The Hanging Valley

1

It was the most exhilarating feeling in the world. His thighs ached, his calves throbbed and his breath came in short sharp gasps. But he had made it. Neil Fellowes, humble wages clerk from Pontefract, stood at the summit of Swainshead Fell.

Not that it was an achievement comparable to Sir Edmund Hillary’s; after all, the fell was only 1,631 feet high. But Neil was not getting any younger, and the crowd at Baxwell’s Machine Tools, where he worked, had taken the mickey something cruel when he told them he was going on a fell-walking holiday in the Yorkshire Dales.

‘Fell?’ taunted Dick Blatchley, one of the mail-room wags. Tha’ll a fell before tha’s got started, Neil.’ And they had all laughed.

But now, as he stood there in the thin air, his heart beating deep in his chest like the steam-driven pistons in the factory, he was the one to laugh. He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses back up to the bridge of his nose and wiped off the sweat over which they had slid. Next he adjusted the straps of his rucksack, which were biting into his shoulders.

He had been climbing for well over an hour: nothing too dangerous — no sheer heights, nothing that required special equipment. Fell-walking was a democratic recreation, just plain hard work. And it was an ideal day for walking. The sun danced in and out between plump white clouds and a cool breeze kept the temperature down. Perfect late May weather.

He stood in the rough grass and heather with nothing but a few sheep for company — and they had already turned their backs on him and scuttled a safe distance away. Lord of the whole scene, he sat on a weathered limestone boulder to savour the feeling.

Back down the fell he could just make out the northern tip of Swainshead village, from where he had come. He could easily pick out the whitewashed front of the White Rose across the beck, and the lichen-covered flagstone roof of the Greenock Guest House, where he had spent a comfortable night after the previous day’s walking in Wharfedale. He had also enjoyed there a breakfast of sausage, bacon, black pudding, fried bread, grilled mushrooms, tomato, two fried eggs, tea, toast and marmalade before setting off that morning.

He stood up to take in the panorama, starting with the west, where the fells descended and rolled like frozen waves to the sea. To the north-west ranged the old rounded hills of the Lake District. Neil fancied he could see the Striding Edge along Helvellyn and the occasional glint of sun on Windermere or Ullswater. Next he looked south, where the landscape hardened into the Pennines, the backbone of England. The rock was darker there, with outcrops of millstone grit ousting the glinting white limestone. Miles of wild forbidding moorland stretched down as far as Derbyshire. South-east lay Swainsdale itself, its valley bottom hidden from view.

But what astonished Neil most of all was a small wooded valley down the eastern slope just below where he stood. The guidebooks hadn’t mentioned anything of particular interest on the route he had chosen; indeed, one of his reasons for taking it was that nobody was likely to spoil his solitude. Most people, it seemed to Neil, would be off in search of stone circles, old lead mines and historic buildings.

In addition to its location and seclusion, the dale also had unusual foliage. It must have been a trick of the light, Neil thought, but whereas the trees everywhere else were fresh and green with spring, the ash, alders and sycamores below him seemed tinged with russet, orange and earth-brown. It seemed to him like a valley out of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings.

It would mean an extra mile or two and an unplanned climb back out again, but the sides didn’t appear too steep, and Neil thought he might find some interesting wild flowers along the shaded banks of the beck. Balancing his pack, he struck out for the enchanted valley.

Soon, the rough tussocks underfoot gave way to springier grass. When Neil entered the woods, the leaves seemed much greener now the sunlight filtered through them. The smell of wild garlic filled his nostrils and made him feel light-headed. Bluebells swayed in the breeze.

He heard the beck before he saw it between the trees; it made a light bubbling sound, joyful and carefree. From the inside too, the valley clearly had a magical quality. It was more luxuriant than the surrounding area, its ferns and shrubs more lush and abundant as if, Neil thought, God had blessed it with a special grace.

He eased off his rucksack and laid it down on the thick grass by the waterside. Taking off his glasses, he thought he would stay a while and relax, perhaps drink some coffee from his flask before carrying on. He rested his head on the pack and closed his eyes. His mind emptied of everything but the heady scent of the garlic, the song of the beck, the cool fingers of the wind that rustled through wild roses and honeysuckle and the warbling of skylarks as they aimed themselves up at the sun and floated down like feathers, singing.

Refreshed — indeed feeling as if he had been born anew — Neil wiped his eyes and put on his glasses again. Looking around, he noticed a wild flower in the woods across the water. It seemed, from where he was, to be about a foot high, with red-brown sepals and pale yellow petals. Thinking it might be a rare lady’s slipper orchis, he decided to cross over and have a closer look. The beck wasn’t very wide, and there were plenty of fortuitously placed stepping stones.

As he neared the flower, he became aware of another smell, much more harsh and cloying than the garlic or loam. It clogged his nose and stuck to his bronchial passages. Wondering what it could be, he looked around, but could see nothing unusual. Near the flower, which was definitely a lady’s slipper, some branches fallen from a tree lay on the ground and blocked his way. He started to pull them aside to get a better view.

But he didn’t get very far. There, under a makeshift cover, lay the source of the smell: a human body. In the instant before he turned to vomit into the shrubs, Neil noticed two things: that it had no face, and that it seemed to be moving — its flesh was literally crawling.

Pausing only to wash his face and rinse out his mouth in the beck, Neil left his rucksack where it was and hurried as fast as he could back to Swainshead.

Disgusting, thought Katie Greenock, turning up her nose as she emptied the waste bin of room three. You’d think people would be ashamed to leave such things lying around for anyone to see. Thank God they’d left that morning. There always had seemed something unwholesome about them anyway: the way they kissed and canoodled at the breakfast table, how it was always so long before they set off for the day and so early when they returned to their room. She didn’t even believe they were married.

Sighing, Katie brushed back a strand of ash-blonde hair and emptied the bin into the black plastic bag she carried with her on her rounds. Already she was tired out. Her day began at six o’clock, and there were no easy rustic mornings of birdsong and dew for her, just sheer hard work.

First she had to cook the breakfasts and coordinate everything so that the eggs weren’t cold when the bacon was ready and the tea was fresh for the guests as soon as they decided to come down. They could help themselves to juice and cereal, which she had put out earlier — though not too early, for the milk had to be chilled. The toast could get as cold as it liked — cold toast seemed to be a part of the tradition of an English breakfast — but Katie was pleased when, as sometimes happened, she succeeded in serving it warm at exactly the right time. Not that anyone ever said thank you.

Then, of course, she had to serve the meals and manage a smile for all the guests, whatever their comments about the quality of the food and no matter what their sweet little children saw fit to drop on the floor or throw at the walls. She was also often asked for advice about where to go for the day, but sometimes Sam would help with that part, breaking off from his usual morning monologue on current events with which he entertained the visitors daily whether they liked it or not.

Next, she had to clear the tables and wash the dishes. The machine Sam had finally bought her helped a lot. Indeed, it saved her so much time that she could hurry down to Thetford’s Grocery on the Helmthorpe Road and take her pick of the morning’s fresh produce. Sam used to do that before he had installed the machine, but now he had more time for the sundry business matters that always seemed to be pressing.

When Katie had planned the menu for the evening meal and bought all the ingredients, it was time to change the sheets and clean the rooms. It was hardly surprising then that by noon she was almost always tired. If she was lucky, she could sometimes find a little time for gardening around mid afternoon.

Putting off the moment when she would have to move on to the next room, Katie walked over to the window and rested her elbows on the sill. It was a fine day in a beautiful part of the world but to her the landscape felt like an enormous trap; the fells were boulders that shut her in, the stretches of moorland like deserts impossible to cross. A chance of freedom had offered itself recently, but there was nothing she could do about it yet. She could only wait patiently and see what developed.

She looked down on the grassy banks at each side of the fledgling River Swain, at the children sitting patiently with their home-made fishing nets, a visiting couple having a picnic, the old men gossiping as usual on the small stone bridge. She could see it all, but not feel the beauty of any of it.

And there, almost dead opposite, was the White Rose, founded in 1605, as its sign proudly proclaimed, where Sam would no doubt be hobnobbing with his upper-class chums. The fool, Katie thought. He thinks he’s well in, but they’ll never really accept him, ever after all these years and all he’s done for them. Their kind never does. She was sure they laughed at him behind his back. And had he noticed the way Nicholas Collier kept looking at her? Did Sam know about the times Nicholas had tried to touch her?

Katie shuddered at the thought. Outside, a sudden movement caught her eye and she saw the old men part like the Red Sea and stare open-mouthed as a slight figure hurried across the bridge.

It was that man who’d set off just a few hours ago, Katie realized, the mild-mannered clerk from Castleford or Featherstone or somewhere like that. Surely he’d said he was heading for the Pennine Way? And he was as white as the pub front. He turned left at the end of the bridge, hurried the last few yards and went running into the White Rose.

Katie felt her chest tighten. What was it that had brought him back in such a state? What was wrong? Surely nothing terrible had happened in Swainshead? Not again.

‘Well,’ Sam Greenock was saying about the racial mix in England, ‘they have their ways, I suppose, but—’

Then Neil Fellowes burst through the door and looked desperately around the pub for a familiar face.

Seeing Sam at his usual table with the Collier brothers and John Fletcher, Neil hurried over and pulled up a chair.

‘We must do something,’ he said, gasping for breath and pointing outside. ‘There’s a body up on the fell. Dead.’

‘Calm down, mate,’ Sam said. ‘Get your breath, then tell us what’s happened.’ He called over to the barman. ‘A brandy for Mr Fellowes, Freddie, if you please. A large one.’ Seeing Freddie hesitate, he added, ‘Don’t worry, you bloody old skinflint, I’ll pay. And get a move on.’

Conversation at the table stopped while Freddie Metcalfe carried the drink over. Neil gulped the brandy and it brought on a coughing fit.

‘At least that’s put a bit of colour back in your cheeks,’ Sam said, slapping Neil on the back.

‘It was terrible,’ Neil said, wiping off the brandy where it had dribbled down his chin. He wasn’t used to strong drink, but he did approve of it in emergencies such as this.

‘His face was all gone, all eaten away, and the whole thing was moving, like waves.’ He put his glass to his thin lips again and drained it. ‘We must do something. The police.’ He got up and strode over to Freddie Metcalfe. ‘Where’s the police station in Swainshead?’

Metcalfe scratched his shiny red scalp and answered slowly. ‘Let me see… There aren’t no bobbies in T’ Head itself. Nearest’s Helmthorpe, I reckon. Sergeant Mullins and young Weaver. That’s nigh on ten miles off.’

Neil bought himself another double brandy while Metcalfe screwed up his weather-beaten face and thought.

‘They’ll be no bloody use, Freddie,’ Sam called over. ‘Not for something like this. It’s CID business, this is.’

‘Aye,’ Metcalfe agreed, ‘I reckon tha’s right, Sam. In that case, young feller mi’ lad,’ he said to Neil, ‘it’ll be that chap in Eastvale tha’ll be after. T’ one who were out ’ere last time we ’ad a bit o’ bother. Gristhorpe, Chief Inspector Gristhorpe. Years back it was though. Probably dead now. Come on, lad, you can use this phone, seeing as it’s an emergency.’

‘Chief Inspector’ Gristhorpe, now Superintendent, was far from dead. When the call came through, he was on another line talking to Redshaw’s Quarries about a delivery for the drystone wall he was building. Despite all the care he had put into the endeavour, a section had collapsed during an April frost, and rebuilding seemed a suitable spring project.

The telephone call found its way instead to the office of Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks, who sat browsing through the Guardian arts pages, counting his blessings that crime had been so slack in Eastvale recently. After all, he had been transferred from London almost two years ago for a bit of peace and quiet. He liked detective work and couldn’t imagine doing anything else, but the sheer pressure of the job — unpleasant, most of it — and the growing sense of confrontation between police and citizens in the capital had got him down. For his own and his family’s sake, he had made the move. Eastvale hadn’t been quite as peaceful as he’d expected, but at the moment all he had to deal with were a couple of minor break-ins and the aftermath of a tremendous punch-up in the Oak. It had started when five soldiers from Catterick camp had taunted a group of unemployed miners from Durham. Three people ended up in hospital with injuries ranging from bruised and swollen testicles to a bitten-off earlobe, and the others were cooling off in the cells waiting to appear before the magistrate.

‘Someone asking for the super, sir,’ said Sergeant Rowe, when Banks picked up the phone. ‘His line’s busy.’

‘It’s all right,’ Banks said. ‘I’ll take it.’

A breathless, slightly slurred voice came on the line. ‘Hello, is that Inspector Gristhorpe?’

Banks introduced himself and encouraged the caller, who gave his name as Neil Fellowes, to continue.

‘There’s a body,’ Fellowes said. ‘Up on the fells. I found it.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘A pub. The White Rose.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘What? Oh, I see. In Swainshead.’

Banks wrote the details down on his scrap pad.

‘Are you sure it’s a human body?’ he asked. There had been mistakes made in the past, and the police had more than once been dragged out to examine piles of old sacks, dead sheep or rotten tree trunks.

‘Yes. Yes, I’m sure.’

‘Male or female?’

‘I… I didn’t look. It was—’

The next few words were muffled.

‘All right, Mr Fellowes,’ Banks said. ‘Just stay where you are and we’ll be along as soon as possible.’

Gristhorpe had finished his call when Banks tapped on the door and entered his office. With its overflowing bookcases and dim lighting, it looked more like a study than part of a police station.

‘Ah, Alan,’ Gristhorpe said, rubbing his hands together. ‘They said they’ll deliver before the weekend, so we can make a start on the repairs on Sunday, if you’d care to come?’

Working on the drystone wall, which fenced in nothing and was going nowhere, had become something of a ritual for the superintendent and his chief inspector. Banks had come to look forward to those Sunday afternoons on the north daleside above Lyndgarth, where Gristhorpe lived alone in his farmhouse. Mostly they worked in silence, and the job created a bond between them, a bond that Banks, still an incomer to the Yorkshire Dales, valued greatly.

‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Very much. Look, I’ve just had a rather garbled phone call from a chap by the name of Neil Fellowes. Says he’s found a body on the fell near Swainshead.’

Gristhorpe leaned back in his chair, linked his hands behind his head and frowned. ‘Any details?’

‘No. He’s still a bit shook up, by the sound of it. Shall I go?’

‘We’ll both go.’ Gristhorpe stood up decisively. ‘It’s not the first time a body has turned up in The Head.’

‘The Head?’

‘That’s what the locals call it, the whole area around Swainshead village. It’s the source of the River Swain, the head of the dale.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s about twenty-five miles, but I’m sure we’ll make it before closing time if I remember Freddie Metcalfe.’

Banks was puzzled. It was unusual for Gristhorpe to involve himself so much in an actual field investigation. As head of Eastvale CID, the superintendent could use his discretion as regards his role in a case. Theoretically, he could, if he wanted to, take part in searches and house-to-house enquiries, but of course he never did. In part, his job was administrative. He tended to delegate casework and monitor developments from his office. This was not due to laziness, Banks realized, but because his talent was for thinking and planning, not for action or interrogation. He trusted his subordinates and allowed them far greater leeway with their cases than many superintendents did. But this time he wanted to come along.

They made an incongruous couple as they walked to the car park at the back: the tall bulky Gristhorpe with his unruly thatch of grey hair, bristly moustache, pockmarked face and bushy eyebrows; and Banks, lean, slight, with angular features and short almost cropped black hair.

‘I can’t see why you keep on using your own car, Alan,’ Gristhorpe said as he eased into the passenger seat of the white Cortina and grappled with the seat belt. ‘You could save a lot of wear and tear if you took a department vehicle.’

‘Have they got radio-cassettes?’ Banks asked.

‘You know damn well they haven’t.’

‘Well, then.’

‘Well, what?’

‘I like to listen to music while I’m driving. You know I do. It helps me think.’

‘I suppose you’re going to inflict some on me, too?’

It had always surprised Banks that so well read and cultured a person as Gristhorpe had absolutely no ear for music at all. The superintendent was tone-deaf, and even the most ethereal Mozart aria was painful to his ears.

‘Not if you don’t want,’ Banks said, smiling to himself. He knew he wouldn’t be able to smoke on the way, either. Gristhorpe was a non-smoker of the most rabid kind — reformed after a twenty-year, twenty-a-day habit.

Banks pulled into the cobbled market square, turned left on to North Market Street, and headed for the main Swainsdale road, which ran by the river along the valley bottom.

Gristhorpe grunted and tapped the apparatus next to the dashboard. ‘At least you’ve had a police radio fitted.’

‘What was it you said before?’ Banks asked. ‘About this not being the first body in Swainshead.’

‘It was before your time.’

‘Most things were.’ Banks made the sharp westward turn, and soon they were out of the town, driving by the river meadows.

Gristhorpe opened his window and gulped in the fresh air. ‘A man had his skull fractured,’ he said. ‘It was murder, no doubt about that. And we never solved it.’

‘What happened?’

‘Some Boy Scouts found the body dumped in an old mineshaft on the fell side a couple of miles north of the village. The doctor said it had been there about a week.’

‘When?’

‘Just over five years ago.’

‘Was it a local?’

‘No. The victim was a private detective from London.’

‘A private investigator?’

‘That’s right. Name of Raymond Addison. A solo operator. One of the last of the breed, I should imagine.’

‘Did you find out what he was doing up here?’

‘No. We had his office searched, of course, but none of his files had any connection with Swainsdale. The Yard asked around among his friends and acquaintances — not that he had very many — but they turned up nothing. We thought he might have been on holiday, but why choose Yorkshire in February?’

‘How long had he been in the village?’

‘He’d arrived fairly late in the day and managed to get a room in a guest house run by a chap named Sam Greenock, who told us that Addison said nothing except for some remarks about the cold. He wrapped up well and went out for a walk after the evening meal, and that was the last anyone saw of him. We made enquiries, but nobody had seen or heard him. It was dark when he went out, of course, and even the old men who usually hang about chatting on the bridge come rain or shine had gone in by then.’

‘And as far as you could find out he had no connection with the area at all?’

‘None. And, believe me, we dug and dug. Either nobody knew or, more likely, someone wasn’t talking. He was an ex-serviceman, so we checked up on old army pals, that kind of thing. We ended up doing a house-to-house of the entire village. Nothing. It’s still unsolved.’

Banks slowed down as he drove through Helmthorpe, one of the dale’s largest villages. Beyond there, the landscape was unfamiliar to him. Though still broader than most of the dales, thanks to a glacier of particularly titanic proportions, the valley seemed to narrow slightly as they got closer to The Head, and the commons sloped more steeply up the fell sides. There were none of the long limestone scars that characterized the eastern part of Swainsdale, but the hills rose to high rounded summits of moorland.

‘And that’s not all,’ Gristhorpe added after a few moments of silence. ‘A week before Addison’s body was found — the day after he was killed, as far as the doctors could make out — a local woman disappeared. Name of Anne Ralston. Never been seen since.’

‘And you think there must have been a connection?’

‘Not necessarily. At the time she went, of course, the body hadn’t been discovered. The whole thing could have been a coincidence. And the doctor admitted he could have been wrong about the exact day of death, too. It’s hard to be accurate after a body’s been buried that long. But we’ve no idea what happened to her. And you’ve got to admit it’s damned odd to get a missing person and a murder in the same village within a week of each other. She could have been killed and buried, or maybe she simply ran off with a fellow somewhere. We’d hardly cause to block all the ports and airports. Besides, she could have been anywhere in the world by the time the body was found. At best we’d have liked her to answer a few questions, just to put our minds at rest. As it was, we did a bit more poking around the landscape but found no traces of another body.’

‘Do you think she might have murdered Addison and run off?’

‘It’s possible. But it didn’t look like a woman’s job to me. Too much muscle work involved, and Anne Ralston wasn’t one of those female bodybuilders. We questioned her boyfriend pretty closely. He’s Stephen Collier, managing director of the company she worked for. Comes from a very prominent local family.’

‘Yes,’ Banks said. ‘I’ve heard of the Colliers. Did he cause any problems?’

‘No. He was cooperative. Said they hadn’t been getting on all that well lately, but he’d no idea where she’d gone, or why. In the end we’d no reason to think anything had happened to her so we had to assume she’d just left. People do sometimes. And Anne Ralston seemed to be a particularly flighty lass, by all accounts.’

‘Still…’

‘Yes, I know.’ Gristhorpe sighed. ‘It’s not at all satisfactory, is it? We reached nothing but dead ends whichever direction we turned.’

Banks drove on in silence. Obviously failure was hard for Gristhorpe to swallow, as it was for most detectives. But this murder, if that’s what it really turned out to be, was a different case, five years old. He wasn’t going to let the past clutter up his thinking if he could help it. Still, it would be well to keep Raymond Addison and Anne Ralston in mind.

‘This is it,’ Gristhorpe said a few minutes later, pointing to the row of houses ahead. ‘This is Lower Head, as the locals call it.’

‘It hardly seems a big enough place to be split into two parts,’ Banks observed.

‘It’s not a matter of size, Alan. Lower Head is the newest part of the village, the part that’s grown since the road’s become more widely used. People just stop off here to admire the view over a quick cup of tea or a pint and a pub lunch. Upper Head’s older and quieter. A bit more genteel. It’s a little north-south dale in itself, wedged between two fells. There’s a road goes north up there too, but when it gets past the village and the school it gets pretty bad. You can get to the Lake District if you’re willing to ride it out, but most people go from the Lancashire side. Turn right here.’

Banks turned. The base of a triangular village green ran beside the main road, allowing easy access to Swainshead from both directions. The first buildings he passed were a small stone church and a village hall.

Following the minor road north beside the narrow River Swain, Banks could see what Gristhorpe meant. There were two rows of cottages facing each other, set back quite a bit from the river and its grassy banks. Most of them were either semis or terraced, and some had been converted into shops. They were plain sturdy houses built mostly of limestone, discoloured here and there with moss and lichen. Many had individualizing touches, such as mullions or white borders painted around doors and windows. Behind the houses on both sides, the commons sloped up, criss-crossed here and there by drystone walls, and gave way to steep moorland fells.

Banks parked the car outside the whitewashed pub and Gristhorpe pointed to a large house farther up the road.

‘That’s the Collier place,’ he said. ‘The old man was one of the richest farmers and landowners around these parts. He also had the sense to invest his money in a food-processing plant just west of here. He’s dead now, but young Stephen runs the factory and he shares the house with his brother. They’ve split it into two halves. Ugly pile of stone, isn’t it?’

Banks didn’t say so, but he rather admired the Victorian extravagance of the place, so at odds with the utilitarian austerity of most Dales architecture. Certainly it was ugly: oriels and turrets cluttered the upper half, making the whole building look top-heavy, and there was a stone porch at each front entrance. They probably had a gazebo and a folly in the back garden too, he thought.

‘And that’s where Raymond Addison stayed,’ Gristhorpe said, pointing across the beck. The house, made of two knocked-together semis, was separated from the smaller terraced houses on either side by only a few feet. A sign, GREENOCK GUEST HOUSE, hung in the colourful well-tended garden.

‘’Ey up, lads,’ Freddie Metcalfe said as they entered, ‘t’ Sweeney’s ’ere.’

‘Hello again, Freddie,’ Gristhorpe said, leading Banks over to the bar. ‘Still serving drinks after hours?’

‘Only to the select few, Mr Gristhorpe,’ Metcalfe replied proudly. ‘What’ll you gents be ’aving?’ He looked at Banks suspiciously. ‘Is ’e over eighteen?’

‘Just,’ Gristhorpe answered.

Freddie burst into a rasping smoker’s laugh.

‘What’s this about a body?’ Gristhorpe asked.

Metcalfe pursed his fleshy lips and nodded towards the only occupied table. ‘Bloke there says he found one on t’ fell. ’E’s not going anywhere, so I might as well pull you gents a pint before you get down to business.’

The superintendent asked for a pint of bitter and Banks, having noticed that the White Rose was a Marston’s house, asked for a pint of Pedigree.

‘’E’s got good taste, I’ll say that for ’im,’ Metcalfe said. ‘Is ’e ’ouse-trained an’ all?’

Banks observed a prudent silence throughout the exchange and took stock of his surroundings. The walls of the lounge bar were panelled in dark wood up to waist height and above that papered an inoffensive dun colour. Most of the tables were the old round kind with cast-iron knee-capper legs, but a few modern square ones stood in the corner near the dartboard and the silent jukebox.

Banks lit a Silk Cut and sipped his pint. He’d refrained from smoking in the car in deference to Gristhorpe’s feelings, but now that he was in a public place he was going to take advantage of it and puff away to his heart’s and lungs’ content.

Carrying their drinks, they walked over to the table.

‘Someone reported a death?’ Gristhorpe asked, his innocent baby-blue eyes ranging over the five men who sat there.

Fellowes hiccuped and put his hand in the air. ‘I did,’ he said, and slid off his chair on to the stone floor.

‘Christ, he’s pissed as a newt,’ Banks said, glaring at Sam Greenock. ‘Couldn’t you have kept him sober till we got here?’

‘Don’t blame me,’ Sam said. ‘He’s only had enough to put some colour back in his cheeks. It’s not my fault he can’t take his drink.’

Two of the others helped Fellowes back into his chair and Freddie Metcalfe rushed over with some smelling salts he kept behind the bar for this and similar exigencies.

Fellowes moaned and waved away the salts, then slumped back and squinted at Gristhorpe. He was clearly in no condition to guide them to the scene of the crime.

‘It’s all right, Inshpector,’ he said. ‘Bit of a shock to the syshtem, thass all.’

‘Can you tell us where you found this body?’ Gristhorpe spoke slowly, as if to a child.

‘Over Shwainshead Fell, there’s a beautiful valley. All autumn colours. Can’t mish it, just down from where the footpath reaches the top. Go shtraight down till you get to the beck, then cross it… Easy. Near the lady’s slipper.’

‘Lady’s slipper?’

‘Yes. The orchish, not the bird’s-foot trefoil. Very rare. Body’s near the lady’s shlipper.’

Then he half twisted in his chair and stretched his arm up his back.

‘I left my rucksack,’ he said. ‘Thought I did. Just over from my rucksack, then. Ruckshack marks the spot.’ Then he hiccuped again and his eyes closed.

‘Does anyone know where he’s staying?’ Banks asked the group.

‘He was staying at my guest house,’ Sam said. ‘But he left this morning.’

‘Better get him back there, if there’s room. He’s in no condition to go anywhere and we’ll want to talk to him again later.’

Sam nodded. ‘I think we’ve still got number five empty, unless someone’s arrived while I’ve been out. Stephen?’ He looked over to the man next to him, who helped him get Fellowes to his feet.

‘It’s Stephen Collier, isn’t it?’ Gristhorpe asked, then turned to the person opposite Greenock. ‘And you’re Nicholas. Remember, I talked to you both a few years ago about Anne Ralston and that mysterious death?’

‘We remember,’ Nicholas answered. ‘You knew Father too, if I recall rightly?’

‘Not well, but yes, we bent elbows together once or twice. Quite a man.’

‘He was indeed,’ Nicholas said.

Outside, Banks and Gristhorpe watched Sam and Stephen help Neil Fellowes over the bridge. The old men stood by and stared in silence.

Gristhorpe looked up at the fell side. ‘We’ve got a problem,’ he said.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s a long climb up there. How the bloody hell are we going to get Glendenning and the scene-of-crime team up if we need them? Come to that, how am I going to get up? I’m not as young as I used to be. And you smoke like a bloody chimney. You’ll never get ten yards.’

Banks followed Gristhorpe’s gaze and scratched his head. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose we could give it a try.’

Gristhorpe pulled a face. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I was afraid you’d say that.’

2

‘Problem, gentlemen?’ Nicholas Collier asked when he walked out of the White Rose and saw Banks and Gristhorpe staring up dejectedly at Swainshead Fell.

‘Not at all,’ Gristhorpe replied. ‘Simply admiring the view.’

‘Might I suggest a way you can save yourselves some shoe leather?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Do you see that narrow line that crosses the fell diagonally?’ Nicholas pointed towards the slope and traced the direction of the line with a long finger.

‘Yes,’ said Gristhorpe. ‘It looks like an old track of some kind.’

‘That’s exactly what it is. There used to be a farmhouse way up on the fell side there. It belonged to Father, but he used to let it to Archie Allen. The place has fallen to ruin now but the road that leads up is still there. It’s not in good repair, of course, and you might find it a bit overgrown, but you should be able to get a car well above halfway up, if that’s any help.’

‘Thank you very much, Mr Collier,’ Gristhorpe said. ‘For a man of my shape any effort saved is a blessing.’

‘You’ll have to drive two miles up the road here to the next bridge to get on the track, but you’ll see your way easily enough,’ said Nicholas, and with a smile he set off for home.

‘Odd-looking sort of fellow, isn’t he?’ Banks remarked. ‘Not a bit like his brother.’

Whereas Stephen had the elegant, world-weary look of a fin de siècle decadent, Nicholas’s sallow complexion, long nose and prominent front teeth made him appear a bit horsy. The only resemblance was in their unusually bright blue eyes.

‘Takes after his father, does Nicholas,’ Gristhorpe said. ‘And Stephen takes after his mother, as handsome a woman as I’ve seen around these parts. There’s many a man drowned his sorrows in drink when Ella Dinsdale married Walter Collier. Didn’t last long though, poor lass.’

‘What happened?’

‘Polio. Before inoculations came in. Come on, let’s go and have a look at this body before it gets up and walks away.’

Banks found the bridge and track easily enough, and though the old road was bumpy, they managed to get as far as the ruined farmhouse without any serious damage to the car.

A little to the left, they saw the footpath Neil Fellowes had taken and began to follow it up the fell side. Even though they had been able to drive most of the way, the path was steep and Banks soon found himself gasping for air and wishing he didn’t smoke. Gristhorpe, for all his weight, seemed to stride up much more easily, though his face turned scarlet with the effort. Banks guessed he was more used to the landscape. After all, his own cottage was halfway up a daleside, too.

Finally, they stood at the top, where Fellowes had surveyed the scene a few hours earlier. Both were puffing and sweating by then, and after they’d got their breath back Gristhorpe pointed out the autumnal valley below.

‘It looks enchanted, doesn’t it,’ he said as they walked down the slope towards the woods. ‘Look, there’s the rucksack.’

They crossed the beck as directed and headed for the lady’s slipper orchis by the fallen branches. When they smelled the corpse, they exchanged glances. Both had known that stench before; it was unmistakable.

‘No wonder Fellowes was in such a state,’ Banks said. He took out a handkerchief and held it to his nose. Cautiously, Gristhorpe pulled more branches aside.

‘By Christ, Glendenning’s going to love this one,’ he said, then stood back. ‘By the look of that mess below the ribs there, we’ve got a murder case on our hands. Probably a knife wound. Male, I’d say.’

Banks agreed. Though small animals had been at parts of the body and maggots had made it their breeding ground, the dark stain just below the left ribcage stood out clearly enough against the white shirt the man was wearing. Fellowes had been right about the movement. The way the maggots were wriggling under his clothes made it look as if the body were rippling like water in the breeze.

‘“Motion in corruption”,’ Gristhorpe muttered under his breath. ‘I wonder where the rest of his gear is. By the look of those boots he was a walker sure enough.’

Banks peered as closely as he could at the cleated rubber Vibram treads. ‘They look new as well,’ he said. ‘Hardly worn at all.’

‘He must have had more stuff,’ Gristhorpe said, rubbing his whiskery chin. ‘Most walkers carry at least a rucksack with a few dried dates, compass, maps, torch, changes of clothing and what have you. Somebody must have taken it.’

‘Or buried it.’

‘Aye.’

‘He’s not wearing waterproofs, either,’ Banks observed.

‘That could mean he knew what he was doing. Only amateurs wear waterproofs all the time. Experienced walkers put their clothes on and off in layers according to the weather. If this is all he was wearing when he was killed, we might be able to get some idea of the date of death by checking weather records.’

‘It’s been fairly constant these past few weeks,’ Banks pointed out. ‘We had a late spring, but now it looks like an early summer.’

‘True enough. Still, forensic might be able to come up with something. Better get the team up, Alan.’

‘The way we came? It’s not going to be easy.’

Gristhorpe thought for a moment. ‘There might be a better way,’ he said at last. ‘If my geography’s correct.’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, if I’m right, this’ll be the beck that ends in Rawley Force on the Helmthorpe road about a mile east of Swainshead village. It’s a hanging valley.’

‘Come again?’

‘A hanging valley,’ Gristhorpe repeated. ‘It’s a tributary valley running into Swainsdale at a right angle. The glacier here was too small to deepen it as much as the larger one that carved out the dale itself, so it’s left hanging above the main valley floor like a cross-section. The water usually reaches the main river over a waterfall, like Rawley Force. I thought you’d been reading up on local geology, Alan.’

‘Haven’t got that far yet,’ Banks mumbled. In fact, he’d put aside the geology book after reading only two chapters in favour of a new history of Yorkshire that his daughter, Tracy, had recommended. The trouble was that he wanted to know so much but had so little time for learning that he tended to skitter from one subject to another without fully absorbing anything.

‘Anyway,’ Gristhorpe went on, ‘Rawley Force is only about ninety feet high. If we can get in touch with the Mountain Rescue post at Helmthorpe and they’re willing to rig up a winch, we’ll be able to get the team up and down without much trouble. I can hardly see Glen-denning, for one, walking the way we did. There’ll be a lot of coming and going. And we’ll have to get the body down somehow, too. A winch just might be the answer. It should be easy enough. The Craven and Bradford pothole clubs put one up at Gaping Gill for a few days each year to give the tourists a look, and that’s a hell of a lot deeper.’

‘It sounds good,’ Banks said dubiously. He remembered swinging the three hundred feet down Gaping Gill, which opened into a cavern as huge as the inside of York Minster. It was an experience he had no wish to repeat. ‘We’d better get cracking though, or it’ll be dark before they all get here. Should we get Sergeant Hatchley in on this, too?’

Gristhorpe nodded.

‘DC Richmond?’

‘Not just yet. Let’s see exactly what we’ve got on our hands before we bring in all our manpower. Richmond can hold the fort back at the station. I’ll stay here while you go back to the car and radio in. You’d better let the doctor know what state the body’s in. He might need some special equipment.’

Banks glanced towards the corpse, then back at Gristhorpe.

‘Are you sure you want to stay here?’

‘It’s not a matter of wanting,’ Gristhorpe said. ‘Somebody should stay.’

‘It’s been here alone long enough. I doubt that another half-hour will make any difference.’

‘Somebody should stay,’ Gristhorpe repeated.

Banks knew when to give up. Leaving the superintendent sitting like Buddha under an ash tree by the beck, he set off back through the woods to the car.

‘What’s wrong?’ Katie Greenock asked as Sam and Stephen staggered in with Fellowes between them.

‘He’s had a bit too much to drink, that’s all,’ Sam said. ‘Out of the way, woman. Is number five still vacant?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Don’t worry, he’s not going to puke on your precious sheets. He just needs sleep.’

‘All right,’ Katie said, biting her lip. ‘Better take him up.’

Stephen smiled apologetically at her as they passed and struggled up the stairs. Finally, they dumped their burden on the bedspread and left Katie in the room with him. At first she didn’t move. She just stood by the window looking at Fellowes in horror. Surely Sam knew how much she hated and feared drunks, how much they disgusted her. And Mr Fellowes had seemed such a nice sober man.

She couldn’t really picture her father clearly, for he had died along with her mother in a fire when Katie was only four, but he had certainly been a drunk, and she was sure that he was at the root of her feelings. The only vague image she retained was of a big vulgar man who frightened her with his loud voice, his whiskers and his roughness.

Once, when they hadn’t known she was watching, she saw him hurting her mother in the bedroom, making her groan and squirm in a way that sent shivers up Katie’s spine. Of course, when she got older, she realized what they must have been doing, but the early memory was as firmly established and as deeply rooted as cancer. She also remembered once when her father fell down and she was afraid that he’d hurt himself. When she went to help him though, he knocked her over and cursed her. She was terrified that he would do the same thing to her as he had done to her mother, but she couldn’t remember any more about the incident, no matter how hard she tried.

The fire was a memory she had blocked out too, though strange tongue-like flames sometimes roared and crackled in her nightmares. According to her grandmother, Katie had been in the house at the time, but the firemen had arrived before the blaze reached her room. Katie had been saved by the grace of God, so her granny said, whereas her parents, the sinners, had been consumed by the flames of hell.

The fire had been caused by smoking in bed, and her grandmother had seemed especially satisfied by that, as if the irony somehow marked it as God’s special work, an answer to her prayers. It had all been God’s will, His justice, and Katie was obliged to spend her life in gratitude and devoted service.

Katie took a deep breath, rolled Fellowes over carefully and pulled back the sheets — they could be washed easily, but not the quilted spread. Then she unlaced his walking boots and put them on some newspaper by the bed. They weren’t muddy, but fragments of earth had lodged in the ribbed treads.

‘Cleanliness is next to godliness,’ her grandmother had drilled into her. And a lot easier to achieve, Katie might have added if she had dared. Apart from an unusually long list of its attributes — mostly ‘thou shalt nots’, which seemed to include everything most normal people enjoyed — godliness was an elusive quality as far as Katie was concerned. Lately, she had found herself thinking about it a lot, recalling her grandmother’s harsh words and ‘necessary’ punishments: her mouth washed out with soap for lying; a spell in the coal hole for ‘swaying wantonly’ to a fragment of music that had drifted in from next door’s radio. These had all been preceded by the words, ‘This is going to hurt me more than it will hurt you.’

Fellowes stirred and snapped Katie out of her reverie. For a second, his grey eyes opened wide and he grasped her hand. She could feel the fear and confusion flow from his bony fingers through her wrist.

‘Moving,’ he mumbled, falling back into a drunken sleep again. ‘Moving…’

Spittle gathered at the edges of his lips and dribbled down his chin. Katie shuddered. Leaving him, she hurried back downstairs. There was still the evening meal to prepare, and the garden needed weeding.

Banks leaned over the edge of Rawley Force and watched Glendenning coming up in the winch. It was an amusing sight. The tall white-haired doctor sat erect, trying to retain as much dignity as he could. A cigarette dangled from the left corner of his mouth, as usual, and he clutched his brown bag tightly against his stomach.

Luckily there had been hardly any rain over the past two weeks, so the waterfall to the doctor’s right was reduced to a trickle. The staff at the Mountain Rescue post had been only too willing to help and had come out and set up the winch in no time. Now the police team were ready to come up slowly, one at a time, and Glendenning, as befitted his status, was first in line.

Puffing, as he struggled out of the harness, the doctor nodded curtly at Banks and straightened the crease in his suit trousers. Banks led him half a mile along the wooded valley to the scene, where Gristhorpe still sat alone.

‘Thanks for coming so quickly,’ the superintendent said to Glendenning, getting up and dusting off his seat. Everyone in Eastvale Regional Police Headquarters found it paid to be polite, even deferential, to the doctor. Although he was a crusty old bugger, he was one of the best pathologists in the country and they were lucky he had chosen Eastvale as his home.

Glendenning lit another cigarette from the stub of his old one and asked, ‘Where is it, then?’

Gristhorpe pointed towards the pile of branches. The doctor cursed under his breath as he tackled the stepping stones, and Gristhorpe turned to Banks and winked. ‘Everyone here, Alan?’

‘Looks like it.’

Next the young photographer, Peter Darby, came hurrying towards them, trying to head off Glendenning before the doctor could get to work. To Banks he always looked far too fresh-faced and innocent for his line of work, but he had never been known to bat an eyelid, no matter what they asked him to photograph.

After him came Sergeant Hatchley, red-faced after his short walk from Rawley Force along the hanging valley. The fair-haired sergeant was a big man, like Gristhorpe, and although he was twenty years younger, his muscle was turning quickly to fat. He resembled a rugby prop forward, a position he had indeed played on the local team until cigarettes and beer took their toll on his stamina.

Banks filled him in on the details while Gristhorpe busied himself with the scene-of-crime team.

Glendenning, kneeling by the corpse, kept shooing the others away like flies. At last, he packed his bag and struggled back over the beck, stretching out his arms for balance like a tightrope walker. With one hand he clung on to his brown bag, and in the other he held a test tube.

‘Bloody awkward place to go finding a corpse,’ he grumbled, as if the superintendent were personally responsible.

‘Aye, well,’ Gristhorpe replied, ‘we don’t get to pick and choose in our business. I don’t suppose you can tell us much till after the post-mortem?’

Glendenning screwed up his face against the smoke that rose from his cigarette. ‘Not much,’ he said. ‘Looks like a stab wound to me. Probably pierced the heart from under the ribcage.’

‘Then someone got very close to him indeed,’ Gristhorpe said. ‘It must have been someone he knew and trusted.’

Glendenning sniffed. ‘I’ll leave that kind of speculation to you boys, if you don’t mind. There are lacerations and blows to the face, too. Can’t say what did it at the moment, or when it was done. Been dead about ten days. Not more than twelve.’

‘How can you be certain?’ Banks asked, startled by the information.

‘I can’t be certain, laddie,’ Glendenning said, ‘that’s the problem. Between ten and twelve days doesn’t count as accurate with me. I might be able to be more precise after the PM, but no promises. Those chappies over there have got a bag to put him in. He’ll need to soak in a Lysol bath for a day or two.’ Glendenning smiled and held up his test tube. ‘Maggots,’ he said. ‘Calliphora erythrocephalus, if I’m not mistaken.’

The three detectives looked at the white, slow-moving blobs and exchanged puzzled glances.

Glendenning sighed and spoke as he would to a group of backward children. ‘Simple really. Bluebottle larvae. The bluebottle lays its eggs in daylight, usually when the sun’s shining. If the weather’s warm, as it has been lately, they hatch on the first day. Then you get what’s called the “first instar” maggot. That wee beauty sheds its skin like a snake after eight to fourteen hours, and then the second instar, the one you use for fishing’ — and here he glanced at Gristhorpe, a keen angler — ‘that one eats like a pig for five or six days before going into its pupa case. Look at these, gentlemen.’ He held up the test tube again. ‘These, as you can see, are fat maggots. Lazy. Mature. And they’re not in their pupa cases yet. Therefore, they must have been laid nine or ten days ago. Add on a day or so for the bluebottles to find the body and lay, and you’ve got twelve days at the outside.’

It was the most eloquent and lengthy speech Banks had ever heard Glendenning deliver. There was obviously a potential teacher in the brusque chain-smoking Scot with the trail of ash like the Milky Way down his waistcoat.

The doctor smiled at his audience. ‘Simpson,’ he said.

‘Pardon?’ Banks asked.

‘Simpson. Keith Simpson. I studied under him. Our equivalent of Sherlock Holmes, only Simpson’s real.’

‘I see,’ said Banks, who had learned to tease after so long in Yorkshire. ‘A kind of real-life Quincy, you mean?’ He felt Gristhorpe nudge him in the ribs.

Glendenning scowled and a half-inch of ash fell off the end of his cigarette. ‘Quite,’ he said, and put the test tube in his bag. ‘I hope that glorified truss over there can get me back down safely.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Gristhorpe assured him. ‘It will. And thank you very much.’

‘Aye. Now I have first-hand knowledge of what it feels like to have my arse in a sling,’ Glendenning said as he walked away.

Banks laughed and turned back to watch the experts at work. The photographs had been taken, and the team were busy searching the ground around the body.

‘We’ll need a more thorough search of the area,’ Gristhorpe said to Hatchley. ‘Can you get that organized, Sergeant?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Hatchley took out his notebook and pen. ‘I’ll get some men in from Helmthorpe and Eastvale.’

‘Tell them to look particularly for evidence of anything recently buried or burned. He must have been carrying a rucksack. We’re also looking for the weapon, a knife of some kind. And I think, Sergeant,’ Gristhorpe went on, ‘we’d better bring DC Richmond in on this after all. Get him to check on missing persons with the Police National Computer.’

Vic Manson, the fingerprint expert, approached them, shaking his head. ‘It’ll not be easy,’ he complained. ‘There might be prints left on three or four fingers but I can’t promise anything. I’ll try wax injections to unwrinkle the skin, and if they don’t work, it’ll have to be formaldehyde and alum.’

‘It’ll be a devil of a job finding out who he was,’ Banks said. ‘Even if we can get prints, there’s no guaranteeing they’ll be on record. And someone’s gone to great lengths to make sure we can’t recognize him by his face.’

‘There’s always the clothes,’ Gristhorpe said. ‘Or teeth. Though I can’t say I’ve ever had much luck with them myself.’

‘Me neither,’ Banks agreed. He always thought it amusing when he watched television detectives identify bodies from dental charts. If they really knew how long it would take every dentist in the country to search through every chart in his files… Only if the police already had some idea who the body was could dental charts confirm or deny the identity.

‘He might even be German,’ Hatchley added. ‘Or an American. You get a lot of foreigners walking the fells these days.’

Across the beck, two men wearing face masks slid the body into the large zip-up bag they had brought. Banks grimaced as he watched them brush off the maggots, shed in all directions, before they were finally able to secure the zip. They then started to carry their burden along the valley towards the winch.

‘Let’s go,’ Gristhorpe said. ‘It’s getting late. There’s nothing more to be done here till we can start a search. We’d better post a couple of men here for the night though. If the killer knows we’ve discovered the body and he’s buried important evidence nearby, he might come back after dark.’

Hatchley nodded.

‘We’ll arrange to send someone up,’ Gristhorpe went on. ‘You’d better stick around till they get here, Sergeant. See if you can persuade the rescue people to wait for them with the winch. If not, they’ll just have to come the long way, like we did.’

Banks saw Hatchley glance towards where the corpse had lain and shiver. He didn’t envy anyone stuck with the job of staying in this enchanted valley after dark.

Sam took Katie as roughly as usual in bed that night. And as usual she lay there and gave the illusion of enjoying herself. At least it didn’t hurt any more like it had at first. There were some things you had to do, some sins you had to commit because men were just made that way and you needed a man to take care of you in the world. The important thing, Katie had learned from her grandmother, was that you must not enjoy it. Grit your teeth and give them what they want, yes, even cheat a little and make them think you like it — especially if they treat you badly when you don’t seem enthusiastic — but under no circumstances should you find pleasure in it.

It never lasted long. That was one consolation. Soon Sam started breathing quickly, and she clung to him tighter and mouthed the sounds he liked to hear, told him the things he liked to know. At last he grunted and made her all wet. Then he rolled over on his side and quickly began snoring.

But sleep didn’t come so easily for Katie that night. She thought about the body on the fell and pulled the sheets up tighter around her chin. Last time it had been awful: all those questions, all the trouble there’d been — especially when the police tried to connect the dead man with the missing girl, Anne Ralston. They’d acted as if Stephen or one of his friends might have killed both of them. And what had they found out? Nothing. Raymond Addison seemed to have come from nowhere.

Katie had hardly known Anne, for she and Sam hadn’t been in Swainshead long when all the trouble started five years ago. The only reason they had met her at all was because Sam wanted to seek out the ‘best people’ in the village. He latched on to the Colliers, and Anne Ralston had been going out with Stephen at the time.

She hadn’t been Katie’s type though, and they’d never have become good friends. Anne, she remembered, had seemed far too footloose and fancy-free for her taste. She had probably just run off with another man; it would have been typical of her to go off without a word and leave everyone to worry about her.

Katie turned on her side to reach for some Kleenex from the bedside table, dragging the sheets with her. Sam stirred and yanked back his half. Gently, she wiped herself. She hated that warm wetness between her legs. More and more every time she hated it, just as she had come to loathe her life with Sam in Swainshead.

And things had been getting worse lately. She had been under a black depression for a month or more. She knew it was a woman’s place to obey her husband, to stay with him for better, for worse, to submit to his demands in bed and slave for him all day in the house. But surely, she thought, life shouldn’t be so bleak. If there was any chance of escape from the drudgery that her life had become and from the beatings, would it really be such a sin to take it?

Things hadn’t always been so bad. When they had met, Katie had been working as a chambermaid at Queen’s Hotel in Leeds, and Sam, an apprentice electrician, had turned up one day to check the wiring. It had hardly been love at first sight; for Katie, love was what happened in the romantic paperbacks she read, the ones that made her blush and look over her shoulder in case her granny could see her reading them. But Sam had been presentable enough — a cocky young bantam with curly chestnut hair and a warm boyish smile. A real charmer.

He had asked her out for a drink three times, and three times she had said no. She had never set foot in a pub. Her granny had taught her that they were all dens of iniquity, and Katie herself held alcohol responsible for her father’s wickedness and for the misery of her mother’s life. Katie didn’t realize at the time that her refusal of a drink was taken as a rejection of Sam himself. If only he would ask her to go for a walk, she had thought, or perhaps to the Kardomah for a coffee and a bite to eat after work.

Finally, in exasperation, he had suggested a Saturday afternoon trip to Otley. Even though Katie was over eighteen, she still had a difficult time persuading her grandmother to let her go, especially as she was to ride pillion on Sam’s motorbike. But in the end the old woman had given in, muttering warnings about the Serpent in Eden and wolves in sheep’s clothing.

In Otley they had, inevitably, gone for a drink. Sam had practically dragged her into the Red Lion, where she had finally broken down and blurted out why she had refused to go for a drink before. He laughed and touched her shoulder gently. She drank bitter lemon and nothing terrible happened to either of them. After that she went to pubs with him more often, though she always refused alcohol and never felt entirely comfortable.

But now, she thought, turning over again, life had become unbearable. The early days, just after their marriage, had been full of hope after Katie had learned how to tolerate Sam’s sexual demands. They had lived with his parents in a little back-to-back in Armley and saved every penny they earned. Sam had a dream, a guest house in the Dales, and together they had brought it about. Those had been happy times, despite the hours of overtime, the cramped living quarters and the lack of privacy, for they had had something to aim towards. Now it was theirs, Katie hated it. Sam had changed; he had become snobbish, callous and cruel.

Like every other night for the past few months, she cried quietly to herself as she tried to shut out Sam’s snoring and listen to the breeze hiss through the willows by the nameless stream out at the back. She would wait and keep silent. If nothing happened, if nothing came of her only hope of escape, then one night she would sneak out of the house as quiet as a thief and never come back.

In room five, Neil Fellowes knelt by the side of the bed and said his prayers.

He had woken from his drunken stupor in time to be sick in the washbasin, and after that he had felt much better. So much so, in fact, that he had gone down and eaten the lamb chops with mint sauce that Mrs Greenock had cooked so well. Then he spent the rest of the evening in his room reading.

And now, as he tried to match the words to his thoughts and feelings, as he always did in prayer, he found he couldn’t. The picture of the body kept coming back, tearing aside the image of God that he had retained from childhood: an old man with a long white beard sitting on a cloud with a ledger on his lap. Suddenly, the smell was in his nostrils again; it was like trying to breathe at the bottom of a warm sewer. And he saw again the bloody maggot-infested pulp that had once been a face, the white shirt rippling with corruption, the whole thing rising and falling in an obscene parody of breathing.

He tried to force his mind back to the prayer but couldn’t. Hoping the Lord would understand and give him the comfort he needed, he gave up, put his glasses on the table and got into bed.

On the edge of sleep, he was able to reconstruct the sequence of events in his mind. At the time, he had been too distraught, too confused to notice anything. And very soon his head had been spinning with the drink. But he remembered bursting into the pub and asking for help. He remembered how Sam Greenock and the others at the table had calmed him down and suggested what he should do. But there was something else, something wrong. It was just a vague feeling. He couldn’t quite bring it to consciousness before sleep took him.

3

‘What is it?’ Banks asked, examining the faded slip of paper that Sergeant Hatchley had dropped on the desk in front of him.

‘Forensic said it’s some kind of receipt from a till,’ Hatchley explained. ‘You know, one of those bits of paper they give you when you buy something. People usually just drop them on the floor or shove them in their pockets and forget about them. They found it in his right trouser pocket. It’d been there long enough to go through the washer once or twice, but you know what bloody wizards they are in the lab.’

Banks knew. He had little faith in forensic work as a means of catching criminals, but the boffins knew their stuff when it came to identification and gathering evidence. Their lab was just outside Wetherby, and Gristhorpe must have put a ‘rush’ on this job to get the results back to Eastvale so quickly. The body had been discovered only the previous afternoon, and it was still soaking in a Lysol bath.

Banks looked closely again at the slip, then turned to its accompanying transcription. The original had been too faint to read, but forensic had treated it with chemicals and copied out the message exactly:

‘Wendy’s,’ Banks said. ‘That’s a burger chain. There’s a few branches in London. Look at those prices, though.’

Hatchley shrugged. ‘If it was in London…’

‘Come on! Even in London you don’t pay two pounds sixty-nine just for a bloody hamburger. At least not at Wendy’s you don’t. You don’t pay eighty-five pence for a Coke, either. What does that tax work out at?’

Hatchley took out his pocket calculator and struggled with the figures. ‘Eight per cent,’ he announced finally.

‘Hmm. That’s an odd amount. You don’t pay eight per cent VAT on food in England.’

‘I suppose it’s an American company,’ Hatchley suggested, ‘if they sell hamburgers?’

‘You mean our man’s an American?’

‘Or he could have just come back from a trip there.’

‘He could have. But that’d make it a bit soon for another holiday, wouldn’t it? Unless he was a businessman. What about the labels on his clothes?’

‘Torn off,’ Hatchley said. ‘Trousers and underpants seem to be ordinary Marks and Sparks cotton and polyester. Same with the shirt. The boots were Army and Navy. They could have been bought at any of their branches.’

Banks tapped his ballpoint on the edge of the desk. ‘Why is it that somebody doesn’t want us to know who he is or where he’s from?’

‘Maybe because if we knew that we’d have a good idea who the killer was.’

‘So the quicker we identify the body, the better our chances. Whoever did it was obviously counting on no one finding it for months, then being unable to identify it.’ Banks sipped some lukewarm coffee and pulled a face. ‘But we’ve got a lead.’ He tapped the receipt. ‘I want to know where this Wendy’s is located. It shouldn’t take you long. There’s a store code to go on.’

‘Where do I go for that kind of information?’ Hatchley asked.

‘Bloody hell!’ Banks said. ‘You’re a detective. At least I hope you are. Start detecting. First, I’d suggest you call Wendy’s UK office. It’s going to be a couple of days before we get anything from Glendenning and Vic Manson, so let’s use every break we get. Did Richmond come up with anything from missing persons?’

‘No, sir.’

‘I suppose our corpse is still supposed to be on holiday then, if no one’s reported him missing. And if he’s not English it could be ages before he gets into the files. Check the hotels and guest houses in the area and see if any Americans have registered there lately. If they have, try and track them down.’

Dismissed, Hatchley went to find Richmond, to whom, Banks knew, he would pass on as much of the load as possible. Still, he reasoned, the sergeant’s work was solid enough once he built up a bit of momentum, and the pressure would serve as a test of Richmond’s mettle.

Since passing his computer course with flying colours, the young detective constable looked all set for promotion. That would cause problems with Hatchley though. There was no way, Banks reflected, that the sergeant could be expected to work with Richmond at equal rank. Things had been bad enough when Banks came from the Metropolitan force to fill the position Hatchley had set his own sights on. And Hatchley was destined to stay a sergeant; he didn’t have the extra edge needed to make inspector, as Richmond did.

Grateful that promotion was not his decision, Banks glanced at his watch and headed for the car. Neil Fellowes was waiting in Swainshead, and the poor sod had already had to arrange for one extra day off work.

As he drove along the dale, Banks marvelled at how familiar some of its landmarks had become: the small drumlin with its four sick elms all leaning to the right like an image in one of those Chinese watercolours that Sandra, his wife, liked so much; the quiet village of Fortford with the foundations of a Roman fort laid bare on a hillock by the green; the busy main street of Helmthorpe, Swainsdale’s largest village; and above Helmthorpe, the long limestone edge of Crow Scar gleaming in the sun.

The Kinks sang ‘Lola’, and Banks tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the music as he drove. Though he swore to Sandra that he still loved opera, much to her delight he hadn’t played any lately. She had approved of his recent flirtation with the blues, and now he seemed to be going through a nostalgic phase for the music he had listened to during his last days at school and first year at London Polytechnic: that idyllic halcyon period when he hadn’t known what to do with his life and hadn’t much cared.

It was also the year he had met Sandra, and the music brought it all back: winter evenings drinking cheap wine and making love in his draughty Notting Hill bedsit listening to John Martyn or Nick Drake; summer boat trips for picnics in Greenwich Park, lying in the sun below Wren’s observatory looking down on the gleaming palace, the Thames and London spread out to the west, the Beatles, Donovan, Bob Dylan and the Rolling Stones on the radio… All gone now, or almost all. He had lost interest in pop music shortly after the Beatles split up and the glitter boys took over the scene in the early 1970s, but the old songs still worked their magic on him.

He lit a cigarette and rolled down the window. It felt good to be on his own in his own car again. Much as he loved the superintendent, Banks was glad that Gristhorpe had reverted to his usual role of planner and coordinator. Now he could smoke and listen to music as he drove.

More important still, he liked working alone, without the feeling that someone was always looking over his shoulder. It was easy enough to deal with Hatchley and Richmond, but with a superior heading the field investigation, it was difficult to avoid the sensation of being under constant scrutiny. That had been another reason for leaving London — too many chiefs — and for pinning his hopes on the Eastvale job after a preliminary chat with Superintendent Gristhorpe about the way he liked to run things.

Banks turned right at the Swainshead junction and parked his car in one of the spaces outside the White Rose. As he crossed the bridge, the old men stopped talking and he felt their eyes boring holes into his back as he walked down to the Greenock Guest House.

Though the door was open, he rang the bell. A young woman came rushing to answer it. She had a slender dancer’s body, but Banks also noticed an endearing awkwardness, a lack of self-consciousness about her movements that made her seem even more attractive. She stood before him drying her hands on her pinafore and blushed.

‘Sorry,’ she said in a soft voice. ‘I was just doing some washing. Please come in.’

Though her accent was clearly Yorkshire, it didn’t sound like the Swainsdale variety. Banks couldn’t immediately place it.

Her eyes were brown — the kind of brown one sees in sunlight filtered through a pint of bitter, thought Banks, amused at just how much of a Yorkshireman he must have become to yoke beer and beauty so audaciously. But her hair was blonde. She wore it tied up at the back of her neck, and it fell in stray wisps around her pale throat and ears. She wore no make-up, and her light complexion was completely smooth, her lips full and strawberry red without any lipstick. Between her lower lip and the curve of her chin was a deep indentation, giving her mouth a look somewhere between a pout and an incipient smile. She reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t think who.

Katie, as she introduced herself, led him into a hall that smelled of lemon air-freshener and furniture polish, as clean and fresh as a good guest house should be. Neil Fellowes was waiting for him in room five, she said, and disappeared, head bowed, into the back of the house, where Banks guessed the Greenocks had their own living quarters.

He walked up the thick-pile burgundy carpet, found the room and knocked.

Fellowes answered immediately, as if he had been holding the doorknob on the other side. He looked much better than the previous day. His few remaining strands of colourless hair were combed sideways across his bald head, and thick-lensed wire-rimmed glasses perched on the bump near the bridge of his nose.

‘Come in, please er…’

Banks introduced himself.

‘Yes, come in, Chief Inspector.’

Fellowes was obviously a man who respected rank and title. Most people automatically called Banks ‘Inspector’, some preferred plain ‘Mister’, and others called him a lot worse.

Banks glanced out of the window at the wide strips of grass on both sides of the Swain. Beyond the cottages and pub rose the overbearing bulk of a fell. It looked like a sleeping elephant, he thought, remembering a passage from Wainwright, the fell-walking expert. Or was it whale? ‘Nice view,’ he said, sitting down in the wicker chair by the window.

‘Yes,’ Fellowes agreed. ‘It doesn’t really matter which side of the house you stay in. At the back you can see Swainshead Fell, and over there it’s Adam’s Fell, of course.’

‘Adam’s Fell?’

Fellowes adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. ‘Yes. After Adam and Eve. The locals do have a sense of humour — of a sort.’

‘Do you visit the area often, Mr Fellowes?’

‘No, not at all. I just like to research the terrain, so to speak, before I embark. By the way, Chief Inspector, I do apologize sincerely about yesterday. Finding that… that corpse was a great shock, and I never take liquor as a rule — or tobacco, I might add. I wouldn’t have thought of it myself, but Mr Greenock was kind enough…’ He slowed and stopped like an old gramophone winding down.

Banks, who had taken note of Fellowes’ declaration of abstemiousness and let go of the cigarette packet he’d been toying with in his pocket, smiled and offered a cliché of consolation. Inwardly, he sighed. The world was becoming too full of non-smokers for his comfort, and he hadn’t yet succeeded in swelling their ranks. Perhaps it was time to switch brands again. He was getting tired of Silk Cut, anyway. He took out his notebook and went on.

‘What made you visit that spot in the first place?’ he asked.

‘It just looked so inviting,’ Fellowes answered. ‘So different.’

‘Had you ever been there before?’

‘No.’

‘Did you know of its existence?’

‘No. It’s certainly not mentioned in my guidebook. Locals would know it, I suppose. I really can’t say. Anyone could wander into it. It’s on the maps, of course, but it doesn’t show up as anything special.’

‘But you do have to make quite a diversion from the footpath to get there.’

‘Well, yes. Though I’d hardly say it’s that much of a haul.’

‘Depends on how fit you are,’ Banks said, smiling. ‘But you reckoned it would be worthwhile?’

‘I’m interested in wild flowers, Chief Inspector. I thought I might discover something interesting.’

‘When did you arrive in Swainshead?’

‘Three days ago. It was only a short break. I’m saving most of my holidays for a bicycle tour of Provence in autumn.’

‘I hope you have a less grim time of it there,’ Banks said. ‘Is there anything else you can remember about the scene, about what happened?’

‘It was all such a blur. First there was the orchis, then that awful smell, and… No. I turned away and headed back as soon as I’d… as soon as I refreshed myself in the beck.’

‘There was nobody else in the valley?’

‘Not that I was aware of.’

‘You didn’t get a feeling of being followed, observed?’

‘No.’

‘And you didn’t find anything close to the body? Something you might have thought insignificant, picked up and forgotten about?’

‘Nothing, Chief Inspector. Believe me, the feeling of revulsion was sudden and quite overwhelming.’

‘Of course. Had you noticed anything else before you found the body?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The victim’s rucksack was missing. We think he must have been carrying his belongings with him but we can’t find them. Did you notice any signs of something being buried, burned, destroyed?’

‘I’m sorry, Chief Inspector, but no, I didn’t.’

‘Any idea who the victim was?’

Fellowes opened his eyes wide. ‘How could I have? You must have seen for yourself how… how…’

‘I know what state he was in. I was simply wondering if you’d heard anything about someone missing in the area.’

Fellowes shook his head.

Banks closed his notebook and put it back in the inside pocket of his pale blue sports jacket.

‘There is one thing,’ Fellowes said hesitantly.

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t like to cast aspersions. It’s only a very vague impression.’

‘Go on.’

‘And I wasn’t in full control of my faculties. It was just a feeling.’

‘Policemen have feelings like that, too, Mr Fellowes. We call them hunches and they’re often very valuable. What was this feeling you had?’

Fellowes leaned forward from the edge of the bed and lowered his voice. ‘Well, Chief Inspector, I only really thought about it in bed last night, and it was just a kind of niggling sensation, an itch. It was in the pub, just after I arrived and, you know, told them what I’d seen. I sat at the table, quite out of breath and emotionally distraught…’

‘And what happened?’

‘Nothing happened. It was just a feeling, as I said. I wasn’t even looking, but I got the impression that someone there wasn’t really surprised.’

‘That you’d found a body?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was that all?’

Fellowes took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Banks noticed how small his eyes looked without the magnifying lenses. ‘More than that,’ Fellowes went on. ‘I was looking away at the time, but I felt an odd sort of silence, the kind of silence in which glances are exchanged. It was very uncomfortable for a moment, though I was too preoccupied to really notice it at the time. I’ve thought about it a lot since last night, and that’s the only way I can put it, as if a kind of understanding look passed between some of the people at the table.’

‘Who was there?’

‘The same people as when you arrived. There was the landlord over at the bar, then Sam Greenock, Stephen and Nicholas Collier and John Fletcher. I’d met them the previous day when I was enquiring about the best places to search for wild flowers.’

‘Did it seem to you as if they were all in on some kind of conspiracy?’

‘I’m not paranoid, if that’s what you’re getting at, Chief Inspector.’

‘But you were upset. Sometimes our senses can overreact.’

‘Believe what you wish. I simply thought you ought to know. And in answer to your question, no, I didn’t sense any gigantic conspiracy, just that someone at the table knew something.’

‘But you said you thought a glance was exchanged.’

‘That’s what it felt like.’

‘So more than one person knew?’

‘I suppose so. I can’t say how many or how I received the impression. It just happened.’

Banks took his notebook out again and wrote down the names.

‘I don’t want to get anybody into trouble,’ Fellowes said. ‘I could be wrong. It could have happened just as you said, an overreaction.’

‘Let us worry about that, Mr Fellowes. We don’t usually ask people to stand up in a court of law and swear to their feelings. Is that all you can tell me?’

‘Yes. Will I be able to go home now? There’ll be trouble at work if I’m not back tomorrow.’

‘Better give me your address and phone number in case we need to talk to you again,’ Banks said.

Banks made a note of Fellowes’ address and left, thinking what a celebrity the man would be at work for a while. He went out of the open door without seeing Katie Greenock and breathed in the fresh air by the beck. A young man dangled his legs over the bank, eating a sandwich from greaseproof paper and reading a thick paperback; the old men still huddled around the eastern end of the stone bridge; and there were three cars parked outside the White Rose. Banks looked at his watch: twenty past one. With a bit of luck the same crowd as yesterday would be there. He read over the names Fellowes had given him again and decided to make a start.

First things first, Banks thought, and headed for the bar. He ordered Cumberland sausage, beans and chips, then paid, took his numbered receipt, and waited while Freddie Metcalfe poured him a pint of Pedigree.

‘Is tha getting anywhere?’ Metcalfe asked, his biceps bulging as he pulled down on the pump.

‘Early days yet,’ Banks answered.

‘Aye, an’ it got to late days an’ all last time, and still tha didn’t find owt.’

‘That’s how it goes sometimes. I wasn’t here then.’

‘Thinks tha’s better than old Gristhorpe, does tha, eh?’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘From down sahth, aren’t tha?’

‘Yes. London.’

‘London.’ Metcalfe placed the foaming brew on the cloth in front of Banks and scratched his hairy ear. ‘Bin there once. Full o’ foreigners, London. All them A-rabs.’

‘It’s a busy place,’ Banks said, picking up his beer.

‘Don’t get many o’ them arahnd ’ere. Foreigners, that is. That why tha came up ’ere, to get shut on t’ A-rabs, eh? Tha’ll find plenty o’ Pakis in Bradford, like, but I don’t reckon as I’ve ever seed a darkie in Swainshead. Saw one in Eastvale, once.’

Banks, growing quickly tired of Metcalfe’s racist inanities, made to turn away, but the landlord grabbed his elbow.

‘Don’t tha want to ask me any questions then, lad?’ he said, his eyes glittering.

Holding back his temper, Banks lit a cigarette and propped himself up against the bar. He had noticed that the three men he recognized from the previous day were only into the upper thirds of their pints, so he had enough time to banter with Metcalfe. He might just pick up some interesting titbit.

‘What do you want me to ask you?’ he opened.

‘Nay, tha’s t’ bobby. Tha should know.’

‘Do you get many walkers in here?’

‘Aye. We don’t fuss ’em abaht rucksacks and boo-its and whatnot like that stuck-up pillock on t’ main road.’

‘But I understand this is the “select” part of town?’

‘Aye.’ Metcalfe laughed. ‘Tha could say that. It’s t’ oldest, anyroads. And t’ Colliers drink ’ere, as did their father before them. Select, if tha likes, but dahn to earth, not stuck up.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘A right lad, were Walter Collier.’ Then he leaned forward and whispered, ‘Not like ’is sons, if tha knows what I mean. Wouldn’t know a cratch from a gripe, neither on ’em. And they was brought up by a farmer, too.’

Banks, who didn’t know a cratch from a gripe either, asked why.

‘Eddication,’ Metcalfe said, intoning the word as if it were responsible for most of the world’s ills. ‘Fancy bloody Oxford eddication. Wanted ’em to ’ave a better chance than ’e’d ’ad, did old Walter. Farming don’t pay much, tha knows, an’ Walter were sharp enough to get out ’imself.’ Metcalfe turned up his nose. ‘Well, tha can see what eddication does.’

‘What are they like, Stephen and Nicholas?’ Banks asked.

Metcalfe sniffed and lowered his voice. He was clearly enjoying his role as dispenser of local opinion. ‘Right bloody useless pair, if y’ask me. At least yon Nicholas is. Mr Stephen’s not so bad. Teks after old Walter, ’e does. Bit of a ladies’ man. Not that t’ other’s queer, or owt.’ Metcalfe laughed. ‘There were a bit o’ trouble wi’ a servant lass a few years back, when ’e were still a young lad, living at ’ome, like. Got ’er up t’ spout, Master Nicholas did. Old Walter ’ad to see ’er right, o’ course, and I’ve no doubt ’e gave t’ lad a right good thrashing. But it’s Mr Stephen that’s t’ ladies man. One after t’ other.’

‘What’s the difference in their ages?’

‘Nobbut a couple o’ years. Stephen’s t’ eldest.’

‘What happened to the farm land?’

‘Old Walter sold some on it,’ Metcalfe said, ‘and leased t’ rest. T’ Colliers are still t’ biggest landowners in t’ dale, mind thee. John Fletcher over there bought a goodly chunk on it.’ He wagged his chin in the direction of the table. The drinkers were now into the last thirds of their drinks, and Banks decided it would be a good time to approach them.

‘Tha still an’t asked me no real questions,’ Metcalfe protested.

‘Later,’ Banks said, turning. ‘I’d like to talk to these gentlemen here before they leave.’ Of the gentlemen in question, he recognized Nicholas Collier and Sam Greenock from the previous day; therefore, the third had to be John Fletcher.

‘Wait on a minute,’ Metcalfe said. ‘Dun’t tha want tha sausage and chips?’

And as if on cue, a freckled little girl in a red dress, her hair in pigtails, appeared from the kitchens and called out, ‘Number seventy-five! Sausage, beans and chips.’

Banks gave her his receipt and took the plate, then helped himself to the condiments from the bar.

When he walked over to the table, the three men shifted around, scraping their chair legs on the flagged floor, and made room for him.

‘Do you mind if I eat at your table?’ he asked.

‘Not at all. Freddie been giving you a rough time, Inspector?’ Nicholas Collier asked. His smile showed his prominent teeth to great disadvantage; they were discoloured with nicotine and crooked as a badly built drystone wall. His speech, Banks noticed, bore traces of the local accent under its veneer of public school English.

‘No,’ he said, returning the smile. ‘Just entertaining me. Quite a fellow.’

‘You can say that again. He’s been behind the bar as long as I can remember.’ Nicholas leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Between you and me, I don’t think he quite approves of Stephen and myself. Anyway, have you met John, here?’

The squat man with the five o’clock shadow was indeed John Fletcher, gentleman farmer. Stephen Collier, his brother said, was away dealing with some factory business.

‘Is this just a social visit or do you have some questions for us?’ Sam asked.

‘Just one, really,’ Banks said, spearing a mouthful of sausage. ‘Have you any idea who it was we found up there?’

After a short silence Nicholas said, ‘We get quite a lot of visitors in the area, Inspector. Especially when we’re blessed with such a fine start to the year. There’s nobody local missing, as far as I know, so it must be a stranger. Can’t you check?’

‘Yes,’ Banks said. ‘Of course we can. We can go through every name in every hotel and guest house registration book and make sure everyone’s accounted for. But, like you I’m sure, we’re all for anything that saves extra effort.’

Collier laughed. ‘Naturally. But no, I can’t think of anyone it might be.’

‘Your victim hadn’t necessarily come through Swainshead, you know,’ Sam pointed out. ‘He could have been heading south from Swaledale or beyond. Even from the Lake District. He could have set off from Helmthorpe too, or any number of other villages in the dale. Most of them have at least one or two bed and breakfast places these days.’

‘I know,’ Banks said. ‘Believe me, we’re checking.’ He turned to Fletcher. ‘I hear that you own quite a bit of land?’

‘Yes,’ Fletcher said, his dark eyes narrowing suspiciously. ‘Walter sold it to me when he gave up farming and went into the food business.’ He glanced at Nicholas, who nodded. ‘Neither Nick here nor his brother Stephen wanted to take over — in fact Walter hadn’t wanted them to, he’d been preparing to sell for quite a while — so I thought I’d give it a go.’

‘How is it working out?’

‘Well enough. I don’t know if you understand much about Dales farming, Mr Banks, but it’s a hard life. Old Walter himself had had enough, and he was one of those men — rare around these parts — with enough vision to get out and put what he’d got to better use. I’d never blame a farmer for wanting a different life for his sons. I’ve got no family myself,’ he said, and a hard look came into his eyes. ‘I’m not complaining, though. I make a living — the EEC and the National Parks Commission notwithstanding.’

Banks turned to Nicholas. ‘What do you do?’

‘I teach English at Braughtmore, just up the road here. It’s only a small public school of course, but it’s a start.’

‘But you don’t actually live there?’

‘No. Hardly necessary, really. The house is so close. The pupils live in. They have to; it’s so damn far from civilization. And we have housemasters. Some of the teachers live in the grounds, but a couple of others have chosen to settle here in the village. The school’s only five miles north, quite isolated. It’s a good school, though I say so myself. Do you have any children, Inspector?’

‘Yes. A boy and a girl.’

‘What school do they attend?’

‘Eastvale Comprehensive.’

‘Hmm.’ The corner of Collier’s lip twitched, giving just a fleeting hint of a sneer.

Banks shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘Your brother runs the family business, I gather.’

‘Yes. Managing director of Collier Food Enterprises. It’s over the Lancashire border, about ten miles west, just off the main road. The arrangement suits us both perfectly. Stephen never had a great deal of academic ambition, despite the excellent education he received, but he’s bright and he’s put his mind to good enough use — making money. It was one of father’s wisest moves, buying up that old mill and setting up the food-processing operation. And as for me, I’m happy with my books and a few pliant young minds to work on.’ Again he bared his teeth in a smile.

They had all finished their drinks and Banks was wondering how to edge them gently towards the murder again, when Fletcher stood up and excused himself. Immediately, the others looked at their watches and decided they ought to leave and take care of various tasks.

‘There’s nothing else, is there, Inspector?’ Nicholas asked.

‘No,’ Banks said. ‘Not yet.’

Freddie Metcalfe ambled over to the table to pick up the plate and the empty glasses as Banks was stubbing out his cigarette.

‘Find owt aht yet?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Banks said, standing up. ‘Nothing.’

‘Early days, eh?’

And the deep chortling laughter followed Banks out into the street.

Back at Eastvale police station things were quiet. Grabbing a cup of coffee from the filter machine on the way, Banks walked upstairs to his office, a plain room furnished with nothing but filing cabinets, metal desk and a calendar of local scenes. The illustration for May showed the River Wharfe as it flowed among the limestone boulders of Langstrothdale. More recently Banks had added, next to it, one more decoration: a broken pipe, which he had just rediscovered at the back of his drawer. It represented a vain attempt to project a rural image and wean himself from cigarettes at the same time, but he had cursed it constantly and finally thrown it at that very same wall in frustration over the Steadman case almost a year ago. It hung there like a piece of conceptual art to remind him of the folly of trying to be what one is not.

There were quite a few cars parked in the cobbled market square outside, and visitors walked in and out of the small Norman church and the shops that seemed almost built into its frontage. The gold hands of the clock stood at three thirty against its blue face. Banks looked down on the scene, as he often did, smoking a cigarette and sipping his coffee. The police station itself was a Tudor-fronted building on narrow Market Street across from the Queen’s Arms, which curved around the corner so that one of its entrances stood on the side of the square opposite the church. Looking to his right, Banks could see along the street, with its coffee houses, boutiques and tourist shops, and in front was the busy square itself, with the NatWest bank, the El Toro coffee bar and Joplin’s newsagent’s on the opposite side.

A knock at the door interrupted him. Sergeant Hatchley came in looking very pleased with himself. When he was excited about something he moved much faster than usual and seemed unable to stand still. Banks had come to recognize the signs.

‘I’ve tracked it down, sir,’ Hatchley said. ‘That bit of paper he had in his pocket.’

The two of them sat down and Banks told the sergeant to carry on.

‘Like you said, I tried the London office. They said they’d check and get back to me. Anyway, they found out that that particular branch is in Canada.’

‘So our man’s a Canadian?’

‘Looks that way, sir. Unless, like I said before, he’d just been on holiday there. Anyway, at least we know there’s a close connection.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes. Once he’d discovered the outlet was in Canada, the bloke from Wendy’s became very helpful.’

Such helpfulness was a common enough occurrence, Banks knew from experience. He’d even invented a term for it: the amateur sleuth syndrome.

‘That particular branch is in Toronto, on Yonge Street near Dundas Street, if that means anything.’

Banks shook his head. ‘Never been over the Atlantic. You?’

Hatchley grunted. ‘Me? I’ve never been further west than Blackpool. Anyway, that narrows things down quite a bit, I’d say.’

‘It does,’ Banks agreed. ‘But it still doesn’t tell us who he was.’

‘I got on to the Canadian High Commission and asked a bloke there to check if anyone from Toronto had been reported missing over here lately, but nobody has.’

‘Too early yet, I suppose. If he is from Toronto, obviously everyone back there still thinks he’s on holiday.’

‘Aye, but that won’t last for ever.’

‘We haven’t got for ever. Who knows, he might have been a student and come over for the whole bloody summer. How’s Richmond doing?’

‘He’s covered quite a few places already — Lyndgarth, Relton, Helmthorpe, Gratly.’

‘Well, his task ought to be a bit easier now we know it’s a Canadian we’re after.’

‘There’s been quite a few Canadians staying locally,’ Hatchley said. ‘It’s easy enough to call the B and Bs and make a list from their records, but it’s damned hard to trace people’s movements after they’ve left. They don’t usually leave forwarding addresses, and it’s only once in a while a landlady is able to tell us where they said they were going next.’

‘There can’t be that many men from Toronto travelling alone,’ Banks said. ‘I’m sure if he was a member of a group or a family somebody would have reported him missing by now. Better stick at it. At least you’ve narrowed the field considerably. Heard anything from Dr Glendenning?’

‘The super called him a while ago. Still killing off those bloody maggots in disinfectant. Says he won’t be able to make a start till tomorrow morning at the earliest.’

Banks sighed. ‘All right. You’d better go and help Richmond now. And thanks, Sergeant; you did a good job.’

Hatchley nodded and left the office. They’d been working together for almost two years now, Banks realized, and he still couldn’t bring himself to call the sergeant Jim. Maybe one day he would, when it came naturally to his lips. He lit another cigarette and went back to the window, where he watched the people wander about in the square, and drummed a tattoo on the sill.

‘Sam’s not in,’ Katie said that evening when she opened the back door to find Stephen Collier standing there. ‘He’s having a night out with his old mates in Leeds.’

‘Can’t I come in, anyway?’ Stephen asked. ‘Just for a cup of tea?’

‘All right,’ Katie said, and led him through to the spotless kitchen. ‘Just five minutes, mind you. I’ve work to be doing.’ She turned away from him and busied herself with the kettle and teapot. She felt her face burning. It wasn’t right being alone in the house with a man other than her husband, even if it was someone as pleasant as Stephen. He had a reputation as a womanizer. Everybody knew that. Someone might even have seen him coming in.

‘Nick tells me the police were around today,’ Stephen said.

Katie glanced at him over her shoulder. ‘It’s to be expected, isn’t it? One of our guests did find a dead body.’

‘He still here?’

‘No. He left this afternoon.’

‘Well,’ Stephen said. ‘I just thought I’d drop by to see if you were all right. I mean, it can be a bit of a shock to the system, something like that happening right on your doorstep, so to speak. Did the police ask a lot of questions?’

‘Not to me, no. Why should they?’

‘Just wondering,’ Stephen said. ‘How are things, anyway?’

‘All right, I suppose,’ Katie answered. Though she had known him for over five years and certainly preferred him to his brother, Katie hadn’t really spent much time alone with Stephen Collier before. Mostly, they had met socially at summer garden parties the Colliers liked to throw, in the pub and at occasional dinners. She liked Stephen. He seemed kind and thoughtful. Often at social functions she had caught him looking at her in an odd way. Not that way, not like Nicholas. It was a look she didn’t quite understand, and she had never been able to return his gaze for long without lowering her eyes. Now she was alone with him she felt shy and awkward; she didn’t really know how to behave. She brought the tea to the table and opened a packet of Fox’s Custard Creams.

‘Come on, Katie,’ Stephen said. ‘You’re not very convincing. You don’t sound all right to me.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Yes, you do. I can tell. I’ve felt some sort of bond with you right from the start. I’ve been worried about you these past few months.’

‘Worried? Why?’

‘Because you’re not happy.’

‘Of course I’m happy. That’s silly.’

Stephen sighed. ‘I can’t make you open up, can I? But you can talk to me if you want, if you need to. Everybody needs somebody to talk to now and then.’

Katie bit her lower lip and said nothing. She couldn’t talk to him. She couldn’t tell anyone the things that went on in her mind, the sins she dreamed of, the desperation she felt. She couldn’t tell him about her one chance of escaping from her miserable life, and what it had already cost her.

‘Anyway,’ Stephen went on, taking a biscuit, ‘I might not be around here for much longer.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve had enough of it, Katie. The plant, the house, the village. Lord, I’m nearly thirty. It’s about time I got out and about, saw a bit of the world before I get too old.’

‘B-but you can’t,’ Katie said, shocked. ‘Surely you can’t just up and go like that? What about—’

Stephen slapped the table. ‘Oh, responsibilities be hanged,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of others willing and able to run Collier Foods. I’ll take a long holiday, then maybe try something else.’

‘Why are you telling me all this?’ Katie asked.

Stephen looked at her, and she noticed that he suddenly looked old, much older than his twenty-eight years.

He ran his hand through his short brown hair. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I told you, we’re kindred spirits. You’re the only person I’ve told. There’s nobody else, really.’

‘But your brother…’

‘Nicky? He wouldn’t understand. He’s too wrapped up in his own world. And don’t think I haven’t noticed the way he looks at you, Katie, even if Sam hasn’t. I’d stay away from him if I were you.’

‘Of course I will,’ Katie said, blushing. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

‘Oh, he can be very persuasive, Nicky can.’

‘What about John?’ Katie asked. ‘Or Sam? Can’t you talk to them?’

Stephen laughed. ‘Look, Katie,’ he said, ‘Nicky, Sam and the rest, they’re all good drinking friends, but there are things I can’t talk to them about.’

‘But why me?’

‘Because I think it’s the same for you. I think you’re unhappy with your life and you’ve nobody to talk to about it. Why are you so afraid of talking to me? You’ve got all your problems bottled up inside you. Don’t you like me?’

Katie traced rings on the table with her forefinger. ‘It’s not that,’ she said. ‘I’m fine, really I am.’

Stephen leaned forward. ‘Why don’t you open up, show some feeling?’ he urged her.

‘I do.’

‘Not for me.’

‘It’s not right.’

‘Oh, Katie, you’re such a moralist.’ Stephen stood up to leave. ‘Would that I had your moral fibre. No, it’s all right, there’s no need to show me out.’

Katie wanted to call after him, but she couldn’t. Deep inside, she felt a thick darkness swirling and building in power, trying to force its way out. But it was evil and she had to keep it locked in. She had to accept her lot, her place in life. She was Sam’s wife. That was her duty. There was no point talking about problems. What could she say to Stephen Collier? Or he to her? Why had he come? What did he want from her? ‘The thing that all men want,’ said a strong harsh voice inside her. ‘The same thing his brother wants. Don’t be fooled by talk of companionship. Satan has a sweet tongue.’

‘But he was reaching out to you,’ another, quieter voice said, ‘reaching out in friendship, and you turned him away.’

Katie’s chest tightened and her hands shook as she tried to bring the teacup to her mouth. ‘I’m lost,’ she thought. ‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s right any more. Help me, someone, please help me!’ And the cup rolled to the floor and smashed as Katie laid her head on the table and wept.

4

Two days later, on 31 May, forensic information started trickling in. During that time, Richmond and Hatchley had tracked down all but two wandering Canadians who had left local hotels or guest houses between ten and thirteen days ago.

Events were moving too slowly for Banks. Most leads appear during the first twenty-four hours after a murder has taken place, but this body was about two hundred and forty hours old by the time it was found. Still they had very little to go on.

Therefore, when the first report from the forensic lab landed on his desk at ten thirty that morning, Banks drank in the information like a man stranded in a desert without water for three days.

Dr Glendenning had established that death was due to a stab wound from a single-edged blade, probably a sheath knife about six inches long. One upward thrust had penetrated the heart from beneath the ribs. After that, the face had been slashed and then beaten with a rock until it was unrecognizable. The victim was white, in his early thirties, five feet eleven inches tall, ten and a half stone in weight, and in good physical condition. That last part always irritated Banks: how could a corpse ever be in good physical condition? This one, certainly, had been about as far from it as one could get.

Vic Manson had finally managed, through peeling the skin off and treating it with glycerine, to get three clear prints. He had already checked these against the Police National Computer and discovered that they weren’t on record. So far no good, Banks thought. The forensic odontologist, a note said, was still working on his reconstruction of the dental chart.

Calling for Sergeant Hatchley on his way out, Banks decided it was time for a discussion over elevenses in the Golden Grill. The two men weaved their way through the local shoppers and parties of tourists that straggled along both pavements and the narrow street, and found a table near the window. Banks gave the order for coffee and toasted teacakes to Peggy, a plump girl with a bright smile, and looked across at the whitewashed front of the police station with its black timber beams. Black and white, he thought. If only life was as simple as that.

As they drank their coffee, Banks and Hatchley tried to add up what they had got so far. It wasn’t much: a ten-day-old corpse of a white male, probably Canadian, found stabbed in an isolated hanging valley. At least cause of death had been established, and the coroner’s inquest would order a thorough investigation.

‘Perhaps he wasn’t travelling alone,’ Banks said. ‘Maybe he was with someone who killed him. That would explain the need to disfigure him — to give the killer plenty of time to get back home.’

‘If that’s the case,’ Hatchley said, ‘it’ll be for the Canadian police to handle, won’t it?’

‘The murder happened on our turf. It’s still our problem till the man at the top says different.’

‘Maybe he stumbled into a coven of witches,’ Hatchley suggested.

Banks laughed. ‘They’re mostly bored accountants and housewives in it for the orgies. I doubt they’d go as far as to kill someone who walked in on them. And Glendenning didn’t mention anything about ritual slaughter. How’s the search for the elusive Canadians going?’

Hatchley reached slyly for another cigarette to prolong the break. ‘I’m beginning to feel like that bloke who had to roll a rock up a hill over and over again.’

‘Sisyphus? Sometimes I feel more like the poor sod who had his liver pecked out day after day.’

Hatchley lit his cigarette.

‘Come on then,’ Banks said, standing up to leave. ‘Better get back.’

Hatchley cursed under his breath and followed Banks across the street.

‘Chief Inspector Banks!’ Sergeant Rowe called out as they passed the front desk. ‘Telephone message. You’re to call a Dr Passmore at the lab. He’s the odonto… the odotol… Oh, the bloody tooth fairy, or whatever they call themselves.’

Banks smiled and thanked him. Back in his office, he picked up the phone and dialled.

‘Ah, Chief Inspector Banks,’ said Passmore. ‘We’ve never met, but Dr Glendenning brought me in on this one. Interesting.’

‘You’ve got something for us?’ Banks asked eagerly.

‘It’s a bit complicated. Would it be a great inconvenience for you to drop into the lab?’

‘No, not at all.’ Banks looked at his watch. ‘If I leave now I can be there in about an hour. Can you give me some idea over the phone?’

‘I think we’ll be able to trace the identity of your corpse before too long, if I’m not mistaken. I don’t think his dentist is too far away.’

‘With all due respect, I don’t see how that can be, Doctor. We’re pretty sure he was a Canadian.’

‘That’s as may be,’ Passmore replied. ‘But his dental work’s as English as yours or mine.’

‘I’m on my way.’

Still puzzled, Banks slipped a cassette into the machine and eased the Cortina out of the car park at the back of the station. At least something was happening. He drove slowly, dodging the tourists and shoppers who seemed to think Market Street was for pedestrians only. The breathy opening of Donovan’s ‘Hurdy Gurdy Man’ started on the tape.

He passed the new estate under construction on the town’s southern edge, then he put his foot down once he got out of the built-up area. Leaving the Dales for the plain, he drove through a patchwork landscape of green pasture and fields of bright yellow rape, divided by hawthorn hedgerows. Bluebells and buttercups, about the only wild flowers Banks could put a name to, were in bloom among the long grass by the roadside. A frightened white-throat darted out in front of the car and almost ended up, like so many unfortunate rabbits and hedgehogs, splattered all over the tarmac.

The forensic lab was a square three-storey red-brick building just north of Wetherby. Banks identified himself at reception and climbed up to Passmore’s second-floor office.

Dr Passmore gave new meaning to the term ‘egghead’. The Lilliputians and the Blefuscudians could have had a fine war indeed over which end to open his egg-shaped skull. His bare shiny dome, combined with circumflex eyebrows, a putty nose and a tiny rosebud of a mouth, made him look more like an android than a human being. His mouth was so small that Banks wondered how there could be room for teeth in it. Perhaps he had chosen his profession out of tooth-envy.

Banks sat down as directed. The office was cluttered with professional journals and its one glassed-in bookcase was full to overflowing. The filing cabinets also bulged too much to close properly. On Passmore’s desk, among the papers and pencil stubs, stood a toothless skull and several sets of dentures.

‘Glad you could make it, Chief Inspector,’ Passmore said, his voice surprisingly rich and deep coming from such a tiny mouth. ‘I’m sorry to drag you all the way down here, but it might save time in the long run, and I think you’ll find it worth the journey.’

Banks nodded and crossed his legs. He looked around for an ashtray, but couldn’t see one; nor could he smell any traces of smoke when he surreptitiously sniffed the air. Bloody hell, another non-smoker, he cursed to himself.

‘The victim’s teeth were very badly damaged,’ Passmore went on. ‘Dr Glendenning said that he was hit about the face with a rock of some kind, and I concur.’

‘He was found close to a stream,’ Banks said. ‘There were plenty of rocks in the area.’

‘Hmm.’ Passmore nodded sagely and made a steeple of his fingers on the desk. ‘Anyway, I’ve managed to make a rudimentary reconstruction for you.’ He pushed a brown envelope towards Banks. ‘Not that it’ll do you much good. You can hardly have every dentist in the country check this against every chart he or she has, can you?’

Banks was beginning to wonder why he’d come when Passmore stood up with surprising energy and walked over to a cabinet by the door. ‘But,’ he said, pausing dramatically to remove something and bring it back to the table, ‘I think I might be able to help you with that.’ And he dropped what looked like a fragment of tooth and pink plastic on the desk in front of Banks. ‘A denture,’ he announced. ‘Upper right bicuspid, to be exact.’

Banks stared at the object. ‘You got this from the body?’

Passmore nodded. ‘It was badly shattered, of course, but I’ve managed to reassemble most of it. Rather like putting together a broken teacup, really.’

‘How does this help us?’

‘Well, in the first place,’ Passmore said, ‘it tells us that the deceased was more likely to be British than Canadian.’

‘How?’

Passmore frowned, as if Banks was being purposely obtuse. ‘Contrary to what some people believe,’ he began, ‘British dentists aren’t very far behind their North American cousins. Oh, they might instigate new procedures over there before we do, but that’s mostly because they have more money. Dentistry’s private over there, you know, and it can be very expensive for the patient. But there are differences. Now, if your victim had come from Russia, for example, I could have told you immediately. They use stainless steel for fillings there. But in this case, it’s merely an educated guess, or would be if it weren’t for something else, which I’ll get to in a moment.’

Come on, Banks thought, fidgeting with the cigarette packet in his jacket pocket, get to the bloody point. Putting up with rambling explanations — full of pauses for dramatic effect — seemed to be the price he so often had to pay for information from specialists like Passmore.

‘The mere fact that your corpse has denture work leads me to conclude that he’s European rather than North American,’ the doctor continued. ‘The Americans go in for saving teeth rather than replacing them. In fact, they hardly do denture work at all.’

‘Very impressive,’ Banks said. ‘You mentioned something else — something important.’

Passmore nodded. ‘This,’ he went on, holding up the false tooth, ‘is no ordinary denture. Well, it is, but there’s one big difference. This is a coded denture.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘A number of dentists and technicians have taken to signing their work, so to speak, like painters and sculptors. Look here.’

Passmore prodded the denture with a pointed dental instrument, the one that always gave Banks the willies when he was in the chair. He looked closely at the pink plastic and saw a number of dark letters, which he couldn’t quite make out.

‘The code,’ Passmore said. ‘It’s formed by typing the letters in a small print face on a piece of nylon, which you put between the mould and the plastic. During the manufacturing process, the nylon becomes incorporated into the denture and the numbers are clearly visible, as you can see.’

‘Why do they go to such trouble?’ Banks asked.

Passmore shrugged. ‘For identification purposes in case of loss, or fire.’

‘And what does the code tell us?’

Passmore puckered his mouth into a self-satisfied smile. ‘Everything we need to know, Chief Inspector. Everything we need to know. Have a closer look.’

Banks used a pair of tweezers to pick up the denture and looked at the code: 5493BKJLS.

‘The last two letters give us the city code, the ones before that are the dentist’s initials, and the rest is for identification of the owner.’

‘Amazing.’ Banks put the false tooth down. ‘So this will lead us to the identity of the victim?’

‘Eventually. First, it’ll lead us to his dentist.’

‘How can I find out?’

‘You’d consult the directory in the library. But, luckily, I have a copy here and I’ve done it for you.’

‘And?’

Passmore smiled smugly again and held up a school-teacherly finger. ‘Patience, Chief Inspector Banks, patience. First, the city. Do you recognize that postcode?’

‘Yes. LS is Leeds.’

‘Right. So the first thing we discover is that our man’s dentist practises in Leeds. Next we look up the initials: BKJ. I found two possibilities there: Brian K. Jarrett and B. K. James.’

‘We’ll have to check them both,’ Banks said. ‘Can I use your phone?’

Passmore rubbed his upper lip. ‘I, er, I already took the liberty. B. K. James doesn’t do denture codes, according to his assistant, so I called Brian K. Jarrett.’

‘And?’

Passmore grinned. ‘The patient’s name is Bernard Allen.’

‘Certain?’

‘He’s the one who was fitted with the denture. It was about four years ago. I’ll be sending down the charts for official confirmation, of course, but from what we were able to compare over the phone, I’d say you can be certain, yes.’

‘Did you get an address?’

Passmore shook his head. ‘Apparently Allen didn’t live in Leeds. Mr Jarrett did give me the sister’s address, though. Her name’s Esther Haines. Is that of any use?’

‘It certainly is.’ Banks made a note of the first real lead so far. ‘You’ve done a great job, Dr Passmore.’ He stood up and shook hands.

Passmore inclined his head modestly. ‘If ever you need my help again…’

Katie walked down to the shops in Lower Head later than usual that day. There was no road on her side of the beck, just a narrow path between the houses and the grassy bank. At the junction with the main Helmthorpe road, where the River Swain veered left into the dale proper, a small wooden bridge, painted white, led over to the village green with its trees and benches, and the path continued to the row of shops around the corner from the church.

As she neared the road, a grey Jaguar passed by with Stephen Collier behind the wheel. He slowed down at the intersection, and Katie became flustered. She half raised her hand to wave, but dropped it quickly. Stephen didn’t acknowledge her presence at all; he seemed to be looking right through her. At first she told herself he hadn’t seen her, but she knew he had. Perhaps he was thinking of something else and hadn’t noticed his surroundings. She often walked around in a daze like that herself. The blood ran to her face as she crossed the road and hurried on to the shops.

‘Afternoon, Katie love,’ Mrs Thetford greeted her. ‘A bit late today, aren’t you? Still, I’ve saved you some nice Brussels sprouts.’

Katie thanked her and paid, her mind still on Stephen Collier. Why had he called last night when he knew Sam was out? Katie couldn’t understand his desire to talk to her about his problems, or his apparent concern for her.

‘Your change, dearie!’ Mrs Thetford called after her.

Katie walked back to the counter and held out her hand, smiling. ‘I’d forget my head if it was loose.’

She called at the butcher’s and bought some pork loin chops, the best he had left, then turned back towards home. Stephen really had sounded as if he needed a friend. He had been tired, burdened. Katie regretted letting him down, but what else could she have done? She couldn’t be his friend; she didn’t know how. Besides, it wasn’t right.

She noticed the speeding Mini just in time to dodge it and crossed the green again. A few people, mostly old women, sat on the benches nattering, and a light breeze rustled the new pale green leaves on the trees. What Stephen had said about her being unhappy was true. Was it so obvious to everyone, or did he really sense a bond between them? Surely with all his money and success he couldn’t be unhappy too.

Katie tried to remember when she had last been happy, and thought of the first weeks in Swainshead. It had been hard work, fixing up the house, but they had done it. And what’s more, they had done it together. After that though, when everything was ready, Sam left the running of it all to her. It was as if he’d finished his life’s work and settled into early retirement.

‘Ideas above his station,’ her granny had always said of Sam. And sure enough, no sooner were they in residence than he was off to the White Rose ingratiating himself with the locals. As soon as he found out that the Colliers, who owned the big house over the road, were the dale’s wealthiest and most powerful family, there was no stopping him. But give him his due, Katie thought, he never fawned or lowered himself; he just seemed to act as if he’d found his natural place in the order at last. Why they accepted him, if indeed they did, she had no idea.

When she wasn’t busy running the guest house, Katie became an adornment, something for Sam to hang on his arm at the summer garden parties. She was a kind of Cinderella for whom the ball was always ending. But unlike the fairy-tale character, Katie hated both her roles. She had no love for gowns and glass slippers. Finery, however stylish and expensive, made her feel cheap and sinful. Once, a workmate fortunate enough to go on holiday to Paris had brought her back a pretty green silk scarf. Her granny had snipped it into pieces and scattered them like spring leaves into the fire.

Perhaps, though Katie hated to admit it, she had last been truly happy when her grandmother died. She and Sam hadn’t seen much of the old woman after they went to live with his parents in Armley. They visited her in hospital though, where she lay dying of cancer of the colon, bearing all the pain and humiliation with the same hard courage as she had suffered life. She lay there, silver head against the white pillow, and would accept no comfort for what ‘God’s Will’ was gracing her with. It was almost, Katie thought, as if she had found true joy in the final mutiny of the flesh, of its very cells, as if dying was proof to her that life on earth really was nothing but a vale of tears. But that couldn’t be true, Katie realized, for her granny had never taken pleasure in anything in her life.

Katie fainted at her funeral and then gagged on the brandy the minister gave her to bring her round. Now all she had left of Granny was the heavy wooden cross on the living-room mantelpiece. A bare dark cross, with no representation of the crucified Christ (for such things smelled too much of popish idolatry for Granny), it symbolized perfectly the harsh arid life the old woman had chosen for herself and her granddaughter. Katie hated the thing, but she hadn’t been able to pluck up the courage to throw it out. Outbreaks of boils and plagues of locusts would surely follow such a blasphemous act.

So Stephen Collier was right — she was unhappy. There was nothing anyone could do about it though, except perhaps… But no. She had a terrible feeling of apprehension about the future, certain that her only possible escape route was cut off now. Why she should feel that way she didn’t know, but everyone was behaving oddly again — Stephen, Sam, John Fletcher. Could it really be a coincidence that Anne Ralston’s name had been mentioned to her again so recently? And that so soon after it had come up, there had been another murder in the village?

Shuddering as if someone had just stepped over her grave, Katie walked back up the path and into the house to get on with cleaning the rooms.

After leaving the lab, Banks first drove into Wetherby and bought an A to Z street atlas of Leeds. He knew the city reasonably well, but had never been to Armley, where Allen’s sister lived. He studied the area and planned a route over lunch in a small pub off the main street, where he ate a rather soupy lasagne and drank an excellent pint of Samuel Smith’s Old Brewery Bitter.

He listened to the Donovan tape as he drove. Those old songs certainly brought back memories. Why did the past always seem so much brighter than the present? Because he had been more innocent then? Surely every childhood summer couldn’t have been as sunny as he recalled. There must have been long periods of rain, just as there always seemed to be these days. What the hell, he thought, humming along with ‘Teen Angel’ as he drove — today’s beautiful, enjoy the sun while it’s here. Most of all, he wanted to put out of his mind for as long as possible what he would soon have to tell Bernard Allen’s sister.

He lit a cigarette and turned on to the Leeds Inner Ring Road, which skirted the city centre by a system of yellow-lit tunnels affording occasional flashes into the open and glimpses of church spires, tower blocks and rows of dark terraced houses. It still felt warm, but the sun was now only a blurred pearl behind a thin grey gauze of cloud.

He came out on to Wellington Road, by the Yorkshire Post building, then crossed the River Aire and, immediately afterwards, the Leeds and Liverpool Canal.

There had been a great deal of development in the area, and one or two very colourful red-and-gold barges stood moored by the quay. But the river and canal banks were still very much of a wasteland: overgrown with weeds, littered with the tyres and old prams people had dumped there.

Many of the huge Victorian warehouses still hung on, crumbling and broken-windowed, their red brick blackened by the industrial smoke of a hundred years or more. It was a little like the Thames, Banks thought, where old wharfs and warehouses, like the warrens where Fagin had run his band of child-thieves, were daily being converted into luxury apartment complexes, artists’ studios and office space. Because Leeds was in the depressed and abandoned North though, the process of regeneration would probably take quite a bit longer, if indeed it ever happened at all.

Skilfully navigating the lanes of traffic and a huge roundabout, Banks managed to get on Armley Road. Soon he was at the bottom of Town Street, where the road swung right, past the park, to Bramley and Stanningley. He turned left up Crab Lane, a narrow winding one-way street by a small housing estate built on a hill, and parked on the street near the library.

Banks soon found Esther Haines’s house. It had a blue door, freshly painted by the look of it. In the garden was an overturned plastic tricycle, green with thick yellow wheels.

Banks pressed the bell and a thin-faced woman answered. She was perhaps in her late twenties, but she seemed haggard and tired. Judging from the noise inside the house, Banks guessed that the cares of motherhood had worn her down. She frowned at him and he showed her his identification card. Immediately, she turned pale and invited him in. For people on estates like this, Banks realized, a visit from the police always means bad news. He felt his stomach muscles tighten as he walked inside.

In the living room, cluttered with children’s toys, Mrs Haines had already sat down. Hands clasped in her lap, she perched on the edge of her seat on the sofa. A dark-haired man came through from the kitchen, and she introduced him as her husband, Les. He was wearing only vest and trousers. His shoulders and chest were matted with thick black hair, and he had a tattoo of a butterfly on his right bicep.

‘We were just having our tea,’ Esther Haines said. ‘Les is on the night shift at the yeast factory.’

‘Aye,’ her husband said, pulling up a chair and facing Banks aggressively. ‘What’s all this about?’

A child with jam smeared all over his pale grinning face crawled through the open kitchen door and busied himself trying to tear apart a fluffy toy dog.

‘I’m sorry,’ Banks said, ‘but I’ve got some bad news for you.’

And the rest followed as it always did: disbelief, denial, shock, tears and finally a kind of numb acceptance. Banks was relieved to see that the first thing Mr Haines did was light a cigarette. He followed suit. Esther clutched a handkerchief to her nose. Her husband went to make tea and took the child with him.

After Mr Haines had brought in the teapot and cups, leaving the child to play in the kitchen, Banks leaned forward in his seat and said to Esther, ‘There are some questions I’ve got to ask.’

She nodded. ‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘Are you sure it’s our Bernie?’

‘As sure as we can be at this point,’ Banks told her. He didn’t want to have to tell her what state her brother’s corpse had been in. ‘Your answers will help us a lot. When did you last see him?’

‘It was a couple of weeks ago, now,’ she said. ‘He stayed with us a week.’

‘Can you find out the exact date he left here, Mrs Haines? It’s important.’

Her husband walked over to a calendar of Canadian scenes and ran a stubby finger along the squares. ‘It was the thirteenth,’ he said, then looked over at Esther. ‘Remember, love, that morning he went to the dentist’s for that filling he needed?’

Mrs Haines nodded.

‘Did he leave immediately after his visit to Mr Jarrett’s?’

‘Yes,’ said Les Haines. ‘He was heading for the Dales, so he had to be off about eleven. He was after taking one of them trains on the Settle-Carlisle route.’

‘And that was the last time either of you saw him, at eleven o’clock on May the thirteenth?’

They both nodded.

‘Do you know where he was going?’

‘Of course,’ Esther said. ‘He were off back to Swainshead.’

‘Going back? I don’t understand. Is that where he was before he came to stay with you?’

‘No, it’s where he grew up; it’s where we used to live.’

Now Banks remembered where he’d heard the name before. Allen. Nicholas Collier had directed Gristhorpe and himself to the ruins of Archie Allen’s old farmhouse high on the side of Swainshead Fell.

‘Is your father Archie Allen?’ he asked.

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘And you lived on the fell side, worked a farm?’

‘Until it went belly up,’ Mr Haines cut in.

‘Did you live there too?’ Banks asked him.

‘Me? No. Leeds born and bred. But the missus grew up there.’

‘How long ago was this, Mrs Haines?’ Banks asked Esther, who had started weeping quietly again.

‘It’s ten years since we moved, now.’

‘And you came straight here?’

‘Not until Les and I got married. We lived in an old back-to-back off Tong Road. It’s not far away. Dad got a job at Blakey’s Castings. It were all he could get. Then they went to Melbourne — Australia, like — to go and live with our Denny after they retired. Oh God, somebody’ll have to tell Mum and Dad.’ She looked beseechingly at her husband, who patted her arm. ‘Don’t worry about that, love,’ he said. ‘It’ll keep a while.’

‘As far as I can gather,’ Banks said when Mrs Haines had regained her composure, ‘your brother had some connection with Toronto in Canada. Is that right?’

She nodded. ‘He couldn’t get a job over here. He was a bright lad, our Bernie. Got a degree. But there was no jobs. He emigrated eight years ago.’

‘What did he do in Toronto?’

‘He’s a teacher in a college. Teaching English. It’s a good job. We was off out to see him next year.’

Banks lit another cigarette as she wiped away the tears and blew her nose.

‘Can you give me his address?’

She nodded and said, ‘Be a love, Les.’ Her husband went to the sideboard and brought out a tattered Wool-worth’s address book.

‘How often did Bernard come home?’ Banks asked, writing down the Toronto address.

‘Well, he came as often as he could. This was his third trip, but he hadn’t been for four years. Proper homesick he was.’

‘Why did he stay in Canada, then?’

She shrugged. ‘Money. No work for him here, is there? Not with Thatcher running the country.’

‘What did he talk about while he was with you?’

‘Nothing really. Just family things.’

‘Did he say anything odd to you, Mr Haines? Anything that struck you as unusual?’

‘No. We didn’t talk a lot. We’d not much in common really. I’m not a great reader, never did well at school. And he liked his books, did Bernie. We talked about ale a bit. About what the boozers are like over there. He told me he’d found a nice pub in Toronto where he could get John Smith’s and Tartan on draught.’

‘Is that all?’

Haines shrugged. ‘Like I said, we didn’t have much in common.’

Banks turned to Mrs Haines again. ‘What state of mind was he in? Was he upset about anything, depressed?’

‘He’d just got divorced about a year ago,’ she said, ‘and he were a bit upset about that. I think that’s what made him homesick. But I wouldn’t say he were really depressed, no. He seemed to think he might be able to come back and live here again before too long.’

‘Did he say anything about a job?’

‘No.’

‘How could he manage to move back here then?’

Esther Haines shook her head. ‘I don’t know. He didn’t say. He just hinted. Maybe it were wishful thinking, like, now he didn’t have Barbara any more.’

‘That was his wife?’

‘Yes.’

‘What happened between them?’

‘She ran off wi’ another man.’

‘Where had Bernie been before he visited you?’

Esther took a deep breath and dabbed at her red eyes. ‘He’d come to England for a month, all told,’ she said. ‘First off, he spent a week seeing friends in London and Bristol, then he came up here. He’d be due to go back about now, wouldn’t he, Les?’

‘Do you know how to get in touch with these friends?’ Banks asked.

She shook her head. ‘Sorry. They were friends of Bernie’s from university.’

‘Which university?’

‘York.’

‘And you didn’t know them?’

‘No. They’d be in his notebook. He always carried a notebook full of names and stuff.’

‘We didn’t find it. Never mind, we’ll find them somehow.’ If necessary, Banks knew he could check with the university authorities and track down Bernard Allen’s contemporaries. ‘Do you know where he was heading after Swainshead?’

‘He were going to see another friend in Edinburgh, then fly back from Prestwick. You can do that with Wardair, he said, fly to London and go back from somewhere else.’ She put her handkerchief to her nose again and sniffed.

‘I don’t suppose you have this person’s address in Edinburgh?’

She shook her head.

‘So,’ Banks said, stubbing out his cigarette and reaching for the tea, ‘he left here on May the thirteenth to do some fell-walking in the Dales, and then—’

Mrs Haines cut in. ‘No, that’s not right. That’s not the reason he went.’

‘Why did he go, then? Sentimental reasons?’

‘Partly, I suppose. But he went to stay with friends.’

‘What friends?’

‘Sam and Katie. They run a guest house — Greenock’s. Bernie was going to stay with Sam and Katie.’

Struggling to keep his excitement and surprise to himself, Banks asked how Bernard had got to know Sam and Katie. At first, Mrs Haines seemed unable to concentrate for weeping, but Banks encouraged her gently, and soon she was telling him the whole story, pulling at the handkerchief on her lap as she spoke.

‘They knew each other from Armley, from after we came to Leeds. Sam lived there, too. We were neighbours. Bernie was always going on about Swainshead and how wonderful it was, and I think it were him as put the idea into Sam’s head. Anyways, Sam and Katie scrimped and saved and that’s where they ended up.’

‘Did Bernie have any other close friends in Swainshead?’

‘Not really,’ Esther said. ‘Most of his childhood mates had moved away. There weren’t any jobs for them up there.’

‘How did he get on with the Colliers?’

‘A bit above our station,’ Esther said. ‘Oh, they’d say hello, but they weren’t friends of his, not as far as I know. You can’t be, can you, not with the sons of the fellow what owns your land?’

‘I suppose not,’ Banks said. ‘Was there any bitterness over losing the farm?’

‘I wouldn’t say that, no. Sadness, yes, but bitterness? No. It were us own fault. There wasn’t much land fit for anything but sheep, and when the flock took sick…’

‘What was Mr Collier’s attitude?’

‘Mr Walter?’

‘Yes.’

‘He were right sorry for us. He helped out as much as he could, but it were no use. He were preparing to sell off to John Fletcher anyway. Getting out of farming, he were.’

‘How would that have affected you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The sale.’

‘Oh. Mr Walter said he’d write it into the terms that we could stay. John Fletcher didn’t mind. He and Dad got on quite well.’

‘So there was no ill feeling between your family and John Fletcher or the Colliers?’

‘No. Not to speak of. But I didn’t think much of them.’

‘Oh?’

She pulled harder at the handkerchief on her lap, and it began to tear along one edge. ‘I always thought they were a pair of right toffee-nosed gits, but I never said nowt. Stephen thinks he’s God’s gift to women, and that Nicholas is a bit doolally, if you ask me.’

‘In what way?’

‘Have you met him?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s like a little kid, gets all overexcited. Especially when he’s had a drink or two. Practically slavers all over a person, he does. Especially women. He even tried it on with me once, but I sent him away with his tail between his legs.’ She shuddered. ‘I don’t know how they put up with him at that there school, unless they’re all a bit that way.’

‘What about Stephen?’

Esther shrugged. ‘Seems a pleasant enough gent on the outside. Bit of a smoothie, really. Got a lot more class than his brother. Bit two-faced, though.’

‘In what way?’

‘You know. All friendly one minute, then cuts you dead next time he sees you. But they can afford to do that, can’t they?’

‘Who can?’

‘Rich folks. Don’t have to live like ordinary people, like you and me, do they?’

‘I don’t imagine they have the same priorities, no,’ Banks said, unsure whether he approved of being called an ordinary person. ‘Did he try it on too?’

‘Mr Stephen? No. Oh, he liked the girls, all right, but he was too much of a gentleman, for all his faults.’

Mrs Haines seemed to have forgotten her grief for a few moments, so absorbed had she been in the past, but as soon as silence fell, her tears began to flow again and her husband put his arm around her. In the kitchen, something smashed, and the child ran wailing into the room and buried his jammy face in Esther Haines’s lap.

Banks stood up. ‘You’ve been very helpful,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to have been the bearer of such bad news.’

Esther nodded, handkerchief pressed to her mouth, and Mr Haines showed him to the door. ‘What are we to do about… you know…’

‘The remains?’

‘Aye.’

‘We’ll be in touch soon,’ Banks said. ‘Don’t worry.’

Upstairs, a baby started crying.

The first thing Banks did was look for a phone box to call Sandra and tell her when he’d be back. That didn’t prove as easy as it sounded. The first three he came across had been vandalized, and he had to drive almost two miles before he found one that worked.

It was a pleasant drive back to Eastvale through Harrogate and Ripon. In a quiet mood, he slipped in Delius’s North Country Sketches instead of the 1960s pop he’d been listening to. As he drove, he tried to piece together all the information he’d got that day. Whichever way he looked at it, the trail led back to Swainshead, the Greenocks, the Colliers and John Fletcher.

5

Only the cry of a distant curlew and the sound of water gurgling over rocks in the stream at the back broke the silence.

Then Sam Greenock echoed the news: ‘Bernie? Dead? I can’t believe it.’

‘I’m afraid so,’ Banks said. It was the second time in two days that he had been the bearer of bad news, but this time it was easier. The investigation proper had begun, and he had more on his mind than Sam Greenock’s disbelief, real or feigned.

They sat in the living room at the back of the house: the Greenocks, Banks, and Sergeant Hatchley taking notes. Katie gazed out of the window, or sometimes she stared at the huge ugly wooden cross on the mantelpiece. She had said nothing, given no reaction at all.

‘It’s true he was staying with you then, is it?’ Banks asked.

Sam nodded.

‘Why didn’t his name show up on the register? We went to a lot of trouble checking every place in Swainsdale.’

‘It’s not my fault,’ Sam said. ‘He was staying with us as a friend. Besides, you know as well as I do that those guest books aren’t legal requirements; they’re only for people to write comments in if they want, show they’ve been here.’

‘When our man called and asked if you’d had any Canadians staying recently, why didn’t you mention Bernard Allen?’

‘He didn’t ask me anything. He just looked at the register. Besides, I never thought of Bernie as a Canadian. Oh, I know he lived there, but that’s not everything, is it? I’ve known people who lived in Saudi Arabia for a year working on the oil fields but I don’t think of them as Saudis.’

‘Come off it, Sam. Bernard Allen had been in Canada for eight years, and you hadn’t seen him for four. This was only his third trip back,’ said Banks.

‘Still…’

‘Did you have any reason to lie about Bernie being here?’

‘No. I told you—’

‘Because if you did, we can charge you with concealing information. That’s serious, Sam. You could get two years.’

Sam leaned forward. ‘Look, I never thought. That policeman who came, he didn’t tell us what he was looking for.’

‘We can check, you know.’

‘Bloody check then. It’s true.’

Sam couldn’t remember the officer’s name, so Banks asked Hatchley to make a note of the time and date. It would be easy enough to find out who had made the visit and what approach he had taken. He still wasn’t sure about Sam Greenock, though.

Banks sighed. ‘All right. We’ll leave that for now. Which room did he stay in?’

Sam looked at Katie. She was staring out on the fell side, so he had to nudge her and repeat the question.

‘Five,’ she said, as if speaking from a great distance. ‘Room five.’

‘We’ll need to have a look,’ Banks told her.

‘It was two weeks ago,’ Sam said. ‘There’s been other people in since then. That’s where we took Fellowes after he’d found the body.’

‘We’ll still need to look.’

‘Do you think he’s hidden some secret message there, Inspector? Taped it to the bottom of the dresser drawer, maybe?’

‘You’ve been reading too many espionage novels. And if I were you, I’d cut the bloody sarcasm. You might start me thinking that there’s some reason you don’t want me to look in Bernie Allen’s room. And while we’re at it, he’s not the first person to get killed after leaving this guest house, is he, Sam?’

‘Now wait a minute,’ said Sam. ‘If you’re trying to imply—’

Banks held his hand up. ‘I’m not trying to imply anything. What was it the man said: once is happenstance, twice is coincidence? Let’s just hope there’s not a third time.’

Sam put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Really, I am. It’s the shock. And now all these questions.’

‘Look at it from my point of view, Sam. Bernard Allen was killed after he left your guest house. That’s given his killer about two whole weeks to cover his tracks, leave the country, arrange for an alibi, whatever. I need everything I can get, and I need it quickly. And the last thing I need is some clever bugger who just might have been withholding information to start playing the comic.’

‘Look, I’ve said I’m sorry. What more do you want?’

‘First of all, you can tell us when he left.’

‘About two weeks ago.’

‘Can you be more specific?’

‘Katie?’

Again, with great difficulty, Katie turned her attention to the people in the room. Banks repeated his question.

‘It was a Friday,’ she said.

Hatchley checked the dates against his diary. That’d be the seventeenth, sir,’ he said. ‘Friday. May the seventeenth.’

‘What time?’

‘Just after breakfast. About nine thirty. He said he wanted to get an early start,’ Sam said.

‘Where was he going?’

‘He was heading for the Pennine Way, then up to Swaledale.’

‘Do you know where he was intending to stay?’

Sam shook his head. ‘No. He just said he’d find somewhere on the way. There are plenty of places; it’s a very popular route.’

‘Did he say anything to you about visiting the hanging valley on his way?’

‘No. I wouldn’t have been surprised, though. He used to play there when he was a kid, or so he said.’

‘What did you do after he’d gone?’

‘I drove to Eastvale to do some shopping. I always do on a Friday morning.’

‘What shops did you go to?’

‘What is this? Are you trying to tell me I’m a suspect in the murder of my friend?’

‘Just answer the bloody question.’

‘All right, Inspector, there’s no—’

‘It’s Chief Inspector.’ Banks didn’t usually pull his rank, but Sam Greenock had rubbed him up the wrong way.

‘Chief Inspector, then. Where did I go? I went to Carter’s for some seeds, peat moss and fertilizer. Katie’s trying to get a vegetable patch going in the back garden. It’ll save us a bit of money in the long run.’

‘Is that all?’

‘No. But they’ll remember me there. I called in at a newsagent’s for some magazines — that one on King Street opposite the school road.’

‘I know it.’

‘I’m a regular there, too.’

‘Thanks, that’ll do fine for a start. What kind of car do you drive?’

‘A Land Rover. It’s in the garage.’

‘And you, Mrs Greenock, what did you do after Bernard Allen left?’

‘Me? Housework. What else?’

Banks turned back to Sam. ‘You met Allen in Leeds about ten years ago, is that right?’

‘Yes. In Armley. We lived just off Tong Road and the Allens came to live next door after they gave up the farm. Bernie and I were about the same age, so we palled up.’

‘What was he doing then?’

‘Just finishing at university. It was only York, so he was home most weekends and holidays. We used to go for a jar or two every Saturday night.’

‘How did the family take the move?’

Sam shrugged. ‘They adapted. At first Mr Allen, Bernie’s dad, went around as if he’d been kicked out of paradise. It must have been very hard for him though, swapping farm work for a crummy factory job. Hard on the pride.’

‘Is that what he said?’

‘Never in so many words, no. You could just tell. He’s a tough old bird anyway, so they survived.’

‘And Bernard?’

‘He tried to fit in. But you know what it’s like. He got his degree and all, but he couldn’t get the kind of work he wanted. He lived at home and did all kinds of odd jobs — mushroom picking at Greenhill Nurseries, sweeping factory yards, production line… all dull routine work.’

‘Is that when he decided to go to Canada?’

‘After a year or so of it, yes. He’d had enough. Someone he knew from university had already gone over and said it wasn’t too hard to get teaching jobs in the colleges. He said they paid well, too.’

‘Who was this?’

‘His name was Bob Morgan. I think he and Bernie taught at the same place, Toronto Community College.’

‘Was Bernie homesick?’

‘I suppose so. I mean, you don’t forget your roots, do you? But he stayed. One thing leads to another. He made friends over there, got married, divorced.’

‘What was his state of mind while he was staying here?’

‘He was fine. Cheerful. Happy to be back.’

‘Did he talk about coming home to stay?’

Sam shook his head. ‘He knew better than that. There aren’t any jobs for him.’

‘So he didn’t seem unusually homesick or depressed, and he didn’t say he was planning to come back.’

‘No.’

Banks lit a cigarette and studied Katie’s profile. She was a blank; he had no idea what she was thinking.

‘How long have you been in Swainshead?’ he asked Sam.

‘Six years.’

‘And it’s going well?’

Sam nodded. ‘Can’t complain. We’re hardly millionaires, but we like the life.’

‘And you, Mrs Greenock?’

Katie turned and focused on him. ‘Yes. It’s better than cleaning rooms at the Queen’s Hotel.’

‘Did Bernie have any other friends in the village apart from you?’

‘Not really,’ Sam answered. ‘See, most of the kids he grew up with had moved away. A lot do these days. They see the good life on telly and soon as they’re old enough there’s no stopping them. Like Denny, Bernie’s older brother. Off to Australia like a shot, he was.’

‘Was Bernie friendly with the Colliers?’ Esther Haines had said not, but Banks thought she might have been prejudiced by her own opinions of Nicholas and Stephen.

‘Well, I’d hardly say they were friends. Acquaintances, more like. But we had an evening or two in the White Rose together. I think Bernie was always a bit uncomfortable around Stephen and Nick though, them having been his landlords so to speak, the local gentry and all.’

Banks nodded. ‘Can you think of anyone in the village who might have wanted him out of the way?’

‘Bernie? Good Lord, no.’

‘He had no enemies?’

‘None that I know of. Not here.’

‘What about in Leeds?’

‘Not there either, as far as I know. Maybe somebody followed him over from Canada, an enemy he’d made there?’

‘Mrs Greenock,’ Banks said, turning to Katie again, ‘do you know of anyone with a reason for getting rid of Bernard Allen?’

Katie hesitated before answering. ‘No. He was harmless. Just a friendly sort of person. Nobody would want to hurt him.’

‘One more thing: what was he carrying when he left here?’

‘Carrying?’ Sam said. ‘Oh, I see. His belongings. A big blue rucksack with his clothes, passport, money, a few books.’

‘And what was he wearing?’

‘I don’t really remember. Do you, Katie?’

Katie shook her head. ‘It was a warm day, though,’ she said. ‘That I do remember. I think he was just wearing an open-necked shirt. White. And trousers, not jeans. It’s only the amateurs wear jeans for walking.’

‘They’re too heavy, you see,’ Sam explained. ‘Especially if they get wet. We try to give a bit of advice to our guests sometimes, and we always make sure we know where they’re going if they’re due back in the evening. That way, if they don’t return, we can let the Mountain Rescue post know where they were heading.’

Banks nodded. ‘Very sensible. Have you any vacancies at the moment?’

‘I think so,’ Sam said.

‘Six and eight,’ Katie added.

‘Good, we’ll take them.’

‘You’re staying here?’

‘There’ll be quite a lot of questions to ask in Swainshead,’ Banks said, ‘and it’s fifty miles to Eastvale and back. We’ll be staying here tonight at least.’

‘One’s a single,’ Katie said. ‘The other’s a double.’

Banks smiled at her. ‘Fine. Sergeant Hatchley will take the single.’ It was patently unfair, Banks knew. He was much more slightly built than the well padded Hatchley, and a good four or five inches shorter. But rank, he reflected, did have its privileges.

‘Don’t sulk, Sergeant,’ he said as they walked over to the car to pick up their overnight bags. ‘My room might be bigger, but it’s probably right next to the plumbing. What did you think of Mrs Greenock?’

‘Not bad if you like those wand-like figures,’ Hatchley said. ‘Prefer ’em with a bit of meat on their bones, myself.’

‘I wasn’t asking you to rate her out of ten on looks. What about her attitude?’

‘Didn’t say much, did she? Seemed in a bit of a daze to me. Think there might be more to her than meets the eye?’

‘I think there might indeed,’ said Banks. ‘In fact, I got the distinct impression that she was holding something back.’

The Greenocks ate their lunch in silence, then Sam dashed out. Katie, who had lost her appetite and merely played with her food, piled the dishes in the washer, set the controls and turned it on. There was still shopping to do and the evening meal to prepare, but she felt she could afford to relax for a few minutes.

As she lay down on the sofa and looked out on the slopes of Swainshead Fell beyond the back garden, she thought of Bernie helping her clear the dishes, talking about Toronto, watching cricket on the telly. She remembered the little presents he had brought each time — no doubt picked up at the airport at the last minute, for Bernie was like that — jars of pure maple syrup, a box of cigars or a bottle of malt Scotch for Sam, Opium perfume or Chanel No. 5 for Katie. She’d never had the heart to tell him that she didn’t wear perfume, that the one time she had tried she had felt like a tramp, even though it had been White Linen, and had scrubbed it off straight away. Now the three little bottles lay in the dark inside her dresser drawer, untouched.

Bernie had even helped her with the garden sometimes; he might not have had green fingers, but he could wield a trowel or a hoe well enough. Bernie: so considerate, so kind. But the dark images began to crowd out her thoughts. Frowning, she pushed them away. Instead she saw endless prairies of golden wheat swaying in the breeze, heard the sea beating against a rough coastline where redwood forests reared as tall as the sky. Bernie had told her all about Canada, all the places he’d been. She’d never get to see them now, she realized, because Bernie was dead.

Fellowes’ words came back to her, what he’d said in his drunken stupor when he grasped her hand by the bed: ‘Moving,’ he’d said. ‘Moving.’ And she hadn’t understood at the time. Now she did. If Bernie had been lying up there for two weeks he would have been like that dead lamb she had seen on Adam’s Fell last year. It didn’t bear thinking about.

She’d given a bad impression to the police, she knew that, but at the time she had been unable to help herself. The lean dark one, the one who seemed too short to be a policeman, would want to talk to her again, that was for sure. How could she keep her secret? She pictured her grandmother standing over her, lined face stern and hard, eyes like black pinheads boring into her. ‘Secrets, girl, secrets are the devil’s doing. God loves a pure and open heart.’ But she had to keep this secret.

There were so many things, it seemed, one had to do in life that went against God’s commandments. How could a person live without sinning? She was no longer even sure that she knew what was right or wrong. Sometimes she thought it was a sin to breathe, to be alive. It seemed you had to sin to survive in today’s world. It was wrong to keep secrets and tell lies; but was it wrong to keep your word, your promise? And if you had broken it once for a special reason, was it all right to break it again?

Wearily, Katie got up and prepared to go to the shops down in Lower Head. Work and duty, they were the only constants in life. Everything else was a trap, a trick, a temptation to betrayal. The only way to survive was to shun pleasure. She picked up her purse and shopping basket and pulled a face at the nasty soap taste in her mouth as she left the house.

After Banks and Hatchley had carried their bags to their rooms, they walked over to the White Rose for lunch. The place was busy with Saturday tourists who had let their curiosity lead them to the northern part of Swainshead, but none of the regulars was present. Luckily, Freddie Metcalfe was too busy to chat. They both ordered gammon and chips and carried their pints over to a corner table.

‘I want you to get on to Richmond after lunch,’ Banks said, ‘and have him check to see if anyone in Swainshead has connections with Canada, specifically with Toronto. I know it sounds like a big job, but tell him to start with the people we already know: the Greenocks, Fletcher, the Colliers. You might also add,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘Freddie Metcalfe over there, and Neil Fellowes too.’

‘The bloke who found the body? But he’s from Pontefract.’

‘No matter. Remember, we thought Allen was from Canada at first, then from Leeds. And while we’re on the subject, have him check on the brother-in-law, Les Haines. I want to know if he’s made any trips to this area in the past few weeks. Ask him to get as much background as he can on all of them. I’m sure the superintendent will be able to get him some help from downstairs. And get someone to go to Carter’s and that newsagent’s to check Greenock’s alibi. Tell them to make sure they get the times as exact as possible.’

‘Don’t you believe him?’

Banks shrugged. ‘He could be telling the truth. He could also have driven to a convenient spot along the main road and approached the valley from the other side.’

The little waitress brought over their food and they ate in silence. At the bar they could hear Freddie Metcalfe enthralling visitors with examples of Yorkshire humour filched from The Dalesman, and at the next table two middle-aged women from Lancashire were talking about lager louts: ‘They get right confident after a few drinks, young ’uns do.’

When they had finished eating, Banks sent Hatchley to radio in to Richmond, then he stood outside the pub for a moment and took a deep breath of fresh air. It was June 1, another fine day. Nobody knew what the Dales had done to deserve such a long stretch of good weather, but according to a radio Banks overheard, it certainly wasn’t any thanks to Yorkshire County Cricket Club, currently 74 for 6 at Somerset.

Banks wanted to talk to the Colliers, but first he returned to his room to change his shirt. On his way back down, he spotted Mrs Greenock in the hall, but she seemed to see or hear him coming and scuttled off into the back before he could catch her. Smiling, he walked back out into the street. He knew he could have followed her and confronted her with his suspicions there and then, but decided instead to let her play mouse to his cat until she tired of it.

There were plenty of people on the grassy banks of the River Swain that afternoon. Three children fished for tiddlers with nets at the end of cane rods while their parents sat and watched from deckchairs, dad with a knotted handkerchief over his head reading the Daily Mail and mum knitting, glancing up occasionally to make sure the offspring were still in sight.

The Dales were getting as crowded and noisy as the coast, Banks thought as he crossed the bridge. There was even a small group of teenagers farther down, towards Lower Head, wearing cut-off denim jackets with the names of rock bands inked on the back. Two of them, a boy and a girl, Banks assumed, were rolling on the grass in an overtly sexual embrace while tinny music rattled out of a portable stereo placed close to one prostrate youth’s ear.

Many of his colleagues, Banks knew, would have gone over and told them to move on, accused them of disturbing the peace and searched them for drugs. But despite his personal distaste for some gangs of youngsters and their music, Banks made it a rule never to use his power as a policeman to force his own will on the general public. After all, they were young, they were enjoying life, and apart from the noise, they were really doing no one any harm.

Banks passed the old men on the bridge and made a mental note to have a chat with them at some point. They seemed to be permanent fixtures; maybe they had seen something.

He met Sergeant Hatchley at the car and they headed for the Collier house.

‘Have you noticed,’ Banks said, ‘how Allen seemed to have a different story for everyone he talked to? He was upset; he was cheerful. He was coming home; he wasn’t.’

‘Maybe,’ said Hatchley, ‘it’s just that all the people he talked to have a different story for us.’

Banks gave the sergeant an appreciative glance. Thinking things out wasn’t Hatchley’s strong point, but there were times when he could be quite surprising.

‘Good point,’ Banks said. ‘Let’s see what the Colliers have to add.’

Gristhorpe was right; the Collier house was a Victorian monstrosity. But it had its own grotesque charm, Banks thought as he walked up the crazy paving with Hatchley. Most Dales architecture was practical in nature and plain in style, but this place was for show. It must have been the great-grandfather who had it built, and he must have thought highly indeed of the Collier status.

Banks rang the bell on the panelled door and Stephen Collier answered, a frown on his face. He led them through a high-ceilinged hall into a sitting room at the back of the house. French windows opened on to a patio. In the centre of the large lawn stood an elaborate stone fountain. White dolphins and cherubim curled about the lip of the bowl.

The room itself contrasted sharply with the exterior of the house. Off-white walls created a sense of light and space on which the ultra-modern Swedish pine and chrome and glass furnishings made hardly any encroachment at all. Abstract paintings hung over a blue-tiled mantelpiece: bold and violent splashes of colour reminiscent, in their effect on Banks’s eyes, of the Jackson Pollocks Sandra had insisted he look at in a London gallery years ago.

The three of them sat in white wicker chairs around a table on the patio. Banks half-expected a servant to arrive with a tray of margaritas or martinis, but Collier himself offered them drinks. It was warm, so both men eagerly accepted a cold bottle of Beck’s lager.

Before he went to fetch the drinks, Stephen Collier rapped on the French windows of the next room and beckoned to Nicholas. Banks had wanted to talk to them separately, but it wasn’t important at this point. Stretching, he got up and walked over as Nicholas emerged on to his half of the patio. He was just in time to catch a glimpse of a much darker room, all oak panelling, leather-bound books and oil paintings of ancestors gleaming on the walls.

Nicholas smiled his horsy yellow smile and held out his hand.

‘It’s an interesting set-up you’ve got here,’ Banks said.

‘Yes. We couldn’t bear to get rid of the house, however ugly it might seem from the outside. It’s been in the family for years. Lord knows what prompted my great-greatgrandfather to build such a folly — ostentatious display of wealth and position, I suppose. And it’s so inappropriate for the area.’ Despite the deprecating tone, Banks could tell that Nicholas was proud of the house and the status of his family.

‘Do you share the place?’ Banks asked Nicholas after they had sat down at the table.

‘Sort of. It’s divided into two halves. We thought at first that one of us could take the upstairs and the other the downstairs, but it’s better like this. We’ve got the equivalent of two completely separate houses. Stephen and I have very different tastes, so the two halves make quite a contrast. You must let me show you round my half one day.’

Stephen returned with the drinks. Dressed all in white, he looked like a cricketer breaking for tea. Nicholas, however, with his slight stoop, pale complexion and comma of black hair over his forehead, looked more like an ageing umpire. It was hard to believe these two were brothers; even harder to accept that Stephen was the elder.

After giving both of them time to register surprise and shock at the news of Bernard Allen’s death, of which he was certain they knew already, Banks lit a cigarette and asked, ‘Did you see much of him while he was here?’

‘Not a lot,’ Stephen answered. ‘He was in the pub a couple of times with Sam, so naturally we talked, but that’s about all.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘Oh, just small talk, really. This and that. About Canada, places we’d both been to.’

‘You’ve visited Canada?’

‘I travel quite a bit,’ Stephen said. ‘You might think a small food-freezing plant in the Dales isn’t much, but there are other businesses connected. Import, export, that kind of thing. Yes, I’ve been to Canada a few times.’

‘Toronto?’

‘No. Montreal, as a matter of fact.’

‘Did you ever see Bernard Allen over there?’

‘It’s a big country, Chief Inspector.’

‘Did you get the impression that anything was bothering Allen while he was over here?’

‘No.’

‘What about you?’ he asked Nicholas.

‘No, I can’t say I did. I’ve always found it a bit awkward talking to Bernard, to tell you the truth. One always feels he has a bit of a chip on his shoulder.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, come on,’ Nicholas said, grinning. ‘Surely you know what I mean. His father spent his life working on land rented from my father. They were poor. From where they lived they had a fine enough view of this place, and you can’t tell me that Bernard never thought it unfair that we had so much and he had so little. Especially when his father failed.’

‘I didn’t know Bernard Allen or his father,’ Banks said, peeling the foil from the neck of the Beck’s, which he preferred to drink straight from the bottle. ‘Tell me about him.’

‘I’m not saying I knew him well myself, only that he became a bit of a lefty, a socialist. Up the workers and all that.’ Nicholas grinned again, showing his stained teeth. His eyes were especially bright.

‘Are you saying that Bernard Allen was a communist?’

‘I don’t know about that. I don’t know if he was a party member. All I know is he used to spout his leftist rot in the pub.’

‘Is this true?’ Banks asked Stephen.

‘Partly. My brother exaggerates a bit, Chief Inspector. It’s a tendency he has. We sometimes had arguments about politics, yes, and Bernard Allen had left-wing views. But that’s as far as it goes. I’d hardly say he was a proselytizer or that he toed some party line.’

‘His political opinions weren’t particularly strong, then?’

‘I wouldn’t say so, no. He said he left the country partly because Margaret Thatcher came into office. Well, we all know about unemployment, don’t we? Bernard couldn’t find work in England, so he left. You could hardly say he was running from country to country to escape political tyranny, could you?’

‘He just used to whine about it, that’s all,’ Nicholas cut in. ‘Expected the government to do everything for him without him having to lift a finger. Typical socialist.’

‘As you can gather, Chief Inspector,’ Stephen said with a strained smile, ‘my brother’s something of a young fogey. That hardly gave either of us reason to do away with Bernard, though.’

‘Of course not,’ Banks said. ‘And I was never suggesting it did. I just want to know as much about the victim as possible. Would you say that there was any real animosity between you — political arguments aside — over the farm?’

‘Do you mean did he blame us?’ Stephen asked.

‘Yes.’

‘He blamed everyone but himself,’ Nicholas cut in.

Stephen turned on him. ‘Oh, shut up, Nicky. You’re being bloody awkward, you know.’

‘Did he?’ Banks asked Stephen again.

‘Not that I ever knew of. It was nothing to do with us, really. As you know, Father was preparing to give up farming anyway, and he certainly hadn’t groomed us to take over. Nobody kicked Archie Allen off the land. He could have stayed there as long as he wanted to. It just wasn’t financially viable any more. Ask any farmer; they’ll tell you how things have changed over the past twenty years or so. If Bernard was holding a grudge, then it was a very unreasonable one. He didn’t strike me as an unreasonable person. Does that answer your question?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Banks said. He turned to Nicholas again. ‘I understand you knew Mr Allen’s sister, Esther.’

Nicholas reddened with anger. ‘Who said that?’

‘Never mind who said it. Is it true?’

‘We all knew her,’ Stephen said. ‘I mean, we knew who she was.’

‘More than that,’ Banks said, looking at Nicholas, whose eyes were flashing. ‘Nicholas knows what I mean, don’t you?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Nicholas said. ‘Are you trying to suggest that there was anything more to it than a landlord — tenant relationship?’

‘Was there?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Didn’t you find her attractive?’

‘She was hardly my type.’

‘Do you mean she was of a lower class?’

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 businesslike 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. ’E was carrying one o’ them there ’aversacks on ’is back, that’s all I recollect. P’raps ’e was wearing a shirt. I don’t remember no jacket.’

‘Did you notice anyone go after him?’

The man shook his head.

‘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 heading?’

‘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 and 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 17 May 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 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.

6

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 on to 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 married 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 to 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 inspec-tion, 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 in 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.’

‘Girlfriend? Who was that, Mr Fletcher?’

‘The one who disappeared. Anne Ralston, her name was.’

Banks felt a tremor of excitement. ‘She was Bernard Allen’s girlfriend?’

‘Aye. Childhood sweethearts. They grew up together. I don’t think it was owt serious later, like, or he wouldn’t have gone off to Canada and left her. But they were thick as thieves, them two — more like brother and sister, maybe, as they got older.’

‘And after he’d gone, she took up with Stephen Collier?’

‘Aye. Got a job at Collier Foods and, well… Stephen’s got a way with the women.’

‘Did Bernard Allen ever say anything about this?’

‘Not in my hearing he didn’t. You’re thinking maybe he was jealous?’

‘Could be.’

‘Then the wrong one got himself killed, didn’t he?’

Banks sighed. ‘It always seems to look that way in this case. But if Allen thought Stephen Collier had harmed her, he might have been out for revenge.’

‘Waited long enough, didn’t he?’ Fletcher said.

‘I’ll be frank with you, Mr Fletcher,’ Banks said. ‘We’ve no idea why Bernard Allen was murdered, none at all. At the moment I’m gathering as much information as I can. Most of it will probably turn out to be useless. It usually does. But right now there’s no way of telling what’s of value and what isn’t. Can you think of any reason why someone in Swainshead would want him out of the way?’

Fletcher paused to think for a few moments, his dark eyebrows knitting together. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘It’s nothing to do with the farming business, I’m sure of that. There’s not enough money in it to make murder worthwhile. And there was no animosity between myself and the Allens. Like I said, I don’t think there was bad feeling between Bernard and the Colliers, but I couldn’t swear to it. I know he bated them a bit about being capitalist oppressors, but I don’t think anyone took that seriously enough to kill for.’

‘What was your impression of Bernard Allen?’

‘I liked him. As I said, I didn’t know him well, and I can’t say I agreed with his politics — with him on one side and Nicholas on the other, it was hardly my idea of a peaceful evening’s drinking. But he was bright, thoughtful, and he loved the land. He knew he wasn’t cut out to be a farmer — few are — but he loved The Head.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘The evening before he left. We were all in the White Rose. He was getting quite maudlin about coming home. Said if only he could get a job, however little it paid, or maybe a private income, then he’d be back like a shot. Of course, Nicholas jumped on that one — a socialist wanting a private income!’

‘Were there any serious arguments?’

‘No. It was all playful. The only serious bit was Bernard’s sentimentality. He really seemed to convince himself that he was coming back here to live. But he’d had a few too many, of course. Sam had to help him back to the house. I’m sorry I can’t be more useful, Mr Banks. I’d like to, but I don’t know anything. I had no reason to harm Bernard and, as far as I know, nor did any of the others. If there are motives, they’re hidden from me.’

‘Did he mention his divorce at all?’

‘Oh aye,’ Fletcher said grimly. ‘I could sympathize with him over that.’

‘Did he seem upset about it?’

‘Of course. His wife had run off with another man. Wouldn’t you be upset? I think that’s what set him thinking about coming back home to stay. You get like that when you lose whatever it is that keeps you away.’

‘Did Mr Allen know your wife?’

Fletcher’s face hardened. ‘What do you mean “know”? “Know” in the biblical sense? Are you suggesting there was something between them and I killed him in a fit of jealousy?’

‘No,’ said Banks, ‘I’m simply trying to get a grasp on the web of relationships.’

Fletcher continued to eye him suspiciously. ‘She didn’t know him,’ he said. ‘Oh, I’m not saying their paths never crossed, that they wouldn’t say hello if they passed one another in the street, but that’s all.’

‘Where is your wife?’

Fletcher looked at the picture. ‘In Paris,’ he said, his voice shaking with grief and anger. ‘In Paris with that bastard she ran off with.’

The silence that followed weighed on them all. Finally, Banks gestured to Hatchley and they stood up to leave. ‘I’m sorry if I upset you,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t intentional, believe me, but sometimes in a murder investigation…’

Fletcher sighed. ‘Aye, I know. You’ve got to ask. It’s your job. No offence taken.’ And he held out his square callused hand.

Driving down the fell side, Banks and Hatchley said very little. Banks had been impressed by Fletcher’s solidity; he seemed a man with great integrity and strong foundations. But such a man, he knew, could kill when pushed too far. It was easier to push an earnest man too far than it was a more frivolous one. Although he was inclined to believe Fletcher, he nonetheless made a mental note of his reservations.

‘Ideal place, isn’t it?’ Hatchley said, looking back at Fletcher’s farm as they crossed the bridge.

‘In a way,’ Banks answered. ‘A bit dour and spartan for my tastes, though.’

‘I didn’t mean that, sir.’ Hatchley looked puzzled. ‘I meant it’s an ideal location for approaching the hanging valley unseen.’

Banks slowed down on the narrow road as Sam Greenock’s Land Rover passed them going in the other direction. Sam waved half-heartedly as he drove by.

‘Yes,’ Banks said absently. ‘Yes, I suppose it is. I’d just like to stop off at the Greenocks’ before we go back to Eastvale. There’s something I’d like to do. You use the radio and get on to Richmond. See if anything’s come up.’

Katie flinched and backed towards the wall when she saw Banks appear in the doorway of the room she was cleaning.

‘It’s all right, Katie,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. We’ve got to have a little talk, that’s all.’

‘Sam’s out,’ Katie said, clutching the yellow duster tightly over her breast.

‘I know he is. I saw him drive off. It’s you I want to talk to. Come on, Katie, stop playing games. You’ve been trying to avoid us ever since we got here. What is it? What are you afraid of?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Banks sighed. ‘Yes, you do.’ He sat down on the corner of the bed. ‘And I’m prepared to wait until you tell me.’

Now, as she stood cringing by the window, Banks realized who she reminded him of: Hardy’s Tess Durbeyfield. Physically, she resembled Nastassja Kinski, who had played Tess in the film version, but the similarity went deeper than that. Banks had a sense of Tess as a child in a woman’s body, not fully aware of her own beauty and sexuality, or of the effect she might have on men. It wasn’t entirely innocence, but it was close — a kind of innocent sensuality. He made a note to look up the description of Tess in the book when he got home.

‘Look,’ he went on, ‘we can either talk here, or we can go to police headquarters in Eastvale. It’s up to you. I don’t really mind at all.’

‘You can’t do that,’ Katie said, thrusting out her bottom lip. ‘You can’t just take a person away like that. I haven’t done anything. I’ve got my work to finish.’

‘So have I. You’re withholding evidence, Katie. It’s a crime.’

‘I’m not withholding anything.’

‘If you say so.’ Banks stood up with exaggerated slowness. ‘Let’s go, then.’

Katie stepped back until she was flat against the wall. ‘No! If you take me away Sam… Sam’ll…’

‘Come on, Katie,’ Banks said, more gently, ‘don’t be silly.’ He pointed to the chair. ‘Sit down. Tell me about it.’

Katie flopped into the chair by the window and looked down at the floor. ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ she muttered.

‘Let me try and make it a bit easier for you,’ Banks said. ‘Judging by the way you behaved when we talked to you and Sam yesterday, I’d guess that something happened between you and Bernard Allen while he was staying here. Maybe it was personal. You might think it’s your business and it has nothing to do with his death, but I’m the one to be the judge of that. Do you understand?’

Katie just stared at him.

‘You’d known him a long time, hadn’t you?’

‘Since he came to Leeds. We lived next door.’

‘You and Sam?’

‘With his parents.’

‘What happened to your own parents?’

‘They died when I was a little girl. My grandmother brought me up.’ Katie lowered her gaze down to her lap, wringing the yellow duster in her hands.

‘Did you ever go out with Bernie Allen?’

She looked up sharply, and the blood ran to her cheeks. ‘What do you mean? I’m married.’

‘Well, something happened between you, that’s clear enough. Why won’t you tell me what it was?’

‘I’ve told you,’ Katie said. ‘Nothing happened. We were friends, that’s all.’ She went back to twisting the duster on her lap. ‘I’m thirsty.’

Banks brought her a glass of water from the washbasin.

‘Were you lovers, Katie?’ he asked. ‘Did you sleep with Bernard Allen while he was staying here?’

‘No!’ Tears blurred Katie’s clear brown eyes.

‘All right.’ Banks held up his hand. ‘It’s not important. I believe you.’ He didn’t, but he often found it useful to pretend he believed a lie. It was always clear from the teller’s obvious relief that it had been a lie. Afterwards it was easier to get at the information that really mattered. And he had a feeling she was hiding something else.

‘But you spent some time together, didn’t you? Time alone, like friends do?’

Katie nodded.

‘And you must have talked. What did you talk about?’

Katie shrugged. ‘I don’t know, just things. Life.’

‘That’s a broad subject. Anything in particular?’

She was chewing on her bottom lip now, and Banks could sense that she was on the verge of talking. He would have to tread carefully to avoid scaring her off again.

‘It might be important,’ he said. ‘If he was a friend of yours, surely you want his killer caught?’

Katie looked at him as if the idea was completely new to her. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, of course I do.’

‘Will you help me, then?’

‘He talked about Canada, his life in Toronto. What it was like there.’

‘What about it?’

‘How wonderful and exciting it was.’

It was like drawing a confession out of a naughty child. ‘Come on,’ Banks prompted her. ‘There was something special, wasn’t there? You’d have no reason to hide any of this from me, and I know you’re hiding something.’

‘He told me in confidence,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t to tell anyone. Sam’ll kill me if he finds out.’

‘Why?’

‘He doesn’t like me talking to people behind his back.’

‘Look, Katie. Bernard is dead. Somebody murdered him. You can’t keep a secret for a dead man, can you?’

‘Life doesn’t end with death.’

‘Maybe not. But what he said might be important.’

There was a long pause while Katie seemed to struggle with her conscience; each phase of the skirmish flashed across her flawless complexion. Finally, she said, ‘Annie was there. That’s what he told me. Annie was in Toronto.’

‘Annie?’

‘Yes. Anne Ralston. She was a friend of Bernie’s from years ago. She disappeared when we had all that trouble here five years back.’

‘I’ve heard of her. What exactly did Bernard say?’

‘Just that she was living in Toronto now. He’d heard from her about three years ago. She was in Vancouver then. They’d kept in touch, and now she’d moved.’

‘Did he say anything else about her?’

Katie looked at him blankly. ‘No. She just asked him not to go telling everyone in Swainshead that he’d seen her.’

‘This is what Bernard told you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why did he tell you, do you think, when Anne had told him not to tell anyone?’

‘I… I… don’t know,’ Katie stammered. ‘He trusted me. He was just talking about people leaving, finding a new life. He said she was happy there.’

‘Were you talking about wanting a new life for yourself?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Her words lacked conviction. Banks knew he was right. Katie had probably been telling Bernard Allen that she wanted to get away from Swainshead. Why she should want to leave he didn’t know, but from what he’d seen and heard of Sam so far, she might have one good reason.

‘Never mind,’ Banks said. ‘Did he say anything about coming home to stay?’

Katie seemed surprised. ‘No. Why should he? He had a wonderful new life out there.’

‘Did he tell you this on the morning he left or before?’

‘Before. Just after he arrived.’

‘And you were the only one he told?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re hesitating, Katie. Why?’

‘I… I don’t know. You’re confusing me. You’re making me nervous.’

‘Were you the only one he told?’

‘As far as I know, yes.’

‘And who did you tell?’

‘I didn’t tell anyone.’

‘You’re lying, Katie.’

‘I’m not. I—’

‘Who did you tell? Sam?’

Katie pulled at the duster so hard it tore. ‘All right, yes! I told Sam. He’s my husband. Wives aren’t supposed to keep secrets from their husbands, are they?’

‘What did Sam say?’

‘Nothing. He just seemed surprised, that’s all.’

‘Did he know Anne Ralston?’

‘Not well. It was only about a year after we arrived that she disappeared. We met her with Bernie, and she was going out with Stephen, but Sam didn’t know the Colliers as well then.’

‘Are you sure you told no one else?’

‘No one,’ Katie whispered. ‘I swear it.’

Banks believed her.

Sam Greenock, he reflected, was quite a one for passing on news, especially to his cronies in the White Rose, with whom he seemed intent on ingratiating himself. Socially, he was beneath them all. The Colliers were cocks of The Head, and Fletcher owned quite a bit of land. Stephen Collier, as Katie said, had been going out with Anne Ralston around the time she disappeared, which had also been coincidental with the murder of Raymond Addison, the London private detective. Somewhere, somehow, Sam Greenock was involved in it all.

What if Sam had told Stephen that Bernard Allen had been in touch with Anne? And what if she was in a position to tell Allen something incriminating about Collier, something to do with the Addison murder? That would certainly give Stephen a motive. And if that was what had happened, to what extent was Sam Greenock an accessory? For the first time, there seemed to be the strong possibility of a link between the murders of Raymond Addison and Bernard Allen. This would certainly interest Superintendent Gristhorpe, who had withdrawn into his usual role because the two cases hadn’t seemed connected.

‘Thank you, Katie,’ Banks said, walking to the door. ‘You’d better keep our rooms for us. I think we’ll be back this evening.’

Katie nodded wearily. Pale, slumped in the chair, she looked used and abused like a discarded mistress.

‘Anne Ralston?’ Gristhorpe repeated in disbelief. ‘After all these years?’

He and Banks knelt beside the pile of stones. Usually when they worked on the wall together they hardly spoke, but today there was pressing police business to deal with. Sandra had taken Brian and Tracy down into Lyndgarth after lunch to see a local craft exhibition, so they were alone with the twittering larks and the cheeky wagtails on the valley side above the village.

‘You can see how it changes things,’ Banks said.

‘I can indeed — if it had anything to do with Bernard Allen’s murder.’

‘It must have.’

‘We don’t even know that Anne Ralston’s disappearance was connected with Addison’s killing, for a start.’

‘It’s too much of a coincidence, surely?’ Banks said. ‘A private detective is killed and a local woman disappears on practically the same day. If it happened in London, or even in Eastvale, I’d be inclined to think there was no link, but in a small village like Swainshead…?’

‘Aye,’ said Gristhorpe. ‘Put like that… But we need a lot more to go on. No, not that one; it’s too flat.’ Gristhorpe brushed aside the stone Banks had picked up.

‘Sorry.’ Banks searched the pile for something better. ‘I’m working on the assumption that Anne Ralston knew something about Addison’s murder, right?’

‘Right. I’ll go along with that just for the sake of argument.’

‘If she did know something and disappeared without telling us, it means one of two things: either she was paid off, or she was scared for her own life.’

Gristhorpe nodded. ‘Or she might have been protecting someone,’ he added.

‘But then there’d be no need to run.’

‘Maybe she didn’t trust herself to bear up under pressure. Who knows? Go on.’

‘For five years nobody hears any more of her, then suddenly Bernard Allen turns up and tells Katie Greenock he’s been seeing the Ralston woman in Toronto. The next thing we know, Allen’s dead before he can get back there. Now, Katie said that Bernard had been told not to spread it around about him knowing Anne. Was she protecting him, or herself? Or both? We don’t know. What we do know, though, is that she didn’t want her whereabouts known. Allen tells Katie, anyway, and she tells her husband. I think we can safely assume that Sam Greenock told everyone else. Allen must have become a threat to someone because he’d met up with Anne Ralston, who might have known something about Addison’s murder. Stephen Collier was closely associated with her so he looks like a good suspect, but there’s no reason to concentrate on him alone. It could have been any of them — Fletcher, Nicholas, Sam Greenock, even Katie — they were all in Swainshead at the time both Addison and Allen were killed, and we’ve no idea what or who that private detective was after five years ago.’

‘What about opportunity?’

‘Same thing. Everybody knew the route Allen was taking out of Swainshead. He’d talked all about it in the White Rose the night before. And most of them also knew how attached he was to that valley. The killer could easily have hidden among the trees up there and watched for him.’

‘All right,’ Gristhorpe said, placing a through-stone. ‘But what about their alibis?’

‘We’ve only got Fletcher’s word that he was at home. He could have got to the valley from the north without anyone knowing. He lives alone on the fell side and there are no other houses nearby. As for the Colliers, Stephen says he was at the office and Nicholas was at school. We haven’t checked yet, but if Nicholas wasn’t actually teaching a class and Stephen wasn’t in a meeting, either of them could have slipped out for a while, or turned up later. It would have been easy for Nicholas, again approaching from the north, and Stephen could have got up from half a mile past Rawley Force. It’s not much of a climb, and there’s plenty of cover to hide the car off the Helmthorpe road. I had a look on my way over here.’

‘The Greenocks?’

‘Sam could have got there from the road too. He went to Eastvale for supplies, but the shopkeepers can’t say exactly what time he got there. Carter’s doesn’t open till nine, anyway, and the chap in the newsagent’s says Sam usually drops in at about eleven. That gives him plenty of time. He might have had another motive, too.’

Gristhorpe raised his bushy eyebrows.

‘The woman denies it, but I got a strong impression that something went on between Katie Greenock and Bernard Allen.’

‘And you think if Sam got wind of it…?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about Mrs Greenock?’

‘She says she was at home cleaning, but all the guests would have gone out by then. Nobody could confirm that she stayed in.’

‘Have you checked the Colliers’ stories?’

‘Sergeant Hatchley’s doing it tomorrow morning. There’s no one at the factory on a Sunday.’

‘Well, maybe we’ll be a bit clearer when we get all that sorted out.’

‘I’m going back to Swainshead for another night. I’ll want to talk to Stephen Collier again, for one.’

Gristhorpe nodded. ‘Take it easy though, Alan. I’ve already had an earful from the DCC about your last visit.’

‘He didn’t waste any time, did he? Anyway, I could do with a bit of information on the Addison case and the Ralston woman’s disappearance. How did the alibis check out?’

Gristhorpe put down the stone he was weighing in his hand and frowned. Banks lit a cigarette — at least smoking was allowed in the open, if not in the house. He looked at the sky and noticed it had clouded over very quickly. He could sniff rain in the air.

‘Everyone said they were at home. We couldn’t prove otherwise. It was a cold dark February evening. We pushed Stephen Collier as hard as we dared, but he had a perfect alibi for the day of the girl’s disappearance: he was in Carlisle at a business meeting.’

‘Was Walter Collier around in those days?’

‘No. He was dead by then.’

‘What was he like?’

‘He was quite an impressive man. Complex. He had a lot of power and influence in the dale, some of which has carried over to the sons, as you’ve already found out. Now, you know how I feel about privilege and such, but you had to respect Walter; he never really abused his position. He was proud, especially of the family and its achievements, but he managed to be kind and considerate without being condescending. He was also a regular churchgoer, a religious man, but he liked the ladies and he could drink most villagers under the table. Don’t ask me how he managed to square that with himself. It’s rare for a Dales farmer, especially one from a family as long-established as the Colliers, to sell up. But Walter was a man of vision. He saw what things were coming to, so he shifted his interests to food processing and encouraged his sons to get good educations rather than strong muscles.’

‘What was he like as a father?’

‘I’d imagine he was a bit of a tyrant,’ Gristhorpe answered, ‘though I can’t say for certain. Used to being obeyed, getting his own way. They probably felt the back of his hand more than once.’

Banks held out his palm and felt the first, hesitant drops of rain. ‘When Anne Ralston disappeared,’ he asked, ‘were there no signs at all of what might have happened to her?’

‘Nothing. There were a few clothes missing, that’s all.’

‘What about money, bank accounts?’

‘She didn’t have one. She got a wage packet every two weeks from Collier Foods. What she did with the cash, I’ve no idea. Maybe she hid it under the mattress.’

‘But you didn’t find any in the cottage?’

‘Not a brass farthing.’

‘So she could have packed a few things, a bit of money, and simply run off?’

‘Yes. We never found out what happened to her, until now.’ Gristhorpe stood up and scowled at the grey sky. A flock of rooks wheeled above the valley side. ‘Better go inside.’

As they walked round to the side door, they saw Sandra and the children come hurrying up the drive with their coats thrown over their heads. Banks waved to them.

‘It would be very interesting to have a chat with Anne Ralston, wouldn’t it?’ he said.

Gristhorpe looked at him and narrowed his eyes. ‘Aye, it would. But I’m not sure the department would be able to justify the expense.’

‘Still…’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Gristhorpe said. Then Sandra, Brian and Tracy came racing into the house.

7

Katie finished her cleaning in a daze when Banks had gone, and she was so distracted she almost forgot to put the roast in on time. The Greenock Guest House always served a traditional Yorkshire Sunday dinner, both for guests and non-residents, at two o’clock. It was Sam’s idea. Thank God he was in the pub, his usual Sunday lunch-time haunt, Katie thought. He’d be bending elbows with the wonderful Colliers.

Perhaps Sam needn’t know what the policeman had made her tell. But the inspector would be sure to question him, she knew, and he would find out; he was bound to accuse her of betraying him.

With a start, she realized she was in room five, where the talk had taken place on the second morning of Bernie’s stay. But it wasn’t his words she thought of now. The rush of images almost overwhelmed her at first, but she forced herself to re-examine what had happened. Perhaps it hadn’t been such a sin, after all? Of course it was, she told herself; it was a double sin, for she was a married woman. But it had happened, she couldn’t deny that. The first time in all her married life.

That morning she had been cleaning the rooms as usual, when Bernie had come back to put on his walking boots. The sky had brightened, he said, and he had decided to go for a good long walk after all. They’d talked for as much time as she dared take off from her chores, then he had sat on the bed while she washed the windows. All the time she had been aware of him watching her. Finally, when she felt his arms around her waist, she told him no. She had her back to him and he bent to kiss her neck where the wisps of blonde hair were swept up and tied while she worked. She struggled, but he held her tightly and his hands found her breasts. She dropped the chamois and it fell in the bucket and splashed water on the carpet.

Why did she let him? She had always liked him, but why this? Why let him do what she hated most? She thought perhaps it was because he offered her a chance to escape, and that this was the price she would have to pay. He was gentler than Sam. His mouth moved over her shoulder and his hands slid down along her stomach and over her thighs. She didn’t have the heart or the courage to put up a fight; men were so strong. Surely, she thought, it could do no harm as long as she didn’t feel pleasure. She couldn’t tell Sam. That would mean she’d have to lie, too. She would have to wash her mouth out with soap.

Then he said he loved her, that he’d always wanted her, as his hands unfastened her skirt. She struggled again, but less violently this time, and he backed her towards the bed. There, he finished undressing her. She was trembling, but so was he; even body language speaks ambiguously at times. She held on to the bedposts tightly as he bore down on her, and she knew he thought her groans were sounds of pleasure. Why did men want her like this? Why did they want to do these things to her?

He kissed her breasts and said he would take her back to Canada with him, and suddenly that seemed like the answer. She wanted to get away, she needed to. Swainshead and Sam were stifling her.

So she didn’t struggle any more. Bernard talked of the vast prairie skies and of lakes as boundless as oceans as his hands caressed her still body. Yes, he would take her with him, he said; he had always wanted her. Urgently, he drew himself along the length of her body and entered her. She bit her tongue in loathing and self-disgust, and he looked into her eyes and smiled as she made little strangled cries that must have sounded like pleasure.

After, as they dressed, Katie had tried to hide the shame of her nakedness from his gaze. He had laughed and told her he found her modesty very appealing. She said he’d better go, that Sam would be back, and he reminded her about Canada.

‘I’ll send for you when I get back,’ he promised. ‘I’ll find a place for us and I’ll send for you. Anne’s there, too. She wanted to get away, just like you. She’s happy now.’

‘Yes,’ she had said, anxious to get rid of him. ‘I’ll come with you.’ Then he had kissed her and left the room.

After that morning, they had hardly spoken to one another — mostly because Sam had been around or Katie had contrived to avoid Bernie — but he kept giving her meaningful glances whenever nobody was looking. She believed him. He would send for her.

Not any more. All for nothing. All gone. All she had left was the guilt. ‘As ye sow, so shall ye reap,’ her granny had always said. She had behaved wantonly, like that time she had swayed to the distant music. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t enjoyed it; now everything was a mess, Bernie was dead, and the police were all over the place. She was reaping what she had sown.

Stephen Collier was sitting in his spacious living room reading a thick leather-bound report when Banks and Hatchley called that evening. The French windows were open on to the patio and lawn, and the fountain played against a backdrop of drystone-walled fell side. A brief heavy shower had cleansed the landscape and in the gentle evening light the grass was lush and green, the limestone outcrops bright as marble.

Stephen seemed surprised and annoyed at a second visit from the police so close on the heels of the first, but he quickly regained his composure and offered drinks.

‘I’ll have a Scotch, please,’ Banks said.

‘Sergeant Hatchley?’

‘Don’t mind if I do, sir.’ Hatchley glanced towards Banks, who nodded his permission. After all, he had spoiled the sergeant’s weekend. Hatchley took out his notebook and settled in a corner with his drink.

‘What can I do for you this time?’ Stephen asked. ‘Do you want to see my brother, too?’

‘Not at the moment,’ Banks said. ‘I want to talk to you about Anne Ralston.’

Collier frowned. ‘Anne Ralston? What about her? That was years ago.’

‘I’d like to know what happened.’

‘Aren’t I entitled to know why?’

‘Will you just bear with me for a while?’

‘Very well.’

‘As far as I know,’ Banks began, ‘she disappeared the day after the private detective, Raymond Addison, was killed. Am I right?’

‘I wouldn’t know when he was killed,’ Stephen said. ‘Though I do remember Superintendent Gristhorpe saying something about a post-mortem report.’

‘But it was around that time she disappeared?’

‘Yes.’

‘And she was an employee of Collier Foods?’

‘Yes. Your superintendent already knows all this. Please get to the point, Chief Inspector.’ He tapped the book on his lap. ‘I have an important report to study for a meeting in the morning.’

‘I won’t keep you long, sir,’ Banks said, ‘if you’ll just answer my questions. Were you going out with Anne Ralston at the time of her disappearance?’

‘Yes. You know I was. But I don’t see—’

Banks held up his hand. ‘Let me finish, please. Can you think of any reason why she should disappear?’

‘None.’

‘What do you think happened to her?’

Collier walked over to the cocktail cabinet and refilled his glass. He offered Banks and Hatchley cigarettes from a box on the glass-topped coffee table.

‘I thought she might have gone off to see the world,’ he answered. ‘It was something she’d often talked about.’

‘Didn’t it worry you?’

‘Didn’t what worry me?’

‘Her disappearance.’

‘I must admit, in some of my darker moments I thought something might have happened to her — a wandering psychopath or something — especially with the Addison business. But I decided it wasn’t so out of character for Anne to just up and go.’

‘Weren’t you bothered that she never got in touch with you? Or did she?’

Collier smiled. ‘No, Chief Inspector, she didn’t. And, yes, it was a bit of a blow to the ego at first. But I got used to it. It wasn’t as if we were engaged or living together.’

‘I noticed you mentioned a moment ago that you linked her disappearance with the Addison killing — a wandering psychopath. Did it occur to you to link the two events in any other way?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Could Anne Ralston have had something to do with Addison’s visit to Swainshead? He was a private detective, after all.’

‘Yes, I know. But nobody here had any idea why he was in the area. If it was anything to do with Anne, she certainly kept quiet about it. Maybe he was just on holiday. I’m sure private eyes have holidays too.’

‘Would she have been likely to tell you?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t imagine she told me everything about her life. Ours was a casual relationship. I’d never have expected her to bare her soul.’

‘Are you sure it wasn’t more serious on her part?’

‘Not at all. She’d been around.’

‘And you?’

Stephen smiled. ‘I wasn’t new to the wily ways of the fair sex, no. Another drink?’

Hatchley passed his empty glass and Banks nodded. He lit a Silk Cut and looked out on to the lawn. Two sparrows were taking a bath in the fountain. There was plenty of room, but each defended its territory with an angry flapping of wings, splashing water all over the place. A shadow fell over the patio and Nicholas Collier popped his head round the French windows.

‘Hello,’ he said, stepping into the room. ‘I thought I heard voices.’

‘If you don’t mind, sir…’ Sergeant Hatchley stood up and blocked the entrance, a task for which he might have been specially designed.

Nicholas tilted his head back and looked down his long nose at Hatchley. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I’m just having a little chat with your brother,’ Banks said. ‘You’re perfectly at liberty to stay, but I’d be obliged if you’d refrain from interrupting.’

Nicholas raised his black eyebrows. He seemed to have forgotten his sulking, but he clearly wasn’t used to being told what to do. For a moment, anger flashed in his eyes, then he simply nodded and sat by the windows.

‘Look,’ Stephen said, frowning at his brother and coming back with the drinks. ‘Where on earth is all this leading? Anne Ralston is history now. I haven’t seen or heard from her in five years. Quite frankly, it was embarrassing enough at the time having our relationship, such as it was, plastered all over the local papers. I wouldn’t like to relive that.’

‘You mean you didn’t know?’ Banks said, sipping his Scotch.

‘Didn’t know what?’

‘About Anne Ralston.’

‘Look here. If this is some kind of a game…’

Did he or didn’t he? Banks couldn’t be sure. Sam Greenock would know the answer to that — when he got home, and if he could be persuaded to talk.

‘Anne’s turned up again.’

‘But… where?’

‘Bernard Allen knew where she was. He told the Greenocks. Surely Sam told you?’

‘No. No, I’d no idea. How is she? What happened?’

‘I don’t know all the details,’ Banks said. ‘Just that she’s alive and well and living in Canada. Are you sure nobody told you?’

‘I’ve already said so, haven’t I? This is a complete surprise to me. Though I was sure she’d turn up somewhere, some day.’ He went over and poured himself another drink; his hand was shaking. Banks glanced sideways at Nicholas, who sat impassively in his chair. There was no way of telling what he knew or didn’t know.

Banks and Hatchley finished their drinks and stood up.

‘I’m sorry it came as such a shock, Mr Collier,’ Banks said. ‘I just thought you ought to know.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Stephen said. ‘I’m very grateful to you. If you do hear anything else…’

‘We’ll let you know.’

‘There is just one thing,’ Stephen said, standing in the doorway. ‘What has this to do with Bernard Allen’s death? Do you see any connection?’

‘I don’t know, Mr Collier,’ Banks said. ‘I really don’t know. It does seem like a bit of a coincidence though — Anne disappearing the day after Addison’s killing, then turning up again, so to speak, around the time of Allen’s murder. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

And they walked back over the bridge, where the three men stood like shadows in the soft light. On impulse, Banks sent Hatchley on ahead and stopped.

‘Do you remember Anne Ralston?’ he asked the gnarled spokesman.

As was his custom, the man spat in the fledgling River Swain before answering. ‘Aye. Allus in and out o’ there.’ He nodded over at the Collier house.

‘Have you seen her at all over the last few years?’

‘Nay. She flitted.’

‘And she hasn’t been back?’

He shook his head.

‘Have you seen either Mr or Mrs Greenock go over to the Collier house this afternoon?’

‘Aye,’ the man said. ‘Sam Greenock went over about three o’clock.’

‘To see Stephen or Nicholas?’

‘It were Mr Stephen’s door he knocked on.’

‘And did Stephen Collier answer it?’

The man scowled. ‘Aye, course he did.’

‘How long was Mr Greenock in there?’

‘Baht ten minutes.’

‘Thank you,’ Banks said, heading for the guest house. ‘Thank you very much.’

He heard his reluctant informant hack into the beck again, then the murmur of their voices rose up behind him.

Katie Greenock hurried away when she saw Banks coming, but he couldn’t help noticing that she moved with some difficulty.

‘Katie!’ he called, hurrying down the hall after her and grasping her elbow.

She spun round and faced him, one hand over her stomach. Her face was white and tense with suppressed pain. ‘What do you want?’ she asked angrily. ‘Haven’t you caused enough trouble?’

‘There’ll be a lot more before this business is over, Katie. I’m sorry, but there it is. You’ll just have to learn to face the world. Anyway, that’s not why I called you. What’s wrong? You look ill.’

‘Nothing’s wrong.’

‘You’re white as a ghost. And what’s wrong with your stomach? Does it ache?’

‘What do you care?’ she asked, breaking away.

‘Is it Sam? Has he hurt you?’

‘I don’t know what you mean. I’ve got a tummy ache, that’s all.’

‘Did you tell Sam you’d told me about Anne?’

‘I had to, didn’t I? He knew there was something wrong. I’m not good at hiding things.’

‘And what did he do, beat it out of you?’

‘I told you, I’ve just got a tummy ache. Leave me alone, I feel sick.’

‘Where is he?’

She gestured with her head. ‘In back.’

‘Will you stay out here for a few minutes, Katie, while I talk to him?’

Katie nodded and edged into the dining room.

Banks walked down the hall and knocked on the door that separated the Greenocks’ part of the house from the rest. Sam let him in.

‘Chief Inspector Banks,’ he said. ‘What a surprise. I hope nothing’s wrong?’

‘Has your wife told you we had a little talk earlier today?’

Greenock sat down. ‘Well, yes. She did right, too. I’m her husband.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me about the Ralston woman earlier, as soon as we found out it was Bernard Allen feeding the maggots up in the hanging valley? This is the second time you’ve obstructed our investigation, and I’m having serious thoughts about taking you in.’

‘Now hold on a minute.’ Sam stood up again and puffed out his chest. ‘You can’t come round here making accusations like that.’

‘She said she told you that Bernard had met up with Anne Ralston in Canada.’

‘So?’

‘So you should have told me.’

‘You never asked.’

Banks glared at him.

‘I didn’t think it was relevant. Dammit, Chief Inspector, the woman’s been gone for five years.’

‘You know bloody well how important she is. She’s important enough for you to dash out and tell Stephen Collier that Katie had told me what Bernie said. What’s going on, Greenock? Just what is your involvement in all this?’

‘Nothing,’ Sam said. ‘There’s nothing going on. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘But you did go over to Stephen Collier’s this afternoon?’

‘So what? We’re friends. I dropped in for a drink.’

‘Did you also dash over a few weeks ago and tell him what Bernie said about Anne Ralston turning up?’

‘I didn’t tell anyone.’

‘I think you did. I also think you told him this afternoon that your wife had let the cat out of the bag to me about Anne Ralston. Didn’t you?’

‘I did no such thing. And you can’t prove it either.’

‘I will prove it,’ Banks said. ‘Believe me, I will. And when I do, your feet won’t touch the ground.’

‘You don’t scare me,’ Sam said.

Banks drew closer and Greenock backed towards the wall. They were both about the same size, though Sam was heavier.

‘I don’t?’ Banks said. ‘Well, I bloody well should. Where I come from, we don’t always do things by the book. Do you know what I mean?’ It was Hatchley’s line, Banks knew, but it wasn’t as if he was intimidating some scared kid. Sam was a villain, and Banks knew it. His dark eyes glittered with pent-up energy and Sam flinched as he felt his shoulder blades make contact with the wall.

‘Leave me alone!’ Sam shouted. ‘I’ll bloody report you, I will.’

Banks sneered. ‘That’s a laugh.’ Then he backed away. ‘Keep out of my sight, Greenock,’ he said. ‘If I want you, I’ll know which rock to look under. And when I do, I’ll have proof. And if I see or hear any more evidence — even the merest hint — that you’ve been hurting your wife again, I’ll make you bloody sorry you were ever born.’

‘Will there be anything else?’ the waitress asked, clearing away the empty plate.

‘What? Oh, yes. Yes. Another cup of tea, please.’ Katie Greenock had to pull herself back from a very long way. It would be her third cup but why not? Let it simply be another part of her little rebellion.

She sat at a table with a red-checked cloth — very clean, she noticed — by the window of the Golden Grill in Eastvale. The narrow street outside was busy with pedestrians, even in the thin drizzle, and almost directly opposite her was the whitewashed building with the black beams and the incongruous white-on-blue sign over the entrance: police.

It was early Monday afternoon, and she didn’t know what she was doing in Eastvale. Already she was beginning to feel guilty. It was simply a minor gesture, she tried to convince herself, but her conscience invested it with the magnitude of Satan’s revolt.

That morning, at about eleven o’clock, she had felt so claustrophobic cleaning the rooms that she just had to get out — not only out of the house, but out of Swainshead itself for a while. Walking aimlessly down the street, she had met Beryl Vickers, a neighbour she occasionally talked gardening with, and accepted her offer of a lift into Eastvale for a morning’s shopping. Beryl was visiting her sister there, so Katie was left free to wander by herself for a few hours. After buying some lamb chops and broccoli at the indoor market for that evening’s dinner, she had found the Golden Grill and decided to rest her feet.

She had only been sitting there for fifteen minutes when she saw three men come out of the pub next door and hurry through the rain back into the police station. Two of them she recognized — the lean dark inspector and his fair heavy sergeant — but the young athletic-looking one with the droopy moustache and the curious loping walk was new to her. For a moment, she thought they were sure to glance over their shoulders and see her through the window, so she covered the side of her face with her hand. They didn’t even look.

As soon as she saw the inspector, she felt again the bruises that Sam had inflicted on her the previous afternoon. She knew it wasn’t the policeman’s fault — in fact, he seemed like a kind man — but she couldn’t help the association any more than she could help feeling one between room five and what she had let Bernie do to her.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ Sam had asked when he came home.

Katie had tried to hide her red-rimmed eyes from him, but he grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger and asked her again. That was when she told him the police had been back and the inspector had interrogated her so hard she couldn’t hide it from him any more.

Sam had hit the roof.

‘But it’s not that important,’ Katie protested. ‘It can’t be!’

‘That’s not for you to say,’ Sam argued. He threw up his hands. ‘You stupid bloody bitch, have you any idea what trouble you might have caused?’

Though she was scared, Katie still felt defiant. ‘What do you mean, trouble?’ she asked, her lower lip trembling. ‘Trouble for who?’

‘For everyone, that’s for who.’

‘For your precious Colliers, I’ll bet.’ As she said it, her image was of Nicholas, not Stephen.

And that was when Sam hit her the first time, a short sharp blow to the stomach. She doubled up in pain, and when she was able to stand again he thumped her left breast. That hurt even more. She collapsed on the sofa and Sam stood over her. His face was red and he was breathing oddly, in short gasps that seemed to catch in his throat. ‘If we make something of ourselves in this place,’ he said, ‘it won’t be any thanks to you.’

He didn’t hit her any more. He knew when enough was enough. But later that night, in bed, the same cruel hands grasped the same wounded breast. He pulled her roughly to him, and there was nothing she could do about it. Katie shuddered, trying to shake off the memory.

‘Will that be all?’ the waitress asked, standing over her again.

‘Oh, yes. Yes, thank you,’ Katie said, paying the bill. Awkwardly, aware of the ache in her breast and the Black Forest gateau sitting uneasily in her sore stomach, she made her way out into the street. She had one more hour of freedom to wander in the rain before meeting Beryl near the bus station at two thirty. Then she would have to go home and face the music.

After a pub lunch in the Queen’s Arms and a chat with Hatchley and Richmond about the case, Banks was no further ahead. Back in his office, he sat down, sent for some coffee and put his feet up on the desk to think things out. When PC Craig arrived with the coffee — looking very put out, no doubt because Susan Gay had coerced him into carrying it up — Banks lit a Silk Cut and went over what he’d got.

Richmond had discovered that Les Haines, Bernie Allen’s brother-in-law, had done a brief stretch in Armley Prison for receiving stolen goods (i.e. two boxes of Sony E-120 video cassette tapes). It was his second offence, hot on the heels of an assault charge against a man in an alley outside a Leeds bar. But Haines had been at work on the day of Allen’s murder, so he would have had no opportunity to get to Swainshead and back, even if there had been some obscure family motive. Besides, as Banks well knew, just because a man has a record as a petty thief, it doesn’t make him a murderer. Esther had been at home with the kids, as usual, and Banks could hardly visualize her trailing them up to the hanging valley and knocking off her brother.

Most interesting of all were the Colliers’ alibis, or lack of them. Nicholas never taught classes on Friday mornings, but he usually went in anyway and used the time for paperwork. On the Friday in question, however, the headmaster’s administrative assistant remembered seeing him arrive late, at around eleven o’clock. This was nothing unusual — it had happened often enough before — but it did leave him without a valid alibi.

Stephen Collier, it turned out, had no meetings scheduled for that day, again quite normal in itself, and nobody could remember whether he had been in or not. Work days, the world-weary secretary explained to Sergeant Hatchley, are so much the same that most office workers have difficulty remembering one from another. Mr Collier was often off the premises anyway, and the people who actually ran the business never saw much of him.

PC Weaver from Helmthorpe, who had been questioning people in Swainshead that morning, reported that nobody remembered seeing Bernard Allen out there on the morning in question, let alone noticed anyone follow him.

At about two o’clock, Richmond popped his head round the door. He’d been using the computer to check with various business agencies and immigration offices, but so far he’d found no one in Swainshead with Canadian connections. Except for Stephen Collier, who dealt with a Montreal-based food products corporation.

‘What’s a food product, do you think?’ Banks asked Richmond.

‘I wouldn’t know, sir. Something that’s not real food, I’d imagine.’

‘And I thought he was trading Wensleydale cheese for maple syrup. That reminds me: what time is it in Toronto?’

Richmond looked at his watch. ‘It’ll be about nine in the morning.’

‘I’d better phone the Mounties.’

‘Er… they won’t be Mounties, sir. Not in Toronto.’ Richmond stroked his moustache.

‘Oh? What will they be?’

‘The Toronto Metropolitan Police, sir. The RCMP’s federal. These days they mostly do undercover work and police the more remote areas.’

Banks grinned. ‘Well, you learn something new every day.’

When Richmond had left, he lit a cigarette and picked up the phone. There was a lot of messing about with the switchboard, but after a few minutes of clicks and whirrs, the phone started ringing at the other end. It wasn’t the harsh and insistent sound of an English telephone though; the rings were longer, as were the pauses between them.

When someone finally answered, it took Banks a while to explain who he was and what he wanted. After a few more clicks, he finally got through to the right man.

‘Chief Inspector Banks? Staff Sergeant Gregson here. And how’s the old country?’

‘Fine,’ said Banks, a little perplexed by the question.

‘My father was a Brit,’ Gregson went on. ‘Came from Derbyshire.’ He pronounced the e as in clergy, and shire came out as sheer. ‘Do you know it?’ he asked.

‘Oh, yes. It’s just down the road.’

‘Small country.’

‘Right.’

Gregson cleared his throat and Banks could hear papers rustling three thousand miles away. ‘I can’t say we’ve got any good news for you,’ the Canadian said. ‘We’ve had a look around Allen’s apartment, but we didn’t find anything unusual.’

‘Was there an address book?’

‘Address book… let me see…’ More paper rustled. ‘No. No address book. No diary.’

‘Damn. He must have taken them with him.’

‘Makes sense, doesn’t it? If he was going on vacation he’d be sure to want to send pretty postcards to all his buddies back home.’

‘What about his friends? Have you seen any of them?’

‘We talked to his colleagues at work. There’s not many of them around. College finishes in early May, so teachers are pretty thin on the ground at this time of year. Nice work if you can get it, eh? Now they’re all off swimming in the lake and sunning themselves on the deck up at their fancy summer cottages in Muskoka.’

‘Is that like a villa in Majorca?’

‘Huh?’

‘Never mind. What did they have to say?’

‘Said he was a bit aloof, stand-offish. Course, a lot of Brits over here are like that. They think Canada’s still part of the Empire, so they come on like someone out of The Jewel in the Crown.’

‘Did you find his ex-wife?’

‘Yup. She’s been in Calgary for the past six months, so you can count her out.’

‘Apparently, there was a lover,’ Banks told him. ‘Someone at the college. That’s why they got divorced.’

‘Have you got a name?’

‘Sorry.’

Gregson sighed. ‘I’d like to help you, Chief Inspector, I really would,’ he said, ‘but we can’t spare the men to go tracking down some guy who ran off with Allen’s wife. We just don’t have the manpower.’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Besides, people don’t usually steal a man’s wife and then kill him.’

‘They might if he was causing them problems. But you’re right, it’s not likely. Did he have any girlfriends?’

‘As I said, his colleagues thought he was a bit stuck-up. One of them even thought he was gay, but I wouldn’t pay much mind to that. Sometimes, with their accents and mannerisms and all, Brits do seem a bit that way to us North Americans.’

‘Yes,’ Banks said, gritting his teeth. ‘I think that just about covers it all. I can see now why they say you always get your man.’ And he hung up. Nothing. Still nothing. He obviously couldn’t expect any help from across the Atlantic.

Still feeling a residue of irrational anger at Gregson’s sarcasm, he walked over to the window and lit a cigarette. The drizzle had turned into steady rain now and the square below was bright with open umbrellas. As he gazed down on the scene, one woman caught his eye. She walked in a daze, as if she wasn’t sure where she was heading. She looked soaked to the skin, too; her hair was plastered to her head and the thin white blouse she wore was moulded to her form so that the outline of her brassiere stood out in clear relief. It took Banks a few moments to recognize Katie Greenock.

He grabbed his raincoat and made a move to go down and make sure she was all right, but when he looked out for her one last time, she was nowhere in sight. She had disappeared like a phantom. There was no sense in searching the town for her just because she was walking in the rain without an umbrella. Still, he was strangely disturbed by the vision. It worried him. For the rest of the wet afternoon he felt haunted by that slight and sensuous figure staring into an inner distance, walking in the rain.