Peter Robinson - The Hanging Valley

‘And Collier?’

‘I’m sure he didn’t go in for that kind of thing. If there had been any incidents of an unsavoury nature, they would have appeared in my assessment file.’

‘Did he drink much?’

‘Never had any trouble with him.’

‘Drugs?’

‘Chief Inspector Banks,’ Barber said slowly, ‘I do realize that the university has been getting a bad reputation lately for drugs and the like, and no doubt such things do happen, but if you take the word of the media, you’d be seriously misled. I don’t think Stephen Collier was involved in drugs at all. I remember that we did have some trouble with one student selling cannabis around that time — most distressing — but there was a full investigation, and at no point was Stephen Collier implicated.’

‘So, as far as you can say, Collier was a model student, if not quite as brilliant as some of his fellows?’

‘I know it sounds hard to believe, but yes, he was. Most of the time you’d hardly have known he was here. I’m having great difficulty trying to guess what you’re after. You say that Stephen Collier’s death might have been suicide or it might have been an accident, but if you don’t mind my saying so, the questions you’re asking seem preoccupied with unearthing evidence that Collier himself was some kind of hell-raiser.’

Banks frowned and looked out of the window again. The shadow of a cloud passed over the quadrangle. He drained his sherry and lit a cigarette. Sergeant Hatchley, quietly smoking in a chair in the corner, had emptied his glass a while ago and sat fidgeting with it as if he hoped Barber would notice and offer a refill. He did, and both policemen accepted. Banks liked the way the dry liquid puckered his taste buds.

‘He’s a suspect,’ Banks said. ‘And I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you. We have no proof that Collier was guilty of anything, but there’s a strong possibility.’

‘Does it matter,’ Barber asked, ‘now that he’s dead?’

‘Yes, it does. If he was guilty, then the case is closed. If not, we still have a criminal to catch.’

‘Yes. I see. Well, I’m afraid I can’t offer you any evidence at all. Seemed a thoroughly pleasant hard-working nondescript fellow to me as far as I can remember.’

‘What about six years ago? It would have been his third year, his last. Did anything unusual happen then, around early November?’

Barber frowned and pursed his lips. ‘I can’t recall anything… Wait a minute…’ He walked back over to his ancient filing cabinet and riffled through the papers. ‘Yes, yes, I thought so,’ he announced finally. ‘Stephen Collier didn’t finish his degree.’

‘What?’

‘He didn’t finish. Decided history wasn’t for him and left after two years. Went to run a business, as far as I know. I can confirm with the registrar’s office, of course, but my own records are quite thorough.’

‘Are you saying that Stephen Collier wasn’t here, that he wasn’t in Oxford in November six years ago?’

‘That’s right. Could it be you’ve got him mixed up with his brother, Nicholas? He would have just been starting his second year then, you know, and I certainly remember him, now I cast my mind back. Nicholas Collier was a different kettle of fish, a different kettle of fish entirely.’

Katie stared at her reflection in the dark kitchen window as she washed the crystal glasses she couldn’t put in the machine. The radio on the table played soothing classical music, quiet enough that she could even hear the beck at the bottom of the back garden rippling over its stones.

Now that Stephen was dead and she had unburdened herself to Banks, she felt empty. None of her grandmother’s maxims floated around her mind, as they had been doing lately, and that tightness in her chest that had seemed to squeeze at her very heart itself had relaxed. She even noticed a half-smile on her face, a very odd one she’d not seen before. Nothing hurt now; she felt numb, just like her mouth always did after an injection at the dentist’s.

Chief Inspector Banks had told her that if she remembered anything else, she should get in touch with him. Try as she might though, she couldn’t remember a thing. Looking back over the years in Swainshead, she had noticed hints that all wasn’t well, that some things were going on about which she knew nothing. But there was no coherent narrative, just a series of unlinked events. She thought of Sam’s behaviour when Raymond Addison first appeared. She hadn’t heard their conversation, but Sam had immediately left everything to her and gone running off across the street to the Collier house. Later, Addison had gone for a walk and never returned. When they found out the man had been murdered, Sam had been unusually pale and quiet for some days.

She remembered watching Bernie pause and glance towards the Collier house before going on his way the morning he left. She had also seen him call there one evening shortly after he’d arrived and thought it odd because of the way he usually went on about them being so rich and privileged.

None of it had meant very much at the time. Katie wasn’t the kind of woman to look for bad in anyone but herself. She had had far more pressing matters to deal with and soon forgot the suspicious little things she’d noticed. Even now, she couldn’t put it all together. When she told Banks that she had killed Bernie and Stephen, she meant it. She hadn’t physically murdered them, but she knew she was responsible.

The things she remembered often seemed as if they had happened to someone else. She could view again, dispassionately, Bernard Allen sating himself on her impassive body, as if she were watching a silent film from the ceiling. And Stephen’s chaste kiss left no trace of ice or fire on her lips. Sam had taken her roughly the previous evening, but instead of fear and loathing she had felt a kind of power in her subservience. It wasn’t pleasure; it was something new, and she felt that if she could only be patient enough it would make itself known to her eventually. It was as if he had possessed her body, but not her soul. She had kept her soul pure and untainted, and now it was revealing itself to her. Somehow, these new feelings were all connected with her sense of responsibility for the deaths of Bernie and Stephen. She had blood on her hands; she had grown up.

The future was still very uncertain. Life would go on, she supposed, much as it had done. She would clean the rooms, cook the meals, submit to Sam in bed, do what she was told, and try to avoid making him angry. Everything would continue just as it had done, except for the new feelings that were growing in her. If she stayed patient, change would come in its own time. She wouldn’t have to do anything until she knew exactly what to do.

For the moment, nothing touched her; nothing ruffled the calm and glassy surface of her mind. Caught up in her dark reflection, she dropped one of a set of six expensive crystal glasses. It shattered on the linoleum. But even that didn’t matter. Katie looked down at the shards with an indulgent pitying expression on her face and went to fetch the brush and dustpan.

As she moved, she heard a sound out at the back. Hurrying to the window, she peered through her own reflection and glimpsed a shadow slipping past her gate. A moment later — before she could get to the unlocked door — she heard a cursory tap. The door opened and Nicholas Collier popped his head round and smiled. ‘Hello, Katie. I’ve come to visit.’

The sun was a swollen red ball low on the western horizon. It oozed its eerie light over the South Yorkshire landscape, silhouetted motionless pit wheels and made the slag heaps glow. On the cassette, Nick Drake was singing the haunting ‘Northern Sky’.