Gallows View ib-1

by Peter Robinson

  "Once or twice."

  Norman's footsteps echoed as he wandered around examining the font and chalice.

  "It is a wonderful church, though," Robin said. "And the cemetery's interesting, too. It's the kind of place I wouldn't mind being buried in."

  "How morbid."

  "Not at all. They used to have to carry people in wicker coffins ten or fifteen miles away to Grinton church before this place was built. They took the old Corpse Way along Ivelet Side. People wanted to be buried on consecrated ground. I'd hope for a long and healthy life first, though, like poor Alice Matlock."

  "Alice Matlock?"

  "Yes. The old lady they found dead in her cottage the other day. Surely your husband must have mentioned her?"

  "Yes, of course," Sandra said. "I was just surprised to hear you talk about her, that's all."

  Robin looked up at the dim stained glass. "I knew her, that's all. I was a bit shaken to hear that someone who'd lived through so much should have died so violently. Does your husband have any clues?"

  "None that he's told me about. How did you come to know her?"

  "I suppose I'm exaggerating a bit. I haven't seen her for a few years. You know how it is; we lose touch with the old so easily. She was a friend of my grandmother's, my father's mother. They were about the same age and both of them worked as nurses at Eastvale Infirmary for years. My gran used to take me over to visit Alice when I was a kid."

  "Haven't you thought that you might be able to help?" Sandra asked.

  "Me?" said Robin, startled. "How? I said I hadn't seen her for years."

  "Alan says it's frustrating not to know much about her background. Most of her friends are dead. Anything you could tell him might be a help."

  "I don't see how."

  "When you've lived with a policeman for as long as I have," Sandra said, "you don't ask how. Would you be willing to see him?"

  "I don't know… I… I can't see how it could help."

  "Come on. Alan won't eat you. You said you were upset about her death. Surely it's not too much to ask?"

  "No, no, I don't suppose it is. If you think it'll help, of course…"

  "It might."

  "Very well."

  "Good. I'll tell him, then. If I see him. He's not home much these days. Still, we are supposed to be going out tonight, if he hasn't forgotten. When's a good time? I'm sure he won't want to inconvenience you."

  "I don't know. This weekend sometime? I should be home."

  "Fine." Sandra took Robin's address and turned her attention back to the stained-glass window. "Come on, come on," she urged the sun. They stood there a full minute or more until, slowly, the glass brightened and the red of Christ's robe, the blue of the rivers at his feet and the purple, orange and green of the hills behind began to glow. Sandra selected a wide aperture and let the built-in exposure-meter set the shutter speed.

  "It's strange," Robin said, watching, "but it sometimes seems to me as if we're looking outside through a clear window at some idealized image."

  "Yes, it does," Harriet agreed. "Like a vision. Ooh, look how the colors are shining on us!"

  "Vision indeed," Norman sneered, walking over from the northwest window. "A right lot of romantics, you are." And he joined them as they took it in turns to capture the stained glass on film.

  II

  Friday brought a lull in affairs at the Eastvale station. Nothing had come of the previous evening's pub surveillance, and Richmond said that he'd shown the artist's impression of their one suspect in the robberies to some of the lads on the beat, but nobody had recognized him. After sending the detective constable to the Town Hall to check on the statistics of young men living alone or with single parents, Banks found himself with little to do. No Dorothy Wycombe marched in to liven up the day; no Jenny Fuller; nothing.

  He had plenty of time to think, though, and spent the rest of the morning puzzling over the three cases, whose outlines had become blurred in his mind. There was a Peeping Tom in Eastvale, that was clear enough. Also, two young thugs had robbed defenseless old women. But had any of them killed Alice Matlock?

  On the evidence so far, it looked like it: she had been old and alone, her home had been left in a shambles, and money and silverware had been stolen. It was certainly possible that she had tried to struggle with them and had fallen or been pushed backwards, catching the back of her head on the sharp corner of the table.

  There was still room for doubt, though, and Banks found himself wondering if it could have happened some other way for some other reason. He had ruled out the peeper after what Jenny had said, so the next step was to try and discover if anyone had a motive for getting rid of Alice Matlock, or at least for engaging in such a violent confrontation with her.

  According to Sergeant Hatchley, Ethel Carstairs had said that Alice had kept herself to herself over the past few years, and that she had not been the type to take-in strays or befriend strangers. If the two young tearaways were not responsible for her death, then who was, and why?

  Unfortunately, the slow afternoon allowed Banks more time than he would have liked to reflect on the events of the previous evening. Sandra had been asleep when he got home, so he was spared a telling off, but she had been very frosty in the morning, reminding him that they had arranged to go out that evening with Harriet Slade and her husband, who had already booked a sitter, and that he'd promised to take the kids up to Castle Hill on Saturday morning. It was her way of hinting that he wasn't spending enough time with his nearest and dearest, whatever else he might be up to.

  Though he certainly felt pangs of guilt, he hadn't really been up to anything much at all.

  His first move, after Jenny had led him into her front room, had been to remark on the expensive stereo system and the lack of a television.

  "I used to have one," she said, heading for the kitchen, "but I gave it to a colleague. Without it I get much more done-reading, listening to music, going out, seeing films. When I had it I was terribly lazy; I always take the line of least resistance."

  "It doesn't look much like a professor's living room," Banks shouted through. There were only a couple of recent psychology journals and a folder of notes on the table.

  "The study's upstairs," she yelled back. "I do work hard, honestly, Inspector. Milk and sugar?"

  "No, thanks."

  Banks squinted at the framed print on the wall. It showed an enormous dark mountain, more steep than broad, completely dominating a small village in the foreground.

  "Who did this?" he asked Jenny when she came into the room carrying two mugs of coffee..

  "That? It's an Emily Carr."

  "I've never heard of her," said Banks, who had gained a basic knowledge of art through Sandra.

  "That's not surprising; she's a Canadian. I spent three years doing postgraduate work in Vancouver. She's a West Coast artist, did a lot of totem poles and forest scenes. Oddly enough, I saw that painting in a gallery at Kleinburg, near Toronto. I fell in love with it right away. Everything looks alive, don't you think?"

  "Yes, in a dark, creepy kind of way. But I'm not sure it would pass my simple test for paintings."

  "Don't tell me!" she said, imitating a Yorkshire accent." 'Ah don't know much about art bu'rah knows whar'ah likes.' Not bad for a Leicester girl, eh?"

  Banks laughed. "Better than I could do. Anyway, that's not my test. I just ask myself if I could live with it on my living room wall."

  "And you couldn't?"

  "No. Not that."

  "What could you live with? It sounds like a very hard test."

  Banks thought back over some of the paintings Sandra had introduced him to. "Modigliani's Reclining Nude, maybe Chagall's / and the Village. Monet's Water-lilies."

  "Good lord, you'd need an entire room for that one."

  "Yes, but it would be worth it."

  With the coffees, Jenny also poured out generous measures of cognac, giving Banks no time to refuse, then she put some music on the cassette deck and sat d
own beside him.

  "This is good music," he said. "What is it?"

  "Bruch's violin concerto."

  "Mmm, I've never heard it before. Are you a classical music buff?"

  "Oh, no. I mean, I enjoy classical, but I like a bit of everything, really. I like jazz-Miles Davis and Monk. I still love some of the old sixties stuff-Beatles, Dylan, Stones-but my old copies are a bit scratched up by now."

  "For a psychology teacher you seem to know a lot about the arts."

  "English was my second subject, and my father was a bit of an amateur artist. Even now I seem to spend more time with the arts faculty than the sciences. Most psychologists are so boring."

  "Do you like opera?"

  "That's one thing I don't know very well. My sister took me to an Opera North performance of La Traviata once, years ago, but I'm afraid I don't remember much about it."

  "Try some. I'll lend you a couple of tapes. Tosca, that's a good one."

  "What's it about?"

  "An evil chief of police who tries to coerce a singer into sleeping with him by threatening to have her lover killed."

  "That sounds cheerful," Jenny said; then she shivered. "Someone just walked over my grave."

  "The music's good. Some fine arias."

  "All right. Here's to opera," said Jenny, smiling and clinking glasses. "Do you think we did a good evening's work?"

  "Yes, I think so. We didn't expect miracles. That's not why we brought you in."

  "Charming! I know why you brought me in."

  "I mean why we brought a psychologist in."

  "Yes. I know that, too."

  "Why?"

  "You were all afraid that this was going to spiral into a rash of rapes and sex murders, and you wanted to check on the evidence."

  "Partly true. And given that, we also wanted to make damn sure we had a better chance of stopping him before he went too far."

  "Are you any closer?"

  "That remains to be seen."

  As they sat in silence, Banks could feel his heart beating faster and his throat constricting. He knew he shouldn't be there, knew there could only be one interpretation of his accepting the offer of coffee, and he was nervous about what to do. The music flowed around them and the tension grew so strong it made the muscles in his jaw ache. Jenny stirred and her scent wafted toward him. It was too subtle to be called a perfume; it was the kind of fresh and happy smell that took him back to carefree childhood trips to the country.

  "Look," Banks finally blurted out, putting down his coffee and facing Jenny, "I'm sorry if I've given you the impression that… the wrong impression… but I'm married." Then, having confessed in what he felt to be as graceless a manner as possible, he started to apologize and rephrase, but Jenny cut in, "I know that, you fool. You think a psychologist can't spot a married man a mile off?"

  "You know? Then…?"

  Jenny shrugged. "I'm not trying to seduce you, if that's what you mean. Yes, I like you, I'm attracted to you. I get the impression that you feel the same way. Dammit, then, maybe I am trying to seduce you. I don't know." She reached out and touched his face. "No strings, Alan. Why must you always be so serious?" Immediately, he felt himself freeze, and it shocked her so much that she jumped away and turned her face to the wall.

  "All right," she said, "I've made in idiot of myself. Now go. Go on, go!"

  "Listen, Jenny," Banks said. "You're not wrong about anything. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come."

  "Why did you, then?" Jenny asked, softening a little but still not facing him.

  Banks shrugged and lit a cigarette. "If I went to bed with you once," he said, "I wouldn't want it to stop there."

  "You don't know till you try it," she said, turning and managing a thin smile.

  "Yes, I do."

  "I might be lousy in bed."

  "That's not the point."

  "I knew you wouldn't do it, anyway."

  "You did?"

  "I'm a psychologist, remember? I've spent enough time with you to know you're not frivolous and that you're probably a very monogamous person."

  "Am I so transparent?"

  "Not at all. I'm an expert. Maybe you were testing yourself, taking a risk."

  "Well, they do say there's no better test of virtue than temptation."

  "And how do you feel now?"

  "Intolerably virtuous."

  Jenny laughed and kissed him swiftly on the lips. It was a friendly sort of kiss, and instead of increasing Banks's desire it seemed to diffuse it and put things back on a simpler, more relaxed level.

  "Don't go just yet," Jenny said. "If you do I'll think it's because of all this and it'll keep me awake all night."

  "All right. But only if I get another black coffee-and no more cognac."

  "Coming up, sir."

  "By the way," Banks asked as Jenny headed for the kitchen, "what about you? Divorced, single?"

  "Single." Jenny leaned against the doorpost. "Marriage never happened to me."

  "Not even almost?"

  "Oh, yes, almost. But you can't be almost married, can you? That would be like being a little bit pregnant." And she turned to go and make the coffee, leaving a smile behind her which faded slowly like the Cheshire cat's.

  Banks snapped out of his reverie feeling half-remorseful for having gone so far and half-regretful that he hadn't seized the moment and abandoned himself to Eros. He put on his headphones, rewound Dido and Aeneas to the lament, "When I am laid in earth," and left the building. Abandoned by her lover, Queen Dido sang "Remember me, remember me…" It sent shivers up and down Banks's spine.

  III

  The evening out with Harriet and David went well. They drove along the Dale on the road by the River Swain, which was coursing high and fast after the recent rains. Beyond the sloping commons, dark valley sides rose steeply on both sides like sleeping whales. At Fortford, David took an unfenced minor road over the hills and down into the village of Axeby. The Greyhound, an old low-ceilinged pub with walls three feet thick, held a folk night there every Friday that was so well respected it even drew people from as far afield as Leeds, Bradford and Manchester. They were early enough to find a table for four near the back, which provided a relatively unobstructed view of the small stage. David brought the first round and they drank to a good evening. Though Banks thought David, an assistant bank manager, a bit of a bore, he made an effort to like him for Sandra's sake, and the two of them got on well enough. But Banks still found himself wondering what such a lively and interesting woman as Harriet saw in her husband.

  The music was good; there were none of the modern, whining protest songs that got up Banks's nose. You could usually depend on The Greyhound for solid, traditional folk music-"Sir Patrick Spens," "The Wife of Usher's Well," "Marie Hamilton," "The Unquiet Grave" and the like-and that night there was nothing to spoil Banks's joy in the old ballads, which he loved almost as much as opera. The "high" and "low" or "culture" and "folk" distinctions didn't concern him at all-it was the sense of a story, of drama and tension in the music, that enthralled him.

  Because it was David's turn to drive that night, Banks was allowed more than his usual two pints, and as the beer at The Greyhound-brewed on the premises-was famous for its quality, he indulged himself freely. He could take his drink, though, for a small man, and the only signs that he'd had one or two too many were that he smoked and talked more than usual. Sandra stuck to gin and tonic, and drank slowly.

  The day, which had been heavy with disturbing feelings for Banks, seemed to be ending well. This evening out with Sandra and the Slades, good music and good beer, was driving Jenny from his mind. Looking back from a distance of four or five pints, what he had done didn't seem so bad. Many men would have done much worse. True, he had sounded terribly moral and sanctimonious-but how else can you sound, he asked himself, if you have to say no to a beautiful, intelligent woman?

  As he reached for a cigarette, Sandra glanced over from her conversation and they smiled at each other.

/>   IV

  It was a good position on the sloping roof because, lying down, he seemed to melt into the slates, but it was very uncomfortable and he was getting tired of waiting. He'd done his reconnaissance well enough-not hanging around the front, especially as the street was a cul-de-sac, but just passing by occasionally, watching from the unlit alley at the back, nothing more than a narrow dirt track between fenced back gardens. Ideal. He'd slipped through the fence, climbed the pipe up the side of the wall-it was an addition to the house, a kind of storeroom or workshop attached to the back-and found himself just on a level with the bedroom window. He knew it was the right one because he'd seen the children's wallpaper in the front rooms as he'd passed by one day. He also knew that she tended to go to bed first. The husband would often stay up in the front room and listen to music or read for a while.

  What was keeping her? They'd been home half an hour and still no sign. Finally the bedroom light came on and he took his position by the chink at the bottom of the curtains. The woman tied back her straight blond hair and reached behind her back for her zipper. Slowly, she pulled it down and slipped the black, silky dress from her pale shoulders, letting it fall all the way to the carpet, then picked it up and hung it carefully in the wardrobe.

  There she stood, the dark V of cleavage clear at the front of her bra, the inviting curve in at the waist and out again, softly, at the hips. Her figure was slight; there was nothing out of proportion, nothing in excess. It was what he had been waiting for, what had first stirred his feelings and had eluded him ever since. He felt himself getting more and more excited as she sat at the dressing table and removed her makeup before undressing anymore. He could see her reflection, her concentration as she applied the tufts of cotton wool. It was just like he remembered. Almost unconsciously he rubbed himself as he watched, not wanting her to finish, willing it to go on forever.

  Finally she stood up again and pulled her nightdress out from under the pillow. Facing him, she undipped her bra and he watched her small breasts fall slightly as it loosened. He was rubbing himself all the time, faster and faster, and then it happened. What he'd been waiting for. She saw him.