Rounding up Brian and Tracy, who had fallen to arguing about the history of the castle, Banks ushered them towards the exit.
“Of course it’s an ancient castle,” Brian argued. “They’ve got dungeons with chains on the walls, and it’s all falling to pieces.”
Tracy, despite her anachronistic image of the period, knew quite well that the castle was built in the early part of the twelfth century, and she said so in no uncertain terms.
“Don’t be silly,” Brian shot back. “Look at what a state it’s in. It must have taken thousands of years to get so bad.”
“For one thing,” Tracy countered with a long-suffering sigh, “it’s built of stone. They didn’t build things out of stone as long ago as that. Besides, it’s in the history book. Ask the teacher, dummy, you’ll see if I’m not right.”
Brian retreated defensively into fantasy: he was a brave knight and Tracy was a damsel in distress, letting down her hair from a high, narrow window. He gave it a long, hard pull and swaggered off to fight a dragon.
They wound their way down to the market square, which, though it had seemed to move as slowly and silently as in a dream from high up, buzzed with noisy activity at close quarters.
The vendors sold everything from toys, cassette tapes and torch batteries to lace curtains, paintbrushes and used paperbacks, but mostly they sold clothes—jeans, jackets, shirts, lingerie, socks, shoes. A regular, whom Banks had christened Flash Harry because of his pencil-thin moustache, flat cap and spiv-like air, juggled with china plates and cups as he extolled the virtues of his wares. Tourists and locals clustered around the draughty stalls handling goods and haggling with the red-faced holders, who sipped hot Oxo and wore fingerless woollen gloves to keep their hands warm without inhibiting the counting of money.
After a quick look at some children’s shoes—as cheap in quality as they were in price—Banks led Brian and Tracy south along Market Street under the overhanging second-floor bay windows. About a quarter of a mile further on, beyond where the narrow street widened, was the cul-de-sac where they lived. It was five to twelve.
“Superintendent Gristhorpe called,” Sandra said as soon as they got in. “About fifteen minutes ago. You’re to get over to number 17 Clarence Gardens as soon as you can. He didn’t say what it was about.”
“Bloody hell,” Banks grumbled, buttoning up his donkey-jacket again. “Can you keep lunch warm?”
Sandra nodded.
“Can’t say how long I’ll be.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, and smiled as he kissed her. “It’s only a casserole. Oh, I almost forgot, he invited us to Sunday dinner tomorrow as well.”
“That’s some consolation, I suppose,” Banks said as he walked out to the garage.
II
“It’s a bloody disgrace, that’s what it is,” Maurice Ottershaw announced, hands on hips. Banks wasn’t sure whether he meant the burglary itself or the fact that the police hadn’t managed to prevent it. Ottershaw was a difficult character. A tall, grey-haired man, deeply tanned from his recent holiday, he seemed to think that all the public services were there simply for his benefit, and he consequently treated their representatives like personal valets, stopping just short of telling Banks to go and make some tea.
“It’s not unusual,” Banks offered, by way of meagre compensation for the mess on the walls, carpet and appliances. “A lot of burglars desecrate the places they rob.”
“I don’t bloody care about that,” Ottershaw went on, the redness of his anger imposing itself even on his tan. “I want these bloody vandals caught.”
“We’re doing our best,” Banks told him patiently. “Unfortunately, we don’t have a lot to go on.”
Richmond and Hatchley had already talked to the neighbours, who had either been out or had heard nothing. Manson had been unable to find any fingerprints except for those of the owners and their cleaning lady, who had been in just the other day to give the place a thorough going-over. There was no way of telling exactly on what day the robbery had taken place, although it must have happened between Tuesday, the day of the cleaner’s visit, and the Ottershaws’ return early that Saturday morning.
“Can you give me a list of what’s missing?”
“One hundred and fifty-two pounds seventy-five pence in cash, for a start,” Ottershaw said.
“Why did you leave so much cash lying around the place?”
“It wasn’t lying around, it was in a box in a drawer. It was just petty cash for paying tradesmen and such. I don’t often have cash on me, use the card most of the time.”
“I see you’re an art lover,” Banks said, looking towards the large framed prints of Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights and Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus hanging on the walls. Banks wasn’t sure whether he could live with either of them.
Ottershaw nodded. “Just prints, of course. Good ones, mind you. I have invested in one or two original works.” He pointed to a rough white canvas with yellow and black lines scratched across it like railway tracks converging and diverging. “London artist. Doing very well for herself, these days. Not when I bought it, though. Got it for a song. Poor girl must have been starving.”
“Any pictures missing?”
Ottershaw shook his head.
“Antiques?” Banks gestured towards the standard lamp, crystalware and bone china.
“No, it’s still all there and in one piece, thank the Lord.”
“Anything else?”
“Some jewellery. Imitation, but still worth about five hundred pounds. My wife can give you descriptions of individual pieces. And there’s all this of course. My wife won’t watch this TV again, nor will she touch the hi-fi. It’ll all have to be replaced. They’ve even spilled the Rémy.”
This last remark seemed a bit melodramatic to Banks, but he let it slip by. “Where is your wife, sir?” he asked.
“Lying down. She’s a very highly strung woman, and this, on top of being stuck at the bloody airport for a whole night . . . it was just too much for her.”
“You were supposed to be home yesterday?”
“Yes. I told you, didn’t I? Bloody airport wallahs went on strike.”
“Did anyone know you were away?”
“Neighbours, a couple of friends at work and the club.”
“What club would that be, sir?”
“Eastvale Golf Club,” Ottershaw announced, puffing out his chest. “As you probably know, it’s an exclusive kind of place, so it’s very unlikely that any criminal elements would gain access.”
“We have to keep all possibilities open,” Banks said, managing to avoid Ottershaw’s scornful glare by scribbling nonsense in his notebook. There was no point in getting involved in a staring match with a victim, he thought.
“Anyone else?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Would your wife be likely to have told anyone?”
“I’ve covered everyone we know.”
“Where do you work, sir?”
“Ottershaw, Kilney and Glenbaum.”
Banks had seen the sign often enough. The solicitors’ offices were on Market Street, just a little further south than the police station.
“Who’s going to clear all this up?” Ottershaw demanded roughly, gesturing around the disaster area of his living-room.
The faeces lay curled on the rug, staining the white fibres around and underneath it. The TV, video and stereo looked as if they’d been sprayed with a hose, but it was quite obvious what had actually happened. Amateurs, Banks thought to himself. Kids, probably, out on a lark. Maybe the same kids who’d done the old ladies’ houses, graduating to the big time. But somebody had told them where to come, that the Ottershaws were away, and if he could find out who, then the rest would follow.
“I really don’t know,” Banks said. Maybe forensic would take it away with them. Perhaps, with a bit of luck, they’d be able to reconstruct the whole person from the faeces: height, weight, colouring, eating habits, health, c
omplexion. Some hope.
“That’s fine, that is,” Ottershaw complained. “We go away for a ten-day holiday, and if it’s not enough that the bloody wallahs choose to go on strike the day we leave, we come home to find the house covered in shit!” He said the last word very loudly, so much so that the lab men going over the room smiled at each other as Banks grimaced.
“We’re not a cleaning service, you know, sir,” he chided Ottershaw mildly, as if talking to a child. “If we were, then we’d never have time to find out who did this, would we?”
“Shock could kill the wife, you know,” Ottershaw said, ignoring him. “Doctor said so. Weak heart. No sudden shocks to the system. She’s a very squeamish woman—and that’s her favourite rug, that sheepskin. She’ll never be able to manage it.”
“Then perhaps, sir, you’d better handle it yourself,” Banks suggested, glancing towards the offending ordure before walking out and leaving the house to the experts.
III
The Oak turned out to be one of those huge Victorian monstrosities—usually called The Jubilee or The Victoria—curving around the corner where Cardigan Drive met Elmet Street about half a mile north of Gallows View. It was all glossy tiles and stained glass, and it reminded Banks very much of the Prince William in Peterborough, outside which he used to play marbles with the other local kids while they all waited for their parents.
Inside, generations of spilt beer and stale cigarette smoke gave the place a brownish glow and a sticky carpet, but the atmosphere in the spacious lounge was cheery and warm. The gaudy ceiling was high and the bar had clearly been moved from its original central position to make room for a small dance floor. It now stretched the whole length of one of the walls, and a staff—or what looked more like a squadron—of buxom barmaids flexed their muscles on the pumps and tried to keep smiling as they rushed around to keep up with the demand. The mirrors along the back, reflecting chandeliers, rows of exotic spirits bottles and the impatient customers, heightened the sense of good-natured chaos. Saturday night at The Oak was knees-up night, and a local comedian alternated with a pop group whose roots, both musical and sartorial, were firmly planted in the early sixties.
“What on earth made you bring me to a place like this?” Jenny Fuller asked, a puzzled smile on her face.
“Atmosphere,” Banks answered, smiling at her. “It’ll be an education.”
“I’ll bet. You said there’s been a new development, something you wanted to tell me.”
Banks took a deep breath and regretted it immediately; the air in The Oak wasn’t of the highest quality, even by modern pollution standards. Fortunately, both the comedian and the pop group were between sets and the only noise was the laughter and chatter of the drinkers.
When Banks had phoned Jenny after he’d left the Ottershaws’ house, he hadn’t been sure why he wanted her to meet him at The Oak, or what he wanted to say to her. He had brought the Tosca cassettes that he had promised to lend her, but that wasn’t excuse enough in itself. She had been obliging, but said she had to be off by nine as there was a small party honouring a visiting lecturer at the university. Banks also wanted to be home early, for Sandra’s sake, so the arrangement suited him.
“Last night we had a visit from the peeper,” he said finally. “At least Sandra did.”
“My God!” Jenny gasped, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “What happened?”
“Not much. She spotted him quite early on and he ran off down the back alley. I went out there but he’d already disappeared into the night.”
“How is she?”
“She’s fine, taking it all very philosophically. But she’s a deep one, Sandra. She doesn’t always let people know what her real feelings are—especially me. I should imagine she feels like the others—hurt, violated, dirty, angry.”
Jenny nodded. “Most likely. Isn’t it a bit awkward for you as far as your job’s concerned?”
“That’s something else I wanted to tell you. I haven’t reported it.”
Jenny stared at Banks far too long for his comfort. It was an intense, curious kind of look, and he finally gave in by going to the bar for two more drinks.
The crowd was about five deep with what looked like at least two local rugby teams, and Banks was smaller and slighter than most of the men who waved their glasses in the air and yelled over the heads of others—“Three pints of black and tan, Elsie, love, please!” . . . “Vodka and slimline, two pints of Stella, Cherry B, and a brandy and crème de menthe,”. . .“Five pints of Guinness . . . Kahlua and Coke, and a gin-and-it for the wife, love!” Everybody seemed to be placing such large orders.
Fortunately, Banks spotted Richmond, tall and distinctive, closer to the bar. He caught the constable’s attention—the man was on duty, after all—and asked for one-and-a-half pints of bitter. Surprised but immediately compliant, Richmond added it to his own order. Rather than demand waiter service of his young constable, Banks waited till Richmond had got the drinks, paid him and made off.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, sitting next to Jenny again.
Jenny laughed. “It wasn’t anything serious. Remember the other night?”
So the ice was broken; the subject wasn’t taboo, after all. “Yes,” he answered, waiting.
“I said I knew how you’d behave, even though I hoped it would be different?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, I was just trying to work out where I’d have placed my bet. Reporting or not reporting. I think I’d have been wrong. It’s not that I think you’re a slave to duty or anything like that, but you like to do things right . . . you’re honest. I’d guess that if you don’t do things the way you know they should be done, you suffer for it. Conscience. Too much of it, probably.”
“I never asked for it,” Banks replied, lighting his second cigarette of the evening.
“You weren’t born with it, either.”
“No?”
“No. Conditioning.”
“I didn’t ask for that either.”
“No, you didn’t. None of us do. You’ve surprised me this time, though. I’d have guessed that you would report the incident no matter how much embarrassment it might cause.”
Banks shook his head. “There would be too much unfavourable publicity all round. Not only for Sandra but for the department, too. That Wycombe woman would just love to get her hands on something like this. If it were made public and we solved the case quickly, according to her it would only be because a policeman’s wife was among the victims. No, I’d rather keep it quiet.”
“But what about interviews, questioning people?”
“Sandra and I will do that locally. We’ll ask if anyone has seen any strangers hanging around.”
Jenny looked at him quizzically. “I’m not judging you, you know. I’m not the authorities.”
“I know,” Banks said. “I needed to tell someone. I couldn’t think of anyone else who’d . . .”
“Automatically be on your side?”
“I was going to say ‘understand,’ but I suppose you’re right. I did count on your support.”
“You have it, whether you need it or not. And your secret’s safe with me.”
“There is something a bit more technical I want to ask you, too,” Banks went on. “This new incident, the fact that it was Sandra, my wife. Do you think that means anything?”
“If he knew who it was, and I think he probably did, then yes, I do think it’s a development.”
“Go on.”
“It means that he’s getting bolder, he needs to take greater risks to get his satisfaction. Unless he’s some kind of hermit or human ostrich, he must have read about reactions to what he’s been doing, probably with a kind of pride. Therefore, he must know that you’ve been heading an investigation into the case. He does a bit of research on you, finds you have an attractive blonde wife—”
“Or knows her already?” Banks cut in.
“What makes you think that? He could simply have w
atched the house discreetly, seen her come and go.”
“It’s just a feeling I’ve got.”
“Yes, but what basis does it have? Where does it come from?”
Banks thought as deeply as he could, given that the pop group had started its set with a carbon copy of the ancient Searchers’ hit, “Love Potion Number Nine.”
“We were talking about the Camera Club Sandra belongs to,” he answered slowly. “Sometimes they have nude models, and I said that most of the men probably don’t even have films in their cameras. It was just a joke at the time, but could there be any connection?”
“I’m not sure,” Jenny replied. “A Camera Club does grant permission for its members to look at the models, though if someone really didn’t have a film in his camera, it might give the illusion of peeping, of doing something vaguely wrong. That’s a bit far-fetched, I’m afraid, but then so is your theory. We can at least expect our man to be interested in naked women, although it’s spying on them that gives him his real thrills. What happened about this other fellow you got onto?”
“Wooller?”
“If that’s his name.”
“Yes, Wooller. Lives on Gallows View. We did a bit of very discreet checking, and it turns out that he was on a two-week library sciences course in Cardiff when two of the incidents took place. That lets him out, however much pornography he’s got hidden away.”
“Sorry,” Jenny said, glancing at her watch, “but I’ve got to dash. The department head will have apoplexy if I’m not there to greet our eminent visitor.” She patted Banks’s arm. “Don’t worry, I think you made the right decision. And one more point: I’d say that our man’s recent actions also show that he’s got a sense of humour. It’s a bit of a joke to him, leaving you with egg on your face, wouldn’t you say? Call me after the weekend?”
Banks nodded and watched Jenny walk away. He noticed Richmond glancing over at him and wondered how bad it looked—a Detective Chief Inspector spending Saturday evening in The Oak with an attractive woman. He saw Jenny in his mind’s eye just as she had looked on Thursday night after telling him she knew he wouldn’t sleep with her. Was it being predictable that annoyed him so much? If so, he could console himself with thoughts of having won a small victory this time. Or was it guilt over what he had really wanted to do? Maybe he would do it anyway, he thought, sauntering out into the chilly October evening. It wasn’t too late yet. Surely a man, like a woman, could change his mind? After all, what harm would it do? “No strings,” Jenny had said.
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