Not to be outdone, Mick lowered his pants and dropped a steaming pile on the sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace, giggling softly to himself as he did it.
When they’d both finished, they left the way they came, pausing only briefly to check the kitchen drawers and cupboards, just in case.
III
“There’s no evidence that we’ve got a Byrne or a Floyd on our hands,” Jenny said, sipping her half of bitter. “I think that if we had, something would have happened before now. The trouble with psychology is that it works best when you know all the facts. It’s hard to make guesses in the dark. It’s also unscientific.”
“Police work’s the same,” Banks added. “There’s nothing like facts, but I’ve always found that occasional guesses, or some kind of hunch based on limited knowledge, can often work well. It gives you a bit of room for the intuition, imagination.”
“That’s surprising, coming from you,” Jenny said, looking at him as if all her earlier theories had been wrong.
“Why?”
“It just is. I suppose I’ve been used to you asking for facts, looking for evidence.”
“It’s important, I’m not denying it. But more often than not forensic evidence is only useful in getting a conviction. First you have to catch the criminal, and he’s as cunning and imaginative as can be. Some aren’t, of course, some are plain stupid. But they’re the easy ones.”
“I should think your peeper is probably quite intelligent. Again, this is mostly guesswork, but he has avoided capture so far, and he’s got his system worked out quite well. It remains to be seen how adaptable he is. He’s certainly not a fool.”
“Back to my original question,” Banks said. “You don’t think he’ll escalate?”
“I said I didn’t think we had a serious sex criminal on our hands. I don’t think he’s likely to move on to necrophilia or eating breasts, with or without sugar, but I wouldn’t be too sure that merely peeping will keep him happy for much longer. It might be getting too easy for him, especially if he’s intelligent. If he stops getting his thrills that way . . . then . . .” She shrugged. “At best he might turn to exhibitionism, at worst some kind of attack, molestation.”
“Rape?”
“Ultimately. Although it might not be rape in the legal sense. There may be no penetration; he might simply force women to strip. I don’t know, I’m just trying to project the pattern. He might feel the need for greater danger, more risk; he might need to see and absorb the fear of his victims. Yes, it could happen. Especially the closer he gets to his original impulse.”
“What do you mean?”
“If he finds someone who reminds him of his mother, or whoever he was first struck by, then the stimulus might be too much; it might cause him to push through to another level.”
“What can we do with what we’ve got so far, then?” Banks asked.
“You want me to tell you your job?”
“Why not? You’ve not done so badly at it so far.”
“All right. What I’d do is this: find out how many men between the ages of about twenty and thirty-five are either living alone or with a single parent, most likely a mother.”
“Why?”
“It’s just what the statistics show. Not completely reliable of course, but better than a slap in the face with a wet fish, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would. I was just wondering about the single-parent business.”
“I think there’s generally more stability with both parents around, unless the marriage is in a really bad way. It’s what the stats show, anyway. Shall I go on?”
“Yes.”
“There shouldn’t be all that many in Eastvale, I don’t think. Most people move away or get married. Next I’d ‘stake out’ selected pubs, as they say on the telly.”
“I’ve told you how many pubs there are in Eastvale. We don’t have anything like the manpower.”
“Use what you have. He’s tried the same pub twice. Why not a third time? There’s one you can cover. And you must have some pretty policewomen around who’d be happy to work overtime to help get rid of this particular criminal, surely?”
Banks nodded. “Go on.”
“As far as the other two pubs are concerned, you can cover them, too. If he struck lucky once he might try for a second time.”
“So you suggest that we cover the pubs he’s already operated in?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We’re already doing that.”
“Bastard!” Jenny laughed and slapped his arm playfully. “You’ve got to admit, though, I was on the right track, wasn’t I?”
“Definitely. Any time you need a job. Is there anything else?”
“You might check around the pornographic bookshops—if there are any in Eastvale—and the strip-clubs. I don’t mean that you should pester everyone who enjoys seeing a bit of tit and ass now and then, but make your presence felt. Maybe if you put the wind up him he’ll make a mistake.”
“You think he’s likely to hang around such places?”
“It’s possible. After all, it’s looking, isn’t it? Even if it’s not as thrilling as the other kind. By the way, are there places like that in Eastvale?”
“One or two. We keep an eye on them, but I’ll do as you recommend, push a bit harder.”
Jenny nodded. “Excuse me for asking,” she said, “but how did you get that scar?” And she leaned forward and touched the small scar by Banks’s right eye.
“Accident,” he said tersely. “Years ago.”
“How disappointing. And I thought you must have got it in some heroic struggle with a knife-wielding maniac, or perhaps from a gun that went off as you grappled to save someone’s life.”
“You’ve got quite a romantic imagination for a psychologist.”
“And you’ve got none! Come on, where did you get it?”
“I told you, an accident.”
“What kind of accident?”
“I fell off my tricycle.”
“Liar. You’re only doing this because you think it makes you mysterious, aren’t you?”
“And you’re only teasing me because you’ve had too much to drink.”
“Ooh, I haven’t.”
Banks laughed. “Perhaps not. But if you drink any more you will have, and then I’ll have to book you for drunken driving.”
“I haven’t got my car. I walked up to town before we met and spent an hour or so in the library.”
“I’ve got mine today—and I haven’t had too much to drink. Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”
It was raining fast again, and Banks drove carefully around the base of Castle Hill, down the narrow, winding streets, crossed the river, and pulled up outside Jenny’s house by The Green about five minutes later.
“Coming in for a coffee?” she asked.
“Just a quick one.”
IV
Trevor and Mick sat in the front room sharing out the money. Trevor had already palmed about fifty pounds, and he then managed to persuade Mick to tell Lenny that they’d only found fifty. He knew that Lenny would make up his profit by selling the jewellery, anyway.
Mick was restless. He’d taken some uppers before going out and some downers when they got back, just to take the edge off. Now the drugs were clashing and fighting it out in his body. He couldn’t settle and listen to music or watch telly, and Trevor, bored with him, was getting ready to go. They looked out of the window at the rain. Across The Green, they saw a car pull up outside one of the old houses.
“It’s that bird,” Mick said. “The redhead with the long legs. Ooh, I’d like to feel them wrapped around my waist. Who’s she with? Some fucking wanker for sure.”
“I think it’s that copper,” Trevor said, recognizing Banks. “Funny, that, I saw him with her the other night at the old bag’s house.”
“Maybe she’s a cop, then. Waste of a good screw, if you ask me. Nice pair of tits she’s got, though.”
“Maybe he’s just knocking her
off,” Trevor said. “He’s going in, anyway.”
“Lucky bastard.”
“It’s funny, though, seeing them twice like that.”
“What’s so funny? I see her all the time. She only lives across The Green, you know.”
“I mean seeing them together like that.”
“He’s probably poking her. Fucking hell, wouldn’t I just like those long legs wrapped around my waist.”
But Mick was fast slipping into the arms of Morpheus. The amphetamine, already mostly burned up, was losing to the barbiturate, and he felt as if his brain was slowly turning to cotton-wool and his senses were closing like valves. The light around the edges of his eyes dimmed, and he could hear a gentle whooshing, like the ocean, in his ears; his tongue felt too tired and too heavy to speak.
Trevor recognized the signs, put on his coat and left. It had been a good night, one of the best in years, and he felt, as he walked home through the quiet town reliving the excitement, that he could hardly wait for next Monday.
EIGHT
I
The sudden creaking of rusty hinges broke the silence in the cool church. Sandra and Harriet looked around and saw Robin Allott coming in, followed closely by Norman Chester.
“So this is where you’re hiding,” Norman said, as he shut the heavy door behind them. “We were wondering where the lovely ladies had got to.” His voice echoed from the stone walls.
“What are you doing?” Robin asked.
“Waiting for the sun,” Sandra replied. “I want to get a good shot of the stained-glass window here.”
“It shouldn’t be long,” Robin said, walking down the aisle towards them. “The clouds seem to be breaking up and the wind’s pushing them along nicely. It is quite beautiful, isn’t it?”
Sandra nodded, glancing up again at the east window. They stood in the Parish Church of St Mary, Muker, one of the places the Camera Club was visiting on its trip to Swaledale. Most club members were out walking along Ivelet Side putting Terry Whigham’s ideas on landscape photography into practice with shots of the spectacular view of Oxnop, Muker Side and the dark mass of Great Shunner Fell. Harriet and Sandra, however, had stuck to the village itself, photographing the craft centre, village store and old Literary Institute, before approaching St Mary’s.
“It’s supposed to depict the landscape outside,” Robin went on, pointing to the window. “You can see Christ the Good Shepherd there, leading his flock and carrying a lamb—real horned Swaledale sheep. The hill is Kisdon, that big one out there, and you can see the River Swale to the right and Muker Beck to the left.”
“You seem to know a bit about it,” Sandra said. “Have you been here before?”
“Once or twice.”
Norman’s footsteps echoed as he wandered around examining the font and chalice.
“It is a wonderful church, though,” Robin said. “And the cemetery’s interesting, too. It’s the kind of place I wouldn’t mind being buried in.”
“How morbid.”
“Not at all. They used to have to carry people in wicker coffins ten or fifteen miles away to Grinton church before this place was built. They took the old Corpse Way along Ivelet Side. People wanted to be buried on consecrated ground. I’d hope for a long and healthy life first, though, like poor Alice Matlock.”
“Alice Matlock?”
“Yes. The old lady they found dead in her cottage the other day. Surely your husband must have mentioned her?”
“Yes, of course,” Sandra said. “I was just surprised to hear you talk about her, that’s all.”
Robin looked up at the dim stained glass. “I knew her, that’s all. I was a bit shaken to hear that someone who’d lived through so much should have died so violently. Does your husband have any clues?”
“None that he’s told me about. How did you come to know her?”
“I suppose I’m exaggerating a bit. I haven’t seen her for a few years. You know how it is; we lose touch with the old so easily. She was a friend of my grandmother’s, my father’s mother. They were about the same age and both of them worked as nurses at Eastvale Infirmary for years. My gran used to take me over to visit Alice when I was a kid.”
“Haven’t you thought that you might be able to help?” Sandra asked.
“Me?” said Robin, startled. “How? I said I hadn’t seen her for years.”
“Alan says it’s frustrating not to know much about her background. Most of her friends are dead. Anything you could tell him might be a help.”
“I don’t see how.”
“When you’ve lived with a policeman for as long as I have,” Sandra said, “you don’t ask how. Would you be willing to see him?”
“I don’t know . . . I . . . I can’t see how it could help.”
“Come on. Alan won’t eat you. You said you were upset about her death. Surely it’s not too much to ask?”
“No, no, I don’t suppose it is. If you think it’ll help, of course . . .”
“It might.”
“Very well.”
“Good. I’ll tell him, then. If I see him. He’s not home much these days. Still, we are supposed to be going out tonight, if he hasn’t forgotten. When’s a good time? I’m sure he won’t want to inconvenience you.”
“I don’t know. This weekend sometime? I should be home.”
“Fine.” Sandra took Robin’s address and turned her attention back to the stained-glass window. “Come on, come on,” she urged the sun.
They stood there a full minute or more until, slowly, the glass brightened and the red of Christ’s robe, the blue of the rivers at his feet and the purple, orange and green of the hills behind began to glow. Sandra selected a wide aperture and let the built-in exposure-meter set the shutter speed.
“It’s strange,” Robin said, watching, “but it sometimes seems to me as if we’re looking outside through a clear window at some idealized image.”
“Yes, it does,” Harriet agreed. “Like a vision. Ooh, look how the colours are shining on us!”
“Vision indeed,” Norman sneered, walking over from the northwest window. “A right lot of romantics, you are.” And he joined them as they took it in turns to capture the stained glass on film.
II
Friday brought a lull in affairs at the Eastvale station. Nothing had come of the previous evening’s pub surveillance, and Richmond said that he’d shown the artist’s impression of their one suspect in the robberies to some of the lads on the beat, but nobody had recognized him. After sending the detective constable to the Town Hall to check on the statistics of young men living alone or with single parents, Banks found himself with little to do. No Dorothy Wycombe marched in to liven up the day; no Jenny Fuller; nothing.
He had plenty of time to think, though, and spent the rest of the morning puzzling over the three cases, whose outlines had become blurred in his mind. There was a Peeping Tom in Eastvale, that was clear enough. Also, two young thugs had robbed defenceless old women. But had any of them killed Alice Matlock?
On the evidence so far, it looked like it: she had been old and alone, her home had been left in a shambles, and money and silverware had been stolen. It was certainly possible that she had tried to struggle with them and had fallen or been pushed backwards, catching the back of her head on the sharp corner of the table.
There was still room for doubt, though, and Banks found himself wondering if it could have happened some other way for some other reason. He had ruled out the peeper after what Jenny had said, so the next step was to try and discover if anyone had a motive for getting rid of Alice Matlock, or at least for engaging in such a violent confrontation with her.
According to Sergeant Hatchley, Ethel Carstairs had said that Alice had kept herself to herself over the past few years, and that she had not been the type to take in strays or befriend strangers. If the two young tearaways were not responsible for her death, then who was, and why?
Unfortunately, the slow afternoon allowed Banks more time than he w
ould have liked to reflect on the events of the previous evening. Sandra had been asleep when he got home, so he was spared a telling off, but she had been very frosty in the morning, reminding him that they had arranged to go out that evening with Harriet Slade and her husband, who had already booked a sitter, and that he’d promised to take the kids up to Castle Hill on Saturday morning. It was her way of hinting that he wasn’t spending enough time with his nearest and dearest, whatever else he might be up to.
Though he certainly felt pangs of guilt, he hadn’t really been up to anything much at all.
His first move, after Jenny had led him into her front room, had been to remark on the expensive stereo system and the lack of a television.
“I used to have one,” she said, heading for the kitchen, “but I gave it to a colleague. Without it I get much more done—reading, listening to music, going out, seeing films. When I had it I was terribly lazy; I always take the line of least resistance.”
“It doesn’t look much like a professor’s living-room,” Banks shouted through. There were only a couple of recent psychology journals and a folder of notes on the table.
“The study’s upstairs,” she yelled back. “I do work hard, honestly, Inspector. Milk and sugar?”
“No, thanks.”
Banks squinted at the framed print on the wall. It showed an enormous dark mountain, more steep than broad, completely dominating a small village in the foreground.
“Who did this?” he asked Jenny when she came into the room carrying two mugs of coffee.
“That? It’s an Emily Carr.”
“I’ve never heard of her,” said Banks, who had gained a basic knowledge of art through Sandra.
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