The Hanging Valley (4 page)

“Takes after his father, does Nicholas,” Gristhorpe said. “And Stephen takes after his mother—as handsome a woman as I’ve seen around these parts. There’s many a man drowned his sorrows in drink when Ella Dinsdale married Walter Collier. Didn’t last long, though, poor lass.”

“What happened?”

“Polio. Before inoculations came in. Come on, let’s go and have a look at this body before it gets up and walks away.”

Banks found the bridge and track easily enough, and though the old road was bumpy, they managed to get as far as the ruined farmhouse without any serious damage to the car.

A little to the left, they saw the footpath Neil Fellowes had taken and began to follow it up the fell-side. Even though they had been able to drive most of the way, the path was steep and Banks soon found himself gasping for air and wishing he didn’t smoke. Gristhorpe, for all his weight, seemed to stride up much more easily, though his face turned scarlet with the effort. Banks guessed he was more used to the landscape. After all, his own cottage was half-way up a daleside, too.

Finally, they stood at the top, where Fellowes had surveyed the scene a few hours earlier. Both were puffing and sweating by then, and after they’d got their breath back Gristhorpe pointed out the autumnal valley below.

“It looks enchanted, doesn’t it,” he said as they walked down the slope towards the woods. “Look, there’s the rucksack.”

They crossed the beck as directed and headed for the lady’s slipper orchis by the fallen branches. When they smelled the corpse, they exchanged glances. Both had known that stench before; it was unmistakable.

“No wonder Fellowes was in such a state,” Banks said. He took out a handkerchief and held it to his nose. Cautiously, Gristhorpe pulled more branches aside.

“By Christ, Glendenning’s going to love this one,” he said, then stood back. “By the look of that mess below the ribs there, we’ve got a murder case on our hands. Probably a knife wound. Male, I’d say.”
Banks agreed. Though small animals had been at parts of the body, and maggots had made it their breeding ground, the dark stain just below the left rib-cage stood out clearly enough against the white shirt the man was wearing. Fellowes had been right about the movement. The way the maggots were wriggling under his clothes made it look as if the body were rippling like water in the breeze.

“‘Motion in corruption,’” Gristhorpe muttered under his breath. “I wonder where the rest of his gear is. By the look of those boots he was a walker sure enough.”

Banks peered as closely as he could at the cleated rubber Vibram treads. “They look new as well,” he said. “Hardly worn at all.”

“He must have had more stuff,” Gristhorpe said, rubbing his whiskery chin. “Most walkers carry at least a rucksack with a few dried dates, compass, maps, torch, changes of clothing and what-have-you. Somebody must have taken it.”

“Or buried it.”

“Aye.”

“He’s not wearing waterproofs, either,” Banks observed.

“That could mean he knew what he was doing. Only amateurs wear waterproofs all the time. Experienced walkers put their clothes on and off in layers according to the weather. If this is all he was wearing when he was killed, we might be able to get some idea of the date of death by checking weather records.”

“It’s been fairly constant these past few weeks,” Banks pointed out. “We had a late spring, but now it looks like an early summer.”

“True enough. Still, forensic might be able to come up with something. Better get the team up, Alan.”

“The way we came? It’s not going to be easy.”

Gristhorpe thought for a moment. “There might be a better way,” he said at last. “If my geography’s correct.”

“Yes?”

“Well, if I’m right, this’ll be the beck that ends in Rawley Force on the Helmthorpe road about a mile east of Swainshead village. It’s a hanging valley.”

“Come again?”

“A hanging valley,” Gristhorpe repeated. “It’s a tributary valley running into Swainsdale at a right angle. The glacier here was too small to deepen it as much as the larger one that carved out the dale itself, so it’s left hanging above the main valley floor like a cross-section. The water usually reaches the main river over a waterfall, like Rawley Force. I thought you’d been reading up on local geology, Alan.”

“Haven’t got that far yet,” Banks mumbled. In fact, he’d put aside the geology book, after reading only two chapters, in favour of a new history of Yorkshire that his daughter, Tracy, had recommended. The trouble was that he wanted to know so much but had so little time for learning that he tended to skitter from one subject to another without fully absorbing anything.

“Anyway,” Gristhorpe went on, “Rawley Force is only about ninety feet high. If we can get in touch with the Mountain Rescue Post at Helmthorpe and they’re willing to rig up a winch, we’ll be able to get the team up and down without much trouble. I can hardly see Glendenning, for one, walking the way we did. There’ll be a lot of coming and going. And we’ll have to get the body down somehow, too. A winch just might be the answer. It should be easy enough. The Craven and Bradford pot-hole clubs put one up at Gaping Gill for a few days each year to give the tourists a look— and that’s a hell of a lot deeper.”

“It sounds good,” Banks said dubiously. He remembered swinging the three hundred feet down Gaping Gill, which opened into a cavern as huge as the inside of York Minster. It was an experience he had no wish to repeat. “We’d better get cracking, though, or it’ll be dark before they all get here. Should we get Sergeant Hatchley in on this, too?”

Gristhorpe nodded.

“DC Richmond?”

“Not just yet. Let’s see exactly what we’ve got on our hands before we bring in all our manpower. Richmond can hold the fort back at the station. I’ll stay here while you go back to the car and radio in. You’d better let the doc know what state the body’s in. He might need some special equipment.”

Banks glanced towards the corpse, then back at Gristhorpe.

“Are you sure you want to stay here?”

“It’s not a matter of wanting,” Gristhorpe said. “Somebody should stay.”

“It’s been here alone long enough. I doubt that another half-hour will make any difference.”

“Somebody should stay,” Gristhorpe repeated.

Banks knew when to give up. Leaving the superintendent sitting like Buddha under an ash tree by the beck, he set off back through the woods to the car.

II

“What’s wrong?” Katie Greenock asked as Sam and Stephen staggered in with Fellowes between them.

“He’s had a bit too much to drink, that’s all,” Sam said. “Out of the way, woman. Is number five still vacant?”

“Yes, but—”

“Don’t worry, he’s not going to puke on your precious sheets.

He just needs sleep.”

“All right,” Katie said, biting her lip. “Better take him up.” Stephen smiled apologetically at her as they passed by and struggled up the stairs. Finally, they dumped their burden on the bedspread and left Katie in the room with him. At first she didn’t move. She just stood by the window looking at Fellowes in horror. Surely Sam knew how much she hated and feared drunks, how much they disgusted her. And Mr Fellowes had seemed such a nice, sober man.

She couldn’t really picture her father clearly, for he had died along with her mother in a fire when Katie was only four, but he had certainly been a drunk, and she was sure that he was at the root of her feelings. The only vague image she retained was of a big, vulgar man who frightened her with his loud voice, his whiskers and his roughness.

Once, when they hadn’t known she was watching, she saw him hurting her mother in the bedroom, making her groan and squirm in a way that sent shivers up Katie’s spine. Of course, when she got
older, she realized what they must have been doing, but the early memory was as firmly established and as deeply rooted as cancer. She also remembered once when her father fell down and she was afraid that he’d hurt himself. When she went to help him, though, he knocked her over and cursed her. She was terrified that he would do the same thing to her as he had done to her mother, but she couldn’t remember any more about the incident, no matter how hard she tried.

The fire was a memory she had blocked out, too, though strange tongue-like flames sometimes roared and crackled in her nightmares. According to her grandmother, Katie had been in the house at the time, but the firemen had arrived before the blaze reached her room. Katie had been saved by the grace of God, so her granny said, whereas her parents, the sinners, had been consumed by the flames of hell.

The fire had been caused by smoking in bed, and her grandmother had seemed especially satisfied by that, as if the irony somehow marked it as God’s special work, an answer to her prayers. It had all been God’s will, His justice, and Katie was obliged to spend her life in gratitude and devoted service.

Katie took a deep breath, rolled Fellowes over carefully, and pulled back the sheets—they could be washed easily, but not the quilted spread. Then she unlaced his walking-boots and put them on some newspaper by the bed. They weren’t muddy, but fragments of earth had lodged in the ribbed treads.

“Cleanliness is next to Godliness,” her grandmother had drilled into her. And a lot easier to achieve, Katie might have added if she had dared. Apart from an unusually long list of its attributes—mostly “thou shalt nots,” which seemed to include everything most normal people enjoyed—Godliness was an elusive quality as far as Katie was concerned. Lately, she had found herself thinking about it a lot, recalling her grandmother’s harsh words and “necessary” punishments: her mouth washed out with soap for lying; a spell in the coal-hole for “swaying wantonly” to a fragment of music that had drifted in from next door’s radio. These had all been preceded by the words, “This is going to hurt me more than it will hurt you.”
Fellowes stirred and snapped Katie out of her reverie. For a second, his grey eyes opened wide and he grasped her hand. She could feel the fear and confusion flow from his bony fingers through her wrist.

“Moving,” he mumbled, falling back into a drunken sleep again. “Moving . . .”

Spittle gathered at the edges of his lips and dribbled down his chin. Katie shuddered. Leaving him, she hurried back downstairs. There was still the evening meal to prepare, and the garden needed weeding.

III

Banks leaned over the edge of Rawley Force and watched Glendenning coming up in the winch. It was an amusing sight. The tall, white-haired doctor sat erect trying to retain as much dignity as he could. A cigarette dangled from the left corner of his mouth, as usual, and he clutched his brown bag tightly against his stomach.

Luckily, there had been hardly any rain over the past two weeks, so the waterfall to the doctor’s right was reduced to a trickle. The staff at the Mountain Rescue Post had been only too willing to help and had come out and set up the winch in no time. Now, the police team were ready to come up slowly, one at a time, and Glendenning, as befit his status, was first in line.

Puffing as he struggled out of the harness, the doctor nodded curtly at Banks and straightened the crease in his suit trousers. Banks led him half a mile along the wooded valley to the scene, where Gristhorpe still sat alone.

“Thanks for coming so quickly,” the superintendent said to Glendenning, getting up and dusting off his seat. Everyone in Eastvale Regional CID Headquarters had found it paid to be polite, even deferential, to the doctor. Although he was a crusty old bugger, he was one of the best pathologists in the country, and they were lucky he had chosen Eastvale as his home.

Glendenning lit another cigarette from the stub of his old one and asked, “Where is it, then?”
Gristhorpe pointed towards the pile of branches. The doctor cursed under his breath as he tackled the stepping-stones, and Gristhorpe turned to Banks and winked. “Everyone here, Alan?”

“Looks like it.”

Next the young photographer, Peter Darby, came hurrying towards them, trying to head off Glendenning before the doctor could get to work. To Banks he always looked far too fresh-faced and innocent for his line of work, but he had never been known to bat an eyelid, no matter what they asked him to photograph.

After him came Sergeant Hatchley, red-faced after his short walk from Rawley Force along the hanging valley. The fair-haired sergeant was a big man, like Gristhorpe, and although he was twenty years younger, his muscle was turning quickly to fat. He resembled a rugby prop-forward, a position he had indeed played on the local team until cigarettes and beer took their toll on his stamina.

Banks filled him in on the details while Gristhorpe busied himself with the scene-of-crime team.

Glendenning, kneeling by the corpse, kept shooing the others away like flies. At last, he packed his bag and struggled back over the beck, stretching out his arms for balance like a tightrope-walker. With one hand he clung onto his brown bag, and in the other he held a test-tube.

“Bloody awkward place to go finding a corpse,” he grumbled, as if the superintendent were personally responsible.

“Aye, well,” Gristhorpe replied, “we don’t get to pick and choose in our business. I don’t suppose you can tell us much till after the postmortem?”

Glendenning screwed up his face against the smoke that rose from his cigarette. “Not much,” he said. “Looks like a stab wound to me. Probably pierced the heart from under the rib-cage.”

“Then someone got very close to him indeed,” Gristhorpe said. “It must have been someone he knew and trusted.”

Glendenning sniffed. “I’ll leave that kind of speculation to you boys, if you don’t mind. There are lacerations and blows to the face, too. Can’t say what did it at the moment, or when it was done. Been dead about ten days. Not more than twelve.”

“How can you be certain?” Banks asked, startled by the information.

“I can’t be certain, laddie,” Glendenning said, “that’s the problem. Between ten and twelve days doesn’t count as accurate with me. I might be able to be more precise after the PM, but no promises. Those chappies over there have got a bag to put him in. He’ll need to soak in a Lysol bath for a day or two.” Glendenning smiled and held up his test-tube. “Maggots,” he said. “
Calliphora erythrocephalus,
if I’m not mistaken.”