Almost.’
She kissed him again, and they set off for the car.
‘It’s a bloody maze, this place,’ Sandra complained, ‘and they really fleece you for parking. Then there’s roadworks everywhere on the way. They’re still working on Barton bridge, you know. It was misty too, high up in the Pennines. Oh, I am going on, aren’t I? I’m just so glad to see you. You must be tired.’
Banks stifled a yawn. ‘It’s five in the morning where I am. Where I was, rather. And I can’t sleep on planes. Anything interesting happen while I was away?’
Sandra frowned and hesitated. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you,’ she said, loading the small case and the duty-free bag into the boot of the white Cortina, ‘at least not until we got home. Superintendent Gristhorpe called this morning just before I set off.’
‘On a Sunday morning? What about?’
‘He said he wants to see you as soon as you get back. I told him what state you’d be in. Oh, he apologized and all that, but you’ve still got to go in.’
‘What is it?’ Banks lit cigarettes for both Sandra and himself as she drove down the spiral ramp from the fourth floor of the multi-storey car park out into the sunlit day.
‘Bad news,’ she said. ‘There’s been another death in Swainshead.’
PART THREE:
THE DREAMING SPIRES
12
ONE
‘Accidental death! Don’t you think that’s just a bit too bloody convenient?’
Sergeant Hatchley shrugged as if to imply that perhaps if Banks didn’t go gallivanting off to the New World such things might not happen. ‘Doctor says it could have been suicide,’ he said.
Banks ran his hand through his close-cropped black hair. It was twelve thirty. He was back in his office only an hour after arriving home, jet-lagged and disoriented. So far, he hadn’t even had a chance to admire his favourite view of the cobbled market square. The office was smoky and a cup of black coffee steamed on the desk. Superintendent Gristhorpe was keeping an appointment with the deputy chief constable, whose personal interest in events was a measure of the Colliers’ influence in the dale.
‘And where the hell was Richmond?’ Banks went on. ‘Wasn’t he supposed to be baby-sitting the lot of them while I was away?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Where was he then?’
‘Asleep at the Greenocks’, I suppose. He could hardly invite himself to spend the night with the Colliers, could he?’
‘That’s not the point. He should have known something was wrong. Send him in.’
‘He’s just gone off duty, sir.’
‘Well, bloody well bring him back again!’
‘Yes, sir.’
Hatchley stalked out of the office. Banks sighed, stubbed out his cigarette and walked over to the window.
The cobbled market square was still there, a bit rain drenched, but still there. Tourists posed for photographs on the worn plinth of the ancient market cross. The church door stood open and Banks could hear the distant sound of the congregation singing ‘Jerusalem’.
So he was home. He’d just had time to say hello to Brian and Tracy, then he’d had to hurry down to the station. He hadn’t even given them their presents yet: a Blue Jays sweatshirt for Brian, the
Already Toronto was a memory with the quality of a dream - baseball, the community college, Kleinburg, Niagara Falls, the CN Tower, and the tall downtown buildings in black and white and gold. But Staff Sergeant Gregson, the Feathers crowd and Anne Ralston/Julie Culver weren’t a dream. They were what he had gone for. And now he’d come back to find Stephen Collier dead.
There was no suicide note; at least nobody had found one so far. According to Nicholas Collier, John Fletcher and Sam Greenock, who had all been with Stephen on his last night at the White Rose, Stephen, always highly strung and restless, had seemed excessively nervous. He had got much more drunk than usual. Finally, long beyond closing time, they had had to help him home. They had deposited Stephen fully clothed on his bed, then adjourned to Nicholas’s half of the house, where they had a nightcap. John and Sam then left, and Nicholas went to bed.
In the morning, when he went to see how his brother was, Nicholas had discovered him dead. The initial findings of Dr Glendenning indicated that he had died of suffocation. It appeared that Stephen Collier had vomited while under the influence of barbiturates and been unable to wake up. Such things often happened when pills and booze were mixed, Glendenning had said. All that had to be determined now was the amount of barbiturate in Stephen’s system, and that would have to wait until the post-mortem. He had suffered from insomnia for a long time and had a prescription for Nembutal.
So what had happened? According to Hatchley, Stephen must have got up after the others left and taken his sleeping pills as usual, then gone downstairs and played a record - Mozart’s
It was damned unsatisfactory, Banks thought, but it looked like an end to both the Addison and Allen cases. Stephen Collier had certainly confessed to Anne Ralston. He knew that Banks would find her and that when she heard Bernie had been killed, she would pass on the information. He must have gone through a week of torment trying to decide what to do - make a run for it or stay and brazen it out. After all, it was only her word against his. The strain had finally proved too much for him, and either accidentally or on purpose - or accidentally on purpose - he had put an end to things, perhaps to save himself and the family name the ignominy of a trial and all the publicity it would bring down on them.
Feeling calmer, Banks lit another cigarette. He finished his coffee and determined not to haul Richmond over the coals. After all, as Hatchley had said, the constable couldn’t be everywhere at once. He still felt restless though; his nerves were jangling and his eyes ached. He had that strange and disturbing sensation of wanting to sleep but knowing he couldn’t even if he tried. When he rubbed his chin, he could feel the bristles. He hadn’t even had time for a shave.
When Richmond arrived, they walked over to the Queen’s Arms. After the morning sunshine, it had turned cool and rainy; a wonderful relief after the hellish steam bath of Toronto, Banks thought as he looked up and let the rain fall on his face. Cyril, the landlord, rustled them up a couple of ham and tomato sandwiches. They found an empty table in a corner, and Banks got the drinks in.
‘Look, I’m sorry for dragging you back, Phil,’ he said, ‘but I want to hear your version of what happened.’
‘In the White Rose, sir?’
‘The whole week. Just tell me what you saw and thought.’
‘There’s not very much to tell, really,’ Richmond said, and he gave Banks his version of the week’s events in as much detail as he could.
‘Katie Greenock went off with Stephen Collier on Friday afternoon, is that right?’
‘Yes, sir. They went for a walk up Swainshead Fell. I took a walk up Adam’s Fell and I could see them across the dale.’
‘Did they go towards the hanging valley?’
‘No, sir, they didn’t go over the top - just diagonal, as far as the river’s source. It’s about halfway up and a bit to the north.’
Banks wondered if anything had gone on between Katie and Stephen Collier. It seemed unlikely, given the kind of woman she seemed to be, but he was sure that she had surrendered to Bernard Allen. And in her case, the old-fashioned term ‘surrendered’ was the right word to use. Banks recalled the image of Katie standing in the market square, soaked to the skin, just before he’d left, and he remembered the eerie feeling he’d had that she was coming apart at the seams. It would certainly be worth talking to her again; at the very least she would be able to tell him something more about Collier’s state of mind on the day before he died.
‘What about Saturday night in the White Rose? How long were you there?’
‘From about nine till closing time, sir. I tried to pace myself, not drink too much.’
Banks grinned, remembering his own nights in the Toronto pubs. ‘A tough job, eh? Never mind. Notice anything?’
‘Like I told the super and
