Gallows View (8 page)

Richmond stood in the street, drawing his raincoat tighter to keep out the chill, and cursed that damned slave driver Hatchley to himself. The bastard was probably guzzling the dead woman’s medicinal brandy while his junior paid the house calls in the rain. Well, blow him, Richmond thought. Damned if he’s going to get credit for anything I come up with.

Resigned, he knocked on the door of number four, which was opened almost immediately by an attractive young woman holding the lapels of her dressing-gown close around her throat. Richmond showed his identification proudly, stroked his moustache and followed her indoors. The place might be an old cottage, he thought, but by heck they’d done a good job on the inside: double-glazing, central heating, stucco walls, nice framed paintings, a bit abstract for his taste, but none of your Woolworth’s tat, and one of those glass-topped coffee tables between two tube-and-cushion armchairs.

He accepted her offer of coffee—it would help keep him awake—but was surprised at how long she took to make it and at the odd, whirring noises he heard coming from the kitchen. When he finally got to taste the coffee, he knew; it was made from fresh-ground beans, filter-dripped, and it tasted delicious. She put a coaster on the low table in front of him—a wild flower, wood sorrel, he guessed, pressed between two circles of glass, the circumference bound in bamboo—then, at last, he was able to get down to business.

First he took her name, Andrea Rigby, and discovered that she lived there with her husband, a systems analyst, who was often away during the week working on projects in London or Bristol. They had lived in Gallows View for three years, ever since he had landed the well-paying job and been able to fulfill his dream of country living. The woman had an Italian or Spanish look about her, Richmond couldn’t decide which, but her maiden name was Smith and she came originally from Leominster.

“What’s happened?” Andrea asked. “Is it Miss Matlock next door?”

“Yes,” Richmond answered, unwilling to give away too much. “Did you know her?”

“I wouldn’t say I
knew
her. Not well, at any rate. We said hello to each other and I went to the shops a few times for her when she was ill last year.”

“We’re interested to know if you heard anything odd last night between ten and midnight, Mrs Rigby.”

“Last night? Let me see. That was Monday, wasn’t it. Ronnie had gone back down to London . . . I just sat around reading and watching television. I
do
remember hearing someone running in the street, over in Cardigan Drive. It must have been about eleven because the news had finished and I’d been watching an old film for about half an hour. Then I turned it off because it was boring.”

“Someone running? That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t go to the window and look out?”

“No. Why should I? It was probably just kids.”

Richmond jotted in his notebook. “Anything else? Did you hear any sounds from next door?”

“I thought I heard someone knocking at a door after the running, but I can’t be sure. It sounded muffled, distant. I’m sorry, I really wasn’t paying attention.”

“How long after the running?”

“Right after. The one stopped, then I heard the other.”

“Did the running fade into the distance or stop abruptly?”

Andrea thought for a moment. “More abruptly, really. As soon as people or cars or anything pass the corner of our street you can’t hear them anymore, so it doesn’t mean much.”

“Did you hear any sounds at all from Miss Matlock’s, next door?”

“No, nothing. But then I never do, not even when her friend comes to see her. I can hear knocking at the door, but nothing from inside. The way these old places were built the walls are very thick and we both have our staircases back to back, so there’s quite a gap, really, between her living-room and mine. I sometimes hear the stairs creak when she’s going up to bed, but that’s all.”

Richmond nodded, closing his notebook. “You haven’t noticed anyone hanging around here lately, have you? Kids, a stranger?”

Andrea shook her head. Richmond couldn’t think of any more questions, and it was getting late—he still had others to talk to. He thanked Andrea Rigby for her excellent coffee, then went to knock at number six.

The door opened a crack and a man wearing thick glasses peered
out. Once Richmond had gained entry, he recognized Henry Wooller, the branch librarian, a bit of an oddball, loner, dry stick. Wooller’s house was a tip. Scraps of newspaper, dirty plates, worn socks and half-full cups of tea with clumps of mould floating in them were strewn all over the room; and the place stank: an acrid, animal smell. Richmond noticed the corner of a pornographic magazine sticking out from under the
Sunday Times
Review section, where it had probably been hastily hidden. It was one he recognized, imported from Denmark, and the
UNCY
of its name,
BIG’N’BOUNCY
, was clearly visible. Wooller made a pretence of tidying things up a bit and was careful to hide the magazine completely.

Richmond asked the same questions he’d put to Andrea Rigby, but Wooller insisted that he had heard nothing at all. It was true that he was one cottage further from Cardigan Drive, which ran at right angles to the easternmost end of Gallows View, along the western edge of Leaview Estate, but Richmond didn’t think the distance was a factor. He felt not only that Wooller didn’t want to get involved, a common enough reaction to police enquiries, but also that he was hiding something. The expression behind the distorting glasses, however, remained fixed and deadpan; Wooller was giving nothing away. Richmond thanked him cursorily and left, making a note of his dissatisfaction.

The entrance to the living quarters of the shop was what used to be the door to number eight. Hearing voices raised, Richmond paused outside, hoping to learn something of value. He could only catch the odd word—the door must have been thick, or perhaps they were in the back—but it didn’t take long to work out that a young lad was being told off for staying out too late and for not spending enough time on his schoolwork. Richmond smiled, feeling an immediate sympathy for the boy. How many times had he heard the same sermon himself?

When he knocked, the voices stopped immediately and the door was opened abruptly. Graham Sharp looked worried when he found out that a policeman wanted to see him. Everybody did, Richmond reflected, and it usually meant nothing more than an outstanding parking ticket.

“No, I didn’t know her well,” he said. “She came in here to do some
of her shopping. It was convenient for her, I suppose. But she kept herself to herself. What happened to her?”

“Did you hear anything around eleven o’clock last night?” Richmond asked.

“No, nothing,” Sharp answered. “I was watching telly in the room upstairs. We’ve converted one of the old bedrooms into a kind of sitting-room. It’s right at the western end, as far as you can get in Eastvale without being in a field, so I wouldn’t be able to hear anything from Cardigan Drive way.”

“Noticed anything odd lately? Any strangers, kids hanging about?”

“No.”

“No newcomers in the shop? Nobody asking questions?”

“Only you.” Sharp smiled tightly, clearly relieved to see Richmond pocketing his notebook.

“Could I speak to your son for a moment, sir?” Richmond asked before leaving.

“My son?” Sharp echoed, sounding nervous again. “What for? He’s just a young lad, only fifteen.”

“He might be able to help.”

“Very well.” Sharp called Trevor from upstairs and the boy slouched down moodily.

“Where were you at about eleven o’clock last night?” Richmond asked.

“He was here with me,” Sharp butted in. “Didn’t I already tell you? We were upstairs watching telly.”

Richmond flipped back through his notebook—mostly for effect, because his memory was good. “You told me that
you
were upstairs watching television, sir. You didn’t say anything about your son.”

“Well, that’s what I meant. I just took it for granted. I mean, where else would he be at that time?” He put his arm around Trevor’s shoulder. The boy winced visibly.

“Well?” Richmond addressed Trevor.

“It’s like he says, we were watching telly. Not much else to do around here, is there?”

Richmond thanked them both and left, again jotting down his reservations in his book, and also noting that he thought he recognized Trevor Sharp from somewhere. All in all, it wasn’t turning out
to be a bad evening’s haul. Already he was enjoying the responsibility of interrogation and feeling less vitriolic towards Sergeant Hatchley.

Nobody was at home in the first two houses on Cardigan Drive. Residents of two of the others had been out late at a club fundraiser the previous evening, and the remaining two had heard somebody running past at about eleven, but neither had looked out of their windows nor heard anyone knocking on Alice Matlock’s door.

Richmond, who had thought to show some keenness by doing more than the first six houses, was beginning to tire a little by then, and as he’d done his duty, he decided to report back to Hatchley.

He found the sergeant sitting in Alice Matlock’s armchair, his feet up on the stool, snoring loudly. The body was gone and all that remained were the chalk outline on the worn flags and the pools of dried blood. The place was still dusty with Manson’s aluminium powder. The level in the brandy bottle had dropped considerably.

Richmond coughed and Hatchley opened a bloodshot eye. “Ah, back already, lad? Just thinking about the case, taking in the atmosphere. Done all the houses?”

Richmond nodded.

“Good lad. I think we’d better be off now. You’ll need your beauty sleep for all the report writing you’ve got to do in the morning.”

“Inspector Banks said to leave someone on duty here, sir.”

“Did he? Yes, of course. One of the uniformed blokes. Look, you hang on here and I’ll call the station on my way. Someone should be down in about fifteen minutes. All right, lad?”

Weary, cold and wet, Richmond mumbled, “Yes, sir,” and settled down to comfort himself with thoughts of the beautiful Andrea Rigby not more than about seven or eight feet away from him through the wall. Taking out his notebook, he thought he might as well draft the outline of his report, and he began to look over his small, neat handwriting to see how it all added up.

Wednesday was a difficult morning for Banks. His desk was littered with reports, and he couldn’t get Jenny Fuller out of his mind. There was nothing wrong with his marriage—Sandra was all, if not more than, he had ever expected in a partner—so there was no reason, Banks told himself, why he should find himself interested in another woman.

It was Paul Newman, he remembered, who had said, “Why go out for hamburger if you can get steak at home?” But Banks couldn’t remember the name of the subversive wit who had countered, “What if you want pizza?”

At thirty-six, he surely couldn’t have hit middle-age crisis point, but there was no doubt that he was strongly attracted to the bright, red-headed Doctor of Philosophy. The sensation had been immediate, like a mild electric shock, and he was certain that she had felt it, too. Their two meetings had been charged with a strong undercurrent, and Banks didn’t know what to do about it. The sensible thing would be to walk away and avoid seeing her anymore, but his job made that impractical.

He slugged back some hot, bitter station coffee and told himself not to take the matter so seriously. There was nothing to feel guilty about in fancying an attractive woman. He was, after all, a normal, heterosexual male. Another mouthful of black coffee tightened him back into the job at hand: reports.

He read over Richmond’s interview statements and thought about the young detective’s reservations for a while before deciding that
they should be pursued. He also remembered Trevor Sharp, who had been a suspect in a tourist mugging shortly after Banks had arrived in Eastvale. The boy hadn’t been charged because his father had given him a solid alibi, and the victim, an “innocent abroad” from Oskaloosa, Iowa, wasn’t able to give a positive identification when the case relied solely on his word.

Hatchley had wasted his time at The Oak. He had talked to the bar staff and to the regular customers (and would no doubt be putting in a lengthy expenses claim), but nobody remembered anything special about Carol Ellis that night. It had been a quiet evening, as Mondays usually were, and she had sat at a corner table all evening talking to her friend, Molly Torbeck. Both had left before closing time and had, presumably, gone their separate ways. Nobody had tried to pick either of them up, and nobody had spent the evening giving them the eye.

The sergeant had also talked to Carol, Molly and the three other victims. When it was all added up, two of the four, Josie Campbell and Carol Ellis, had been in The Oak on the nights in question, and the other two in pubs at opposite ends of Eastvale. It wasn’t the kind of pattern Banks had been hoping to find, but it was a pattern: pubs. Jenny Fuller might have something to say about that.

Skipping his morning break at the Golden Grill, Banks tidied up his own report on the interview with Crutchley and left the file in his pending tray to await the artist’s impression.

He missed his lunch, too, looking over the preliminary post mortem report on Alice Matlock, which offered no new information but confirmed Glendenning’s earlier opinions about time and cause. The bruises on her wrists and arms indicated that there had been a struggle in which the woman had been pushed backwards, catching the back of her head on the table corner.

Glendenning was nothing if not thorough, and he had a reputation as one of the best pathologists in the country. He had looked for evidence of a blow by a blunt instrument prior to the fall, which might then have been engineered to cover up the true cause, but had discovered only a typical
contre-coup
head injury. Though the skull had splintered into the brain tissue at the point of impact, the occipital region, there was also damage to the frontal lobes, and that only
occurs when the body is falling. The effect, Glendenning had noted, is similar to that of a passenger bumping his head on the windscreen when a car brakes abruptly. If, however, the blow is delivered while the victim’s head is stationary, then the wound is restricted to the area of impact. The blow that killed Alice Matlock was the kind of blow that could have killed anyone—and she was old, her bones were brittle—but it wasn’t necessarily murder; it could have been accidental; it could have been manslaughter.