The Hanging Valley by Peter Robinson Read Free Book Online Page A

had been spinning with the drink. But he remembered bursting into the pub and asking for help. He remembered how Sam Greenock and the others at the table had calmed him down and suggested what he should do. But there was something else, something wrong. It was just a vague feeling. He couldn’t quite bring it to consciousness before sleep took him.

THREE
    I
    “What is it?” Banks asked, examining the faded slip of paper that Sergeant Hatchley had dropped on the desk in front of him.
    “Forensic said it’s some kind of receipt from a till,” Hatchley explained. “You know, one of those bits of paper they give you when you buy something. People usually just drop them on the floor or shove them in their pockets and forget about them. They found it in his right trouser pocket. It’d been there long enough to go through the washer once or twice, but you know what bloody wizards they are in the lab.”
    Banks knew. He had little faith in forensic work as a means of catching criminals, but the boffins knew their stuff when it came to identification and gathering evidence. Their lab was just outside Wetherby, and Gristhorpe must have put a “rush” on this job to get the results back to Eastvale so quickly. The body had been discovered only the previous afternoon, and it was still soaking in a Lysol bath.
    Banks looked closely again at the slip, then turned to its accompanying transcription. The original had been too faint to read, but forensic had treated it with chemicals and copied out the message exactly:

    “Wendy’s,” Banks said. “That’s a burger chain. There’s a few branches in London. Look at those prices, though.”
    Hatchley shrugged. “If it was in London . . .”
    “Come on! Even in London you don’t pay two pounds sixty-nine pee just for a bloody hamburger. At least not at Wendy’s you don’t. You don’t pay eighty-five pee for a Coke, either. What does that tax work out at?”
    Hatchley took out his pocket calculator and struggled with the figures. “Eight percent,” he announced finally.
    “Hmm. That’s an odd amount. You don’t pay eight percent tax on food in England.”
    “I suppose it’s an American company,” Hatchley suggested, “if they sell hamburgers?”
    “You mean our man’s an American?”
    “Or he could have just come back from a trip there.”
    “He could have. But that’d make it a bit soon for another holiday, wouldn’t it? Unless he was a businessman. What about the labels on his clothes?”
    “Torn off,” Hatchley said. “Trousers and underpants seem to be ordinary Marks and Sparks cotton-polyester. Same with the shirt. The boots were Army and Navy Surplus. They could have been bought at any of their branches.”
    Banks tapped his ball-pen on the edge of the desk. “Why is it that somebody doesn’t want us to know who he is or where he’s from?”
    “Maybe because if we knew that we’d have a good idea who the killer was.”
    “So the quicker we identify the body, the better our chances. Whoever did it was obviously counting on no-one finding it formonths, then being unable to identify it.” Banks sipped some lukewarm coffee and pulled a face. “But we’ve got a lead.” He tapped the receipt. “I want to know where this Wendy’s is located. It shouldn’t take you long. There’s a store code to go on.”
    “Where do I go for that kind of information?” Hatchley asked. “Bloody hell!” Banks said. “You’re a detective. At least I hope you are. Start detecting. First, I’d suggest you call Wendy’s UK office. It’s going to be a couple of days before we get anything from Glendenning and Vic Manson, so let’s use every break we get. Did Richmond come up with anything from missing persons?”
    “No, sir.”
    “I suppose our corpse is still supposed to be on holiday then, if no-one’s reported him missing. And if he’s not English it could be ages before he gets into the files. Check the hotels and guest houses in the area and see if