Peter Robinson - The Hanging Valley

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 hair, 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.

‘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 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 blackmail 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, sport 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. ‘Tell me.’

‘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.’

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 drystone 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.’