Gallows View ib-1

by Peter Robinson

  "Yes, sir," Richmond said, a bit more hesitantly.

  "What is it, lad?"

  "I'm not complaining, sir, but it's going to take a long time without help."

  "Get Sergeant Hatchley to help you if he's not too busy." When Richmond hardly appeared to jump with joy, Banks suppressed a smile. "And ask Sergeant Rowe if he can spare you a couple of uniformed boys."

  "Yes, sir," Richmond said more cheerfully.

  "Right. Off you go."

  Banks had no great hopes for the inquiry, but it had to be carried out. It was the same with every case; thousands of man-hours seemed to amount to nothing until that one fragment of information turned up in the most unexpected place and led them to the solution.

  He remembered his mental note to visit Alice Matlock's cottage again and see if he could nose out what it was that had bothered him since his talk with Robin.

  As it was a pleasant, if chilly, day, he put on his light overcoat and set off. Turning left into the market square, then left again, he walked through the network of old cobbled streets to King Street, then wound his way down through Leaview Estate to Gallows View.

  Alice Matlock's house was exactly as the police had left it almost a week ago, and Banks wondered who was going to inherit the mess. Ethel Carstairs? If there was anything of value, would it have been worth killing for? No will had been discovered so far, but that didn't mean Alice hadn't made one. She had no next of kin, so the odds were that at some point she had considered what to do about bequeathing her worldly goods. It was worth looking into.

  As he stood in the small, cluttered living room, Banks tried to work out exactly what it was that bothered him. Again, he made the rounds of the alcoves, with their hand-painted figurines of nursery-rhyme and fairy-tale figures like Miss Muffet and Little Jack Homer, their old gilt-framed sepia photographs, and teaspoons from almost every coastal resort in Britain.

  He picked up a glass-encased Dales scene and watched the snow fall on the shepherd and his sheep as he shook it. Moving on, he found an exquisitely engraved silver snuff-box, dented on one edge. Opening it up, he noticed the initials A. G. M. on the inside of the lid. Alice? Surely not. Still, Robin Allott had said she was a radical, a fighter for women's rights, and Banks had seen photographs of pioneer feminists smoking cigars or pipes, so why not take snuff, too? On the other hand, he was certain she had no middle name, but there had been a boyfriend who had died in the Great War. Perhaps the snuff-box had been his. The dent might even have been caused by the bullet that killed him, Banks found himself thinking. There was something about Alice's house that made him feel fanciful, as if he were in a tiny, personal museum.

  Next he peered closely at the ship in the bottle. Banks could easily imagine a young boy populating the ship with sailors and inventing adventures for them. Its name, Miranda, was clear on its side, and all the details of deck, mast, ropes and sails were reproduced in miniature. There was even a tiny figurehead of a naked woman with streaming hair-Miranda herself, perhaps.

  As he moved back to the center of the room and looked around again at Alice's carefully preserved possessions, he realized exactly what it was that had been nagging away at the back of his mind.

  When Robin had mentioned the ship, Banks had visualized it clearly, just as he had been able to remember many of the other articles in the room. True, the place had been a mess-cupboards and sideboards had been emptied and their contents scattered over the floor-but there had been no gratuitous damage.

  One of the features of the Ottershaw burglary that led Banks to believe it was the work of the same youths who had been robbing the old women was the wanton destruction of property: the urine and feces that had defaced Ottershaw's paintings, music center, television and VCR.

  It was slim evidence to base a decision on, Banks realized, but it confirmed the hunch he already had about the Matlock killing. If the same youths had been responsible, they would, according to form, have smashed the ship in the bottle, the snowstorm and any other fragile object on display. But no, this thief had only made a straightforward utilitarian search for cash and such things as could be easily translated into money; the gratuitous element was entirely missing.

  Pulling his collar up against the breeze, Banks set off, deep in thought, back to the station.

  II

  "I'm worried, Gray," Andrea said as they dipped into a dessert of cherry pie and ice cream after a main course of lasagne and salad. It was Monday evening-Andrea's husband was off in Bristol for the week and it was Trevor's youth-club night-so Graham and Andrea could actually have dinner together like a normal couple. The romantic peace of their candle-lit dinner was spoiled, however, by her obvious distress.

  "What is it?" Graham asked, spooning up another mouthful of pie. "Don't tell me Ronnie's getting suspicious?"

  "No, it's not that," Andrea reassured him quickly. "But it could lead to that." She looked beautiful across the table. Her breasts pushed at the tight black blouse, which revealed tiny ovals of olive skin between the buttons, and her glossy hair, equally black, swept down across her shoulders and shimmered every time she tossed her head. Her red lipstick emphasized her full lips, and her dark eyes reflected the candle flames like brightly polished oak. Graham was excited, and Andrea's preoccupied mood irritated him.

  "What's happened, then?" he asked, sighing and putting his spoon down. Andrea leaned forward on the table, cupping her chin with her hands. "It's that man next door."

  "Wooller?"

  "Yes, him."

  "What about him? I know he's a bit of a creep, but…"

  "Remember last week I told you I thought he'd been looking at me funny?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, he actually spoke to me this morning. I was just going to the shops and he caught up with me at the end of the street and walked along beside me."

  "Bloody cheek! Go on," Graham prompted her, curious. "Did he try to pick you up?"

  "No, it wasn't like that. Well, not really like that." She shivered. "He makes my skin crawl, those thin, dry lips of his, and that weird smile he's always got on his face, as if he knows something you don't. He knows about us, Gray, I'm sure of it."

  "Did he say so?"

  "Not in so many words. He wasn't direct about it. First he just went on about how lonely it must be with my husband away so much, then he said it was so nice that I'd found a friend, that nice Mr. Sharp from the shop. He said he'd seen you coming and going out of the back window, and he thought it was so good of you to keep me company, especially when you had a son to look after, too. It was the way he said it, though, Gray. His voice. His tone. It was dirty."

  "Is that all he said?" Graham asked.

  "What do you mean?"

  "About seeing me visit you."

  "Yes. I told you, it wasn't what he said but the way he said it, as if he knew much more."

  "Go on." Graham started chewing on his bottom lip as Andrea continued her story.

  "He said that not everyone was as sympathetic as him, and maybe my husband wouldn't be so understanding-he might worry about people talking, for example, even though there was nothing really going on. But he was leering at me all the time, as if he was nudging me and saying, 'We both know there's something going on, don't we?' I just ignored him and tried to walk faster, but he kept up with me and even turned the corner when I did. He went on about what a pity it would be if my husband did find out and wasn't understanding-then I'd be all lonely again, and I'd never have any nice friends again, however innocent their intentions were. I asked him to get to the point, to tell me what he was getting at, and he pretended to take offense."

  "What does he want?" Graham asked impatiently. "Money?"

  "I don't think so, no. I think he wants to go to bed with me."

  "He what?"

  "He wants me himself. I couldn't bear it, Gray. I'd be sick, I know I would." She was almost in tears now.

  "Don't worry," Graham comforted her. "It won't come to that, you can be certain. What did he say?"


  "He just said that there was no reason why I shouldn't have another friend, like him, for example, and what a good friend he could be and all that. He never really said anything, you know, explicit, nothing you could put your finger on. But we both knew what he was talking about. He said how pretty he thought I was, what nice legs I had, and I could feel his eyes crawling all over my body while he spoke. Then he said we should all have tea together soon, and he'd be happy just to sit there and watch us-Oh, he's disgusting, Gray! What am I going to do?"

  "You're not to worry," Graham said, moving his chair next to hers and stroking her hair. "I'll take care of him."

  "Will you?" She turned her face so that it was close to his. He could smell the cherries on her breath. "What will you do?"

  "Never you mind about that, love. I've told you I'll deal with him. Don't I always keep my word?" Andrea nodded.

  "Then you've nothing to worry about, have you? You won't hear anything from him again. He won't even so much as glance in your direction if he sees you in the street, I promise you that."

  "You won't hurt him, will you Gray? I don't want you to get into trouble. You know what that might lead to."

  "At least then," Graham said wearily, "we'd be out in the open. We could go away together."

  "Yes," Andrea agreed. "But it wouldn't be a good start, would it? I want things to be better than that for us."

  "I suppose so," Graham said, sitting back.

  "But you'll really deal with him, will you? And not make any trouble?" Graham nodded and smiled at her. Andrea caught his look and stood up to clear the table. "Not yet, you goat," she said. "Wait till I've cleared the dishes."

  "They can wait," Graham said, reaching out for her. "I can't."

  She moved away playfully and his hand caught the collar of her blouse. As she stepped back, the material ripped down the front and the buttons flew off, pinging against wine glasses and plates. The blouse hung open, revealing Andrea's semi-transparent black brassiere, the one that stood out in clear relief against her pale skin and exposed a great deal of inviting cleavage.

  Graham froze for a second. He didn't know what her reaction would be. Perhaps it was an expensive blouse-it felt soft, like silk-and she would be angry with him. He was all set to apologize and offer to buy her another when she laughed and reached forward to pull at his shirt.

  "Come on, then," she said, smiling at him. "If you really can't wait."

  And they rolled to the floor, laughing and tearing at each other's clothes.

  Afterwards, sweaty and out of breath, they lay back and laughed again, then went up to the bedroom to continue making love in a more leisurely way for another two hours.

  Finally, it was time to go. Trevor was due back in about half an hour, and Graham had promised to drop in on Wooller on his way home.

  "Remember," Andrea said, kissing him as he left, "no trouble. Ask him nicely. Tell him there's nothing in it."

  III

  Graham Sharp knocked softly at the door of number six Gallows View, and a few seconds later, Wooller peered around the chain, squinting through his thick glasses.

  "Mr. Sharp!" he exclaimed. "What a pleasant surprise. Come in, come in!" The messy room smelled of old socks and boiled cabbage. Wooller, obviously thinking that Sharp had come to make some arrangement about Andrea Rigby, scooped some newspapers from a straight-backed chair and bade him sit down.

  "Tea? Or perhaps something a little stronger?"

  "No, thanks," Graham said stiffly. "And I won't sit down either. I'll not be stopping long."

  "Oh," said Wooller, standing in the kitchen doorway. "Sure I can't persuade you?"

  "No," Sharp said, walking toward him. "You can't bloody persuade me. But I think I can persuade you."

  Wooller looked puzzled until Graham grabbed him by the front of his pullover, bunching the wool in his fist and half-lifting the frail librarian from the floor. Sharp was much taller and in far better physical shape. He began to shake Wooller, gently at first, then more violently, against the kitchen doorjamb. Each time Wooller's back hit the wood, Graham spat out a word. "Don't… you… ever… threaten… Andrea… Rigby… again… you… smelly… little… prick… Do… you… under… stand?" It was hard to tell if Wooller was nodding or not, but he looked scared enough.

  "Stop it," Wooller whined, putting his hand to the back of his head. "You've split my skull. Look, blood!"

  He thrust his open palm under Graham's eyes, and there was clearly blood on it. Sharp felt a sudden lurch of fear in his stomach. He let go of Wooller and leaned against the doorway, pale and trembling. Wooller stared at him with his mouth open.

  Quickly, Graham made the effort to pull himself together. He grabbed a glass from the draining-board and, without even bothering to see if it was clean or not, filled it with cold water from the tap and gulped it down.

  Feeling a little better, he ran his hand through his hair and faced a confused Woolier, grasping the front of his pullover again. "I'm not going to tell you again," he said, injecting as much quiet menace into his tone as he could manage. "Do you understand me?"

  Wooiler swallowed and nodded. "Let me go! Let me go!"

  "If you say one more word to Mrs. Rigby," Graham went on, "even if you so much as look at her in a way she doesn't like, I'll be back to finish what I started. And don't think of talking to her husband, either. True, you might cause a bit of trouble if you do, but not half as much trouble as you'll be causing for yourself. Get it?"

  Again Wooller's Adam's apple bobbed as he nodded. "Let me go! Please!" Graham relaxed his grip a bit more, but didn't quite let go of Wooller's bunched-up pullover. "I want to hear you say you understand me, first," he said. "I want you to tell me you won't talk to anyone about this-not her husband, not the police, not anyone. Because if you do, Woolier, I swear it, I'll break every fucking bone in your stinking little body."

  Woolier was shaking. "All right," he whimpered, trying to wriggle free. "All right, I'll say nothing, I'll leave her alone. I only wanted to be her friend, that's all I wanted."

  Graham raised his fist, angered again by Wooller's pathetic lie, but he made the effort and restrained himself. He had almost gone too far, and he was certain now that Andrea and he would have no more trouble from Wooller.

  IV

  As soon as the back door cracked open, Trevor felt the thrill; it set his blood dancing and made the sweat prickle on his forehead and cheeks. The rough wool of the balaclava scratched at his face and made it itch like mad. The two of them entered the house cautiously, but all was as they had expected-dark and quiet. The narrow beams of their flashlights picked out dishes piled up for washing, a table littered with shadowy objects, a newspaper open at a half-finished crossword puzzle. Again, they were in a kitchen, but it seemed much less clean and tidy than the one they'd been in a few days ago.

  The living room, too, turned out to be in a bit of a mess: Sunday's paper lay scattered on the carpet, and Trevor's beam picked out a half-full coffee mug on the mantelpiece.

  They'd been tipped by Lenny that the woman who lived there kept a lot of expensive jewelry, which he could easily fence in London, so they ignored the living room and, keeping their flashlight beams pointed toward the floor, headed up the stairs. The first room they entered was empty except for a single bed-a guestroom, most likely-and two others were similarly ascetic. It felt eerie, as if the woman had once had family and now they were gone and the house was empty and bare. You could tell from the downstairs that she couldn't be bothered much anymore; yet she was supposed to be well off.

  Finally, after more false starts in the bathroom and airing-cupboard, they found what seemed to be her bedroom. At first they couldn't make it out, but by running the flashlights over a wider area they discovered that a large, four-poster bed stood at the center of the room. Mick sat on the edge of the mattress and bounced up and down for a while before pronouncing it too lumpy. Then they began their search.

  Again, there was an assortment of clot
hes, this time all female, and Trevor noticed that this woman's underwear was far more exotic than the other's. There were brassieres cut so low that they were practically nonexistent; skimpy, see-through panties; a garter belt with roses embroidered on it; stockings with dark borders around the tops; and short, lacy nightdresses. The lingerie was all clean and it smelled of something faintly exotic: jasmine, Trevor thought it was. His mother had bought some jasmine tea once, many years ago, and the smell took him back and made him think of her. He remembered that none of them had liked the tea and his mother had laughed at their lack of adventurous spirit.

  They found the jewelry in a lacquered box with a Chinese landscape painted on it. The box was locked but it broke open easily and they pocketed its contents. They poked around the room a bit longer, looking for cash, but found none. That made Trevor angry, because with cash he didn't have to rely on Lenny's spurious deals.

  They set off back downstairs, and just as they were about to turn the final bend into the front hallway, the door opened and closed, the hall light came on and a woman began to take off her sleek fur coat.

  Cautiously, Mick led the way down. The last stair creaked and the woman turned, but Mick got his hand over her mouth before she could scream. They dragged her into the living room and switched on the standard-lamp. The curtains were already closed. Mick took the woman's head-scarf and fastened it tight, like a bit between her teeth; then he took the belt from her raincoat and tied her hands crudely behind her back.

  "We need time to get away," he said to Trevor. "We've got to make sure she keeps quiet for long enough. Bring me that candlestick over there."

  Trevor looked and saw an old brass candlestick with a heavy base. The woman whimpered behind her gag and struggled to free herself.

  "No," he said.

  "Come on," Mick urged him. "We've got to. We can't risk getting caught now."