Read Online The Hanging Valley by Peter Robinson - Free Book Online Page B

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.
    IV
    Back at Eastvale 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 to be 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 hisright, Banks could see along the street, with its coffee-houses, boutiques and specialty shops, and out front was the busy square itself, with the NatWest bank, the El Toro coffee-bar and Joplin’s newsagent’s at 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 onto 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 forever.”
    “We haven’t got forever. 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