The powerful jet engines roared and Banks felt himself pushed back in his seat. It was his first time in a Jumbo. The plane lumbered along the runway at Manchester International Airport, fixtures and fittings shaking and rattling, as if defying anyone to believe that a machine of such bulk could fly. But it did. Soon, Lancashire was a checkerboard of wet fields, then it was lost completely under the clouds. The NO SMOKING sign went off and Banks lit up.
In a few moments, the blue-uniformed flight-attendant with her shocking pink lipstick and impossibly white teeth—the same one who had managed to put such drama into the routine demonstration of the use of the life-jacket—came around with more boiled sweets and personal headphones in plastic bags. Banks took a set, as he knew there would be a film later on, but he gave the designer music a miss and took out his own Walkman. Soon the plane was over Ireland, an occasional flash of green between the clouds, the Beatles were singing “Dear Prudence,” and all was well with the world.
Banks ordered Scotch on the rocks when the trolley came around and relaxed with his miniature Johnny Walker Red. Closing his eyes, he settled back to reconsider the events that had led to his present unnatural position—about 35,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean, hurtling at a speed of roughly 600 miles an hour towards a strange continent.
It was Saturday, July 3, almost a month since the Bernard Allen case had stalled. Banks had visited Swainshead once or twice and found things relatively quiet. Stephen and Nicholas Collier had remained polite in their arrogant way; Sam Greenock had been surly, as usual; Katie Greenock still seemed troubled and distracted; and John Fletcher had expressed passing interest in the progress of the case.
The problem was that there really wasn’t a case any more. Enquiries had turned up neither new witnesses nor motives. A number of people had the opportunity to kill Bernard Allen, but no-one had a clear reason. As long as the suspects stuck to their stories, it didn’t matter whether they were lying or telling the truth; there was no solid evidence to break the case. That was why it was vital for Banks to find Anne Ralston—she was the link between the Addison and Allen murders—and he had convinced Gristhorpe he could do it in a week.
“How?” the superintendent had asked. “Toronto’s a strange city to you. A big one, too.”
“Where would you head if you were an Englishman living abroad?”
Gristhorpe rubbed his chin. “I’d seek out the expatriate community, I suppose. The ‘club.’ I’d want to be among my own.”
“Right. So, given we’re not dealing with the gentry, I’d expect Allen to hang around the English-style pubs. Every big city has them. His brother-in-law, Les Haines, told me Allen liked his ale and had found a pub where he could get imported British beer. There can’t be all that many of them in Toronto.
“But it’s Anne Ralston we’re looking for, remember that.”
“I know. I’m just assuming that if Allen was a bit standoffish with his mates at work, he had a crowd of fellow émigrés he hung around with in his spare time. The odds are they’d meet up in a pub and stand at the bar quaffing pints. They might know the Ralston woman.”
“So you want to go on a pub-crawl of Toronto?”
“Looks like it, doesn’t it?”
“Better not tell Jim Hatchley or you’ll get nowt out of him for a month or more. Why can’t you get the Toronto police to find her?”
“For a start, I got the impression on the phone that they didn’t have time or didn’t give a damn, or both. And anyway, they wouldn’t know how to question her, what to ask. Someone would have to brief them on two murder investigations, the sociology of the Yorkshire village, the history of—”
Gristhorpe held up his hand. “All right, all right, I get the point.”
“And I think they’d scare her off, too,” Banks added. “She was nervous enough about what she knew to warn Allen not to spread it around, so if she thinks the police are after her, the odds are she’ll scarper.”
“Have you considered that she might not be using her own name?”
“Yes. But I’ve got her photograph from our missing person files—it’s a bit old, but it’s all we’ve got—and I think I know where to look. Being English myself gives me an advantage in that kind of environment, too. Do you think it makes sense?”
“It’s all a bit iffy, but yes, yes I do, on the whole. If you can track down Allen’s drinking companions, there’s a good chance he’ll have told them about Anne Ralston. She might even drop in at his local herself from time to time, if she’s the kind that likes to be among her own.”
“So you’ll see what you can do about getting me over there?”
Gristhorpe nodded. “Aye. I’ll see what I can do.”
About a week later, on a Thursday morning, the superintendent had asked Banks to drop by his office. Banks stubbed out his cigarette and carried his full coffee mug carefully along the corridor. As usual, Gristhorpe’s door was slightly ajar. Banks nudged it open with his shoulder and entered the cosy, book-lined room. He took his usual seat and put his coffee on the desk in front of him.
Gristhorpe pushed a long envelope over the blotter.
“You’ve done it?”
Inside was a return ticket on a charter flight from Manchester to Toronto.
“There’s an important international conference on policing the inner city in London, Ontario. I thought you ought to go.”
“But this ticket’s for Toronto.”
“Aye, well, there isn’t an international airport in London.”
“And Eastvale doesn’t have an inner city.”
Gristhorpe scratched his hooked nose. “We might have, one day. We did have a riot a few months ago, didn’t we? It pays to be prepared.”
“Will you be expecting a report?”
“Oh, a brief verbal account will do.”
Banks grinned.
“There’s one catch, though.”
“Oh?”
“Money. All I could scrounge was the ticket and a bit of loose change for meals. You’ll have to supply most of your own pocket money.”
“That’s all right. I’m not likely to be spending a fortune. What about accommodation, though?”
“You’ll be staying with my nephew—at least, you can stay in his apartment. He’s off to Banff or some such place for the summer. Anyway, I’ve been in touch and he says he’ll be happy to meet you at the airport. I described you to him, so just stand around and look lost. He’s rather a lanky lad, as I remember. His hair’s a bit too long and he wears those silly little glasses—granny-glasses, I think they’re called. He’s a nice enough lad—graduate student, organic chemistry or some such thing. He says he lives downtown, whatever that means. You told me a week, Alan. I’m depending on you.”
“I’ll do my best,” Banks said, pocketing the ticket.
“Find Anne Ralston and discover what she knows. I don’t care how you do it, outside of torture. And for Christ’s sake keep away from the local police. They wouldn’t appreciate your trespassing on their patch. You’re a tourist, remember that.”
“I’ve been wondering why you’re sending me,” Banks said. “You’re very much concerned with this case yourself, especially the connection with the Addison murder. Why don’t you go?”
“I would,” Gristhorpe said slowly. “Believe me, I would.” He looked sideways towards the open window. “I did my National Service in the RAF. I’d always hero-worshipped fighter pilots in the war and I suppose, in my folly, I wanted to be just like them. First time up one of the engines caught fire. If the pilot hadn’t been so damn good we’d have both been dead. Even so . . . I’ve never fancied the idea since.”
“I can’t say I blame you,” Banks said. “I’ll find her, don’t worry. At least I’ve an idea where to look.”
And that was that. Sandra and the children were excited and, of course, disappointed that they couldn’t go with him. Sergeant Hatchley acted as if Banks had been given a free holiday in an exotic place. And now here he was, high above the Atlantic Ocean, the pink lips and white teeth leaning over him with a tray of cling-wrapped food.
Banks took off his headphones and arranged the tray in front of him. The main course appeared to be a small, shrivelled chicken leg with pale, wrinkled skin, accompanied by tiny potatoes and carrots covered in gravy. On further inspection, Banks discovered that one-half of the meal was piping hot and the other still frozen solid. He called the attendant, who apologized profusely and took it away. When she delivered it again, the frozen side was warm and the other overcooked. Banks took a few mouthfuls and gave up in disgust. He also felt no inclination to investigate the mound of jelly-like substance with a swirl of cream on its top, or the limp, wet lettuce leaves that passed for a salad. Instead, he turned to his cheese and crackers which, being wrapped in cellophane, were at least fresh, and washed them down with a small plastic bottle of harsh red wine.
Feeling the onset of heartburn, Banks declined the offer of coffee and lit a cigarette. After the trays had been cleared, more drinks came. They really were very generous, Banks thought, and wondered what havoc a plane full of drunks might wreak—especially if the booze ran out. But it didn’t. He was kept well supplied with Johnny Walker Red—a kind of sedation, he guessed, insurance against restless and troublesome passengers—and soon people were asked to pull down their blinds against the blazing sunlight in preparation for the movie. This turned out to be a dreadful cops-and-robbers affair full of car chases and shoot-outs in shopping precincts. After about ten minutes, Banks put his headset aside, closed his eyes and went over in his mind the questions he wanted to ask Anne Ralston. The jet engines were humming, the Scotch warmed his veins, and soon he fell into a deep sleep. The last thing he remembered was the crackly voice of the pilot saying they were soon going to reach the tip of Newfoundland and would then fly along the St Lawrence River.