For some reason, Banks began to feel uneasy at the thought of Katie. What if she really did know more than she was telling? And what if Nicholas Collier suspected she knew? He might easily have seen her talking to Stephen. And Katie was exactly the kind of woman to set off his violent sexual behaviour.
He turned on to the road and headed south for Swainshead. There was still no light on in Collier’s house.
Hatchley hammered at the door but got no answer.
‘Let’s try the pub,’ Banks suggested.
Hatchley brightened up at that. He hadn’t completely forgotten his priorities in a burst of professional zeal.
‘Well, if it isn’t Chief Inspector Banks,’ Freddie Metcalfe greeted them. ‘And Sergeant Hatchley, isn’t it?
What can I do for you?’
Banks ordered two pints of Pedigree and lit a Silk Cut. Maybe a pint would calm down his jangling nerves.
The hairs at the back of his neck were bristling.
‘Seen Nicholas Collier tonight?’ he asked.
‘No, he’s not been in,’ Freddie said. ‘Has tha got any further wi’ t’ murder?’
‘We’re getting there, we’re getting there,’ Banks said.
‘Aye, and pigs can fly,’ Freddie said, passing their drinks.
‘None of the usual lot been in tonight?’
‘Nope. It’s been as quiet as this since opening time,’ Freddie answered miserably, and loped off to serve a youth in hiking boots.
‘You know,’ Banks said, ‘I’ve been thinking about what to do next, and there’s someone else we might profit from leaning on in this case.’
‘Sam Greenock?’ Hatchley said.
‘Yes. Threaten him with arrest as an accessory, and we might just get him to open up. He’s cocky, but I don’t think he’s as cool as Nicholas. Stephen Collier’s dead now. If we can convince Sam that Nicholas will fall from grace with or without his help, we might be able to strike a bargain. After all, without gentry to suck up to, what’s Sam going to get out of it? Nicholas might well have sawn off the branch he was sitting on by killing Stephen.’
‘It’s an idea,’ Hatchley said.
‘And Greenock’s a bully,’ Banks said. ‘Bullies are the easiest of the lot to lean on, especially men who beat up their wives.’
‘I think I might be able to work up a bit of enthusiasm,’ Hatchley said, grinning.
‘Good. Let’s go.’
‘What? Now? But we haven’t finished our drinks.’
‘I’ve just got a feeling, that’s all. We can come back to them. Let’s see if Sam’s in.’
They left the White Rose and crossed the bridge. There were no lights on in the front lower or upper rooms of the Greenock Guest House.
‘He’s not in,’ Hatchley said. ‘Let’s go back to the pub and call again later.’
‘It looks like there’s nobody in at all,’ Banks said. ‘That’s odd.’ He couldn’t explain why he felt disturbed by the dark silent house, but he couldn’t ignore the feeling. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m going in.’
Hatchley sighed and followed. ‘I’ll bet the bloody door’s locked.’
Before they could close the gate behind them, they heard a car coming. It was Sam’s Land Rover. He parked near the pub across the narrow Swain, as there was no road on the Greenocks’ side, and came bounding over the bridge.
‘Evening, gents,’ he called out. ‘And what can I do… Oh, it’s you.’
‘Don’t sound so disappointed,’ Banks said. ‘We might be able to do something for you.’
‘Oh?’ Sam’s boyish face looked puzzled. He patted his curly hair. ‘All right. Never turn down a favour from a copper, that’s me.’
‘Can we go in?’
‘Of course. I’ll get the missus to brew a pot of tea.’ He dug in his pocket for his keys, finally found the right one and stuck it in the lock, where he poked and twisted it for a while, then turned to Banks and frowned. ‘That’s odd. It was already open. Katie usually locks up at ten sharp and the guests let themselves in with their own keys. And it’s not usually as dark as this. She puts the hall light on for the guests.
They’re probably still in the pub, but I can’t imagine where she is.’
Banks and Hatchley followed him through the front door into the dark hall. Sam turned the light on. The guest book lay open on its varnished table by a stack of tourist guides, maps and brochures advertising local businesses and leisure pursuits. Automatically, Sam looked at himself in the mirror over the phone and patted his curly hair again.
‘Katie!’ Sam called.
No answer.
He went into the dining room and flicked the light switch on. ‘Bloody hell!’
Banks followed him inside. ‘What is it?’ All he could see was the room where he and Hatchley had eaten breakfast. The varnished tables gleamed darkly in the shaded light.
‘She’s not set the tables for the morning. She’s not even put the bloody cloths on,’ Sam said. He sounded more angry than worried about why or where Katie might have gone.
They paused at the foot of the stairs, where Sam called again and got no answer. ‘It doesn’t look like she’s at home,’ he said, puzzled. ‘I can’t imagine where she’d be at this time.’
‘Maybe she’s left you,’ Banks suggested.
‘Don’t be daft. Where would she go? Why would she do a thing like that anyway?’
They carried on to the door that separated the Greenocks’ living quarters from the rest of the house.
‘Katie!’ Sam called once more, hand on the knob.
Still no reply. The absolute silence in the house made Banks’ hackles rise.
Sam opened the door and walked along the short narrow corridor that linked the two parts of the house.
Banks and Hatchley followed close behind. Coats on hooks on either side brushed against them as they walked in single file behind Sam. The only faint illumination was at the end of the passage.
‘At least she’s left this light on,’ Sam said.
The light came from the pane of frosted glass on the door that led into the Greenocks’ living room. Sam called his wife’s name again but got no answer. He walked into the room and stopped dead in his tracks.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he gasped, then stumbled backwards into Banks and started to slide slowly down the wall, hands over his eyes.
Banks regained his balance, pushed past Sam and went in, Hatchley close behind. They stopped in the doorway, awed and horrified by the scene before them. Banks heard Hatchley mutter a prayer or a curse.
There was blood all over the room: on the carpet, the sofa, the hearth, and even splashed like obscene hieroglyphs over the wall above the mantelpiece. Nothing moved. Nicholas Collier lay awkwardly, half on the sofa and half on the carpet, his head bashed in, his face a bloody pulp. He wouldn’t even have been recognizable if it hadn’t been for the prominent yellowish teeth splintered and bared in agony and shock.
Katie sat on the arm of the settee still holding the heavy wooden cross of her granny’s that had stood on the mantelpiece. Her beautiful brown eyes were looking at things nobody else could see. The front of her dress was ripped open at one side and a few drops of blood glistened against the pale skin of her blue-veined breast.
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