Sergeant Hatchley, sir, it seemed pretty much of a normal night to me.’
‘You didn’t think Stephen Collier was drinking more than usual?’
‘I don’t know how much he usually drank, sir. I’d say from the other three nights I saw him in the White Rose during my stay, he did drink more on Saturday. But it was Saturday night. People do overdo it a bit then, don’t they? No work in the morning.’
‘Unless you’re a copper.’
Cyril called last orders and Banks hurried to the bar for another two pints.
‘What was the mood like at the table?’ he asked when he got back.
‘A bit festive, really.’
‘No arguments, no sullen silences?’
‘No. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. There was one thing…’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I couldn’t hear anything because Sam and Stephen were talking quite loudly, but I got the impression that at one point John Fletcher and Nicholas Collier were having a bit of a barney.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m just going by the expressions on their faces, sir. It looked like Nicholas was angry with Fletcher for some reason and Fletcher just brushed him aside.’
‘Did the others appear to notice?’
‘No. Like I said, sir, they were talking, arguing about politics or something.’
‘And this was Nicholas Collier and John Fletcher, not Stephen?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Odd. How did Stephen seem?’
‘I’d say he was a fairly happy drunk. Happier than he ever seemed sober.’
‘What was he drinking?’
‘They were all drinking beer.’
‘How many pints would you say Stephen had?’
Richmond flushed and fiddled with his moustache. ‘I wasn’t really counting, sir. Perhaps I should have been, but…’
‘You weren’t to know he’d be dead in the morning. Don’t worry. It’s the bane of our lives. If we all had twenty-twenty hindsight our job’d be a lot easier. Just try and remember. Picture it as clearly as you can.’
Richmond closed his eyes. ‘At a guess, I’d say about five or six, sir.’
‘Five or six. Not a lot, really, is it? Not for a Yorkshire-man, anyway. And he was practically legless?’
‘Yes, sir. Maybe he was drinking the vodka as well.’
‘What vodka?’
‘I’m not clear on it, but I remember Freddie Metcalfe, the landlord, muttering something about having to change the bottle after one of them had been up and bought a round. It was busy and he said he needed eight hands to do his job.’
‘But you never saw Stephen put a shorts glass to his lips?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Did anyone?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘Odd, that, isn’t it? What happened to the vodka, then?’
‘Perhaps whoever bought it just drank it down at the bar.’
‘Hmm. It’s possible. But why? Let’s leave it for the moment, anyway. Did you hear any mention at all of Oxford during the week?’
‘You mean the university, sir?’
‘Any mention at all. The name: Oxford.’
Richmond shook his head.
‘All right, that’ll do for now.’ Banks rubbed his eyes.
They drifted out into the street with the others as Cyril prepared to lock up for the afternoon. There was a lot more to think about now. Nothing that Banks had heard since he got back had been at all convincing.
Something was wrong, he felt, and the case was far from over. Sending Richmond back home, he decided on a short walk in the rain to freshen himself up before returning to the station.
TWO
Katie watched the rain swell the becks that rushed down Swainshead Fell as it got dark that night. The rhythmic gurgle of water through the half-open window calmed her. All day she had been agitated. Now it was after ten; Sam was still at the pub, and Katie was brooding over the day’s events.
If only she had told Sam that their guest was a policeman, probably sent to spy on them. Then he’d have informed all and sundry, and maybe things would have been different. But now Stephen had to die, too; another escape route cut off. Had the policeman noticed anything? Katie didn’t think so. There had been nothing really to notice.
Ever since morning, when Stephen’s body had been discovered, Upper Head had been stunned. Women gathered in the street after church and lowered their voices, looking over at the Gothic house and shaking their heads. The Colliers were, when all was said and done, still regarded as lords of the manor.
All the curtains of their spooky Victorian mansion across the river had been drawn since morning, when the police and doctors had finished and taken Stephen’s body away. One or two people had dropped in to offer condolences, including John Fletcher, who’d have got a rude reception from Nicholas, Katie thought, under any other circumstances. Sam, of course, had been one of the first, keen to establish himself with the new squire now that the more approachable Stephen was gone. Now Sam and John were no doubt getting maudlin drunk in the White Rose. Katie hadn’t gone across to the house; she couldn’t face Nicholas Collier alone again after the incident at the party.
Rain spilled in over the window sill. Katie dipped a finger in it and made patterns on the white paintwork.
The water beaded on the paint no matter what she tried to make it do. A breeze had sprung up and it brought the scent of summer rain indoors; shivering, she pulled her grey lambswool cardigan around her shoulders.
‘Be sure your sins will find you out,’ another of her grandmother’s favourite maxims, sprang into her mind. With it came the dim and painful memory of a telltale boy’s hair on her collar when she had come home from her one and only visit to the church-run youth club. It must have got there in the cloakroom, somehow, but her grandmother had thrust it forward as irrefutable evidence of Katie’s lewd and lascivious nature before making her stand ‘naked in her shame’ in the corner of the cold stone-flagged kitchen all evening. She had been supposed to repeat ‘Be sure your sins will find you out’ under her breath all the time she stood there, but she hadn’t. That was another sin: disobedience. The vicar had got an earful, too, about running a house of ill repute and corrupting local youth. That had pleased Katie; she didn’t like him anyway because his breath smelled like the toilet when he came close, which he always did. Taking pleasure in the misfortune of others was another sin she had been guilty of that day.
Katie closed the window and turned to get into bed. It was after ten thirty. Sam would probably be back soon. There was a chance that if she pretended to be asleep…
But sleep didn’t come easily. She thought of Stephen again, of his chaste touch. Life might not have been so bad if he had taken her away with him. She knew he would want to have her eventually - it would be part of the price - but he seemed a gentle person, like Bernard had been, and perhaps he wouldn’t be too demanding. The images blurred in her mind as sleep came closer: her grandmother brandishing the hair, black eyes flashing, Bernard breathing hard as he pulled at her clothes… She heard the back door open and close noisily. Sam. Quickly, she turned over and pulled the covers up to her ears. Her feet were cold.
THREE
‘What do you think, then, Alan?’
Banks and Gristhorpe sat at the dining-room table later that night and sipped duty-free Bell’s. The children were in bed and Sandra was leafing through the book Banks had brought her from Toronto. Banks felt better after the short nap he had taken late in the afternoon.
‘It stinks. I track down Anne Ralston in Toronto and she tells me Stephen Collier practically confessed to killing Addison because of some scandal he was involved in at Oxford. Then, when I get back, I find Collier’s conveniently dead - accidental death. It’s too pat.’
‘Hmm.’ Gristhorpe sipped his Scotch. ‘It could be true. But let’s suppose it’s not. What else could have happened? I’m sorry, I know you’re still tired, Alan. Maybe tomorrow would be better?’
Banks lit a cigarette. ‘No, it’s all right. What do I think happened? I don’t know. I thought I’d got it all worked out but now everything’s gone haywire. I know it makes sense that Collier killed himself rather than face the trouble he knew he’d be in when I got back. Maybe the pressure built in him over the week.
On the other hand, what if he didn’t kill Allen? What if he knew who did, and whoever it was was afraid he’d crack under pressure and give it away. That would have given someone enough motive to get rid of him, wouldn’t it? We still don’t have a clear connection between Addison and Allen, though.’
‘Except the Ralston girl.’
‘What if there’s something else? An angle we haven’t really considered.’
‘Such as?’
‘That’s the trouble. I’ve no idea.’
Gristhorpe swirled the Bell’s in his glass. ‘Then it has to be connected with Addison and Ralston.’
‘I’d like to go down to Oxford as soon as possible and dig around. Ted Folley’s in the local CID there. We were at training school together.’
Gristhorpe nodded. ‘That’s no problem.’
‘Maybe Addison found something out and was going to
