‘Didn’t say much, did she? Seemed in a bit of a daze to me. Think there might be more to her than meets the eye?’
‘I think there might indeed,’ said Banks. ‘In fact, I got the distinct impression that she was holding something back.’
The Greenocks ate their lunch in silence, then Sam dashed out. Katie, who had lost her appetite and merely played with her food, piled the dishes in the washer, set the controls and turned it on. There was still shopping to do and the evening meal to prepare, but she felt she could afford to relax for a few minutes.
As she lay down on the sofa and looked out on the slopes of Swainshead Fell beyond the back garden, she thought of Bernie helping her clear the dishes, talking about Toronto, watching cricket on the telly. She remembered the little presents he had brought each time — no doubt picked up at the airport at the last minute, for Bernie was like that — jars of pure maple syrup, a box of cigars or a bottle of malt Scotch for Sam, Opium perfume or Chanel No. 5 for Katie. She’d never had the heart to tell him that she didn’t wear perfume, that the one time she had tried she had felt like a tramp, even though it had been White Linen, and had scrubbed it off straight away. Now the three little bottles lay in the dark inside her dresser drawer, untouched.
Bernie had even helped her with the garden sometimes; he might not have had green fingers, but he could wield a trowel or a hoe well enough. Bernie: so considerate, so kind. But the dark images began to crowd out her thoughts. Frowning, she pushed them away. Instead she saw endless prairies of golden wheat swaying in the breeze, heard the sea beating against a rough coastline where redwood forests reared as tall as the sky. Bernie had told her all about Canada, all the places he’d been. She’d never get to see them now, she realized, because Bernie was dead.
Fellowes’ words came back to her, what he’d said in his drunken stupor when he grasped her hand by the bed: ‘Moving,’ he’d said. ‘Moving.’ And she hadn’t understood at the time. Now she did. If Bernie had been lying up there for two weeks he would have been like that dead lamb she had seen on Adam’s Fell last year. It didn’t bear thinking about.
She’d given a bad impression to the police, she knew that, but at the time she had been unable to help herself. The lean dark one, the one who seemed too short to be a policeman, would want to talk to her again, that was for sure. How could she keep her secret? She pictured her grandmother standing over her, lined face stern and hard, eyes like black pinheads boring into her. ‘Secrets, girl, secrets are the devil’s doing. God loves a pure and open heart.’ But she had to keep this secret.
There were so many things, it seemed, one had to do in life that went against God’s commandments. How could a person live without sinning? She was no longer even sure that she knew what was right or wrong. Sometimes she thought it was a sin to breathe, to be alive. It seemed you had to sin to survive in today’s world. It was wrong to keep secrets and tell lies; but was it wrong to keep your word, your promise? And if you had broken it once for a special reason, was it all right to break it again?
Wearily, Katie got up and prepared to go to the shops down in Lower Head. Work and duty, they were the only constants in life. Everything else was a trap, a trick, a temptation to betrayal. The only way to survive was to shun pleasure. She picked up her purse and shopping basket and pulled a face at the nasty soap taste in her mouth as she left the house.
After Banks and Hatchley had carried their bags to their rooms, they walked over to the White Rose for lunch. The place was busy with Saturday tourists who had let their curiosity lead them to the northern part of Swainshead, but none of the regulars was present. Luckily, Freddie Metcalfe was too busy to chat. They both ordered gammon and chips and carried their pints over to a corner table.
‘I want you to get on to Richmond after lunch,’ Banks said, ‘and have him check to see if anyone in Swainshead has connections with Canada, specifically with Toronto. I know it sounds like a big job, but tell him to start with the people we already know: the Greenocks, Fletcher, the Colliers. You might also add,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘Freddie Metcalfe over there, and Neil Fellowes too.’
‘The bloke who found the body? But he’s from Pontefract.’
‘No matter. Remember, we thought Allen was from Canada at first, then from Leeds. And while we’re on the subject, have him check on the brother-in-law, Les Haines. I want to know if he’s made any trips to this area in the past few weeks. Ask him to get as much background as he can on all of them. I’m sure the superintendent will be able to get him some help from downstairs. And get someone to go to Carter’s and that newsagent’s to check Greenock’s alibi. Tell them to make sure they get the times as exact as possible.’
‘Don’t you believe him?’
Banks shrugged. ‘He could be telling the truth. He could also have driven to a convenient spot along the main road and approached the valley from the other side.’
The little waitress brought over their food and they ate in silence. At the bar they could hear Freddie Metcalfe enthralling visitors with examples of Yorkshire humour filched from The Dalesman, and at the next table two middle-aged women from Lancashire were talking about lager louts: ‘They get right confident after a few drinks, young ’uns do.’
When they had finished eating, Banks sent Hatchley to radio in to Richmond, then he stood outside the pub for a moment and took a deep breath of fresh air. It was June 1, another fine day. Nobody knew what the Dales had done to deserve such a long stretch of good weather, but according to a radio Banks overheard, it certainly wasn’t any thanks to Yorkshire County Cricket Club, currently 74 for 6 at Somerset.
Banks wanted to talk to the Colliers, but first he returned to his room to change his shirt. On his way back down, he spotted Mrs Greenock in the hall, but she seemed to see or hear him coming and scuttled off into the back before he could catch her. Smiling, he walked back out into the street. He knew he could have followed her and confronted her with his suspicions there and then, but decided instead to let her play mouse to his cat until she tired of it.
There were plenty of people on the grassy banks of the River Swain that afternoon. Three children fished for tiddlers with nets at the end of cane rods while their parents sat and watched from deckchairs, dad with a knotted handkerchief over his head reading the Daily Mail and mum knitting, glancing up occasionally to make sure the offspring were still in sight.
The Dales were getting as crowded and noisy as the coast, Banks thought as he crossed the bridge. There was even a small group of teenagers farther down, towards Lower Head, wearing cut-off denim jackets with the names of rock bands inked on the back. Two of them, a boy and a girl, Banks assumed, were rolling on the grass in an overtly sexual embrace while tinny music rattled out of a portable stereo placed close to one prostrate youth’s ear.
Many of his colleagues, Banks knew, would have gone over and told them to move on, accused them of disturbing the peace and searched them for drugs. But despite his personal distaste for some gangs of youngsters and their music, Banks made it a rule never to use his power as a policeman to force his own will on the general public. After all, they were young, they were enjoying life, and apart from the noise, they were really doing no one any harm.
Banks passed the old men on the bridge and made a mental note to have a chat with them at some point. They seemed to be permanent fixtures; maybe they had seen something.
He met Sergeant Hatchley at the car and they headed for the Collier house.
‘Have you noticed,’ Banks said, ‘how Allen seemed to have a different story for everyone he talked to? He was upset; he was cheerful. He was coming home; he wasn’t.’