Peter Robinson - The Hanging Valley

‘It’s a woman’s duty,’ Katie answered. ‘Her cross to bear.’

‘What was Stephen running away from? Was it me? Did he mention me?’

Katie seemed surprised. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not you. His past, the life he led.’

‘Did he mention anything in particular?’

‘He said he’d been bad.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know. He just talked. I didn’t understand it all. I was thinking about something else. The river bubbling up from the grass, how green and shiny the grass was where the water always flowed over it and in it.’

‘Can you remember anything? Anything at all?’

‘He talked about Oxford. Something bad happened at Oxford.’

‘Did he say what it was?’

‘A girl. A girl died.’

‘Is that all he said?’

‘Yes. That’s how it started, he said. The nightmare.’

‘With a girl dying at Oxford?’

‘Yes.’

‘How was he involved with this girl?’

‘I don’t know. Just that she died and it was bad.’

‘And now he’d had enough and he was going away to escape the past, the consequences?’

Katie nodded, then she stared at him sharply. ‘But you can’t escape consequences, can you? Bernie couldn’t. Stephen couldn’t. I can’t.’

‘Was Stephen unhappy?’

‘Unhappy? I don’t think so. He was worried, but not unhappy.’

‘Do you think he would have harmed himself?’

‘No. Stephen wouldn’t have done that. He had plans for the future. He was going to take me with him. But his future killed him.’

‘I thought it was his past?’

‘It was me,’ she said calmly. ‘Whatever you say, I know it was me who killed him.’

‘That’s not true, Katie. I wish I could get you to believe it.’ Banks took out his cigarettes and offered her one. She said no and carried on plucking blades of grass and rubbing them between her fingers.

‘Why didn’t he go away before?’ Banks asked. ‘He had plenty of time, plenty of opportunity.’

‘I don’t know. He said it was hard for him — the family name, the house, the business. He seemed to be trying to find the courage to make a break, like me. I didn’t tell him, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘Didn’t tell him what?’

‘About the policeman you sent to spy on everyone. I saw him with you one day in Eastvale, but I didn’t tell Stephen.’

‘Did you tell Sam?’

Katie shook her head slowly. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not this time.’

So Stephen had been struggling with himself over whether to run or whether to stay and brazen it out. After all, he probably knew that the police could have no real proof of his guilt, just hearsay. Anne Ralston’s word against his.

‘If he’d gone,’ Katie said, as if she’d been reading Banks’ mind, ‘it would have been like admitting his guilt, wouldn’t it?’

‘Perhaps.’ Banks stood up and brushed the grass from his trousers. ‘Come on.’ He held out his hand and Katie took it. As soon as she’d stood up, though, she let go and followed him back to the car in silence.

‘What else did she say?’ Sergeant Hatchley asked, as the white Cortina with Banks at the wheel, hurtled down the M1.

‘Nothing,’ Banks answered. ‘I told her to get in touch with us if she remembered anything else at all, then I drove her home. She went in without a word. To tell you the truth, I’m worried about her. She’s so bloody fragile and she’s close to breaking point. The woman needs help.’

Hatchley shrugged. ‘If she doesn’t like her nest she can always change it.’

‘It’s not as easy as that for some people. They get stuck; they don’t know where to turn, how to take care of themselves. Katie Greenock’s like that.’

They passed Sheffield’s cooling towers, shaped like giant whalebone corsets by the motorway. Even with the windows and many of the factories closed, the sulphurous smells of steelworks seeped into the car.

‘What exactly will we be doing in Oxford?’ Hatchley asked.

‘We’ll be trying to track down an incident involving the death of a girl about nine years ago, maybe two or three years later. Undergraduate courses are usually three years long, so that’s a welcome limit.’

‘Unless Collier wasn’t actually a student when it happened.’

‘That’s bloody helpful,’ Banks said. ‘We’ll deal with that if we draw a blank on the other.’

‘What kind of incident?’

‘It strikes me we’re looking for an unsolved crime, or a freak accident. Could have been hit and run, drug overdose, anything.’

‘Then what? Whoever this lass was, she won’t be doing much talking now.’

‘I don’t know,’ Banks admitted. ‘We try and link her to Stephen Collier.’

‘And what if we come up blank?’

Banks sighed and reached for a cigarette. He swerved quickly to avoid a Dutch juggernaut meandering into the centre lane. ‘You’re being bloody negative today, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter, did you have something planned for tonight? A date with Carol, maybe?’

‘No. Carol understands my job. And I like a nice ride out. I’m just trying to cover all the angles, that’s all. I find the whole damn thing confusing. I’m not even sure we’ve got a case. After all, Collier is dead, whether he died accidentally or killed himself.’

‘It is confusing,’ Banks agreed. ‘That’s why I don’t believe we’re at the bottom of it yet. That’s why we’re off to Oxford, to try and make it simpler.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Hatchley wound down his window a couple of inches. With the two of them smoking, the fug in the car was making his eyes water. ‘I suppose it’s full of silly-looking buggers in caps and gowns, Oxford?’

‘Maybe so,’ Banks said. ‘Never been there, myself. They say it’s a working town, though.’

‘Aye. It might have been at one time. But there’s not many left making cars these days. Some nice buildings there, though. I saw those on telly as well. Christopher Wren, Nicholas Hawksworth.’

‘Bloody hell, Jim, have you been watching BBC2 again? We’ll not have much time for sightseeing. Except for what you can take in on the job. Anyway, it’s Hawksmoor. Nicholas Hawksmoor.’

He realized with a shock that it was the first time he had called Sergeant Hatchley by his first name. It felt strange, but Hatchley said nothing.

Banks drove on in silence and concentrated on the road. It was after five o’clock and the stretches of motorway that passed close to urban areas were busy with rush-hour traffic. By the time they got to Oxford they wouldn’t have time to do much but check in at the police station, say hello to Ted Folley and maybe discuss the case over a pint — which would certainly appeal to Hatchley — before bed. Banks had booked them in at a small hotel recommended by Ted on the phone. In the morning the real work would begin.

Holding the wheel with one hand, Banks sorted through the cassettes. ‘Do you like music?’ he asked. It was odd; he knew Gristhorpe was tone-deaf — he couldn’t tell Bach from the Beatles — but he had no idea what Hatchley’s tastes ran to. Not that it would affect his choice. He knew what he wanted to hear and soon found it — the Small Faces’ greatest hits.

‘I like a good brass band,’ Hatchley mused. ‘A bit of country and western now and then.’

Banks smiled. He hated country and western and brass bands. He lit another cigarette and edged up the volume. The swirling chords of ‘All or Nothing’ filled the car as he turned off near Northampton on to the road for Oxford. The music took him right back to the summer of 1966, just before he started in the sixth form at school. Nostalgia. A sure sign he was pushing forty. He caught Hatchley looking at him as if he were mad.