“That’s not surprising; she’s a Canadian. I spent three years doing postgraduate work in Vancouver. She’s a West Coast artist, did a lot of totem poles and forest scenes. Oddly enough, I saw that painting in a gallery at Kleinburg, near Toronto. I fell in love with it right away. Everything looks alive, don’t you think?”
“Yes, in a dark, creepy kind of way. But I’m not sure it would pass my simple test for paintings.”
“Don’t tell me!” she said, imitating a Yorkshire accent. “‘Ah don’t know much about art bu’rah knows whar’ah likes.’ Not bad for a Leicester girl, eh?”
Banks laughed. “Better than I could do. Anyway, that’s not my test. I just ask myself if I could live with it on my living-room wall.”
“And you couldn’t?”
“No. Not that.”
“What could you live with? It sounds like a very hard test.”
Banks thought back over some of the paintings Sandra had introduced him to. “Modigliani’s Reclining Nude, maybe Chagall’s I and the Village. Monet’s Waterlilies.”
“Good lord, you’d need an entire room for that one.”
“Yes, but it would be worth it.”
With the coffees, Jenny also poured out generous measures of cognac, giving Banks no time to refuse, then she put some music on the cassette deck and sat down beside him.
“This is good music,” he said. “What is it?”
“Bruch’s violin concerto.”
“Mmm, I’ve never heard it before. Are you a classical music buff?”
“Oh, no. I mean, I enjoy classical, but I like a bit of everything, really. I like jazz—Miles Davis and Monk. I still love some of the old sixties stuff—Beatles, Dylan, Stones—but my old copies are a bit scratched up by now.”
“For a psychology teacher you seem to know a lot about the arts.”
“English was my second subject, and my father was a bit of an amateur artist. Even now I seem to spend more time with the arts faculty than the sciences. Most psychologists are so boring.”
“Do you like opera?”
“That’s one thing I don’t know very well. My sister took me to an Opera North performance of La Traviata once, years ago, but I’m afraid I don’t remember much about it.”
“Try some. I’ll lend you a couple of tapes. Tosca, that’s a good one.”
“What’s it about?”
“An evil chief of police who tries to coerce a singer into sleeping with him by threatening to have her lover killed.”
“That sounds cheerful,” Jenny said; then she shivered. “Someone just walked over my grave.”
“The music’s good. Some fine arias.”
“All right. Here’s to opera,” said Jenny, smiling and clinking glasses. “Do you think we did a good evening’s work?”
“Yes, I think so. We didn’t expect miracles. That’s not why we brought you in.”
“Charming! I know why you brought me in.”
“I mean why we brought a psychologist in.”
“Yes. I know that, too.”
“Why?”
“You were all afraid that this was going to spiral into a rash of rapes and sex-murders, and you wanted to check on the evidence.”
“Partly true. And given that, we also wanted to make damn sure we had a better chance of stopping him before he went too far.”
“Are you any closer?”
“That remains to be seen.”
As they sat in silence, Banks could feel his heart beating faster and his throat constricting. He knew he shouldn’t be there, knew there could only be one interpretation of his accepting the offer of coffee, and he was nervous about what to do. The music flowed around them and the tension grew so strong it made the muscles in his jaw ache. Jenny stirred and her scent wafted towards him. It was too subtle to be called a perfume; it was the kind of fresh and happy smell that took him back to carefree childhood trips to the country.
“Look,” Banks finally blurted out, putting down his coffee and facing Jenny, “I’m sorry if I’ve given you the impression that . . . the wrong impression . . . but I’m married.” Then, having confessed in what he felt to be as graceless a manner as possible, he started to apologize and rephrase, but Jenny cut in.
“I know that, you fool. You think a psychologist can’t spot a married man a mile off?”
“You know? Then . . .”
Jenny shrugged. “I’m not trying to seduce you, if that’s what you mean. Yes, I like you, I’m attracted to you. I get the impression that you feel the same way. Dammit, then, maybe I am trying to seduce you. I don’t know.” She reached out and touched his face. “No strings, Alan. Why must you always be so serious?”
Immediately, he felt himself freeze, and it shocked her so much that she jumped away and turned her face to the wall.
“All right,” she said, “I’ve made an idiot of myself. Now go. Go on, go!”
“Listen, Jenny,” Banks said. “You’re not wrong about anything. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come.”
“Why did you, then?” Jenny asked, softening a little but still not facing him.
Banks shrugged and lit a cigarette. “If I went to bed with you once,” he said, “I wouldn’t want it to stop there.”
“You don’t know till you try it,” she said, turning and managing a thin smile.
“Yes, I do.”
“I might be lousy in bed.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I knew you wouldn’t do it, anyway.”
“You did?”
“I’m a psychologist, remember? I’ve spent enough time with you to know you’re not frivolous and that you’re probably a very monogamous person.”
“Am I so transparent?”
“Not at all. I’m an expert. Maybe you were testing yourself, taking a risk.”
“Well, they do say there’s no better test of virtue than temptation.”
“And how do you feel now?”
“Intolerably virtuous.”
Jenny laughed and kissed him swiftly on the lips. It was a friendly sort of kiss, and instead of increasing Banks’s desire it seemed to diffuse it and put things back on a simpler, more relaxed level.
“Don’t go just yet,” Jenny said. “If you do I’ll think it’s because of all this and it’ll keep me awake all night.”
“All right. But only if I get another black coffee—and no more cognac.”
“Coming up, sir.”
“By the way,” Banks asked as Jenny headed for the kitchen, “what about you? Divorced, single?”
“Single.” Jenny leaned against the doorpost. “Marriage never happened to me.”
“Not even almost?”
“Oh, yes, almost. But you can’t be almost married, can you? That would be like being a little bit pregnant.” And she turned to go and make the coffee, leaving a smile behind her which faded slowly like the Cheshire cat’s.
Banks snapped out of his reverie feeling half-remorseful for having gone so far and half-regretful that he hadn’t seized the moment and abandoned himself to Eros. He put on his headphones, rewound Dido and Aeneas to the lament, “When I am laid in earth,” and left the building. Abandoned by her lover, Queen Dido sang “Remember me, remember me . . .” It sent shivers up and down Banks’s spine.
III
The evening out with Harriet and David went well. They drove along the Dale on the road by the River Swain, which was coursing high and fast after the recent rains. Beyond the sloping commons, dark valley sides rose steeply on both sides like sleeping whales. At Fortford, David took an unfenced minor road over the hills and down into the village of Axeby. The Greyhound, an old low-ceilinged pub with walls three feet thick, held a folk night there every Friday that was so well respected it even drew people from as far afield as Leeds, Bradford and Manchester.
They were early enough to find a table for four near the back, which provided a relatively unobstructed view of the small stage. David brought the first round and they drank to a good
evening. Though Banks thought David, an assistant bank manager, a bit of a bore, he made an effort to like him for Sandra’s sake, and the two of them got on well enough. But Banks still found himself wondering what such a lively and interesting woman as Harriet saw in her husband.
The music was good; there were none of the modern, whining protest songs that got up Banks’s nose. You could usually depend on The Greyhound for solid, traditional folk music—“Sir Patrick Spens,” “The Wife of Usher’s Well,” “Marie Hamilton,” “The Unquiet Grave” and the like—and that night there was nothing to spoil Banks’s joy in the old ballads, which he loved almost as much as opera. The “high” and “low” or “culture” and “folk” distinctions didn’t concern him at all—it was the sense of a story, of drama and tension in the music, that enthralled him.
Because it was David’s turn to drive that night, Banks was allowed more than his usual two pints, and as the beer at The Greyhound—brewed on the premises—was famous for its quality, he indulged himself freely. He could take his drink, though, for a small man, and the only signs that he’d had one or two too many were that he smoked and talked more than usual. Sandra stuck to gin and tonic, and drank slowly.
The day, which had been heavy with disturbing feelings for Banks, seemed to be ending well. This evening out with Sandra and the Slades, good music and good beer, was driving Jenny from his mind. Looking back from a distance of four or five pints, what he had done didn’t seem so bad. Many men would have done much worse. True, he had sounded terribly moral and sanctimonious—but how else can you sound, he asked himself, if you have to say no to a beautiful, intelligent woman?
As he reached for a cigarette, Sandra glanced over from her conversation and they smiled at each other.
IV
It was a good position on the sloping roof because, lying down, he seemed to melt into the slates, but it was very uncomfortable and he was getting tired of waiting.
He’d done his reconnaissance well enough—not hanging around the front, especially as the street was a cul-de-sac, but just passing by occasionally, watching from the unlit alley at the back, nothing more than a narrow dirt track between fenced back gardens. Ideal. He’d slipped through the fence, climbed the pipe up the side of the wall—it was an addition to the house, a kind of storeroom or workshop attached to the back—and found himself just on a level with the bedroom window. He knew it was the right one because he’d seen the children’s wallpaper in the front rooms as he’d passed by one day. He also knew that she tended to go to bed first. The husband would often stay up in the front room and listen to music or read for a while.
What was keeping her? They’d been home half an hour and still no sign. Finally the bedroom light came on and he took his position by the chink at the bottom of the curtains. The woman tied back her straight blonde hair and reached behind her back for her zipper. Slowly, she pulled it down and slipped the black, silky dress from her pale shoulders, letting it fall all the way to the carpet, then picked it up and hung it carefully in the wardrobe.
There she stood, the dark V of cleavage clear at the front of her bra, the inviting curve in at the waist and out again, softly, at the hips. Her figure was slight; there was nothing out of proportion, nothing in excess. It was what he had been waiting for, what had first stirred his feelings and had eluded him ever since. He felt himself getting more and more excited as she sat at the dressing table and removed her makeup before undressing any more. He could see her reflection, her concentration as she applied the tufts of cotton wool. It was just like he remembered. Almost unconsciously he rubbed himself as he watched, not wanting her to finish, willing it to go on for ever.
Finally she stood up again and pulled her nightdress out from under the pillow. Facing him, she unclipped her bra and he watched her small breasts fall slightly as it loosened. He was rubbing himself all the time, faster and faster, and then it happened. What he’d been waiting for. She saw him.
It all happened in slow motion. One moment she was taking off the bra, the next a look of shock spread across her face slowly, like spilled milk on a table, as she caught his eye. At the same moment he climaxed, and the spasms shook his body with pleasure. He slid off the roof, dropped to the garden and shot out through the fence before she could even open the curtains.
V
Sandra couldn’t say exactly how or at what moment she knew she was being watched. It was sudden, a feeling of not being alone. And when she looked she saw an eye. It seemed disembodied, just hanging there in the gap in the curtains, but as she ran forward, yelling for Alan at the same time, she caught a glimpse of a figure in a dark raincoat slipping through the gap in the fence and making off down the back alley.
Banks came running up and then left Sandra to calm down the children, who had heard her cry out, while he gave chase. There was nobody in the alley, and it was too dark to see clearly anyway. First, Banks ran up to the main road end, but there was nobody in sight. Then he walked slowly and quietly in the other direction, wishing he’d had the foresight to bring a torch, but he saw nothing move in the shadows, and however still he stood, he couldn’t hear breathing or rustling—nothing. All he managed to do was disturb a cat, which darted across his path and almost gave him a heart attack.
He walked as far down as the narrow gap at the far end that led to the park, but it was pitch black. There was no point in going any further. Whoever it was had melted back into the darkness, another victory. Banks cursed and kicked the rickety fence hard before storming back indoors.
NINE
I
On Saturday morning, as promised, Banks stood high on the castle battlements and looked out over his “patch,” or “manor,” as he would have called it in London. It was a sharp, fresh day and all the clouds had gone. The sky was not the deep, warm cerulean of summer, but a lighter, more piercing blue, as if the cold of the coming winter had already wormed its way into the air.
Banks looked down over the cobbled market square. The ancient cross and square-towered church were almost lost among the makeshift wooden stalls and the riot of colour that blossomed every market day. The bus station to the east was full of red single-decker buses, and in the adjacent car park, green and white coaches dwarfed the cars. Small parties of tourists ambled around, bright yellow and orange anoraks zipped up against the surprising nip in the air. Banks wore his donkey-jacket buttoned right up to the collar and the children wore kagoules over their woollen sweaters.
To Tracy, Eastvale Castle represented a living slice of history, an Elizabethan palace where, it was rumoured, Mary Queen of Scots had been imprisoned for a while and a Richard or a Henry had briefly held court. Ladies-in-waiting whispered royal secrets to one another in echoing galleries, while barons and earls danced galliards and pavanes with their elegant wives at banquets.
To Brian, the place evoked a more barbarous era of history; it was a stronghold from which ancient Britons poured down boiling oil on Roman invaders, a citadel riddled with dank dungeons where thumbscrews, rack and Iron Maiden awaited unfortunate prisoners.
Neither was entirely correct. The castle was, in fact, built by the Normans at about the same time as Richmond, and, like its more famous contemporary, it was built of stone and had an unusually massive keep.
While the children explored the ruins, Banks looked over the roofs below, chequer-board patterns of red pantile, stone and Welsh slate, and let his eyes follow the contours of the hills where they rose to peaks and fells in the west and flattened into a gently undulating plain to the east. In all directions the trees were tinged with autumn’s rust, just like the picture on his calendar.
Banks could make out the town’s limits: beyond the river, the East Side Estate, with its two ugly tower blocks, sprawled until it petered out into fields, and in the west, Gallows View pointed its dark, shrivelled finger towards Swainsdale. To the north, the town seemed to spread out between the fork of two diverging roads—one leading to the northern Dales and the Lakes, the other to Ty
neside and the east coast. Beyond these older residential areas, there were only a few scattered farmhouses and outlying hamlets.
Though he saw the view, Banks could hardly take it in, still troubled as he was by the events of the previous evening. He hadn’t reported the incident, and that nagged at his sense of integrity. On the other hand, as he and Sandra had decided, it would probably have been a lot more embarrassing and galling all round to have reported it. It was easy to imagine the headlines, the sniggers. And even as he worried about his own decision, Banks also wondered how many others had not seen fit to tell the police of similar incidents. If women were still reluctant to report rape, for example, would many of them not also balk at reporting a Peeping Tom?
For Banks, though, the problem was even more involved. He was a policeman; therefore, he was expected to set an example, to follow the letter of the law himself. In the past, he may have occasionally driven at a little over the speed limit or, worse, had perhaps one drink too many before driving home from a Christmas party, but he had never been faced with such a conflict between professional and family duty before. Sandra and he had decided, though, over a long talk in bed, and that decision was final. They had also told the children, who had heard Sandra’s scream, that she had thought someone was trying to break in but had been mistaken.
What bothered Banks was that if there was no investigation, then valuable clues or information might be sacrificed. To put that right as far as possible, Sandra had offered to talk to the neighbours discreetly, to ask if anyone had noticed any strangers hanging around. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.
So that was that. Banks shrugged and watched a red bus try to extricate itself from an awkward parking spot off the square. The gold hands against the blue face of the church clock said eleven-thirty. He had promised that they would be home for lunch by twelve.
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