Gallows View

by Peter Robinson

  Banks turned up his collar as he walked back to the Cortina. He needed cigarettes, and fortunately there was an off-licence next door to the pub. As he picked up his change, he paused for a moment before pocketing it. Hatchley might have questioned the barmaids at The Oak, but he hadn’t said anything about talking to the local shopkeepers.

  Banks identified himself and asked the owner’s name.

  “Patel,” the man answered cautiously.

  “What time do you close?”

  “Ten o’clock. It’s not against the law, is it?” Mr Patel answered in a broad Yorkshire accent.

  “No, not at all. It’s nothing to do with that,” Banks assured him. “Think back to last Monday night. Did you notice anybody hanging around outside here during the evening?”

  Mr Patel shook his head.

  It had probably been too early in the evening for the peeper and too long ago for the shopkeeper to remember, as Banks had feared.

  “A bit later, though,” Mr Patel went on, “I noticed a bloke waiting at the bus stop for a bloody long time. There must have been two or three buses went by and ’ee were still there. I think that were Monday last.”

  “What time was this?”

  “After I’d closed up. ’Ee just sat there in that bus shelter over t’street.” Banks looked out of the window and saw the shelter, a dark rectangle set back from the road.

  “Where were you?” he asked.

  “Home,” Mr Patel said, turning up his eyes. “The flat’s above t’shop. Very convenient.”

  “Yes, yes indeed,” Banks said, getting more interested. “Tell me more.”

  “I remember because I was just closing t’curtains when a bus went by, and I noticed that bloke was still in t’shelter. It seemed a bit odd to me. I mean, why would a chap sit in a bus shelter if ’ee weren’t waiting on a bus?”

  “Why, indeed?” Banks said. “Go on.”

  “Nothing more to tell. A bit later I looked again, and ’ee were still there.”

  “What time did he leave?”

  “I didn’t actually see him leave, but ’ee’d gone by eleven o’clock. That were t’last time I looked out.”

  “And the time before that?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “When was the last time you looked out and saw him?”

  “About ’alf past ten.”

  “Can you describe the man?”

  Mr Patel shook his head sadly. “Sorry, it were too dark. I think ’ee were wearing a dark overcoat or a raincoat, though. Slim, a bit taller than you. I got the impression ’ee were youngish, some’ow. It was ’ard to pick him out from the shadows.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Banks said. At least the colour of the coat matched the description that Sandra and the other victims had given. It had to be the man. They could talk to other people in the street: shopkeepers, locals, even the bus drivers. Maybe somebody else would have noticed a man waiting for a bus he never caught on Monday night.

  “Look,” Banks said, “this is very important. You’ve been a great help.” Mr Patel shrugged and shook his head shyly. “Have you ever seen the man before?”

  “I don’t think so, but how would I know? I couldn’t recognize him from Adam, could I?”

  “If you see him again, or anyone you think looks like him, anyone hanging about the bus stop without catching a bus, or acting oddly in any way, let me know, will you?” Banks wrote his number on a card and passed it to Mr Patel, who nodded and promised to keep his eyes skinned.

  For the first time in days, Banks felt quite cheerful as he drove home to the delightful melodies of The Magic Flute.

  TEN

  I

  On Sunday morning, Banks paid his visit to Robin Allott, who lived in his parents’ modest semi about ten minutes walk away.

  A tiny, bird-like woman answered his knock and fluttered around him all the way into the living-room.

  “Do sit down, Inspector,” she said, pulling out a chair. “I’ll call Robin. He’s in his room reading the Sunday papers.”

  Banks looked quickly around the room. The furniture was a little threadbare and there was no VCR or music centre, only an ancient-looking television. Quite a contrast from the Ottershaws’ opulence, he thought.

  “He’s coming down,” Mrs Allott said. “Can I make you a cup of tea?”

  “Yes, please,” Banks said, partly to get her out of the way for a while. She made him nervous with her constant hovering. “I hope I’m not disturbing you and Mr Allott,” he said.

  “Oh no, not at all.” She lowered her voice. “My husband’s an invalid, Inspector. He had a serious stroke about two years ago and he can’t get around much. He stays in bed most of the time and I look after him as best I can.”

  That explained the badly worn furnishings, Banks thought. Whatever help the social services gave, the loss of the breadwinner was a serious financial setback for most families.

  “It’s been a great help having Robin home since his divorce,” she added, then shrugged. “But he can’t stay forever, can he?”

  Banks heard footsteps on the stairs, and as Robin entered the room, Mrs Allott went to make the tea.

  “Hello,” Robin said, shaking Banks’s hand. He looked an almost unnaturally healthy and handsome young man, despite the unmistakable signs of his chestnut-brown hair receding at the temples. “Sandra said you might call.”

  “It’s about Alice Matlock,” Banks said. “I’d just like to find out as much as I can about her.”

  “I don’t really see how I can help you, Inspector,” Robin said. “I told Sandra the same, but she seemed quite insistent. Surely you’ll have found out all you want to know from her close friends?”

  “She only had one, it seems: a lady called Ethel Carstairs. And even they haven’t been friends for long. Most of Alice’s contemporaries appear to have died.”

  “I suppose that’s what happens when you reach her age. Anyway, as I said, I don’t know how I can help, but fire away.”

  “Had you seen her recently?”

  “Not for a while, no. If I remember correctly, the last time was about three years ago. I was interested in portrait photography and I thought she’d make a splendid subject. I have the picture somewhere—I’ll dig it out for you later.”

  “And before that?”

  “I hadn’t seen her since my gran died.”

  “She and your grandmother were close friends?”

  “Yes. My father’s mother. They grew up together and both worked most of their lives in the hospital. Eastvale’s not such a big place, or it wasn’t then, so it was quite natural they’d be close. They went through the wars together, too. That creates quite a bond between people. When I was a child, my gran would often take me over to Alice’s.”

  Mrs Allott appeared with the tea and perched at the opposite end of the table.

  “Can you tell me anything about her past?” Banks asked Robin.

  “Nothing you couldn’t find out from anyone else, I don’t think. I did realize later, though, when I was old enough to understand, what a fascinating life she’d led, all the changes she’d witnessed. Can you imagine it? When she was a girl cars were few and far between and people didn’t move around much. And it wasn’t only technology. Look at how our attitudes have changed, how the whole structure of society is different.”

  “How did Alice relate to all this?”

  “Believe it or not, Inspector, she was quite a radical. She was an early struggler for women’s rights, and she even went so far as to serve with the International Brigade as a nurse in the Spanish Civil War.”

  “Was she a communist?”

  “Not in the strict sense, as far as I know. A lot of people who fought against Franco weren’t.”

  “What were your impressions of her?”

  “Impressions? I suppose, when I was a child, I was just fascinated with the cottage she lived in. It was so full of odds and ends. All those alcoves just overflowing with knick-knacks she’d collected over t
he years: tarnished cigarette lighters, Victorian pennies and those old silver three-penny bits—all kinds of wonderful junk. I don’t imagine I paid much attention to Alice herself. I remember I was always fascinated by that ship in the bottle, the Miranda. I stared at it for hours on end. It was alive for me, a real ship. I even imagined the crew manning the sails, doing battle with pirates.”

  Mrs Allott poured the tea and laughed. “He always did have plenty of imagination, my Robin, didn’t you?”

  Robin ignored her. “How did it happen, anyway? How was she killed?”

  “We’re still not sure,” Banks said. “It looks like she might have fallen over in a struggle with some kids come to rob her, but we’re trying to cover any other possibilities. Have you any ideas?”

  “I shouldn’t think it was kids, surely?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, they wouldn’t kill a frail old woman, would they?”

  “You’d be surprised at what kids do these days, Mr Allott. As I said, they might not have killed her intentionally.”

  Robin smiled. “I’m a teacher at the College of Further Education, Inspector, so I’m no great believer in the innocence and purity of youth. But couldn’t it have happened some other way?”

  “We don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to determine. What do you have in mind?”

  “Nothing, I’m afraid. It was just an idea.”

  “You can’t think of anyone who might have held a grudge or wanted her out of the way for some other reason?”

  “I’m sorry, no. I wish I could help, but . . .”

  “That’s all right,” Banks said, standing to leave. “I wasn’t expecting you to give us the answer. Is there anything else you can think of?”

  “No. I can dig out that portrait for you, though, if you’re interested.”

  Out of politeness’ sake, Banks accompanied Robin upstairs and waited as he flipped through one of his many boxes of photographs. The picture of Alice, when he found it, was mounted on mat and still seemed in very good shape. It showed a close-up of the old woman’s head in semi-profile, and high-contrast processing had brought out the network of lines and wrinkles, the vivid topography of Alice Matlock’s face. Her expression was proud, her eyes clear and lively.

  “It’s very good,” Banks said. “How long have you been interested in photography?”

  “Ever since I was at school.”

  “Ever thought of taking it up professionally?”

  “As a police photographer?”

  Banks laughed. “I didn’t have anything as specific as that in mind,” he said.

  “I’ve thought of trying it as a freelance, yes,” Robin said. “But it’s too unpredictable. Better to stick to teaching.”

  “There is one more thing, while I’m here,” Banks said, handing the photograph back to Robin. “It’s just something I’m curious about. Do you ever get the impression that anyone at the Camera Club might be . . . not too serious . . . might be more interested in the models you get occasionally than in the artistic side?”

  It was Robin’s turn to laugh. “What an odd question,” he said. “But, yes, there’s always one or two seem to turn up only when we’ve got a model in. What did Sandra say?”

  “To tell the truth,” Banks said, “I didn’t like to ask her. She’s a bit sensitive about it and I’ve probably teased her too much as it is.”

  “I see.”

  “Who are these people?”

  “Their names?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I know . . .” Robin said hesitantly.

  “Don’t worry,” Banks assured him, “you won’t be getting them into trouble. They won’t even know we’ve heard their names if they’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “All right.” Robin took a deep breath. “Geoff Welling and Barry Scott are the ones who spring to mind. They seem decent enough sorts, but they hardly ever turn up and I’ve never seen any examples of their work.”

  “Thank you,” Banks said, writing down the names. “What do they look like?”

  “They’re both in their late twenties, about my age. Five-ten to six feet. Barry’s got a bit of a beer belly but Geoff seems fit enough. What’s all this about? That Peeping Tom business?”

  “Robin!” Mrs Allott shouted from the bottom of the stairs, “Can you come and take your dad up his tea and biscuits?”

  “Coming,” Robin yelled back, and followed Banks down the stairs.

  “Another cup of tea, Inspector?” Mrs Allott asked.

  “No, I won’t if you don’t mind,” Banks said. “Have to get home.”

  As he walked the short distance back home, Banks tried to pinpoint exactly what it was that Robin had said to increase his uneasy feeling about the Alice Matlock killing.

  II

  Apart from the immediate shock, which had made her scream, Sandra felt very calm about her experience. One minute she had been undressing for bed, as she had done thousands of times before, absorbed in her own private rituals, and the next moment that world was in tatters, would probably never really be the same again. She realized that the idea of such permanent ruin was melodramatic, so she kept it to herself, but she could think of no other way to express the complex sense of violation she had experienced.

  She wasn’t scared; she wasn’t even angry after the shock had worn off and the adrenalin dispersed. Surprisingly, her main feeling was pity—Harriet’s compassion—because Sandra did feel sorry for the man in a way she found impossible to explain, even to herself.

  It was something to do with the unnaturalness of his act. Sandra had always been fortunate in having a healthy attitude towards sex. She had neither needed nor wanted the help of manuals, marital aids, awkward positions or suburban wife-swapping clubs to keep her sex life interesting, and it was partly because of this, her own sexual healthiness, that she felt sorry for the pathetic man who could only enjoy sex in such a vicarious, secretive way. Her pity was not a soft and loving feeling, though; it was more akin to contempt.

  That Sunday morning as she rang Selena Harcourt’s doorbell, which played a fragment of “Lara’s Theme” from Doctor Zhivago, she thanked her lucky stars for the hundredth time that she had managed to persuade Alan not to report the incident. It had gone against all his instincts, and the task had required all of Sandra’s rhetorical expertise, but she had done it, and here she was, about to fulfill her part of the bargain.

  “Oh, hello, Sandra, do come in,” Selena said in her cooing voice. “Excuse the mess.”

  There was, of course, no mess. Selena’s living-room was spick and span, as always. It smelled of pine air-freshener and lemon-scented disinfectant, and all the souvenir ashtrays and costume-dolls from the Algarve, the Costa del Sol and various other European resorts simply glowed with health and shone with cleanliness.

  The only new addition to the household was a gloomy poodle, called Pépé, who turned around slowly from his spot by the fireplace and looked at Sandra as if to apologize for his ridiculous appearance: the clippings and bows that Selena had inflicted on him in the hope that he might win a prize in the upcoming dog show. Sandra duly lavished hypocritical praise upon the poor creature, who gave her a very sympathetic and conspiratorial look, then she sat uneasily on the sofa. She always sat uneasily in Selena’s house because everything looked as if it were on show, not quite real or functional.

  “I was just saying to Kenneth, we haven’t seen very much of you lately. You’ve not been to one of our coffee mornings for simply ages.”

  “It’s the job,” Sandra explained. “I work three mornings a week for Dr Maxwell now, remember?”

  “Of course,” Selena said. “The dentist.” Somehow or other, she managed to give the word just the right shade of emphasis to imply that although dentists might be necessary, they were certainly not desirable in respectable society.

  “That’s right.”

  “So what else have you been up to since we last had a little chat?”

  Sandra couldn’t re
member when that was, so she gave a potted history of the last month, to which Selena listened politely before offering tea.

  “Have you heard about this Peeping Tom business?” she called through from the kitchen.

  “Yes,” Sandra shouted back.

  “Of course, I keep forgetting your hubby’s on the force. You must know all about it, then?” Selena said as she brought in the tray bearing tea and a selection of very fattening confectionery.

  “On the force, indeed!” Sandra thought. Selena knew damn well that Alan was a policeman—in fact, that was the only reason she had ever talked to Sandra in the first place—and her way of digging for gossip was about as subtle as a Margaret Thatcher pep speech.

  “Not much,” Sandra lied. “There’s not much to know, really.”

  “That Dorothy Wycombe’s been having a right go at Alan, hasn’t she?” Selena noted, with so much glee that the lah-de-dah inflection she usually imposed on her Northern accent slipped drastically around “having a right go.”

  “You could say that,” Sandra admitted, gritting her teeth.

  “Is it true?”

  “Is what true?”

  “That the police aren’t doing much. Now, you know I’m no women’s libber, Sandra, but we do get treated just a teeny bit unfairly sometimes. It is a man’s world, you know.”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, though, they’re doing quite a lot. They’ve brought in a psychologist from the university.”

  “Oh?” Selena raised her eyebrows. “What’s he supposed to do?”

  “She helps tell the police what kind of person this peeper is.”

  “But surely they know that already? He likes to watch women undress.”