The Hanging Valley by Peter Robinson Page A

its existence?”
    “No. It’s certainly not mentioned in my guide book.”
    Fellowes shrugged. “Locals would, I suppose. I really can’t say.
    Anyone could wander into it. It’s on the maps, of course, but it doesn’t show up as anything special.”
    “But you do have to make quite a diversion from the footpath to get there.”
    “Well, yes. Though I’d hardly say it’s that much of a haul.”
    “Depends on what shape you’re in,” Banks said, smiling. “But you reckoned it would be worthwhile?”
    “I’m interested in wild flowers, Chief Inspector. I thought I might discover something interesting.”
    “When did you arrive in Swainshead?”
    “Three days ago. It was only a short break. I’m saving most of my holidays for a bicycle tour of Provence in autumn.”
    “I hope you have a less grim time of it there,” Banks said. “Is there anything else you can remember about the scene, about what happened?”
    “It was all such a blur. First there was the orchis, then that awful smell, and . . . No. I turned away and headed back as soon as I’d . . . as soon as I refreshed myself in the beck.”
    “There was nobody else in the valley?”
    “Not that I was aware of.”
    “You didn’t get a feeling of being followed, observed?”
    “No.”
    “And you didn’t find anything close to the body? Something you might have thought insignificant, picked up and forgotten about?”
    “Nothing, Chief Inspector. Believe me, the feeling of revulsion was sudden and quite overwhelming.”
    “Of course. Had you noticed anything else before you found the body?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “The victim’s rucksack was missing. We think he must have been carrying his belongings with him but we can’t find them. Did you notice any signs of something being buried, burned, destroyed?”
    “I’m sorry, Chief Inspector, but no, I didn’t.”
    “Any idea who the victim was?”
    Fellowes opened his eyes wide. “How could I have? You must have seen for yourself how . . . how . . .”
    “I know what state he was in. I was simply wondering if you’d heard anything about someone missing in the area.”
    Fellowes shook his head.
    Banks closed his notebook and put it back in the inside pocket of his pale blue sports jacket.
    “There is one thing,” Fellowes said hesitantly.
    “Yes?”
    “I don’t like to cast aspersions. It’s only a very vague impression.”
    “Go on.”
    “And I wasn’t in full control of my faculties. It was just a feeling.”
    “Policemen have feelings like that, too, Mr Fellowes. We call them hunches and they’re often very valuable. What was this feeling you had?”
    Fellowes leaned forward from the edge of the bed and lowered his voice. “Well, Chief Inspector, I only really thought about it in bed last night, and it was just a kind of niggling sensation, an itch. It was in the pub, just after I arrived and, you know, told them what I’d seen. I sat at the table, quite out of breath and emotionally distraught. . . .”
    “And what happened?”
    “Nothing happened. It was just a feeling, as I said. I wasn’t even looking, but I got the impression that someone there wasn’t really surprised.”
    “That you’d found a body?”
    “Yes.”
    “Was that all?”
    Fellowes took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
    Banks noticed how small his eyes looked without the magnifying lenses. “More than that,” Fellowes went on. “I was looking away at the time, but I felt an odd sort of silence, the kind of silence in which glances are exchanged. It was very uncomfortable for a moment, though I was too preoccupied to really notice it at the time. I’ve thought about it a lot since last night, and that’s the only way I can put it, as if a kind of understanding look passed between some of the people at the table.”
    “Who was there?”
    “The same people as when you arrived. There was the landlord, over at the bar, then Sam Greenock, Stephen and Nicholas Collier and John