Gallows View Page 7

  He read over Richmond’s interview statements and thought about the young detective’s reservations for a while before deciding that they should be pursued. He also remembered Trevor Sharp, who had been a suspect in a tourist mugging shortly after Banks had arrived in Eastvale. The boy hadn’t been charged because his father had given him a solid alibi, and the victim, an “innocent abroad” from Oskaloosa, Iowa, wasn’t able to give a positive identification when the case relied solely on his word.

  Hatchley had wasted his time at The Oak. He had talked to the bar staff and to the regular customers (and would no doubt be putting in a lengthy expenses claim), but nobody remembered anything special about Carol Ellis that night. It had been a quiet evening, as Mondays usually were, and she had sat at a corner table all evening talking to her friend, Molly Torbeck. Both had left before closing time and had, presumably, gone their separate ways. Nobody had tried to pick either of them up, and nobody had spent the evening giving them the eye.

  The sergeant had also talked to Carol, Molly and the three other victims. When it was all added up, two of the four, Josie Campbell and Carol Ellis, had been in The Oak on the nights in question, and the other two in pubs at opposite ends of Eastvale. It wasn’t the kind of pattern Banks had been hoping to find, but it was a pattern: pubs. Jenny Fuller might have something to say about that.

  Skipping his morning break at the Golden Grill, Banks tidied up his own report on the interview with Crutchley and left the file in his pending tray to await the artist’s impression.

  He missed his lunch, too, looking over the preliminary post mortem report on Alice Matlock, which offered no new information but confirmed Glendenning’s earlier opinions about time and cause. The bruises on her wrists and arms indicated that there had been a struggle in which the woman had been pushed backwards, catching the back of her head on the table corner.

  Glendenning was nothing if not thorough, and he had a reputation as one of the best pathologists in the country. He had looked for evidence of a blow by a blunt instrument prior to the fall, which might then have been engineered to cover up the true cause, but had discovered only a typical contre-coup head injury. Though the skull had splintered into the brain tissue at the point of impact, the occipital region, there was also damage to the frontal lobes, and that only occurs when the body is falling. The effect, Glendenning had noted, is similar to that of a passenger bumping his head on the windscreen when a car brakes abruptly. If, however, the blow is delivered while the victim’s head is stationary, then the wound is restricted to the area of impact. The blow that killed Alice Matlock was the kind of blow that could have killed anyone—and she was old, her bones were brittle—but it wasn’t necessarily murder; it could have been accidental; it could have been manslaughter.

  A red-eyed Richmond brought in Ethel Carstairs’ statement. Again, there was nothing new, but she had given an itemized description of the missing silverware. Manson had found only two different sets of fingerprints in the house: one belonged to the dead woman herself and the other to Ethel, who had been good enough to offer hers for comparison.

  At about two-fifteen, Superintendent Gristhorpe stuck his head round the door. “Still at it, Alan?”

  Banks nodded, gesturing to the papers that covered his desk.

  Gristhorpe looked at his watch. “Go get a pie and a pint over the road. I think we’d better have a conference about three o’clock and I don’t want your stomach rumbling all through it.”

  “A conference?”

  “Aye. A lot’s been happening. The peeper, the break-ins, now this Alice Matlock business. I don’t like it. It’s time we threw a few ideas around. Just me, you, Hatchley and Richmond. Have you read the young lad’s reports, by the way?”

  “Yes, I’ve just finished.”

  “Good, aren’t they? Detailed, no split infinitives or dangling modifiers. He’ll go far, that lad. See you at three in the boardroom.”

  II

  The “boardroom” was so called because it was the most spacious room in the station. At its centre was a large, shiny, oval table, around which stood ten matching, stiff-backed chairs. The set-up looked impressive, but the conference was informal; a coffee pot sat on its warmer in the middle, surrounded by files, pencils and notepads. There were no ashtrays, though; unless he was in a pub or a coffee shop, where it was unavoidable, Gristhorpe didn’t approve of people smoking in his presence.

  “Right,” the superintendent announced when they had all arranged their papers and helped themselves to coffee. “We’ve got four break-ins—all at old people’s houses—involving one assault and one death. We’ve also got a Peeping Tom running around town looking in any window he damn well pleases, and we’ve got hardly a thing to go on in either case. I reckon it’s about time we pooled what brainpower we’ve got and let’s see if we can’t come up with some ideas. Alan?”

  Banks coughed. He needed a cigarette but had to content himself by fiddling with a paper clip while he spoke. “I think Detective Constable Richmond should speak first, sir. He conducted interviews with the dead woman’s neighbours last night.”

  Gristhorpe looked at Richmond, inviting him to begin.

  “Well, sir, you’ve all seen copies of the report. I don’t really have anything to add. We had a uniformed man on duty all night, and another made inquiries all the way down Cardigan Drive. A couple of people heard someone running, but that was all.”

  “We know who that someone was, don’t we?” Gristhorpe asked.

  “Well, not his identity, sir. But, yes, it was that chap who’s been looking in on women getting undressed.”

  “Right,” Gristhorpe said, turning over a page of the report in front of him. “Now, Andrea Rigby says that she heard running, then a knock at a door. Never mind the alternative explanations for the moment. Could there be any possibility that it was the peeper, not a burglar, who killed Alice Matlock? Maybe she knew him, maybe he came for help or protection, or to confess—she threatened to report him, they struggled and he pushed her? Manslaughter.”

  “The place had been gone over just like the others, sir,” Sergeant Hatchley pointed out.

  “And no prints.”

  “No prints, sir.”

  “Couldn’t it have been made to look like it was a burglary?”

  “How would the peeper know to do that?” Banks asked.

  “Surely he must read the papers?” Gristhorpe suggested.

  “It doesn’t fit, though. It’s all too deliberate. If it happened as you say, then it was probably an accident. He probably just panicked and ran.”

  “People have been known to cover their tracks after crimes of passion, Alan.”

  “I know, sir. It just doesn’t seem to fit the profile we have so far.”

  “Go on.”

  “Dr Fuller”—there it was again, so formal. Why couldn’t he call her Jenny in front of others?—“Dr Fuller said we’re dealing with a very frustrated man who’s probably going about as far as he dares in peeping through windows. No one can be certain, but she said it’s unlikely that a voyeur would progress to more serious sex crimes. On the other hand, as the pressure builds in him, he might feel the need to break out. It’s a trap he’s in, a treadmill, and there’s no predicting what he’d do to escape it.”

  “But this wasn’t a sex crime, Alan. Alice Matlock, thank the Lord, hadn’t been interfered with in any way.”

  “I know, sir, but it still doesn’t fit. The peeper does what he does when pressure or tension builds up and he can only find one way of releasing it, watching women undress. It wouldn’t even really work for him in a strip-club—the women would have to be unaware of him, he would have to get that feeling of power, of dominance. When he’s done it, though, the pressure’s released. A personality like that is hardly likely to go running to an old woman and confess, let alone murder her just after he’s satisfied himself.”

  “I see your point, Alan,” Gristhorpe agreed. His bushy eyebrows joined in the middle and drew a th
ick grey line over his child-like blue eyes. “Perhaps the best thing to do would be to rule it out by checking into who Alice Matlock knew.”

  “She seemed to be a bit of a loner, sir,” Richmond chipped in. “Most of the neighbours didn’t know much about her, not much more than to say hello if they met in the street.”

  “I knew Alice Matlock,” Gristhorpe told them. “She was a friend of my mother’s. Used to come to the farm for fresh eggs when I was a kid. She always brought me some boiled sweets. But you’re right, lad, she was a bit of a recluse. More so as she got older. Lost her young man in the first war, as I recall. Never did marry. Anyway, look into it. See if she’s been at all friendly with a likely young peeper.”

  “There is one other thing.”

  “Yes, Alan?”

  “Even if it wasn’t the same person, if it was the usual lot did the break-in and the peeper just looked and ran, they might have seen each other.”

  “You mean, if we get one we might get a lead on the other?”

  “Yes.”

  “But right now we’ve very little on either?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where do you think our best chance lies?”

  “The break-ins,” Banks answered without hesitation. “I’ll be getting an artist’s impression of the man who fenced the stuff in Leeds any time now. I’ve already got a fairly good description but it doesn’t check with any of the local villains I know. Sergeant Hatchley and Constable Richmond don’t recognize him either.”

  “So maybe he’s not local. New in town?”

  “Or been away,” Richmond suggested. “Only here every now and then.”

  “Possible. Know anyone who fits that profile?”

  Richmond shook his head. “Only Andrea Rigby’s husband. He’s a computer whizz and he spends a lot of time away. But I saw a photo of him on the mantelpiece and he doesn’t fit the description. He wouldn’t be the type, anyway. From what I could see, he gets plenty of money from fiddling about with computers.”

  “Ask around, then,” Gristhorpe advised. “See if you can come up with anything. You mentioned Wooller in your report, Richmond. He seemed suspicious. Anything in particular?”

  “Well, no, sir.” Richmond felt flustered, caught out on a hunch. “There was the dirty magazine, sir, that’s in the report.”

  “Yes,” Gristhorpe said dismissively, “but most of us have looked at pictures of naked women now and then, haven’t we?”

  “It’s not just naked women, sir,” Richmond pressed on, realizing only when it was too late that he had walked right into it. “Some of them are tied up, sir . . .” His voice faltered. “. . . and they do it with animals.”

  “Well,” Gristhorpe said, beaming at him, “I can see you’ve been doing your homework, lad. But even if the stuff is illegally imported there’s not a lot we can do. What exactly are you getting at?”

  “Just that he seemed suspicious, sir. Completely uncommunicative, shifty, acted as if he was hiding something.”

  “Think he might be our peeper, do you?”

  “Could be, sir.”

  “Alan?”

  Banks shrugged. “I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting him, but I’ve been told that our man could take any size, shape or form. Certainly if he lives a frustrated existence and gets his kicks from bondage and bestiality magazines, then there’s a chance.”

  “All right,” Gristhorpe said, making a note. “Keep an eye on him. Drop by for a chat. Nothing heavy, though.” He glanced sternly at Hatchley, who looked down at his notes and straightened his tie.

  “The kid, sir. Trevor Sharp,” Richmond said.

  “Yes?”

  “There was something funny about that, too. I heard them arguing about him being late all the time and neglecting his homework, and when I asked about the night before, his father only mentioned himself at first, sir. Said he was watching telly, right at the far end of the block. Then, later, when I asked, he said the kid was with him, too.”

  “Think he was lying?”

  “Could be.”

  “We had the kid on suspicion of mugging four months ago,” Banks added. “No case.”

  “Well,” Gristhorpe said, “seeing as the only information we’ve got on the burglars so far is that they’re young, we might as well follow up. Maybe you could talk to them, Alan? Father and son together. See if you get the same impression as Richmond here.”

  “All right,” Banks agreed. “I’ll drop by after school today.”

  “Might be a good idea to have a word with the head, too. You never know, some of ’em keep tabs on the kids. What school is it?”

  “Eastvale Comprehensive, sir,” Richmond answered. “Same place I went to.”

  “That’ll be old Buxton, right?”

  “Yes, sir. ‘Boxer’ Buxton we used to call him. He must be close to retiring age now.”

  “He’s been at that school going on for forty years. Been head for twenty or more, since back when it was Eastvale Grammar School. He’s a bit of a dodderer now, lost in his own world, but have a word with him about young Trevor anyway, see if he’s been acting strangely, playing truant, associating with a bad crowd. Is there anything else?” Gristhorpe turned to Sergeant Hatchley. “Anything for us, Sergeant?”

  “I can’t seem to find a pattern to the peeper’s operation, sir,” Hatchley said. “Except that he always picks blondes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How he chooses his victims, sir, how he latches onto them, knows who to follow.”

  “The women weren’t all single, were they?” Gristhorpe asked.

  “Bloody hell, no, sir,” Hatchley said. “One of ’em had her husband right there in bed dozing off while our chap was doing his bit through the curtains.”

  “He must do some reconnaissance first,” Banks added. “He knows which window to look through, knows the layout of the house. Even picks the best time to be there.”

  “So he chooses his victims well in advance?”

  “Must do.”

  “They’d all been in pubs the nights they were peeped on,” Hatchley said. “But I couldn’t find any evidence that they were being watched.”

  “That would explain it, though, wouldn’t it?” Banks said. “If he already knew who he was going to spy on, he’d know something about their habits. If he’d watched the houses, he’d know when a woman comes home from the pub and how soon the bedroom light goes on. He’d know if the husband stayed downstairs or took a bath while she undressed. He must do his groundwork.”

  “Fair enough, Alan,” Gristhorpe said, “but it doesn’t help us much, does it?”

  “We could warn people to make sure they’re not being followed, to keep an eye out for strangers hanging about the street.”

  “I suppose we could.” Gristhorpe sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “Anything’s better than nothing. You talked to the victims again, Sergeant Hatchley?”

  “Yes, sir. But I didn’t find out anything new, just that all the incidents had occurred after a night out.”

  “Maybe it makes him feel that they’re sinners or something,” Banks guessed. “It’s possible that he needs to feel like that about them. A lot of men don’t like the idea of women smoking or going to pubs. They think it cheapens them. Maybe it’s like that with him; perhaps he needs to feel that they’re impure in the first place.”

  Gristhorpe scratched his neck and frowned. “I think you’ve been talking to Dr Fuller too much, Alan,” he said. “But maybe you’ve got a point. Follow it up with her. When are you meeting again?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Evening?”

  Banks felt himself begin to flush. “We’re both too busy during the day, sir.”

  Hatchley suppressed a guffaw by covering the lower half of his face with a huge dirty handkerchief and blowing hard. Richmond shifted uneasily in his seat. Banks could sense their reactions, and he felt angry. He wanted to say something, to tell them it was just bloody work, that’s
all. But he knew that if he did, they would think he was protesting too much, so he kept quiet and seethed inside.

  “Put it to her, then,” Gristhorpe said, ignoring the others. “Ask her if there could be any connection between the peeper and Alice Matlock’s death, and find out if it’s likely our man has a thing about women in pubs.”

  “She’ll probably laugh at me,” Banks said. “We all seem to fancy ourselves as amateur psychologists at one time or another.”

  “Not surprising, though, is it, Alan? We’d be a pretty bloody incurious race if we didn’t think about our nature and behaviour once in a while, wouldn’t we? Especially us coppers. Is that all?” he asked, rising to end the meeting.

  Everyone kept silent. “Fine, then, that’s it. Follow up Wooller and the Sharp kid, get that drawing circulated soon as it comes in, and check with Ethel Carstairs about any other friends Alice Matlock may have had.”

  “Should we say anything to the press?” Banks asked. “A warning to women about keeping their eyes open for strangers?”

  “It can’t do any harm, can it? I’ll take care of that. Off you go, then. Meeting adjourned.”

  III

  Graham Sharp rolled off Andrea Rigby and sighed with pleasure: “Ah, Wednesdays. Thank God for half-day closing.”

  Andrea giggled and snuggled in the crook of his arm. He could feel the weight of her breasts against his rib cage, the nipples still hard, and the sharp, milky scent of sex made them both warm and sleepy. Andrea traced a line from his throat to his pubic hair. “That was wonderful, Gray,” she said dreamily. “It’s always wonderful with you. See how much better you feel now.”

  “I was just a bit preoccupied, that’s all.”

  “You were all tense,” Andrea said, massaging his shoulders. Then she laughed. “Whatever it was, it certainly made you wild, though.”

  “When are you going to tell him?”

  “Oh, Gray!” She snuggled closer, her breasts crushed against his chest. “Don’t spoil it, don’t make me think about bad things.”