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  "Local, like. Or maybe Lancashire. I can't tell the difference, though there are some as says they can."

  "Nothing odd about it? High-pitched, deep, husky?" "Sounded like he smoked too much, I can remember that. And he did smoke, too. Coughed every time he lit one up. Really stank up the shop."

  Banks passed on that one. "So he had a smoker's cough and a rough voice with a local accent, that right?"

  "That's right, sir." Crutchley was shifting from foot to foot, clearly looking forward to the moment when Banks would thank him and leave.

  "Was his voice deep or high?"

  "Kind of medium, if you know what I mean."

  "Like mine?"

  "Yes, like yours, sir. But not the accent. You speak proper, you do. He didn't."

  "What do you mean he didn't speak properly? Did he have some kind of speech impediment?" Banks could see Crutchley mentally kicking himself for being so unwisely unctuous as to prolong the interview.

  "No, nothing like that. I just meant like ordinary folks, sir, not like you. Like someone who hadn't been properly educated."

  "He didn't stutter or lisp, did he?"

  "No, sir."

  "Fine. One last question: had you ever seen him before?"

  "No, sir."

  "Inspector Barnshaw will want you to look at some photos later today, and he's going to ask you to repeat your description to a police artist. So do your best, keep him in focus. And if you see him again or think of anything else, I'd appreciate your getting in touch with me." Banks wrote down his name and number on a card.

  "I'll call you, sir, I'll do that, if I ever clap eyes on him again," Crutchley gushed, and Banks got the distinct impression that his own methods appealed more than Barnshaw's. Banks heard the sigh of relief when he closed his notebook and thanked Crutchley, avoiding a handshake by moving off rather sharply. It wasn't a great description, and it didn't ring any bells, but it would do; it would take him closer to the two balaclava-wearing thugs who had robbed three old ladies in one month, scared them all half to death, vandalized their homes and broken the arm of one seventy-five-year-old woman.

  Chapter THREE

  I

  The white Cortina skidded to a halt outside Eastvale Community Center, splashing up a sheet of spray from the curbside puddles. Sandra Banks jumped out, ten minutes late, pushed open the creaking door as gently as she could, and tiptoed in, aware of the talk already in progress. One or two of the regulars looked around and smiled as they saw her slip as unobtrusively as possible into the empty chair next to Harriet Slade.

  "Sorry," she whispered, putting her hand to the side of her mouth. "Weather. Damn car wouldn't start." Harriet nodded. "You've not missed much."

  "However beautiful, majestic or overwhelming the landscape appears to your eyes," the speaker said, "remember, you have no guarantee that it will turn out well on film. In fact, most landscape photography-as I'm sure those of you who have tried it know-turns out to be extremely disappointing. The camera's eye differs from the human eye; it lacks all the other senses that feed into our experience. Remember that holiday in Majorca or Torremolinos? Remember how wonderful the hills and sea made you feel, with their magical qualities of light and color? And remember when you got the holiday photos developed-if they came out at all!-how bad they were, how they failed to capture the beauty you'd seen?"

  "Who's this?" Sandra whispered to Harriet while the speaker paused to sip from the glass of water on the table in front of him.

  "A man called Terry Whigham. He does a lot of pictures for the local tourist board-calendars, that kind of thing. What do you think?" It wasn't anything new to Sandra, but she had more or less dragged poor Harriet into the Camera Club in the first place, and she felt that she owed it to her not to sound too smug.

  "Interesting," she answered, covering her mouth like a schoolgirl talking in class. "He puts it very well."

  "I think so, too," Harriet agreed. "I mean, it all seems so obvious, but you don't think about it till an expert points it out, do you?"

  "So the next time you're faced with Pen-y-Ghent, Skiddaw or Helvellyn," Terry Whigham continued, "consider a few simple strategies. One obvious trick is to get something in the foreground to give a sense of scale. It's hard to achieve the feeling of immensity you get when you look at a mountain in a four-by-five color print, but a human figure, an old barn or a particularly interesting tree in the foreground will add the perspective you need.

  "You can also be a bit more adventurous and let textures draw the viewer in. A rising slope of scree or a field full of buttercups will lead the eye to the craggy fells beyond. And don't be slaves to the sun, either. Mist-shrouded peaks or cloud shadows on hillsides can produce some very interesting effects if you get your exposure right, and a few fluffy white clouds pep up a bright blue sky no end."

  After this, the lights went down and Terry Whigham showed some of his favorite slides to illustrate the points he had made. They were good, Sandra recognized that, but they also lacked the spark, the personal signature, that she liked to get into her own photographs, even at the expense of well-proven rules.

  Harriet was a newcomer to the art, but so far she had shown a sharp eye for a photograph, even if her technique still had a long way to go. Sandra had met her at a dreadful coffee morning organized by a neighbor, Selena Harcourt, and the two had hit it off instantly. In London, Sandra had never been short of lively company, but in the North the people had seemed cold and distant until Harriet came along, with her pixieish features, her slight frame and her deep sense of compassion. Sandra wasn't going to let her go.

  When the slide show was over and Terry Whigham left the dais to a smattering of applause, the club secretary made announcements about the next meeting and the forthcoming excursion to Swaledale, then coffee and biscuits were served. As usual, Sandra, Harriet, Robin Allott and Norman Chester, all preferring stronger refreshments, adjourned to The Mile Post across the road.

  Sandra found herself sitting between Harriet and Robin, a young college teacher just getting over his divorce. Opposite sat Norman Chester, who always seemed more interested in the scientific process than the photographs themselves. Normally, such an oddly assorted group would never have come together, but they were united in the need for a real drink-especially after a longish lecture-and in their dislike for Fred Barton, the stiff, halitoxic club secretary, a strict Methodist who would no more set foot in a pub than he would brush the dandruff off the shoulders of his dark blue suit.

  "What's it to be, then?" Norman asked, clapping his hands and beaming at everyone. They ordered, and a few minutes later he returned with the drinks on a tray. After the usual around of commentary on the evening's offering-most of it, this time, favorable to Terry Whigham, who would no doubt by now be suffering through Barton's fawning proximity or Jack Tatum's condescending sycophancy-Robin and Norman began to argue about the use of color balance filters, while Sandra and Harriet discussed local crime.

  "I suppose you've heard from Alan about the latest incident?" Harriet said.

  "Incident? What incident?"

  "You know, the fellow who goes around climbing drainpipes and watching women get undressed." Sandra laughed. "Yes, it's difficult to know what to call him, isn't it. 'Voyeur' sounds so romantic and 'Peeping Tom' sounds so Daily Mirrorish. Let's just call him the peeper, the one who peeps."

  "So you have heard?"

  "Yes, last night. But how do you know about it?"

  "It was on the radio this afternoon. Local radio. They did an interview with Dorothy Wycombe-you know, the one who made all the fuss about hiring policies in local government."

  "I know of her. What did she have to say?"

  "Oh, just the usual. What you'd expect. Said it was tantamount to an act of rape and the police couldn't be bothered to make much of an effort because it only affected women."

  "Christ," Sandra said, fumbling for a cigarette. "That woman makes me mad. She's not that stupid, surely? I've respected the way she's dealt
with a lot of things so far, but this time…"

  "Don't you think you're only getting upset because Alan's involved?" Harriet suggested. "I mean, that makes it personal, doesn't it?"

  "In a way," Sandra admitted. "But it also puts me on the inside, and I know that he cares and that he's doing the best he can, just as much as he would for any other case."

  "What about Jim Hatchley?"

  Sandra snorted. "As far as I know they're keeping Hatchley as far away from the business as possible. Oh, Alan gets along with him well enough now they've both broken each other in, so to speak. But the man's a boor. They surely didn't let him talk to the press?"

  "Oh no. At least not as far as I know. No names were mentioned. She just made it sound as if all the police were sexual deviants."

  "Well that's a typical attitude, isn't it? Did she call them the 'pigs,' too?"

  Harriet laughed. "Not exactly."

  "What do you think of this business, anyway?"

  "I don't really know. I've thought about what… what I would feel like if he watched me. It gives me the shivers. It's like someone going through your most private memories. You'd feel soiled, used."

  "It gives me the creeps, too," said Sandra, suddenly aware that the others had finished their own conversations and were listening in with interest.

  "But, you know," Harriet went on slowly, embarrassed by the larger audience, "I do feel sorry for him in a way. I mean, he'd have to be very unhappy to go around doing that, very frustrated. I do think it's a bit sad, don't you?" Sandra laughed and put her hand on Harriet's arm. "Harriet Slade," she said, "I'm sure you feel sorry for Margaret Thatcher every time another thousand people lose their jobs."

  "Have you never thought that we're most likely to find the culprit among ourselves?" Norman suggested. "That he's probably a member of the club? Everyone's a voyeur, you know," he announced, pushing back a lock of limp, dark hair from his pale forehead. "Especially us. Photographers."

  "True enough," Sandra agreed, "but we don't spy on people, do we?"

  "What about candids?" Norman replied. "I've done it often enough myself-shoot from the hip when you think they're not looking."

  "Women undressing?"

  "Good Lord, no! Tramps asleep on park benches, old men chatting on a bridge, courting couples sunbathing."

  "It really is a kind of spying, though, isn't it?" Robin cut in.

  "But it's not the same," Norman argued. "You're not invading someone's privacy when they're in a public place like a park or a beach, are you? It's not as if they think they're alone in their own bedrooms. And anyway, you're doing it for an artistic purpose, not just for a sexual thrill."

  "I'm not always sure there's much of a difference," Robin said. "Besides, it was you who suggested it."

  "Suggested what?"

  "That it might be a member of the club-that we're all voyeurs." Norman colored and reached for his drink. "I did, didn't I? Perhaps it wasn't a very funny remark."

  "Oh, I don't know," Sandra said. "I could certainly see Jack Tatum staring through bedroom windows." Harriet shivered. "Yes. Every time he looks at you, you feel like he can see right through your clothes."

  "I'm sure the peeper's someone much more ordinary, though," Sandra said. "It always seems the case that people who do the most outlandish things live quite normal lives most of the time."

  "I suppose a policeman's wife would know about things like that," Robin said.

  "No more than anyone who can read a book. They're all over the place, aren't they, biographies of the Yorkshire Ripper, Dennis Nilsen, Brady and Hindley?"

  "You're not suggesting the peeper's as dangerous as that, are you?" Norman asked.

  "I don't know. All I can say is that it's a bloody weird thing to do, and I don't understand it."

  "Do you think he understands it himself?" Robin asked.

  "Probably not," replied Sandra. "That's why Harriet feels sorry for him, isn't it, dear?"

  "You're a beast," Harriet said and flicked a few drops of lager and lime in her direction.

  Sandra bought the next around and the conversation shifted to the upcoming club trip to Swaledale and a recent exhibition at the National Museum of Photography in Bradford. When they had all said their goodbyes, Sandra dropped Harriet off and carried on home. Turning into the driveway, she was surprised to hear no opera coming from the front room, and even a little angry to find Brian and Tracy still up watching a risque film on Channel 4. It was almost eleven o'clock and Alan wasn't back yet.

  II

  If you picture the Yorkshire Dales as a splayed hand pointing east, then you will find Eastvale close to the tip of the middle finger. The town stands at the eastern limit of Swainsdale, a long valley, which starts in the precipitous fells of the west and broadens into meandering river-meadows in the east. Dry-stone walls crisscross the lower valley-sides like ancient runes until, in some places, the grassy slopes rise steeply into long sheer cliffs, known locally as "scars." At their summits, they flatten out to become wild, lonely moorlands covered in yellow gorse and pinkish ling, crossed only by unfenced minor roads where horned sheep wander and the wind always rages. The rock is mostly limestone, which juts through in gray-white scars and crags that change hue with the weather like pearls rolled under candlelight. Here and there, a more sinister outcrop of dark millstone grit thrusts out, or layers of shale and sandstone streak an old quarry.

  Eastvale itself is a busy market town of about fourteen thousand people. It slopes up from Swainsdale's eastern edge, where the River Swain turns southeast toward the Ouse, rises to a peak at Castle Hill, then drops gradually eastward in a series of terraces past the river and the railway tracks.

  The town is certainly picturesque; it has a cobbled market square, complete with ancient cross and Norman church, tree-shaded river falls, somber castle ruins, and excavations going back to pre-Roman times. But it has some less salubrious areas that tourists never visit- among them the East Side Estate, a sprawl of council housing put up in the sixties and declining fast.

  A visitor sitting in the flower gardens on the western bank of the River Swain would probably be surprised at some of the things that go on across the river. Beyond the poplars and the row of renovated Georgian houses stretch about fifty yards of grass and trees called The Green. And beyond that lies the East Side Estate.

  Amid the graffiti-scarred walls, abandoned prams and tires, uncontrolled dogs and scruffy children, the inhabitants of the overcrowded estate try to survive the failure of the town's two main industries outside of tourism-a woollen mill on the river to the northwest, and a chocolate factory near the eastern boundary. Some are quiet, peace-loving families, who keep themselves to themselves and try to make ends meet on the dole. But others are violent and angry, a mixed bunch of deadbeats, alcoholics, wife beaters, child abusers and junkies. Drawing the "east side beat," as it is known in the police station, is a duty most young constables do their utmost to avoid.

  Of course, there had been protests over the council's plan, but the sixties was an era of optimism and new ideas, so the houses went up. It was also a period of rank political corruption, so many councillors enjoyed holidays abroad at the expense of various contractors, and a great deal of tax-free money changed hands. Meanwhile, the tenants, crammed into their terrace blocks, towers and maisonettes, just had to put up with the flimsy walls, inadequate heating and faulty plumbing. Many thought themselves lucky; they were living in the country at last.

  The railway track, raised high on its embankments, ran north to south and cut right through the estate, giving its passengers a fine view of the overgrown back gardens with their lines of washing, tiny greenhouses and rabbit hutches. Several low, narrow tunnels ran under the tracks to link one part of the estate to another, and it was in one of these that Trevor Sharp and Mick Webster stood smoking and discussing business.

  The tunnel had been christened "Glue-Sniffers' Ginnel" by the estate's residents because of the great numbers of plastic bags that littere
d its pathway. It was a dark place, lit at one end by a jaundiced streetlamp, and it reeked of glue, dog piss and stale vomit. Locals avoided it.

  Mick Webster, whatever one might call him, was not one of the glue-sniffers. Naturally, he had tried it, along with just about everything else, but he had decided it was for the birds; it dulled the brain and made you spotty, like Lenny. Not that Lenny sniffed glue, though-he just ate too much greasy fish and chips. Mick preferred those little red pills that Lenny seemed to possess in abundance: the ones that made his heart race and made him feel like Superman. He was a squat, loutish sixteen-year-old with a pug nose, a skinhead crop and a permanent sneer. People crossed the street when they saw him coming.

  Trevor, on the other hand, was not the kind of boy that the average townsperson would take for a bad sort. He was quite handsome, like his father, and was a slave to fashion in neither clothing nor haircut. Because he was regarded as an exceptionally hard case, nobody ever ragged him about his neat, conservative appearance.

  The 10:10 from Harrogate rattled overhead and Trevor lit another cigarette.

  "Lenny says it's time we stopped it with the old dears and got onto something a bit more profitable," Mick announced, kicking at some shards of broken glass.

  "Like what?"

  "Like doing houses. Proper houses where rich folk live. When they're out, like. Lenny says he can let us know where and when. Ail we got to do is get in, pick up the gear and get out."

  "What about burglar alarms?"

  "They ain't got burglar alarms," Mick said scornfully. "Peaceful little place this is, never have any crime."

  Trevor thought it over. "When do we start?"

  "When Lenny gives us a tip."

  "Lenny's been taking too much of a cut, Mick. It hardly makes it worth our while. You'd better ask him to give us a bigger percentage if we're gonna get onto this lark."

  "Yeah, yeah, all right." It wasn't a new subject, and Mick was getting tired of Trevor's constant harping. Besides, he was too scared of Lenny to mention anything about it.