Not Safe After Dark Read Online Free

his claim objectively. He’s convinced he was a hippie murdered in
Swainsdale in summer, nineteen sixty-six, right?’
    Banks nodded.
    ‘And he thinks this because he believes in reincarnation, he had a déjà vu and he’s had a recurring dream?’
    ‘True.’
    ‘Now,’ Gristhorpe went on, ‘leaving aside the question of whether you or I believe in reincarnation, or, indeed, whether there is such a thing – a philosophical
speculation we could hardly settle over tea and scones, anyway – he doesn’t give us a hell of a lot to go on, does he?’
    ‘That’s the problem. I thought you might remember something.’
    Gristhorpe sighed and shifted in his chair. The scuffed leather creaked. ‘In nineteen sixty-six, I was a thirty-year-old detective sergeant in a backwoods division. In fact, we were
nothing but a subdivision then, and I was the senior detective. Most of the time I investigated burglaries, the occasional outbreak of sheep stealing, market-stall owners fencing stolen
goods.’ He sipped some tea. ‘We had one or two murders – really interesting ones I’ll tell you about someday – but not a lot. What I’m saying, Alan, is that no
matter how poor my memory is, I’d remember a murdered hippie.’
    ‘And nothing fits the bill?’
    ‘Nothing. I’m not saying we didn’t have a few hippies around, but none of them got murdered. I think your Mr Singer must be mistaken.’
    Banks put his mug down on the table and stood up to leave. ‘Better get back to the crime statistics, then,’ he said.
    Gristhorpe smiled. ‘So that’s why you’re so interested in this cock and bull story? Can’t say I blame you. Sorry I can’t help. Wait a minute, though,’
he added as they walked to the door. ‘There was old Bert Atherton’s lad. I suppose that was around the time you’re talking about, give or take a year or two.’
    Banks paused at the door. ‘Atherton?’
    ‘Aye. Owns a farm between Lyndgarth and Helmthorpe. Or did. He’s dead now. I only mention it because Atherton’s son, Joseph, was something of a hippie.’
    ‘What happened?’
    ‘Fell down the stairs and broke his neck. Family never got over it. As I said, old man Atherton died a couple of years back, but his missis is still around.’
    ‘You’d no reason to suspect anything?’
    Gristhorpe shook his head. ‘None at all. The Athertons were a decent, hard-working family. Apparently the lad was visiting them on his way to Scotland to join some commune or other. He
fell down the stairs. It’s a pretty isolated spot, and it was too late when the ambulance arrived, especially as they had to drive a mile down country lanes to the nearest telephone box. They
were really devastated. He was their only child.’
    ‘What made him fall?’
    ‘He wasn’t pushed, if that’s what you’re thinking. There was no stair carpet and the steps were a bit slippery. According to his dad, Joseph was walking around without
his slippers on and he slipped in his stockinged feet.’
    ‘And you’ve no reason to doubt him?’
    ‘No. I did have one small suspicion at the time, though.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘According to the post-mortem, Joseph Atherton was a heroin addict, though he didn’t have any traces of the drug in his system at the time of his death. I thought he might have been
smoking marijuana or something up in his room. That might have made him a bit unsteady on his feet.’
    ‘Did you search the place?’
    Gristhorpe snorted. ‘Nay, Alan. There was no sense bringing more grief on his parents. What would we do if we found something, charge them with possession?’
    ‘I see your point.’ Banks opened the door and put up his collar against the rain. ‘I might dig up the file anyway,’ he called, running over to the car. ‘Enjoy the
rest of your week off.’
    Gristhorpe’s curse was lost in the sound of the engine starting up and the finale of Mussorgsky’s ‘Great Gate of Kiev’ on Classic FM, blasting out from the radio, which