ONE
Hatchley started the next day in a bad mood. He grumbled to Banks that not only was his bed too small but the noise of the plumbing had kept him awake.
‘I swear there was some bugger in there for a piss every five minutes. Flushed it every time, too. The bloody thing took at least ten minutes to quieten down again.’
Banks, who had slept the sleep of the truly virtuous, overlooked the sergeant’s spurious arithmetic. ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘With a bit of luck you’ll be snug and warm in your own bed tonight.’
‘Not if I can help it.’
‘Carol Ellis?’
‘Aye.’
‘How long’s it been now?’
‘Over eighteen months.’
‘It’ll be wedding bells next, then?’
Hatchley blushed and Banks guessed he wasn’t far from the truth.
‘Anyway,’ Banks went on. ‘I’m sorry to keep you away from your love life, but I think we’ll be finished here today unless Richmond comes up with anything else.’
Hatchley had been on to the detective constable back in Eastvale, but Richmond had discovered nothing of importance except that Sam Greenock’s alibi seemed to hold. There remained, however, some doubt about the exact times he had called at Carter’s and the newsagent’s, so he wasn’t entirely out of the running.
Also, Richmond had spoken to PC Weaver, who had called at the Greenocks’ to ask about Canadian visitors. Weaver said that in all cases he had both checked the register and made enquiries. It looked like Sam Greenock was lying. Weaver could have been covering himself, but he was a good officer and Banks tended to believe him.
The previous evening, Banks and Hatchley had gone to interview John Fletcher, but he had been out. On the way back, they called in at the White Rose for a nightcap and had an early night. Mrs Greenock had still been skilfully managing to avoid them.
Breakfast seemed to cheer Hatchley up. Delivered by Katie, who blushed and ran as soon as she put, or almost dropped, the plates in front of them, the main course consisted of two fried eggs, two thick rashers of Yorkshire bacon, Cumberland sausage, grilled mushrooms and tomato, with two slices of fried bread to mop it all up. Before that they had drunk grapefruit juice and eaten cereal, and afterwards came the toast and marmalade. By some oversight, the toast was actually hot, and Hatchley, his equilibrium much restored, recoiled in mock horror.
‘What’s on after we’ve talked to Fletcher?’ he asked.
‘We’ve got to put it all together, write up the interviews, see what we’ve got. I’m due for lunch with the super, so as far as I’m concerned you can take the rest of the day off and make an early start in the morning.’
Sergeant Hatchley beamed.
‘I’ll drop you off at home,’ Banks said. ‘I’ve got to go back to Eastvale to pick up Sandra and the kids, anyway.’
They finished their tea and left the room to the quiet Belgian couple by the window and the young married in the corner who hadn’t noticed anyone except each other. The Greenocks themselves were nowhere in sight.
Outside, the three men Banks had spoken to the previous day were on the bridge as usual. The one who had acted as spokesman gave him a curt grudging nod of acknowledgement as he passed.
Hatchley nudged him as they got in the car. ‘It usually takes an incomer two generations to get any sign of recognition from those characters. What did you do, slip ’em a tenner each?’
‘Southern charm, Sergeant,’ Banks said, grinning. ‘Sheer charm. That and a lot of luck.’
About two miles up the valley, they crossed the low bridge and took a narrow dirt road up the fell side.
Fletcher’s farmhouse was a solid dark-stone construction that looked as if it had been extruded from the earth like an outcrop of rock. Around the back were a number of pens and ditches for dipping and shearing. This time, he was at home.
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t in,’ he said when Banks mentioned their previous visit. ‘I was doing a bit of business over in Hawes. Anyway, come in, make yourselves comfortable.’
They followed him into the living room, a spartan kind of place with bare plastered walls, stiff-backed chairs and a solid table on which rested an old wireless and precious little else. Whatever money Fletcher had in the bank, he certainly didn’t waste any on luxurious living. The small window looked out across the valley. With a view like that, Banks thought, you’d hardly need paintings or television.
One thing in particular caught Banks’s eye immediately, partly because it just didn’t seem to fit in this overtly masculine environment. Propped on the mantelpiece was a gilt-framed photograph of a woman. On closer inspec-tion, which Banks made while Fletcher went to brew tea, the photo proved doubly incongruous. The woman, with her finely plucked eyebrows, gay smile and long wavy chestnut hair, certainly didn’t look as if she belonged in Fletcher’s world. Banks could imagine her cutting a fine figure at society cocktail parties, sporting the latest hat at Ascot or posing elegantly at fashion openings, but not living in this godforsaken part of the world with a dark, squat, rough-cheeked sheep farmer.
When Fletcher came back, Banks pointed to the photograph and asked who she was.
‘My wife,’ he said. ‘She’s been gone two years now.’ There was a distinct chill in his tone that harmonized with the lonely brooding atmosphere Banks sensed in the house.
He didn’t like to ask, but curiosity, as it often did, got the better of him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Is she dead?’
Fletcher looked sharply at him. ‘Not dead, no. If you must know, she left me.’
And you’re still in love with her, Banks thought. At least that explained something of the heaviness that Fletcher seemed to carry around inside himself.
‘We’ve come about Bernard Allen,’ Banks said, accepting a cup of tea and changing tack quickly.
‘Aye, I heard,’ Fletcher said. ‘Poor sod.’
‘Did you know him well?’
‘Not really, no. Just used to pass an evening or two in the White Rose when he dropped in for a visit.’
‘Did you know him before he went to Canada?’
‘I met him a few times. Hard not to when I was dealing with Walter Collier. Archie Allen worked some of his land.’
‘So I heard. What were you going to do about that?’
Fletcher shrugged. ‘I wasn’t going to evict them, if that’s what you’re getting at. They were quite welcome to stay as far as I was concerned.’
‘But they couldn’t make a go of it?’
‘That’s right. It’s tough, sheep farming, like I said before. I felt sorry for them, but there was nothing I could do.’
‘So you only knew Bernard through his father at first?’
‘Aye. He was off at university around then, too. And his brother had emigrated to Australia. There was only the young lass left.’
‘Esther?’
‘Aye. How is she? Have you seen her?’
‘Yes,’ Banks said. ‘She’s well. Married. Lives in Leeds. Did you ever hear anything about her and Nicholas Collier?’
Fletcher frowned. ‘No, I can’t say as I did. Though I wouldn’t put it past him. She were a nice lass, young Esther. I’ve often thought things might’ve worked out different if the others had stuck around, kept the family together, like.’
‘You mean Bernard and Denny going away might have caused their father’s problems?’
‘Some of them, perhaps. Not all, mind you. But it costs money to hire men. If you’ve got a family, there might be more mouths to feed, but there’s more hands to help, too.’
‘Did you have any connection with Bernard other than his father? There can’t have been much of an age difference between you.’
‘Nay, I’m older than I look,’ Fletcher said, and grinned. ‘Like I said, we’d pass the time of day in the White Rose now and then. Him and his girlfriend were in there often enough.’
‘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,
