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 globe-trotting,” 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 his change 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. Alus 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 alus serving four orders at once. Need eight bloody arms on this job, specially on a 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 alus 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 asked after her. He could sense her fear; it was more than just the adrenaline 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.”
THIRTEEN
I
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 judgment.”
“God’s judgment 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 was 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 up 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 half-way, they sat on warm grass among limestone boulders and gazed down on 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.