The Hanging Valley

12

‘Accidental death! Don’t you think that’s just a bit too bloody convenient?’

Sergeant Hatchley shrugged as if to imply that perhaps if Banks didn’t go gallivanting off to the New World such things might not happen. ‘Doctor says it could have been suicide,’ he said.

Banks ran his hand through his close-cropped black hair. It was twelve thirty. He was back in his office only an hour after arriving home, jet-lagged and disoriented. So far, he hadn’t even had a chance to admire his favourite view of the cobbled market square. The office was smoky and a cup of black coffee steamed on the desk. Superintendent Gristhorpe was keeping an appointment with the deputy chief constable, whose personal interest in events was a measure of the Colliers’ influence in the dale.

‘And where the hell was Richmond?’ Banks went on. ‘Wasn’t he supposed to be baby-sitting the lot of them while I was away?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Where was he then?’

‘Asleep at the Greenocks’, I suppose. He could hardly invite himself to spend the night with the Colliers, could he?’

‘That’s not the point. He should have known something was wrong. Send him in.’

‘He’s just gone off duty, sir.’

‘Well, bloody well bring him back again!’

‘Yes, sir.’

Hatchley stalked out of the office. Banks sighed, stubbed out his cigarette and walked over to the window. The cobbled market square was still there, a bit rain drenched, but still there. Tourists posed for photographs on the worn plinth of the ancient market cross. The church door stood open and Banks could hear the distant sound of the congregation singing ‘Jerusalem’.

So he was home. He’d just had time to say hello to Brian and Tracy, then he’d had to hurry down to the station. He hadn’t even given them their presents yet: a Blue Jays sweatshirt for Brian, the Illustrated History of Canada for his budding historian daughter, Tracy, and a study of the Group of Seven, with plenty of fine reproductions, for Sandra. They were still packed in his suitcase, which stood next to the duty-free cigarettes and Scotch in the hall.

Already Toronto was a memory with the quality of a dream — baseball, the community college, Kleinburg, Niagara Falls, the CN Tower, and the tall downtown buildings in black and white and gold. But Staff Sergeant Gregson, the Feathers crowd and Anne Ralston/Julie Culver weren’t a dream. They were what he had gone for. And now he’d come back to find Stephen Collier dead.

There was no suicide note; at least nobody had found one so far. According to Nicholas Collier, John Fletcher and Sam Greenock, who had all been with Stephen on his last night at the White Rose, Stephen, always highly strung and restless, had seemed excessively nervous. He had got much more drunk than usual. Finally, long beyond closing time, they had had to help him home. They had deposited Stephen fully clothed on his bed, then adjourned to Nicholas’s half of the house, where they had a nightcap. John and Sam then left, and Nicholas went to bed.

In the morning, when he went to see how his brother was, Nicholas had discovered him dead. The initial findings of Dr Glendenning indicated that he had died of suffocation. It appeared that Stephen Collier had vomited while under the influence of barbiturates and been unable to wake up. Such things often happened when pills and booze were mixed, Glendenning had said. All that had to be determined now was the amount of barbiturate in Stephen’s system, and that would have to wait until the post-mortem. He had suffered from insomnia for a long time and had a prescription for Nembutal.

So what had happened? According to Hatchley, Stephen must have got up after the others left and taken his sleeping pills as usual, then gone downstairs and played a record — Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony was still spinning on the turntable — had another drink or two of Scotch from a tumbler, which was still half full, gone back upstairs, taken some more sleeping pills and passed out. By that time, given how much he’d had to drink, he probably wouldn’t have remembered taking the first lot of pills. The only question was, did he do it deliberately or not? And the only person who could answer that was Stephen himself.

It was damned unsatisfactory, Banks thought, but it looked like an end to both the Addison and Allen cases. Stephen Collier had certainly confessed to Anne Ralston. He knew that Banks would find her and that when she heard Bernie had been killed, she would pass on the information. He must have gone through a week of torment trying to decide what to do — make a run for it or stay and brazen it out. After all, it was only her word against his. The strain had finally proved too much for him, and either accidentally or on purpose — or accidentally on purpose — he had put an end to things, perhaps to save himself and the family name the ignominy of a trial and all the publicity it would bring down on them.

Feeling calmer, Banks lit another cigarette. He finished his coffee and determined not to haul Richmond over the coals. After all, as Hatchley had said, the constable couldn’t be everywhere at once. He still felt restless though; his nerves were jangling and his eyes ached. He had that strange and disturbing sensation of wanting to sleep but knowing he couldn’t even if he tried. When he rubbed his chin, he could feel the bristles. He hadn’t even had time for a shave.

When Richmond arrived, they walked over to the Queen’s Arms. After the morning sunshine, it had turned cool and rainy; a wonderful relief after the hellish steam bath of Toronto, Banks thought as he looked up and let the rain fall on his face. Cyril, the landlord, rustled them up a couple of ham and tomato sandwiches. They found an empty table in a corner, and Banks got the drinks in.

‘Look, I’m sorry for dragging you back, Phil,’ he said, ‘but I want to hear your version of what happened.’

‘In the White Rose, sir?’

‘The whole week. Just tell me what you saw and thought.’

‘There’s not very much to tell, really,’ Richmond said, and he gave Banks his version of the week’s events in as much detail as he could.

‘Katie Greenock went off with Stephen Collier on Friday afternoon, is that right?’

‘Yes, sir. They went for a walk up Swainshead Fell. I took a walk up Adam’s Fell and I could see them across the dale.’

‘Did they go towards the hanging valley?’

‘No, sir, they didn’t go over the top — just diagonal, as far as the river’s source. It’s about halfway up and a bit to the north.’

Banks wondered if anything had gone on between Katie and Stephen Collier. It seemed unlikely, given the kind of woman she seemed to be, but he was sure that she had surrendered to Bernard Allen. And in her case, the old-fashioned term ‘surrendered’ was the right word to use. Banks recalled the image of Katie standing in the market square, soaked to the skin, just before he’d left, and he remembered the eerie feeling he’d had that she was coming apart at the seams. It would certainly be worth talking to her again; at the very least she would be able to tell him something more about Collier’s state of mind on the day before he died.

‘What about Saturday night in the White Rose? How long were you there?’

‘From about nine till closing time, sir. I tried to pace myself, not drink too much.’

Banks grinned, remembering his own nights in the Toronto pubs. ‘A tough job, eh? Never mind. Notice anything?’

‘Like I told the super and Sergeant Hatchley, sir, it seemed pretty much of a normal night to me.’

‘You didn’t think Stephen Collier was drinking more than usual?’

‘I don’t know how much he usually drank, sir. I’d say from the other three nights I saw him in the White Rose during my stay, he did drink more on Saturday. But it was Saturday night. People do overdo it a bit then, don’t they? No work in the morning.’

‘Unless you’re a copper.’

Cyril called last orders and Banks hurried to the bar for another two pints.

‘What was the mood like at the table?’ he asked when he got back.

‘A bit festive, really.’

‘No arguments, no sullen silences?’

‘No. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. There was one thing…’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I couldn’t hear anything because Sam and Stephen were talking quite loudly, but I got the impression that at one point John Fletcher and Nicholas Collier were having a bit of a barney.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m just going by the expressions on their faces, sir. It looked like Nicholas was angry with Fletcher for some reason and Fletcher just brushed him aside.’

‘Did the others appear to notice?’

‘No. Like I said, sir, they were talking, arguing about politics or something.’

‘And this was Nicholas Collier and John Fletcher, not Stephen?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Odd. How did Stephen seem?’

‘I’d say he was a fairly happy drunk. Happier than he ever seemed sober.’

‘What was he drinking?’

‘They were all drinking beer.’

‘How many pints would you say Stephen had?’

Richmond flushed and fiddled with his moustache. ‘I wasn’t really counting, sir. Perhaps I should have been, but…’

‘You weren’t to know he’d be dead in the morning. Don’t worry. It’s the bane of our lives. If we all had twenty-twenty hindsight our job’d be a lot easier. Just try and remember. Picture it as clearly as you can.’

Richmond closed his eyes. ‘At a guess, I’d say about five or six, sir.’

‘Five or six. Not a lot, really, is it? Not for a Yorkshire-man, anyway. And he was practically legless?’

‘Yes, sir. Maybe he was drinking the vodka as well.’

‘What vodka?’

‘I’m not clear on it, but I remember Freddie Metcalfe, the landlord, muttering something about having to change the bottle after one of them had been up and bought a round. It was busy and he said he needed eight hands to do his job.’

‘But you never saw Stephen put a shorts glass to his lips?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Did anyone?’

‘Not that I remember.’

‘Odd, that, isn’t it? What happened to the vodka, then?’

‘Perhaps whoever bought it just drank it down at the bar.’

‘Hmm. It’s possible. But why? Let’s leave it for the moment, anyway. Did you hear any mention at all of Oxford during the week?’

‘You mean the university, sir?’

‘Any mention at all. The name: Oxford.’

Richmond shook his head.

‘All right, that’ll do for now.’ Banks rubbed his eyes.

They drifted out into the street with the others as Cyril prepared to lock up for the afternoon. There was a lot more to think about now. Nothing that Banks had heard since he got back had been at all convincing. Something was wrong, he felt, and the case was far from over. Sending Richmond back home, he decided on a short walk in the rain to freshen himself up before returning to the station.

Katie watched the rain swell the becks that rushed down Swainshead Fell as it got dark that night. The rhythmic gurgle of water through the half-open window calmed her. All day she had been agitated. Now it was after ten; Sam was still at the pub, and Katie was brooding over the day’s events.

If only she had told Sam that their guest was a policeman, probably sent to spy on them. Then he’d have informed all and sundry, and maybe things would have been different. But now Stephen had to die, too; another escape route cut off. Had the policeman noticed anything? Katie didn’t think so. There had been nothing really to notice.

Ever since morning, when Stephen’s body had been discovered, Upper Head had been stunned. Women gathered in the street after church and lowered their voices, looking over at the Gothic house and shaking their heads. The Colliers were, when all was said and done, still regarded as lords of the manor.

All the curtains of their spooky Victorian mansion across the river had been drawn since morning, when the police and doctors had finished and taken Stephen’s body away. One or two people had dropped in to offer condolences, including John Fletcher, who’d have got a rude reception from Nicholas, Katie thought, under any other circumstances. Sam, of course, had been one of the first, keen to establish himself with the new squire now that the more approachable Stephen was gone. Now Sam and John were no doubt getting maudlin drunk in the White Rose. Katie hadn’t gone across to the house; she couldn’t face Nicholas Collier alone again after the incident at the party.

Rain spilled in over the window sill. Katie dipped a finger in it and made patterns on the white paintwork. The water beaded on the paint no matter what she tried to make it do. A breeze had sprung up and it brought the scent of summer rain indoors; shivering, she pulled her grey lambswool cardigan around her shoulders.

‘Be sure your sins will find you out,’ another of her grandmother’s favourite maxims, sprang into her mind. With it came the dim and painful memory of a telltale boy’s hair on her collar when she had come home from her one and only visit to the church-run youth club. It must have got there in the cloakroom, somehow, but her grandmother had thrust it forward as irrefutable evidence of Katie’s lewd and lascivious nature before making her stand ‘naked in her shame’ in the corner of the cold stone-flagged kitchen all evening. She had been supposed to repeat ‘Be sure your sins will find you out’ under her breath all the time she stood there, but she hadn’t. That was another sin: disobedience. The vicar had got an earful, too, about running a house of ill repute and corrupting local youth. That had pleased Katie; she didn’t like him anyway because his breath smelled like the toilet when he came close, which he always did. Taking pleasure in the misfortune of others was another sin she had been guilty of that day.

Katie closed the window and turned to get into bed. It was after ten thirty. Sam would probably be back soon. There was a chance that if she pretended to be asleep…

But sleep didn’t come easily. She thought of Stephen again, of his chaste touch. Life might not have been so bad if he had taken her away with him. She knew he would want to have her eventually — it would be part of the price — but he seemed a gentle person, like Bernard had been, and perhaps he wouldn’t be too demanding. The images blurred in her mind as sleep came closer: her grandmother brandishing the hair, black eyes flashing, Bernard breathing hard as he pulled at her clothes… She heard the back door open and close noisily. Sam. Quickly, she turned over and pulled the covers up to her ears. Her feet were cold.

‘What do you think, then, Alan?’

Banks and Gristhorpe sat at the dining-room table later that night and sipped duty-free Bell’s. The children were in bed and Sandra was leafing through the book Banks had brought her from Toronto. Banks felt better after the short nap he had taken late in the afternoon.

‘It stinks. I track down Anne Ralston in Toronto and she tells me Stephen Collier practically confessed to killing Addison because of some scandal he was involved in at Oxford. Then, when I get back, I find Collier’s conveniently dead — accidental death. It’s too pat.’

‘Hmm.’ Gristhorpe sipped his Scotch. ‘It could be true. But let’s suppose it’s not. What else could have happened? I’m sorry, I know you’re still tired, Alan. Maybe tomorrow would be better?’

Banks lit a cigarette. ‘No, it’s all right. What do I think happened? I don’t know. I thought I’d got it all worked out but now everything’s gone haywire. I know it makes sense that Collier killed himself rather than face the trouble he knew he’d be in when I got back. Maybe the pressure built in him over the week. On the other hand, what if he didn’t kill Allen? What if he knew who did, and whoever it was was afraid he’d crack under pressure and give it away. That would have given someone enough motive to get rid of him, wouldn’t it? We still don’t have a clear connection between Addison and Allen, though.’

‘Except the Ralston girl.’

‘What if there’s something else? An angle we haven’t really considered.’

‘Such as?’

‘That’s the trouble. I’ve no idea.’

Gristhorpe swirled the Bell’s in his glass. ‘Then it has to be connected with Addison and Ralston.’

‘I’d like to go down to Oxford as soon as possible and dig around. Ted Folley’s in the local CID there. We were at training school together.’

Gristhorpe nodded. ‘That’s no problem.’

‘Maybe Addison found something out and was going to blackmail Collier.’

‘He had a clean record.’

‘True. But you know as well as I do what private investigators are like, especially solo operators. We can also assume that Bernard Allen had the same information, or part of it, and that he too was blackmailing Collier.’

Gristhorpe rubbed his whiskery chin. ‘Aye. But if Collier did kill Allen for that reason, who killed Collier, and why?’

‘That’s what we have to find out.’

‘So we’re still looking at the lot of them?’

‘It seems that way. Any one of them could have gone back to the house — the French windows at the back weren’t locked — and given him another drink with the barbiturates. Or someone could have mixed a few nembies with his drinks earlier. He was so far gone he probably wouldn’t have noticed.’

‘Risky, though.’

‘Yes. But what murder isn’t?’

‘Aye.’

‘And then there’s the matter of the vodka. I want to talk to Freddie Metcalfe about that.’

‘What vodka?’

‘Someone in the party was buying vodka that night, but Richmond never actually saw anyone drink it.’

‘So you think someone was spiking Collier’s drinks with vodka, making sure he got really drunk?’

‘It’s a strong possibility, yes. Vodka’s pretty much tasteless in a pint.’

‘Aye, in more ways than one,’ Gristhorpe said.

‘The trouble is,’ Banks went on, ‘it was such a busy night that I can’t rely on anyone remembering. It could have been Sam Greenock, John Fletcher or Nicholas Collier — any one of them. I’m assuming they all bought rounds.’

‘What about the Greenock woman?’

Banks saw again in his mind’s eye the image of Katie standing soaked to the skin in the market square. ‘Katie? I suppose she could play some part in all this. As far as I can tell though, she’s in a world of her own. There’s something not quite right about her. I thought it was just her marriage. Sam’s a real bastard — thrashes her every now and then — but I think there’s more to it than that. According to Richmond though, she wasn’t in the White Rose that night.’

Gristhorpe looked at his watch and stood up. ‘Good Lord, is that the time? I’d better be off. Don’t worry about being in early tomorrow.’

‘I probably will be,’ Banks said. ‘I want to go to Swainshead and see a few people. Then I’ll go to Oxford. Mind if I take Sergeant Hatchley? There might be a bit of legwork, and I’d rather have Richmond up here taking care of business.’

‘Aye, take him. He’ll feel like a fish out of water in Oxford. Do him good though. Broaden his horizons.’

Banks laughed. ‘I’m afraid Sergeant Hatchley’s horizons are firmly fixed on beer, idleness, sport and sex — in that order. But I’ll try.’

Gristhorpe drained his glass and left. Banks sat beside Sandra and looked at some of the pictures with her, but his eyes began to feel suddenly prickly and heavy. He’d been wondering whether to let the superintendent know that Gerry Webb had revealed his full name, but decided against it. Names were, after all, a kind of power. He would tell no one at the station, but it was too good to keep to himself.

‘Do you know,’ he said, slipping his arm around Sandra’s shoulders, ‘I found out a very interesting thing about Superintendent Gristhorpe in Toronto.’

‘It sounds like you discovered a lot of interesting things there,’ Sandra said, raising an arched black eyebrow. Her eyebrows contrasted sharply with her natural blonde hair, and that was one of the features Banks found sexy about her. ‘Go on,’ she urged him. ‘Tell me.’

‘I’ve missed you,’ Banks said, moving closer. ‘I’ll tell you in bed, later.’

‘I thought you were tired.’

‘Only my eyes.’

‘Is it worth knowing?’

‘It’s worth it.’

‘Right, then.’ Sandra turned towards him. ‘Let’s not waste time and energy climbing upstairs. It has been a whole week, after all.’

It was good to be home, Banks thought, as he drove the white Cortina along the dale. The sun was out, the water glittered silver, the valley sides shone vibrant green, and the Beatles were singing ‘And Your Bird Can Sing’ on the cassette. He lit a cigarette and slowed down to pass a colourful group of hikers. They clustered together in the deep grass by the drystone wall and waved as he drove by.

Who to visit first? That was the question. It was still only ten thirty, so perhaps he’d best leave Freddie Metcalfe till the White Rose opened at eleven and call on Nicholas Collier — the interview he was least looking forward to.

Accordingly, he carried on past the pub and pulled up on the verge outside the Collier house. Nicholas opened the door at the first ring of the bell.

‘Chief Inspector Banks,’ he said. ‘Long time, no see. Come in.’ He looked tired; his usually bright eyes had lost their sparkle and there were dark pouches under them. ‘Please, sit down.’ He pointed towards a leather upholstered armchair by the open French windows. ‘I’m not in a mood to sit in the sun today, but I feel I must remind myself of its presence.’

‘I’m sorry about what happened,’ Banks said. ‘I’d been hoping to talk to Stephen when I got back.’

Nicholas turned to look at the fountain outside and said nothing. Banks thought he could see a fading bruise at the side of his mouth.

‘I hope you’re not going to ask me to go through it all again,’ Nicholas said at last, taking a cigarette from the porcelain box on the low table beside him. ‘Policemen always seem to be asking people to repeat their stories.’

‘There’s a good reason for that,’ Banks said. ‘Sometimes people remember things. Little things they thought insignificant at the time.’

‘All the same, I very much doubt that I can help you.’

‘I was wondering if you had any knowledge of your brother’s problems?’

‘Stephen’s problems? No, I can’t say I did. Though he seemed a bit edgy this past week or two, as if he had something on his mind.’

‘Did you ask him what it was?’

‘No. Does that surprise you? Well, it shouldn’t. Stephen wasn’t the most forthcoming of people. If he wanted to talk, he would, to whoever struck his fancy at the moment. But if you asked him, you got nowhere. Certainly I never did.’

‘I see. So you’ve no idea what he was worried about?’

‘Not at all. I take no interest in the business, so I wouldn’t know about that side of things. Did he have business problems? Trouble at t’ mill?’

‘Not that I know of, no, Mr Collier. His problem was that we think he may have killed a man over five years ago because of something that happened at Oxford. We also think he might have been responsible for the murder of Bernard Allen more recently.’

‘Stephen! You’re joking, Chief Inspector, surely?’

Banks shook his head. ‘When was Stephen at Oxford?’

‘He went there nine years ago. But nothing untoward happened to him in Oxford as far as I know.’ He paused and his eyes turned hard. ‘You’re not joking, are you?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Well, what can I say? Your wording would seem to indicate that this is mere supposition, that you have no proof.’

‘Only the testimony of Anne Ralston.’

‘That woman Stephen was seeing all those years ago?’

‘Yes. I found her in Toronto.’

‘And you’d take a slut’s word that Stephen was a murderer?’

‘She’d no reason to lie. And I don’t believe she’s a slut.’

Nicholas shrugged dismissively. ‘As you like. She certainly wasn’t the type of woman I’d want for a sister-in-law. But haven’t you considered that she might have been the guilty party? As I remember, she disappeared the morning after the man was killed.’

‘Yes, she did.’

‘So she’d have everything to gain by trying to put the blame on Stephen.’

‘It’s possible, yes. But there’s Bernard Allen’s murder to take into account, too. She wasn’t in Swainshead at the time. She was in Toronto.’

‘So?’

‘So she couldn’t have killed Allen.’

‘I’m sorry but I don’t see the connection. You admit she could have killed the other man, but not Bernard Allen. What I don’t see is why you should even think the same person killed both of them. What had Allen and that private detective chappie got in common?’

‘Nothing, as far as we can tell. Except that they were both killed in Swainshead.’ Banks lit a cigarette. ‘There are too many coincidences, Mr Collier. One of the most interesting ones is that Bernard Allen was friendly with Anne Ralston in Toronto. That would make him the only person from Swainshead to see her since she disappeared. And the whole village was aware of that, thanks to Sam Greenock. It’s also a coincidence that Stephen was going out with Anne Ralston at the time she left Swainshead, and that she told me he confessed to her about killing Addison. It’s another coincidence that Stephen is dead when I return.’

‘I can’t argue with your logic, Chief Inspector. There certainly are a lot of coincidences. But they are coincidences, aren’t they? I mean, you’ve no real evidence to link them or to back up your suppositions, have you?’

‘Are you sure you knew nothing about your brother’s problems?’ Banks asked.

‘I’ve told you.’ Collier sighed. ‘We just weren’t that close. You can see for yourself how we split the house — into two very different halves, I might add. All we had in common was family. Even if he had been a murderer, which I don’t believe for a moment, Stephen would hardly have told me.’

‘But he told Anne Ralston.’

‘So you say. I can only repeat that the woman must be lying to save her own skin.’ He leaned forward to stub out his cigarette but didn’t slouch back in the chair again. ‘Chief Inspector,’ he said, folding his hands on his lap, ‘I hope you’re not going to spread these accusations about my brother around the dale. After all, you admit you’ve no proof. You could do untold damage to the family name, not to mention my career.’

‘Rest assured, Mr Collier. I’m not in the habit of spreading unfounded accusations.’

‘And might I suggest,’ Nicholas added, ‘that even if Stephen had been guilty, he’s certainly suffered adequate penalty for his sin, and no useful purpose would be served by going poking around in his past affairs.’

‘Ah, that’s where we differ,’ Banks said. ‘I’m not judge or jury, Mr Collier. I just try to dig out the truth. And until there are answers to a number of questions, Stephen’s file remains open — wherever Stephen himself may be.’ Nicholas opened his mouth to protest but Banks ignored him and went on. ‘I don’t care who you are, Mr Collier. You can threaten, you can pull strings, you can do what you bloody well want. But I’m going to get to the bottom of this.’ He stood up and walked over to the door. Nicholas sat where he was and stared coldly at him.

‘One more question,’ Banks said. ‘Which one of you was drinking vodka in the White Rose on Saturday night?’

‘Vodka?’ Nicholas grunted. ‘None of us, I shouldn’t think. Can’t stand the stuff, myself.’

‘Did you see your brother drink any?’

Nicholas walked over to the door and grasped the handle. ‘No, I didn’t. Stephen never drank vodka.’ He opened the door. ‘Now would you mind leaving? And you can be damn sure you haven’t heard the last of this.’

Was he lying? Banks found it hard to tell. People of Nicholas Collier’s class had so much self-confidence bred into them that they could carry most things off.

‘What was your argument with John Fletcher about?’ he asked, leaning against the open door.

‘What argument?’

‘You didn’t have words?’

Nicholas flicked his wrist. ‘We may have done, but I can’t remember why. A trifle, I should imagine. Now…’ He nodded towards the path.

Banks set off.

It hadn’t been satisfactory at all. Banks swore under his breath as he headed down the path. He should have pushed Nicholas even harder. Still, there would be time later. Plenty of time. There was still Oxford. And Katie Greenock and Freddie Metcalfe. He looked at his watch and walked into the White Rose.

‘I understand tha’s been globetrotting,’ Freddie Metcalfe said, pouring out a pint of Marston’s Pedigree.

‘That’s right,’ Banks answered. ‘Been to visit the New World.’ He counted out the money and put it on the damp bar towel.

‘I don’t ’old wi’ Americans,’ Freddie said, screwing up his face. ‘Get plenty on ’em in ’ere, tha knows. Allus asking for fancy drinks — bourbon and branch water and t’ like. Can’t understand none on ’em. And Perrier. Bloody Perrier wi’ a twist o’ lemon them purple-haired old women want. Mutton dressed up as lamb, if y’ask me.’ He sniffed and carried the money to the till.

Banks thought of pointing out that Canada was not the same as the USA, but he didn’t want to miss a good opening. ‘Not get a lot of fancy drinks orders in here, then? Not many drink shorts?’ he asked.

‘Nah,’ said Freddie, ambling back. ‘Most tourists we get’s fell-walkers, and they like a good pint, I’ll say that for ’em. T’ lasses sometimes ask for a brandy and Babycham, like, or a Pony or Cherry B. But mostly it’s ale.’

‘What about vodka?’

‘What about it?’

‘Get through much?’

‘Nah. Bloody Russkie muck, that is. Can’t taste it. We get through a good bit o’ single malt Scotch, but vodka… nah.’

‘I understand you had a vodka drinker on Saturday night?’

‘What makes tha think that? Tha weren’t ’ere then.’

‘Never mind that. Did you?’

Freddie scratched his mutton chop whiskers. ‘Aye, come to think on it, I do remember ’aving to change t’ bottle, so somebody must’ve been at it.’

‘Who, Freddie, who?’

‘I can’t rightly say. It might not’ve been me who served ’im. I don’t recollect as I did. Lot o’ strangers in last weekend ’cos t’ weather brightened up, like. It were a busy night, Sat’day, and that gormless lass from Gratly never showed up. S’posed to give me an ’and behind t’ bar. No, I’m sorry, lad. It’s no good. I know I changed t’ bottle, but I were allus serving four orders at once. Need eight bloody arms on this job, specially on Sat’day night. And I only ’ad young Betty to ’elp me.’

‘Were there any arguments in the pub that night?’

Freddie laughed. ‘Well, it’d ’ardly be a Sat’day night wi’out a few ’eated words, would it?’

‘I suppose not. What about at the Collier table?’

‘I don’t recollect owt. Billy Black and Les Stott were barneying about whippets, and Wally Grimes — Wally’s a local farmer, like — ’ad a little disagreement wi’ some walkers about National Trust footpaths. But that’s all I can remember.’

‘You don’t remember anything between Nicholas Collier and John Fletcher?’

‘Nah. But that wouldn’t be nowt new. Now John and Mr Stephen, they understood each other. But John Fletcher never did ’ave time for young Nicholas, even when ’e were a lad.’

‘But you heard nothing on Saturday?’

‘Nay. Too much bloody noise. I only ’eard t’ others because they were standing at t’ bar right a-front o’ me.’

‘Did you clear the tables later?’

‘Nay, Betty did that.’ He pointed towards a buxom rosy-cheeked girl washing glasses.

‘Can I talk to her?’

‘Aye. Betty, lass, come over ’ere. T’ inspector wants a word wi’ thee.’

The roses quickly spread over Betty’s entire complexion, and down as much of her throat and chest as was exposed. She lowered her big brown eyes and stood in front of Banks like a schoolgirl before the head.

‘It’s all right, Betty,’ Banks said, ‘I just want to ask you a couple of questions about Saturday night when you worked here.’

She nodded but still didn’t look up.

‘Do you remember serving Mr Collier’s group at all?’

‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Well… no… I mean, I did serve them, but it were that busy I don’t remember nothing about it.’

‘And you collected all the glasses later?’

‘Aye.’

‘Do you remember picking up any shorts glasses from Mr Collier’s table?’

Betty thought for a moment — a process Banks fancied he could almost hear — and then shook her head. ‘I remember picking up some shorts glasses off t’ bar,’ she said, ‘but I can’t say who drank ’em.’

‘Is this the part of the bar the Collier group came to for their orders?’

‘Aye, it would’ve been,’ Freddie said.

‘But neither of you can say which member of the Collier group was ordering vodka?’

They both shook their heads glumly.

Banks sighed, then finished his pint philosophically and lit a cigarette.

‘What’s it all about, then?’ Freddie asked.

‘Eh? Oh, never mind for now,’ Banks said. ‘Probably nothing.’

‘They were all a bit merry, like.’

‘The Collier group?’

‘Aye. All on ’em. But Mr Stephen were t’ worst.’

‘Did he drink more than the rest?’

Freddie shook his head. ‘I can’t say. Shouldn’t think so, though. They was drinking rounds. Unless…’ Then comprehension dawned on his round red face. ‘Unless ’e were drinking vodka as well as pints.’

‘And was he?’

Again, Freddie shook his head. ‘I can’t say.’

Suddenly Betty, who had remained standing there as if she were waiting to be dismissed, raised her head. Brown curls bobbed around her chubby cheeks. ‘I can tell yer!’ she said excitedly. ‘I can tell yer!’

‘What?’ Banks asked.

‘It can’t’ve been Mr Stephen buying vodka.’

‘Why on earth not, lass?’ Freddie said.

‘Well, yer know,’ Betty spluttered, ‘’e allus used to say ’ello, like, Mr Stephen. Proper gentleman. And ’e’d ask me ’ow I was. Well, once on Sat’day night ’e were on ’is way to t’ loo and ’e nearly bumped into me, and me carrying a trayful o’—’

‘Get on wi’ it, lass!’ Freddie bellowed. ‘T’ inspector dun’t want to know what tha et for breakfast an’ all, tha knows.’

Betty cast him a dark glance and announced, ‘’E’d forgotten ’is wallet.’

‘’E’d what?’

‘’E sometimes slips me a quid — a tip, like,’ she added proudly. ‘But on Sat’day ’e patted ’is pockets and said ’e was sorry ’e ’ad no change and ’e’d left ’is wallet at ’ome. ’E was ’aving to depend on t’ generosity of ’is friends.’ She turned to Banks. ‘Those were ’is very words, “the generosity of my friends”. ’E’d ’ad a few, like, when ’e said it…’

‘Thank you, Betty,’ Banks said. ‘I don’t suppose you overheard Nicholas Collier and John Fletcher having an argument?’

Betty’s face dropped. ‘No. Not while I were picking t’ glasses up. Is it important?’

‘It might be. But it’s not as important as what you’ve just told me.’

It wasn’t a great help, but if Stephen Collier hadn’t been up to the bar to buy rounds, and if Freddie had found empty shorts glasses at the spot where the orders had been placed, then one of the party might have been spiking Stephen’s beer with vodka. Of course, he realized, anyone could have left the glasses there, and any member of the group could have tipped back a quick shot while waiting for Freddie to pull the pints. But it was a start.

Betty beamed as if she’d solved the case. Freddie sent her back to her glass cleaning and turned to face Banks.

‘There,’ he said. ‘Any ’elp?’

‘I hope so.’

‘Well, so do I. Tha’s taking tha bloody time, I’ll say that about thee. Does tha know, t’ last Yankee we ’ad in ’ere…’

Banks left Freddie mid-sentence and almost bumped into Katie Greenock as he was leaving the pub.

‘Ah,’ he said, holding the door for her, ‘just the person I want to see.’

But she turned and started to hurry away.

‘What is it?’ Banks called after her. He could sense her fear; it was more than just the adrenalin produced by a shock.

‘It’s nothing,’ she said, half turning. ‘I was just looking for Sam, that’s all.’ He could see a tear streaking down her flushed cheek.

‘Katie, have you got something to tell me?’ Banks asked, approaching her.

She carried on walking away. Banks put his hand gently on her shoulder. ‘Katie?’

‘No!’ She recoiled and started running down the empty street. Banks dashed after her and soon she slowed, dazed, to a halt.

‘Come on, Katie,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk.’ He offered his hand, but she wouldn’t take it. Instead, she walked obediently beside him back to the car. She was shaking.

‘A drink?’ Banks suggested.

She shook her head. Her fair hair was tied back, but a few strands freed themselves and stuck to her damp cheeks.

‘Let’s go for a ride, then.’

She got in the Cortina beside him and he drove north out of Swainshead. Thinking it might help her relax, he took out the Beatles cassette and put on Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, turning the volume low.

‘I was lying,’ Katie blurted out as they passed the bridge to John Fletcher’s farmhouse. Then she said something else that Banks didn’t quite catch. It sounded like ‘wash my mouth out with soap’.

‘What about?’ he asked.

‘I wasn’t looking for Sam. I saw you go in there. I saw you leave Nicholas Collier’s, too. I was trying to get my courage up.’

‘For what? Are you sure a drink wouldn’t help?’

‘No, I don’t take alcohol.’

‘What is it, Katie?’

‘You’ve got to help me,’ Katie said, staring down into her lap and twisting her hands. ‘I did it… I killed them… I killed them all.’

13

Looking at the ornate limestone building, Banks realized he had never seen Braughtmore school before. Built in the mid-nineteenth century after the previous building had burned down, it had oriels projecting from the first floor, then two floors of tall sash windows topped by dormers and a red pantile roof. It stood at the mouth of a small valley which a tributary had carved on its way down to the Gaiel, and enough flat ground had been cleared around it for rugby and cricket fields.

Banks pulled into a lay-by across the road, lit a cigarette and turned to Katie.

‘Tell me about it,’ he said.

‘I did it,’ Katie repeated. ‘I killed them.’

‘Who did you kill?’

‘Bernie and Stephen.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I… because they… It was God’s judgement.’

‘God’s judgement for what, Katie?’

‘My sins.’

‘Because you made love to them?’

Katie turned and glared at him through her tears. ‘Not love,’ she said. ‘They were going to take me away, take me away from here, from my husband.’

‘But you made love with Bernard Allen. Did you sleep with Stephen, too?’

‘Bernie took me in his room. It was the price. I found no pleasure in it. He said he’d send for me when he got back.’

Banks didn’t have the heart to tell her that Bernie had been bent on returning to Swainshead, not staying in Canada.

‘And Stephen?’ he asked.

‘He… he kissed me. I knew I would have to pay, but later. And now…’

‘Did you kill him so that you wouldn’t have to pay?’

Katie shook her head. ‘He was going to take me away, like Bernard. He had to die.’

‘How did you kill him?’

‘Everyone who wants to help me dies.’

‘But how did you kill him?’

‘I don’t know, don’t remember.’

‘Katie, you didn’t kill Stephen Collier or Bernard Allen, did you?’

‘They died because of me. The Lord’s vengeance. Nicholas was the Lord’s vengeance, too. Against me. To show me my vile nature.’

‘Nicholas? What happened with Nicholas?’

‘He put his hands on me. His filthy hands. The hands of the beast.’

‘When was this? Where?’

‘At his house. The party Sam made me go to. I didn’t want to go, I told him. I knew it would be bad.’

‘What happened?’

‘John came and they fought.’

‘John and Nicholas?’

‘Yes.’

At least that explained their argument in the White Rose, Banks thought. ‘Did Sam know? Did you tell Sam?’

Katie shook her head. ‘Sam doesn’t care anyway. Not where his precious Colliers are concerned.’

‘But you didn’t kill anyone, did you?’

She put her head in her hands and wept. Banks moved to put his arm around her, but she stiffened and jerked away towards the door. She rested her cheek against the window and stared ahead at the dale.

‘Are you protecting Sam, Katie? Is that what you’re doing? Do you think Sam killed them because they were going to take you away?’

‘I killed them. I told you.’

‘Maybe you think you’re responsible, Katie, but you didn’t kill anyone. There’s a big difference between feeling guilty and taking someone’s life, you know. You haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘I wanted to escape my husband, didn’t I?’

‘He beats you. He’s not a good man.’

‘But he’s my husband.’ She started to sob again. ‘I must serve him. What else can I do? I can’t leave him and go away by myself. I don’t know how to live.’

Banks wound down his window and tossed out his cigarette end.

‘Do you want to walk a while?’ he asked.

Katie nodded and opened her door.

There was a pathway worn in the hillside opposite the school, and they set off slowly up towards the ridge. About halfway, they sat on warm grass among limestone boulders and gazed down at the scene. The building glowed like mother-of-pearl, and the red S-shaped tiles shone bright in the sun. Some pupils dressed in whites were practising in the cricket nets by one of the mowed fields, and a group in shorts and vests were running around the cinder track. Plenty of exercise and cold showers, Banks thought. Cross-country runs and Latin unseens to keep their minds off sex — and perhaps a bit of masturbation in the dorms, a little buggery in the bushes, sodomy in the cycle sheds. It was every outsider’s version of public-school life. Probably the reality was much more innocent. After all, these people were being groomed to run the country, the government. Still, look how many of them ended up on the front pages of the tabloid press. Perhaps the outsider’s version wasn’t so far from the truth.

Katie plucked blades of grass and scattered them on the light breeze.

‘Tell me what happened with Stephen,’ Banks said.

‘We walked up to the source. He said he was going away. I thought he would take me with him if I let him kiss me. That’s all.’

‘What else did he say? You must have talked about things.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Katie’s voice sounded like it was coming from a great distance.

‘Why was he going away?’

‘He said he’d had enough, he couldn’t stand being here any longer. He said something about getting away from the past and from who he was.’

‘What did he want to get away from?’

For the first time, Katie looked directly at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed with crying but still shone warm brown in the sunlight. Banks could feel her attraction. The desire to protect her merged with the impulse to touch her. She made him want to reach out and brush the blonde hairs away from her cheeks, then kiss her white throat and explore the gentle curves and mounds of her body. And he also knew that she was largely unaware of the effect she had; it was as if she couldn’t understand the natural sexual instinct that draws people to one another. She knew what men wanted, yes, but she didn’t know why or what it was all about. She was innocent, a unique and vulnerable wild flower growing here at the edge of the moorland.

‘What did he want to get away from?’ she echoed, shattering his illusion. ‘What we all want to get away from. The traps we make for ourselves. The traps God makes for us.’

‘It’s not such a terrible thing to want to escape a bad marriage, Katie,’ Banks said. But he felt he couldn’t get the tone right, couldn’t find the way to talk to this woman. What he said came out as patronizing when he didn’t intend it to.

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

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

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

‘Did he mention anything in particular?’

‘He said he’d been bad.’

‘How?’

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

‘Can you remember anything? Anything at all?’

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

‘Did he say what it was?’

‘A girl. A girl died.’

‘Is that all he said?’

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

‘With a girl dying at Oxford?’

‘Yes.’

‘How was he involved with this girl?’

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

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

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

‘Was Stephen unhappy?’

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

‘Do you think he would have harmed himself?’

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

‘I thought it was his past?’

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

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

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

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

‘Didn’t tell him what?’

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

‘Did you tell Sam?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What kind of incident?’

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

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

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

‘And what if we come up blank?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There weren’t many caps and gowns in evidence on High Street in Oxford the following morning. Most of the people seemed to be ambling along in that lost but purposeful way tourists have. Banks and Hatchley were looking for somewhere to eat a quick breakfast before getting down to work at the station.

Hatchley pointed across the street. ‘There’s a McDonald’s. They do quite nice breakfasts. Maybe…’ He looked at Banks apprehensively, as if worried that the chief inspector might turn out to be a gourmet as well as a southerner and a lover of 1960s music. Despite all the times they’d enjoyed toasted teacakes and steak pies together, maybe Banks would insist on frogs’ legs with anchovy sauce for breakfast.

Banks glanced at his watch and scowled. ‘At least they’re fast. Come on then. Egg McMuffin it is.’

Astonished, Hatchley followed him through the golden arches. Most of the places Banks had eaten in on his trip to Toronto had provided quick friendly service — so much so that it had been one of the things that had impressed him — but it seemed that even McDonald’s could do nothing to alter the innate sloth and surliness of the English catering industry. The look they got from the uniformed girl behind the counter immediately communicated that they were being a bloody nuisance in placing an order, and, of course, they had to wait. Even when she slung the food at them, she didn’t say, ‘Thank you, please come again.’

Finally, they sat by the window and watched people walk in and out of W. H. Smith’s for the morning papers. Hatchley ate heartily, but Banks picked at his food, then abandoned it and settled for black coffee and a cigarette.

‘Nice bloke, that Ted Folley,’ Hatchley said with his mouth half full of sausage. ‘Not what I expected.’

‘What did you expect?’

‘Oh, some toffee-nosed git, I suppose. He’s real down-to-earth, though. Dresses like a toff, mind you. They’d have a bit of a giggle over him in the Oak.’

‘Probably in the Queen’s Arms, too,’ Banks added.

‘Aye.’

They had found time for a few drinks with Folley before returning to their hotel for a good night’s sleep, and Banks wondered whether it was Ted’s generosity that had won Hatchley over, or his store of anecdotes. Either way, the sergeant had managed to down a copious amount of local ale (which he pronounced to be of ‘passable’ quality) in a very short time.

They had stood at the bar of a noisy Broad Street pub, and Ted — a dapper man with Brylcreemed hair and a penchant for three-piece pinstripe suits and garish bow ties — had regaled them with stories of Oxford’s privileged student classes. Hatchley had been particularly amused by the description of a recent raid on an end-of-term party: ‘And there she was,’ Folley had said, ‘deb of the year with her knickers round her ankles and white powder all over her stiff upper lip.’ The sergeant had laughed so much he had got hiccups, which kept returning to haunt him for the rest of the evening.

‘Come on,’ Banks said. ‘Hurry up. It can’t be so bloody delicious you need to savour every mouthful.’

Reluctantly, Hatchley ate up his food and slurped his coffee. Ten minutes later they were in Ted Folley’s office in St Aldates.

‘I’ve got the files out already,’ Ted said. ‘If you can’t find what you’re after there, come and see me. I think you will, though. They cover all unsolved crimes, including hit-and-runs, involving women during the three-year period you mentioned.’

‘Thank God there aren’t many,’ Banks said, picking up the slim pile.

‘No,’ Folley said. ‘We’re lucky. The students keep us busy enough but we don’t get all that many mysterious deaths. They’re usually drug-related.’

‘These?’

‘Some of them. Use that office over there.’ Folley pointed across to a small glass-partitioned area. ‘Doug’s on holiday, so you won’t be disturbed.’

Most of the cases were easily dealt with. Banks or Hatchley would phone friends or parents of the deceased, whenever phone numbers appeared in the files, and simply ask if the name Stephen Collier meant anything. On the off chance, they also asked if anyone had hired a private investigator named Raymond Addison to look into the unsolved crime. In the cases where no numbers were given or where people had moved, they made notes to follow up on later. In some of those cases, the phone directory told them what they needed to know, and Ted also proved as helpful as ever.

By mid-afternoon, after a short lunch break, they had only three possibilities left. Folley was able to rule one of those out — the girl’s parents had died tragically in a plane crash less than a year after their daughter’s death — which left one each for Banks and Hatchley. They tossed for it, and Banks drew the phoneless family in Jericho, Hatchley the paraplegic father in Woodstock.

Wedged between Walton Street and the canal, Jericho is a maze of small nineteenth-century terraced houses, originally built for the foundry workers and navvies of the city. Most of the streets are named after Victorian battles or military heroes. It is as far away in spirit and appearance from the magnificent architectural beauty of the old university city as is Eastvale’s East End Estate from its cobbled market square and Norman church.

Banks drove slowly down Great Clarendon Street until he found the turning he wanted. His car attracted the attention of two scruffy children playing jacks on the pavement, and he was manoeuvred into paying them fifty pence to ‘protect’ it for him.

At first no one answered the cracked blue door, but eventually Banks heard someone move inside and when the door opened an old haggard face stared out. He couldn’t tell whether it was male or female until a deep man’s voice asked him roughly what he wanted.

‘It’s about your daughter, Cheryl,’ he said. ‘May I come in?’

The man blinked and opened the door a bit wider. Banks could smell boiled turnip and stale pipe smoke.

‘Our Cheryl’s been dead six years or more,’ the man said. ‘Nobody did anything then; why should they bother now?’

‘If I could just come in…?’

The man said nothing, but he opened the door wider to admit Banks. There was no hall; the door opened directly into a small living room. The curtains were half closed, cutting out most of the light, and the air felt hot and cloying. From what Banks could see, the place wasn’t dirty but it wasn’t exactly clean either. A grey-haired old woman with a blanket over her knees sat in a wheelchair by the empty grate. She looked round as he came in and gave him a blank smile.

‘It’s about our Cheryl,’ the man said, reaching for his pipe.

‘I heard.’

‘Look, Mrs Duggan,’ Banks said, perching on the arm of the settee, ‘I know it’s a long time ago, but something might have come up.’

‘You’ve found out who killed her?’

‘It’s possible. But I still don’t know that she was killed. You’ll have to help me.’

The file was still fresh in his mind. Cheryl Duggan had been fished out of the River Cherwell not too far from Magdalen Bridge and St Hilda’s College on a foggy November Sunday morning over six years ago. The coroner’s inquest said that death was due to drowning, or so it appeared. Several odd bruises indicated that her head may have been held under the water until she drowned. She had had sexual intercourse shortly before death, and the stomach contents indicated that she had been drinking heavily the previous evening. In view of all this, an open verdict was recorded and a police investigation was ordered.

To complicate matters, Cheryl Duggan, according to Folley, had been a well known local prostitute since the age of fifteen. She had been only seventeen when she died. The investigation, Folley admitted, had been cursory. This was due to other pressures, in particular the drug-related death of a peer’s daughter in which the heir to a brewery fortune was implicated as a pusher.

‘It could have been an accident,’ Banks said.

‘It warn’t no accident, Mr Banks,’ Mrs Duggan insisted.

‘There was water in the lungs,’ Banks countered weakly.

Mr Duggan snorted. ‘You’d think she were a mermaid, our Cheryl, the way she took to water.’

‘She’d been drinking.’

‘Yes, well, nobody’s saying she was perfect.’

‘Did you ever hear her mention a man by the name of Stephen Collier?’

Mr Duggan shook his head slowly.

There was a sense of defeat about the Duggans that weighed heavily in the dim and stuffy room and made Banks feel sick. Their voices were flat, as if they had repeated their stories a hundred times and nobody had listened; their faces were parchment-dry and drawn, the eyes wide and blank, with plenty of white showing between the lower lashes and the pupils. Dante’s words came into Banks’ mind: ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.’ This was a house of defeat, a place without hope.

Banks lit a cigarette, which would at least give him a more concrete reason to feel sick and dizzy, and went on. ‘The other thing I’d like to know,’ he asked, ‘is if you hired anyone to look into Cheryl’s death. I know you didn’t think much of the police investigation.’

Mr Duggan spat into the grate. His wife frowned at him. ‘Why does it matter?’ she asked.

‘It could be important.’

‘We did hire someone,’ she said. ‘A private investigator from London. We looked him up in the phone book at the library. We were desperate. The police hadn’t done anything for more than a year, and they were saying such terrible things about Cheryl. We took out all our savings.’

‘What happened?’

‘He came from London, this man, and he asked us about Cheryl — who her friends were, where she liked to go out and everything — then he said he’d try and find out what happened.’

‘He never came back,’ Mr Duggan cut in.

‘You mean he ran off with your money?’

‘Not all of it, Alf,’ Mrs Duggan said. ‘Only a retainer, that’s all he’d take.’

‘He took off with the money, Jessie, let’s face it. We were had. He never meant to do anything about our Cheryl; he just took us for what he could get. And we let him.’

‘What was his name?’

‘Don’t remember.’

‘Yes you do, Alf,’ said Mrs Duggan. ‘It was Raymond Addison. I haven’t forgotten.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘What could we do?’ she said. ‘He’d got most of our money, so we couldn’t hire anyone else. The police weren’t interested. We just tried to forget, that’s all.’ She pulled the tartan blanket up higher around her hips.

‘Mr Addison didn’t report back to you at all then, after the first time you saw him?’

‘No,’ Mr Duggan said. ‘We only saw him the once.’

‘Can you remember the date?’

The old man shook his head.

‘I can’t remember the exact day,’ his wife said, ‘but it was in February, about fifteen months after Cheryl was killed. The police seemed to have given up and we didn’t know where to turn. We found him, and he let us down.’

‘If it’s any consolation, Mrs Duggan, I don’t think Mr Addison did let you down.’

‘What?’

‘He was found killed himself, probably no more than a day or so after you saw him, up in Yorkshire. That’s why you never heard from him again, not because he’d run off with your money.’

‘In Yorkshire? What was he doing there?’

‘I think he did find out something about Cheryl’s death. Something the police had missed. You’ve got to understand that we don’t have enough time or men to devote ourselves full time to every single case, Mrs Duggan. I don’t know the circumstances, but maybe the police here weren’t as active as you think they should have been. It’s only in books that policemen find the killer every time. But Mr Addison had only the one case. He must have visited every possible place Cheryl might have been that night, talked to everyone who knew her, and what he found out led him to a village in Yorkshire, and to his death.’

Mrs Duggan bit her knuckles and began to cry silently. Her husband moved forward to comfort her.

‘It never does any good raking up the past,’ he snapped at Banks. ‘Look how you’ve upset her.’

‘I can understand that you’re angry, Mr Duggan,’ Banks said, ‘but if I’m right, then we know who killed your daughter.’

Duggan looked away. ‘What’s it matter now?’

‘Maybe it doesn’t, at least not to you. But I think it ought to mean something that Addison didn’t let you down, didn’t run off with your money. He found a lead, and instead of reporting in he set off while the trail was hot. I think you owe his memory some kind of apology if you’ve been blaming him and thinking ill of him all these years.’

‘Maybe so,’ Duggan admitted. ‘But what use is it now? Two people dead. What use?’

‘More than two,’ Banks said. ‘He had to kill again to cover his tracks. First Addison, then someone else.’

‘All over our Cheryl?’ Mrs Duggan said, wiping her eyes.

Banks nodded. ‘It looks like that’s where it started. Is there anything else you can tell me? Did Cheryl ever talk about anyone at all she knew from Yorkshire? A student she was seeing, perhaps?’

They both shook their heads, then Mrs Duggan laughed bitterly. ‘She said she was going to marry a student one day, a lord’s son, or a prime minister’s. She was very determined, our Cheryl. But she’d too much imagination. She was too flighty. If only she’d done as I said and stuck to her station.’

‘Did she hang around with students much?’

‘She went to the same pubs as they did,’ Mr Duggan said. ‘The police said she was a prostitute, Mr Banks, that she sold herself to men. We didn’t know nothing about that. I still can’t believe it. I know she liked to tart herself up a bit when she went out, but what girl doesn’t? And she wasn’t really old enough to drink, but what can you do…? You can’t keep them prisoners, can you? She was always talking about what fun the students were, how she was sure to meet a nice young man soon. What were we to do? We believed her. Our Cheryl could make you believe she could do anything if she set her mind to it. Every day she woke up with a smile on her face, and that’s no lie. Happiest soul I’ve ever known. What did we do wrong?’

Banks had no answer. He dropped his cigarette in the grate and walked to the door. ‘If you think of anything, let the local police know,’ he said.

‘Wait a minute.’ Mrs Duggan turned to him. ‘Aren’t you going to tell us?’

‘Tell you what?’

‘Who did it. Who killed our Cheryl?’

‘It doesn’t matter now,’ Banks said. ‘It looks like he’s dead himself.’ And he closed the door on their hopelessness and emptiness.

‘I’m sorry, Alan,’ Ted Folley said when he’d heard the story. ‘I told you it wasn’t much of an investigation. We looked into it, but we got nowhere. We were sure the girl drowned. She’d been drinking and there was water in her lungs. The bruises could have been caused by a customer; it’s a rough trade she was in. She didn’t have a ponce, so we’d no one we could jump on right from the start.’

Banks nodded and blew smoke rings. ‘We got nowhere with the Addison case, either,’ he said. ‘There was nothing to link him with Oxford, and we couldn’t find out why he was in Swainshead. Not until now, anyway. What on earth could he have found out?’

‘Anything,’ Folley said. ‘Maybe he found the last pub she’d been in, tracked down a pusher who’d run a mile if he even smelled police.’

‘Was she on drugs?’

‘Not when she died, no. But there had been trouble. Nothing serious, just pills mostly. If Addison trailed around all her haunts and talked to everyone who knew her, showed a photo, flashed a bit of money… You know as well as I do, Alan, these blokes who operate outside the law have a better chance. He must have picked up your man’s name somewhere and set off to question him.’

‘Yes. It’s just a damn shame he wasn’t more efficient.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If he’d gone back and told the Duggans what he’d found out before rushing off to Yorkshire. If he’d just filed some kind of report…’

‘He must have been keen,’ Folley said. ‘Some of them are, you know.’

At that moment, Sergeant Hatchley came in from Woodstock. ‘Bloody waste of time,’ he grumbled, slouching in a chair and fumbling for a cigarette.

‘Nothing?’ Banks asked.

‘Nowt. But judging by the expression on your face, you’re that cat that got the cream. Am I right?’

‘You are.’ He told Hatchley about his interview with the Duggans.

‘So that’s it, then?’

‘Looks like it. Stephen Collier must’ve met up with this young girl, Cheryl Duggan, gone drinking with her then taken her to the meadows by the river for sex. It was unusually warm for that time of year. He got a bit rough, they fought, and he drowned her. Or she fell in and he tried to save her. It could have been an accident, but it was a situation he couldn’t afford to be associated with. Maybe he was on drugs; we’ll never know. He might not even have been responsible for the bruising and the rough sexual treatment she’d received; that could have been a previous customer. Collier might even have been comforting her, trying to persuade her back on to the straight and narrow. I suppose the version will vary according to what kind of person you think Stephen was. One mistake — one terrible mistake — and three deaths have to follow. Christ, it could even have been some silly student prank.’

‘Do you think he killed himself?’

Banks shook his head. ‘I don’t know. In his state of mind, if he’d been carrying the guilt all this time and feeling the pressure build, suicide and accidental death might have been much the same thing. It didn’t matter any more, so he just got careless. Katie Greenock said he was planning to leave Swainshead, and I suppose he didn’t much mind how he went.’

‘What do we do now?’ Hatchley asked.

Banks looked at his watch. ‘It’s three thirty,’ he said. ‘I suggest we pay Stephen’s old tutor a visit and see if we can find out whether he was in the habit of taking up with young prostitutes. We might find some clue as to what really happened, who was responsible for what. Then we’ll head back home. We should be able to make it before nine if we’re on the road soon.’ He turned to Folley and held out his hand. ‘Thanks again, Ted. We appreciate all you’ve done. If I can ever return the favour…’

Folley laughed. ‘In Swainsdale? You must be joking. But you’re welcome. And do pay us a social call sometime. A few days boating in the Thames Valley would be just the ticket for the wife and kids.’

‘I will,’ Banks said. ‘Come on, Jim lad, time to hit the road again.’

Hatchley dragged himself to his feet, said goodbye to Folley and followed Banks out on to St Aldates.

‘There you are,’ Banks said, near Blackwell’s on Broad Street. ‘Caps and gowns.’

True enough, students were all over the place: walking, cycling, standing to chat outside the bookshops.

‘Bloody poofters,’ Hatchley said.

They got past the porter, crossed the quadrangle, and found Dr Barber in his office at Stephen’s old college.

‘Sherry, gentlemen?’ he asked, after they had introduced themselves.

Banks accepted because he liked dry sherry; Hatchley took one because he had never been known to refuse a free drink.

Barber’s study was cluttered with books, journals and papers. A student essay entitled ‘The Dissolution of the Monasteries: Evidence of Contemporary Accounts’ lay on the desk but didn’t quite obscure an old green-covered Penguin crime paperback. Banks tilted his head and glanced sideways at the title: The Moving Toyshop, by Edmund Crispin. He had never heard of it, but it wasn’t quite the reading material he’d have expected to find in the office of an Oxford don.

While Dr Barber poured, Banks stood by the window and looked over the neat clipped quadrangle at the light stone façades of the college.

Barber passed them their drinks and lit his pipe. Its smoke sweetened the air. In deference to his guests, he opened the window a little, and a draught of fresh air sucked the smoke out. In appearance, Barber had the air of an aged cleric, and he smelled of Pears soap. He reminded Banks of the actor Wilfrid Hyde-White.

‘It was a long time ago,’ Barber said, when Banks had asked him about Collier. ‘Let me check my files. I’ve got records going back over twenty years, you know. It pays to know whom one has had pass through these hallowed halls. As a historian myself, I place great value on documentation. Now, let me see… Stephen Collier, yes. Braughtmore School, Yorkshire. Is that the one? Yes? I remember him. Not terribly distinguished academically, but a pleasant enough fellow. What’s he been up to?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Banks said. ‘He died a few days ago and we want to know why.’

Barber sat down and picked up his sherry. ‘Good Lord! He wasn’t murdered, was he?’

‘Why would you think that?’

Barber shrugged. ‘One doesn’t usually get a visit from the Yorkshire police over nothing. One doesn’t usually get visits from the police at all.’

‘We don’t know,’ Banks said. ‘It could have been accidental, or it could have been suicide.’

‘Suicide? Oh dear. Collier was a rather serious young man — a bit too much so, if I remember him clearly. But suicide?’

‘Possibly.’

‘A lot can change in a few years,’ Barber said. He frowned and relit his pipe. Banks remembered his own struggles with the infernal engines, and the broken pipe that now hung on his wall in Eastvale Police Headquarters. ‘As I said,’ Barber went on, ‘Collier seemed a sober sensible kind of fellow. Still, who can fathom the mysteries of the human heart? Fronti nulla fides.’

‘There’s no real type for suicide,’ Banks said. ‘Anyone, pushed far enough—’

‘I suppose you’re the kind of policeman who thinks anyone can become a murderer too, given the circumstances.’

Banks nodded.

‘I’m afraid I can’t go along with that,’ Barber said. ‘I’m no psychologist, but I’d say it takes a special type. Take me, for example, I could never conceive of doing such a thing. The thought of jail, for a start, would deter me. And I should think that everyone would notice my guilt. As a child, I once stole a lemon tart from the school tuck shop while Mrs Wiggins was in the back, and I felt myself turn red from head to toe. No, Chief Inspector, I’d never make a murderer.’

‘I’m thankful for that,’ Banks said. ‘I don’t need to ask you for an alibi now, I suppose.’

Barber looked at him for a moment, unsure what to do, then laughed.

‘Stephen Collier,’ Banks said.

‘Yes, yes. Forgive me. I’m getting old; I tend to ramble. But it’s coming back. He was the kind who really did have to work hard to do well. So many others have a natural ability — they can dash off a good essay the night before — but you’d always find Collier in the library all week before a major piece of work was due. Conscientious.’

‘How did he get on with the other students?’

‘Well enough, as far as I know. Collier was a bit of a loner though. Kept himself to himself. I hardly need to tell you, Chief Inspector, that quite a number of young lads around these parts go in for high jinks. It’s always been like that, ever since students started coming here in the thirteenth century. And there’s always been a bit of a running battle between the university authorities and the people of the city: town and gown, as we say. The students aren’t vindictive, you realize, just high-spirited. Sometimes they cause more damage than they intend.’

‘And Collier?’

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

‘Did he drink much?’

‘Never had any trouble with him.’

‘Drugs?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What?’

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

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

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

14

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much of the way, the two had sat in silence, thinking things out and deciding what to do. Finally, Hatchley could stand it no longer. ‘How can we nail the bastard?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Banks answered. ‘We don’t have much of a case.’

Hatchley grunted. ‘We might if we hauled him in and you and me had a go at him.’

‘He’s clever, Jim,’ Banks said. The sergeant’s first name didn’t feel so strange to his lips after the first few times. ‘Look how he’s kept out of it so long. He’s not going to break down just because you and I play good-cop-bad-cop with him. That’ll be a sign of our weakness to him. He’ll know we need a confession to make anything stick, so it will only strengthen his position. No, Nicholas Collier’s a cool one. And don’t forget he’s got pull around Swainsdale. We’d no sooner get started than some fancy lawyer would waltz in and gum up the works.’

‘What I’d give for a bloody good try, though!’ Hatchley thumped the dashboard. ‘Sorry. No damage done. It just makes me angry, a stuck-up bastard like Nicholas Collier getting away with it. How many people has he killed?’

‘Three, maybe four if we count Stephen. And he hasn’t got away with it yet. The trouble is, we don’t know if he killed anyone apart from the girl, Cheryl Duggan. We can’t even prove that he killed her. Just because Dr Barber told us he had a reputation for pestering the town’s working girls doesn’t make him guilty. It certainly doesn’t give us grounds for a conviction.’

‘But it was Cheryl Duggan’s death that sent Addison up to Swainshead.’

‘Yes. But even that’s circumstantial.’

‘Who do you think killed Addison and Allen?’

‘At a guess, I’d say Stephen. He’d do it to protect his little brother and his family’s reputation. But we don’t know, and we never will if Nicholas doesn’t talk. I’ll bet, for all his cleverness, Nicholas is weak. I doubt he has the stomach for cold-blooded murder. They might both have been at the scene — certainly neither had a good alibi — but I’d say Stephen did the killing.’

‘What do you think happened with the Duggan girl?’

Banks shifted lanes to overtake a lorry. ‘I think he picked her up in a pub and took her down by the river. She was just a prostitute, a working-class kid, and he was from a prominent family, so what the hell did it matter to him what he did? I think he got overexcited, hurt her perhaps, and she started to protest, threatened to scream or tell the police. So he panicked and drowned her. Either that or he did it because he enjoyed it.’

The tape finished. Banks lit a cigarette and felt around in the dark for another cassette. Without looking at the title, he slipped in the first one he got hold of. It was the 1960s anthology tape he’d taken to Toronto with him. Traffic came on singing ‘No Face, No Name and No Number’.

‘I think Addison was a conscientious investigator,’ Banks went on. ‘He more than earned his money, poor sod. He did all the legwork the police didn’t do and found a connection between Cheryl Duggan and Nicholas Collier. Maybe they’d been seen leaving a pub together, or perhaps her friends told him Collier had been with her before. Anyway, Addison prised the name out of someone, or bought the information, and instead of reporting in he set off for Swainshead. That was his first mistake.

‘His second was to ask Sam Greenock about Nicholas Collier. Greenock was anxious to get in with the local gentry and he was a bit suspicious of this stranger asking questions, so he stalled Addison and took the first opportunity to run over the bridge and tell Collier about it. There must have been real panic in the Collier house that evening. Remember, it was about fifteen months after the girl’s death and the Colliers must’ve thought all was well. I don’t know the details. Maybe Sam arranged for Addison to go over to the house when the village was quiet, or maybe he even arranged for the Colliers to go up to Addison’s room and kill him there. I don’t know how it happened, but I think it was Stephen who struck the blow. That would explain the state he was in when he met Anne Ralston later that night.’

‘What about Bernard Allen?’ Hatchley asked.

‘At first I thought he was just unlucky,’ Banks said. ‘He told Katie Greenock that he knew Anne Ralston in Toronto. She told Sam, who did his usual town crier routine. Not that it mattered this time, if Allen was intent on blackmail. Stephen Collier was an odd kind of bloke from what I can make out — a real combination of opposites. When he’d killed Addison, he had to unburden himself to his girlfriend, but I’m sure he soon regretted it. He must have had a few sleepless nights after Anne first disappeared. Anyway, Bernard Allen knew that Stephen was involved in Addison’s murder and that it was something to do with an incident back in Oxford. He obviously assumed that if the police knew that they could put the whole thing together. Which we did, rather too late.’

‘You said you thought Allen was unlucky at first,’ Hatchley said. ‘What about now?’

‘I think he was going to blackmail the Colliers. I’ve not had time to tell you much about Toronto, but I met a few people there who said that Bernard Allen really wanted to come home to Swainshead. His sister mentioned it too, but the others all played it down. He’d even let on to Katie Greenock that he’d send for her when he got back to Canada. That was because she wanted to escape Swains-dale and he wanted to get into her pants.

‘I wondered why I was getting so many conflicting pictures of Allen’s state of mind, so many contradictions. But that was his motive. He was blackmailing the Colliers to get himself home. A job at the school, money in the bank… I don’t know what he’d asked for, but I’m certain that was his reason. And it got him killed. I don’t doubt that whoever said “You can’t go home again” meant it as literally as that. Anyway, the Colliers decided they couldn’t live with the threat, so one or both of them waited for him in the hanging valley that morning. They knew he’d be there because he’d often talked about it and he was heading that way.’

‘And what happened to Stephen? Why would Nicholas kill him, if he did?’

‘Stephen was getting too jittery. Nicholas knew it was just a matter of time before his brother broke down completely, and he couldn’t allow him to remain alive when I got back from Toronto after talking to Anne Ralston. Stephen must have told his brother that he didn’t give anything away to Anne about the Oxford business, but that he’d made a serious mistake in hinting at his own involvement in Addison’s killing. Nicholas knew that what Anne had to tell me would give me enough grounds to bring Stephen in, and he couldn’t trust his brother to stand up under questioning. If we could discover the motive behind Addison’s murder, then we’d know everything. Nicholas couldn’t allow that.

‘What he did was risky, but there was a lot at stake: not just the family name now, but Nicholas’s own freedom, his home, his career. He had to kill his own brother to survive. And if he succeeded, it would look like the accidental death of a disturbed man or the suicide of a guilty one.’

It was dark when Banks negotiated the tricky connections on to the A1 east of Leeds. Cream were singing ‘Strange Brew’ on the tape and Hatchley had fallen silent.

Banks still didn’t understand it all. Stephen had killed to preserve what was important to him, but Nicholas Collier remained something of an enigma. In all likelihood he had drowned Cheryl Duggan, but what bothered Banks was why. Had he done it from pleasure, accident or desperation? And was he also responsible for the bruising and marks of sexual abuse found on her body? Dr Barber had said that Nicholas had been in trouble once or twice over consorting with prostitutes and offering Oxford factory girls money for sex. Banks wondered why. Nicholas had all the advantages. Why hadn’t he hung around with his own set, girls of his own social class?

‘Let’s call in at the station first,’ Banks said. ‘Something might have turned up.’ They were approaching the turn-off on to a minor road that would take them over the moors to Helmthorpe and the main valley road. ‘We can always drive to Swainshead later if there’s nothing new.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s not late, only nineish.’

Hatchley nodded and Banks drove past the exit ramp and on to the Eastvale road.

The station was quiet. There had been no serious crimes while Banks and Hatchley had been gone. There was, however, a message from John Fletcher timed at five o’clock that evening asking if they would call and see him as soon as possible. He said it was important — something to do with Stephen Collier’s death — and he would be at home all evening.

There was also a copy of Dr Glendenning’s preliminary post-mortem report on Stephen Collier. The doctor had found the equivalent of about five capsules of Nembutal in Collier’s system — not enough in itself to cause death but potentially lethal when mixed with alcohol. And his alcohol level had been far higher than the amount five or six pints would account for. It looked as if Banks was right and Collier had been slipped vodka in the pub and more drinks back at the house.

‘Should we go to see Fletcher tonight?’ Banks asked Hatchley. ‘Or leave it until tomorrow?’

Under normal circumstances he would have expected Hatchley to take any opportunity to get off work for a pint or a session on the sofa with Carol Ellis, but this time the sergeant was angry.

‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Maybe Fletcher’s got the answer. I wouldn’t want to leave it till he went and got himself killed, too. And I wouldn’t mind paying a call on Nicholas bloody Collier either.’

‘Go away!’ Katie said, rushing forward and trying to close the door.

But Nicholas had his foot wedged in. ‘Let me in, Katie,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you about Stephen. He was very fond of you, you know.’

‘He’s dead,’ Katie said, still pushing at the door with her shoulder. But Nicholas was too strong for her and the door knocked her backwards against the kitchen table as he entered. He shut the door behind him and walked towards her.

‘I won’t hurt you,’ he said. ‘I know you were talking to Stephen the day before he died. I just wondered if he’d been saying anything silly. He wasn’t well, you know.’ He reached out and grabbed Katie’s arm as she tried to slip away. ‘There’s no need to be afraid of me,’ he said, relaxing his grip a little. ‘No need to run away. I won’t hurt you. I just want to talk to you.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Katie said. ‘There was nothing wrong with Stephen.’

‘He was upset. He might have said things he didn’t mean.’

‘What things?’

‘I don’t know. That’s what I’m asking you, you stupid bitch,’ Nicholas shouted, then lowered his voice again. ‘Just tell me what you talked about. Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?’

‘I don’t have anything.’

‘Liar.’ Nicholas opened Sam’s drinks cabinet and poured himself a large gin. ‘I’ve been here before, remember? With Sam.’ He held out the glass. ‘Go on, have some. You like gin, don’t you?’

Katie shook her head. Nicholas hooked the back of her neck with one hand, put the glass to her closed lips and tipped it forward. The vile-smelling spirit spilled down Katie’s chin and on to the front of her dress. It burned her throat and made her gag.

‘Stop it!’ she cried, spluttering and pushing him away.

Nicholas laughed, showing his yellowed teeth, and put the glass down. He went back to the cabinet and poured himself some Scotch.

‘What did Stephen tell you?’ he asked.

‘Nothing.’ Katie coughed and rubbed at her lips with the back of her hand.

‘He must have said something. He was quite a one for confiding in the wrong people, Stephen was, especially women. And I saw you talking to that policeman. Where is he now? What’s he doing?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since yesterday.’

‘What did he ask you? What did you say to him?’

‘Nothing. He doesn’t know anything.’

‘Stop lying, Katie. Did you do it with him too, just like you do with all the others?’

Katie turned pale. ‘What do you mean?’

Nicholas grinned. The dark comma of hair had flopped over his brow and his cheeks were flushed. ‘You know what I mean. Just like you did with Stephen and everyone else. Did you let him do it to you, Katie, that policeman?’

‘No!’

‘Oh, don’t be shy. You do it with everyone, don’t you? You know you’re nothing but a slut. A filthy whore. Tell me you’re a filthy whore, Katie, say it.’

‘I’m not.’

Katie rushed desperately for the connecting door, but Nicholas got there before her.

‘There’s no way out,’ he said. ‘All your guests are in the White Rose; I saw them. And Sam’s off with his fancy women as usual.’

‘He’s what?’

‘Didn’t you know? Oh, don’t tell me you didn’t know. All those times he goes off to see his friends in Leeds or Eastvale. It’s women, Katie. Loose women. Can’t you smell them on his skin when he comes home? Or do you like it when he comes straight from another woman and takes you? Do you like to smell other women on your husband’s skin?’

Katie put her hands to her ears. ‘Stop it! Stop it!’ she screamed. ‘You’re evil!’

Nicholas applauded quietly. ‘Oh, Katie, what an act.’

Katie dropped her hands to her sides. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Do? Why, I’m going to take you away from here. I don’t trust you, Katie. There’s no telling what you know and what you might say.’

‘I don’t know anything.’

‘I think you do. Stephen told you, didn’t he?’

‘Told me what?’

‘About Oxford.’

Katie could think of nothing to say.

‘Look at you blushing,’ Nicholas said, pointing at her. ‘You know, don’t you? I can tell. Be sure your sins will find you out.’

Suddenly, Katie realized what he meant and a terrible thought dawned on her.

‘You killed him,’ she said quietly. ‘You killed Stephen.’

Nicholas shrugged and spoke in a cold passionless voice. ‘I couldn’t trust him any more. He was falling apart on me.’

Katie stiffened. She felt like a trapped animal. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to take you away, far away. What did he tell you about Oxford?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Did he tell you about that girl, that stupid slut?’

Katie shook her head.

‘He did, didn’t he?’

‘No! He told me nothing.’

Nicholas leaned against the table. His bright eyes glittered and his breath came in short sharp gasps. He looked like a madman to Katie. A wild, terrifying madman.

‘She was nothing but a prostitute, Katie,’ he said. ‘A fallen woman. She sold herself to men. And when I… when I took her, she didn’t… She told me I was too rough and she tried to make me stop. Me! Nicholas Collier. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I knew that was the way she really wanted it. A common tart like her. Like you.’

‘No!’ Katie said. ‘I’m not.’

‘Yes, you are. I’ve had my eye on you. You do it with everyone. Do they pay you, Katie, or do you do it for nothing? I know you like to struggle. I’ll pay you if you want.’

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

‘I want you to say it for me. Say you’re a filthy whore.’

‘I’m not.’

‘What’s wrong? Why won’t you say it? I bet you even let that policeman do it. I’m better than the lot of them, Katie. Say it.’

‘No! I won’t.’

He spoke very softly, so quiet she could hardly hear. ‘I want you to go down on your knees, Katie, and tell me you’re a filthy whore and you want me to do it to you like an animal. Like a dog. I want you to lift your dress up and crawl, Katie.’

He was moving towards her now, and his eyes held hers with a power that seemed to sap what little strength she had. She felt her shoulders hit the wall by the mantelpiece. There was nowhere else to go. But Nicholas kept coming closer, and when he was near enough he reached out and grabbed the front of her dress.

Banks drove fast along the dark dale by the River Swain, passed through Helmthorpe and into the darker fell-shadowed landscape beyond. He turned sharp right at Swainshead, tyres squealing, and carried on up the valley to Upper Head. He slowed down as they passed the Collier house, but the lights were out.

‘I hope the bastard hasn’t done a bunk,’ Hatchley said.

‘No, he’s too cool for that. We’ll get him, don’t worry.’

The glimmer of light high on the fell side about two miles north of the village came from Fletcher’s isolated cottage. It was a difficult track to manage in the dark, but they finally pulled up outside the squat solid house with its three-foot-thick walls. Fletcher had heard them coming and stood in the doorway. Again they were ushered into the plain whitewashed room with its oak table and the photograph of Fletcher’s glamorous ex-wife.

Fletcher was ill at ease. He avoided looking at them directly and fussed around with glasses of beer. Hatchley stood by the window looking into the darkness. Banks sat at the table.

‘What is it?’ he asked, when Fletcher had sat down opposite him.

‘It’s about Stephen’s death,’ Fletcher began hesitantly. ‘He was my friend. It’s gone too far now. Too far.’

Banks nodded. ‘I know. I understood there was no love lost between you and Nicholas.’

‘You’ve heard about that? Well, it’s true enough. I never had much time for him. But old Mr Walter was like a father to me, and I always felt like an older brother to Stephen.’

Banks passed around the cigarettes.

‘Saturday night,’ Fletcher burst out suddenly. ‘I thought nothing of it at the time — it was just the kind of silly trick Nicholas would play — but when he went to buy a round I saw him pour a glass of clear spirits into Stephen’s drink. As I said, I thought nothing of it. I knew Stephen was upset about something — what it was, I don’t know — and he seemed to want to get drunk and forget his problems anyway. No point causing trouble, I thought, so I kept quiet.

‘That family has a secret, Mr Banks, a dark secret. Stephen’s hinted at it more than once, and I reckon it’s something to do with Nicholas and the ladies, though ladies is too dignified a term. Did you know he once forced himself on Molly Stark from over Relton way?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Aye. Well, it was hushed up, like most things Nicholas got up to. All neat and businesslike.’

‘Wasn’t there also some trouble with a girl when his father was alive?’ Banks asked.

‘Aye,’ said Fletcher. ‘Got her in the family way. But money changed hands and shut mouths. It was all arranged, no expense spared, and she did away with it. He had a lust for lasses below his station, as they used to say. Working-class girls, servants, factory girls, milkmaids… I even caught him mauling Katie Greenock at Stephen’s party last week.’

At last it made sense to Banks. Nicholas Collier couldn’t keep away from women of a lower social class: Cheryl Duggan, Esther Haines, Katie Greenock, Anne Ralston, the servant girl, Molly Stark — they were all beneath him socially. Although the term had lost a lot of its meaning over the past few years, they might still be called working-class women. Obviously it didn’t matter who they were as individuals; that didn’t interest Collier. He probably had some Victorian image of the working class as a seething, gin-drinking, fornicating, procreating mass. He thrust himself on them and became violent when they objected. No doubt like most perverse sexual practices, his compulsion had a lot to do with power and humiliation.

‘I knew something serious was up when we had those two murders here,’ Fletcher went on, refilling their beer glasses. ‘That detective and young Bernard Allen. I knew it, but I didn’t know what. Whenever I asked, Stephen clammed up, told me to leave it be and I’d be better off not knowing.’ He took a sip of beer. ‘Maybe I should’ve pushed a bit harder. Maybe Stephen would still be alive… But I don’t think he killed himself. That’s what I wanted to tell you. As I said, I saw Nicholas putting something into his drink, and he was in a hell of a state at closing time, worse than if he’d just had a few jars. And the next thing I hear, he’s dead. An overdose, they said. I knew he took sleeping tablets, but an overdose…?’

‘Yes, barbiturates,’ Banks said. ‘Usually fatal, mixed with as much alcohol as Stephen Collier had in his system.’

‘So it’s murder, isn’t it? That bastard brother of his murdered him.’

‘It looks like it, Mr Fletcher, but we’ve got to tread carefully. We’ve got no evidence, no proof.’

‘I’ll testify to what I saw. I’ll help put him away, as God’s my witness.’

Banks shook his head. ‘It’ll help, but it’s not enough. What if Nicholas was putting vodka in his brother’s beer? As you said, it could have been a simple prank, and that’s exactly what he’ll say. It’s all circumstantial and theoretical. We need more solid evidence or a confession.’

‘Then I’ll bloody well beat it out of him,’ Fletcher said, grasping the table and rising to his feet.

‘Sit down,’ said Banks. ‘That’s not going to help at all.’

‘Then what are you going to do?’

‘I honestly don’t know yet,’ Banks said. ‘We might just be able to put together a case, especially if we bring in Anne Ralston, but I don’t want to risk it. Even if we could convince the court it’s worth a risk, I don’t want to take the chance of him getting off, which he might well do on what we’ve got so far.’

‘I know I should’ve spoken up earlier,’ Fletcher said. ‘I knew there was something wrong. If I’d told you before you went to Toronto, you might have had something to push at Stephen with, and he just might have told you the truth. He was on the edge, Mr Banks. That’s why Nicholas had to get rid of him, I suppose.’

‘I think you’re right,’ Banks said. ‘But we still can’t prove it. You shouldn’t blame yourself though. You might have thought you were going to get Stephen in trouble. I imagine you were protecting him?’

Fletcher nodded. ‘I suppose I was. Him and his father’s memory.’

‘To get Nicholas, you’d have had to betray Stephen. He was protecting his brother, or his father, like you were.’

‘What’ll happen to me? Will you prosecute?’

‘For what?’

‘Withholding evidence? Accessory after the fact?’

Banks laughed. ‘You have a very thin grasp of the law, Mr Fletcher. Sure, you could have spoken earlier, as could a number of other people around Stephen Collier. But he kept everyone just enough in the dark so there was nothing, really, to say — nothing but vague fears and suspicions. Believe me, few people come to us with those; they don’t want to look silly.’

‘So nothing’s going to happen to me?’

Banks stood up and gestured to Hatchley that it was time to leave. ‘No. You’ve helped us. It’s up to us now to put a case together, or set a trap.’

‘I’ll do anything to help,’ Fletcher said. ‘Tell the bastard I know something and let him come and try to bump me off.’

‘I hope it doesn’t come to that,’ Banks said, ‘but thanks for the offer.’

They sat in the car for a few minutes and lit cigarettes. It was pitch-black, and far down in the valley below the lights of Swainshead glittered like an alley of stars.

‘How hard should we push Collier?’ Hatchley asked.

‘We don’t push,’ Banks said. ‘At least not the first time. I told you, he’s clever. He’ll see we’re desperate.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘We confront him with what we’ve got and try to trip him up. If he’s too clever to fall for that, and I suspect he is, then we try again and keep trying.’ He started the engine and broke the silence.

‘You can’t help admiring the bastard’s nerve though, can you,’ Hatchley said. ‘What if Freddie Metcalfe and Richmond had remembered seeing him order vodka and pour it in Stephen’s pints?’

‘Then all he’d have had to say was that he played a practical joke, like Fletcher said. There’s nothing illegal about chasers. As things stand, it’s only Fletcher’s word against his, and a good defence lawyer would soon prove that John Fletcher had more than just cause to want to incriminate Collier. They’d bring up the incident at the party, for a start. Could you imagine Katie Greenock on the stand?’

Hatchley shook his head. ‘That lass never seems to know whether she’s coming or going.’

For some reason, Banks began to feel uneasy at the thought of Katie. What if she really did know more than she was telling? And what if Nicholas Collier suspected she knew? He might easily have seen her talking to Stephen. And Katie was exactly the kind of woman to set off his violent sexual behaviour.

He turned on to the road and headed south for Swainshead. There was still no light on in Collier’s house. Hatchley hammered at the door but got no answer.

‘Let’s try the pub,’ Banks suggested.

Hatchley brightened up at that. He hadn’t completely forgotten his priorities in a burst of professional zeal.

‘Well, if it isn’t Chief Inspector Banks,’ Freddie Metcalfe greeted them. ‘And Sergeant Hatchley, isn’t it? What can I do for you?’

Banks ordered two pints of Pedigree and lit a Silk Cut. Maybe a pint would calm down his jangling nerves. The hairs at the back of his neck were bristling.

‘Seen Nicholas Collier tonight?’ he asked.

‘No, he’s not been in,’ Freddie said. ‘Has tha got any further wi’ t’ murder?’

‘We’re getting there, we’re getting there,’ Banks said.

‘Aye, and pigs can fly,’ Freddie said, passing their drinks.

‘None of the usual lot been in tonight?’

‘Nope. It’s been as quiet as this since opening time,’ Freddie answered miserably, and loped off to serve a youth in hiking boots.

‘You know,’ Banks said, ‘I’ve been thinking about what to do next, and there’s someone else we might profit from leaning on in this case.’

‘Sam Greenock?’ Hatchley said.

‘Yes. Threaten him with arrest as an accessory, and we might just get him to open up. He’s cocky, but I don’t think he’s as cool as Nicholas. Stephen Collier’s dead now. If we can convince Sam that Nicholas will fall from grace with or without his help, we might be able to strike a bargain. After all, without gentry to suck up to, what’s Sam going to get out of it? Nicholas might well have sawn off the branch he was sitting on by killing Stephen.’

‘It’s an idea,’ Hatchley said.

‘And Greenock’s a bully,’ Banks said. ‘Bullies are the easiest of the lot to lean on, especially men who beat up their wives.’

‘I think I might be able to work up a bit of enthusiasm,’ Hatchley said, grinning.

‘Good. Let’s go.’

‘What? Now? But we haven’t finished our drinks.’

‘I’ve just got a feeling, that’s all. We can come back to them. Let’s see if Sam’s in.’

They left the White Rose and crossed the bridge. There were no lights on in the front lower or upper rooms of the Greenock Guest House.

‘He’s not in,’ Hatchley said. ‘Let’s go back to the pub and call again later.’

‘It looks like there’s nobody in at all,’ Banks said. ‘That’s odd.’ He couldn’t explain why he felt disturbed by the dark silent house, but he couldn’t ignore the feeling. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m going in.’

Hatchley sighed and followed. ‘I’ll bet the bloody door’s locked.’

Before they could close the gate behind them, they heard a car coming. It was Sam’s Land Rover. He parked near the pub across the narrow Swain, as there was no road on the Greenocks’ side, and came bounding over the bridge.

‘Evening, gents,’ he called out. ‘And what can I do… Oh, it’s you.’

‘Don’t sound so disappointed,’ Banks said. ‘We might be able to do something for you.’

‘Oh?’ Sam’s boyish face looked puzzled. He patted his curly hair. ‘All right. Never turn down a favour from a copper, that’s me.’

‘Can we go in?’

‘Of course. I’ll get the missus to brew a pot of tea.’ He dug in his pocket for his keys, finally found the right one and stuck it in the lock, where he poked and twisted it for a while, then turned to Banks and frowned. ‘That’s odd. It was already open. Katie usually locks up at ten sharp and the guests let themselves in with their own keys. And it’s not usually as dark as this. She puts the hall light on for the guests. They’re probably still in the pub, but I can’t imagine where she is.’

Banks and Hatchley followed him through the front door into the dark hall. Sam turned the light on. The guest book lay open on its varnished table by a stack of tourist guides, maps and brochures advertising local businesses and leisure pursuits. Automatically, Sam looked at himself in the mirror over the phone and patted his curly hair again.

‘Katie!’ Sam called.

No answer.

He went into the dining room and flicked the light switch on. ‘Bloody hell!’

Banks followed him inside. ‘What is it?’ All he could see was the room where he and Hatchley had eaten breakfast. The varnished tables gleamed darkly in the shaded light.

‘She’s not set the tables for the morning. She’s not even put the bloody cloths on,’ Sam said. He sounded more angry than worried about why or where Katie might have gone.

They paused at the foot of the stairs, where Sam called again and got no answer. ‘It doesn’t look like she’s at home,’ he said, puzzled. ‘I can’t imagine where she’d be at this time.’

‘Maybe she’s left you,’ Banks suggested.

‘Don’t be daft. Where would she go? Why would she do a thing like that anyway?’

They carried on to the door that separated the Greenocks’ living quarters from the rest of the house.

‘Katie!’ Sam called once more, hand on the knob.

Still no reply. The absolute silence in the house made Banks’ hackles rise.

Sam opened the door and walked along the short narrow corridor that linked the two parts of the house. Banks and Hatchley followed close behind. Coats on hooks on either side brushed against them as they walked in single file behind Sam. The only faint illumination was at the end of the passage.

‘At least she’s left this light on,’ Sam said.

The light came from the pane of frosted glass on the door that led into the Greenocks’ living room. Sam called his wife’s name again but got no answer. He walked into the room and stopped dead in his tracks.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he gasped, then stumbled backwards into Banks and started to slide slowly down the wall, hands over his eyes.

Banks regained his balance, pushed past Sam and went in, Hatchley close behind. They stopped in the doorway, awed and horrified by the scene before them. Banks heard Hatchley mutter a prayer or a curse.

There was blood all over the room: on the carpet, the sofa, the hearth, and even splashed like obscene hieroglyphs over the wall above the mantelpiece. Nothing moved. Nicholas Collier lay awkwardly, half on the sofa and half on the carpet, his head bashed in, his face a bloody pulp. He wouldn’t even have been recognizable if it hadn’t been for the prominent yellowish teeth splintered and bared in agony and shock.

Katie sat on the arm of the settee still holding the heavy wooden cross of her granny’s that had stood on the mantelpiece. Her beautiful brown eyes were looking at things nobody else could see. The front of her dress was ripped open at one side and a few drops of blood glistened against the pale skin of her blue-veined breast.