Gallows View ib-1

by Peter Robinson

  "I see your point, Alan," Gristhorpe agreed. His bushy eyebrows joined in the middle and drew a thick gray line over his child-like blue eyes. "Perhaps the best thing to do would be to rule it out by checking into who Alice Matlock knew."

  "She seemed to be a bit of a loner, sir," Richmond chipped in. "Most of the neighbors didn't know much about her, not much more than to say hello if they met in the street."

  "I knew Alice Matlock," Gristhorpe told them. "She was a friend of my mother's. Used to come to the farm for fresh eggs when I was a kid. She always brought me some boiled sweets. But you're right, lad, she was a bit of a recluse. More so as she got older. Lost her young man in the first war, as I recall. Never did marry. Anyway, look into it. See if she's been at all friendly with a likely young peeper."

  "There is one other thing."

  "Yes, Alan?"

  "Even if it wasn't the same person, if it was the usual lot did the break-in and the peeper just looked and ran, they might have seen each other."

  "You mean, if we get one we might get a lead on the other?"

  "Yes."

  "But right now we've very little on either?"

  "That's right."

  "Where do you think our best chance lies?"

  "The break-ins," Banks answered without hesitation. "I'll be getting an artist's impression of the man who fenced the stuff in Leeds any time now. I've already got a fairly good description but it doesn't check with any of the local villains I know. Sergeant Hatchley and Constable Richmond don't recognize him either."

  "So maybe he's not local. New in town?"

  "Or been away," Richmond suggested. "Only here every now and then."

  "Possible. Know anyone who fits that profile?"

  Richmond shook his head. "Only Andrea Rigby's husband. He's a computer whiz and he spends a lot of time away. But I saw a photo of him on the mantelpiece and he doesn't fit the description. He wouldn't be the type, anyway. From what I could see, he gets plenty of money from fiddling about with computers."

  "Ask around, then," Gristhorpe advised. "See if you can come up with anything. You mentioned Wooller in your report, Richmond. He seemed suspicious. Anything in particular?"

  "Well, no, sir." Richmond felt flustered, caught out on a hunch. "There was the dirty magazine, sir, that's in the report."

  "Yes," Gristhorpe said dismissively, "but most of us have looked at pictures of naked women now and then, haven't we?"

  "It's not just naked women, sir," Richmond pressed on, realizing only when it was too late that he had walked right into it. "Some of them are tied up, sir…" His voice faltered."… and they do it with animals."

  "Well," Gristhorpe said, beaming at him, "I can see you've been doing your homework, lad. But even if the stuff is illegally imported there's not a lot we can do. What exactly are you getting at?"

  "Just that he seemed suspicious, sir. Completely uncommunicative, shifty, acted as if he was hiding something."

  "Think he might be our peeper, do you?"

  "Could be, sir."

  "Alan?"

  Banks shrugged. "I've not had the pleasure of meeting him, but I've been told that our man could take any size, shape or form. Certainly if he lives a frustrated existence and gets his kicks from bondage and bestiality magazines, then there's a chance."

  "All right," Gristhorpe said, making a note. "Keep an eye on him. Drop by for a chat. Nothing heavy, though." He glanced sternly at Hatchley, who looked down at his notes and straightened his tie.

  "The kid, sir. Trevor Sharp," Richmond said.

  "Yes?"

  "There was something funny about that, too. I heard them arguing about him being late all the time and neglecting his homework, and when I asked about the night before, his father only mentioned himself at first, sir. Said he was watching telly, right at the far end of the block. Then, later, when I asked, he said the kid was with him, too."

  "Think he was lying?"

  "Could be." "We had the kid on suspicion of mugging four months ago," Banks added. "No case."

  "Well," Gristhorpe said, "seeing as the only information we've got on the burglars so far is that they're young, we might as well follow up. Maybe you could talk to them, Alan? Father and son together. See if you get the same impression as Richmond here."

  "All right," Banks agreed. "I'll drop by after school today."

  "Might be a good idea to have a word with the head, too. You never know, some of 'em keep tabs on the kids. What school is it?"

  "Eastvale Comprehensive, sir," Richmond answered. "Same place I went to."

  "That'll be old Buxton, right?"

  "Yes, sir. 'Boxer' Buxton we used to call him. He must be close to retiring age now."

  "He's been at that school going on for forty years. Been head for twenty or more, since back when it was Eastvale Grammar School. He's a bit of a dodderer now, lost in his own world, but have a word with him about young Trevor anyway, see if he's been acting strangely, playing truant, associating with a bad crowd. Is there anything else?" Gristhorpe turned to Sergeant Hatchley. "Anything for us, Sergeant?" "I can't seem to find a pattern to the peeper's operation, sir," Hatchley said. "Except that he always picks blonds."

  "What do you mean?"

  "How he chooses his victims, sir, how he latches onto them, knows who to follow."

  "The women weren't all single, were they?" Gristhorpe asked.

  "Bloody hell, no, sir," Hatchley said. "One of 'em had her husband right there in bed dozing off while our chap was doing his bit through the curtains."

  "He must do some reconnaissance first," Banks added. "He knows which window to look through, knows the layout of the house. Even picks the best time to be there."

  "So he chooses his victims well in advance?"

  "Must do."

  "They'd all been in pubs the nights they were peeped on," Hatchley said. "But I couldn't find any evidence that they were being watched."

  "That would explain it, though, wouldn't it?" Banks said. "If he already knew who he was going to spy on, he'd know something about their habits. If he'd watched the houses, he'd know when a woman comes home from the pub and how soon the bedroom light goes on. He'd know if the husband stayed downstairs or took a bath while she undressed. He must do his groundwork."

  "Fair enough, Alan," Gristhorpe said, "but it doesn't help us much, does it?"

  "We could warn people to make sure they're not being followed, to keep an eye out for strangers hanging about the street."

  "I suppose we could." Gristhorpe sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "Anything's better than nothing. You talked to the victims again, Sergeant Hatchley?"

  "Yes, sir. But I didn't find out anything new, just that all the incidents had occurred after a night out."

  "Maybe it makes him feel that they're sinners or something," Banks guessed. "It's possible that he needs to feel like that about them. A lot of men don't like the idea of women smoking or going to pubs. They think it cheapens them. Maybe it's like that with him; perhaps he needs to feel that they're impure in the first place." Gristhorpe scratched his neck and frowned. "I think you've been talking to Dr. Fuller too much, Alan," he said. "But maybe you've got a point. Follow it up with her. When are you meeting again?"

  "Tomorrow."

  "Evening?"

  Banks felt himself begin to flush. "We're both too busy during the day, sir." Hatchley suppressed a guffaw by covering the lower half of his face with a huge dirty handkerchief and blowing hard. Richmond shifted uneasily in his seat. Banks could sense their reactions, and he felt angry. He wanted to say something, to tell them it was just bloody work, that's all. But he knew that if he did, they would think he was protesting too much, so he kept quiet and seethed inside.

  "Put it to her, then," Gristhorpe said, ignoring the others. "Ask her if there could be any connection between the peeper and Alice Matlock's death, and find out if it's likely our man has a thing about women in pubs."

  "She'll probably laugh at me," Banks said. "We
all seem to fancy ourselves as amateur psychologists at one time or another."

  "Not surprising, though, is it, Alan? We'd be a pretty bloody incurious race if we didn't think about our nature and behavior once in a while, wouldn't we? Especially us coppers. Is that all?" he asked, rising to end the meeting.

  Everyone kept silent. "Fine, then, that's it. Follow up Wooller and the Sharp kid, get that drawing circulated soon as it comes in, and check with Ethel Carstairs about any other friends Alice Matlock may have had,"

  "Should we say anything to the press?" Banks asked. "A warning to women about keeping their eyes open for strangers?"

  "It can't do any harm, can it? I'll take care of that. Off you go, then. Meeting adjourned."

  III

  Graham Sharp rolled off Andrea Rigby and sighed with pleasure: "Ah, Wednesdays. Thank God for half-day closing."

  Andrea giggled and snuggled in the crook of his arm. He could feel the weight of her breasts against his rib cage, the nipples still hard, and the sharp, milky scent of sex made them both warm and sleepy. Andrea traced a line from his throat to his pubic hair. "That was wonderful, Gray," she said dreamily. "It's always wonderful with you. See how much better you feel now."

  "I was just a bit preoccupied, that's all." "You were all tense," Andrea said, massaging his shoulders. Then she laughed. "Whatever it was, it certainly made you wild, though."

  "When are you going to tell him?"

  "Oh, Gray!" She snuggled closer, her breasts crushed against his chest. "Don't spoil it, don't make me think about bad things."

  Graham smiled and caressed her hair. "Sorry, love. It's the secrecy. It gets me down sometimes. I just want us to be together all the time."

  "We will be, we will," Andrea murmured, rubbing against him slowly as she felt him begin to stiffen again. "Oh God, Gray." She breathed hard as he took hold of her breast and squeezed the nipple between thumb and forefinger. "Yes… yes…"

  Graham knew, in his more rational moments, that:hey would never be together all the time. Whatever Andrea thought about her husband, he wasn't such a bad sort really. He didn't beat her, and as far as Graham knew, he didn't cheat on her either. They got on well enough when he was around, which wasn't often, and, perhaps more important than Andrea would have cared to admit to herself-especially now, as she was nearing orgasm-he made a lot of money. Soon, in fact, she had told Graham sadly, they would be moving from their first country home into something a bit more authentic: an isolated Dales cottage, or perhaps somewhere in the Cotswolds, where the climate was milder. Why he wanted to live in the country, Andrea said she had no idea-he was hardly ever there anyway-but she had found Eastvale a great deal more interesting than she had expected.

  Graham also knew deep down that Trevor would never accept another mother, especially one who lived two doors away and was, at twenty-four, closer to the age of an older sister. There was the money, too. Graham could hardly make ends meet, and if he really thought about it (which he tried not to) he couldn't see Andrea as a shopkeeper's wife: not her, with her Paris fashions, original art works, and holidays in New York or Bangkok. No, just as he knew that Trevor would never accept her, he also knew she would never give up her way of life.

  But they were both romantics at heart. At first, Andrea had come to the shop more and more often, just for little things like a packet of Jacob's Cream Crackers, some fresh Baps or perhaps a bottle of tarragon vinegar, and if there had been no other customers around she had lingered a little longer to talk each time. Over a week or two, Graham had come to know quite a lot about her, especially about how her husband was away so much and how bored she got.

  Then, one evening, one of her fuses blew and she had no idea how to fix it. She went to Graham for help, and he came along with flashlight and fuse wire and did it in a jiffy. Coffee followed, and after that an exciting session of kissing and groping on the sofa, which, being one of those modern things made up of blocks you can rearrange any way you want, was soon transformed into an adequate approximation of a bed.

  Since then, for about two months, Graham and Andrea had been meeting quite regularly. Theirs was a circumscribed life, however: they couldn't go out together (though they did once spend a nervous evening in York having dinner, looking over their shoulders the whole time), and they had to be very careful about being seen in each other's company at all. Always Graham would visit Andrea, using the back way, where the high walls of the back yards kept him from view and muffled the sound of his passing. Sometimes they had candlelight dinners first; other times they threw themselves straight into lovemaking. Andrea was more passionate and abandoned in bed than anyone Graham had ever known, and she had led him to new heights of joy. It was easier at first. Trevor spent three weeks in France on a school trip, so Graham was a free agent. On the boy's return, though, there were difficulties, which was why half-day closing was such a joy. Weekends were out, of course. That was when Andrea's husband was around, so the most they could manage was the occasional evening when Trevor was allowed to go out to the movies with his mates, to the youth club or a local dance. Lately, though, with Trevor being out so often and taking so little notice, Graham had spent much more time with Andrea.

  When they had finished, they lay back and lit cigarettes. Andrea blew the smoke out of her nose like an actress in a forties movie.

  "Did they talk to you last night?" he asked.

  "The police?"

  "Yes."

  "What do you think happened?"

  "The old woman, Alice Matlock. She's dead."

  Andrea frowned. "Was it murder?"

  "They must think so or they wouldn't waste their time asking everyone what they were doing and where they were."

  He sounded irritated. Andrea stroked his chest. "Don't worry about it, darling. It's nothing to do with us, is it?"

  "No, 'course not," he said, turning and running his palm over her damp stomach. He loved Andrea's body; it was so different from Maureen's. She had had smooth skin, smooth as marble and sometimes as cold. He had hardly dared touch it, fearing it would be some kind of violation. But Andrea's skin had grain to it, a certain friction you could feel when you ran your hand over her buttocks or shoulders, even when they were moist as they were now.

  "What did they want to know?" he asked her.

  "Just if I heard anything the night before last."

  "And did you?"

  "After you'd gone, yes. I heard someone running along Cardigan Drive, then someone knocking at a door."

  "The same person?"

  "Could have been."

  "There was a woman peeped on in Cardigan Drive Monday evening," Graham told her. "I read about it in the paper."

  "Another of those Peeping Tom things?"

  "Yes."

  Andrea shivered and nestled closer. "So they think it might be the same person?"

  "I guess they must," Graham said.

  "What did they ask you?"

  "Same thing. If I heard anything. And they asked Trevor where he was."

  "They're always picking on kids, Gray, you know that. It doesn't mean anything. Since all that unemployment they automatically think kids are delinquents these days."

  "True enough."

  "What did you tell them?"

  "That he was home with me, of course."

  "Oh, Gray, should you have? I mean what if someone saw him somewhere else? It could make things really bad."

  "He didn't do it, Andrea, he's not that kind of a lad, and I'm damned if I'm going to let the police get their hooks into him. Once they latch on they never let go. It was bad enough last time; it's not going to happen again."

  "If you think it's best, Gray." Graham frowned at her. "I know you don't think he's worth it," he said, "but he's a good lad, he'll turn out well in the end, you'll see."

  Andrea put her arms around him. "I don't think ill of him, really I don't. It's just that you seem to dote on him so much. He can't do any wrong in your eyes."

  "I'm his father, aren't I? I'm
all he's got." He smiled and kissed her. "I know what I'm doing, love. Don't worry." He looked at his watch on the bedside table. "Bloody hell, I'd better be going. Trevor'll be home from school any minute." Andrea moved away from him sadly. "You know I hate it when you leave, Gray," she said. "It's so lonely and boring being here all by myself in the evenings." Graham kissed her lightly on the lips. "I know. I'll try and get back later if I can. I don't know what Trevor's got planned for tonight." Graham slipped into his trousers, as Andrea watched from the bed.

  "I'm getting a bit worried about Wooller, Gray," she said, just before he left.

  "What about him?"

  "I don't know if I'm being paranoid or feeling guilty or what, but it's just the way he looks at me, as if he knows. And worse, it's as if he's thinking about what to do with what he knows. Do you know what I mean? I feel like he's seen all of me, all of us."

  "Don't worry about it," Graham said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and taking her hand. "You're probably overreacting. We've been discreet. The walls are very thick-I'm sure he wouldn't be able to hear a thing. And I'm always careful when I call. Really, love, don't worry about it. Must rush." He patted her hand and kissed her on the forehead. Andrea yawned and stretched, then turned over and lay in the impression his body had made. The bed still smelled of his Old Spice. She pulled the sheets around her shoulders and waved goodbye lazily as he slipped out through the door.

  IV

  It was six o'clock when Banks pulled up outside number eight Gallows View. He had decided to take on the Sharps himself and leave Wooller to Hatchley.

  "Good evening," he said politely, introducing himself, as Graham Sharp opened the door, a forkful of sausage in his hand.

  "We're just having dinner, can't it wait?"

  "Won't take long," Banks said, already inside. "Just carry on eating."

  The room wasn't exactly a living room, it was more of a storage place full of boxes of tinned goods and crisps that could be easily carried into the shop. At the back, though, was a fairly modern kitchen, complete with a microwave oven, and Banks guessed that the real living quarters must be upstairs, spread out over the two adjoined cottages.