Free The Hanging Valley by Peter Robinson Page A

her lower lip and said nothing. She couldn’t talk to him. She couldn’t tell anyone the things that went on in her mind, the sins she dreamed of, the desperation she felt. She couldn’t tell him about her one chance of escaping from her miserable life, and what it had already cost her.
    “Anyway,” Stephen went on, taking a biscuit, “I might not be around here for much longer.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I’ve had enough of it, Katie. The plant, the house, the village.
    Lord, I’m nearly thirty. It’s about time I got out and about, saw a bit of the world before I get too old.”
    “B-but you can’t,” Katie said, shocked. “Surely you can’t just up and go like that? What about—”
    Stephen slapped the table. “Oh, responsibilities be hanged,” he said. “There’s plenty of others willing and able to run Collier Foods. I’ll take a long holiday then maybe try something else.”
    “Why are you telling me all this?” Katie asked.
    Stephen looked at her, and she noticed that he suddenly looked old, much older than his twenty-eight years.
    He ran his hand through his short brown hair. “I don’t know,” he said. “I told you, we’re kindred spirits. You’re the only person I’ve told. There’s nobody else, really.”
    “But your brother . . .”
    “Nicky? He wouldn’t understand. He’s too wrapped up in his own world. And don’t think I haven’t noticed the way he looks at you, Katie, even if Sam hasn’t. I’d stay away from him if I were you.”
    “Of course I will,” Katie said, blushing. “Why shouldn’t I?”
    “Oh, he can be very persuasive, Nicky can.”
    “What about John?” Katie asked. “Or Sam? Can’t you talk to them?”
    Stephen laughed. “Look, Katie,” he said. “Nicky, Sam and the rest, they’re all good drinking friends, but there are things I can’t talk to them about.”
    “But why me?”
    “Because I think it’s the same for you. I think you’re unhappy with your life and you’ve nobody to talk to about it. Why are you so afraid of talking to me? You’ve got all your problems bottled up inside you. Don’t you like me?”
    Katie traced rings on the table with her forefinger. “It’s not that,” she said. “I’m fine, really I am.”
    Stephen leaned forward. “Why don’t you open up, show some feeling?” he urged her.
    “I do.”
    “Not for me.”
    “It’s not right.”
    “Oh, Katie, you’re such a moralist.” Stephen stood up to leave.
    “Would that I had your moral fibre. No, it’s all right, there’s no need to show me out.”
    Katie wanted to call after him, but she couldn’t. Deep inside, she felt a thick darkness swirling and building in power, trying to force its way out. But it was evil and she had to keep it locked in. She had to accept her lot, her place in life. She was Sam’s wife. That was her duty. There was no point talking about problems. What could she say to Stephen Collier? Or he to her? Why had he come? What did he want from her? “The thing that all men want,” said a strong, harsh voice inside her. “The same thing his brother wants. Don’t be fooled by talk of companionship. Satan has a sweet tongue.”
    “But he was reaching out to you,” another, quieter voice said, “reaching out in friendship, and you turned him away.”
    Katie’s chest tightened and her hands shook as she tried to bring the teacup to her mouth. “I’m lost,” she thought. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s right any more. Help me, someone, please help me!” And the cup rolled to the floor and smashed as Katie lay her head on the table and wept.

FOUR
    I
    Two days later, on May 31, forensic information started trickling in. During that time, Richmond and Hatchley had tracked down all but two wandering Canadians who had left local hotels or guest houses between ten and thirteen days ago.
    Events were moving too slowly for Banks. Most leads appear during the first twenty-four hours after a murder has taken