your suppositions, have you?’
‘Are you sure you knew nothing about your brother’s problems?’ Banks asked.
‘I’ve told you.’ Collier sighed. ‘We just weren’t that close. You can see for yourself how we split the house - into two very different halves, I might add. All we had in common was family. Even if he had been a murderer, which I don’t believe for a moment, Stephen would hardly have told me.’
‘But he told Anne Ralston.’
‘So you say. I can only repeat that the woman must be lying to save her own skin.’ He leaned forward to stub out his cigarette but didn’t slouch back in the chair again. ‘Chief Inspector,’ he said, folding his hands on his lap, ‘I hope you’re not going to spread these accusations about my brother around the dale. After all, you admit you’ve no proof. You could do untold damage to the family name, not to mention my career.’
‘Rest assured, Mr Collier. I’m not in the habit of spreading unfounded accusations.’
‘And might I suggest,’ Nicholas added, ‘that even if Stephen had been guilty, he’s certainly suffered adequate penalty for his sin, and no useful purpose would be served by going poking around in his past affairs.’
‘Ah, that’s where we differ,’ Banks said. ‘I’m not judge or jury, Mr Collier. I just try to dig out the truth.
And until there are answers to a number of questions, Stephen’s file remains open - wherever Stephen himself may be.’ Nicholas opened his mouth to protest but Banks ignored him and went on. ‘I don’t care who you are, Mr Collier. You can threaten, you can pull strings, you can do what you bloody well want.
But I’m going to get to the bottom of this.’ He stood up and walked over to the door. Nicholas sat where he was and stared coldly at him.
‘One more question,’ Banks said. ‘Which one of you was drinking vodka in the White Rose on Saturday night?’
‘Vodka?’ Nicholas grunted. ‘None of us, I shouldn’t think. Can’t stand the stuff, myself.’
‘Did you see your brother drink any?’
Nicholas walked over to the door and grasped the handle. ‘No, I didn’t. Stephen never drank vodka.’ He opened the door. ‘Now would you mind leaving? And you can be damn sure you haven’t heard the last of this.’
Was he lying? Banks found it hard to tell. People of Nicholas Collier’s class had so much self-confidence bred into them that they could carry most things off.
‘What was your argument with John Fletcher about?’ he asked, leaning against the open door.
‘What argument?’
‘You didn’t have words?’
Nicholas flicked his wrist. ‘We may have done, but I can’t remember why. A trifle, I should imagine.
Now…’ He nodded towards the path.
Banks set off.
It hadn’t been satisfactory at all. Banks swore under his breath as he headed down the path. He should have pushed Nicholas even harder. Still, there would be time later. Plenty of time. There was still Oxford.
And Katie Greenock and Freddie Metcalfe. He looked at his watch and walked into the White Rose.
‘I understand tha’s been globetrotting,’ Freddie Metcalfe said, pouring out a pint of Marston’s Pedigree.
‘That’s right,’ Banks answered. ‘Been to visit the New World.’ He counted out the money and put it on the damp bar towel.
‘I don’t ’old wi’ Americans,’ Freddie said, screwing up his face. ‘Get plenty on ’em in ’ere, tha knows.
Allus asking for fancy drinks - bourbon and branch water and t’ like. Can’t understand none on ’em. And Perrier. Bloody Perrier wi’ a twist o’ lemon them purple-haired old women want. Mutton dressed up as lamb, if y’ask me.’ He sniffed and carried the money to the till.
Banks thought of pointing out that Canada was not the same as the USA, but he didn’t want to miss a good opening. ‘Not get a lot of fancy drinks orders in here, then? Not many drink shorts?’ he asked.
‘Nah,’ said Freddie, ambling back. ‘Most tourists we get’s fell-walkers, and they like a good pint, I’ll say that for ’em. T’ lasses sometimes ask for a brandy and Babycham, like, or a Pony or Cherry B. But mostly it’s ale.’
‘What about vodka?’
‘What about it?’
‘Get through much?’
‘Nah. Bloody Russkie muck, that is. Can’t taste it. We get through a good bit o’ single malt Scotch, but vodka… nah.’
‘I understand you had a vodka drinker on Saturday night?’
‘What makes tha think that? Tha weren’t ’ere then.’
‘Never mind that. Did you?’
Freddie scratched his mutton chop whiskers. ‘Aye, come to think on it, I do remember ’aving to change t’
bottle, so somebody must’ve been at it.’
‘Who, Freddie, who?’
‘I can’t rightly say. It might not’ve been me who served ’im. I don’t recollect as I did. Lot o’ strangers in last weekend ’cos t’ weather brightened up, like. It were a busy night, Sat’day, and that gormless lass from Gratly never showed up. S’posed to give me an ’and behind t’ bar. No, I’m sorry, lad. It’s no good. I know I changed t’ bottle, but I were allus serving four orders at once. Need eight bloody arms on this job, specially on Sat’day night. And I only ’ad young Betty to ’elp me.’
‘Were there any arguments in the pub that night?’
Freddie laughed. ‘Well, it’d ’ardly be a Sat’day night wi’out a few ’eated words, would it?’
‘I suppose not. What about at the Collier table?’
‘I don’t recollect owt. Billy Black and Les Stott were barneying about whippets, and Wally Grimes -
Wally’s a local farmer, like - ’ad a little disagreement wi’ some walkers about National Trust footpaths.
But that’s all I can remember.’
‘You don’t remember anything between Nicholas Collier and John Fletcher?’
‘Nah. But that wouldn’t be nowt new. Now John and Mr Stephen, they understood each other. But John Fletcher never did ’ave time for young Nicholas, even when ’e were a lad.’
‘But you heard nothing on Saturday?’
‘Nay. Too much bloody noise. I only ’eard t’ others because they were standing at t’ bar right a-front o’
me.’
‘Did you clear the tables later?’
‘Nay, Betty did that.’ He pointed towards a buxom rosy-cheeked girl washing glasses.
‘Can I talk to her?’
‘Aye. Betty, lass, come over ’ere. T’ inspector wants a word wi’ thee.’
The roses quickly spread over Betty’s entire complexion, and down as much of her throat and chest as was exposed. She lowered her big brown eyes and stood in front of Banks like a schoolgirl before the head.
‘It’s all right, Betty,’ Banks said, ‘I just want to ask you a couple of questions about Saturday night when you worked here.’
She nodded but still didn’t look up.
‘Do you remember serving Mr Collier’s group at all?’
‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Well… no… I mean, I did serve them, but it were that busy I don’t remember nothing about it.’
‘And you collected all the glasses later?’
‘Aye.’
‘Do you remember picking up any shorts glasses from Mr Collier’s table?’
Betty thought for a moment - a process Banks fancied he could almost hear - and then shook her head. ‘I remember picking up some shorts glasses off t’ bar,’ she said, ‘but I can’t say who drank ’em.’
‘Is this the part of the bar the Collier group came to for their orders?’
‘Aye, it would’ve been,’ Freddie said.
‘But neither of you can say which member of the Collier group was ordering vodka?’
They both shook their heads glumly.
Banks sighed, then finished his pint philosophically and lit a cigarette.
‘What’s it all about, then?’ Freddie asked.
‘Eh? Oh, never mind for now,’ Banks said. ‘Probably nothing.’
‘They were all a bit merry, like.’
‘The Collier group?’
‘Aye. All on ’em. But Mr Stephen were t’ worst.’
‘Did he drink more than the rest?’
Freddie shook his head. ‘I can’t say. Shouldn’t think so, though. They was drinking rounds. Unless…’
Then comprehension dawned on his round red face. ‘Unless ’e were drinking vodka as well as pints.’
‘And was he?’
Again, Freddie shook his head. ‘I can’t say.’
Suddenly Betty, who had remained standing there as if she were waiting to be dismissed, raised her head.
Brown curls bobbed around her chubby cheeks. ‘I can tell yer!’ she said excitedly. ‘I can tell yer!’
