Gallows View

by Peter Robinson

  “Did she own anything valuable?”

  “Not really what you’d call valuable, Inspector. Not to anyone else, that is. There was some silverware—she kept that in the sideboard cupboard, bottom shelf.” The cupboard door gaped open and there was no sign of cutlery among the bric-à-brac scattered on the flags. “But her most valuable possessions were these.” Ethel gestured towards the knick-knacks and photographs that filled the room. “Her memories.”

  “What about money? Did she keep much cash in the house?”

  “She used to keep a bit around, just for emergencies. She usually kept it in the bottom drawer of her dressing table.”

  “How much did she have there, as a rule?”

  “Oh, not much. About fifty pounds or so.”

  Banks glanced at Hatchley, who shook his head. “It’s a mess up there,” he said. “If there was any money, it’s gone now.”

  “Do you think our man, or men, knew where to look?”

  “Not by the looks of it,” Hatchley answered. “They searched everywhere. Same pattern as the other break-ins.”

  “Yes,” Banks said quietly, almost to himself. “The victims always let them in. You’d think older people would be more careful these days.”

  “Prosopagnosia,” announced Jenny, who had been listening carefully to all this.

  “Pardon?” Banks said, seeming as surprised to see her there as she was by the sound of her own voice. The others looked around, too. With an angry glance, Banks introduced her: “Dr Fuller. She’s helping us with a case.” Everyone smiled or nodded and went back to work. “Can you explain it, then?” Banks asked.

  “Prosopagnosia? It’s the inability to recognize faces. People sometimes get it after brain damage, but it’s most common in senility.”

  “I don’t quite see the connection.”

  “Alice wasn’t senile, young lady,” Ethel Carstairs cut in, “but it’s true that she was beginning to forget little, day-to-day things, and the past was much closer to her.”

  Jenny nodded. “I didn’t mean to be insulting, Mrs Carstairs. I just meant it’s part of the aging process. It happens to us all, sooner or later.” She turned back to Banks. “Most of us, when we see a face, compare it with our files of known faces. We either recognize it or we don’t, all in about a split second. With prosopagnosia, the observer can see all the components of the face but can’t assemble the whole to check against memory files. It makes elderly people vulnerable to strangers, that’s why I mentioned it.”

  “You mean she might have thought she recognized whoever it was?” Banks asked.

  “Or thought she should have and not wanted to be rude. That’s the most common problem. If you’re a kind, polite person, you’ll want to avoid giving offence, so you’ll pretend you know who it is. It’s like when you forget the name of an acquaintance and find ways of avoiding having to say it, only this must be much worse.”

  Dr Glendenning packed up his battered brown bag, lit a cigarette—strictly forbidden at the scene of a crime, but generally overlooked in his case—and shambled over to Banks and Jenny. “Dead about twenty-four hours,” he said out of the corner of his mouth in a nicotine-ravaged voice with a strong trace of Edinburgh in it. “Cause of death, fractured skull, most likely inflicted by that table edge there.”

  “Can you tell if she was pushed?”

  “Looks like it. One or two bruises on the upper arms and shoulders. That’s just preliminary, though. Can’t tell you more till after the autopsy. But unless the old dear was poisoned, too, I shouldn’t imagine there’ll be much more to tell. You can get her to the morgue now. There’ll be a coroner’s inquest, of course,” he said, and walked out.

  Everybody had finished. Manson had plenty of fingerprints to play with, most of them probably Alice Matlock’s, and the other two Scene-of-Crime boys had envelopes filled with hairs, fragments of clothing and blood scrapings.

  “You can go now, Mrs Carstairs,” Banks said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d drop by the station in the morning and give a formal statement.” He called Detective Constable Richmond to drive Ethel home and instructed him also to pick her up in the morning and take her statement.

  “Right, then. I’m off home, too,” Banks said in a tired voice. “It’s up to you now, Sergeant. See there’s someone posted here all night. Deal with the ambulance. And you might as well start talking to the neighbours. They’ll still be up. Curiosity’s a great cause of insomnia. Do Gallows View and the six end bungalows over the street here. The rest can wait till tomorrow. Remember, the doctor puts the time of death at about twenty-four hours ago—let’s say between ten o’clock and midnight last night. Find out if anyone saw or heard anything. Okay?”

  Hatchley nodded glumly. Then his expression brightened when he saw Richmond leading Ethel Carstairs outside. “Don’t be long, lad,” he said, baring his yellow teeth in what passed for a smile. “I’ve got work for you to do.”

  Banks and Jenny left. She was surprised that he didn’t vent his anger at her disobedience, but they broke the silence in the car only to arrange another meeting to work on the profile later in the week, then she dropped him off and drove home, unable to get the image of Alice Matlock’s body out of her mind.

  III

  Detective Constable Philip Richmond was almost as pleased with his recent promotion to the CID as he was with his new moustache: the latter made him look older, more distinguished, and the former, more important, successful. He had worn the uniform, driven the Panda cars and walked the beat in Eastvale for as long as he cared to, and he had an intimate knowledge of every alley, snicket and back-street in the town: every lover’s lane, every villain’s hangout and every pub where visiting squaddies from Catterick camp were likely to cut up a bit rough at closing time.

  He also knew Gallows View, the cottages at the far western edge of the town. Developers had petitioned for their demolition, especially when Leaview Estate was under construction, but the council, under pressure from the Parks and Monuments Commission, had reluctantly decided that they could stay. There were, after all, only five cottages, and two of those, at the western end of the street, had been knocked together into a shop and living quarters. Richmond had often bought gob-stoppers, Tizer and lucky-bags there as a lad, later graduating to cigarettes, which the owner would often trade him for his mother’s coupons giving threepence off Tide or Stardrops.

  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.

  FIVE

  I

  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.