The Hanging Valley by Peter Robinson

said, “and he were a bit upset about that. I think that’s what made him homesick. But I wouldn’t say he were really depressed, no. He seemed to think he might be able to come back and live here again before too long.”
    “Did he say anything about a job?”
    “No.”
    “How could he manage to move back here then?”
    Esther Haines shook her head. “I don’t know. He didn’t say. He just hinted. Maybe it were wishful thinking, like, now he didn’t have Barbara any more.”
    “That was his wife?”
    “Yes.”
    “What happened between them?”
    “She ran off wi’ another man.”
    “Where had Bernie been before he visited you?”
    Esther took a deep breath and dabbed at her red eyes. “He’d come to England for a month, all told,” she said. “First off, he spent a week seeing friends in London and Bristol, then he came up here. He’d be due to go back about now, wouldn’t he, Les?”
    “Do you know how to get in touch with these friends?” Banks asked.
    She shook her head. “Sorry. They were friends of Bernie’s from university.”
    “Which university?”
    “York.”
    “And you didn’t know them?”
    “No. They’d be in his notebook. He always carried a notebook full of names and stuff.”
    “We didn’t find it. Never mind, we’ll find them somehow.” If necessary, Banks knew he could check with the university authorities and track down Bernard Allen’s contemporaries. “Do you know where he was heading after Swainshead?”
    “He were going to see another friend in Edinburgh, then fly back from Prestwick. You can do that with Wardair, he said, fly to London and go back from somewhere else.” She put her handkerchief to her nose again and sniffed.
    “I don’t suppose you have this person’s address in Edinburgh?” She shook her head.
    “So,” Banks said, stubbing out his cigarette and reaching for the tea, “he left here on May thirteenth to do some fell-walking in the Dales, and then—”
    Mrs Haines cut in. “No, that’s not right. That’s not the reason he went.”
    “Why did he go, then? Sentimental reasons?”
    “Partly, I suppose. But he went to stay with friends.”
    “What friends?”
    “Sam and Katie. They run a guest house—Greenock’s. Bernie was going to stay with Sam and Katie.”
    Struggling to keep his excitement and surprise to himself, Banks asked how Bernard had got to know Sam and Katie. At first, Mrs Haines seemed unable to concentrate for weeping, but Banks encouraged her gently, and soon she was telling him the whole story, pulling at the handkerchief on her lap as she spoke.
    “They knew each other from Armley, from after we came to Leeds. Sam lived there, too. We were neighbours. Bernie was always going on about Swainshead and how wonderful it was, and I think it were him as put the idea into Sam’s head. Anyways, Sam and Katie scrimped and saved and that’s where they ended up.”
    “Did Bernie have any other close friends in Swainshead?”
    “Not really,” Esther said. “Most of his childhood mates had moved away. There weren’t any jobs for them up there.”
    “How did he get on with the Colliers?”
    “A bit above our station,” Esther said. “Oh, they’d say hello, but they weren’t friends of his, not as far as I know. You can’t be, can you, not with the sons of the fellow what owns your land?”
    “I suppose not,” Banks said. “Was there any bitterness over losing the farm?”
    “I wouldn’t say that, no. Sadness, yes, but bitterness? No. It were us own fault. There wasn’t much land fit for anything but sheep, and when the flock took sick . . .”
    “What was Mr Collier’s attitude?”
    “Mr Walter?”
    “Yes.”
    “He were right sorry for us. He helped out as much as he could, but it were no use. He were preparing to sell off to John Fletcher anyway. Getting out of farming, he were.”
    “How would that have affected you?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “The sale.”
    “Oh. Mr Walter said he’d write it into