Gallows View ib-1

by Peter Robinson

  "That's not a very encouraging tale, is it?"

  "No. Apparently Byrne had had sadistic fantasies, including cutting women in half with a circular saw, since he was about seventeen. He said he wanted to get his own back on women for causing him nervous tension through sex. Before that, he'd been content with simply watching girls undress, but because he was drunk and upset by being told off by his foreman, he went beyond everything he'd ever done before. He also left a note that read, 'This was what I thought would never happen.'"

  "Is the other case just as heartening?"

  "Yes. About the only consolation is that it happened in Texas in the forties. Charles Floyd started by watching women get undressed. Then he waited till they went to sleep, killed them and raped them, in that order. There was one woman who never closed her curtains, and he watched her for several nights before he finally climbed in after she fell asleep. He battered her to death, then wrapped her head in a sheet and raped her. After that, he spent the rest of the night in bed with her. He killed other women, too, and when he got caught he admitted he'd been a Peeping Tom who turned to murder and rape when the sexual excitement got too much for him."

  "The woman didn't close her curtains?" Banks commented. "Surely that was asking for it in a way?"

  Jenny shot him a cold glance. "We've already been through that."

  "And I did say that women should be careful not to appear to be inviting men to sex."

  "And I said that we should be able to dress how we like and go where we damn well please."

  "So we agree to differ."

  "It looks like it. But please understand, I'm not condoning the woman leaving her curtains open. It was probably a very stupid thing to do. All I'm saying is that what Floyd did was an act of violence more than of sex, and that such things will happen anyway, whatever we do, until more men start to see women as people, not as sex objects."

  "I don't believe the solution is as simple as that, admirable as it sounds," Banks said. "Yes, they are acts of violence, but it's violence that is highly sexual in nature. I think it's true that at least one of the reasons for the rise in sex crimes is the increase in stimulation- and that includes fashions, pornography, advertising, films, TV, the lot."

  "And who determines women's fashions?"

  "Mostly men, I should imagine."

  "That's right. You dress us the way you want us, you create us in the image you desire, and then you have the gall to accuse us of asking for it!"

  "Okay, calm down," Banks said, concerned at seeing Jenny so hurt and angry. He put his hand on her shoulder and she didn't brush it off. "I understand what you're saying. It's a very complex subject and it's hard to portion out blame. I'm willing to take my share. How about you?" Jenny nodded and they shook hands.

  "What conclusions have you drawn from those cases?" Banks asked.

  "None, really. Only the most obvious ones."

  "I must be thick, nothing's obvious to me."

  "Until we know our man's motivation, we can't know whether some kind of trigger might exist for him, or how close he is to reaching it."

  "Look." Banks said, glancing at his watch, "it's almost ten o'clock. Can I get you another drink?"

  "Yes, please."

  "Right you are. And while I'm at the bar, think about this. Is there any indication at all, from what little we know already, that our man might cross the same borders as Floyd and Byrne did?"

  II

  The area around the lock splintered easily when Mick pushed on the crowbar, and the two of them broke into the dark, silent house in no time. The light from their small flashlights crisscrossed the kitchen, picking out the gleaming appliances: fridge, washing machine, microwave, dishwasher, oven. Quickly, they moved on; only the poor kept their money in jamjars in the kitchen.

  Down a short hallway was the split-level living room, and Mick cursed as he tripped over the divide. It was a big room, sparsely furnished as far as they could make out. Their flashlights picked out a three-piece suite, TV and video on a stand, and a music center. By the door stood a tall cabinet full of china and crystal glasses. Mick opened the lower doors and found it full of booze- scotch, gin, vodka, brandy, rum, everything under the sun-and he grabbed a bottle of Remy Martin by the neck. He slugged it back greedily and began to cough and splutter. Trevor told him to keep quiet.

  Trevor was awed just to be in the place. Already he'd forgotten what they came for and was trembling with the excitement of violation. This was someone's home, someone's "castle," and he wasn't supposed to be in it. It felt like a vast cave full of possibilities, one of those boat rides through dark tunnels he used to take as a child at Blackpool Pleasure Beach-a ghost train, even, because he did feel fear, and each tiny detail his light picked out was a surprise: a wall-lamp curving upwards like a bent arm holding a torch; an ornate standard lamp with carved snakes winding around its column; an antique pipe on the mantelpiece. And his light caught occasional images from the big framed paintings on the walls: a giant bird terrorizing a man; some naked tart standing on a seashell. He could hear his heartbeat, his breathing, and every movement he made was a further violation of somebody else's silence.

  Mick finished with the cognac and dropped the bottle on the floor. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he tapped Trevor on the shoulder and suggested that they look around upstairs. In the master bedroom, their eyes, now accustomed to the dark, picked out the outlines of bed, wardrobe and dresser. The gleam of a streetlamp through the net curtains helped visibility, too, and they turned off their pen-lights.

  Trevor began searching through the drawers, using his light again to illuminate the contents. He found dark, silky underwear: bras, panties, tights, slips, camisoles. They were soft and slippery in his hands, charging him with static, and he rubbed them against his face, smelling the fresh, lemony scent of the woman. He also found an old cigar box in a drawer full of the man's socks, string vests and underpants; inside it were a set of keys and about a hundred and fifty pounds in cash.

  Mick found what looked like a jewelry box on the dresser. When he opened it up, a ballet dancer began spinning to tinkling music. He dropped the box and spilled the jewels on the floor; then, cursing, he bent and scooped them up.

  Trevor looked around for any locked cabinets that the keys might fit, but he found nothing. The two of them went back downstairs, feet sinking luxuriously into the deep pile carpeting, and, shining their flashlights again, had another look around the living room. There, in a corner, set into the wall, was what looked like a safe. Trevor tried his keys but none fit. Mick tried the crowbar but it bent. Eventually, they gave up.

  "Let's take the VCR," Mick whispered.

  "No. It's too heavy, too easy to trace."

  "Lenny'll get rid of it in London."

  "No, Mick. We're not taking big stuff like that. It'll slow us down. You've got the jewels and I've got a hundred quid. It's enough."

  "Enough!" Mick snorted. "These people are fucking rolling in it. We've not got much more than we get from the old bags."

  "Yes, we have. And people are more careful these days-we're bloody lucky to have got so much."

  Reluctantly Mick gave up the idea and agreed to leave. Trevor was still enjoying just being there, though, still tingling, and he wanted to do something. Finally, he unzipped his fly and started to urinate over the TV, VCR and music center, spraying lavishly on the carpet, paintings and mantelpiece, too. It seemed to go on forever, a powerful, translucent stream glittering in the pen-light's beam, and with it, he felt himself relax, felt a delicious warmth infuse his bones.

  Not to be outdone, Mick lowered his pants and dropped a steaming pile on the sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace, giggling softly to himself as he did it.

  When they'd both finished, they left the way they came, pausing only briefly to check the kitchen drawers and cupboards, just in case.

  III

  "There's no evidence that we've got a Byrne or a Floyd on our hands," Jenny said, sipping her
half of bitter. "I think that if we had, something would have happened before now. The trouble with psychology is that it works best when you know all the facts. It's hard to make guesses in the dark. It's also unscientific."

  "Police work's the same," Banks added. "There's nothing like facts, but I've always found that occasional guesses, or some kind of hunch based on limited knowledge, can often work well. It gives you a bit of room for the intuition, imagination."

  "That's surprising, coming from you," Jenny said, looking at him as if all her earlier theories had been wrong.

  "Why?"

  "It just is. I suppose I've been used to you asking for facts, looking for evidence."

  "It's important, I'm not denying it. But more often than not forensic evidence is only useful in getting a conviction. First you have to catch the criminal, and he's as cunning and imaginative as can be. Some aren't, of course, some are plain stupid. But they're the easy ones."

  "I should think your peeper is probably quite intelligent. Again, this is mostly guesswork, but he has avoided capture so far, and he's got his system worked out quite well. It remains to be seen how adaptable he is. He's certainly not a fool."

  "Back to my original question," Banks said. "You don't think he'll escalate?"

  "I said I didn't think we had a serious sex criminal on our hands. I don't think he's likely to move on to necrophilia or eating breasts, with or without sugar, but I wouldn't be too sure that merely peeping will keep him happy for much longer. It might be getting too easy for him, especially if he's intelligent. If he stops getting his thrills that way… then…" She shrugged. "At best he might turn to exhibitionism, at worst some kind of attack, molestation."

  "Rape?"

  "Ultimately. Although it might not be rape in the legal sense. There may be no penetration; he might simply force women to strip. I don't know, I'm just trying to project the pattern. He might feel the need for greater danger, more risk; he might need to see and absorb the fear of his victims. Yes, it could happen. Especially the closer he gets to his original impulse."

  "What do you mean?"

  "If he finds someone who reminds him of his mother, or whoever he was first struck by, then the stimulus might be too much; it might cause him to push through to another level."

  "What can we do with what we've got so far, then?" Banks asked.

  "You want me to tell you your job?"

  "Why not? You've not done so badly at it so far."

  "All right. What I'd do is this: find out how many men between the ages of about twenty and thirty-five are either living alone or with a single parent, most likely a mother."

  "Why?"

  "It's just what the statistics show. Not completely reliable of course, but better than a slap in the face with a wet fish, wouldn't you say?"

  "I would. I was just wondering about the single-parent business."

  "I think there's generally more stability with both parents around, unless the marriage is in a really bad way. It's what the stats show, anyway. Shall I go on?"

  "Yes."

  "There shouldn't be all that many in Eastvale, I don't think. Most people move away or get married. Next I'd 'stake out' selected pubs, as they say on the telly."

  "I've told you how many pubs there are in Eastvale. We don't have anything like the manpower."

  "Use what you have. He's tried the same pub twice. Why not a third time? There's one you can cover. And you must have some pretty policewomen around who'd be happy to work overtime to help get rid of this particular criminal, surely?"

  Banks nodded. "Go on."

  "As far as the other two pubs are concerned, you can cover them, too. If he struck lucky once he might try for a second time."

  "So you suggest that we cover the pubs he's already operated in?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. We're already doing that."

  "Bastard!" Jenny laughed and slapped his arm playfully. "You've got to admit, though, I was on the right track, wasn't I?"

  "Definitely. Any time you need a job. Is there anything else?"

  "You might check around the pornographic bookshops-if there are any in Eastvale-and the strip-clubs. I don't mean that you should pester everyone who enjoys seeing a bit of tit and ass now and then, but make your presence felt. Maybe if you put the wind up him he'll make a mistake."

  "You think he's likely to hang around such places?"

  "It's possible. After all, it's looking, isn't it? Even if it's not as thrilling as the other kind. By the way, are there places like that in Eastvale?"

  "One or two. We keep an eye on them, but I'll do as you recommend, push a bit harder."

  Jenny nodded. "Excuse me for asking," she said, "but how did you get that scar?" And she leaned forward and touched the small scar by Banks's right eye.

  "Accident," he said tersely. "Years ago."

  "How disappointing. And I thought you must have got it in some heroic struggle with a knife-wielding maniac, or perhaps from a gun that went off as you grappled to save someone's life."

  "You've got quite a romantic imagination for a psychologist."

  "And you've got none! Come on, where did you get it?"

  "I told you, an accident."

  "What kind of accident?"

  "I fell off my tricycle."

  "Liar. You're only doing this because you think it makes you mysterious, aren't you?"

  "And you're only teasing me because you've had too much to drink."

  "Ooh, I haven't."

  Banks laughed. "Perhaps not. But if you drink any more you will have, and then I'll have to book you for drunken driving."

  "I haven't got my car. I walked up to town before we met and spent an hour or so in the library."

  "I've got mine today-and I haven't had too much to drink. Come on, I'll give you a lift."

  It was raining fast again, and Banks drove carefully around the base of Castle Hill, down the narrow, winding streets, crossed the river, and pulled up outside Jenny's house by The Green about five minutes later.

  "Coming in for a coffee?" she asked.

  "Just a quick one."

  IV

  Trevor and Mick sat in the front room sharing out the money. Trevor had already palmed about fifty pounds, and he then managed to persuade Mick to tell Lenny that they'd only found fifty. He knew that Lenny would make up his profit by selling the jewelry, anyway.

  Mick was restless. He'd taken some uppers before going out and some downers when they got back, just to take the edge off. Now the drugs were clashing and fighting it out in his body. He couldn't settle and listen to music or watch telly, and Trevor, bored with him, was getting ready to go. They looked out of the window at the rain. Across The Green, they saw a car pull up outside one of the old houses.

  "It's that bird," Mick said. "The redhead with the long legs. Ooh, I'd like to feel them wrapped around my waist. Who's she with? Some fucking wanker for sure."

  "I think it's that copper," Trevor said, recognizing Banks. "Funny, that, I saw him with her the other night at the old bag's house."

  "Maybe she's a cop, then. Waste of a good screw, if you ask me. Nice pair of tits she's got, though."

  "Maybe he's just knocking her off," Trevor said. "He's going in, anyway."

  "Lucky bastard."

  "It's funny, though, seeing them twice like that."

  "What's so funny? I see her all the time. She only lives across The Green, you know."

  "I mean seeing them together like that."

  "He's probably poking her. Fucking hell, wouldn't I just like those long legs wrapped around my waist."

  But Mick was fast slipping into the arms of Morpheus. The amphetamine, already mostly burned up, was losing to the barbiturate, and he felt as if his brain was slowly turning to cotton-wool and his senses were closing like valves. The light around the edges of his eyes dimmed, and he could hear a gentle whooshing, like the ocean, in his ears; his tongue felt too tired and too heavy to speak.

  Trevor recognized the signs, pu
t on his coat and left. It had been a good night, one of the best in years, and he felt, as he walked home through the quiet town reliving the excitement, that he could hardly wait for next Monday.

  Chapter EIGHT

  I

  The sudden creaking of rusty hinges broke the silence in the cool church. Sandra and Harriet looked around and saw Robin Allott coming in, followed closely by Norman Chester.

  "So this is where you're hiding," Norman said, as he shut the heavy door behind them. "We were wondering where the lovely ladies had got to." His voice echoed from the stone walls.

  "What are you doing?" Robin asked.

  "Waiting for the sun," Sandra replied. "I want to get a good shot of the stained-glass window here."

  "It shouldn't be long," Robin said, walking down the aisle toward them. "The clouds seem to be breaking up and the wind's pushing them along nicely. It is quite beautiful, isn't it?"

  Sandra nodded, glancing up again at the east window. They stood in the Parish Church of St. Mary, Muker, one of the places the Camera Club was visiting on its trip to Swaledale. Most club members were out walking along Ivelet Side putting Terry Whigham's ideas on landscape photography into practice with shots of the spectacular view of Oxnop, Muker Side and the dark mass of Great Shunner Fell. Harriet and Sandra, however, had stuck to the village itself, photographing the craft center, village store and old Literary Institute, before approaching St. Mary's.

  "It's supposed to depict the landscape outside," Robin went on, pointing to the window. "You can see Christ the Good Shepherd there, leading his flock and carrying a lamb-real horned Swaledale sheep. The hill is Kisdon, that big one out there, and you can see the River Swale to the right and Muker Beck to the left."

  "You seem to know a bit about it," Sandra said. "Have you been here before?"