotch. “It could be true. But let’s suppose it’s not. What else could have happened? I’m sorry, I know you’re still tired, Alan. Maybe tomorrow would be better?”

Banks lit a cigarette. “No, it’s all right. What do I think happened? I don’t know. I thought I’d got it all worked out but now everything’s gone haywire. I know it makes sense that Collier killed himself rather than face the trouble he knew he’d be in for when I got back. Maybe the pressure built in him over the week. On the
other hand, what if he didn’t kill Allen? What if he knew who did, and whoever it was was afraid he’d crack under pressure and give it away. That would have given someone enough motive to get rid of him, wouldn’t it? We still don’t have a clear connection between Addison and Allen, though.”

“Except the Ralston girl.”

“What if there’s something else? An angle we haven’t really considered.”

“Such as?”

“That’s the trouble. I’ve no idea.”

Gristhorpe swirled the Bell’s in his glass. “Then it has to be connected with Addison and Ralston.”

“I’d like to go down to Oxford as soon as possible and dig around. Ted Folley’s in the local CID there. We were at training school together.”

Gristhorpe nodded. “That’s no problem.”

“Maybe Addison found something out and was going to black-mail Collier.”

“He had a clean record.”

“True. But you know as well as I do what private investigators are like—especially solo operators. We can also assume that Bernard Allen had the same information, or part of it, and that he too was blackmailing Collier.”

Gristhorpe rubbed his whiskery chin. “Aye. But if Collier did kill Allen for that reason, who killed Collier—and why?”

“That’s what we have to find out.”

“So we’re still looking at the lot of them?”

“It seems that way. Any one of them could have gone back to the house—the French windows at the back weren’t locked—and given him another drink with the barbiturates. Or someone could have mixed a few nembies with his drinks earlier. He was so far gone he probably wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Risky, though.”

“Yes. But what murder isn’t?”

“Aye.”

“And then there’s the matter of the vodka. I want to talk to Freddie Metcalfe about that.”

“What vodka?”

“Someone in the party was buying vodka that night, but Richmond never actually saw anyone drink it.”

“So you think someone was spiking Collier’s drinks with vodka, making sure he got really drunk?”

“It’s a strong possibility, yes. Vodka’s pretty much tasteless in a pint.”

“Aye, in more ways than one,” Gristhorpe said.

“The trouble is,” Banks went on, “it was such a busy night that I can’t rely on anyone remembering. It could have been Sam Greenock, John Fletcher or Nicholas Collier—any one of them. I’m assuming they all bought rounds.”

“What about the Greenock woman?”

Banks saw again in his mind’s eye the image of Katie standing soaked to the skin in the market square. “Katie? I suppose she could play some part in all this. As far as I can tell, though, she’s in a world of her own. There’s something not quite right about her. I thought it was just her marriage. Sam’s a real bastard— thrashes her every now and then—but I think there’s more to it than that. According to Richmond, though, she wasn’t in the White Rose that night.”

Gristhorpe looked at his watch and stood up. “Good Lord, is that the time? I’d better be off. Don’t worry about being in early tomorrow.”

“I probably will be,” Banks said. “I want to go to Swainshead and see a few people. Then I’ll go to Oxford. Mind if I take Sergeant Hatchley? There might be a bit of legwork, and I’d rather have Richmond up here taking care of business.”

“Aye, take him. He’ll feel like a fish out of water in Oxford. Do him good, though. Broaden his horizons.”

Banks laughed. “I’m afraid Sergeant Hatchley’s horizons are firmly fixed on beer, idleness, sports and sex—in that order. But I’ll try.”

Gristhorpe drained his glass and left. Banks sat beside Sandra and looked at some of the pictures with her, but his eyes began to feel suddenly prickly and heavy. He’d been wondering whether to let the superintendent know that Gerry Webb had revealed his full
name, but decided against it. Names were, after all, a kind of power. He would tell no-one at the station, but it was too good to keep to himself.

“Do you know,” he said, slipping his arm around Sandra’s shoulders, “I found out a very interesting thing about Superintendent Gristhorpe in Toronto.”

“It sounds like you discovered a lot of interesting things there,” Sandra said, raising an arched black eyebrow. Her eyebrows contrasted sharply with her natural blonde hair, and that was one of the features Banks found sexy about her. “Go on,” she urged him. “Give.”

“I’ve missed you,” Banks said, moving closer. “I’ll tell you in bed, later.”

“I thought you were tired.”

“Only my eyes.”

“Is it worth knowing?”

“It’s worth it.”

“Right, then.” Sandra turned towards him. “Let’s not waste time and energy climbing upstairs. It has been a whole week, after all.”

IV

It was good to be home, Banks thought, as he drove the white Cortina along the dale. The sun was out, the water glittered silver, the valley sides shone vibrant green, and the Beatles were singing “And Your Bird Can Sing” on the cassette. He lit a cigarette and slowed down to pass a colourful group of hikers. They clustered together in the deep grass by the dry-stone wall and waved as he drove by.

Who to visit first? That was the question. It was still only ten-thirty, so perhaps he’d best leave Freddie Metcalfe till the White Rose opened at eleven and call on Nicholas Collier—the interview he was least looking forward to.

Accordingly, he carried on past the pub and pulled up on the verge outside the Collier house. Nicholas opened the door at the first ring of the bell.

“Chief Inspector Banks,” he said. “Long time, no see. Come in.” He looked tired; his usually bright eyes had lost their sparkle and there were dark pouches under them. “Please, sit down.” He pointed towards a leather upholstered armchair by the open French windows. “I’m not in a mood to sit in the sun today, but I feel I must remind myself of its presence.”

“I’m sorry about what happened,” Banks said. “I’d been hoping to talk to Stephen when I got back.”

Nicholas turned to look at the fountain outside and said nothing. Banks thought he could see a fading bruise at the side of his mouth.

“I hope you’re not going to ask me to go through it all again,” Nicholas said at last, taking a cigarette from the porcelain box on the low table beside him. “Policemen always seem to be asking people to repeat their stories.”

“There’s a good reason for that,” Banks said. “Sometimes people remember things. Little things they thought insignificant at the time.”

“All the same, I very much doubt that I can help you.”

“I was wondering if you had any knowledge of your brother’s problems?”

“Stephen’s problems? No, I can’t say I did. Though he seemed a bit edgy this past week or two, as if he had something on his mind.”

“Did you ask him what it was?”

“No. Does that surprise you? Well, it shouldn’t. Stephen wasn’t the most forthcoming of people. If he wanted to talk, he would, to whoever struck his fancy at the moment. But if you asked him, you got nowhere. Certainly I never did.”

“I see. So you’ve no idea what he was worried about?”

“Not at all. I take no interest in the business, so I wouldn’t know about that side of things. Did he have business problems? Trouble at t’mill?”

“Not that I know of, no, Mr Collier. His problem was that we think he may have killed a man over five years ago because of something that happened at Oxford. We also think he might have been responsible for the murder of Bernard Allen more recently.”

“Stephen! You’re joking, Chief Inspector, surely?”

Banks shook his head. “When was Stephen at Oxford?”

“He went there nine years ago. But nothing untoward happened to him in Oxford as far as I know.” He paused and his eyes turned hard. “You’re not joking, are you?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well, what can I say? Your wording would seem to indicate that this is mere supposition, that you have no proof.”

“Only the testimony of Anne Ralston.”

“That woman Stephen was seeing all those years ago?”

“Yes. I found her in Toronto.”

“And you’d take a slut’s word that Stephen was a murderer?”

“She’d no reason to lie. And I don’t believe she’s a slut.”

Nicholas shrugged dismissively. “As you like. She certainly wasn’t the type of woman I’d want for a sister-in-law. But haven’t you considered that she might have been the guilty party? As I remember, she disappeared the morning after the man was killed.”

“Yes, she did.”

“So she’d have everything to gain by trying to put the blame on Stephen.”

“It’s possible, yes. But there’s Bernard Allen’s murder to take into account, too. She wasn’t in Swainshead at the time. She was in Toronto.”

“So?”

“So she couldn’t have killed Allen.”

“I’m sorry but I don’t see the connection. You admit she could have killed the other man, but not Bernard Allen. What I don’t see is why you should even think the same person killed both of them. What had Allen and that private detective chappie got in common?”

“Nothing, as far as we can tell. Except that they were both killed in Swainshead.” Banks lit a cigarette. “There are too many coincidences, Mr Collier. One of the most interesting ones is that Bernard Allen was friendly with Anne Ralston in Toronto. That would make him the only person from Swainshead to see her since she disappeared. And the whole village was aware of that, thanks to Sam Greenock. It’s also a coincidence that Stephen was going out
with Anne Ralston at the time she left Swainshead, and that she told me he confessed to her about killing Addison. It’s another coincidence that Stephen is dead when I return.”

“I can’t argue with your logic, Chief Inspector. There certainly are a lot of coincidences. But they
are
coincidences, aren’t they? I mean, you’ve no real evidence to link them or to back up your suppositions, have you?”

“Are you sure you knew nothing about your brother’s problems?” Banks asked.

“I’ve told you,” Collier sighed. “We just weren’t that close. You can see for yourself how we’ve split the house—into two very different halves, I might add. All we had in common was family. Even if he had been a murderer, which I don’t believe for a moment, Stephen would have hardly told me.”

“But he told Anne Ralston.”

“So you say. I can only repeat that the woman must be lying to save her own skin.” He leaned forward to stub out his cigarette but didn’t slouch back in the chair again. “Chief Inspector,” he said, folding his hands on his lap, “I hope you’re not going to spread these accusations about my brother around the dale. After all, you admit you’ve no proof. You could do untold damage to the family name—not to mention my career.”

“Rest assured, Mr Collier. I’m not in the habit of spreading unfounded accusations.”

“And might I suggest,” Nicholas added, “that even if Stephen had been guilty, he’s certainly suffered adequate penalty for his sin, and no useful purpose would be served by going poking around in his past affairs.”

“Ah, that’s where we differ,” Banks said. “I’m not judge or jury, Mr Collier. I just try to dig out the truth. And until there are answers to a number of questions, Stephen’s file remains open— wherever Stephen himself may be.” Nicholas opened his mouth to protest but Banks ignored him and went on. “I don’t care who you are, Mr Collier. You can threaten, you can pull strings, you can do what you bloody well want. But I’m going to get to the bottom of this.” He stood up and walked over to the door. Nicholas sat where he was and stared coldly at him.

“One more question,” Banks said. “Which one of you was drinking vodka in the White Rose on Saturday night?”

“Vodka?” Nicholas grunted. “None of us, I shouldn’t think. Can’t stand the stuff, myself.”

“Did you see your brother drink any?”

Nicholas walked over to the door and grasped the handle. “No, I didn’t. Stephen never drank vodka.” He opened the door. “Now would you mind leaving? And you can be damn sure you haven’t heard the last of this.”

Was he lying? Banks found it hard to tell. People of Nicholas Collier’s class had so much self-confidence bred into them that they could carry most things off.

“What was your argument with John Fletcher about?” he asked, leaning against the open door.

“What argument?”

“You didn’t have words?”

Nicholas flicked his wrist. “We may have done, but I can’t remember why. A trifle, I should imagine. Now . . .” he nodded towards the path.