Gallows View (26 page)

He’d put it off for long enough, he decided. If he didn’t want his penis to shrivel up and drop off, he’d better go for treatment, however frightening the prospect seemed.

In a newsagent’s, he found time to look up the location of the clinic in a street guide before the suspicious owner told him to clear off if he wasn’t going to buy anything.

“Bleeding Paki,” Trevor muttered under his breath as he found himself being ushered out. But he’d got what he’d come for.

The clinic, not very far from the hub of the city, was a squat, modern building of windowless concrete with a flat, asphalt roof. Trevor presented himself at reception, where he was told to take a seat and wait until a doctor became available. There were two other people before him, a middle-aged man and a scruffy female student, and both of them looked embarrassed. As they waited, nobody spoke and they all avoided even accidental eye contact.

About an hour later, it was Trevor’s turn. A bald, long-faced doctor led him into a small room and bid him sit in front of the desk. Trevor shifted anxiously, wishing to God the whole thing was over and done with. The place smelt of Dettol and carbolic; it reminded him of the dentist’s.

“Right,” the doctor said brightly, after scribbling a few notes on a form. “What can we do for you, young man?”

What a stupid question, Trevor thought. What the hell does he think I’m here for, to have my bunions seen to?

“I’ve got a problem,” he mumbled, and gave the doctor the details.

“What’s your name?” the doctor asked, after umming and ahing over Trevor’s description of his symptoms.

“Peter Upshaw,” Trevor answered smartly. It was something he’d had the foresight to work out in advance, a name he had picked out from the columns of
Melody Maker
.

“Address?”

“Forty-two Arrowsmith Drive.”

The doctor glanced at him sharply: “Is that here, in York?”

“Yes.”

“Whereabouts?” He scratched his shiny pate with his ballpoint pen. “I don’t believe I know it.”

“It’s by the Minster,” Trevor blurted out, reddening. He hadn’t anticipated that the quack would be so inquisitive.

“The Minster? Ah, yes.. .” The doctor made an entry on the form. “All right, Peter,” he said, putting down his pen. “We’ll have some tests to do, of course, but first I have to ask you where you caught this disease, who you caught it from.”

Trevor certainly hadn’t bargained for this. He couldn’t tell the truth, he couldn’t name anyone he knew, and he certainly couldn’t answer, “Nobody.”

“A prostitute,” he replied quickly. It was the first thing that came into his mind.

The doctor raised his thin eyebrows. “A prostitute? Where was this, Peter?”

“Here.”

“In York?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“About a week ago.”

“What was her name?”

“Jane.”

“Where does she live?”

It was all going too fast for Trevor. He began to stumble over his answers. “I . . . I . . . don’t know. I was with some other boys. We’d had a bit too much to drink, then we walked around and she just came up to us.”

“In the street?”

“Yes.”

“But you must have gone somewhere.”

“No. I mean yes.”

The doctor stared at him.

“In an alley,” Trevor went on. “We went in an alley. There was nobody around. We stood up, leaning against a wall.”

“What about your friends? Did they . . . er?”

“No,” Trevor assured him hastily. He realized that he would be asked to name anybody else he implicated.

The doctor frowned. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. It was only me. It was my birthday.”

“Ah,” the doctor said, smiling benignly. “I understand. But you don’t know where this woman lived?”

“No.”

“Have you been with anyone else since it happened?”

“No.”

“Very well, Peter. If you’ll just walk down the corridor to the room at the end, you’ll find a nurse there. She’ll take a blood sample—just to make sure. After that, come back here and we’ll get on with it.”

The room was like the school chemistry laboratory, with glass-fronted cupboards full of labelled jars and long tables covered with retorts, bunsen burners, pipettes and racks of test tubes. It made Trevor nervous.

The nurse was quite pretty. “Relax,” she said, rolling up his sleeve. “It won’t hurt.”

And it didn’t. He couldn’t feel the needle going in at all, but he turned his head away so he wouldn’t see the blood running into the syringe. He felt a slight prick as it came out.

“There,” the nurse said, smiling and wiping the spot with cotton-wool soaked in alcohol. “All done. You can go back to Doctor Willis now.”

Trevor went back to the small examination-room, where Doctor Willis greeted him.

“I want you to sit back on that chair over there and relax, Peter,” he said in a soft hypnotic voice. “This won’t take very long. Just another little test.”

Willis turned his back to Trevor and picked up something shiny from a white kidney-shaped tray.

“Just remove your trousers, Peter. Underpants, too. That’s right,”
the doctor said, and came towards him. Willis held in his hand what looked like a sewing-needle. He seemed to be holding it by the point, though, and the angled eye was larger than normal.

Trevor tensed as Willis came closer. For a moment the doctor seemed to be wearing a dirty smock, and his National Health glasses were held together at the bridge by Elastoplast.

“Now, relax, Peter,” he said, bending forward. “I’m just going to insert this gently inside . . .”

The phone call came through at 4:17.

“Chief Inspector Banks?” It was an unfamiliar voice.

“Yes.”

“This is Inspector MacLean here. York CID.”

Banks tightened his grip on the receiver, his palms sweating, slippery against the black bakelite: “Yes, go on.”

“It’s about your request. The local clap-shop called us a few minutes ago. Seems they’ve got a kid down there. Looks about eighteen but could be younger and doesn’t appear to know York very well. He was very vague about how he picked up the disease. Some claptrap—excuse the pun—about having a prossie in a back alley. Doctor got the distinct impression that he was making it up as he went along. Sound like your laddie?”

“It certainly does,” Banks said, drumming on his desk with excitement. “Tell me more.”

“Not a lot more to tell,” MacLean went on in his deadpan voice. “Some decay between the front teeth, all right, but most kids have rotten teeth these days. I was over in the States two years ago on an exchange, and they think it’s criminal there the way the British treat their teeth—or don’t treat them, if you catch my drift. They say you can always spot a Brit by his teeth. You know—”

“Inspector . . .” Banks cut in.

“Sorry,” MacLean said. “You must be eager to get your mitts on him.”

“I am, rather. Where is he?”

“Still at the clap-shop. We’re holding him there. Got a couple of uniforms on the job. We let him have his treatment, of course. You realize he’ll need a few more shots yet? Do you want him delivered?”

“No, thanks. I’ll pick him up myself.”

“I’m glad you said that. We’re a bit short of staff down here.”

“What name did he give?”

“Upshaw. Peter Upshaw. Ring a bell?”

“No, but it’d be false, wouldn’t it?” Banks took down the address of the clinic. “Be there in about an hour—and thank you, Inspector MacLean.”

“You’re welcome,” MacLean said, and hung up.

“Sergeant Hatchley!” Banks bellowed, jumping up and flinging open his door.

For the second time that day, Hatchley arrived red-faced and breathless. But Banks made no comment on his physical condition. His dark eyes glittering with success, he clapped his hand gleefully on the sergeant’s broad, well-padded shoulder and said, “Fancy a ride to York?”

Trevor, meanwhile, sat glumly in the examination room under the bored eyes of a fresh-faced constable no more than three or four years his senior. The other officer, of similar age and appearance (so much so that locals on their beat called them the Bobbie Twins) stood in the reception area waiting for the CID bigwig.

After the slight discomfort and great humiliation of his examination, Trevor had been told to await the test results. He felt edgy and afraid, but not of the police; there was room only for one worry at a time in his youthful mind. It was with great surprise, then, that he noted the arrival of Constable Parker, who preceded Dr Willis through the door.

“Sorry about this,” Willis said embarrassedly, taking off his glasses and cleaning them on his smock. “A little misunderstanding, I’m sure. Soon have it straightened out, eh?” And under the policeman’s eyes, he administered the first injection in Trevor’s course of treatment.
After that, there was nothing to do but wait, and one worry very quickly replaced another in Trevor’s mind.

It was closer to six o’clock when Banks and Hatchley arrived at the clinic. They hadn’t reckoned on the rush-hour snarl-up in York’s maze of one-way streets. Constable Spinks led them to the examination room, and Trevor sneered when he saw Banks walk in.

“Well, Trevor,” Banks greeted him. “I see you’ve lost a filling since we last talked.”

Trevor said nothing, but got sullenly to his feet and followed the two men out to their car. The drive back to Eastvale in the dark passed in silence.

The law stated that a juvenile could not be charged unless his parents were present, and as a charge was likely, Banks had to call Graham Sharp in as soon as the trio arrived back at the Eastvale station.

Nobody said a word to Trevor until his father arrived.

When Graham Sharp was shown into the already crowded office by PC Gay, Banks was just finishing his call to Sandra, letting her know that he would be late home again that evening.

Finally, with both Trevor and his father sitting opposite him at the desk and Sergeant Hatchley standing by the window with his note-book, gazing down on the quiet, darkening market square, Banks was ready to begin. He tidied the files on his desk, arranged the pencils in front of him, and caught Trevor’s eye.

“What were you doing at that clinic?” he opened.

“What do you think?” Trevor mumbled scornfully.

“Well, you weren’t having your filling replaced, that’s for certain.”

“What’s all this?” Graham Sharp butted in. “What clinic? What are you talking about?”

“Mr Sharp,” Banks said patiently, “according to the law, you have to be present if charges are likely to be laid, but I’m the one who’s asking the questions, all right?”

“I’ve got a right to protect my son.”

“Yes, you have. You’re perfectly at liberty to advise him not to answer if you wish. But please bear in mind that he hasn’t been charged with anything
yet
.”

Graham Sharp settled back in his chair, looking angry and confused.

“Why didn’t you go to the Eastvale Clinic?” Banks asked Trevor.

“Didn’t know there was one.”

“How did you find out about York?”

“A schoolmate told me.”

“Who did you get the clap from?”

“Now, wait a minute!” Sharp interrupted again. “This is going too far. What clap? Who’s got VD?”

“Your son has gonorrhoea, Mr Sharp. Haven’t you, lad?”

Trevor said nothing.

“There’s no point denying it,” Banks pressed. “The doctor did the tests. We can easily call him and have him talk to your dad.”

Trevor tamed away from his father and nodded. Graham Sharp put his head in his hands.

“Let’s get back to my original question,” Banks continued. “Where did you get this disease? Yo u don’t catch it from toilet seats, you know.”

“It was like I told the doctor,” Trevor answered.

“Ah yes,” Banks said, speaking up so that Graham Sharp could hear him clearly. “You had a prostitute against a wall down a back alley in York. Is that right?”

Trevor nodded, pale.

“When was this?”

“About a week ago. Last Monday.”

“You were in York last Monday?”

“Yes.”

“What time did he get home, Mr Sharp?”

Sharp snapped to attention at the sound of his name. “What?”

“What time did your son get home last Monday night?” Banks repeated.

“About eleven. He always has to be in by eleven. It’s his bedtime, see.”

“Did you know where he was?”

“He said he was going to York, yes,” Sharp said.

“Who did he go with?”

“I don’t know. A friend. He didn’t say.”

“A friend?”

“I suppose so.”

“Not friends?”

“For God’s sake, I don’t know.”

“You see, the thing is, Mr Sharp, he told the doctor he went with a group of friends to celebrate his birthday, and that his friends got together and bought him, so to speak, a prostitute as a present. Was it your son’s birthday last Monday, Mr Sharp?”

“Yes. Yes, it was, as a matter of fact.”

“You realize,” Banks said, “that we can always check the records?”

“Well, it wasn’t officially his birthday, no. But it was his mother’s birthday. He always used to celebrate his mother’s birthday. He was very attached to her.”

“Is that really what happened, Trevor?” Banks asked. “To celebrate your mother’s birthday you had a prostitute up against a wall in a back alley in York? She said her name was Jane and you’ve no idea where she lives?”

Trevor nodded.

“Do you know, Trevor, that we can question every prostitute in York if we have to? It’s not as big as Leeds or Bradford, and there aren’t very many of them. The police know them all. They’re on good terms—you know, you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours, that kind of thing? It wouldn’t take us long to find out whether your story’s true or not.”

“All right,” Trevor said defiantly. “Ask them. Bloody well ask them for all I care.”

“Mind your language, Trevor,” his father said.

Sergeant Hatchley, who had remained as impassive as a Buddha throughout the interrogation, suddenly moved away from the window and began pacing around the small office, making the floor creak. Trevor shot nervous glances at him and seemed to tense up when Hatchley walked behind him.