“Girlfriend? Who was that, Mr Fletcher?”
“The one who disappeared. Anne Ralston, her name was.” Banks felt a tremor of excitement. “She was Bernard Allen’s girlfriend?”
“Aye. Childhood sweethearts. They grew up together. I don’t think it was owt serious later, like, or he wouldn’t have gone off to Canada and left her. But they were thick as thieves, them two— more like brother and sister, maybe, as they got older.”
“And after he’d gone, she took up with Stephen Collier?”
“Aye. Got a job at Collier Foods and, well . . . Stephen’s got a way with the women.”
“Did Bernard Allen ever say anything about this?”
“Not in my hearing he didn’t. You’re thinking maybe he was jealous?”
“Could be.”
“Then the wrong one got himself killed, didn’t he?”
Banks sighed. “It always seems to look that way in this case. But if Allen thought Stephen Collier had harmed her, he might have been out for revenge.”
“Waited long enough, didn’t he?” Fletcher said.
“I’ll be frank with you, Mr Fletcher,” Banks said. “We’ve no idea why Bernard Allen was murdered, none at all. At the moment I’m gathering as much information as I can. Most of it will probably turn out to be useless. It usually does. But right now there’s no way of telling what’s of value and what isn’t. Can you think of any reason why someone in Swainshead would want him out of the way?”
Fletcher paused to think for a few moments, his dark eyebrows knitting together. “No,” he said finally. “It’s nothing to do with the farming business, I’m sure of that. There’s not enough money in it to make murder worthwhile. And there was no animosity between myself and the Allens. Like I said I don’t think there was bad feeling between Bernard and the Colliers, but I couldn’t swear to it. I know he baited them a bit about being capitalist oppressors, but I don’t think anyone took that seriously enough to kill for.”
“What was your impression of Bernard Allen?”
“I liked him. As I said, I didn’t know him well, and I can’t say I agreed with his politics—with him on one side and Nicholas on the other, it was hardly my idea of a peaceful evening’s drinking. But he was bright, thoughtful, and he loved the land. He knew he wasn’t cut out to be a farmer—few are—but he loved The Head.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“The evening before he left. We were all in the White Rose. He was getting quite maudlin about coming home. Said if only he could get a job, however little it paid, or maybe a private income, then he’d be back like a shot. Of course, Nicholas jumped on that one—a socialist wanting a private income!”
“Were there any serious arguments?”
“No. It was all playful. The only serious bit was Bernard’s sentimentality. He really seemed to convince himself that he was coming back here to live. But he’d had a few too many, of course. Sam had to help him back to the house. I’m sorry I can’t be more useful, Mr Banks. I’d like to, but I don’t know anything. I had no reason to harm Bernard and, as far as I know, nor did any of the others. If there are motives, they’re hidden from me.”
“Did he mention his divorce at all?”
“Oh aye,” Fletcher said grimly. “I could sympathize with him over that.”
“Did he seem upset about it?”
“Of course. His wife had run off with another man. Wouldn’t you be upset? I think that’s what set him thinking about coming back home to stay. You get like that when you lose whatever it is that keeps you away.”
“Did Mr Allen know your wife?”
Fletcher’s face hardened. “What do you mean ‘know’? ‘Know’ in the biblical sense? Are you suggesting there was something between them and I killed him in a fit of jealousy?”
“No,” said Banks, “I’m simply trying to get a grasp on the web of relationships.”
Fletcher continued to eye him suspiciously. “She didn’t know him,” he said. “Oh, I’m not saying their paths never crossed, that
they wouldn’t say hello if they passed one another in the street, but that’s all.”
“Where is your wife?”
Fletcher looked at the picture. “In Paris,” he said, his voice shaking with grief and anger. “In Paris with that bastard she ran off with.”
The silence that followed weighed on them all. Finally, Banks gestured to Hatchley and they stood up to leave. “I’m sorry if I upset you,” he said. “It wasn’t intentional, believe me, but sometimes in a murder investigation . . .”
Fletcher sighed. “Aye, I know. You’ve got to ask. It’s your job. No offence taken.” And he held out his square, callused hand.
Driving down the fell-side, Banks and Hatchley said very little. Banks had been impressed by Fletcher’s solidity; he seemed a man with great integrity and strong foundations. But such a man, he knew, could kill when pushed too far. It was easier to push an earnest man too far than it was a more frivolous one. Although he was inclined to believe Fletcher, he nonetheless made a mental note of his reservations.
“Ideal place, isn’t it?” Hatchley said, looking back at Fletcher’s farm as they crossed the bridge.
“In a way,” Banks answered. “A bit dour and spartan for my tastes, though.”
“I didn’t mean that, sir.” Hatchley looked puzzled. “I meant it’s an ideal location for approaching the hanging valley unseen.”
Banks slowed down on the narrow road as Sam Greenock’s Landrover passed them going in the other direction. Sam waved half-heartedly as he drove by.
“Yes,” Banks said absently. “Yes, I suppose it is. I’d just like to stop off at the Greenocks’ before we go back to Eastvale. There’s something I’d like to do. You use the radio and get onto Richmond. See if anything’s come up.”
II
Katie flinched and backed towards the wall when she saw Banks appear in the doorway of the room she was cleaning.
“It’s all right, Katie,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you. We’ve got to have a little talk, that’s all.”
“Sam’s out,” Katie said, clutching the yellow duster tight over her breast.
“I know he is. I saw him drive off. It’s you I want to talk to. Come on, Katie, stop playing games. You’ve been trying to avoid us ever since we got here. What is it? What are you afraid of?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Banks sighed. “Yes you do.” He sat down on the corner of the bed. “And I’m prepared to wait until you tell me.”
Now, as she stood cringing by the window, Banks realized who she reminded him of: Hardy’s Tess Durbeyfield. Physically, she resembled Nastassia Kinski, who had played Tess in the film version, but the similarity went deeper than that. Banks had a sense of Tess as a child in a woman’s body, not fully aware of her own beauty and sexuality, or of the effect she might have on men. It wasn’t entirely innocence, but it was close—a kind of innocent sensuality. He made a note to look up the description of Tess in the book when he got home.
“Look,” he went on, “we can either talk here, or we can go to CID headquarters in Eastvale. It’s up to you. I don’t really mind at all.”
“You can’t do that,” Katie said, thrusting out her bottom lip. “You can’t just take a person away like that. I haven’t done anything. I’ve got my work to finish.”
“So have I. You’re withholding evidence, Katie. It’s a crime.”
“I’m not withholding anything.”
“If you say so.” Banks stood up with exaggerated slowness. “Let’s go, then.”
Katie stepped back until she was flat against the wall. “No! If you take me away Sam . . . Sam’ll . . .”
“Come on, Katie,” Banks said, more gently, “don’t be silly.” He pointed to the chair. “Sit down. Tell me about it.”
Katie flopped into the chair by the window and looked down at the floor. “There’s nothing to tell,” she muttered.
“Let me try and make it a bit easier for you,” Banks said. “Judging by the way you behaved when we talked to you and Sam yesterday, I’d guess that something happened between you and Bernard Allen while he was staying here. Maybe it was personal. You might think
it’s your business and it has nothing to do with his death, but I’m the one to be the judge of that. Do you understand?”
Katie just stared at him.
“You’d known him a long time, hadn’t you?”
“Since he came to Leeds. We lived next door.”
“You and Sam?”
“With his parents.”
“What happened to your own parents?”
“They died when I was a little girl. My grandmother brought me up.” Katie lowered her gaze down to her lap, wringing the yellow duster in her hands.
“Did you ever go out with Bernie Allen?”
She looked up sharply, and the blood ran to her cheeks. “What do you mean? I’m married.”
“Well, something happened between you, that’s clear enough. Why won’t you tell me what it was?”
“I’ve told you,” Katie said. “Nothing happened. We were friends, that’s all.” She went back to twisting the duster on her lap. “I’m thirsty.”
Banks brought her a glass of water from the sink.
“Were you lovers, Katie?” he asked. “Did you sleep with Bernard Allen while he was staying here?”
“No!” Tears blurred Katie’s clear brown eyes.
“All right.” Banks held up his hand. “It’s not important. I believe you.” He didn’t, but he often found it useful to pretend he believed a lie. It was always clear from the teller’s obvious relief that it had been a lie. Afterwards it was easier to get at the information that really mattered. And he had a feeling she was hiding something else.
“But you spent some time together, didn’t you? Time alone, like friends do?”
Katie nodded.
“And you must have talked. What did you talk about?”
Katie shrugged. “I don’t know, just things. Life.”
“That’s a broad subject. Anything in particular?”
She was chewing on her bottom lip now, and Banks could sense that she was on the verge of talking. He would have to tread carefully to avoid scaring her off again.
“It might be important,” he said. “If he was a friend of yours, surely you want his killer caught?”
Katie looked at him as if the idea was completely new to her. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course I do.”
“Will you help me, then?”
“He talked about Canada, his life in Toronto. What it was like there.”
“What about it?”
“How wonderful and exciting it was.”
It was like drawing a confession out of a naughty child. “Come on,” Banks prompted her. “There was something special, wasn’t there? You’d have no reason to hide any of this from me, and I know you’re hiding something.”
“He told me in confidence,” she said. “I wasn’t to tell anyone. Sam’ll kill me if he finds out.”
“Why?”
“He doesn’t like me talking to people behind his back.”
“Look, Katie. Bernard is dead. Somebody murdered him. You can’t keep a secret for a dead man, can you?”
“Life doesn’t end with death.”
“Maybe not. But what he said might be important.”
There was a long pause while Katie seemed to struggle with her conscience; each phase of the skirmish flashed across her flawless complexion. Finally, she said, “Annie was there. That’s what he told me. Annie was in Toronto.”
“Annie?”
“Yes. Anne Ralston. She was a friend of Bernie’s from years ago. She disappeared when we had all that trouble here five years back.”
“I’ve heard of her. What exactly did Bernard say?”
“Just that she was living in Toronto now. He’d heard from her about three years ago. She was in Vancouver then. They’d kept in touch, and now she’d moved.”
“Did he say anything else about her?”
Katie looked at him blankly. “No. She just asked him not to go telling everyone in Swainshead that he’d seen her.”
“This is what Bernard told you?”
“Yes.”
“Why did he tell you, do you think, when Anne had told him not to tell anyone?”
“I . . . I . . . don’t know,” Katie stammered. “He trusted me. He was just talking about people leaving, finding a new life. He said she was happy there.”
“Were you talking about wanting a new life for yourself?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Her words lacked conviction. Banks knew he was right. Katie had probably been telling Bernard Allen that she wanted to get away from Swainshead. Why she should want to leave he didn’t know, but from what he’d seen and heard of Sam so far, she might have one good reason.
“Never mind,” Banks said. “Did he say anything about coming home to stay?”
Katie seemed surprised. “No. Why should he? He had a wonderful new life out there.”
“Did he tell you this on the morning he left or before?”
“Before. Just after he arrived.”
“And you were the only one he told?”
“Yes.”
“You’re hesitating, Katie. Why?”
“I . . . I don’t know. You’re confusing me. You’re making me nervous.”
“Were you the only one he told?”
“As far as I know, yes.”
“And who did you tell?”
“I didn’t tell anyone.”
“You’re lying, Katie.”
“I’m not. I—”
“Who did you tell? Sam?”
Katie pulled at the duster so hard it tore. “All right, yes! I told Sam. He’s my husband. Wives aren’t supposed to keep secrets from their husbands, are they?”
“What did Sam say?”
“Nothing. He just seemed surprised, that’s all.”
“Did he know Anne Ralston?”
“Not well. It was only about a year after we arrived that she disappeared. We met her with Bernie, and she was going out with Stephen, but Sam didn’t know the Colliers as well then.”
“Are you sure you told no-one else?”
“No-one,” Katie whispered. “I swear it.”
Banks believed her.
Sam Greenock, he reflected, was quite a one for passing on news, especially to his cronies in the White Rose, with whom he seemed intent on ingratiating himself. Socially, he was beneath them all. The Colliers were cocks of The Head, and Fletcher owned quite a bit of land. Stephen Collier, as Katie said, had been going out with Anne Ralston around the time she disappeared, which had also been coincidental with the murder of Raymond Addison, the London private-enquiry agent. Somewhere, somehow, Sam Greenock was involved in it all.
What if Sam had told Stephen that Bernard Allen had been in touch with Anne? And what if she was in a position to tell Allen something incriminating about Collier, something to do with the Addison murder? That would certainly give Stephen a motive. And if that was what had happened, to what extent was Sam Greenock an accessory? For the first time, there seemed to be the strong possibility of a link between the murders of Raymond Addison and Bernard Allen. This would certainly interest Superintendent Gristhorpe, who had withdrawn into his usual role because the two cases hadn’t seemed connected.