Gallows View

by Peter Robinson

  “Lenny’s not a layabout. He had a job in London. Just got made redundant, that’s all. It wasn’t his fault.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you, Trevor. I want you to stay in more and spend some time on your schoolwork. I might not have made much out of my life, but you can—and you’re bloody well going to, even if it kills me.”

  Trevor stood up and reached for his satchel. “Better be off,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to be late for school, would I?”

  After the door slammed, Graham Sharp put his head in his hands and sighed. He knew that Trevor was at a difficult age—he’d been a bit of a lad himself at fifteen—but if only he could persuade him that he had so much to lose. Life was hard enough these days without making it worse for yourself. Since Maureen had walked out ten years ago, Graham had devoted himself to their only child. He would have sent Trevor to a public school if he’d had enough money, but had to settle for the local comprehensive. Even there, despite all the drawbacks, the boy had always done well—top of the class, prizes every Speech Day—until last year, when he took up with Mick Webster.

  Graham’s hands shook as he picked up the breakfast dishes and carried them to the sink. Soon it would be opening time. At least since he’d stopped doing morning papers he got a bit of a lie-in. In the old days, when Maureen was around, he’d had to get up at six o’clock, and he’d kept it going as long as he could. Now he couldn’t afford to employ a flock of paper-carriers, nor could he manage to pay the assistant he would need to deal with other business. As things were, he could just about handle it all himself—orders, accounts, stock checks, shelf arrangements—and usually still manage to come up with a smile and a hello for the customers.

  His real worry was Trevor, and he didn’t know if he was going about things the right way or not. He knew he had a bit of a temper and went on at the lad too much. Maybe it was better to leave him alone, wait till he passed through the phase himself. But perhaps then it would be too late.

  Graham stacked the dishes in the drainer, checked his watch, and walked through to the shop. Five minutes late. He turned the sign to read OPEN and unlocked the door. Grouchy old Ted Croft was already counting out his pennies, shuffling his feet as he waited for his week’s supply of baccy. Not a good start to the day.

  II

  Banks reluctantly snapped off his Walkman in the middle of Dido’s lament and walked into the station, a Tudor-fronted building in the town centre, where Market Street ran into the cobbled square. He said “Good morning” to Sergeant Rowe at the desk and climbed upstairs to his office.

  The whitewashed walls and black-painted beams of the building’s exterior belied its modern, functional innards. Banks’s office, for example, featured a venetian blind that was almost impossible to work and a grey metal desk with drawers that rattled. The only human touch was the calendar on the wall, with its series of local scenes. The illustration for October showed a stretch of the River Wharfe, near Grassington, with trees lining the waterside in full autumn colour. It was quite a contrast to the real October: nothing but grey skies, rain and cold winds so far.

  On his desk was a message from Superintendent Gristhorpe: “Alan, Come see me in my office soon as you get in. G.”

  Remembering first to unhook the Walkman and put it in his desk drawer, Banks walked along the corridor and knocked on the superintendent’s door.

  “Come in,” Gristhorpe called, and Banks entered.

  Inside was luxury—teak desk, bookcases, shaded table lamps—most of which had been supplied by Gristhorpe himself over the years.

  “Ah, good morning Alan,” the superintendent greeted him, “I’d like you to meet Dr Fuller.” He gestured towards the woman sitting opposite him, and she stood up to shake Banks’s hand. She had a shock of curly red hair, bright green eyes with crinkly laugh-lines around the edges, and a luscious mouth. The turquoise top she was wearing looked like a cross between a straight-jacket and a dentist’s smock. Below that she wore rust-coloured cords that tapered to a halt just above her shapely ankles. All in all, Banks thought, the doctor was a knock-out.

  “Please, Inspector Banks,” Dr Fuller said as she gently let go of his hand, “call me Jenny.”

  “Jenny it is, then,” Banks smiled and dug for a cigarette. “I suppose that makes me Alan.”

  “Not if you don’t want to be.” Her sparkling eyes seemed to challenge him.

  “Not at all, it’s a pleasure,” he said, meeting her gaze. Then he remembered Gristhorpe’s recent ban against smoking in his office, and put the pack away.

  “Dr Fuller is a professor at York University,” Gristhorpe explained, “but she lives here in Eastvale. Psychology’s her field, and I brought her in to help with the Peeping Tom case. Actually,” he turned a charming smile in Jenny’s direction, “Dr Fuller—Jenny—was recommended by an old and valued friend of mine in the department. We were hoping she might be able to work with us on a profile.”

  Banks nodded. “It would certainly give us more than we’ve got already. How can I help?”

  “I’d just like to talk to you about the details of the incidents,” Jenny said, looking up from a notepad that rested on her lap. “There’s been three so far, is that right?”

  “Four now, counting last night’s. All blondes.”

  Jenny nodded and made the change in her notes.

  “Perhaps the two of you can arrange to meet sometime,” Gristhorpe suggested.

  “Is now no good?” Banks asked.

  “Afraid not,” Jenny said. “This might take a bit of time, and I’ve got a class in just over an hour. Look, what about tonight, if it’s not too much of an imposition on your time?”

  Banks thought quickly. It was Tuesday; Sandra would be at the Camera Club, and the kids, now trusted in the house without a sitter, would be overjoyed to spend an opera-free evening. “All right,” he agreed. “Make it seven in the Queen’s Arms across the street, if that’s okay with you.”

  When Jenny smiled, the lines around her eyes crinkled with pleasure and humour. “Why not? It’s an informal kind of procedure anyway. I just want to build up a picture of the psychological type.”

  “I’ll look forward to it, then,” Banks said.

  Jenny picked up her briefcase and he held the door open for her. Gristhorpe caught his eye and beckoned him to stay behind. When Jenny had gone, Banks settled back into his chair, and the superintendent rang for coffee.

  “Good woman,” Gristhorpe said, rubbing a hairy hand over his red, pock-marked face. “I asked Ted Simpson to recommend a bright lass for the job, and I think he did his homework all right, don’t you?”

  “It remains to be seen,” replied Banks. “But I’ll agree she bodes well. You said a woman. Why? Has Mrs Hawkins stopped cooking and cleaning for you?”

  Gristhorpe laughed. “No, no. Still brings me fresh scones and keeps the place neat and tidy. No, I’m not after another wife. I just thought it would be politic, that’s all.”

  Banks had a good idea what Gristhorpe meant, but he chose to carry on playing dumb. “Politic?”

  “Aye, politic. Diplomatic. Tactful. You know what it means. It’s the biggest part of my job. The biggest pain in the arse, too. We’ve got the local feminists on our backs, haven’t we? Aren’t they saying we’re not doing our job because it’s women who are involved? Well, if we can be seen to be working with an obviously capable, successful woman, then there’s not a lot they can say, is there?”

  Banks smiled to himself. “I see what you mean. But how are we going to be seen to be working with Jenny Fuller? It’s hardly headline material.”

  Gristhorpe put a finger to the side of his hooked nose. “Jenny Fuller’s attached to the local feminists. She’ll report back everything that’s going on.”

  “Is that right?” Banks grinned. “And I’m going to be working with her? I’d better be on my toes, then, hadn’t I?”

  “It shouldn’t be any problem, should it?” Gristhorpe asked, his guileless blue eyes as disco
ncerting as a newborn baby’s. “We’ve got nothing to hide, have we? We know we’re doing our best on this one. I just want others to know, that’s all. Besides, those profiles can be damn useful in a case like this. Help us predict patterns, know where to look. And she won’t be hard on the eyes, will she? A right bobby-dazzler, don’t you think?”

  “She certainly is.”

  “Well, then.” Gristhorpe smiled and slapped both his hands on the desk. “No problem, is there? Now, how’s that break-in business going?”

  “It’s very odd, but we’ve had three of those in a month, too, all involving old women alone in their homes—one even got a broken arm—and we’ve got about as far with that as we have with the Tom business. The thing is, though, there are no pensioners’ groups giving us a lot of stick, telling us we’re not doing anything because only old people are getting hurt.”

  “It’s the way of the times, Alan,” Gristhorpe said. “And you have to admit that the feminists do have a point, even if it doesn’t apply in this particular case.”

  “I know that. It just irritates me, being criticized publicly when I’m doing the best I can.”

  “Well, now’s your chance to put that right. What about this fence in Leeds? Think it’ll lead anywhere with the break-ins?”

  Banks shrugged. “Might do. Depends on Mr Crutchley’s power of recall. These things vary.”

  “According to the level of threat you convey? Yes, I know. I should imagine Joe Barnshaw’s done some groundwork for you. He’s a good man. Why bother yourself? Why not let him handle it?”

  “It’s our case. I’d rather talk to Crutchley myself—that way I can’t blame anyone else if mistakes are made. What he says might ring a bell, too. I’ll ask Inspector Barnshaw to show him the pictures later, get an artist in if the description’s good enough.”

  Gristhorpe nodded. “Makes sense. Taking Sergeant Hatchley?”

  “No, I’ll handle this by myself. I’ll put Hatchley on the peeper business till I get back.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?”

  “He can’t do much damage in an afternoon, can he? Besides, if he does, it’ll give the feminists a target worthy of their wrath.”

  Gristhorpe laughed. “Away with you, Alan. Throwing your sergeant to the wolves like that.”

  III

  It was raining hard. Hatchley covered his head with a copy of The Sun as he ran with Banks across Market Street to the Golden Grill. It was a narrow street, but by the time they got there the page-three beauty was sodden. The two sat down at a window table and looked out at distorted shop-fronts through the runnels of rain, silent until their standing order of coffee and toasted teacakes was duly delivered by the perky, petite young waitress in her red checked dress.

  The relationship between the inspector and his sergeant had changed slowly over the six months Banks had been in Eastvale. At first, Hatchley had resented an “incomer,” especially one from the big city, being brought in to do the job he had expected to get. But as they worked together, the Dalesman had come to respect, albeit somewhat grudgingly (for a Yorkshireman’s respect is often tempered with a sarcasm intended to deflate airs and graces), his inspector’s sharp mind and the effort Banks had made to adapt to his new environment.

  Hatchley had got plenty of laughs observing this latter process. At first, Banks had been hyperactive, running on adrenalin, chain-smoking Capstan Full Strength, exactly as he had in his London job. But all this had changed over the months as he got used to the slower pace in Yorkshire. Outwardly, he was now calm and relaxed—deceptively so, as Hatchley knew, for inside he was a dynamo, his energy contained and channelled, flashing in his bright dark eyes. He still had his tempers, and he retained a tendency to brood when frustrated. But these were good signs; they produced results. He had also switched to mild cigarettes, which he smoked sparingly.

  Hatchley felt more comfortable with him now, even though they remained two distinctly different breeds, and he appreciated his boss’s grasp of northern informality. A working-class Southerner didn’t seem so different from a Northerner, after all. Now, when Hatchley called Banks “sir,” it was plain by his tone that he was puzzled or annoyed, and Banks had learned to recognize the dry, Yorkshire irony that could sometimes be heard in his sergeant’s voice.

  For his part, Banks had learned to accept, but not to condone, the prejudices of his sergeant and to appreciate his doggedness and the sense of threat that he could, when called for, convey to a reticent suspect. Banks’s menace was cerebral, but some people responded better to Hatchley’s sheer size and gruff voice. Though he never actually used violence, Hatchley made criminals believe that perhaps the days of the rubber hosepipe weren’t quite over. The two also worked well together in interrogation. Suspects would become particularly confused when the big, rough-and-tumble Dalesman turned avuncular and Banks, who didn’t even look tall enough to be a policeman, raised his voice.

  “Hell’s bloody bells, I can’t see why I have to spend so much time chasing a bloke who just likes to look at a nice pair of knockers,” said Hatchley, as the two of them lit cigarettes and sipped coffee.

  Banks sighed. Why was it, he wondered, that talking to Hatchley always made him, a moderate socialist, feel like a bleeding-heart liberal?

  “Because the women don’t want to be looked at,” he answered tersely.

  Hatchley grunted. “If you saw the way that Carol Ellis dressed on a Sat’day night at The Oak you wouldn’t think that.”

  “Her choice, Sergeant. I assume she wears at least some clothes at The Oak? Otherwise you’d be derelict in your duty for not pulling her in on indecent exposure charges.”

  “Whatever it is, it ain’t indecent.” Hatchley winked.

  “Everybody deserves privacy, and this peeper’s violating it,” Banks argued. “He’s breaking the law, and we’re paid to uphold it. Simple as that.” He knew that it was far from simple, but had neither the patience nor the inclination to enter into an argument about the police in society with Sergeant Hatchley.

  “But it’s not as if he’s dangerous.”

  “He is to his victims. Physical violence isn’t the only dangerous crime. You mentioned The Oak just now. Does the woman often drink there?”

  “I’ve seen her there a few times. It’s my local.”

  “Do you think our man might have seen her there, too, and followed her home? If she dresses like you say, he might have got excited looking at her.”

  “Do myself,” Hatchley admitted cheerfully. “But peeping’s not my line. Yes, it’s possible. Remember, it was a Monday, though.”

  “So?”

  “Well, in my experience, sir, the women don’t dress up quite so much on a Monday as a Sat’day. See, they have to go to work the next day so they can’t spend all night—”

  “All right,” Banks said, holding up his hand. “Point taken. What about the others?”

  “What about them?”

  “Carol Ellis is the fourth. There were three others before her. Did any of them drink at The Oak?”

  “Can’t remember. I do recollect seeing Josie Campbell there a few times. She was one of them, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, the second. Look, go over the statements and see if you can find out if any of the others were regulars at The Oak. Go talk to them. Jog their memories. Look for some kind of a pattern. They needn’t have been there just prior to the incidents. If not, find out where they do drink, look up where they were before they were . . .”

  “Peeped on?” Hatchley suggested.

  Banks laughed uneasily. “Yes. There isn’t really a proper word for it, is there?”

  “Talking about peeping, I saw a smashing bit of stuff coming out of Gristhorpe’s office. Is he turning into a dirty old man?”

  “That was Dr Jenny Fuller,” Banks told him. “She’s a psychologist, and I’m going to be working with her on a profile of our peeper.”

  “Lucky you. Hope the missis doesn’t find out.”

  “You’ve
got a dirty mind, Sergeant. Get over to The Oak this lunchtime. Talk to the bar staff. Find out if anyone paid too much attention to Carol Ellis or if anyone seemed to be watching her. Anything odd. You know the routine. If the lunchtime staff’s different, get back there tonight and talk to the ones who were in last night. And talk to Carol Ellis again, too, while it’s fresh in her mind.”

  “This is work, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “At The Oak?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Hatchley broke into a big grin, like a kid who’d lost a penny and found a pound. “I’ll see what I can do, then,” he said, and with that he was off like a shot. After all, Banks thought as he finished his coffee and watched a woman struggle in the doorway with a transparent umbrella, it was eleven o’clock. Opening time.

  IV

  It was a dull journey down the A1 to Leeds, and Banks cursed himself for not taking the quieter, more picturesque minor roads through Ripon and Harrogate, or even further west, via Grassington, Skipton and Ilkley. There always seemed to be hundreds of ways of getting from A to B in the Dales, none of them direct, but the A1 was usually the fastest route to Leeds, unless the farmer just north of Wetherby exercised his privilege and switched on the red light while he led his cows across the motorway.

  As if the rain weren’t bad enough, there was also the muddy spray from the juggernauts in front—transcontinentals, most of them, travelling from Newcastle or Edinburgh to Lille, Rotterdam, Milan or Barcelona. Still, it was cosy inside the car, and he had Rigoletto for company.

  At the Wetherby roundabout, Banks turned onto the A58, leaving most of the lorries behind, and drove by Collingham, Bardsey and Scarcroft into Leeds itself. He carried on through Roundhay and Harehills, and arrived in Chapeltown halfway through “La Donna è Mobile.”