Toronto?’
‘Looks like it, doesn’t it?’
‘Better not tell Jim Hatchley or you’ll get nowt out of him for a month or more. Why can’t you get the Toronto police to find her?’
‘For a start, I got the impression on the phone that they didn’t have time or didn’t give a damn, or both.
And anyway, they wouldn’t know how to question her, what to ask. Someone would have to brief them on two murder investigations, the sociology of the Yorkshire village, the history of-’
Gristhorpe held up his hand. ‘All right, all right, I get the point.’
‘And I think they’d scare her off, too,’ Banks added. ‘She was nervous enough about what she knew to warn Allen not to spread it around, so if she thinks the police are after her, the odds are she’ll scarper.’
‘Have you considered that she might not be using her own name?’
‘Yes. But I’ve got her photograph from our missing persons files - it’s a bit old, but it’s all we’ve got - and I think I know where to look. Being English myself gives me an advantage in that kind of environment, too. Do you think it makes sense?’
‘It’s all a bit iffy, but yes, yes I do, on the whole. If you can track down Allen’s drinking companions, there’s a good chance he’ll have told them about Anne Ralston. She might even drop in at his local herself from time to time, if she’s the kind that likes to be among her own.’
‘So you’ll see what you can do about getting me over there?’
Gristhorpe nodded. ‘Aye. I’ll see what I can do.’
About a week later, on a Thursday morning, the superintendent had asked Banks to come to his office.
Banks stubbed out his cigarette and carried his full coffee mug carefully along the corridor. As usual, Gristhorpe’s door was slightly ajar. Banks nudged it open with his shoulder and entered the cosy book-lined room. He took his usual seat and put his coffee on the desk in front of him.
Gristhorpe pushed a long envelope over the blotter.
‘You’ve done it?’
‘Open it.’
Inside was a return ticket on a charter flight from Manchester to Toronto.
‘There’s an important international conference on policing the inner city in London, Ontario. I thought you ought to go.’
‘But this ticket’s for Toronto.’
‘Aye, well, there isn’t an international airport in London.’
‘And Eastvale doesn’t have an inner city.’
Gristhorpe scratched his hooked nose. ‘We might have, one day. We did have a riot a few months ago, didn’t we? It pays to be prepared.’
‘Will you be expecting a report?’
‘Oh, a brief verbal account will do.’
Banks grinned.
‘There’s one catch, though.’
‘Oh?’
‘Money. All I could scrounge was the ticket and a bit of loose change for meals. You’ll have to supply most of your own pocket money.’
‘That’s all right. I’m not likely to be spending a fortune. What about accommodation, though?’
‘You’ll be staying with my nephew - at least, you can stay in his apartment. He’s off to Banff or some such place for the summer. Anyway, I’ve been in touch and he says he’ll be happy to meet you at the airport. I described you to him, so just stand around and look lost. He’s rather a lanky lad, as I remember. His hair’s a bit too long and he wears those silly little glasses - granny glasses, I think they’re called. He’s a nice enough lad - graduate student, organic chemistry or some such thing. He says he lives downtown, whatever that means. You told me a week, Alan. I’m depending on you.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Banks said, pocketing the ticket.
‘Find Anne Ralston and discover what she knows. I don’t care how you do it, outside torture. And for Christ’s sake, keep away from the local police. They wouldn’t appreciate your trespassing on their patch.
You’re a tourist, remember that.’
‘I’ve been wondering why you’re sending me,’ Banks said. ‘You’re very much concerned with this case yourself, especially the connection with the Addison murder. Why don’t you go?’
‘I would,’ Gristhorpe said slowly. ‘Believe me, I would.’ He looked sideways towards the open window. ‘I did my National Service in the RAF. I’d always hero-worshipped fighter pilots in the war and I suppose, in my folly, I wanted to be just like them. First time up one of the engines caught fire. If the pilot hadn’t been so damn good we’d have both been dead. Even so… I’ve never fancied the idea since.’
‘I can’t say I blame you,’ Banks said. ‘I’ll find her, don’t worry. At least I’ve an idea where to look.’
And that was that. Sandra and the children were excited and, of course, disappointed that they couldn’t go with him. Sergeant Hatchley acted as if Banks had been given a free holiday in an exotic place. And now here he was, high above the Atlantic Ocean, the pink lips and white teeth leaning over him with a tray of food.
Banks took off his headphones and arranged the tray in front of him. The main course appeared to be a small shrivelled chicken leg with pale wrinkled skin, accompanied by tiny potatoes and carrots covered in gravy. On further inspection, Banks discovered that one half of the meal was piping hot and the other still frozen solid. He called the attendant, who apologized profusely and took it away. When she delivered it again, the frozen side was warm and the other overcooked. Banks took a few mouthfuls and gave up in disgust. He also felt no inclination to investigate the mound of jelly-like substance with a swirl of cream on its top, or the limp lettuce leaves that passed for a salad. Instead, he turned to his cheese and biscuits which, being wrapped in cellophane, were at least fresh, and washed them down with a small plastic bottle of harsh red wine.
Feeling the onset of heartburn, Banks declined the offer of coffee and lit a cigarette. After the trays had been cleared, more drinks came. They really were very generous, Banks thought, and wondered what havoc a plane full of drunks might wreak - especially if the booze ran out. But it didn’t. He was kept well supplied with Johnnie Walker Red - a kind of sedation, he supposed, insurance against restless and troublesome passengers - and soon people were asked to pull down their blinds against the blazing sunlight in preparation for the movie. This turned out to be a dreadful cops-and-robbers affair full of car chases and shoot-outs in shopping precincts. After about ten minutes, Banks put his headset aside, closed his eyes and went over in his mind the questions he wanted to ask Anne Ralston. The jet engines were humming, the Scotch warmed his veins, and soon he fell into a deep sleep. The last thing he remembered was the crackly voice of the pilot saying they were soon going to reach the tip of Newfoundland and would then fly along the St Lawrence River.
TWO
While Banks was asleep somewhere over Quebec City, Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe sat hunched over a pint of Theakston’s bitter and a veal and egg pie in the Queen’s Arms, waiting for Sergeant Hatchley.
Frowning, he looked at his watch. He’d told Hatchley to arrive no later than seven thirty. He glanced out of the window at the market square, but saw no sign of the sergeant. It was still raining. That very morning the clouds had closed in again, draining the valley sides of their lush greens and flattening the majestic perspective of fells and moors.
At last Hatchley burst in and looked anxiously around for the superintendent. His hair was slicked down by the rain, emphasizing the bullet shape of his head, and the shoulders of his beige trench coat were splotched dark with wet patches.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he apologized, sitting opposite Gristhorpe. ‘The damn weather’s slowing down traffic all along the dale.’
Gristhorpe could smell the beer on his breath and guessed that he’d probably stopped for a quick one in Helmthorpe on his way, or maybe he had even made a minor diversion to the Black Sheep in Relton, where the landlord brewed his own prize-winning beer on the premises. He said nothing though. Without Banks around, Hatchley and Richmond were all he had, and he had no wish to alienate the sergeant before putting his plan into action.
Gristhorpe accepted Hatchley’s offer of another pint and leaned back in his seat to avoid the drift of smoke when the sergeant lit a cigarette.
‘Did you tell them?’ Gristhorpe asked.
‘Aye, sir. Found them all in the White Rose.’
‘I hope you weren’t too obvious.’
Hatchley looked offended. ‘No, sir. I did it just like you said. When Freddie Metcalfe started probing and prodding about why I was there, I just told him it was a few loose ends I had to tie up, that’s all.’
‘And then?’
‘Ah, well. Then, sir, I got myself invited over to the table. It was all very casual, like, chatting about the cricket and the local markets as if we was old mates. Then Sam Greenock asked me where my boss was.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Just what you told me, sir. I said he’d gone off to Toronto to talk to Anne Ralston.’
‘And?’
‘And what, sir?’
‘What happened next, man? How did they react?’
Hatchley took a long pull at his beer and wiped his lips with the back of his hairy hand. ‘Oh, they just looked at one another and raised their eyebrows a bit.’
‘Can you be a bit more specific, Sergeant? What did Sam Greenock say?’
‘He didn’t really say anything. Seemed excited to hear the news. I got the impression it made him a bit angry. And Stephen Collier went distinctly pale. That poncy brother of his just looked down his nose like I was something the cat dragged in.’
‘Who else was
