Gallows View (17 page)

When Banks had phoned Jenny after he’d left the Ottershaws’ house, he hadn’t been sure why he wanted her to meet him at The Oak, or what he wanted to say to her. He had brought the
Tosca
cassettes that he had promised to lend her, but that wasn’t excuse enough in itself. She had been obliging, but said she had to be off by nine as there was a small party honouring a visiting lecturer at the university. Banks also wanted to be home early, for Sandra’s sake, so the arrangement suited him.

“Last night we had a visit from the peeper,” he said finally. “At least Sandra did.”

“My God!” Jenny gasped, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “What happened?”

“Not much. She spotted him quite early on and he ran off down the back alley. I went out there but he’d already disappeared into the night.”

“How is she?”

“She’s fine, taking it all very philosophically. But she’s a deep one, Sandra. She doesn’t always let people know what her real feelings are—especially me. I should imagine she feels like the others—hurt, violated, dirty, angry.”

Jenny nodded. “Most likely. Isn’t it a bit awkward for you as far as your job’s concerned?”

“That’s something else I wanted to tell you. I haven’t reported it.”

Jenny stared at Banks far too long for his comfort. It was an intense, curious kind of look, and he finally gave in by going to the bar for two more drinks.

The crowd was about five deep with what looked like at least two local rugby teams, and Banks was smaller and slighter than most of the men who waved their glasses in the air and yelled over the heads of others—“Three pints of black and tan, Elsie, love, please!” . . . “Vodka and slimline, two pints of Stella, Cherry B, and a brandy and crème de menthe,”. . .“Five pints of Guinness . . . Kahlua and Coke, and a gin-and-it for the wife, love!” Everybody seemed to be placing such large orders.

Fortunately, Banks spotted Richmond, tall and distinctive, closer to the bar. He caught the constable’s attention—the man was on duty, after all—and asked for one-and-a-half pints of bitter. Surprised but immediately compliant, Richmond added it to his own order. Rather than demand waiter service of his young constable, Banks waited till Richmond had got the drinks, paid him and made off.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, sitting next to Jenny again.

Jenny laughed. “It wasn’t anything serious. Remember the other night?”

So the ice was broken; the subject wasn’t taboo, after all. “Yes,” he answered, waiting.

“I said I knew how you’d behave, even though I hoped it would be different?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, I was just trying to work out where I’d have placed my bet. Reporting or not reporting. I think I’d have been wrong. It’s not that I think you’re a slave to duty or anything like that, but you like to do things right . . . you’re honest. I’d guess that if you don’t do things the
way you know they should be done, you suffer for it. Conscience. Too much of it, probably.”

“I never asked for it,” Banks replied, lighting his second cigarette of the evening.

“You weren’t born with it, either.”

“No?”

“No. Conditioning.”

“I didn’t ask for that either.”

“No, you didn’t. None of us do. You’ve surprised me this time, though. I’d have guessed that you would report the incident no matter how much embarrassment it might cause.”

Banks shook his head. “There would be too much unfavourable publicity all round. Not only for Sandra but for the department, too. That Wycombe woman would just love to get her hands on something like this. If it were made public and we solved the case quickly, according to her it would only be because a policeman’s wife was among the victims. No, I’d rather keep it quiet.”

“But what about interviews, questioning people?”

“Sandra and I will do that locally. We’ll ask if anyone has seen any strangers hanging around.”

Jenny looked at him quizzically. “I’m not judging you, you know. I’m not the authorities.”

“I know,” Banks said. “I needed to tell someone. I couldn’t think of anyone else who’d . . .”

“Automatically be on your side?”

“I was going to say ‘understand,’ but I suppose you’re right. I did count on your support.”

“You have it, whether you need it or not. And your secret’s safe with me.”

“There is something a bit more technical I want to ask you, too,” Banks went on. “This new incident, the fact that it was Sandra,
my
wife. Do you think that means anything?”

“If he knew who it was, and I think he probably did, then yes, I do think it’s a development.”

“Go on.”

“It means that he’s getting bolder, he needs to take greater risks to get his satisfaction. Unless he’s some kind of hermit or human ostrich,
he must have read about reactions to what he’s been doing, probably with a kind of pride. Therefore, he must know that you’ve been heading an investigation into the case. He does a bit of research on you, finds you have an attractive blonde wife—”

“Or knows her already?” Banks cut in.

“What makes you think that? He could simply have watched the house discreetly, seen her come and go.”

“It’s just a feeling I’ve got.”

“Yes, but what basis does it have? Where does it come from?”

Banks thought as deeply as he could, given that the pop group had started its set with a carbon copy of the ancient Searchers’ hit, “Love Potion Number Nine.”

“We were talking about the Camera Club Sandra belongs to,” he answered slowly. “Sometimes they have nude models, and I said that most of the men probably don’t even have films in their cameras. It was just a joke at the time, but could there be any connection?”

“I’m not sure,” Jenny replied. “A Camera Club does grant permission for its members to look at the models, though if someone really didn’t have a film in his camera, it might give the illusion of peeping, of doing something vaguely wrong. That’s a bit far-fetched, I’m afraid, but then so is your theory. We can at least expect our man to be interested in naked women, although it’s spying on them that gives him his real thrills. What happened about this other fellow you got onto?”

“Wooller?”

“If that’s his name.”

“Yes, Wooller. Lives on Gallows View. We did a bit of very discreet checking, and it turns out that he was on a two-week library sciences course in Cardiff when two of the incidents took place. That lets him out, however much pornography he’s got hidden away.”

“Sorry,” Jenny said, glancing at her watch, “but I’ve got to dash. The department head will have apoplexy if I’m not there to greet our eminent visitor.” She patted Banks’s arm. “Don’t worry, I think you made the right decision. And one more point: I’d say that our man’s recent actions also show that he’s got a sense of humour. It’s a bit of a joke to him, leaving you with egg on your face, wouldn’t you say? Call me after the weekend?”

Banks nodded and watched Jenny walk away. He noticed Richmond glancing over at him and wondered how bad it looked—a Detective Chief Inspector spending Saturday evening in The Oak with an attractive woman. He saw Jenny in his mind’s eye just as she had looked on Thursday night after telling him she knew he wouldn’t sleep with her. Was it being predictable that annoyed him so much? If so, he could console himself with thoughts of having won a small victory this time. Or was it guilt over what he had really wanted to do? Maybe he would do it anyway, he thought, sauntering out into the chilly October evening. It wasn’t too late yet. Surely a man, like a woman, could change his mind? After all, what harm would it do? “No strings,” Jenny had said.

Banks turned up his collar as he walked back to the Cortina. He needed cigarettes, and fortunately there was an off-licence next door to the pub. As he picked up his change, he paused for a moment before pocketing it. Hatchley might have questioned the barmaids at The Oak, but he hadn’t said anything about talking to the local shopkeepers.

Banks identified himself and asked the owner’s name.

“Patel,” the man answered cautiously.

“What time do you close?”

“Ten o’clock. It’s not against the law, is it?” Mr Patel answered in a broad Yorkshire accent.

“No, not at all. It’s nothing to do with that,” Banks assured him. “Think back to last Monday night. Did you notice anybody hanging around outside here during the evening?”

Mr Patel shook his head.

It had probably been too early in the evening for the peeper and too long ago for the shopkeeper to remember, as Banks had feared.

“A bit later, though,” Mr Patel went on, “I noticed a bloke waiting at the bus stop for a bloody long time. There must have been two or three buses went by and ’ee were still there. I think that were Monday last.”

“What time was this?”

“After I’d closed up. ’Ee just sat there in that bus shelter over t’street.” Banks looked out of the window and saw the shelter, a dark rectangle set back from the road.

“Where were you?” he asked.

“Home,” Mr Patel said, turning up his eyes. “The flat’s above t’shop. Very convenient.”

“Yes, yes indeed,” Banks said, getting more interested. “Tell me more.”

“I remember because I was just closing t’curtains when a bus went by, and I noticed that bloke was still in t’shelter. It seemed a bit odd to me. I mean, why would a chap sit in a bus shelter if ’ee weren’t waiting on a bus?”

“Why, indeed?” Banks said. “Go on.”

“Nothing more to tell. A bit later I looked again, and ’ee were still there.”

“What time did he leave?”

“I didn’t actually see him leave, but ’ee’d gone by eleven o’clock. That were t’last time I looked out.”

“And the time before that?”

“Excuse me?”

“When was the last time you looked out and saw him?”

“About ’alf past ten.”

“Can you describe the man?”

Mr Patel shook his head sadly. “Sorry, it were too dark. I think ’ee were wearing a dark overcoat or a raincoat, though. Slim, a bit taller than you. I got the impression ’ee were youngish, some’ow. It was ’ard to pick him out from the shadows.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Banks said. At least the colour of the coat matched the description that Sandra and the other victims had given. It had to be the man. They could talk to other people in the street: shopkeepers, locals, even the bus drivers. Maybe somebody else would have noticed a man waiting for a bus he never caught on Monday night.

“Look,” Banks said, “this is very important. You’ve been a great help.” Mr Patel shrugged and shook his head shyly. “Have you ever seen the man before?”

“I don’t think so, but how would I know? I couldn’t recognize him from Adam, could I?”

“If you see him again, or anyone you think looks like him, anyone hanging about the bus stop without catching a bus, or acting oddly in
any way, let me know, will you?” Banks wrote his number on a card and passed it to Mr Patel, who nodded and promised to keep his eyes skinned.

For the first time in days, Banks felt quite cheerful as he drove home to the delightful melodies of
The Magic Flute
.

On Sunday morning, Banks paid his visit to Robin Allott, who lived in his parents’ modest semi about ten minutes walk away.

A tiny, bird-like woman answered his knock and fluttered around him all the way into the living-room.

“Do sit down, Inspector,” she said, pulling out a chair. “I’ll call Robin. He’s in his room reading the Sunday papers.”

Banks looked quickly around the room. The furniture was a little threadbare and there was no VCR or music centre, only an ancient-looking television. Quite a contrast from the Ottershaws’ opulence, he thought.

“He’s coming down,” Mrs Allott said. “Can I make you a cup of tea?”

“Yes, please,” Banks said, partly to get her out of the way for a while. She made him nervous with her constant hovering. “I hope I’m not disturbing you and Mr Allott,” he said.

“Oh no, not at all.” She lowered her voice. “My husband’s an invalid, Inspector. He had a serious stroke about two years ago and he can’t get around much. He stays in bed most of the time and I look after him as best I can.”

That explained the badly worn furnishings, Banks thought. Whatever help the social services gave, the loss of the breadwinner was a serious financial setback for most families.

“It’s been a great help having Robin home since his divorce,” she added, then shrugged. “But he can’t stay forever, can he?”

Banks heard footsteps on the stairs, and as Robin entered the room, Mrs Allott went to make the tea.

“Hello,” Robin said, shaking Banks’s hand. He looked an almost unnaturally healthy and handsome young man, despite the unmistakable signs of his chestnut-brown hair receding at the temples. “Sandra said you might call.”

“It’s about Alice Matlock,” Banks said. “I’d just like to find out as much as I can about her.”

“I don’t really see how I can help you, Inspector,” Robin said. “I told Sandra the same, but she seemed quite insistent. Surely you’ll have found out all you want to know from her close friends?”

“She only had one, it seems: a lady called Ethel Carstairs. And even they haven’t been friends for long. Most of Alice’s contemporaries appear to have died.”

“I suppose that’s what happens when you reach her age. Anyway, as I said, I don’t know how I can help, but fire away.”

“Had you seen her recently?”

“Not for a while, no. If I remember correctly, the last time was about three years ago. I was interested in portrait photography and I thought she’d make a splendid subject. I have the picture somewhere—I’ll dig it out for you later.”

“And before that?”

“I hadn’t seen her since my gran died.”

“She and your grandmother were close friends?”

“Yes. My father’s mother. They grew up together and both worked most of their lives in the hospital. Eastvale’s not such a big place, or it wasn’t then, so it was quite natural they’d be close. They went through the wars together, too. That creates quite a bond between people. When I was a child, my gran would often take me over to Alice’s.”

Mrs Allott appeared with the tea and perched at the opposite end of the table.