The Hanging Valley (34 page)

“His second was to ask Sam Greenock about Nicholas Collier. Greenock was anxious to get in with the local gentry, and he was a bit suspicious of this stranger asking questions, so he stalled Addison and took the first opportunity to run over the bridge and
tell Collier about it. There must have been real panic in the Collier house that evening. Remember, it was about fifteen months after the girl’s death, and the Colliers must’ve thought all was well. I don’t know the details. Maybe Sam arranged for Addison to go over to the house when the village was quiet, or maybe he even arranged for the Colliers to go up to Addison’s room and kill him there. I don’t know how it happened, but I think it was Stephen who struck the blow. That would explain the state he was in when he met Anne Ralston later that night.”

“What about Bernard Allen?” Hatchley asked.

“At first I thought he was just unlucky,” Banks said. “He told Katie Greenock that he knew Anne Ralston in Toronto. She told Sam, who did his usual town-crier routine. Not that it mattered this time, if Allen was intent on blackmail. Stephen Collier was an odd kind of bloke, from what I can make out—a real combination of opposites. When he’d killed Addison, he had to unburden himself to his girlfriend, but I’m sure he soon regretted it. He must have had a few sleepless nights after Anne first disappeared. Anyway, Bernard Allen knew that Stephen was involved in Addison’s murder and that it was something to do with an incident back in Oxford. He obviously assumed that if the police knew that they could put the whole thing together. Which we did, rather too late.”

“You said you thought Allen was unlucky at first,” Hatchley said. “What about now?”

“I think he was going to blackmail the Colliers. I’ve not had time to tell you much about Toronto, but I met a few people there who said that Bernard Allen really wanted to come home to Swainshead. His sister mentioned it, too, but the others all played it down. He’d even let on to Katie Greenock that he’d send for her when he got back to Canada. That was because she wanted to escape Swainsdale and he wanted to get into her pants.

“I wondered why I was getting so many conflicting pictures of Allen’s state of mind, so many contradictions. But that was his motive. He was blackmailing the Colliers to get himself home. A job at the school, money in the bank—I don’t know what he’d asked for, but I’m certain that was his reason. And it got him killed. I doubt that whoever said ‘you can’t go home again’ meant it as
literally as that. Anyway, the Colliers decided they couldn’t live with the threat, so one or both of them waited for him in the hanging valley that morning. They knew he’d be there because he’d often talked about it and he was heading that way.”

“And what happened to Stephen? Why would Nicholas kill him, if he did?”

“Stephen was getting too jittery. Nicholas knew it was just a matter of time before his brother broke down completely, and he couldn’t allow him to remain alive when I got back from Toronto after talking to Anne Ralston. Stephen must have told his brother that he didn’t give anything away to Anne about the Oxford business, but that he’d made a serious mistake in hinting at his own involvement in Addison’s killing. Nicholas knew that what Anne had to tell me would give me enough grounds to bring Stephen in, and he couldn’t trust his brother to stand up under questioning. If we could discover the motive behind Addison’s murder, then we’d know everything. Nicholas couldn’t allow that.

“What he did was risky, but there was a lot at stake—not just the family name, now, but Nicholas’s own freedom, his home, his career. He had to kill his own brother to survive. And if he succeeded, it would look like the accidental death of a disturbed man or the suicide of a guilty one.”

It was dark when Banks negotiated the tricky connections onto the A1 east of Leeds. Cream were singing “Strange Brew” on the tape and Hatchley had fallen silent.

Banks still didn’t understand it all. Stephen had killed to preserve what was important to him, but Nicholas Collier remained something of an enigma. In all likelihood, he had drowned Cheryl Duggan, but what bothered Banks was why. Had he done it from pleasure, accident or desperation? And was he also responsible for the bruising and marks of sexual abuse found on her body? Dr Barber had said that Nicholas had been in trouble once or twice over consorting with prostitutes and offering Oxford factory girls money for sex. Banks wondered why. Nicholas had all the advantages. Why hadn’t he hung around with his own set, girls of his own social class?

“Let’s call in at the station first,” Banks said. “Something might have turned up.” They were approaching the turn-off onto a minor road that would take them over the moors to Helmthorpe and the main valley road. “We can always drive to Swainshead later if there’s nothing new.” He looked at his watch. “It’s not late, only nineish.”

Hatchley nodded and Banks drove past the exit ramp and on to the Eastvale road.

The station was quiet. There had been no serious crimes while Banks and Hatchley had been gone. There was, however, a message from John Fletcher timed at five o’clock that evening asking them if they would call and see him as soon as possible. He said it was important—something to do with Stephen Collier’s death—and he would be at home all evening.

There was also a copy of Dr Glendenning’s preliminary postmortem report on Stephen Collier. The doctor had found the equivalent of about five capsules of Nembutal in Collier’s system— not enough in itself to cause death, but potentially lethal when mixed with alcohol. And his alcohol level had been far higher than the amount five or six pints would account for. It looked as if Banks was right and Collier had been slipped vodka in the pub and more drinks back at the house.

“Should we go to see Fletcher tonight?” Banks asked Hatchley. “Or leave it until tomorrow?”

Under normal circumstances he would have expected Hatchley to take any opportunity to get off work for a pint or a session on the sofa with Carol Ellis, but this time the sergeant was angry.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Maybe Fletcher’s got the answer. I wouldn’t want to leave it till he went and got himself killed, too. And I wouldn’t mind paying a call on Nicholas bloody Collier either.”

III

“Go away!” Katie said, rushing forward and trying to close the door.

But Nicholas had his foot wedged in. “Let me in, Katie,” he said. “I want to talk to you about Stephen. He was very fond of you, you know.”

“He’s dead,” Katie said, still pushing at the door with her shoulder. But Nicholas was too strong for her and the door knocked her backwards against the kitchen table as he entered. He shut the door behind him and walked towards her.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said. “I know you were talking to Stephen the day before he died. I just wondered if he’d been saying anything silly. He wasn’t well, you know.” He reached out and grabbed Katie’s arm as she tried to slip away. “There’s no need to be afraid of me,” he said, relaxing his grip a little. “No need to run away. I won’t hurt you. I just want to talk to you.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Katie said. “There was nothing wrong with Stephen.”

“He was upset. He might have said things he didn’t mean.”

“What things?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m asking you, you stupid bitch,” Nicholas shouted, then lowered his voice again. “Just tell me what you talked about. Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”

“I don’t have anything.”

“Liar.” Nicholas opened Sam’s liquor cabinet and poured a large shot of gin. “I’ve been here before, remember? With Sam.” He held out the glass. “Go on, have some. You like gin, don’t you?”

Katie shook her head. Nicholas hooked the back of her neck with one hand, put the glass to her closed lips, and tipped it forwards. The vile-smelling spirit spilled down Katie’s chin and onto the front of her dress. It burned her throat and made her gag.

“Stop it!” she cried, spluttering and pushing him away. Nicholas laughed, showing his yellowed teeth, and put the glass down. He went back to the cabinet and poured himself some Scotch.

“What did Stephen tell you?” he asked.

“Nothing.” Katie coughed and rubbed at her lips with the back of her hand.

“He must have said something. He was quite a one for confiding in the wrong people, Stephen was—especially women. And I saw you talking to that policeman. Where is he now? What’s he doing?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

“What did he ask you? What did you say to him?”

“Nothing. He doesn’t know anything.”

“Stop lying, Katie. Did you do it with him too, just like you do with all the others?”

Katie turned pale. “What do you mean?”

Nicholas grinned. The dark comma of hair had flopped over his brow and his cheeks were flushed. “You know what I mean. Just like you did with Stephen and everyone else. Did you let him do it to you, Katie, that policeman?”

“No!”

“Oh, don’t be shy. You do it with everyone, don’t you? You know you’re nothing but a slut. A filthy whore. Tell me you’re a filthy whore, Katie, say it.”

“I’m not.”

Katie rushed desperately for the connecting door, but Nicholas got there before her.

“There’s no way out,” he said. “All your guests are in the White Rose. I saw them. And Sam’s off with his fancy women as usual.”

“He’s what?”

“Didn’t you know? Oh, don’t tell me you didn’t know. All those times he goes off to see his friends in Leeds or Eastvale. It’s women, Katie. Loose women. Can’t you smell them on his skin when he comes home? Or do you like it when he comes straight from another woman and takes you? Do you like to smell other women on your husband’s skin?”

Katie put her hands to her ears. “Stop it! Stop it!” she screamed. “You’re evil.”

Nicholas applauded quietly. “Oh, Katie, what an act.”

Katie dropped her hands to her side. “What are you going to do?”

“Do? Why, I’m going to take you away from here. I don’t trust you, Katie. There’s no telling what you know and what you might say.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“I think you do. Stephen told you, didn’t he?”

 “Told me what?”

“About Oxford.”

Katie could think of nothing to say.

“Look at you blushing,” Nicholas said, pointing at her. “You know, don’t you? I can tell. Be sure your sins will find you out.”

Suddenly, Katie realized what he meant and a terrible thought dawned on her.

“You killed him,” she said quietly. “You killed Stephen.”

Nicholas shrugged and spoke in a cold, passionless voice. “I couldn’t trust him any more. He was falling apart on me.”

Katie stiffened. She felt like a trapped animal. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to take you away, far away. What did he tell you about Oxford?”

“Nothing.”

“Did he tell you about that girl, that stupid slut?” Katie shook her head.

“He did, didn’t he?”

“No! He told me nothing.”

Nicholas leaned against the table. His bright eyes glittered and his breath came in short, sharp gasps. He looked like a madman to Katie. A wild, terrifying madman.

“She was nothing but a prostitute, Katie,” he said. “A fallen woman. She sold herself to men. And when I . . . when I took her, she didn’t . . . She told me I was too rough and she tried to make me stop. Me! Nicholas Collier. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I knew that was the way she really wanted it. A common tart like her. Like you.”

“No!” Katie said. “I’m not.”

“Yes you are. I’ve had my eye on you. You do it with everyone. Do they pay you, Katie, or do you do it for nothing? I know you like to struggle. I’ll pay you if you want.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I want you to say it for me. Say you’re a filthy whore.”

“I’m not.”

“What’s wrong? Why won’t you say it? I bet you even let that policeman do it. I’m better than the lot of them, Katie. Say it.”

“No! I won’t.”

He spoke very softly, so quiet she could hardly hear. “I want you to go down on your knees, Katie, and tell me you’re a filthy whore
and you want me to do it to you like an animal. Like a dog. I want you to lift your dress up and crawl, Katie.”

He was moving towards her now, and his eyes held hers with a power that seemed to sap what little strength she had. She felt her shoulders hit the wall by the mantelpiece. There was nowhere else to go. But Nicholas kept coming closer, and when he was near enough he reached out and grabbed the front of her dress.

IV

Banks drove fast along the dark dale by the River Swain, passed through Helmthorpe and into the darker fell-shadowed landscape beyond. He turned sharp right at Swainshead, tires squealing, and carried on up the valley to Upper Head. He slowed down as they passed the Collier house, but the lights were out.

“I hope the bastard hasn’t done a bunk,” Hatchley said.

“No, he’s too cool for that. We’ll get him, don’t worry.”

The glimmer of light high on the fell-side about two miles north of the village came from Fletcher’s isolated cottage. It was a difficult track to manage in the dark, but they finally pulled up outside the squat, solid house with its three-foot-thick walls. Fletcher had heard them coming and stood in the doorway. Again, they were ushered into the plain whitewashed room with its oak table and the photograph of Fletcher’s glamorous ex-wife.

Fletcher was ill at ease. He avoided looking at them directly and fussed around with glasses for beer. Hatchley stood by the window looking out into the darkness. Banks sat at the table.

“What is it?” he asked, when Fletcher had sat down opposite him.

“It’s about Stephen’s death,” Fletcher began hesitantly. “He was my friend. It’s gone too far, now. Too far.”

Banks nodded. “I know. I understand there was no love lost between you and Nicholas.”

“You’ve heard about that? Well, it’s true enough. I never had much time for him. But old Mr Walter was like a father to me, and I always felt like an older brother to Stephen.”

Banks passed around the cigarettes.

“Saturday night,” Fletcher burst out suddenly. “I thought nothing of it at the time—it was just the kind of silly trick Nicholas would play—but when he went to buy a round, I saw him pour a shot of clear spirits into Stephen’s drink. As I said, I thought nothing of it. I knew Stephen was upset about something—what it was, I don’t know—and he seemed to want to get drunk and forget his problems anyway. No point causing trouble, I thought, so I kept quiet.