“That particular branch is in Toronto, on Yonge Street, near Dundas Street, if that means anything.”
Banks shook his head. “Never been over the Atlantic. You?” Hatchley grunted. “Me? I’ve never been further west than Blackpool. Anyway, that narrows things down quite a bit, I’d say.”
“It does,” Banks agreed. “But it still doesn’t tell us who he was.”
“I got onto the Canadian High Commission and asked a bloke there to check if anyone from Toronto had been reported missing over here lately, but nobody has.”
“Too early yet, I suppose. If he
is
from Toronto, obviously everyone back there still thinks he’s on holiday.”
“Aye, but that won’t last forever.”
“We haven’t got forever. Who knows, he might have been a student and come over for the whole bloody summer. How’s Richmond doing?”
“He’s covered quite a few places already—Lyndgarth, Relton, Helmthorpe, Gratly.”
“Well, his task ought to be a bit easier now we know it’s a Canadian we’re after.”
“There’s been quite a few Canadians staying locally,” Hatchley said. “It’s easy enough to call the B and Bs and make a list from their records, but it’s damned hard to trace people’s movements after they’ve left. They don’t usually leave forwarding addresses, and it’s only once in a while a landlady has been able to tell us where they said they were going next.”
“There can’t be that many men from Toronto travelling alone,” Banks said. “I’m sure if he was a member of a group or a family somebody would have reported him missing by now. Better stick at it. At least you’ve narrowed the field considerably. Heard anything from Dr Glendenning?”
“The super called him a while ago. Still killing off those bloody maggots in disinfectant. Says he won’t be able to make a start till tomorrow morning at the earliest.”
Banks sighed. “All right. You’d better go help Richmond now. And thanks, Sergeant, you did a good job.”
Hatchley nodded and left the office. They’d been working together for almost two years now, Banks realized, and he still couldn’t bring himself to call the sergeant Jim. Maybe one day he would, when it came naturally to his lips. He lit another cigarette and went back to the window, where he watched the people wander about in the square, and drummed a tattoo on the sill.
V
“Sam’s not in,” Katie said that evening when she opened the back door to find Stephen Collier standing there. “He’s having a night out with his old mates in Leeds.”
“Can’t I come in, anyway?” Stephen asked. “Just for a cup of tea?”
“All right,” Katie said, and led him through to the spotless kitchen. “Just five minutes, mind you. I’ve work to be doing.” She turned away from him and busied herself with the kettle and teapot. She felt her face burning. It wasn’t right being alone in the house with a man other than her husband, even if it was someone as pleasant as Stephen. He had a reputation as a womanizer. Everybody knew that. Someone might even have seen him coming in.
“Nick tells me the police were around today,” Stephen said. Katie glanced at him over her shoulder. “It’s to be expected, isn’t it? One of our guests did find a dead body.”
“He still here?”
“No. He left this afternoon.”
“Well,” Stephen said, “I just thought I’d drop by to see if you were all right. I mean, it can be a bit of a shock to the system, something like that happening right on your doorstep, so to speak. Did the police ask a lot of questions?”
“Not to me, no. Why should they?”
“Just wondering,” Stephen said. “How are things, anyway?”
“All right, I suppose,” Katie answered. Though she had known him for over five years, and she certainly preferred him to his brother, Katie hadn’t really spent much time alone with Stephen Collier before. Mostly, they had met socially at summer garden parties the Colliers liked to throw, in the pub and at occasional dinners. She liked Stephen. He seemed kind and thoughtful. Often at social functions she had caught him looking at her in an odd way. Not
that
way, not like Nicholas. It was a look she didn’t quite understand, and she had never been able to return his gaze for long without lowering her eyes. Now she was alone with him she felt shy and awkward; she didn’t really know how to behave. She brought the tea to the table and opened a box of Fox’s Custard Creams.
“Come on, Katie,” Stephen said. “You’re not very convincing. You don’t sound all right to me.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do. I can tell. I’ve felt some sort of bond with you right from the start. I’ve been worried about you these past few months.”
“Worried? Why?”
“Because you’re not happy.”
“Of course I’m happy. That’s silly.”
Stephen sighed. “I can’t make you open up, can I? But you
can
talk to me if you want, if you need to. Everybody needs somebody to talk to now and then.”
Katie bit her lower lip and said nothing. She couldn’t talk to him. She couldn’t tell anyone the things that went on in her mind, the sins she dreamed of, the desperation she felt. She couldn’t tell him about her one chance of escaping from her miserable life, and what it had already cost her.
“Anyway,” Stephen went on, taking a biscuit, “I might not be around here for much longer.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve had enough of it, Katie. The plant, the house, the village.
Lord, I’m nearly thirty. It’s about time I got out and about, saw a bit of the world before I get too old.”
“B-but you can’t,” Katie said, shocked. “Surely you can’t just up and go like that? What about—”
Stephen slapped the table. “Oh, responsibilities be hanged,” he said. “There’s plenty of others willing and able to run Collier Foods. I’ll take a long holiday then maybe try something else.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” Katie asked.
Stephen looked at her, and she noticed that he suddenly looked old, much older than his twenty-eight years.
He ran his hand through his short brown hair. “I don’t know,” he said. “I told you, we’re kindred spirits. You’re the only person I’ve told. There’s nobody else, really.”
“But your brother . . .”
“Nicky? He wouldn’t understand. He’s too wrapped up in his own world. And don’t think I haven’t noticed the way he looks at you, Katie, even if Sam hasn’t. I’d stay away from him if I were you.”
“Of course I will,” Katie said, blushing. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“Oh, he can be very persuasive, Nicky can.”
“What about John?” Katie asked. “Or Sam? Can’t you talk to them?”
Stephen laughed. “Look, Katie,” he said. “Nicky, Sam and the rest, they’re all good drinking friends, but there are things I can’t talk to them about.”
“But why me?”
“Because I think it’s the same for you. I think you’re unhappy with your life and you’ve nobody to talk to about it. Why are you so afraid of talking to me? You’ve got all your problems bottled up inside you. Don’t you like me?”
Katie traced rings on the table with her forefinger. “It’s not that,” she said. “I’m fine, really I am.”
Stephen leaned forward. “Why don’t you open up, show some feeling?” he urged her.
“I do.”
“Not for me.”
“It’s not right.”
“Oh, Katie, you’re such a moralist.” Stephen stood up to leave.
“Would that I had your moral fibre. No, it’s all right, there’s no need to show me out.”
Katie wanted to call after him, but she couldn’t. Deep inside, she felt a thick darkness swirling and building in power, trying to force its way out. But it was evil and she had to keep it locked in. She had to accept her lot, her place in life. She was Sam’s wife. That was her duty. There was no point talking about problems. What could she say to Stephen Collier? Or he to her? Why had he come? What did he want from her? “The thing that all men want,” said a strong, harsh voice inside her. “The same thing his brother wants. Don’t be fooled by talk of companionship. Satan has a sweet tongue.”
“But he was reaching out to you,” another, quieter voice said, “reaching out in friendship, and you turned him away.”
Katie’s chest tightened and her hands shook as she tried to bring the teacup to her mouth. “I’m lost,” she thought. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s right any more. Help me, someone, please help me!” And the cup rolled to the floor and smashed as Katie lay her head on the table and wept.
FOUR
I
Two days later, on May 31, forensic information started trickling in. During that time, Richmond and Hatchley had tracked down all but two wandering Canadians who had left local hotels or guest houses between ten and thirteen days ago.
Events were moving too slowly for Banks. Most leads appear during the first twenty-four hours after a murder has taken place, but this body was about two hundred and forty hours old by the time it was found. Still they had very little to go on.
Therefore, when the first report from the forensic lab landed on his desk at ten-thirty that morning, Banks drank in the information like a man stranded in a desert without water for three days.
Dr Glendenning had established that death was due to a stab wound from a single-edged blade, probably a sheath-knife about six inches long. One upward thrust had penetrated the heart from beneath the ribs. After that, the face had been slashed and then beaten with a rock until it was unrecognizable. The victim was white, in his early thirties, five feet eleven inches tall, ten and a half stone in weight, and in good physical condition. That last part always irritated Banks: how could a corpse ever be in good physical condition? This one, certainly, had been about as far from it as one could get.
Vic Manson had finally managed, through peeling the skin off and treating it with glycerine, to get three clear prints. He had already checked these against the Police National Computer and discovered that they weren’t on record. So far no good, Banks thought. The forensic odontologist, a note said, was still working on his reconstruction of the dental chart.
Calling for Sergeant Hatchley on his way out, Banks decided it was time for a discussion over elevenses in the Golden Grill. The two men weaved their way through the local shoppers and parties of tourists that straggled along both pavement and the narrow street, and found a table near the window. Banks gave the order for coffee and toasted teacakes to Peggy, a plump girl with a bright smile, and looked across at the whitewashed front of the police station with its black timber beams. Black and white, he thought. If only life was as simple as that.
As they drank their coffee, Banks and Hatchley tried to add up what they had got so far. It wasn’t much: a ten-day-old corpse of a white male, probably Canadian, found stabbed in an isolated hanging valley. At least cause of death had been established, and the coroner’s inquest would order a thorough investigation.
“Perhaps he wasn’t travelling alone,” Banks said. “Maybe he was with someone who killed him. That would explain the need to disfigure him—to give the killer plenty of time to get back home.”
“If that’s the case,” Hatchley said, “it’ll be for the Canadian police to handle, won’t it?”
“The murder happened on our turf. It’s still our problem till the man at the top says different.”
“Maybe he stumbled into a coven of witches,” Hatchley suggested.
Banks laughed. “They’re mostly bored accountants and housewives in it for the orgies. I doubt they’d go as far as to kill someone who walked in on them. And Glendenning didn’t mention anything about ritual slaughter. How’s the search for the elusive Canadians going?”
Hatchley reached slyly for another cigarette to prolong the break. “I’m beginning to feel like that bloke who had to roll a rock up a hill over and over again.”
“Sisyphus? Sometimes I feel more like the poor sod who had his liver pecked out day after day.”
Hatchley lit his cigarette.
“Come on, then,” Banks said, standing up to leave. “Better get back.”
Hatchley cursed under his breath and followed Banks across the street.
“Chief Inspector Banks!” Sergeant Rowe called out as they passed the front desk. “Telephone message. You’re to call a Dr Passmore at the lab. He’s the odonto . . . the odotol . . . Oh, the bloody tooth fairy, or whatever they call themselves.”
Banks smiled and thanked him. Back in his office, he picked up the phone and dialled.
“Ah, Chief Inspector Banks,” said Passmore. “We’ve never met, but Dr Glendenning brought me in on this one. Interesting.”
“You’ve got something for us?” Banks asked eagerly.
“It’s a bit complicated. Would it be a great inconvenience for you to drop by the lab?”
“No, not at all.” Banks looked at his watch. “If I leave now I can be there in about an hour. Can you give me some idea over the phone?”
“I think we’ll be able to trace the identity of your corpse before too long, if I’m not mistaken. I don’t think his dentist is too far away.”
“With all due respect, I don’t see how that can be, doctor. We’re pretty sure he was a Canadian.”
“That’s as may be,” Passmore replied. “But his dental work’s as English as yours or mine.”
“I’m on my way.”
Still puzzled, Banks slipped a cassette into the deck and eased the Cortina out of the lot at the back of the station. At least something was happening. He drove slowly, dodging the tourists and shoppers who seemed to think Market Street was for pedestrians only. The breathy opening of Donovan’s “Hurdy Gurdy Man” started on the tape.
He passed the new estate under construction on the town’s southern edge, then he put his foot down once he got out of the built-up area. Leaving the Dales for the plain, he drove through a patchwork landscape of green pasture and fields of bright yellow rape, divided by hawthorn hedgerows. Bluebells and buttercups, about the only wild flowers Banks could put a name to, were in bloom among the long grass by the roadside. A frightened white-throat darted out in
front of the car and almost ended up, like so many unfortunate rabbits and hedgehogs, splattered all over the tarmac.
The forensic lab was a square three-storey red-brick building just north of Wetherby. Banks identified himself at reception and climbed up to Passmore’s second-floor office.