II
If you picture the Yorkshire Dales as a splayed hand pointing east, then you will find Eastvale close to the tip of the middle finger. The town stands at the eastern limit of Swainsdale, a long valley, which starts in the precipitous fells of the west and broadens into meandering river-meadows in the east. Dry-stone walls criss-cross the lower valley-sides like ancient runes until, in some places, the grassy slopes rise steeply into long sheer cliffs, known locally as “scars.” At their summits, they flatten out to become wild, lonely moorlands covered in yellow gorse and pinkish ling, crossed only by unfenced minor roads where horned sheep wander and the wind always rages. The rock is mostly limestone, which juts through in grey-white scars and crags that change hue with the weather like pearls rolled under candlelight. Here and there, a more sinister outcrop of dark millstone grit thrusts out, or layers of shale and sandstone streak an old quarry.
Eastvale itself is a busy market-town of about fourteen thousand people. It slopes up from Swainsdale’s eastern edge, where the River Swain turns south-east towards the Ouse, rises to a peak at Castle Hill, then drops gradually eastwards in a series of terraces past the river and the railway tracks.
The town is certainly picturesque; it has a cobbled market square, complete with ancient cross and Norman church, tree-shaded river-fulls, sombre castle ruins, and excavations going back to pre-Roman times. But it has some less salubrious areas that tourists never visit—among them the East Side Estate, a sprawl of council housing put up in the sixties and declining fast.
A visitor sitting in the flower gardens on the western bank of the River Swain would probably be surprised at some of the things that go on across the river. Beyond the poplars and the row of renovated Georgian houses stretch about fifty yards of grass and trees called The Green. And beyond that lies the East Side Estate.
Amid the graffiti-scarred walls, abandoned prams and tires, uncontrolled dogs and scruffy children, the inhabitants of the overcrowded estate try to survive the failure of the town’s two main industries outside of tourism—a woollen mill on the river to the northwest, and a chocolate factory near the eastern boundary. Some are quiet, peace-loving families, who keep themselves to themselves and try to make ends meet on the dole. But others are violent and angry, a mixed bunch of deadbeats, alcoholics, wife-beaters, child-abusers and junkies. Drawing the “east side beat,” as it is known in the police station, is a duty most young constables do their utmost to avoid.
Of course, there had been protests over the council’s plan, but the sixties was an era of optimism and new ideas, so the houses went up. It was also a period of rank political corruption, so many councillors enjoyed holidays abroad at the expense of various contractors, and a great deal of tax-free money changed hands. Meanwhile, the tenants, crammed into their terrace blocks, towers and maisonettes, just had to put up with the flimsy walls, inadequate heating and faulty plumbing. Many thought themselves lucky; they were living in the country at last.
The railway track, raised high on its embankments, ran north to south and cut right through the estate, giving its passengers a fine view of the overgrown back gardens with their lines of washing, tiny greenhouses and rabbit hutches. Several low, narrow tunnels ran under the tracks to link one part of the estate to another, and it was in one of these that Trevor Sharp and Mick Webster stood smoking and discussing business.
The tunnel had been christened “Glue-Sniffers’ Ginnel” by the estate’s residents because of the great numbers of plastic bags that littered its pathway. It was a dark place, lit at one end by a jaundiced streetlamp, and it reeked of glue, dog piss and stale vomit. Locals avoided it.
Mick Webster, whatever one might call him, was not one of the glue-sniffers. Naturally, he had tried it, along with just about everything else, but he had decided it was for the birds; it dulled the brain and made you spotty, like Lenny. Not that Lenny sniffed glue, though—he just ate too much greasy fish and chips. Mick preferred those little red pills that Lenny seemed to possess in abundance: the ones that made his heart race and made him feel like Superman. He was a squat, loutish sixteen-year-old with a pug nose, a skinhead crop and a permanent sneer. People crossed the street when they saw him coming.
Trevor, on the other hand, was not the kind of boy that the average townsperson would take for a bad sort. He was quite handsome, like his father, and was a slave to fashion in neither clothing nor haircut. Because he was regarded as an exceptionally hard case, nobody ever ragged him about his neat, conservative appearance.
The 10:10 from Harrogate rattled overhead and Trevor lit another cigarette.
“Lenny says it’s time we stopped it with the old dears and got onto something a bit more profitable,” Mick announced, kicking at some shards of broken glass.
“Like what?”
“Like doing houses. Proper houses where rich folk live. When they’re out, like. Lenny says he can let us know where and when. All we got to do is get in, pick up the gear and get out.”
“What about burglar alarms?”
“They ain’t got burglar alarms,” Mick said scornfully. “Peaceful little place this is, never have any crime.”
Trevor thought it over. “When do we start?”
“When Lenny gives us a tip.”
“Lenny’s been taking too much of a cut, Mick. It hardly makes it worth our while. You’d better ask him to give us a bigger percentage if we’re gonna get onto this lark.”
“Yeah, yeah, all right.” It wasn’t a new subject, and Mick was getting tired of Trevor’s constant harping. Besides, he was too scared of Lenny to mention anything about it.
“How are we going to break in?” Trevor asked.
“I don’t fucking know. Window. Back door. Lenny’ll give us what we need. It’ll be people on holidays or away for the weekend. That kind of thing. Dead easy. He keeps his ear to the ground.”
“Got the money for that last lot?”
“Oh, nearly forgot.” Mick grinned and pulled out a wad of bills from his hip pocket. “He said he only got fifty for the gear. That’s ten quid for you and ten for me.”
Trevor shook his head. “It’s not right, Mick. That’s sixty percent he’s taking. And how do we know he only got fifty quid for it? Looked like it was worth nearer a hundred to me.”
“We believe him ’cos he’s my fucking brother, that’s why,” Mick said, getting nettled. “And without him we wouldn’t be able to get rid of any of the stuff. We wouldn’t get nothing, man. So forty percent of what he does is better than a hundred percent of fuck all, right?”
“We could fence it ourselves. It can’t be that difficult.”
“How many times do I have to tell you? You need the contacts. Lenny’s got contacts. You can’t just walk into one of those wanky antique shops on Market Street and ask the geezer if he wants to buy a pile of stolen jewellery or a fancy camera, can you?”
“I just don’t think it can be all that difficult, that’s all.”
“Look, we’ve got a nice little racket going here, let’s leave it the way it is. I’ll try and get us up to fifty percent, all right?”
Trevor shrugged. “Okay.”
“Did I tell you Lenny’s got a shooter?” Mick went on excitedly.
“No. Where’d he get it from?”
“Down The Smoke. This bloke what owns a club in Soho. Big fucker it is too, just like on telly.”
“Does it work?”
“Of course it works. What good’s a shooter that don’t work?”
“Have you tried it? Do you know it works?”
“Of course I haven’t fucking tried it. What do you expect me to do, walk downtown on market day and start fucking target practice?”
“So you don’t know for sure if it works?”
Mick sighed and explained as if to a small child. “These blokes down The Smoke, they don’t give you dud shooters, do they? Wouldn’t be in their interest.”
“What kind is it?”
“I don’t fucking know. A big
one, like the ones on telly. Like that one Clint Eastwood carries in those Dirty Harry flicks.”
“A Magnum?”
“That’s right. One of those.”
“Powerful shooter,” Trevor said. “‘Seeing as this is a forty-four Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and can blow your head clean off, you gotta ask yourself, punk, do I feel lucky today? Well, do ya, punk?’”
The Dirty Harry impersonation went down very well, and the two traded shooting noises until the 10:25 to Ripon clattered overhead and drowned them out.
III
“Look, before we start,” Jenny Fuller said, “I’d like to tell you that I know why I was chosen to help on this case.”
“Oh,” said Banks. “What do you mean?”
“You know damn well what I mean. Don’t think I didn’t notice that eye contact between you and Gristhorpe this morning. There are at least two male professors in the area better qualified to deal with this kind of thing—both experts on deviant psychology. You wanted a woman because it looks good in the public eye, and you wanted me because I’ve had connections with Dorothy Wycombe.”
They were lounging comfortably in armchairs by the crackling fire, Banks cradling a pint of bitter, Jenny a half.
“It’s not that I mind,” she went on. “I just want you to know. I don’t like being taken for a fool.”
“Point taken.”
“And another thing. You needn’t imagine I’m going to go reporting to Dorothy Wycombe on everything that goes on. I’m a professional, not a snooper. I’ve been asked to help, and I intend to do my best.”
“Good. So now we know where we stand. I’m glad you said that, because I didn’t feel too happy about working with a spy, whatever the circumstances.”
Jenny smiled and her whole face lit up. She really was an extraordinarily beautiful woman, Banks thought, feeling rather distressing tugs of desire as he watched her shift her body in the chair. She was wearing tight jeans and a simple white T-shirt under a loose lemon jacket. Her dark red hair spilled over her shoulders.
Banks himself had paid more attention than usual to his appearance that evening: at least, as much more attention as he could without giving Sandra cause for suspicion. Over a hasty supper, he had told her he would be spending the evening with Dr Fuller discussing the psychological angle of the peeper case. Getting ready, he had resisted the temptation to apply some of the unopened cologne a distant relative had bought him several Christmases ago, and settled instead for a close shave and a liberal application of Right Guard. He had also taken care to smooth down his short, black hair, even though it was always cut so close to the skull that it never got a chance to stand on end.
He had arrived at the Queen’s Arms at least ten minutes before Jenny was due—not simply because he didn’t believe in keeping a woman waiting, but because he didn’t like the idea of her waiting alone in a pub, even a place as congenial as the Queen’s Arms. When she walked in five minutes late, all the heads at the bar turned in her direction.
“So where do we start?” he asked, lighting a cigarette and opening his notebook.
“Oh, put that thing away,” Jenny protested. “Let’s keep this informal while we build up some kind of a picture. I’ll give you a full report when I’ve got things worked out.”
Thus admonished, Banks put away his notebook.
“What are your own ideas?” she asked. “I know I’m supposed to be the expert, but I’d like to know what you think.” There was a slightly taunting tone in her voice, and he wondered if she was trying to draw him out, make a fool of him. It was probably just her seminar manner, he decided. Like doctors have bedside manners, teachers have classroom manners.
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“Let me help. Do you think the women ask for it, by the way they dress?”
It was a loaded question, exactly the one he had expected.
“They might well be inviting someone to try and pick them up in a normal, civilized way,” he answered, “but of course they’re not inviting voyeurs or rapists, no.”
He could tell that she approved by the way she looked at him. “On the other hand,” he went on, just to provoke her, “if they walk in dark alleys after ten o’clock at night dressed in high-heels, mini-skirts and low-cut blouses, then I’d say they were at least being foolish, if not asking for something.”
“So you do think they ask for it?” she accused him, green eyes flashing.
“Not at all. I just think that people, especially women, ought to be more careful these days. We all know what the cities are like, and there’s no longer any reason to think a place like Eastvale is immune from sex offenders.”
“But why shouldn’t we be able to go where we want, when we want and dressed how we want?”
“You should. In a perfect world. This isn’t a perfect world.”
“Well, thank you for pointing that out to me. Bit of a philosopher, aren’t you?”
“I do my best. Look, is this what you want, some kind of sparring match over women’s issues? I thought you were playing straight with me. All right, so I’m a man, guilty, and I can never in a million years fully understand what it’s like to be a woman. But I’m not a narrow-minded hypocrite, at least I don’t think I am, so don’t treat me like one.”
“Okay. I’m sorry. I’m not really a shrill virago, either. I’m just interested in men’s attitudes, that’s all. It’s my field—male and female, masculine and feminine psychology, similarities, differences. That’s why they thought I was the next best thing to a brilliant, ideally qualified man for this job.”
She laughed at herself and Banks laughed with her. Then she held out her hands as if holding up a clapper-board, snapped them together and said, “Banks and Fuller: Co-operation, Take Two. More drinks first, though. No, I’ll get them this time.”
Enjoying the slow, feline grace of her movements, Banks watched her walk to the bar and lean on it as the barman drew the beer. When she got back, she smiled and put the drinks on the table.
“Right,” she said. “Down to business. What do you want to know?”
“A great deal.”
“Well, that’ll take a long time.”
“I’m sure it’ll be time well spent.”
Jenny smiled in agreement. “Yes,” she said, “I do believe you’re right.”
To cut through the silence that followed, Banks put his first question: “Is there any chance of this peeper moving on to more violent sex acts?”
“Mmmm,” Jenny said. “I’m afraid I’m going to seem as noncommittal as any scientist on some of these matters. According to most of the evidence, voyeurism in itself isn’t regarded as a very serious disorder, and it’s unlikely to spiral into other forms.”
“But?”
“But it’s only ‘unlikely’ according to existing evidence. All that means is that we don’t have many documented cases of voyeurs becoming rapists—peeping is usually about as far as they can go. It doesn’t mean there are no cases, though, and it doesn’t mean that your man might not be one of them. Something could snap. If just looking ceases to give him what he needs, he could either break down or turn to other, more aggravated forms of sexual violence. I’ll see if I can look up some case histories for you.”
“You call it violence, but he hasn’t physically hurt anyone.”
“I call it violence purposely, because that’s what it is. Look at it this way. We all like to watch the opposite sex. Men more than women—and I think I can safely say that your peeper’s definitely not a woman. So why do men do this? There’s always the sense, in childhood, of not being permitted to look at a woman’s body, so it becomes mysterious and desirable. You don’t need a degree in psychology to figure out why men like breasts, for example—they’re one of the first sources of love and nourishment we ever experience. Okay so far?”
Banks nodded.
“So we all like to look. You look at women in the street. They seem to dress just t
o make you look at them. And why not? It makes the world go round, keeps the race going. But at what point does looking, the kind we all do—and women these days now and then glance at a man’s bum or the bulge in his pants—become voyeurism? In the streets, in pubs, in all public places, it’s fine, there’s an implicit permission to look. We even have special places such as strip-clubs which legitimize the voyeuristic impulse—all quite legal. But when a woman is in her bedroom getting undressed for bed, unless she’s doing it for her husband or lover, she doesn’t want anyone to watch. Often enough, she doesn’t even want her husband to watch. The permission is no longer there, and to look then is an act of sexual violence because it’s an intrusion, a violation, a penetration into her world. It degrades her by turning her into an object. Am I making myself clear?”
“Very,” Banks said. “What does the voyeur get out of it, then? Why does he do it?”
“They’re both very difficult questions to answer. For one thing, he’s getting power over her, a certain triumph in dehumanizing her, and perhaps he’s also getting revenge for some past wrong that he imagines women have done him. At the same time, he’s re-enacting a primal sexual scene, whatever it was that first excited him. He just keeps on repeating himself because it’s the only way he can achieve sexual pleasure. You see how complicated it is? When the voyeur penetrates his victim’s privacy, then he dominates her, and the element of risk, of ‘sin’ involved only endows that act with a special intensity for him. Does your man masturbate while he’s watching?”
“I don’t know. We haven’t found any traces of semen.”
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