The Hanging Valley (13 page)

Nicholas bared his teeth in a particularly unpleasant smile. “If you want to put it that way, yes.”

“And what about the servant girl? The one who used to work here.”

“I insist you stop this at once, Chief Inspector,” Stephen said. “I can’t see how it’s relevant. And I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that the deputy chief constable is a good friend of the family.”

“I’m sure he is,” Banks said. He wasn’t at all put out; in fact, he was enjoying their discomfort tremendously. “Just a couple of minor points, then we’ll be on our way. When was the last time you saw Bernard?”

Nicholas said nothing; he appeared to be sulking. Stephen paused for a moment and answered in a business-like manner, “I’d say it was in the White Rose the evening before he left. Thursday. I remember talking to him about Tan Hill in Swaledale.”

“Is that where he was heading?”

“Not specifically, no, but it’s on the Pennine Way.”

“Did he talk about the hanging valley at all, the place where his body was found?”

“No, not that I remember.”

“Did either of you see him set off from Swainshead?”

Both the Colliers shook their heads. “I’m usually at the office before nine,” Stephen said. “And my brother would have been at Braughtmore.”

“So you saw nothing of him after that Thursday evening in the White Rose?”

“Nothing.”

“Just one more thing: could you tell us where John Fletcher lives?”

“John? He’s a couple of miles north of the village. It’s a big farmhouse on the eastern fell-side. You can’t miss it, it’s the only one in sight.”

“Fine, then.” Banks nodded to Hatchley and they stood up to leave. Stephen Collier led them out and Nicholas followed, still sulking. As soon as the door closed, Banks could hear them start arguing.

Hatchley turned up his nose in disgust. “What a pair of wankers,” he said.

“Aptly put,” said Banks. “But we did learn a few things.”

“Like what?”

“I never told them what time Allen left Swainshead, so why should Stephen Collier make a point of mentioning nine o’clock?”

“Hmm,” said Hatchley. “I suppose he could have just been assuming that Allen would leave after breakfast. Or maybe it had been mentioned the night before?”

“It’s possible,” Banks said. “Come to that, Sam Greenock could have told them. Nicholas Collier seemed much more annoyed by my reference to Esther Haines than I thought he’d be. There could be much more to that than even she let on.”

“I thought you were pushing it a bit there,” Hatchley said. “I mean, the super did say to take it easy on them. They’re important.”

Banks sniffed. “The problem is, Sergeant, that it’s all arse backwards, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s say Nicholas Collier might have been messing around with Allen’s little sister, or Allen might have been bitter over losing the farm and eventually having to leave England. That gives him a motive for murder, but he’s the one who ends up dead. Odd, that, don’t you think?”

“Aye, when you put it like that,” Hatchley said.

“Get on the radio and see if Richmond has turned up anything yet, will you? I want a word with these blokes here.”

Hatchley carried on to the car. Banks neared the bridge and steeled himself for the encounter with the old men. Three of them stood there silently, two leaning on walking sticks. No flicker of interest or concern showed on their weather-beaten faces when Banks approached them. He leaned against the warm stone and introduced himself, then asked if they had been out as early as nine o’clock a couple of weeks ago.

No-one said a word at first, then one of them, a gnarled, misshapen man, turned to face Banks. With his flat cap and dark brown clothing, he looked like some strange plant with the power to uproot itself and walk among people.

He spat in the beck and said, “’Appen.”

“Do you know Bernard Allen?”

“Archie Allen’s lad? Aye, o’course.”

“Did you see him that morning?”

The man was silent for a moment; he screwed up his eyes and contemplated Adam’s Fell. Banks took out his cigarettes and offered them around. Only one of them, a man with a huge red nose, took one. He grinned toothlessly at Banks, carefully nipped off the filter and put the other end in his mouth.

“Aye,” the spokesman said finally.

“Where did he come from?”

The man pointed towards the Greenock Guest House.

“Did he stop anywhere on his way?”

The man shook his head.

“Where did he go?”

“Up there.” The man pointed with his stick to the footpath up Swainshead Fell.

“And that was the last you saw of him?”

“Aye.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Nay, lad, I don’t remember that. ’Ee was carrying one o’them there ’aversacks on ’is back, that’s all I recollect. P’raps ’ee was wearing a shirt. I don’t remember no jacket.”

“Did you notice anyone go after him?”

The man shook his head again.

“Could someone have followed him without you seeing?”

“’Appen. There’s plenty o’ways to get up t’fell.”

“We know he went to the hanging valley over the fell-top,”

Banks said. “Are there many other ways to get there?”

“A few. Tha can go from t’main road, ’bout a mile past Rawley Force, and from further up t’valley.”

“How could anyone know where he was headed?”

“That’s tha job, bobby, in’t it?”

He was right. Someone could easily have watched Allen set off up the side of Swainshead Fell then gone up by another route to head him off somewhere out of sight. And Sam Greenock had said he wouldn’t have been surprised if Bernard had visited the hanging valley. Anyone else could have known that, too, and gone up earlier to wait for him there.

Typically, as more information came to light the case was becoming more and more frustrating. Clearly it would be necessary to do a house-to-house in the village and ask the people with an eastern view if they had noticed anything that morning. It would also be useful to know if anyone had seen a car parked off the Helmthorpe road near the other access point. The trouble was that May seventeenth was so long ago most people would have forgotten.

And those were only the most obvious ways in. Someone could surely have approached the hanging valley from almost any direction and lain in wait overnight if necessary, especially if he knew Bernard Allen was bound to pass that way. The break, if it came, didn’t look so likely to come from establishing opportunity—just about everyone who had no alibi seemed to have had that—but from discovering a motive.

Banks thanked the old men and walked off to find Sergeant Hatchley.

SIX

I

Hatchley started the next day in a bad mood. He grumbled to Banks that not only was his bed too small but the noise of the plumbing had kept him awake.

“I swear there was some bugger in there for a piss every five minutes. Flushed it every time, too. The bloody thing took at least ten minutes to quieten down again.”

Banks, who had slept the sleep of the truly virtuous, overlooked the sergeant’s spurious arithmetic. “Never mind,” he said. “With a bit of luck you’ll be snug and warm in your own bed tonight.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Carol Ellis?”

“Aye.”

“How long’s it been now?”

“Over eighteen months.”

“It’ll be wedding bells next, then?”

Hatchley blushed and Banks guessed he wasn’t far from the truth. “Anyway,” Banks went on. “I’m sorry to keep you away from your love-life, but I think we’ll be finished here today unless Richmond comes up with anything else.”

Hatchley had been onto the detective constable back in Eastvale, but Richmond had discovered nothing of importance except that Sam Greenock’s alibi seemed to hold. There remained, however, some doubt about the exact times he had called at Carter’s and the newsagent’s, so he wasn’t entirely out of the running.

Also, Richmond had spoken to PC Weaver, who had called at the Greenocks’ to ask about Canadian visitors. Weaver said that in
all cases he had both checked the register and made enquiries. It looked like Sam Greenock was lying. Weaver could have been covering himself, but he was a good officer, and Banks tended to believe him.

The previous evening, Banks and Hatchley had gone to interview John Fletcher, but he had been out. On the way back, they called in at the White Rose for a nightcap and had an early night. Mrs Greenock had still been skilfully managing to avoid them.

Breakfast seemed to cheer Hatchley up. Delivered by Katie, who blushed and ran as soon as she put, or almost dropped, the plates in front of them, the main course consisted of two fried eggs, two thick rashers of Yorkshire bacon, Cumberland sausage, grilled mushrooms and tomato, with two slices of fried bread to mop it all up. Before that they had drunk grapefruit juice and eaten cereal, and afterwards came the toast and marmalade. By some oversight, the toast was actually hot, and Hatchley, his equilibrium much restored, recoiled in mock horror.

“What’s on after we’ve talked to Fletcher?” he asked.

“We’ve got to put it all together, write up the interviews, see what we’ve got. I’m due for lunch with the super, so as far as I’m concerned you can take the rest of the day off and make an early start in the morning.”

Sergeant Hatchley beamed.

“I’ll drop you off at home,” Banks said. “I’ve got to go back to Eastvale to pick up Sandra and the kids, anyway.”

They finished their tea and left the room to the quiet Belgian couple by the window and the young marrieds in the corner, who hadn’t noticed anyone except each other. The Greenocks themselves were nowhere in sight.

Outside, the three men Banks had spoken with the previous day were on the bridge as usual. The one who had acted as spokesman gave him a curt, grudging nod of acknowledgement as he passed.

Hatchley nudged him as they got in the car. “It usually takes an incomer two generations to get any sign of recognition from those characters. What did you do, slip ’em a tenner each?”

“Southern charm, Sergeant,” Banks said, grinning. “Sheer charm. That and a lot of luck.”
About two miles up the valley, they crossed the low bridge and took a narrow dirt road up the fell-side. Fletcher’s farmhouse was a solid, dark-stone construction that looked as if it had been extruded from the earth like an outcrop of rock. Around the back were a number of pens and ditches for dipping and shearing. This time, he was at home.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t in,” he said when Banks mentioned their previous visit. “I was doing a bit of business over in Hawes. Anyway, come in, make yourselves comfortable.”

They followed him into the living-room, a spartan kind of place with bare plastered walls, stiff-backed chairs and a solid table on which rested an old wireless and precious little else. Whatever money Fletcher had in the bank, he certainly didn’t waste any on luxurious living. The small window looked out across the valley. With a view like that, Banks thought, you’d hardly need paintings or television.

One thing in particular caught Banks’s eye immediately, partly because it just didn’t seem to fit in this overtly masculine environment. Propped on the mantelpiece was a gilt-framed photograph of a woman. On closer inspection, which Banks made while Fletcher went to brew tea, the photo proved doubly incongruous. The woman, with her finely plucked eyebrows, gay smile and long, wavy chestnut hair, certainly didn’t look as if she belonged in Fletcher’s world. Banks could imagine her cutting a fine figure at society cocktail parties, sporting the latest hat at Ascot or posing elegantly at fashion openings, but not living in this godforsaken part of the world with a dark, squat, rough-cheeked sheep-farmer.

When Fletcher came back, Banks pointed to the photograph and asked who she was.

“My wife,” he said. “She’s been gone two years now.” There was a distinct chill in his tone that harmonized with the lonely, brooding atmosphere Banks sensed in the house.

He didn’t like to ask, but curiosity, as it often did, got the better of him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Is she dead?”

Fletcher looked sharply at him. “Not dead, no. If you must know, she left me.”
And you’re still in love with her, Banks thought. At least that explained something of the heaviness that Fletcher seemed to carry around inside himself.

“We’ve come about Bernard Allen,” Banks said, accepting a cup of tea and changing tack quickly.

“Aye, I heard,” Fletcher said. “Poor sod.”

“Did you know him well?”

“Not really, no. Just used to pass an evening or two in the White Rose when he dropped by for a visit.”

“Did you know him before he went to Canada?”

“I met him a few times. Hard not to when I was dealing with Walter Collier. Archie Allen worked some of his land.”

“So I heard. What were you going to do about that?”

Fletcher shrugged. “I wasn’t going to evict them, if that’s what you’re getting at. They were quite welcome to stay as far as I was concerned.”

“But they couldn’t make a go of it?”

“That’s right. It’s tough, sheep-farming, like I said before. I felt sorry for them, but there was nothing I could do.”

“So you only knew Bernard through his father at first?”

“Aye. He was off at university around then, too. And his brother had emigrated to Australia. There was only the young lass left.”

“Esther?”

“Aye. How is she? Have you seen her?”

“Yes,” Banks said. “She’s well. Married. Lives in Leeds. Did you ever hear anything about her and Nicholas Collier?”

Fletcher frowned. “No, I can’t say as I did. Though I wouldn’t put it past him. She were a nice lass, young Esther. I’ve often thought things might’ve worked out different if the others had stuck around, kept the family together, like.”

“You mean Bernard and Denny going away might have caused their father’s problems?”

“Some of them, perhaps. Not all, mind you. But it costs money to hire men. If you’ve got a family, there might be more mouths to feed, but there’s more hands to help, too.”

“Did you have any connection with Bernard other than his father? There can’t have been much of an age difference between you.”

“Nay, I’m older than I look,” Fletcher said, and grinned. “Like I said, we’d pass the time of day in the White Rose now and then. Him and his girlfriend were in there often enough.”