Gallows View

by Peter Robinson

  TWELVE

  I

  After a dull, elementary talk by Fred Barton on the properties of the medium telephoto lens, the Tuesday evening Camera Club was devoted to mutual criticism of work produced at the session two weeks earlier when a nude model had been the subject. As expected, some ribald remarks came from less mature male amateurs, but on the whole the brief, informal session was productive.

  Sandra looked over Norman’s work and had to admit, if only to herself, that she liked it. It was far more experimental than anyone else’s, she imagined, and she felt some sympathy because she, too, liked to take risks, though she rarely went as far as Norman. He had used a fast film and blown up the prints to give them a very coarse grain; consequently, the photographs did not look like shots of a naked woman; they looked more like moonscapes.

  The usual crowd gathered at The Mile Post later. The pub was busier than usual; rock ‘n’ roll on the jukebox and bleeping video games made conversation difficult. There was also a group of local farmers celebrating something with a great deal of laughter and the occasional song, and some of the lads from the racing stables in Middleham were out enjoying a night on the town.

  “Have you seen that new Minolta?” Norman asked, getting comfortable in his chair and arranging pipe and matches neatly in front of him on the varnished table.

  “That’s not a camera,” Robin said. “It’s a computer. All you have to do is programme it and it does everything for you, including focus.”

  “What do you think you’re doing when you set your shutter speed and your aperture?” Norman asked. “You’re programming your camera then, aren’t you?”

  “That’s different.”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” Sandra chipped in, “anything that makes the technical side easier and allows me to concentrate more on the photograph is fine by me.”

  Norman smiled indulgently. “Well put, Sandra. Although I would add that the ‘technical side,’ as you term it, is an integral part of the photograph.”

  “I know the selections are important,” Sandra agreed, “and I’d always want a manual override—but the easier the better as far as I’m concerned.”

  “I’ve never found it particularly difficult to set the camera,” Robin said. “Or to focus. I don’t really see what all the fuss is about.”

  “Typical reactionary attitude,” Norman sneered. “You can’t ignore the new technology, lad. You might as well make good use of it.”

  “I’ve really nothing against it,” Robin argued quietly. “I just don’t think I need one, that’s all. No more than I need an electric toothbrush.”

  “Oh, you’d be happy with a bloody pinhole camera, you would,” Norman sighed.

  “My excuse is that I can’t afford one,” Sandra said.

  “I don’t think any of us can,” Harriet echoed. “It’s a very expensive hobby, photography.”

  “True enough,” Norman agreed. “I’d have to sell all the camera equipment I’ve already got. It might be worth it, though. I’ll look into it a bit more closely. Another round?”

  When Norman came back with the drinks, the conversation had shifted subtly to the evening’s session. Sandra complimented him on his photos and he grudgingly admitted that hers, though they were in colour and had obviously been cropped, were fine compositions. He told her that she had done particularly interesting and unusual things with skin tone.

  “Where are yours?” Norman asked Robin. “I don’t think any of us had a look at them.”

  “They’re not back yet. I took slides and I didn’t finish the film. I only sent it off a couple of days ago.”

  “Slides!” exclaimed Norman. “What an odd thing to do.”

  “I used an Ektachrome 50,” Robin argued. “It’s very good for that kind of thing.”

  “But all the same,” Norman repeated, “slides in a studio nude session? I’ll bet you never even had a film in your camera, eh, Robin? I’ll bet that’s why you’ve got nothing to show us.”

  Robin ignored him and looked over to Sandra. “I talked to your husband,” he said, “but I can’t see how I was any help.”

  Sandra shrugged. “You never know. He’s got to gather all the information he can. I should imagine it’s like counting the grains of sand on a beach.”

  “I think I’d find that too frustrating.”

  Sandra laughed. “Oh, I’m sure Alan does, too. Especially when there’s so many cases going at once and they keep him out till all hours. Still, that’s not all there is to it.”

  “‘A policeman’s lot,’” quoted Norman “‘is not a happy one.’”

  “I wouldn’t agree with that,” Sandra said, smiling. “Alan’s usually perfectly happy unless he’s dealing with particularly unpleasant crimes, like the killing of a defenceless old woman.”

  “And a Peeping Tom,” Norman added. “Let’s not forget our Peeping Tom.”

  “No, let’s not,” Sandra said. “Anyway, Robin, you might have been helpful. Alan says it’s often hard to know exactly where the solution comes from. Everything gets mixed in together.”

  “When are we going to see these slides, then?” Norman asked Robin impatiently.

  “They should be back soon.”

  “I’ll bet you don’t even have a slide projector.”

  “So what? I could always borrow one.”

  “Not from me, you couldn’t. I haven’t got one either. I haven’t even been able to show anyone last year’s holiday pictures yet.”

  “Surely Robin must have one if he’s been taking slides?” Harriet said.

  “No, I don’t,” Robin mumbled apologetically. “I’m afraid I’ve never done transparencies before. I do have a small viewer, of course, but that’s not much use.”

  “Well, I do have a projector and a screen,” Sandra told them. “And if any of you want to borrow it, you’re quite welcome. Just drop around sometime. You know where I live.”

  “Is that an invitation, Sandra?” Norman leered.

  “Oh, shut up,” she said, and pushed him playfully away.

  “Don’t you think there’s something unnatural about taking pictures of nudes at the Camera Club?” Harriet asked suddenly. “I mean, we’re all talking about it as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.”

  “Why?” demanded Norman. “It’s the only chance some of us get.”

  “What?” Sandra joked. “A gay, young blade like yourself, Norman. Surely they’re just flocking to your studio, dying to take their clothes off for you?”

  “Less of the ‘gay,’ if you please, love. And I don’t have a studio. What about you, Robin?”

  “What about me?”

  “Do you agree with Harriet, that it’s unnatural to photograph nudes in a studio?”

  “I wouldn’t say it’s unnatural, no. I don’t think my mother would approve, though,” he added in an attempt at humour. “I sometimes have a devil of a job keeping things to myself.”

  At about ten o’clock, there was a general movement homewards, but Sandra managed to catch Harriet’s eye and signal discreetly for her to stay. After the others had gone, Harriet moved her chair closer. “Another drink?” she asked.

  “Please.” Sandra said. She needed it. She also needed somebody to talk to, and the only person she could think of was Harriet. Even then, it would take another drink to make her open up.

  The empty seats at the table were soon taken by a noisy but polite group of stable-lads. When she had adjusted to the new volume level, Harriet, who drove a mobile library around some of the more remote Dales villages, began to talk about work.

  “Yesterday I got a puncture near the Butter Tubs Pass above Wensleydale,” she said. “A car full of tourists came speeding round the corner, and I had to pull over quick. Some of those stones by the side of the road are very sharp, I can tell you. I was stuck there for ages till a kind young vet stopped to help me. When I got to Angram, old Mrs Wytherbottom played heck about having to wait so long for her new Agatha Christie.” She pau
sed. “Sandra, what’s wrong? You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said.”

  “What? Oh, sorry.” Sandra gulped down the last of her vodka and slimline and took the plunge. “It happened to me, Harriet,” she said quietly. “What we were talking about last week. It happened to me on Friday.”

  “Good Lord.” Harriet whispered, putting her hand on Sandra’s wrist. “What . . . how?”

  “Just like everyone else. I was getting ready for bed and he was watching through the bottom of the curtains.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “I saw him before I’d got too far, fortunately. But he was off like a shot. I didn’t get a good look at him. The thing is, Harriet, this has got to be in strict confidence. Alan didn’t report it because of the embarrassment it would cause us both. He feels bad enough about that, but if he thought anyone else knew . . .”

  “I understand. Don’t worry, Sandra, I won’t tell a soul. Not even David.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Now? Fine. It seems very distant already. It was a shock at first, and I certainly felt violated, but I wanted to tell you that I also felt some sort of pity for the man. It’s odd, but when I could first think about it rationally, it just seemed so childish. That’s the word that came to mind: childish. He needs help, not punishment. Maybe both, I don’t know. It depends which gets the better of me, anger or pity. Every time I think about it they seem to be fighting in me.”

  “It was silly of me to say what I did last week,” Harriet apologized. “About feeling sorry for him. I’d no idea . . . I mean, I’ve still no idea what it actually feels like. But they’re closer than you think, aren’t they, anger and pity?”

  “Yes. Anyway, it’s not as bad as you’d imagine,” Sandra said, smiling. “You soon get over it. I doubt that it leaves any lasting scars on anyone, unlike most sex crimes.” Even as she spoke the words, they sounded too glib to be true.

  “I don’t know. Has Alan got any leads yet?”

  “Not much, no. A vague description. One of our neighbours saw a man hanging around the back alley a few days ago. He was dressed pretty much the same as the man I saw, but neither of us could give a clear description. Anyway, keep an eye on your neighbourhood, Harriet. It seems that he does a bit of research before he comes in to get his jollies.”

  “Yes, I read about that in the paper. Superintendent Gristhorpe gave a press release.”

  “Anyway,” Sandra said, “there’s a lot of women in Eastvale, so I would think the odds against you are pretty high.”

  Harriet smiled. “But why you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The odds against you must have been high, too.”

  “Alan thinks it’s because of who I am. He says the man’s getting bolder, more cocky, throwing down the gauntlet.”

  “A Peeping Tom with a sense of humour?”

  “Why not? Plenty of psychos have one.”

  “You don’t think he’s looking for someone, do you?”

  “Looking for someone? Who? What do you mean?”

  “Someone in particular. Yo u know, like Jack the Ripper always said that woman’s name.”

  “Mary Kelly? That’s just a rumour, though. Why would he be looking for someone in particular?”

  “I don’t know. It was just a thought. Somebody who reminds him of his first time, his first love or someone like that.”

  “You’re quite the amateur psychologist, aren’t you?” Sandra said, looking at Harriet through narrowed eyes.

  “It’s just something I thought of, that’s all.” Harriet shrugged.

  “They’ve brought a professional psychologist in,” Sandra said. “Woman called Fuller. Dr Jenny Fuller. According to Gristhorpe she’s quite a looker, and Alan’s been working late several evenings.”

  “Oh, Sandra,” Harriet exclaimed. “You surely can’t think Alan . . .?”

  “Relax,” Sandra said, laughing and touching Harriet’s arm. “No, I don’t think anything like that. I do think he fancies her, though.”

  “How do you know?”

  “A woman can tell. Surely you could tell if David had his eyes on another woman?”

  “Well, I suppose so. He is rather transparent.”

  “Exactly. I wouldn’t use that word to describe Alan, but it’s in what he doesn’t say and how he reacts when the subject’s brought up. He’s been very cagey. He didn’t even tell me it was an attractive woman he was working with.”

  “Does it worry you?”

  “No. I trust him. And if he does yield to temptation, he wouldn’t be the first.”

  “But what would you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Would he tell you?”

  “Yes. Eventually. Men like Alan usually do, you know. They think it’s because they’re being honest with you, but it’s really because the guilt is too much of a burden; they can’t bear it alone. I’d probably rather not know, but he wouldn’t consider that.”

  “Oh, Sandra,” Harriet snorted, “you’re being a proper cynic. Don’t you think you’re being a bit hard on him?”

  Sandra laughed. “I wouldn’t be able to say it if I didn’t love him, warts and all. And don’t get upset. I don’t think anything will come of it. If she’s as beautiful as Gristhorpe says, Alan would hardly be normal if he didn’t feel some attraction. He’s a big boy. He can deal with it.”

  “You haven’t met her, then?”

  “No, he’s not offered to introduce me.”

  “Maybe,” Harriet suggested, leaning forward and lowering her voice, “you should get him to invite her for dinner? Or just suggest a drink together. See what he says.”

  Sandra beamed. “What a good idea! I’m sure it’d be a lot of fun. Yes, I think I’ll get working on it. It’ll be interesting to see how he reacts.”

  II

  Police Constable Craig was one of the uniformed officers temporarily in plain clothes on the peeper case. It was his job to walk between as many pubs as possible within his designated area and to keep an eye open for any loiterers. The job was tiring and frustrating, as he was not allowed to enter any of the pubs; he simply had to walk the streets and pass each place more than once to see if anyone was hanging around for too long.

  As he approached The Oak, near the end of his beat, for the second time that evening, he noticed the same man standing in the shadows of the bus shelter. From the few details that Craig could make out, the man was slim, of medium height and wearing a dark, belted raincoat and a flat cap. It wasn’t a trilby, but there was no law against a man’s owning more than one hat. Craig also knew that at least two buses must have stopped there since he had last walked by The Oak.

  Following instructions, he went inside the noisy pub and sought out DC Richmond, who was by now sick to death of spending every evening—duty or no—in that loud, garish gin-palace. Richmond, hearing Craig’s story, suggested that they call the station first, then check once more in about fifteen minutes. If the man was still there, they would approach him for questioning. Gratefully, Craig accepted a half of Guinness and the chance to sit down and take the weight off his feet.

  Meanwhile, Mr Patel, who had become quite the sleuth since Banks’s visit, glanced frequently out of his shop window, and wrote down, in a notebook bought especially for the purpose, that a man resembling the suspect he had already described to the police had been standing in the shelter for forty-eight minutes. He timed his entry “Tuesday, 9:56 P.M.,” then picked up the phone and asked for Detective Chief Inspector Banks.

  Banks was not, at first, happy to take the message. He was enjoying a pleasant evening with the children—no opera, no television—helping Brian construct a complicated extension of track for his electric train. Tracy was stretched out on her stomach, too, deciding where to place bridges, signal boxes and papier-mâché mountains. Everyone pulled a face when the phone rang, but Banks became excited when Sergeant Rowe passed on Mr Patel’s information.

  B
ack at The Oak, the fifteen minutes was up. Richmond had reported in, as arranged, and now it was time to approach the suspect and ask a few questions. As he and Craig headed for the pub’s heavy smoked-glass and oak doors, Banks was just arriving at Mr Patel’s shop, walking in as casually as any customer.

  “Is that him?” he asked.

  “I can’t say for certain,” Mr Patel answered, scratching his head. “But ’ee looks the same. ’Ee weren’t wearing an ’at last time, though.”

  “How long did you say he’s been there?”

  Mr Patel looked first at his watch, then down at his notebook. “Sixty-three minutes,” he answered, after a brief calculation.

  “And how many buses have gone by?”

  “Three. One to Ripon and two to York.”

  The bus shelter stood at the apex of a triangle, the base of which was formed by a line between Mr Patel’s shop and The Oak itself. Banks was already at the door, keeping his eyes on the suspect across the road to his right, when Craig and Richmond, walking much too purposefully towards their man, were spotted, and the dark figure took off down the street.

  But what could have been a complete disaster was suddenly transformed into a triumphant success. As the man sprinted by Mr Patel’s shop with a good lead on his pursuers, Banks rushed out and performed the best rugby tackle he could remember making since he’d played scrum-half in a school game over twenty years ago.

  The quartet returned to Eastvale station at ten-thirty, and the suspect, protesting loudly, was led into the interview room: a stark place with three stiff-backed chairs, pale green walls and a metal desk.

  Richmond and Craig thought they were in for a telling-off, but Banks surprised them by thanking them for their help. They both knew that if the man had got away things would have been very different.

  The suspect was Ronald Markham, age twenty-eight, a plumber in Eastvale, and apart from the headgear, his clothing matched all earlier descriptions of the peeper’s. At first he was outraged at being attacked in such a violent manner, then he became sullen and sarcastic.