paused as he bent to put his key in the door. ‘No,’ he said to himself. ‘Time to take a cab. You’ve been leading me astray, Alan. It’d be damned embarrassing if I got done for drunken driving in my own city, wouldn’t it?’
They walked out on to the street. It was still busy, and many of the shops were open - all-night groceries and the ubiquitous Mac’s Milk. Or was this one Mo’s, Mc’s or Mick’s? You’d never get anything but an off-licence open past five thirty in Eastvale, Banks reflected.
Gregson waved and a cab pulled up. They piled in the back. The driver, an uncommunicative West Indian, nodded when he heard the directions. He dropped Banks off first outside Gerry’s house, then drove on with Gregson waving from the back.
Banks walked into the hot room and slumped in front of the TV. A rerun of
But the scene shifted, as it does in dreams, and it was no longer Wanda Morningstar dancing but Anne Ralston running ahead of him in her long Paisley skirt. It was a typical policeman’s dream too, for try as he might, he just couldn’t run fast enough. His feet felt as if they were glued to the earth. Every so often, she would pause and beckon him, smiling indulgently when she saw him try to drag himself along. He woke at six, covered with sweat. Outside, the birds were singing and an early-morning streetcar clattered by. He got up and took a couple of Gerry’s aspirins with a pint of water, then drifted off to sleep again.
10
ONE
The sun had just gone down behind Adam’s Fell, silhouetting the steep hillside against its deep crimson glow. The guests milled around in the Colliers’ large garden. Doors to both parts of the house were open, allowing access to drinks and a huge table of cheeses, pвtйs, smoked salmon and fresh fruit. Music drifted out from Stephen’s stereo. Now it was Mozart, but earlier there had been Motown and some ersatz modern pop. The crowd was mostly early to mid thirties, apart from one or two older landowners and friends of the family. There were a couple of bright young teachers from Braughtmore, several members of Stephen’s management staff, and a great assortment of entrepreneurs, some with political ambitions, from all over the dale. The parties were a fairly regular affair; they helped maintain the social status of the Colliers and introduce those who had something to those who might be willing and able to pay for it.
Katie stood alone by the fountain, with a glass of white wine in her hand. She had been holding it so long it was warm. Occasionally a well dressed young man would approach her and begin a conversation, but after a few minutes of her averted looks, blushes and monosyllabic answers, he would make an excuse to get away.
As usual, Sam had insisted she come.
‘I didn’t buy you those bloody expensive dresses for nothing, you know,’ he had railed when she told him at the last minute that she didn’t want to go.
‘I didn’t ask you to buy them,’ Katie said quietly. ‘I don’t even want them.’ And it was true. She felt uncomfortable in finery, full of pride and vanity.
‘You’ll damn well do as I say. There’ll be some important people there and I want you to make a good impression.’
‘Oh, Sam,’ she pleaded, ‘you know I never do. I can’t talk to people at parties. I get all tongue-tied.’
‘Have a few drinks like everyone else, for a change. That’ll loosen you up. For Christ’s sake, can’t you let your hair down for once?’
Katie turned away.
Sam grasped her arm. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘you’re coming with me and that’s that. If you’re so worried about talking to people, then just stand around and look decorative. At least you can do that. But you are coming.
Got it?’
Katie nodded and Sam let go of her. Rubbing her arm, she went up to her room and picked out a cotton print dress just right for the occasion, gathered at the waist and cut low down the back. It looked particularly good if she tied her hair up. She decided to take a fringed woollen shawl, too; sometimes, even in July, the evenings got chilly. After Sam had approved of her appearance and suggested a bit more eye make-up, they left.
She could see Sam in his white suit talking and laughing with a couple of local businessmen. He had a glass of wine too, though she knew he hated the stuff. He only drank it because that was the thing to do at the Colliers’ parties.
Katie looked around for John Fletcher, but she couldn’t see him. John was always kind and, of all of them, she found him the easiest to talk to, or even to be silent with. She liked Stephen Collier, but felt more comfortable with John Fletcher. He was a sad and haunted man since his wife ran off, but at least she hadn’t gone because he mistreated her. Maureen Fletcher, Katie remembered, had been beautiful, vain, haughty and foolhardy. The small community of Swainshead couldn’t hold her. Katie thought John ought to be glad to be rid of her, but she never said anything to him. They never discussed anything personal, but he seemed, beyond the depths of his sadness, a good man.
Katie shivered. The sunset had faded, leaving the sky above Adam’s Fell a deep dark violet colour. Even over the clinking glasses and the Motown music, which had started up again because some people wanted to dance, she could hear the eerie mournful call of a curlew high on the fell. She began to make her way into Nicholas’s part of the house to pick up her shawl where Sam had left it, then decided she wanted to go to the bathroom too. Pausing on the way, she admired the oak panelling and the old-fashioned style of his living room, with its watercolours of Nelson and Wellington on the walls, and its rows of leather-bound books. She wondered if he ever read them. On a small teak table by the Adam fireplace stood a bronze bust. Looking closer, Katie saw the name Oscar Wilde scratched into the base. She’d heard the name before somewhere, but it didn’t mean very much to her. What a beautiful place for a monster like Nicholas Collier to live. It would be difficult to clean though, she thought, taking in all the nooks and crannies with a professional eye.
Finally, she found the toilet, which was more modern than the rest of the house. There, she poured her drink down the bowl and hid for a while, idly glancing at one of the copies of
On her way back down the hall, she met Nicholas coming up. He was walking unsteadily, and his bright eyes were glassy. A stubborn lock of hair near his crown stood straight up. He looked like a naughty schoolboy.
‘Ah, Katie my dear,’ he said, reaching out and holding her shoulders. His voice was slurred and his cheeks were flushed with drink. ‘Come to me, for thy love is better than wine.’
Katie blushed and tried to wriggle free, but Nicholas only tightened his grip. He looked behind him.
‘Nobody around,’ he whispered. ‘Time for a little kiss, my rose of Sharon, my lily of the valley.’
Katie struggled, but he was too strong. He held her head still, brought his mouth closer to hers and seemed to suffocate her with a long wet kiss. His breath tasted rank with wine, garlicky pвtй and Stilton cheese.
When he stopped, she gulped in the air. But he didn’t let her go. One hand was on her bare back now and the other was feeling her breasts.
‘Ah, thy breasts are like two young roes that are twins,’ he said, breathing hard. ‘Come on, Katie. In here.
In the bedroom.’
‘No!’ Katie shouted. ‘If you don’t let me go I’m going to scream.’
Nicholas laughed. ‘I like a girl with a bit of spirit. Come on, I’ll make you scream, sure enough. But not yet.’ He put one hand over her mouth and started dragging her along the hall. Suddenly, she heard a familiar voice behind them and Nicholas’s grip loosened. She shook herself free and turned to hear John Fletcher tell Nicholas to take his hands off her.
‘You go to hell!’ Nicholas said, clearly too far gone in temper to pull back. ‘Who are you to tell me what to do? You’re nothing but a jumped-up farm boy.’
And suddenly, John hit him. It was a quick sharp blow to the mouth, and it stopped Nicholas in his tracks.
He glared at John as the blood welled to his lips and a thin line trickled down his chin. Out in the garden, a glass smashed and somebody giggled loudly above Mary Wells’ ‘My Guy’. Nicholas bared his teeth at John, put his hand over his mouth and stalked off to the bathroom.
Fletcher rubbed his knuckles. ‘Are
