‘Nothing. He doesn’t know anything.’
‘Stop lying, Katie. Did you do it with him too, just like you do with all the others?’
Katie turned pale. ‘What do you mean?’
Nicholas grinned. The dark comma of hair had flopped over his brow and his cheeks were flushed. ‘You know what I mean. Just like you did with Stephen and everyone else. Did you let him do it to you, Katie, that policeman?’
‘No!’
‘Oh, don’t be shy. You do it with everyone, don’t you? You know you’re nothing but a slut. A filthy whore. Tell me you’re a filthy whore, Katie, say it.’
‘I’m not.’
Katie rushed desperately for the connecting door, but Nicholas got there before her.
‘There’s no way out,’ he said. ‘All your guests are in the White Rose; I saw them. And Sam’s off with his fancy women as usual.’
‘He’s what?’
‘Didn’t you know? Oh, don’t tell me you didn’t know. All those times he goes off to see his friends in Leeds or Eastvale. It’s women, Katie. Loose women. Can’t you smell them on his skin when he comes home? Or do you like it when he comes straight from another woman and takes you? Do you like to smell other women on your husband’s skin?’
Katie put her hands to her ears. ‘Stop it! Stop it!’ she screamed. ‘You’re evil!’
Nicholas applauded quietly. ‘Oh, Katie, what an act.’
Katie dropped her hands to her sides. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Do? Why, I’m going to take you away from here. I don’t trust you, Katie. There’s no telling what you know and what you might say.’
‘I don’t know anything.’
‘I think you do. Stephen told you, didn’t he?’
‘Told me what?’
‘About Oxford.’
Katie could think of nothing to say.
‘Look at you blushing,’ Nicholas said, pointing at her. ‘You know, don’t you? I can tell. Be sure your sins will find you out.’
Suddenly, Katie realized what he meant and a terrible thought dawned on her.
‘You killed him,’ she said quietly. ‘You killed Stephen.’
Nicholas shrugged and spoke in a cold passionless voice. ‘I couldn’t trust him any more. He was falling apart on me.’
Katie stiffened. She felt like a trapped animal. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to take you away, far away. What did he tell you about Oxford?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Did he tell you about that girl, that stupid slut?’
Katie shook her head.
‘He did, didn’t he?’
‘No! He told me nothing.’
Nicholas leaned against the table. His bright eyes glittered and his breath came in short sharp gasps. He looked like a madman to Katie. A wild, terrifying madman.
‘She was nothing but a prostitute, Katie,’ he said. ‘A fallen woman. She sold herself to men. And when I… when I took her, she didn’t… She told me I was too rough and she tried to make me stop. Me! Nicholas Collier. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I knew that was the way she really wanted it. A common tart like her. Like you.’
‘No!’ Katie said. ‘I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are. I’ve had my eye on you. You do it with everyone. Do they pay you, Katie, or do you do it for nothing? I know you like to struggle. I’ll pay you if you want.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I want you to say it for me. Say you’re a filthy whore.’
‘I’m not.’
‘What’s wrong? Why won’t you say it? I bet you even let that policeman do it. I’m better than the lot of them, Katie. Say it.’
‘No! I won’t.’
He spoke very softly, so quiet she could hardly hear. ‘I want you to go down on your knees, Katie, and tell me you’re a filthy whore and you want me to do it to you like an animal. Like a dog. I want you to lift your dress up and crawl, Katie.’
He was moving towards her now, and his eyes held hers with a power that seemed to sap what little strength she had. She felt her shoulders hit the wall by the mantelpiece. There was nowhere else to go. But Nicholas kept coming closer, and when he was near enough he reached out and grabbed the front of her dress.
Banks drove fast along the dark dale by the River Swain, passed through Helmthorpe and into the darker fell-shadowed landscape beyond. He turned sharp right at Swainshead, tyres squealing, and carried on up the valley to Upper Head. He slowed down as they passed the Collier house, but the lights were out.
‘I hope the bastard hasn’t done a bunk,’ Hatchley said.
‘No, he’s too cool for that. We’ll get him, don’t worry.’
The glimmer of light high on the fell side about two miles north of the village came from Fletcher’s isolated cottage. It was a difficult track to manage in the dark, but they finally pulled up outside the squat solid house with its three-foot-thick walls. Fletcher had heard them coming and stood in the doorway. Again they were ushered into the plain whitewashed room with its oak table and the photograph of Fletcher’s glamorous ex-wife.
Fletcher was ill at ease. He avoided looking at them directly and fussed around with glasses of beer. Hatchley stood by the window looking into the darkness. Banks sat at the table.
‘What is it?’ he asked, when Fletcher had sat down opposite him.
‘It’s about Stephen’s death,’ Fletcher began hesitantly. ‘He was my friend. It’s gone too far now. Too far.’
Banks nodded. ‘I know. I understood there was no love lost between you and Nicholas.’
‘You’ve heard about that? Well, it’s true enough. I never had much time for him. But old Mr Walter was like a father to me, and I always felt like an older brother to Stephen.’
Banks passed around the cigarettes.
‘Saturday night,’ Fletcher burst out suddenly. ‘I thought nothing of it at the time — it was just the kind of silly trick Nicholas would play — but when he went to buy a round I saw him pour a glass of clear spirits into Stephen’s drink. As I said, I thought nothing of it. I knew Stephen was upset about something — what it was, I don’t know — and he seemed to want to get drunk and forget his problems anyway. No point causing trouble, I thought, so I kept quiet.
‘That family has a secret, Mr Banks, a dark secret. Stephen’s hinted at it more than once, and I reckon it’s something to do with Nicholas and the ladies, though ladies is too dignified a term. Did you know he once forced himself on Molly Stark from over Relton way?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Aye. Well, it was hushed up, like most things Nicholas got up to. All neat and businesslike.’
‘Wasn’t there also some trouble with a girl when his father was alive?’ Banks asked.
‘Aye,’ said Fletcher. ‘Got her in the family way. But money changed hands and shut mouths. It was all arranged, no expense spared, and she did away with it. He had a lust for lasses below his station, as they used to say. Working-class girls, servants, factory girls, milkmaids… I even caught him mauling Katie Greenock at Stephen’s party last week.’
At last it made sense to Banks. Nicholas Collier couldn’t keep away from women of a lower social class: Cheryl Duggan, Esther Haines, Katie Greenock, Anne Ralston, the servant girl, Molly Stark — they were all beneath him socially. Although the term had lost a lot of its meaning over the past few years, they might still be called working-class women. Obviously it didn’t matter who they were as individuals; that didn’t interest Collier. He probably had some Victorian image of the working class as a seething, gin-drinking, fornicating, procreating mass. He thrust himself on them and became violent when they objected. No doubt like most perverse sexual practices, his compulsion had a lot to do with power and humiliation.