Gallows View

by Peter Robinson

  “What were you doing in the shelter?” Banks asked, with Richmond standing behind him instead of Hatchley, whom nobody had thought to disturb.

  “Waiting for a bus,” Markham snapped.

  “Did you get that, Constable Richmond?”

  “Yes sir. Suspect replied that he was ‘waiting for a bus,’” Richmond quoted.

  “Which bus?” Banks asked.

  “Any bus.”

  “Where were you going?”

  “Anywhere.”

  Banks walked over to Richmond and whispered in his ear. Then he turned to Markham, said “Won’t be a minute, sir,” and the two of them disappeared, leaving a uniformed constable to guard the room.

  About forty-five minutes later, when they returned after a hastily grabbed pint and sandwich at the Queen’s Arms, Markham was livid again.

  “You can’t treat me like this!” he protested. “I know my rights.”

  “What were you doing in the shelter?” Banks asked him calmly.

  Markham didn’t answer. He ran his thick fingers through his hair, turned his eyes up to the ceiling, then glared at Banks, who repeated his question: “What were you doing in the shelter?”

  “Keeping an eye on my wife,” Markham finally blurted out.

  “Why do you think you need to do that?”

  “Isn’t it bloody obvious?” Markham replied scornfully. “Because I think she’s having it off with someone else, that’s why. She thinks I’m out of town on a job, but I followed her to The Oak.”

  “Did she enter alone or with a man?”

  “Alone. But she was meeting him there, I know she was. I was waiting for them to come out.”

  “What were you going to do then?”

  “Do?” Markham ran his hand through his thin, sandy hair again. “I don’t know. Hadn’t thought of it.”

  “Were you going to confront them?”

  “I told you I don’t know.”

  “Or were you just going to keep watching them, spying on them?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “To make sure, like, that they were having it off.”

  “So you’re not sure?”

  “I told you I’m not sure, no. That’s what I was doing, trying to make sure.”

  “What would it take to convince you?” Banks asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What kind of evidence were you hoping to get?”

  “I don’t know. I wanted to see where they went, what they did.”

  “Did you hope to watch them having sex? Is that what you wanted to see?”

  Markham snorted. “It’s hardly what I wanted to see, but I expected it, yes.”

  “How were you going to watch them?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The logistics. How were you going to spy on them? Use binoculars, climb a drainpipe, what? Were you going to take photographs, too?”

  “I said before, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I was just going to follow them and see where they went. After that . . .” He shrugged. “Anyway, just what the hell are you getting at?”

  “After that you were going to watch them and see what they did. Right?”

  “Perhaps. Wouldn’t you want to know, if it was your wife?”

  “Have you done this kind of thing before?”

  “What kind of thing?”

  “Followed people and spied on them.”

  “Why would I?”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “No, I haven’t. And I don’t see the point of all these questions. By now they’re probably at it in some pokey bungalow.”

  “Bungalow? You know where he lives, then?”

  “No. I don’t even know who he is.”

  “But you said ‘bungalow.’ Yo u know he lives in a bungalow?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you say it, then?”

  “For God’s sake, what’s it matter?” Markham cried, burying his long face in his hands. “It’s over now, anyway.”

  “What’s over?”

  “My marriage. The cow!”

  “Have you ever watched anybody getting undressed in a bungalow?” Banks persisted, though he was quickly becoming certain that it was all in vain now, that they had the wrong man.

  “No,” Markham answered, “of course I haven’t.” Then he laughed. “Bloody hell, you think I’m that Peeping Tom, don’t you? You think I’m the bloody peeper!”

  “Why did you run away when you saw my men approaching you?”

  “I didn’t know they were police, did I? They weren’t wearing uniforms.”

  “But why run? They might simply have been walking to the bus stop, mightn’t they?”

  “It was just a feeling. The way they were walking. They looked like heavies to me, and I wasn’t hanging around to get mugged.”

  “You thought they were going to mug you? Was that the reason?”

  “Partly. It did cross my mind that they might be pals of the bloke my wife was meeting—that I’d been seen, like, and they wanted to warn me off. I don’t know. All I can say is they didn’t look like they were coming to wait for a bus.”

  It was almost midnight. Markham said that he was expected home late, at about one o’clock. He had arranged it that way so that he could give his wife enough time, enough rope to hang herself with. Banks suggested that to clear things up once and for all, they should return to Markham’s house and wait for her.

  The house, on Coleman Avenue about a mile northwest of the market square, was so spacious and well furnished that Banks found himself wondering if it was true that plumbers earned a fortune. The predominant colours were dark browns and greens, which, Banks thought, made the place seem a little too sombre for his taste.

  At a quarter to one, the key turned in the door. Markham’s wife had told him that she was visiting a friend and that if he did get home before her he shouldn’t be surprised if she was a bit late. Curious about the light in the living-room, she peered around the door and walked in slowly when she saw her husband with a stranger.

  Mrs Markham was a rather plain brunette in her late twenties, and Banks found it hard to imagine her as the type to have an affair. Still, it took all sorts, he reminded himself, and it never did to pigeon-hole people before you knew them.

  After identifying himself, Banks asked Mrs Markham where she had spent the evening.

  She sat down stiffly and started strangling one of her black leather gloves. “With a friend,” she answered cautiously. “What’s all this about?”

  “Name?”

  “Sheila Croft.”

  “Is she on the phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you call her, please?”

  “Now? Why?”

  “This is very important, Mrs Markham,” Banks explained patiently. “Your husband might be in serious trouble, and I have to verify your story.”

  Mrs Markham bit her thin lower lip and glanced over at her husband.

  There was fear in her eyes.

  “The number?” Banks repeated.

  “It’s late, she’ll be in bed now. Besides, we weren’t at her house,” Mrs Markham dithered.

  “Where were you?”

  “We went to a pub. The Oak.”

  “You weren’t with no Sheila Croft, either, you bloody lying cow,” Markham cut in. “I saw you go in there by yourself, all tarted up. And look at yourself now. Couldn’t even be bothered to put a bit of makeup on again after.”

  Mrs Markham paled. “Call Sheila, then,” she shouted. “Just you ask her. She was already there. I was late.”

  “Sheila would lie her pants off to protect you, and you bloody well know it. Who is he, you bitch?”

  He got to his feet as if to strike her, and Banks stepped forward to push him back down.

  “It’s all right,” Markham said bitterly. “I wouldn’t hit her. She knows that. Who is he, you slut?”

  At this point, Mrs Markham started weeping an
d complaining about being neglected. Banks, depressed by the entire scene and angry that it had not been the peeper they had caught, made his exit quietly.

  III

  A chill wind blew through Glue-Sniffers’ Ginnel, where Mick and Trevor stood, jackets buttoned uptight, smoking and chatting.

  “Did you like it, then, last night?” Mike asked.

  “Not much,” Trevor answered. “I suppose it was all right, but . . .”

  “What? Too tight?”

  “Yeah. Hurt a bit. Dry as a bone at first.”

  “Just wait till you get one that’s willing. Slides in easy, then, it does. Plenty of ’em like it the hard way, though. You know, they like you to show ’em who’s boss.”

  Trevor shrugged. “Where’s the loot?”

  “Got it hidden at my place. It’s safe. Looks like we’ve struck the jackpot there, too, mate. Never seen any that sparkled so much.”

  “That depends on Lenny, doesn’t it?”

  “I told you, he’s got the contacts. He’ll get us the best he can. Probably a few G, there.”

  “Sure. And how much of that will we see?”

  “Oh, don’t go on about it, Trev,” Mick grumbled, shifting from one foot to the other as if he had ants in his pants. “We’ll get what’s coming. And you did get a little bonus, didn’t you?” he leered.

  “What’s Lenny doing?”

  “Still in The Smoke setting up a business deal. Bit tight-lipped about it, right now.”

  “When’s he coming back?”

  “Don’t know. Few days. A week.”

  “When are we going to get rid of the stuff?”

  “What the bloody hell’s wrong with you tonight, Trev? Nothing but fucking moan, moan, moan. You haven’t spent all your readies yet, have you?”

  “No. I just don’t like the idea of that jewellery lying about, that’s all.”

  “Don’t worry. I told you it’s safe. He’ll be back soon.”

  “Heard from him, have you?”

  “Got a letter from him this morning. Careful, our Lenny is. Thinks the blower might be tapped. He said he thought it’d be a good idea if we laid off on the jobs for a while. Just till things cool down, like.”

  “I’ve not noticed any heat.”

  “Bound to be going on, though, ain’t it, behind the scenes. Stands to reason. There’s been a lot of bother lately, and the rozzers must be getting their bleeding arses flayed. Mark my words, mate, they’ll be working their balls off. Best lay off for a few weeks. We’ve got plenty to be going on with.”

  It wasn’t the money that interested Trevor so much; it was the thrill of breaking in, the way it made his heart beat faster and louder in the darkness, pen-lights picking out odd details of paintings on walls or bottle-labels and family snapshots on tables. But he couldn’t explain that to Mick.

  “Well, what do you think?” Mick asked.

  “I suppose he’s right,” Trevor answered, his mind wandering to the possibility of doing jobs alone. That would be much more exciting. The privacy, too, he could savour. Somehow, Mick just seemed too coarse and vulgar to appreciate the true joy and beauty of what they were doing.

  “So we lie low, then?”

  “All right.”

  “Till we hear from Lenny?”

  “Yes.”

  A train rumbled over on the tracks above the ginnel. Mick looked at his watch and grinned. “Late.”

  “What is?”

  “Ten-ten from ’Arrogate. Twenty minutes late. Typical bloody British Rail.”

  THIRTEEN

  I

  Banks spent most of the week in his office brooding on the three cases and smoking too much, but the figures refused to become clear; the shadowy man in the dark, belted raincoat seemed to float around in his mind with the two faceless youths, watching them watching the sailors on the deck of Alice Matlock’s ship in a bottle, the Miranda. And somewhere among the crowd were all the people he had talked to in connection with the cases: Ethel Carstairs, the Sharps, “Boxer” Buxton the headmaster, Mr Price the form-master, Dorothy Wycombe, Robin Allott, Mr Patel, Alice Matlock herself, dead on the cold stone flags, and Jenny Fuller.

  Jenny Fuller. Twice during the week he picked up the phone to call her, and twice he put it down without dialling. He had no excuse to see her—nothing new had happened—and he felt he had already misled her enough. When, on Wednesday evening, Sandra suggested that they invite Jenny to dinner, a silly argument followed, in which Banks protested that he hardly knew the woman and that their relationship was purely professional. His nose grew an inch or two, and Sandra backed down gracefully.

  Richmond and Hatchley were in and out of his office with information, none of it very encouraging. Geoff Welling and Barry Scott appeared to be normal enough lads, and they had gone off on holiday to Italy the day before the Carol Ellis incident, so that let them out.

  Sandra continued talking to the neighbours, but none of them had anything to add to Selena Harcourt’s information.

  The search continued for passers-by, shopkeepers and bus drivers who might have been near The Oak the night Mr Patel saw the loiterer. Yes, one of the bus drivers remembered seeing him, but no, he couldn’t offer a description; the man had been standing in the shadows and the driver had been paying attention to the road. All the shopkeepers had closed for the night and none of them lived, like Mr Patel, above their premises. So far, no pedestrians had come forward, despite the appeal in the Yorkshire Post.

  Richmond had conducted a thorough search of Alice Matlock’s cottage, but no will turned up. Alice had nothing to her name but a Post Office Savings Account, the balance of which stood at exactly one hundred and five pounds, fifty-six pence on the day of her death. She seemed to be one of that rare breed who do not live beyond their means; all her life, she had made do with what she earned, whether it was her nurse’s salary or her pension. Ethel Carstairs said she had never heard Alice talk of a will, and the whole motive of murder for gain crumbled before it was fully constructed.

  On Friday morning, Banks walked into the station, absorbed in Monteverdi’s Orfeo. Orpheus was pleading with Charon to allow him to enter the underworld and see Eurydice.

  Non viv’io, no, che poi de vita è priva

  Mia cara sposa, il cor non è più meco,

  E senza cor com’esser può ch’io viva?

  sang the man who could tame wild beasts with music: “I am no longer alive, for since my dear wife is deprived of life, my heart remains no longer with me, and without a heart, how can it be that I am living?”

  He didn’t notice the woman waiting by the front desk to see him until the desk-sergeant coughed and tapped him on the arm as he drifted by, entranced. The embarrassed sergeant introduced them, then went back to his duties as Banks, awkwardly removing his headphones, led the woman, Thelma Pitt, upstairs to his office.

  She seemed very tense as she accepted the chair Banks drew out for her. Though her hair was blonde, the dark roots were clearly visible, and they combined with the haggard cast of her still-attractive, heart-shaped face and a skirt too short for someone of her age to give the impression of a once gay and beautiful woman going downhill fast. Beside her right eye was a purplish-yellow bruise.

  Banks took out a new file and wrote down, first, her personal details. He vaguely recognized her name, then remembered that she and her husband, a local farm labourer, had won over a quarter of a million pounds on the pools ten years ago. Banks had read all about them in the Sunday papers. They had been a young married couple at the time; the husband was twenty-six, Thelma twenty-five. For a while, their new jet-setting way of life had been a cause célèbre in Eastvale, until Thelma had walked out on her husband to become something of a local femme fatale. (Why, wondered Banks, were these delicate phrases always in French, and always untranslatable?) Thelma’s legendary parties, which some said were thinly disguised orgies, involved a number of prominent Eastvalers, who were all eventually embarrassed one way or another. When the party was ove
r, Thelma retreated into well-heeled obscurity. Her husband was later killed in an automobile accident in France.

  It was a sad enough story in itself; now the woman sat before Banks looking ten years older than she was, hands clasped over her handbag on her lap, clearly with another tale of hard times to tell.

  “I want to report a robbery,” she said tightly, twisting a large ruby ring around the second finger of her right hand.

  “Who was robbed?” Banks asked. “I assume it was . . .”

  “Yes, it was me.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Monday evening.”

  “At your home?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time?”

  “It was just after ten. I got home early.”

  “Where had you been?”

  “Where I usually go on Mondays, the Golf Club.”

  “Are you a player?”

  “No,” she smiled weakly, relaxing a little. “Just a drinker.”

  “You realize it’s Friday now?” Banks prompted her, eager to set her at ease but puzzled about the circumstances. “You say the robbery took place on Monday . . . . It’s a long time to wait before reporting it.”

  “I know,” Thelma Pitt said, “and I’m sorry. But there’s something else . . .”

  Banks looked at her, his wide-open eyes asking the question.

  “I was raped.”

  Banks put his pen down on the table. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to see a policewoman?” he asked.

  “No, it doesn’t matter.” She leaned forward. “Inspector, I’ve lived with this night and day since Monday. I couldn’t come in before because I was ashamed to. I felt dirty. I believed it was all my fault—a punishment for past sins, if you like. I’m a Catholic, though not a very good one. I haven’t left the house since then. This morning I woke up angry, do you understand? I feel angry, and I want to do whatever I can to see that the criminals are caught. The robbery doesn’t matter. The jewels were worth a great deal but not as much . . . not as much . . .” She gripped the sides of her chair until her knuckles turned white, then struggled for control of her emotions again.