‘How is it working out?’
‘Well enough. I don’t know if you understand much about Dales farming, Mr Banks, but it’s a hard life. Old Walter himself had had enough, and he was one of those men — rare around these parts — with enough vision to get out and put what he’d got to better use. I’d never blame a farmer for wanting a different life for his sons. I’ve got no family myself,’ he said, and a hard look came into his eyes. ‘I’m not complaining, though. I make a living — the EEC and the National Parks Commission notwithstanding.’
Banks turned to Nicholas. ‘What do you do?’
‘I teach English at Braughtmore, just up the road here. It’s only a small public school of course, but it’s a start.’
‘But you don’t actually live there?’
‘No. Hardly necessary, really. The house is so close. The pupils live in. They have to; it’s so damn far from civilization. And we have housemasters. Some of the teachers live in the grounds, but a couple of others have chosen to settle here in the village. The school’s only five miles north, quite isolated. It’s a good school, though I say so myself. Do you have any children, Inspector?’
‘Yes. A boy and a girl.’
‘What school do they attend?’
‘Eastvale Comprehensive.’
‘Hmm.’ The corner of Collier’s lip twitched, giving just a fleeting hint of a sneer.
Banks shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘Your brother runs the family business, I gather.’
‘Yes. Managing director of Collier Food Enterprises. It’s over the Lancashire border, about ten miles west, just off the main road. The arrangement suits us both perfectly. Stephen never had a great deal of academic ambition, despite the excellent education he received, but he’s bright and he’s put his mind to good enough use — making money. It was one of father’s wisest moves, buying up that old mill and setting up the food-processing operation. And as for me, I’m happy with my books and a few pliant young minds to work on.’ Again he bared his teeth in a smile.
They had all finished their drinks and Banks was wondering how to edge them gently towards the murder again, when Fletcher stood up and excused himself. Immediately, the others looked at their watches and decided they ought to leave and take care of various tasks.
‘There’s nothing else, is there, Inspector?’ Nicholas asked.
‘No,’ Banks said. ‘Not yet.’
Freddie Metcalfe ambled over to the table to pick up the plate and the empty glasses as Banks was stubbing out his cigarette.
‘Find owt aht yet?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Banks said, standing up. ‘Nothing.’
‘Early days, eh?’
And the deep chortling laughter followed Banks out into the street.
Back at Eastvale police station things were quiet. Grabbing a cup of coffee from the filter machine on the way, Banks walked upstairs to his office, a plain room furnished with nothing but filing cabinets, metal desk and a calendar of local scenes. The illustration for May showed the River Wharfe as it flowed among the limestone boulders of Langstrothdale. More recently Banks had added, next to it, one more decoration: a broken pipe, which he had just rediscovered at the back of his drawer. It represented a vain attempt to project a rural image and wean himself from cigarettes at the same time, but he had cursed it constantly and finally thrown it at that very same wall in frustration over the Steadman case almost a year ago. It hung there like a piece of conceptual art to remind him of the folly of trying to be what one is not.
There were quite a few cars parked in the cobbled market square outside, and visitors walked in and out of the small Norman church and the shops that seemed almost built into its frontage. The gold hands of the clock stood at three thirty against its blue face. Banks looked down on the scene, as he often did, smoking a cigarette and sipping his coffee. The police station itself was a Tudor-fronted building on narrow Market Street across from the Queen’s Arms, which curved around the corner so that one of its entrances stood on the side of the square opposite the church. Looking to his right, Banks could see along the street, with its coffee houses, boutiques and tourist shops, and in front was the busy square itself, with the NatWest bank, the El Toro coffee bar and Joplin’s newsagent’s on the opposite side.
A knock at the door interrupted him. Sergeant Hatchley came in looking very pleased with himself. When he was excited about something he moved much faster than usual and seemed unable to stand still. Banks had come to recognize the signs.
‘I’ve tracked it down, sir,’ Hatchley said. ‘That bit of paper he had in his pocket.’
The two of them sat down and Banks told the sergeant to carry on.
‘Like you said, I tried the London office. They said they’d check and get back to me. Anyway, they found out that that particular branch is in Canada.’
‘So our man’s a Canadian?’
‘Looks that way, sir. Unless, like I said before, he’d just been on holiday there. Anyway, at least we know there’s a close connection.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. Once he’d discovered the outlet was in Canada, the bloke from Wendy’s became very helpful.’
Such helpfulness was a common enough occurrence, Banks knew from experience. He’d even invented a term for it: the amateur sleuth syndrome.
‘That particular branch is in Toronto, on Yonge Street near Dundas Street, if that means anything.’
Banks shook his head. ‘Never been over the Atlantic. You?’
Hatchley grunted. ‘Me? I’ve never been further west than Blackpool. Anyway, that narrows things down quite a bit, I’d say.’
‘It does,’ Banks agreed. ‘But it still doesn’t tell us who he was.’
‘I got on to the Canadian High Commission and asked a bloke there to check if anyone from Toronto had been reported missing over here lately, but nobody has.’
‘Too early yet, I suppose. If he is from Toronto, obviously everyone back there still thinks he’s on holiday.’
‘Aye, but that won’t last for ever.’
‘We haven’t got for ever. Who knows, he might have been a student and come over for the whole bloody summer. How’s Richmond doing?’
‘He’s covered quite a few places already — Lyndgarth, Relton, Helmthorpe, Gratly.’
‘Well, his task ought to be a bit easier now we know it’s a Canadian we’re after.’
‘There’s been quite a few Canadians staying locally,’ Hatchley said. ‘It’s easy enough to call the B and Bs and make a list from their records, but it’s damned hard to trace people’s movements after they’ve left. They don’t usually leave forwarding addresses, and it’s only once in a while a landlady is able to tell us where they said they were going next.’
‘There can’t be that many men from Toronto travelling alone,’ Banks said. ‘I’m sure if he was a member of a group or a family somebody would have reported him missing by now. Better stick at it. At least you’ve narrowed the field considerably. Heard anything from Dr Glendenning?’
‘The super called him a while ago. Still killing off those bloody maggots in disinfectant. Says he won’t be able to make a start till tomorrow morning at the earliest.’
Banks sighed. ‘All right. You’d better go and help Richmond now. And thanks, Sergeant; you did a good job.’
Hatchley nodded and left the office. They’d been working together for almost two years now, Banks realized, and he still couldn’t bring himself to call the sergeant Jim. Maybe one day he would, when it came naturally to his lips. He lit another cigarette and went back to the window, where he watched the people wander about in the square, and drummed a tattoo on the sill.