“I’d like to know what happened.”
“Aren’t I entitled to know why?”
“Will you just bear with me for a while?”
“Very well.”
“As far as I know,” Banks began, “she disappeared the day after the private detective, Raymond Addison, was killed. Am I right?”
“I wouldn’t know when he was killed,” Stephen said. “Though I do remember Superintendent Gristhorpe saying something about a postmortem report.”
“But it was around that time she disappeared?”
“Yes.”
“And she was an employee of Collier Foods?”
“Yes. Your superintendent already knows all this. Please get to the point, Chief Inspector.” He tapped the book on his lap. “I have an important report to study for a meeting in the morning.”
“I won’t keep you long, sir,” Banks said, “if you’ll just answer my questions. Were you going out with Anne Ralston at the time of her disappearance?”
“Yes. You know I was. But I don’t see—”
Banks held up his hand. “Let me finish, please. Can you think of any reason why should she disappear?”
“None.”
“What do you think happened to her?”
Collier walked over to the cocktail cabinet and refreshed his drink. He offered Banks and Hatchley cigarettes from a box on the glass-topped coffee-table.
“I thought she might have taken off to see the world,” he answered. “It was something she’d often talked about.”
“Didn’t it worry you?”
“Didn’t what worry me?”
“Her disappearance.”
“I must admit, in some of my darker moments I thought something might have happened to her—a wandering psychopath or
something—especially with the Addison business. But I decided it wasn’t so out of character for Anne to just up and go.”
“Weren’t you bothered that she never got in touch with you? Or did she?”
Collier smiled. “No, Chief Inspector, she didn’t. And, yes, it was a bit of a blow to the ego at first. But I got used to it. It wasn’t as if we were engaged or living together.”
“I noticed you mentioned a moment ago that you linked her disappearance with the Addison killing—a wandering psychopath. Did it occur to you to link the two events in any other way?”
“What do you mean?”
“Could Anne Ralston have had something to do with Addison’s visit to Swainshead? He was a private-enquiry agent, after all.”
“Yes, I know. But nobody here had any idea why he was in the area. If it was anything to do with Anne, she certainly kept quiet about it. Maybe he was just on holiday. I’m sure private eyes have holidays too.”
“Would she have been likely to tell you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t imagine she told me everything about her life. Ours was a casual relationship. I’d never have expected her to bare her soul.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t more serious on her part?”
“Not at all. She’d been around.”
“And you?”
Stephen smiled. “I wasn’t new to the wily ways of the fair sex, no. Another drink?”
Hatchley passed his empty glass and Banks nodded. He lit a Silk Cut and looked out onto the lawn. Two sparrows were taking a bath in the fountain. There was plenty of room, but each defended its territory with an angry flapping of wings, splashing water all over the place. A shadow fell over the patio and Nicholas Collier popped his head around the French windows.
“Hello,” he said, stepping into the room. “I thought I heard voices.”
“If you don’t mind sir . . .” Sergeant Hatchley stood up and blocked the entrance, a task for which he might have been specially designed.
Nicholas tilted his head back and looked down his long nose at Hatchley. “What’s going on?”
“I’m just having a little chat with your brother,” Banks said. “You’re perfectly at liberty to stay, but I’d be obliged if you’d refrain from interrupting.”
Nicholas raised his black eyebrows. He seemed to have forgotten his sulking, but he clearly wasn’t used to being told what to do. For a moment, anger flashed in his eyes, then he simply nodded and sat by the windows.
“Look,” Stephen said, frowning at his brother and coming back with the drinks. “Where on earth is all this leading? Anne Ralston is history now. I haven’t seen or heard from her in five years. Quite frankly, it was embarrassing enough at the time having our relationship, such as it was, plastered all over the local papers. I wouldn’t like to relive that.”
“You mean you didn’t know?” Banks said, sipping his Scotch.
“Didn’t know what?”
“About Anne Ralston.”
“Look here. If this is some kind of a game . . .”
Did he or didn’t he? Banks couldn’t be sure. Sam Greenock would know the answer to that—when he got home, and if he could be persuaded to talk.
“Anne’s turned up again.”
“But . . . where?”
“Bernard Allen knew where she was. He told the Greenocks. Surely Sam told you?”
“No. No, I’d no idea. How is she? What happened?”
“I don’t know all the details,” Banks said. “Just that she’s alive and well and living in Canada. Are you sure nobody told you?”
“I’ve already said so, haven’t I? This is a complete surprise to me. Though I was sure she’d turn up somewhere, some day.” He went over and poured himself another drink; his hand was shaking. Banks glanced sideways at Nicholas, who sat impassively in his chair. There was no way of telling what he knew or didn’t know.
Banks and Hatchley finished their drinks and stood up.
“I’m sorry it came as such a shock, Mr Collier,” Banks said. “I just thought you ought to know.”
“Yes, of course,” Stephen said. “I’m very grateful to you. If you do hear anything else . . .”
“We’ll let you know.”
“There is just one thing,” Stephen said, standing in the doorway. “What has this to do with Bernard Allen’s death? Do you see any connection?”
“I don’t know, Mr Collier,” Banks said. “I really don’t know. It does seem like a bit of a coincidence, though—Anne disappearing the day after Addison’s killing, then turning up again, so to speak, around the time of Allen’s murder. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
And they walked back over the bridge, where the three men stood like shadows in the soft light. On impulse, Banks sent Hatchley on ahead and stopped.
“Do you remember Anne Ralston?” he asked the gnarled spokesman.
As was his custom, the man spat in the fledgling River Swain before answering. “Aye. Alus in and out o’there.” He nodded over at the Collier house.
“Have you seen her at all over the last few years?”
“Nay. She flitted.”
“And she hasn’t been back?”
He shook his head.
“Have you seen either Mr or Mrs Greenock go over to the Collier house this afternoon?”
“Aye,” the man said. “Sam Greenock went over about three o’clock.”
“To see Stephen or Nicholas?”
“It were Mr Stephen’s door he knocked on.”
“And did Stephen Collier answer it?”
The man scowled. “Aye, course he did.”
“How long was Mr Greenock in there?”
“’Baht ten minutes.”
“Thank you,” Banks said, heading for the guest house. “Thank you very much.”
He heard his reluctant informant hack into the beck again, then the murmur of their voices rose up behind him.
III
Katie Greenock hurried away when she saw Banks coming, but he couldn’t help noticing that she moved with some difficulty.
“Katie!” he called, hurrying down the hall after her and grasping her elbow.
She spun around and faced him, one hand over her stomach. Her face was white and tense with suppressed pain. “What do you want?” she asked angrily. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble?”
“There’ll be a lot more before this business is over, Katie. I’m sorry, but there it is. You’ll just have to learn to face the world. Anyway, that’s not why I called you. What’s wrong? You look ill.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’re white as a ghost. And what’s wrong with your stomach? Does it ache?”
“What do you care?” she asked, breaking away.
“Is it Sam? Has he hurt you?”
“I don’t know what you mean. I’ve got a tummy-ache, that’s all.”
“Did you tell Sam you’d told me about Anne?”
“I had to, didn’t I? He knew there was something wrong. I’m not good at hiding things.”
“And what did he do, beat it out of you?”
“I told you, I’ve just got a tummy-ache. Leave me alone, I feel sick.”
“Where is he?”
She gestured with her head. “In back.”
“Will you stay out here for a few minutes, Katie, while I talk to him?”
Katie nodded and edged into the dining-room.
Banks walked down the hall and knocked on the door that separated the Greenocks’ part of the house from the rest. Sam let him in.
“Chief Inspector Banks,” he said. “What a surprise. I hope nothing’s wrong?”
“Has your wife told you we had a little talk earlier today?” Greenock sat down. “Well, yes. She did right, too. I’m her husband.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the Ralston woman earlier, as soon as we found out it was Bernard Allen feeding the maggots up in the hanging valley? This is the second time you’ve obstructed our investigation, and I’m having serious thoughts about taking you in.”
“Now hold on a minute.” Sam stood up again and puffed out his chest. “You can’t come around here making accusations like that.”
“She said she told you that Bernard had met up with Anne Ralston in Canada.”
“So?”
“So you should have told me.”
“You never asked.”
Banks glared at him.
“I didn’t think it was relevant. Dammit, Chief Inspector, the woman’s been gone for five years.”
“You know bloody well how important she is. She’s important enough for you to dash out and tell Stephen Collier that Katie had told me what Bernie said. What’s going on, Greenock? Just what is your involvement in all this?”
“Nothing,” Sam said. “There’s nothing going on. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But you did go over to Stephen Collier’s this afternoon?”
“So what? We’re friends. I dropped by for a drink.”
“Did you also dash over a few weeks ago and tell him what Bernie said about Anne Ralston turning up?”
“I didn’t tell anyone.”
“I think you did. I also think you told him this afternoon that your wife had let the cat out of the bag to me about Anne Ralston. Didn’t you?”
“I did no such thing. And you can’t prove it either.”
“I will prove it,” Banks said. “Believe me, I will. And when I do, your feet won’t touch the ground.”
“You don’t scare me,” Sam said.
Banks drew closer and Greenock backed towards the wall. They were both about the same size, though Sam was heavier.
“I don’t?” Banks said. “Well I bloody well should. Where I come from, we don’t always do things by the book. Do you know what I
mean?” It was Hatchley’s line, Banks knew, but it wasn’t as if he was intimidating some scared kid. Sam was a villain, and Banks knew it. His dark eyes glittered with pent-up energy and Sam flinched as he felt his shoulder-blades make contact with the wall.
“Leave me alone!” Sam shouted. “I’ll bloody report you, I will.” Banks sneered. “That’s a laugh.” Then he backed away. “Keep out of my sight, Greenock,” he said. “If I want you, I’ll know which rock to look under. And when I do, I’ll have proof. And if I see or hear any more evidence—even the merest hint—that you’ve been hurting your wife again, I’ll make you bloody sorry you were ever born.”
IV
“Will there be anything else, Miss?” the waitress asked, clearing away the empty plate.
“What? Oh, yes. Yes. Another cup of tea, please.” Katie Greenock had to pull herself back from a very long way. It would be her third cup, but why not? Let it simply be another part of her little rebellion.
She sat at a table with a red-checked cloth—very clean, she noticed—by the window of the Golden Grill in Eastvale. The narrow street outside was busy with pedestrians, even in the thin drizzle, and almost directly opposite her was the whitewashed building with the black beams and the incongruous white-on-blue sign over the entrance: POLICE.
It was early Monday afternoon, and she didn’t know what she was doing in Eastvale. Already she was beginning to feel guilty. It was simply a minor gesture, she tried to convince herself, but her conscience invested it with the magnitude of Satan’s revolt.
That morning, at about eleven o’clock, she had felt so claustrophobic cleaning the rooms that she just had to get out—not only out of the house, but out of Swainshead itself for a while. Walking aimlessly down the street, she had met Beryl Vickers, a neighbour she occasionally talked gardening with, and accepted her offer of a ride into Eastvale for a morning’s shopping. Beryl was visiting her sister there, so Katie was left free to wander by herself for a few
hours. After buying some lamb chops and broccoli at the indoor market for that evening’s dinner, she had found the Golden Grill and decided to rest her feet.
She had only been sitting there for fifteen minutes when she saw three men come out of the pub next door and hurry through the rain back into the police station. Two of them she recognized— the lean, dark inspector and his fair, heavy sergeant—but the young athletic-looking one with the droopy moustache and the curious loping walk was new to her. For a moment, she thought they were sure to glance over their shoulders and see her through the window, so she covered the side of her face with her hand. They didn’t even look.
As soon as she saw the inspector, she felt again the bruises that Sam had inflicted on her the previous afternoon. She knew it wasn’t the policeman’s fault—in fact, he seemed like a kind man—but she couldn’t help the association any more than she could help feeling one between room five and what she had let Bernie do to her.
“What’s wrong with you?” Sam had asked when he came home.
Katie had tried to hide her red-rimmed eyes from him, but he grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger and asked her again. That was when she told him the police had been back and the inspector had interrogated her so hard she couldn’t hide it from him any more.
Sam had hit the roof.
“But it’s not that important,” Katie protested. “It can’t be!”