up. He was always interested in new things to read, look at or listen to.
‘Ebenezer Elliott Gristhorpe,’ he repeated to himself. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘Thought you’d like that,’ Gerry said, grinning. ‘It does have a certain ring to it, doesn’t it? My poor mum got lumbered with Mary Wollstonecraft. Very progressive, Grandad was, respected the rights of women, too. But my dad was plain old George Webb, and thank the Lord he’d no hobby horse to tie his kids to.’
On the news, a gang of street kids in Belfast threw stones and tossed Molotov cocktails at police in riot gear. It was night, and orange flames blossomed all along the street. Black smoke rose from burning tyres.
The world really was a global village, Banks thought, feeling his attention start to slip. Consciousness was fading away again. He yawned and put down his teacup on the low table.
‘You can tell me something now,’ Gerry said. ‘Where did you get that scar?’
Banks fingered the white scar by his right eye. ‘This? I passed out from lack of sleep and hit my head on the corner of a table.’
Gerry laughed. ‘I get the point. I’m keeping you up.’
Banks smiled. ‘I’m definitely falling asleep again. See you in the morning?’
‘Probably not,’ Gerry said. ‘I’ve got a long way to go and I’m setting off at the crack of dawn. There’s coffee and sugar in the cupboard above the sink. Milk and stuff’s in the fridge. Here’s a spare door-key.
Make yourself at home.’
Banks shook his bony hand. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I will. And if you’re ever in England…’
‘I’ll be sure to visit Uncle Ebenezer. I always do. And we’ll have a jar or two in the Queen’s Arms.
Goodnight.’
Banks went back into the bedroom. A light breeze had sprung up to ease the suffocating heat a little, but it was still far from comfortable. He flopped down on the damp sheets. Outside, a short distance away, he heard a streetcar rattle by and remembered exciting childhood trips to big cities when the trams were still running. He thought of the Queen’s Arms on the edge of sleep, and pictured the pub on the corner of Market Street and the cobbled square. He felt very far from home. The Queen’s Arms was a long, long way away, and there was a lot to do if he was to track down Anne Ralston before the week was over.
9
ONE
They were going to church: the women smiling in their wide-brimmed hats and cotton print dresses, the men ill at ease in tight ties and pinching waistcoats.
Every Sunday morning Katie watched them as she cleaned the rooms, and every week she knew she should be with them, dragging Sam along with the promise of an hour in the pub for him later while she cooked dinner. But he went to the pub anyway, and she cooked dinner anyway. The only thing missing was the hour in church. And that she couldn’t face.
All through her childhood, Katie had been forced to go to the Gospel with her grandmother, and the icy devotion of the congregation had scared her half to death. Though they were praising God, they hardly dared sing so loud for fear He would think they were taking pleasure in the hymns. Katie could never understand the readings or the lessons, but she understood the passionate menace in the tones of those who spoke; she understood the meanings of the spittle that sometimes dribbled over their lips and the way their eyes glazed over. As she grew older, all her fear affixed itself to the sights, sounds and smells of the church: the chill mustiness rising from worn stone flags; the pews creaking as a bored child shifts position; the unearthly echo of the minister’s voice; the wooden board announcing the hymn numbers; the stained glass fragmenting colour like broken souls. Just thirty seconds in a church meant panic for Katie; she couldn’t breathe, she started trembling, and her blood turned to stone.
But she knew she should go. It was, after all, God’s Mansion on Earth, and she would never escape this vale of tears if she didn’t give herself to Him completely. Instead, she watched the rest of the village go off in their finery and listened to the hymns on the radio as she dusted, tidied and swept, humming along very quietly under her breath. Surely, surely, He would approve? She was working, doing her duty. It was the sabbath, of course, but there were still guests to take care of, and she suspected deep in her heart that the sabbath was only meant for men anyway. Surely He would approve. Her work would count in her favour.
But it was a sin, she remembered vaguely, to court His favour, to say, ‘Look what I’ve done, Lord.’ It was the sin of pride. At least some said it was. She couldn’t remember who, or whether she had been told to believe or disbelieve them - there were so many heresies, traps awaiting those impure in body and mind -
but words such as faith, works and elect circled one another in her thoughts.
Well, Katie concluded dismally, working on Sundays could only add to the weight of sin she carried already. She picked up the black plastic bag. There were still three more rooms to do, then there was dinner to see to. When, she wondered, was it all going to end?
She went downstairs to put the roast in and immediately recognized the new guest standing over the registration book in the hall. He signed himself in as Philip Richmond, from Bolton, Lancashire, and he told Sam, who was dealing with the details, that he was simply after a few relaxing days in the country.
But Katie remembered the moustache and the athletic spring in his step; it was the man she had seen with Chief Inspector Banks and Sergeant Hatchley the day she had run away to Eastvale.
Seeing him there brought back the whole day. Nothing had come of it really, except that she had caught a minor cold. The housework got done. Not on time, but it got done. Sam never even found out, so there was no retribution at his hands. Nor were there any outbreaks of boils, thunderbolts from heaven, plagues of locusts or other such horrors her grandmother had assured her would happen if she strayed from the path.
She felt as if she had lost sight of the path completely now. That was all she really knew about what was happening to her. The conflicting voices in her mind seemed to have merged into one incomprehensible rumble, and much of the time she felt as if she had no control over her thoughts or deeds.
There were clear moments though. Like now. Outside, the landscape was fresh after the previous few days’ rain, which was now rising in sun-charmed wraiths of mist from the lower fell sides and the valley bottom. And here, in their hall, stood a man she recognized as having a close association with the police.
She hadn’t seen what all the fuss was about the previous evening, when Sam had stumbled home from the White Rose in a very bad mood.
‘He’s gone to find her,’ he had said, scowling. ‘All the way to bloody Canada. Just to find her.’
‘Who?’ Katie had asked quietly, confused and frightened of him. In moods like this he was likely to lash out, and she could still feel the pain in her breast from the last time.
‘Anne Ralston, you silly bitch. That copper’s taken off to Toronto after her.’
‘Well, what does it matter?’ Katie had argued cautiously. ‘If she killed that man all those years ago, they’ll put her in jail, won’t they?’
‘You don’t know nothing, woman, do you? Nothing at all.’ Sam hit out at her and knocked the wooden cross off the mantelpiece.
‘Leave it,’ he snarled, grabbing Katie by the arm as she bent to pick it up. ‘Can’t you think of anything but bloody cleaning up?’
‘But I thought you wanted me-’
‘Oh, shut up. You don’t know nothing.’
‘Well, tell me. What is it? Why does it matter so much that he’s gone chasing after Anne Ralston in Canada? You hardly knew her. Why does it matter to us?’
‘It doesn’t,’ Sam said. ‘But it might to Stephen. She might make things difficult for him.’
‘But Stephen hasn’t done anything, has he? How could she harm him?’
‘She was his fancy woman, wasn’t she? Then she ran off and left him. She could tell lies about his business, about… hell, I don’t know! All I know is that it’s all your bloody fault.’
Katie said nothing. Sam’s initial rage was spent, she could tell, and she knew she would remain fairly safe if she kept quiet. It was tricky though, because he might get angry again if she didn’t give the proper response to his ranting.
Sam sat heavily on the sofa and turned on the television. There was an old black and white film about gangsters on. James Cagney shot Humphrey Bogart and ran for it.
‘Get me a beer,’ Sam said.
Katie got him a can of Long Life from the fridge. She knew it was no good telling him he’d had enough already. Besides, on nights like this, when he’d had a bit more than usual, he tended to fall asleep as soon as he got to bed.
‘And don’t forget the Colliers’
