Gallows View

by Peter Robinson

  “Alan! Alan, thank God you’re all right,” she sobbed, burying her face in his shoulder.

  He stroked her hair. “I’m all right, don’t worry. Let’s go inside. I could do with a drink.”

  Richmond stood up as they entered the living-room. The young DC stroked his moustache and cleared his throat. Banks suddenly remembered that it was Richmond he had seen that night in The Oak. Jenny had been with him then and they must have seemed very close. God only knew what he was thinking!

  “There, I told you,” Richmond said to Sandra. “I told you he’d be all right.” He turned to Banks and gave him a nod, as if to signify that all was well. The two of them walked together to the door. “I’ve taken your wife’s statement, sir. It’s all very clear what happened. He’s the peeper, no doubt about it.”

  “How is he?”

  “Don’t know yet, sir. It didn’t look serious to me. They took him to the hospital about half an hour ago. Will that be all, sir?”

  Banks could tell that Richmond was anxious to leave, that being involved with his inspector in such a personal way was exceedingly uncomfortable for him. “Yes,” he said. “You can go now. And Detective Richmond . . .”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Thanks.”

  Richmond blushed and muttered something about it being nothing before he took off at a fair pace down the path.

  Banks closed the door and noticed Jenny and Sandra looking at each other. He knew that Sandra would be embarrassed at showing so much emotion in front of a stranger.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized wearily, running his hand over his close-cropped hair. “I didn’t introduce you, did I?”

  After the introduction, Sandra offered Jenny a chair.

  Banks went straight to the drinks cabinet.

  “Something a bit stronger than tea, I think. Scotch all round?”

  “Yes, please.” The two women nodded.

  It was hard to know what to do to break the ice, Banks realized as he poured them all generous measures of Macallan single malt. Jenny could hardly say to Sandra, “I heard you had a terrible ordeal tonight, dear?” nor could Sandra answer, “Oh yes, absolutely dreadful. I thought I was going to be raped, then murdered. You didn’t have such an easy time, yourself, I hear?” So they sipped scotch and said nothing for a while and Banks smoked a much-needed cigarette.

  “Look, if you’d rather I went,” Jenny said, “I’m feeling much better now.”

  “Nonsense,” Sandra told her. “You can’t go back there. You’re staying here, with us. I’ll make up the spare bed. Oh, Alan, it’s nearly time to pick the children up from the meetings. Shall I go?”

  “No,” Banks said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “You’ve had enough for tonight. Let me go. It’s only down the road.”

  “You’ll tell them?”

  “I’ll tell them that we had a break-in and you caught a burglar. You’ll be a real heroine in their eyes then.”

  “It’ll be in the papers, won’t it, later?”

  “Probably. We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. Will you two be all right?”

  “Of course we will,” Sandra said, smiling at Jenny. “We’re a couple of heroes, didn’t you just say so?”

  “I thought it was heroines?”

  Sandra shook her head. “Somehow, ‘heroines’ doesn’t have the right ring to it. I think heroines are always victims. They’re pale and wan and they make a lot of noise. More scotch, Jenny?”

  Banks walked to the car. On the way back from the church hall, he told Brian and Tracy that they had a guest for the evening and that they were to behave themselves and go to bed as soon as they’d had their cocoa. There seemed no point in even mentioning what had happened.

  Back at the house, they interrupted Sandra and Jenny deep in conversation, and Brian and Tracy were bursting with comments about their evening. Brian announced that he was sick to death of the Lifeboys and he was never going again. Banks helped get them ready for bed, took them upstairs and tucked them in; then, yawning, he walked back downstairs.

  “I have to go in,” he said. “There’s a few loose ends to tie up.”

  Sandra nodded. It was nothing new to her.

  “I’ll probably be late,” he added, “so don’t wait up.” It was confusing, saying goodbye to the two of them. He bent and kissed Sandra’s cheek, then nodded at Jenny and hurried out. Even though he’d got his priorities sorted out, there was something disturbing about being with both women at once. It was extremely disconcerting, and the more Banks analyzed the feeling as he walked—Walkman-less, but grateful to be breathing the cool night air—the more he decided that it wasn’t sexual. It had nothing at all to do with the beauty and desirability of both women, but everything to do with his sensing a strong bond between them that put him on the outside. They didn’t even have to talk to make it clear. Banks had felt as if he were a clumsy, primitive beast in the presence of two alien creatures.

  II

  The station was humming with activity. Already, those on duty in plain clothes had been recalled from the pubs and were clustering around the duty roster trying to decide who should go home and who should stay. And downstairs, the phone kept ringing. Residents of the East Side Estate were still calling to report the gunshot.

  Upstairs, things were quieter. The Sharps had been taken to an interview room, and Gristhorpe’s door was open. As soon as Banks rounded the corner, the superintendent popped his head out and invited him in. One shaded table lamp provided the only illumination, and the bookcases and deep leather chairs gleamed in its dim light. The only thing Banks needed was another cigarette. As if reading his mind Gristhorpe took a Queen’s Arms ashtray out of his bottom drawer and pushed it over to him.

  “Just this once, Alan. I can see you need it. Though God knows why a person would crave something that’s a proven carcinogen.”

  “There’s none worse than ex-smokers,” Banks joked. Everybody knew that Gristhorpe’s anti-smoking campaign was of fairly recent origin.

  “How are things, Alan?”

  “Pretty good, considering. It’s nice to be able to relax for a moment. I haven’t really managed to bring my mind to bear on what happened yet.”

  “Plenty of time. Write it down in the morning. Sandra’s well?”

  “Yes. She’s either tougher than I thought or she’s a good actress.”

  “I think she’s just got hidden depths, Alan. Strong reserves. You’d be surprised how many have. My wife, God bless her, was the mildest, gentlest woman on the face of the earth. Talk about frail—you’d think she’d faint at a cuss-word. But she was a nurse in the war, just like Alice Matlock, and she saw more than one member of her family from this world to the next. But she never once flinched or complained, even when the cancer got hold of her. ’Course, she was a Yorkshirewoman.”

  Banks smiled. “Of course.”

  “Many a copper would have run straight to his wife, Alan. You did the right thing. You weighed up both situations and decided where you could do the most good.”

  “It didn’t seem as logical a process as that. When it comes down to it, there was only one place where I had to be.”

  “I know that, and so do you. But a lesser man might have let emotion confuse the issue.”

  “There were times when I thought I had. What’s happened to Robin Allott?”

  “Mild concussion. He’ll be all right. Still at the hospital. If that camera had been out of its leather case, and if Sandra had hit him on the temple or the base of the skull, he might have been dead. It was an old one, metal body instead of that plastic they use nowadays. The young fellow was very lucky indeed.”

  “Sandra, too.”

  “No blame would have attached to her.”

  “But imagine how she’d feel, even so.”

  “Aye,” Gristhorpe said, rubbing his prickly chin.

  “Has he said anything?”

  “Not a dicky bird, yet. Still too dazed. I don’t think he’ll hold back on us, tho
ugh. Sandra made a very clear statement.” His bushy brows knitted in a deep frown. “She went through a lot, you know.”

  “I know. At least I think I do. I don’t know all the details yet.”

  One of the uniformed constables knocked softly at the half-open door before delivering a tray of coffee and biscuits.

  “They’re from downstairs, the biscuits, sir,” he said. “We keep a few packets in, club together, like. Thought you might appreciate some.”

  “Thank you, Constable Craig,” Gristhorpe said. “Much appreciated. You on late duty tonight?”

  “Yes, sir. Me and Susan Gay.”

  There was something in the constable’s clipped tone that prompted Gristhorpe to ask if anything was wrong.

  “Well, sir,” Craig said, “I don’t mean to complain, but every time we’re on duty together and something like this comes up—making coffee or delivering biscuits—she always manages to push me into doing it.” His face reddened. “It’s that blooming women’s lib is what it is, sir.”

  Gristhorpe laughed. “It’s what we call ‘positive discrimination,’ lad, and you’ll just have to get used to it. Stick up for yourself. And I hope this coffee’s a bit better than the usual muck we get around here.”

  “It should be, sir,” Craig said proudly. “A satisfied customer presented us with one of those automatic drip-filter things earlier this evening, sir. I went across to that fancy tea and coffee shop in King Street and got some fresh-ground Colombian beans.”

  The superintendent turned his baby blue eyes on Craig. “Did you, now? Not only accepting gifts from the public but playing truant, eh?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” Craig replied, standing stiffly to attention.

  “It’s all right,” Gristhorpe said. “Only joking, lad. Wherever it came from, it’s most welcome. The chief inspector’ll be able to drink it black. Off you go, lad.”

  The coffee was good, the best they’d tasted in a long time, and Banks had a fondness for McVities’ Chocolate Digestives. Gristhorpe was on yet another diet, though, and refused to give in to his sweet tooth.

  “How’s Mick Webster?” Banks asked.

  “He’ll live. Lost a lot of blood, but that tourniquet of yours did the trick.”

  “His hand?”

  “Lost two fingers, and the doc says he might lose another if surgery doesn’t go well. Have you any idea where he got the gun from?”

  “No. The first I heard of Webster was from Trevor Sharp earlier tonight. I think we should get a warrant and search his place.”

  “It’s already being done. That’s where Richmond and Hatchley are now. If I were you, Alan, I’d go home, take care of my wife and get some sleep.”

  “I want to talk to Sharp.”

  “It’ll wait, Alan.”

  “No.”

  “I can do it.”

  “I started it, and I’d hate to have to begin all over again.”

  Gristhorpe tapped a pencil on his blotter. “You’ve got a point, I suppose. We don’t want him fresh again after a night’s sleep.”

  “Does he know about Webster?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  “Sure you’re up to it?”

  “Yes. I wouldn’t get any sleep for thinking about it anyway.”

  Gristhorpe pointed towards the corridor. “Interview room number three. I think Sergeant Rowe’s still with them. He’ll be worn out by now.”

  III

  Banks took his second cup of black coffee into the small interview room.

  Graham Sharp jumped to his feet. “You can’t keep us here like this,” he said. “We’ve been cooped up here for hours. It’s not a police state yet, you know.”

  Banks sat down and spoke to Sergeant Rowe. “You can go now, Sergeant. Could you send someone in to take notes? Constable Craig will do.”

  He didn’t speak until Craig arrived, then he lit a cigarette and took a long pull on his coffee.

  “Right,” he said, looking at Trevor. “We’ve got your mate Webster and he’s told us all about your little capers.”

  “You’re lying,” Trevor said. “You must think I’m stupid to fall for that one.”

  “What one?”

  “The one where the cops tell a suspect his accomplice has confessed and expect him to break down. I’ve seen it on telly.”

  “‘Accomplice?’ Accomplice in what?”

  “It’s just a word.”

  “Yes, I know. But words mean things. What’s more, they imply things too. ‘Accomplice’ implies that you worked together in committing a crime.”

  “I told you, it’s just a word.”

  “Stop beating around the bush,” Graham Sharp said. “If we have to stay until you’ve finished, at least get on with it.”

  “It’s true,” Banks said to Trevor, and noticed that the boy had started to chew his bottom lip. “He told us all about the break-ins—first the old ladies, then the Ottershaws and Thelma Pitt. He told us how he tried to stop you from raping her but you were like a mad dog. Those were his words, ‘mad dog.’”

  “He’s a liar,” Trevor said.

  “What do you mean, Trevor? That you weren’t like a mad dog?”

  “I didn’t rape anybody.”

  “Why would he lie? We found Thelma Pitt’s jewellery in his house, and some bits and pieces from the other robberies.” Banks knew he was treading on very shaky ground by lying in the hope of getting a confession, but he kept his fingers crossed and trusted that Richmond and Hatchley would turn up something. “Why would he lie, Trevor? It’s all up for him and he knows it.”

  “He’s trying to put the blame on someone else, that’s all.”

  “But there were two of you. We know that. A gangly one and a squat one. The gangly one had decay between his front teeth and caught the clap from Thelma Pitt. The squat one had piggy eyes and a raspy voice. You’ve got to admit that fits Mick to a tee. And your father told us about Mick, remember? He said Mick Webster was to blame if you’d done anything wrong. Now Mick says you’re both to blame. What am I supposed to believe?”

  “Believe what you want. I don’t care.”

  “But you should, Trevor. Your father does. He cares enough to lie for you.”

  “Now just a minute—”

  “Be quiet, Mr Sharp. You lied for your son and you know damn well you did. Well, Trevor?”

  “Well what?”

  “Why don’t you admit it? That way we can say you helped us and it’ll go easier for you in court. If we have to prove a case, we can, but it’ll be more trouble for all of us.”

  “Admit what?”

  “The truth.”

  “I’ve told you.”

  “Not the truth. Not like Mick did. He was on drugs, you know. Remember what he gets like? You can’t trust him at all when he’s on drugs.”

  “And you can’t believe him, either.”

  “I do. A jury will. How about it, Trevor?”

  “What?”

  “Tell me what you did?”

  “I didn’t do nothing.”

  “Alice Matlock?”

  “He never killed anyone,” Graham Sharp protested.

  “How do you know? He’s lied to you about everything else.”

  Sharp looked at his son, who turned to face the wall. “He didn’t. I just know. He couldn’t. He’s not capable of it.”

  “It didn’t take much strength, you know,” Banks said. “Probably an accident.”

  “You’ll never prove it,” Graham said.

  Banks shrugged. “What do you think, Trevor?”

  “Did Mick tell you that?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “That we killed the old bag down the street.”

  “What if he did?”

  “Then you’re lying,” Trevor said, gripping the table edge and rising from his chair. “You’re bloody lying. We didn’t kill nobody. We didn’t have nothing to do with Alice Matlock. If you say he told you that then you’re a fucking liar.”

/>   “I’m right about the rest, though, aren’t I?”

  “You made it all up. You don’t even have Mick. I’m not saying another word.”

  In the silence that followed, PC Craig answered the gentle tapping on the door and whispered to Banks, who left the room. In the corridor stood Hatchley and Richmond, both looking pleased as Punch.

  “Don’t just stand there like the cats that got the cream,” Banks said. “What did you find?”

  “We got back the Ottershaw and Pitt jewellery and one or two other trinkets.”

  “Prints?”

  “Vic Manson says so. On the camera and a large brooch.”

  Banks breathed a sigh of relief.

  “And,” Hatchley added, “we’ve got a damn good idea who the fence is.”

  “Go on.”

  “There was a snapshot in one of the drawers, not a good one, a bit blurred, but as far as I could tell, it matched the sketch we got from Leeds,” Hatchley explained. “And there was a letter from London, from a chap called Lenny. Apparently he’s Webster’s brother.”

  “Does he have a record?”

  Hatchley shook his head. “Not up here. Not as far as we know. Spends most of his time down in The Smoke. I’ll check with records.”

  “Do that. Have you got an address?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent. Perhaps you’d better take your findings to Superintendent Gristhorpe. He’ll get in touch with London CID and have Lenny Webster picked up. Then we’ll see what we shall see.” Banks yawned. “Sorry, lads. Afraid I’m tired. Go on up, the super’s still in his office.”

  “Yes, sir,” Richmond said, heading for the stairs. Hatchley hung back for a moment, shifting awkwardly.

  “Something else, Sergeant?” Banks asked, his hand on the door handle.

  “It’s just what you did tonight, sir. I just wanted to say I admired you for it. It was a brave thing to do. I don’t reckon I’m no softie myself, but I’ve never been stuck up with a gun. The very thought of it gives me the bloody collywobbles.”

  “Let’s hope you never will be,” Banks said. “It happens a lot less often up here than down south.”

  “I know,” Hatchley agreed. “I never thought I’d see the day when I was glad we had a Southerner on the Eastvale force.”