around the eastern end of the stone bridge; and there were three cars parked outside the White Rose. Banks looked at his watch: twenty past one. With a bit of luck the same crowd as yesterday would be there. He read over the names Fellowes had given him again and decided to make a start.
THREE
First things first, Banks thought, and headed for the bar. He ordered Cumberland sausage, beans and chips, then paid, took his numbered receipt, and waited while Freddie Metcalfe poured him a pint of Pedigree.
‘Is tha getting anywhere?’ Metcalfe asked, his biceps bulging as he pulled down on the pump.
‘Early days yet,’ Banks answered.
‘Aye, an’ it got to late days an’ all last time, and still tha didn’t find owt.’
‘That’s how it goes sometimes. I wasn’t here then.’
‘Thinks tha’s better than old Gristhorpe, does tha, eh?’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘From down sahth, aren’t tha?’
‘Yes. London.’
‘London.’ Metcalfe placed the foaming brew on the cloth in front of Banks and scratched his hairy ear.
‘Bin there once. Full o’ foreigners, London. All them A-rabs.’
‘It’s a busy place,’ Banks said, picking up his beer.
‘Don’t get many o’ them arahnd ’ere. Foreigners, that is. That why tha came up ’ere, to get shut on t’ Arabs, eh? Tha’ll find plenty o’ Pakis in Bradford, like, but I don’t reckon as I’ve ever seed a darkie in Swainshead. Saw one in Eastvale, once.’
Banks, growing quickly tired of Metcalfe’s racist inanities, made to turn away, but the landlord grabbed his elbow.
‘Don’t tha want to ask me any questions then, lad?’ he said, his eyes glittering.
Holding back his temper, Banks lit a cigarette and propped himself up against the bar. He had noticed that the three men he recognized from the previous day were only into the upper thirds of their pints, so he had enough time to banter with Metcalfe. He might just pick up some interesting titbit.
‘What do you want me to ask you?’ he opened.
‘Nay, tha’s t’ bobby. Tha should know.’
‘Do you get many walkers in here?’
‘Aye. We don’t fuss ’em abaht rucksacks and boo-its and whatnot like that stuck-up pillock on t’ main road.’
‘But I understand this is the “select” part of town?’
‘Aye.’ Metcalfe laughed. ‘Tha could say that. It’s t’ oldest, anyroads. And t’ Colliers drink ’ere, as did their father before them. Select, if tha likes, but dahn to earth, not stuck up.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘A right lad, were Walter Collier.’ Then he leaned forward and whispered, ‘Not like ’is sons, if tha knows what I mean. Wouldn’t know a cratch from a gripe, neither on ’em. And they was brought up by a farmer, too.’
Banks, who didn’t know a cratch from a gripe either, asked why.
‘Eddication,’ Metcalfe said, intoning the word as if it were responsible for most of the world’s ills. ‘Fancy bloody Oxford eddication. Wanted ’em to ’ave a better chance than ’e’d ’ad, did old Walter. Farming don’t pay much, tha knows, an’ Walter were sharp enough to get out ’imself.’ Metcalfe turned up his nose.
‘Well, tha can see what eddication does.’
‘What are they like, Stephen and Nicholas?’ Banks asked.
Metcalfe sniffed and lowered his voice. He was clearly enjoying his role as dispenser of local opinion.
‘Right bloody useless pair, if y’ask me. At least yon Nicholas is. Mr Stephen’s not so bad. Teks after old Walter, ’e does. Bit of a ladies’ man. Not that t’ other’s queer, or owt.’ Metcalfe laughed. ‘There were a bit o’ trouble wi’ a servant lass a few years back, when ’e were still a young lad, living at ’ome, like. Got ’er up t’ spout, Master Nicholas did. Old Walter ’ad to see ’er right, o’ course, and I’ve no doubt ’e gave t’ lad a right good thrashing. But it’s Mr Stephen that’s t’ ladies man. One after t’ other.’
‘What’s the difference in their ages?’
‘Nobbut a couple o’ years. Stephen’s t’ eldest.’
‘What happened to the farm land?’
‘Old Walter sold some on it,’ Metcalfe said, ‘and leased t’ rest. T’ Colliers are still t’ biggest landowners in t’ dale, mind thee. John Fletcher over there bought a goodly chunk on it.’ He wagged his chin in the direction of the table. The drinkers were now into the last thirds of their drinks, and Banks decided it would be a good time to approach them.
‘Tha still an’t asked me no real questions,’ Metcalfe protested.
‘Later,’ Banks said, turning. ‘I’d like to talk to these gentlemen here before they leave.’ Of the gentlemen in question, he recognized Nicholas Collier and Sam Greenock from the previous day; therefore, the third had to be John Fletcher.
‘Wait on a minute,’ Metcalfe said. ‘Dun’t tha want tha sausage and chips?’
And as if on cue, a freckled little girl in a red dress, her hair in pigtails, appeared from the kitchens and called out, ‘Number seventy-five! Sausage, beans and chips.’
Banks gave her his receipt and took the plate, then helped himself to the condiments from the bar.
When he walked over to the table, the three men shifted around, scraping their chair legs on the flagged floor, and made room for him.
‘Do you mind if I eat at your table?’ he asked.
‘Not at all. Freddie been giving you a rough time, Inspector?’ Nicholas Collier asked. His smile showed his prominent teeth to great disadvantage; they were discoloured with nicotine and crooked as a badly built drystone wall. His speech, Banks noticed, bore traces of the local accent under its veneer of public school English.
‘No,’ he said, returning the smile. ‘Just entertaining me. Quite a fellow.’
‘You can say that again. He’s been behind the bar as long as I can remember.’ Nicholas leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Between you and me, I don’t think he quite approves of Stephen and myself.
Anyway, have you met John, here?’
The squat man with the five o’clock shadow was indeed John Fletcher, gentleman farmer. Stephen Collier, his brother said, was away dealing with some factory business.
‘Is this just a social visit or do you have some questions for us?’ Sam asked.
‘Just one, really,’ Banks said, spearing a mouthful of sausage. ‘Have you any idea who it was we found up there?’
After a short silence Nicholas said, ‘We get quite a lot of visitors in the area, Inspector. Especially when we’re blessed with such a fine start to the year. There’s nobody local missing, as far as I know, so it must be a stranger. Can’t you check?’
‘Yes,’ Banks said. ‘Of course we can. We can go through every name in every hotel and guest house registration book and make sure everyone’s accounted for. But, like you I’m sure, we’re all for anything that saves extra effort.’
Collier laughed. ‘Naturally. But no, I can’t think of anyone it might be.’
‘Your victim hadn’t necessarily come through Swainshead, you know,’ Sam pointed out. ‘He could have been heading south from Swaledale or beyond. Even from the Lake District. He could have set off from Helmthorpe too, or any number of other villages in the dale. Most of them have at least one or two bed and breakfast places these days.’
‘I know,’ Banks said. ‘Believe me, we’re checking.’ He turned to Fletcher. ‘I hear that you own quite a bit of land?’
‘Yes,’ Fletcher said, his dark eyes narrowing suspiciously. ‘Walter sold it to me when he gave up farming and went into the food business.’ He glanced at Nicholas, who nodded. ‘Neither Nick here nor his brother Stephen wanted to take over - in fact Walter hadn’t wanted them to, he’d been preparing to sell for quite a while - so I thought I’d give it a go.’
‘How is it working out?’
‘Well enough. I don’t know if you understand much about Dales farming, Mr Banks, but it’s a hard life.
Old Walter himself had had enough, and he was one of those men - rare around these parts - with enough vision to get out and put what he’d got to better use. I’d never blame a farmer for wanting a different life for his sons. I’ve got no family myself,’ he said, and a hard look came into his eyes. ‘I’m not complaining, though. I make a living - the EEC and the National Parks Commission notwithstanding.’
Banks turned to Nicholas. ‘What do you do?’
‘I teach English at Braughtmore, just up the road here. It’s only a small public school of course, but it’s a start.’
‘But you don’t actually live there?’
‘No. Hardly necessary, really. The house is so close. The pupils live in. They have to; it’s so damn far from civilization. And we have housemasters. Some of the teachers live in the grounds, but a couple of others have chosen to settle here in the village. The school’s only five miles north, quite isolated. It’s a good school, though I say so myself. Do you have any children, Inspector?’
‘Yes. A boy and a girl.’
‘What school do they attend?’
‘Eastvale Comprehensive.’
‘Hmm.’ The corner of Collier’s lip twitched, giving just a fleeting hint of a sneer.
Banks shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘Your brother runs the family business, I gather.’
‘Yes. Managing director of Collier Food Enterprises. It’s over the Lancashire border,
