Peter Robinson: Many Rivers to Cross

‘Not at all,’ said Banks.

‘Of course,’ Mrs Grunwell added, ‘there’s nothing the council would like more than to get rid of me and put me in a home, out of the way somewhere. George is gone and the children all left years ago. Maybe I should let them. But it’s still my home, don’t you see?’

‘I do,’ said Banks.

‘I’d like to stay here until I can’t possibly manage any longer by myself. I feel sorry for these young people not being able to afford a house of their own, but this house has been my home for over fifty years. Still, you didn’t come to hear me reminiscing and grumbling, did you?’

Banks, who often found that letting witnesses unburden themselves a bit before questioning helped them relax, merely smiled at her. ‘You told DI Cabbot you put out the rubbish at ten o’clock. Is that right?’

‘Yes. Like I do every Sunday.’

‘And you didn’t see or hear anything unusual?’

‘No. Nothing. It was very quiet out back. It usually is on a Sunday night, apart from next door’s cat now and then. I never have much rubbish. Just one little bag. I’ve told the council that I hardly need one of those huge bins, but they don’t listen. They have their rules, and they don’t want one batty old lady marching to the beat of a different drummer.’ She grinned, showing crooked, yellow teeth. ‘Now, that would give them an excuse to lock me away, wouldn’t it?’

The neighbours on Malden Terrace would all be questioned, of course, as would the tenants of the dozen or so houses on the opposite side of the narrow lane, whose front doors were on Malden Close. In fact, officers would canvass the whole of the East Side Estate in the hopes that someone had noticed something and would be willing to share their knowledge with the police, unlikely as that seemed.

Banks had managed to get a decent picture of the victim’s face in profile with his mobile, and he showed it to her. ‘Do you recognise him at all?’ he asked.

Mrs Grunwell studied the image for a long time then shook her head. ‘So very young. No, I don’t recognise him.’

‘Have you seen anyone like him around the estate lately?’

‘What? You mean a darkie?’

Banks swallowed. ‘Well... I... yes, I suppose. A Middle Eastern youth, at any rate.’

‘George always called them darkies. Nothing against them, like, so long as they kept themselves to themselves.’ She paused. ‘But we don’t get them around here. Hardly ever. I mean, I think I would have noticed him.’

That was true enough. There was a white belt between industrial West Yorkshire and Teesside. Even the chefs and waiters from the local Indian and Thai restaurants commuted to Eastvale from Leeds and Bradford, or Darlington and Middlesbrough after their shifts. The only truly multicultural area of Eastvale was around the college campus, and even that was probably below the national average. There had never been anything to attract immigrants to rural areas like Swainsdale, not even in the post-war years when the first arrivals from Pakistan and the West Indies started to come into the country, mostly in the north, to work in the cotton and woollen mills of the Pennine valleys between Leeds and Manchester. There were no factories in the Dales, no real service industries to speak of, and farm labour wasn’t very open to outsiders. Nor were rural communities. Things were changing these days, of course, but not a great deal, and not very quickly.

‘Do you get out and about much?’ Banks asked. ‘I mean, do you think if he had been local you might have seen him anywhere around the estate, or in town?’

‘Don’t think that just because I’m eighty-five I can’t do my own shopping or enjoy a walk down by the river, young man. I’ll have you know I make a point of going out every morning for my newspaper, and as I don’t drive, I don’t go the supermarket like everyone else. I use the local shops as and when I need them. We have a perfectly good butcher down the road, and a fine greengrocer.’

‘I didn’t mean to suggest that you’re housebound, Mrs Grunwell,’ said Banks. ‘I just wanted some idea of how well you know the area. Whether you would have noticed if someone like the victim had been hanging around.’

‘I’m sure there are plenty of people on the estate I never see. Some don’t come out until after dark. But I do get out and about. I wouldn’t say I notice any more or less than some of the younger people in the neighbourhood.’

‘I can’t imagine this, but I have to ask,’ said Banks. ‘Do you know of anyone who might want to do you harm? Anyone who bears you a grudge, who might have wanted to play such a terrible trick on you? Someone who wanted to scare you, or might even have thought it was some kind of sick joke?’

‘Good Lord, no.’ Mrs Grunwell clutched her handkerchief to her chest. ‘I never even thought of that. No. I’m quite sure there’s no one like that.’

‘Do you get along well with your neighbours?’

‘Yes, for the most part. They’re very nice. Some of them help me out with little things, now and then. You know, carry my shopping if they see me struggling. Mr Dunne at number fourteen even takes me to the supermarket on occasion. I don’t like it, but it would be impolite to say no, wouldn’t it?’

‘Did you hear anything during the night? A car, or anyone messing about with the bins?’

‘We get a few cars going by the end, Malden Road, like, at all hours, so it’s nothing unusual. But Sunday’s usually very quiet. Come to think of it, I do believe I heard a car quite late last night. And before that it sounded as if someone kicked the bin. Kids do that sometimes, and I thought it was either that or next door’s cat, but... I don’t know.’

‘This sound — might it have been the bin lid closing?’

‘It might have been.’

‘And you heard a car stop before this?’

‘No. I heard a car engine turning over. That was after I’d heard the bin sound. Then it made a terrible noise, like when the gears crunch. I’m just assuming it had stopped first, or why would it have made that awful crunching sound starting up? And before you ask, I was quite wide awake. I like to read in bed, and usually I’m asleep after a chapter or so, depending on the book. Last night I was reading Barbara Cartland. I do so like Barbara Cartland. She usually sends me off to sleep in no time.’

‘But not last night?’

‘No. For some reason, my eyes just wouldn’t close. Sleep refused to come. It happens sometimes when you’re my age. Old folks don’t need as much sleep, they say. Which is just as well, as we can’t seem to get it.’

‘Can you tell me anything else about this car? Did you hear anyone speak, say anything? Did you hear the car door or boot slam?’

‘No. I don’t remember anything like that. I was feeling anxious, all tensed up, for some reason. Don’t ask me why. I don’t believe in premonitions or anything silly like that. There’s no reason why I should, except it happens sometimes. If I can’t get to sleep I start to feel apprehensive.’

‘I know the feeling,’ said Banks. ‘What time was this?’

‘I can’t say exactly, but it wouldn’t have been that long after I went to bed. Around eleven o’clock, perhaps? Maybe half past at the latest.’

Between eleven and half past. That fit the time span Dr Burns had already indicated, Banks thought. ‘And you thought you heard a car engine turning over, then start up noisily, after someone had kicked or opened and closed your bin?’

‘Yes.’ Mrs Grunwell was twisting the handkerchief between her gnarled fingers. ‘How can someone do something like that, Mr Banks? Kill a poor, defenceless young man and put his body in a rubbish bin. I’m frightened. What if they come back? What if it’s a drug gang? What if they think I might have seen something?’