Fortunately, Banks spotted Richmond, tall and distinctive, closer to the bar. He caught the constable's attention-the man was on duty, after all-and asked for one-and-a-half pints of bitter. Surprised but immediately compliant, Richmond added it to his own order. Rather than demand waiter service of his young constable, Banks waited till Richmond had got the drinks, paid him and made off.
"What are you thinking?" he asked, sitting next to Jenny again.
Jenny laughed. "It wasn't anything serious. Remember the other night?"
So the ice was broken; the subject wasn't taboo, after all. "Yes," he answered, waiting.
"I said I knew how you'd behave, even though I hoped it would be different?"
"Something like that."
"Well, I was just trying to work out where I'd have placed my bet. Reporting or not reporting. I think I'd have been wrong. It's not that I think you're a slave to duty or anything like that, but you like to do things right… you're honest. I'd guess that if you don't do things the way you know they should be done, you suffer for it. Conscience. Too much of it, probably."
"I never asked for it," Banks replied, lighting his second cigarette of the evening.
"You weren't born with it, either."
"No?"
"No. Conditioning."
"I didn't ask for that either."
"No, you didn't. None of us do. You've surprised me this time, though. I'd have guessed that you would report the incident no matter how much embarrassment it might cause."
Banks shook his head. "There would be too much unfavorable publicity all around. Not only for Sandra but for the department, too. That Wycombe woman would just love to get her hands on something like this. If it were made public and we solved the case quickly, according to her it would only be because a policeman's wife was among the victims. No, I'd rather keep it quiet."
"But what about interviews, questioning people?"
"Sandra and I will do that locally. We'll ask if anyone has seen any strangers hanging around."
Jenny looked at him quizzically. "I'm not judging you, you know. I'm not the authorities."
"I know," Banks said. "I needed to tell someone. I couldn't think of anyone else who'd…"
"Automatically be on your side?"
"I was going to say 'understand,' but I suppose you're right. I did count on your support."
"You have it, whether you need it or not. And your secret's safe with me."
"There is something a bit more technical I want to ask you, too," Banks went on. "This new incident, the fact that it was Sandra, my wife. Do you think that means anything?"
"If he knew who it was, and I think he probably did, then yes, I do think it's a development."
"Goon."
"It means that he's getting bolder, he needs to take greater risks to get his satisfaction. Unless he's some kind of hermit or human ostrich, he must have read about reactions to what he's been doing, probably with a kind of pride. Therefore, he must know that you've been heading an investigation into the case. He does a bit of research on you, finds you have an attractive blond wife-"
"Or knows her already?" Banks cut in.
"What makes you think that? He could simply have watched the house discreetly, seen her come and go."
"It's just a feeling I've got."
"Yes, but what basis does it have? Where does it come from?"
Banks thought as deeply as he could, given that the pop group had started its set with a carbon copy of the ancient Searchers' hit, "Love Potion Number Nine."
"We were talking about the Camera Club Sandra belongs to," he answered slowly. "Sometimes they have nude models, and I said that most of the men probably don't even have films in their cameras. It was just a joke at the time, but could there be any connection?"
"I'm not sure," Jenny replied. "A Camera Club does grant permission for its members to look at the models, though if someone really didn't have film in his camera, it might give the illusion of peeping, of doing something vaguely wrong. That's a bit farfetched, I'm afraid, but then so is your theory. We can at least expect our man to be interested in naked women, although it's spying on them that gives him his real thrills. What happened about this other fellow you got onto?"
"Wooller?"
"If that's his name."
"Yes, Wooller. Lives on Gallows View. We did a bit of very discreet checking, and it turns out that he was on a two-week library sciences course in Cardiff when two of the incidents took place. That lets him out, however much pornography he's got hidden away."
"Sorry," Jenny said, glancing at her watch, "but I've got to dash. The department head will have apoplexy if I'm not there to greet our eminent visitor." She patted Banks's arm. "Don't worry, I think you made the right decision. And one more point: I'd say that our man's recent actions also show that he's got a sense of humor. It's a bit of a joke to him, leaving you with egg on your face, wouldn't you say? Call me after the weekend?"
Banks nodded and watched Jenny walk away. He noticed Richmond glancing over at him and wondered how bad it looked-a Detective Chief Inspector spending Saturday evening in The Oak with an attractive woman. He saw Jenny in his mind's eye just as she had looked on Thursday night after telling him she knew he wouldn't sleep with her. Was it being predictable that annoyed him so much? If so, he could console himself with thoughts of having won a small victory this time. Or was it guilt over what he had really wanted to do? Maybe he would do it anyway, he thought, sauntering out into the chilly October evening. It wasn't too late yet. Surely a man, like a woman, could change his mind? After all, what harm would it do? "No strings," Jenny had said.
Banks turned up his collar as he walked back to the Cortina. He needed cigarettes, and fortunately there was an off-license next door to the pub. As he picked up his change, he paused for a moment before pocketing it. Hatchley might have questioned the barmaids at The Oak, but he hadn't said anything about talking to the local shopkeepers.
Banks identified himself and asked the owner's name.
"Patel," the man answered cautiously.
"What time do you close?"
"Ten o'clock. It's not against the law, is it?" Mr. Patel answered in a broad Yorkshire accent.
"No, not at all. It's nothing to do with that," Banks assured him. "Think back to last Monday night. Did you notice anybody hanging around outside here during the evening?"
Mr. Patel shook his head.
It had probably been too early in the evening for the peeper and too long ago for the shopkeeper to remember, as Banks had feared.
"A bit later, though," Mr. Patel went on, "I noticed a* bloke waiting at the bus stop for a bloody long time. There must have been two or three buses went by and 'ee were still there. I think that were Monday last."
"What time was this?"
"After I'd closed up. 'Ee just sat there in that bus shelter over t'street." Banks looked out of the window and saw the shelter, a dark rectangle set back from the road.
"Where were you?" he asked.
"Home," Mr. Patel said, turning up his eyes. "The flat's above t'shop. Very convenient."
"Yes, yes indeed," Banks said, getting more interested. "Tell me more."
"I remember because I was just closing t'curtains when a bus went by, and I noticed that bloke was still in t'shelter. It seemed a bit odd to me. I mean, why would a chap sit in a bus shelter if 'ee weren't waiting on a bus?"
"Why, indeed?" Banks said. "Go on."
"Nothing more to tell. A bit later I looked again, and 'ee were still there."
"What time did he leave?"
"I didn't actually see him leave, but 'ee'd gone by eleven o'clock. That were t'last time I looked out."
"And the time before that?"
"Excuse me?"
"When was the last time you looked out and saw him?"
"About 'alf past ten."
"Can you describe the man?"
Mr. Patel shook his head sadly. "Sorry, it were too dark. I think 'ee were wearing a dark
overcoat or a raincoat, though. Slim, a bit taller than you. I got the impression 'ee were youngish, some'ow. It was 'ard to pick him out from the shadows."
"Don't worry about it," Banks said. At least the color of the coat matched the description that Sandra and the other victims had given. It had to be the man. They could talk to other people in the street: shopkeepers, locals, even the bus drivers. Maybe somebody else would have noticed a man waiting for a bus he never caught on Monday night.
"Look," Banks said, "this is very important. You've been a great help." Mr. Patel shrugged and shook his head shyly. "Have you ever seen the man before?"
"I don't think so, but how would I know? I couldn't recognize him from Adam, could I?"
"If you see him again, or anyone you think looks like him, anyone hanging about the bus stop without catching a bus, or acting oddly in any way, let me know, will you?" Banks wrote his number on a card and passed it to Mr. Patel, who nodded and promised to keep his eyes skinned.
For the first time in days, Banks felt quite cheerful as he drove home to the delightful melodies of The Magic Flute.
Chapter TEN
On Sunday morning, Banks paid his visit to Robin Allott, who lived in his parents' modest semi about ten minutes walk away. A tiny, bird-like woman answered his knock and fluttered around him all the way into the living room.
"Do sit down, Inspector," she said, pulling out a chair. "I'll call Robin. He's in his room reading the Sunday papers."
Banks looked quickly around the room. The furniture was a little threadbare and there was no VCR or music center, only an ancient-looking television. Quite a contrast from the Ottershaws' opulence, he thought.
"He's coming down," Mrs. Allott said. "Can I make you a cup of tea?"
"Yes, please," Banks said, partly to get her out of the way for a while. She made him nervous with her constant hovering. "I hope I'm not disturbing you and Mr. Allott," he said. "Oh no, not at all." She lowered her voice. "My husband's an invalid, Inspector. He had a serious stroke about two years ago and he can't get around much. He stays in bed most of the time and I look after him as best I can."
That explained the badly worn furnishings, Banks thought. Whatever help the social services gave, the loss of the breadwinner was a serious financial setback for most families.
"It's been a great help having Robin home since his divorce," she added, then shrugged. "But he can't stay forever, can he?"
Banks heard footsteps on the stairs, and as Robin entered the room, Mrs. Allott went to make the tea.
"Hello," Robin said, shaking Banks's hand. He looked an almost unnaturally healthy and handsome young man, despite the unmistakable signs of his chestnut-brown hair receding at the temples. "Sandra said you might call."
"It's about Alice Matlock," Banks said. "I'd just like to find out as much as I can about her."
"I don't really see how I can help you, Inspector," Robin said. "I told Sandra the same, but she seemed quite insistent. Surely you'll have found out all you want to know from her close friends?"
"She only had one, it seems: a lady called Ethel Carstairs. And even they haven't been friends for long. Most of Alice's contemporaries appear to have died."
"I suppose that's what happens when you reach her age. Anyway, as I said, I don't know how I can help, but fire away."
"Had you seen her recently?"
"Not for a while, no. If I remember correctly, the last time was about three years ago. I was interested in portrait photography and I thought she'd make a splendid subject. I have the picture somewhere-I'll dig it out for you later."
"And before that?"
"I hadn't seen her since my gran died."
"She and your grandmother were close friends?"
"Yes. My father's mother. They grew up together and both worked most of their lives in the hospital. Eastvale's not such a big place, or it wasn't then, so it was quite natural they'd be close. They went through the wars together, too. That creates quite a bond between people. When I was a child, my gran would often take me over to Alice's."
Mrs. Allott appeared with the tea and perched at the opposite end of the table.
"Can you tell me anything about her past?" Banks asked Robin.
"Nothing you couldn't find out from anyone else, I don't think. I did realize later, though, when I was old enough to understand, what a fascinating life she'd led, all the changes she'd witnessed. Can you imagine it? When she was a girl cars were few and far between and people didn't move around much. And it wasn't only technology. Look at how our attitudes have changed, how the whole structure of society is different."
"How did Alice relate to all this?"
"Believe it or not, Inspector, she was quite a radical. She was an early struggler for women's rights, and she even went so far as to serve with the International Brigade as a nurse in the Spanish Civil War."
"Was she a communist?"
"Not in the strict sense, as far as I know. A lot of people who fought against Franco weren't."
"What were your impressions of her?"
"Impressions? I suppose, when I was a child, I was just fascinated with the cottage she lived in. It was so full of odds and ends. All those alcoves just overflowing with knick-knacks she'd collected over the years: tarnished cigarette lighters, Victorian pennies and those old silver three-penny bits-all kinds of wonderful junk. I don't imagine I paid much attention to Alice herself. I remember I was always fascinated by that ship in the bottle, the Miranda. I stared at it for hours on end. It was alive for me, a real ship. I even imagined the crew manning the sails, doing battle with pirates."
Mrs. Allott poured the tea and laughed. "He always did have plenty of imagination, my Robin, didn't you?" Robin ignored her. "How did it happen, anyway? How was she killed?"
"We're still not sure," Banks said. "It looks like she might have fallen over in a struggle with some kids come to rob her, but we're trying to cover any other possibilities. Have you any ideas?"
"I shouldn't think it was kids, surely?"
"Why not?"
"Weil, they wouldn't kill a frail old woman, would they?"
"You'd be surprised at what kids do these days, Mr. Allott. As I said, they might not have killed her intentionally.".,.
Robin smiled. "I'm a teacher at the College of Further Education, Inspector, so I'm no great believer in the innocence and purity of youth. But couldn't it have happened some other way?"
"We don't know. That's what I'm trying to determine. What do you have in mind?"
"Nothing, I'm afraid. It was just an idea."
"You can't think of anyone who might have held a grudge or wanted her out of the way for some other reason?"
"I'm sorry, no. I wish I could help, but…"
"That's all right," Banks said, standing to leave. "I wasn't expecting you to give us the answer. Is there anything else you can think of?"
"No. I can dig out that portrait for you, though, if you're interested."
Out of politeness' sake, Banks accompanied Robin upstairs and waited as he flipped through one of his many boxes of photographs. The picture of Alice, when he found it, was mounted on a mat and still seemed in very good shape. It showed a close-up of the old woman's head in semi-profile, and high-contrast processing had brought out the network of lines and wrinkles, the vivid topography of Alice Matlock's face. Her expression was proud, her eyes clear and lively.
"It's very good," Banks said. "How long have you been interested in photography?"
"Ever since I was at school."
"Ever thought of taking it up professionally?"
"As a police photographer?" Banks laughed. "I didn't have anything as specific as that in mind," he said.
"I've thought of trying it as a freelance, yes," Robin said. "But it's too unpredictable. Better to stick to teaching."
"There is one more thing, while I'm here," Banks said, handing the photograph back to Robin. "It's just something I'm curious about. Do you ever get the impression that anyone at the C
amera Club might be… not too serious… might be more interested in the models you get occasionally than in the artistic side?"
It was Robin's turn to laugh. "What an odd question," he said. "But, yes, there's always one or two seem to turn up only when we've got a model in. What did Sandra say?"
"To tell the truth," Banks said, "I didn't like to ask her. She's a bit sensitive about it and I've probably teased her too much as it is."
"I see."
"Who are these people?"
"Their names?"
"Yes."
"Well, I don't know…" Robin said hesitantly.
"Don't worry," Banks assured him, "you won't be getting them into trouble. They won't even know we've heard their names if they've done nothing wrong."
"All right." Robin took a deep breath. "Geoff Welling and Barry Scott are the ones who spring to mind. They seem decent enough sorts, but they hardly ever turn up and I've never seen any examples of their work."
"Thank you," Banks said, writing down the names. "What do they look like?"
"They're both in their late twenties, about my age. Five-ten to six feet. Barry's got a bit of a beer belly but Geoff seems fit enough. What's all this about? That Peeping Tom business?"
"Robin!" Mrs. Allott shouted from the bottom of the stairs. "Can you come and take your dad up his tea and biscuits?"
"Coming," Robin yelled back, and followed Banks down the stairs.
"Another cup of tea, Inspector?" Mrs. Allott asked.
"No, I won't if you don't mind," Banks said. "Have to get home." As he walked the short distance back home, Banks tried to pinpoint exactly what it was that Robin had said to increase his uneasy feeling about the Alice Matlock killing.
II
Apart from the immediate shock, which had made her scream, Sandra felt very calm about her experience. One minute she had been undressing for bed, as she had done thousands of times before, absorbed in her own private rituals, and the next moment that world was in tatters, would probably never really be the same again. She realized that the idea of such permanent ruin was melodramatic, so she kept it to herself, but she could think of no other way to express the complex sense of violation she had experienced.
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