Hanging Valley ib-4

by Peter Robinson

  Again Banks felt the shock of being in a foreign land. The TV newscaster spoke with an odd accent - less overbearing than the Americans he had heard - and he knew none of the politicians’ names.

  Gerry brought the tea and sat beside him.

  ‘There might be a couple of things you can help me with,’ Banks said.

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Where can I find Toronto Community College?’

  ‘Easy. The subway’s the quickest.’ And Gerry told him how to get to Broadview station by streetcar or on foot, where to change trains, and where to get off.

  ‘There’s another thing. Do you know anything about the English-style pubs in town? Somewhere that sells imported beer.’

  Gerry laughed. ‘You’ve certainly got your work cut out. There’s dozens of them: the Madison, the Sticky Wicket, Paupers, the Hop and Grape, the Artful Dodger, the Jack Russell, the Spotted Dick, the Feathers, Quigley’s, not to mention a whole dynasty of Dukes. I’ll try and make a list for you. What’s it all about, by the way, if that’s not top secret?’

  ‘I’m looking for a woman. Her name’s Anne Ralston.’

  ‘What’s she done?’

  ‘Nothing, as far as I know.’

  ‘How very secretive. You’re as bad as Uncle Eb, you are.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Uncle Eb. You mean you don’t know…?’

  Banks shook his head. Gristhorpe had never mentioned his first name, and his signature was an indecipherable scrawl.

  ‘Well, maybe I shouldn’t tell you. He won’t thank me for it, if I know him.’

  ‘I won’t tell him I know. Scout’s honour. Come on.’

  ‘It’s short for Ebenezer, of course.’

  Banks whistled through his teeth. ‘No wonder he never lets on.’

  ‘Ah, but that’s not all. His father was a grand champion of the labouring man, especially the farm workers, so he called his oldest son Ebenezer Elliott - after the “Corn Law Rhymer”.’

  Banks had never heard of Ebenezer Elliott but made a mental note to look him up. He was always interested in new things to read, look at or listen to.

  ‘Ebenezer Elliott Gristhorpe,’ he repeated to himself. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Thought you’d like that,’ Gerry said, grinning. ‘It does have a certain ring to it, doesn’t it? My poor mum got lumbered with Mary Wollstonecraft. Very progressive, Grandad was, respected the rights of women, too. But my dad was plain old George Webb, and thank the Lord he’d no hobby horse to tie his kids to.’

  On the news, a gang of street kids in Belfast threw stones and tossed Molotov cocktails at police in riot gear. It was night, and orange flames blossomed all along the street. Black smoke rose from burning tyres.

  The world really was a global village, Banks thought, feeling his attention start to slip. Consciousness was fading away again. He yawned and put down his teacup on the low table.

  ‘You can tell me something now,’ Gerry said. ‘Where did you get that scar?’

  Banks fingered the white scar by his right eye. ‘This? I passed out from lack of sleep and hit my head on the corner of a table.’

  Gerry laughed. ‘I get the point. I’m keeping you up.’

  Banks smiled. ‘I’m definitely falling asleep again. See you in the morning?’

  ‘Probably not,’ Gerry said. ‘I’ve got a long way to go and I’m setting off at the crack of dawn. There’s coffee and sugar in the cupboard above the sink. Milk and stuff’s in the fridge. Here’s a spare door-key.

  Make yourself at home.’

  Banks shook his bony hand. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I will. And if you’re ever in England…’

  ‘I’ll be sure to visit Uncle Ebenezer. I always do. And we’ll have a jar or two in the Queen’s Arms.

  Goodnight.’

  Banks went back into the bedroom. A light breeze had sprung up to ease the suffocating heat a little, but it was still far from comfortable. He flopped down on the damp sheets. Outside, a short distance away, he heard a streetcar rattle by and remembered exciting childhood trips to big cities when the trams were still running. He thought of the Queen’s Arms on the edge of sleep, and pictured the pub on the corner of Market Street and the cobbled square. He felt very far from home. The Queen’s Arms was a long, long way away, and there was a lot to do if he was to track down Anne Ralston before the week was over.

  9

  ONE

  They were going to church: the women smiling in their wide-brimmed hats and cotton print dresses, the men ill at ease in tight ties and pinching waistcoats.

  Every Sunday morning Katie watched them as she cleaned the rooms, and every week she knew she should be with them, dragging Sam along with the promise of an hour in the pub for him later while she cooked dinner. But he went to the pub anyway, and she cooked dinner anyway. The only thing missing was the hour in church. And that she couldn’t face.

  All through her childhood, Katie had been forced to go to the Gospel with her grandmother, and the icy devotion of the congregation had scared her half to death. Though they were praising God, they hardly dared sing so loud for fear He would think they were taking pleasure in the hymns. Katie could never understand the readings or the lessons, but she understood the passionate menace in the tones of those who spoke; she understood the meanings of the spittle that sometimes dribbled over their lips and the way their eyes glazed over. As she grew older, all her fear affixed itself to the sights, sounds and smells of the church: the chill mustiness rising from worn stone flags; the pews creaking as a bored child shifts position; the unearthly echo of the minister’s voice; the wooden board announcing the hymn numbers; the stained glass fragmenting colour like broken souls. Just thirty seconds in a church meant panic for Katie; she couldn’t breathe, she started trembling, and her blood turned to stone.

  But she knew she should go. It was, after all, God’s Mansion on Earth, and she would never escape this vale of tears if she didn’t give herself to Him completely. Instead, she watched the rest of the village go off in their finery and listened to the hymns on the radio as she dusted, tidied and swept, humming along very quietly under her breath. Surely, surely, He would approve? She was working, doing her duty. It was the sabbath, of course, but there were still guests to take care of, and she suspected deep in her heart that the sabbath was only meant for men anyway. Surely He would approve. Her work would count in her favour.

  But it was a sin, she remembered vaguely, to court His favour, to say, ‘Look what I’ve done, Lord.’ It was the sin of pride. At least some said it was. She couldn’t remember who, or whether she had been told to believe or disbelieve them - there were so many heresies, traps awaiting those impure in body and mind -

  but words such as faith, works and elect circled one another in her thoughts.

  Well, Katie concluded dismally, working on Sundays could only add to the weight of sin she carried already. She picked up the black plastic bag. There were still three more rooms to do, then there was dinner to see to. When, she wondered, was it all going to end?

  She went downstairs to put the roast in and immediately recognized the new guest standing over the registration book in the hall. He signed himself in as Philip Richmond, from Bolton, Lancashire, and he told Sam, who was dealing with the details, that he was simply after a few relaxing days in the country.

  But Katie remembered the moustache and the athletic spring in his step; it was the man she had seen with Chief Inspector Banks and Sergeant Hatchley the day she had run away to Eastvale.

  Seeing him there brought back the whole day. Nothing had come of it really, except that she had caught a minor cold. The housework got done. Not on time, but it got done. Sam never even found out, so there was no retribution at his hands. Nor were there any outbreaks of boils, thunderbolts from heaven, plagues of locusts or other such horrors her grandmother had assured her would happen if she strayed from the path.

  She felt as if she had lost sight of the path completely now. That was all she reall
y knew about what was happening to her. The conflicting voices in her mind seemed to have merged into one incomprehensible rumble, and much of the time she felt as if she had no control over her thoughts or deeds.

  There were clear moments though. Like now. Outside, the landscape was fresh after the previous few days’ rain, which was now rising in sun-charmed wraiths of mist from the lower fell sides and the valley bottom. And here, in their hall, stood a man she recognized as having a close association with the police.

  She hadn’t seen what all the fuss was about the previous evening, when Sam had stumbled home from the White Rose in a very bad mood.

  ‘He’s gone to find her,’ he had said, scowling. ‘All the way to bloody Canada. Just to find her.’

  ‘Who?’ Katie had asked quietly, confused and frightened of him. In moods like this he was likely to lash out, and she could still feel the pain in her breast from the last time.

  ‘Anne Ralston, you silly bitch. That copper’s taken off to Toronto after her.’

  ‘Well, what does it matter?’ Katie had argued cautiously. ‘If she killed that man all those years ago, they’ll put her in jail, won’t they?’

  ‘You don’t know nothing, woman, do you? Nothing at all.’ Sam hit out at her and knocked the wooden cross off the mantelpiece.

  ‘Leave it,’ he snarled, grabbing Katie by the arm as she bent to pick it up. ‘Can’t you think of anything but bloody cleaning up?’

  ‘But I thought you wanted me-’

  ‘Oh, shut up. You don’t know nothing.’

  ‘Well, tell me. What is it? Why does it matter so much that he’s gone chasing after Anne Ralston in Canada? You hardly knew her. Why does it matter to us?’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ Sam said. ‘But it might to Stephen. She might make things difficult for him.’

  ‘But Stephen hasn’t done anything, has he? How could she harm him?’

  ‘She was his fancy woman, wasn’t she? Then she ran off and left him. She could tell lies about his business, about… hell, I don’t know! All I know is that it’s all your bloody fault.’

  Katie said nothing. Sam’s initial rage was spent, she could tell, and she knew she would remain fairly safe if she kept quiet. It was tricky though, because he might get angry again if she didn’t give the proper response to his ranting.

  Sam sat heavily on the sofa and turned on the television. There was an old black and white film about gangsters on. James Cagney shot Humphrey Bogart and ran for it.

  ‘Get me a beer,’ Sam said.

  Katie got him a can of Long Life from the fridge. She knew it was no good telling him he’d had enough already. Besides, on nights like this, when he’d had a bit more than usual, he tended to fall asleep as soon as he got to bed.

  ‘And don’t forget the Colliers’ party next week,’ he added, ripping open the can. ‘I want you looking your best.’

  Katie had forgotten about the garden party. The Colliers had two or three every summer. She hated them.

  In the morning, Sam had a thick head and remembered very little about the night before. He sulked until after breakfast, then managed a welcome for the new guest before disappearing somewhere in the Land Rover. Katie showed Richmond his room, then went to get on with her work.

  So there was a policeman in the house. She wondered why he was there. Perhaps he was on holiday.

  Policemen must have holidays too. But if he was from Eastvale, he was hardly likely to travel only twenty-five miles to Swainshead. Not these days. He’d be off to Torquay, or even the Costa del Sol. Katie didn’t know how much policemen got paid, so she couldn’t really say. But he wouldn’t come to Swainshead, that was for sure. He was a spy, then. He thought nobody would recognize him, so he could keep an eye on their comings and goings while the little one with the scar was in Toronto and the big one was God knows where.

  And Katie knew who he was. The problem now was what to do with her knowledge. Should she tell Sam, put him on his guard? He’d spread the word then, like he always did, and maybe he’d be grateful to her.

  But she couldn’t remember anything about Sam’s gratitude. It just didn’t stand out in her memory like the other things. Did she need it? On the other hand, if Sam had done something wrong - and she didn’t know whether he had or not - then the policeman, Richmond, if that was his real name, might find out and take him away. She’d be free then. It was an evil thought, and it made her heart race, but…

  Katie paused and looked out of the back window at the gauze of mist rising like breath from the bright green slopes of Swainshead Fell. It would take a bit of thinking about, this dilemma of hers. She knew she mustn’t make a hasty decision.

  TWO

  ‘I’m afraid there’s hardly anybody here to talk to, Mr… er…?’

  ‘Banks. Alan Banks. I was a friend of Bernard Allen’s.’

  ‘Yes, well, the only person I can think of who might be able to help you is Marilyn Rosenberg.’ Tom Jordan, head of the Communications Department at Toronto Community College, looked at his watch.

  ‘She’s got a class right now, but she should be free in about twenty minutes, if you’d like to wait?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  Jordan led him out of the office into a staff lounge just big enough to hold a few chairs and a low coffee table littered with papers and teaching journals. At one end stood a fridge and, on a desk beside it, a microwave oven. The coffee machine stood on a table below a connecting window to the secretary’s office, beside a rack of pigeonholes for staff messages. Banks poured himself a coffee and Jordan edged away slowly, mumbling about work to do.

  The coffee was strong and bitter, hardly the thing to drink in the thirty-three-degree heat. What he really needed was a cold beer or a gin and tonic. And he’d gone and bought Scotch at the duty-free shop. Still, he could leave it as a gift for Gerry Webb. It would surely come in handy in winter.

  It was Monday morning. On Sunday, Banks had slept in and then gone for a walk along the Danforth. He had noticed the signs of yuppification that Gerry had mentioned, but he had found a pleasant little Greek restaurant which had served him a hearty moussaka for lunch. Unlike Gerry, Banks enjoyed Greek food.

  After that, he had wandered as far as Quinn’s. Over a pint, he had asked around about Bernie Allen and shown Anne Ralston’s photograph to the bar staff and waitresses. No luck. One down, two dozen to go. He had wandered back along the residential streets south of Danforth Avenue and noticed that the small brick house with the green and white porch fence and columns was a sort of Toronto trademark.

  Too tired to go out again, he had stayed in and watched television that evening. Oddly enough, the non-commercial channel was showing an old BBC historical serial he’d found boring enough the first time around, and - much better - one of the Jeremy Brett Sherlock Holmes episodes. The only alternatives were the same American cop shows that plagued British TV.

  He had woken at about nine o’clock that Monday morning. Still groggy from travel and culture shock, he had taken a shower and had had orange juice and toast for breakfast. Then it was time to set off. He slipped a 1960s anthology tape of Cream, Traffic and Rolling Stones hits in the Walkman and put it in the right-hand pocket of his light cotton jacket. In the left, he placed cigarettes and Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles, the only book he’d brought with him.

  Jacket slung over shoulder, he set off, following Gerry’s directions. A rolling rattling streetcar ride took him by the valley side, rife with joggers. The downtown towers were hazy in the morning heat. Finding the westbound platform at Broadview subway station was every bit as straightforward as Gerry had said, but changing trains at Yonge and getting out to the street at St Clair proved confusing. All exits seemed to lead to a warren of underground shopping malls - air-conditioned, of course - and finding the right way out wasn’t easy.

  Still, he’d found St Clair Avenue after only a momentary diversion into a supermarket called Ziggy’s, and the college was only a short walk from the station.
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br />   Now, from the sixth floor, he looked out for a while on the office buildings opposite and the cream tops of the streetcars passing to and fro below him, then turned to the pile of journals on the table.

  Halfway through an article on the teaching of ‘critical thinking’ he heard muffled voices in the corridor, and a young woman with a puzzled expression on her face popped around the door. Masses of curly brown hair framed her round head. She had a small mouth and her teeth, when she smiled, were tiny, straight and pearly white. The greyish gum she was chewing oozed between them like gum disease. She carried a worn overstuffed leather briefcase under her arm, and wore grey cords and a checked shirt.

  She stretched out her hand. ‘Marilyn Rosenberg. Tom tells me you wanted to talk to me.’

  Banks introduced himself and offered to pour her a cup of coffee.

  ‘No thanks,’ she said, grabbing a Diet Coke from the fridge. ‘Far too hot for that stuff. You’d think they’d do something about the air-conditioning in this place, wouldn’t you?’ She pulled the tab and the Diet Coke fizzed. ‘What do you want with me?’