FIVE
I
Only the cry of a distant curlew and the sound of water gurgling over rocks in the stream out back broke the silence.
Then Sam Greenock echoed the news: “Bernie? Dead? I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” Banks said. It was the second time in two days that he had been the bearer of bad news, but this time it was easier. The investigation proper had begun, and he had more on his mind than Sam Greenock’s disbelief, real or feigned.
They sat in the living-room at the back of the house: the Greenocks, Banks, and Sergeant Hatchley taking notes. Katie gazed out of the window, or sometimes she stared at the huge, ugly wooden cross on the mantelpiece. She had said nothing, given no reaction at all.
“It’s true he was staying with you, then, is it?” Banks asked. Sam nodded.
“Why didn’t his name show up on the register? We went to a lot of trouble checking every place in Swainsdale.”
“It’s not my fault,” Sam said. “He was staying with us as a friend. Besides, you know as well as I do that those guest books aren’t legal requirements—they’re only for people to write comments in if they want, show they’ve been here.”
“When our man called and asked if you’d had any Canadians staying recently, why didn’t you mention Bernard Allen?”
“He didn’t ask me anything. He just looked at the register. Besides, I never thought of Bernie as a Canadian. Oh, I know he lived there, but that’s not everything, is it? I’ve known people who
lived in Saudi Arabia for a year working on the oil fields but I don’t think of them as Saudis.”
“Come off it, Sam. Bernard Allen had been in Canada for eight years, and you hadn’t seen him for four. This was only his third trip back.”
“Still . . .”
“Did you have any reason to lie about Bernie being here?”
“No. I told you—”
“Because if you did, we can charge you with concealment of information. That’s serious, Sam. You could get two years.”
Sam leaned forward. “Look, I never thought. That policeman who came, he didn’t tell us what he was looking for.”
“We can check, you know.”
“Bloody check then. It’s true.”
Sam couldn’t remember the officer’s name, so Banks asked Hatchley to make a note of the time and date. It would be easy enough to find out who had made the visit and what approach he had taken. He still wasn’t sure about Sam Greenock, though.
Banks sighed. “All right. We’ll leave that for now. Which room did he stay in?”
Sam looked at Katie. She was staring out on the fell-side, so he had to nudge her and repeat the question.
“Five,” she said, as if speaking from a great distance. “Room five.”
“We’ll need to have a look,” Banks told her.
“It was two weeks ago,” Sam said. “There’s been other people in since then. That’s where we took Fellowes after he’d found the body.”
“We’ll still need to look.”
“Do you think he’s hidden some secret message there, Inspector? Taped it to the bottom of the dresser drawer, maybe?”
“You’ve been reading too many espionage novels. And if I were you, I’d cut the bloody sarcasm. You might start me thinking that there’s some reason you don’t want me to look in Bernie Allen’s room. And while we’re at it, he’s not the first person to get killed after leaving this guest house, is he, Sam?”
“Now wait a minute,” said Sam. “If you’re trying to imply—” Banks held his hand up. “I’m not trying to imply anything. What
was it the man said: once is happenstance, twice is coincidence? Let’s just hope there’s not a third time.”
Sam put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Really, I am. It’s the shock. And now all these questions.”
“Look at it from my point of view, Sam. Bernard Allen was killed after he left your guest house. That’s given his killer about two whole weeks to cover his tracks, leave the country, arrange for an alibi, whatever. I need everything I can get, and I need it quick. And the last thing I need is for some clever bugger who just might have been withholding information to start playing the comic.”
“Look, I’ve said I’m sorry. What more do you want?”
“First of all you can tell us when he left?”
“About two weeks ago.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Katie?”
Again, with great difficulty, Katie turned her attention to the people in the room. Banks repeated his question.
“It was a Friday,” she said.
Hatchley checked the dates against his diary. “That’d be the seventeenth, sir,” he said. “Friday, May seventeenth.”
“What time?”
“Just after breakfast. About nine-thirty. He said he wanted to get an early start,” Sam said.
“Where was he going?”
“He was heading for the Pennine Way, then up to Swaledale.”
“Do you know where he was intending to stay?”
Sam shook his head. “No. He just said he’d find somewhere on the way. There are plenty of places; it’s a very popular route.”
“Did he say anything to you about visiting the hanging valley on his way?”
“No. I wouldn’t have been surprised, though. He used to play there when he was a kid, or so he said.”
“What did you do after he’d gone?”
“I drove to Eastvale to do some shopping. I always do on a Friday morning.”
“What shops did you go to?”
“What is this? Are you trying to tell me I’m a suspect in the murder of my friend?”
“Just answer the bloody question.”
“All right, Inspector, there’s no—”
“It’s Chief Inspector.” Banks didn’t usually push rank, but Sam Greenock had rubbed him up the wrong way.
“Chief Inspector, then. Where did I go? I went to Carter’s for some seeds, peat moss and fertilizer. Katie’s trying to get a vegetable patch going in the back garden. It’ll save us a bit of money in the long run.”
“Is that all?”
“No. But they’ll remember me there. I called in at a newsagent’s for some magazines—that one on King Street opposite the school road.”
“I know it.”
“I’m a regular there, too.”
“Thanks, that’ll do fine for a start. What kind of car do you drive?”
“A Landrover. It’s in the garage.”
“And you, Mrs Greenock, what did you do after Bernard Allen left?”
“Me? Housework. What else?”
Banks turned back to Sam: “You met Allen in Leeds about ten years ago, is that right?”
“Yes. In Armley. We lived just off Tong Road and the Allens came to live next door after they gave up the farm. Bernie and I were about the same age, so we palled up.”
“What was he doing then?”
“Just finishing at university. It was only York, so he was home most weekends and holidays. We used to go for a jar or two every Saturday night.”
“How did the family take the move?”
Sam shrugged. “They adapted. At first Mr Allen, Bernie’s dad, went around as if he’d been kicked out of paradise. It must have been very hard for him, though, swapping farm work for a crummy factory job. Hard on the pride.”
“Is that what he said?”
“Never in so many words, no. You could just tell. He’s a tough old bird, anyway, so they survived.”
“And Bernard?”
“He tried to fit in. But you know what it’s like. He got his degree and all, but he couldn’t get the kind of work he wanted. He lived at home and did all kinds of odd jobs—mushroom picking at Greenhill Nurseries, sweeping factory yards, production line . . . all dull routine work.”
“Is that when he decided to go to Canada?”
“After a year or so of it, yes. He’d had enough. Someone he knew from university had already gone over and said it wasn’t too hard to get teaching jobs in the colleges. He said they paid well, too.”
“Who was this?”
“His name was Bob Morgan. I think he and Bernie taught at the same place, Toronto Community College.”
“Was Bernie homesick?”
“I suppose so. I mean, you don’t forget your roots, do you? But he stayed. One thing leads to another. He made friends over there, got married, divorced.”
“What was his state of mind while he was staying here?”
“He was fine. Cheerful. Happy to be back.”
“Did he talk about coming home to stay?”
Sam shook his head. “He knew better than that. There aren’t any jobs for him.”
“So he didn’t seem unusually homesick or depressed, and he didn’t say he was planning to come back.”
“No.”
Banks lit a cigarette and studied Katie’s profile. She was a blank; he had no idea what she was thinking.
“How long have you been in Swainshead?” he asked Sam.
“Six years.”
“And it’s going well?”
Sam nodded. “Can’t complain. We’re hardly millionaires, but we like the life.”
“And you, Mrs Greenock?”
Katie turned and focused on him. “Yes. It’s better than cleaning rooms at the Queen’s Hotel.”
“Did Bernie have any other friends in the village apart from you?”
“Not really,” Sam answered. “See, most of the kids he grew up with had moved away. A lot do these days. They see the good life on telly and soon as they’re old enough there’s no stopping them. Like Denny, Bernie’s older brother. Off to Australia like a shot, he was.”
“Was Bernie friendly with the Colliers?” Esther Haines had said not, but Banks thought she might have been prejudiced by her own opinions of Nicholas and Stephen.
“Well, I’d hardly say they were friends. Acquaintances, more like. But we had an evening or two in the White Rose together. I think Bernie was always a bit uncomfortable around Stephen and Nick, though, them having been his landlords, so to speak, the local gentry and all.”
Banks nodded. “Can you think of anyone in the village who might have wanted him out of the way?”
“Bernie? Good Lord, no.”
“He had no enemies?”
“None that I know of. Not here.”
“What about in Leeds?”
“Not there either, as far as I know. Maybe somebody followed him over from Canada, an enemy he’d made there?”
“Mrs Greenock,” Banks said, turning to Katie again, “do you know of anyone with a reason for getting rid of Bernard Allen?”
Katie hesitated before answering. “No. He was harmless. Just a friendly sort of person. Nobody would want to hurt him.”
“One more thing: What was he carrying when he left here?”
“Carrying?” Sam said. “Oh, I see. His belongings. A big blue rucksack with his clothes, passport, money, a few books.”
“And what was he wearing?”
“I don’t really remember. Do you, Katie?”
Katie shook her head. “It was a warm day, though,” she said.
“That I do remember. I think he was just wearing an open-necked shirt. White. And slacks, not jeans. It’s only the amateurs wear jeans for walking.”
“They’re too heavy, you see,” Sam explained. “Especially if they get wet. We try to give a bit of advice to our guests sometimes, and we always make sure we know where they’re going if they’re due
back in the evening. That way, if they don’t return, we can let the Mountain Rescue Post know where they were heading.”
Banks nodded. “Very sensible. Have you any vacancies at the moment?”
“I think so,” Sam said.
“Six and eight,” Katie added.
“Good, we’ll take them.”
“You’re staying here?”
“There’ll be quite a lot of questions to ask in Swainshead,” Banks said, “and it’s fifty miles to Eastvale and back. We’ll be staying here tonight at least.”
“One’s a single,” Katie said. “The other’s a double.”
Banks smiled at her. “Fine. Sergeant Hatchley will take the single.” It was patently unfair, Banks knew. He was much more slightly built than the well-padded Hatchley, and a good four or five inches shorter. But rank, he reflected, did have its privileges.
“Don’t sulk, Sergeant,” he said as they walked over to the car to pick up their overnight bags. “My room might be bigger, but it’s probably right next to the plumbing. What did you think of Mrs Greenock?”
“Not bad if you like those wand-like figures,” Hatchley said. “Prefer ’em with a bit of meat on their bones, myself.”
“I wasn’t asking you to rate her out of ten on looks. What about her attitude?”
“Didn’t say much, did she? Seemed in a bit of a daze to me. Think there might be more to her than meets the eye?”
“I think there might indeed,” said Banks. “In fact, I got the distinct impression that she was holding something back.”
II
The Greenocks ate their lunch in silence, then Sam dashed out. Katie, who had lost her appetite and merely played with her food, piled the dishes in the washer, set the controls and turned it on. There was still shopping to do and the evening meal to prepare, but she felt she could afford to relax for a few minutes.
As she lay down on the sofa and looked out on the slopes of Swainshead Fell beyond the back garden, she thought of Bernie helping her clear the dishes, talking about Toronto, watching cricket on the telly. She remembered the little presents he had brought each time—no doubt picked up at the airport at the last minute, for Bernie was like that—jars of pure maple syrup, a box of cigars or a bottle of malt Scotch for Sam, Opium perfume or Chanel No 5 for Katie. She’d never had the heart to tell him that she didn’t wear perfume, that the one time she had tried she had felt like a tramp, even though it had been White Linen, and had scrubbed it off straight away. Now the three little bottles lay in the dark inside her dresser drawer, untouched.
Bernie had even helped her with the garden sometimes; he might not have had green fingers, but he could wield a trowel or a hoe well enough. Bernie: so considerate, so kind. But the dark images began to crowd out her thoughts. Frowning, she pushed them away. Instead she saw endless prairies of golden wheat swaying in the breeze, heard the sea beating against a rough coastline where redwood forests reared as tall as the sky. Bernie had told her all about Canada, all the places he’d been. She’d never get to see them now, she realized, because Bernie was dead.
Fellowes’s words came back to her, what he’d said in his drunken stupor when he grasped her hand by the bed: “Moving,” he’d said. “Moving.” And she hadn’t understood at the time. Now she did. If Bernie had been lying up there for two weeks he would have been like that dead lamb she had seen on Adam’s Fell last year. It didn’t bear thinking about.