Gallows View Page 8

  Graham smiled and caressed her hair. “Sorry, love. It’s the secrecy. It gets me down sometimes. I just want us to be together all the time.”

  “We will be, we will,” Andrea murmured, rubbing against him slowly as she felt him begin to stiffen again. “Oh God, Gray.” She breathed hard as he took hold of her breast and squeezed the nipple between thumb and forefinger. “Yes . . . yes . . .”

  Graham knew, in his more rational moments, that they would never be together all the time. Whatever Andrea thought about her husband, he wasn’t such a bad sort really. He didn’t beat her, and as far as Graham knew, he didn’t cheat on her either. They got on well enough when he was around, which wasn’t often, and, perhaps more important than Andrea would have cared to admit to herself—especially now, as she was nearing orgasm—he made a lot of money. Soon, in fact, she had told Graham sadly, they would be moving from their first country home into something a bit more authentic: an isolated Dales cottage, or perhaps somewhere in the Cotswolds, where the climate was milder. Why he wanted to live in the country, Andrea said she had no idea—he was hardly ever there anyway—but she had found Eastvale a great deal more interesting than she had expected.

  Graham also knew deep down that Trevor would never accept another mother, especially one who lived two doors away and was, at twenty-four, closer to the age of an older sister. There was the money, too. Graham could hardly make ends meet, and if he really thought about it (which he tried not to) he couldn’t see Andrea as a shopkeeper’s wife: not her, with her Paris fashions, original art works, and holidays in New York or Bangkok. No, just as he knew that Trevor would never accept her, he also knew she would never give up her way of life.

  But they were both romantics at heart. At first, Andrea had come to the shop more and more often, just for little things like a packet of Jacob’s Cream Crackers, some fresh Baps or perhaps a bottle of tarragon vinegar, and if there had been no other customers around she had lingered a little longer to talk each time. Over a week or two, Graham had come to know quite a lot about her, especially about how her husband was away so much and how bored she got.

  Then, one evening, one of her fuses blew and she had no idea how to fix it. She went to Graham for help, and he came along with torch and fuse wire and did it in a jiffy. Coffee followed, and after that an exciting session of kissing and groping on the sofa, which, being one of those modern things made up of blocks you can rearrange any way you want, was soon transformed into an adequate approximation of a bed.

  Since then, for about two months, Graham and Andrea had been meeting quite regularly. Theirs was a circumscribed life, however: they couldn’t go out together (though they did once spend a nervous evening in York having dinner, looking over their shoulders the whole time), and they had to be very careful about being seen in each other’s company at all. Always Graham would visit Andrea, using the back way, where the high walls of the back yards kept him from view and muffled the sound of his passing. Sometimes they had candlelight dinners first; other times they threw themselves straight into lovemaking. Andrea was more passionate and abandoned in bed than anyone Graham had ever known, and she had led him to new heights of joy.

  It was easier at first. Trevor spent three weeks in France on a school trip, so Graham was a free agent. On the boy’s return, though, there were difficulties, which was why half-day closing was such a joy. Weekends were out, of course. That was when Andrea’s husband was around, so the most they could manage was the occasional evening when Trevor was allowed to go out to the pictures with his mates, to the youth club or a local dance. Lately, though, with Trevor being out so often and taking so little notice, Graham had spent much more time with Andrea.

  When they had finished, they lay back and lit cigarettes. Andrea blew the smoke out of her nose like an actress in a forties movie.

  “Did they talk to you last night?” she asked.

  “The police?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “The old woman, Alice Matlock. She’s dead.”

  Andrea frowned. “Was it murder?”

  “They must think so or they wouldn’t waste their time asking everyone what they were doing and where they were.”

  He sounded irritated. Andrea stroked his chest. “Don’t worry about it, darling. It’s nothing to do with us, is it?”

  “No, ’course not,” he said, turning and running his palm over her damp stomach. He loved Andrea’s body; it was so different from Maureen’s. She had had smooth skin, smooth as marble and sometimes as cold. He had hardly dared touch it, fearing it would be some kind of violation. But Andrea’s skin had grain to it, a certain friction you could feel when you ran your hand over her buttocks or shoulders, even when they were moist as they were now.

  “What did they want to know?” he asked her.

  “Just if I heard anything the night before last.”

  “And did you?”

  “After you’d gone, yes. I heard someone running along Cardigan Drive, then someone knocking at a door.”

  “The same person?”

  “Could have been.”

  “There was a woman peeped on in Cardigan Drive Monday evening,” Graham told her. “I read about it in the paper.”

  “Another of those Peeping Tom things?”

  “Yes.”

  Andrea shivered and nestled closer. “So they think it might be the same person?”

  “I guess they must,” Graham said.

  “What did they ask you?”

  “Same thing. If I heard anything. And they asked Trevor where he was.”

  “They’re always picking on kids, Gray, you know that. It doesn’t mean anything. Since all that unemployment they automatically think kids are delinquents these days.”

  “True enough.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That he was home with me, of course.”

  “Oh, Gray, should you have? I mean what if someone saw him somewhere else? It could make things really bad.”

  “He didn’t do it, Andrea, he’s not that kind of a lad, and I’m damned if I’m going to let the police get their hooks into him. Once they latch on they never let go. It was bad enough last time; it’s not going to happen again.”

  “If you think it’s best, Gray.”

  Graham frowned at her. “I know you don’t think he’s worth it,” he said, “but he’s a good lad, he’ll turn out well in the end, you’ll see.”

  Andrea put her arms around him. “I don’t think ill of him, really I don’t. It’s just that you seem to dote on him so much. He can’t do any wrong in your eyes.”

  “I’m his father, aren’t I? I’m all he’s got.” He smiled and kissed her. “I know what I’m doing, love. Don’t worry.” He looked at his watch on the bedside table. “Bloody hell, I’d better be going. Trevor’ll be home from school any minute.”

  Andrea moved away from him sadly. “You know I hate it when you leave, Gray,” she said. “It’s so lonely and boring being here all by myself in the evenings.”

  Graham kissed her lightly on the lips. “I know. I’ll try and get back later if I can. I don’t know what Trevor’s got planned for tonight.”

  Graham slipped into his trousers, as Andrea watched from the bed.

  “I’m getting a bit worried about Wooller, Gray,” she said, just before he left.

  “What about him?”

  “I don’t know if I’m being paranoid or feeling guilty or what, but it’s just the way he looks at me, as if he knows. And worse, it’s as if he’s thinking about what to do with what he knows. Do you know what I mean? I feel like he’s seen all of me, all of us.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Graham said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and taking her hand. “You’re probably overreacting. We’ve been discreet. The walls are very thick—I’m sure he wouldn’t be able to hear a thing. And I’m always careful when I call. Really, love, don’t worry about it. Must rush.” He patted her hand an
d kissed her on the forehead. Andrea yawned and stretched, then turned over and lay in the impression his body had made. The bed still smelled of his Old Spice. She pulled the sheets around her shoulders and waved goodbye lazily as he slipped out through the door.

  IV

  It was six o’clock when Banks pulled up outside number eight Gallows View. He had decided to take on the Sharps himself and leave Wooller to Hatchley.

  “Good evening,” he said politely, introducing himself, as Graham Sharp opened the door, a forkful of sausage in his hand.

  “We’re just having dinner, can’t it wait?”

  “Won’t take long,” Banks said, already inside. “Just carry on eating.”

  The room wasn’t exactly a living-room, it was more of a storage place full of boxes of tinned goods and crisps that could be easily carried into the shop. At the back, though, was a fairly modern kitchen, complete with a microwave oven, and Banks guessed that the real living quarters must be upstairs, spread out over the two adjoined cottages.

  Graham and Trevor sat at the formica-topped table finishing what looked like bangers and mash with baked beans. Big white mugs of tea steamed in front of them.

  “What is it, then?” Graham asked, polite enough not to talk with his mouth full. “We talked to one of your chaps last night. Told him all we knew.”

  “Yes,” Banks said. “That’s why I’m here. I just want to clear up a few things in the statement. Detective Constable Richmond is new to the job, if you know what I mean. We have to keep a close eye on new chaps, see that they get it right, go by the book.”

  “You mean you’re here because you’re doing some kind of job performance check on the young bloke?” Sharp asked incredulously.

  It wasn’t in the least bit true, but Banks thought it might put the Sharps at ease for as long as he wanted them to let their guards down. After that, of course, there were ways of putting them on the defensive again, a position which often turned out to be much more illuminating.

  “Well, I never!” Sharp went on. “You know, I never really thought about the police force as a job like any other. I suppose you get wages as well and complain about pay-rises and poor canteen food?”

  Banks laughed. “We don’t have a canteen, but, yes, we complain a lot about pay-rises, or the lack of them.” Innocently, he took out his notebook. “Detective Constable Richmond tells me that you heard nothing at around eleven o’clock on Monday night. Is that correct?”

  “It is.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Watching television in the sitting-room.” He pointed towards the upstairs. “Far end of the house. Have a look if you want.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary, thanks all the same. You said you were watching television all evening?”

  “Well, from about eight o’clock to midnight, anyway.”

  “Good,” Banks said, peering into his notebook. “It looks like our man did a good job. You wouldn’t, of course, hear anything from as far away as Cardigan Drive, or even number two Gallows View, if you were in the sitting-room with the television on, would you?”

  “Nothing. You can try it if you want.”

  Banks waved aside his offer, then turned sharply to Trevor. “And where were you?”

  Trevor, taken by surprise halfway through a mouthful of sausage and beans, spoke through the mush of semi-masticated food. “With him,” he mumbled, pointing his fork at his father.

  “Mr Sharp,” Banks said, returning to Graham and frowning, “DC Richmond says that when you first told him you were watching television you made no mention of your son whatsoever. It was all in the first person, as if Trevor wasn’t even home.”

  “What are you getting at?” Sharp said belligerently, putting down his knife and fork.

  “Just checking up on the constable’s statement, sir. Want to see if he got it right. He was a bit curious about this one point. He put a question mark by it.”

  Sharp glared at Banks for a few moments while Trevor went on chewing his food. “If you’re insinuating that my Trevor had anything to do with this, you’re barking up the wrong tree. He’s straight as a die, always has been. Ask anyone.”

  “I’m not insinuating anything, Mr Sharp. I’d just like to know why the constable should mention this.”

  “It was a way of speaking, I suppose,” Sharp said. “You don’t always think you’re going to have to account for the person who was with you, do you? I mean if someone asked you what you did last night and you stayed home watching telly, you probably wouldn’t say ‘My wife and I . . . blah-blah-blah . . .’ would you?”

  “You’ve got a point there, Mr Sharp. I probably wouldn’t. So let me get this straight. You and Trevor spent the whole evening, from about eight till midnight, watching television, and you neither heard nor saw anything unusual. Am I right?”

  “That’s right. Only Trevor went to bed about eleven. Needs his sleep for school.”

  “Of course. What did you watch, Trevor?” Banks asked casually, turning to the boy.

  “We watched—”

  “I’m asking Trevor, Mr Sharp. What did you watch, son?”

  “Don’t really remember,” Trevor said. “There was one of them American cop shows. You know, all car chases and shoot-outs.” He shrugged. “Half the time I was reading my book and not paying attention.”

  “What book was that?”

  “Now, look here,” Graham burst out, the vein on his temple pulsating with anger. “You can’t just come in here and interrogate my son like this, accuse us of lying to you. I told you, Trevor was with me all evening until he went to bed at about eleven o’clock.”

  “What was he reading?”

  “Eh?”

  “The book. What was he reading?”

  “It was The Shining,” Trevor answered, “Stephen King. Do you know it?”

  “No,” Banks said, smiling at Trevor. “Any good?”

  “Yeah. Better than the film.”

  Banks nodded and packed away his notebook. “Well, I think I’ve got all I need. I’ll let you finish your meal in peace. No, don’t bother,” he said, putting out his arm to stop Graham from standing up. “I can see myself out.”

  And with that he was gone. The Sharps ate the rest of their dinner slowly, in silence.

  SIX

  I

  Thursday morning hit like a cold shower in the dumpy form of Ms Dorothy Wycombe. She was in Gristhorpe’s office when Banks arrived at the station, and the superintendent called him in the moment he snapped off his Walkman. Gristhorpe clearly had no idea how to deal with her. For all his learning and compassion, he was a country gentleman and was not used to dealing with crusaders like Ms Wycombe. He looked lost.

  Some people are susceptible to environment, but Dorothy Wycombe was not. Gristhorpe’s office was a cosy, lived-in room with a studious air about it, but she might just as well have been standing on a platform at Leeds City Station waiting with her arms crossed for the 5:45 to King’s Cross, glaring at everything within her field of vision. The dominant expression on her face during the meeting that followed was one of distaste, as if she had just eaten a particularly sour gooseberry.

  “Er . . . Miss . . . er . . . Ms Wycombe, meet Detective Chief Inspector Banks,” Gristhorpe muttered by way of introduction.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Banks said apprehensively.

  No reply.

  Through his job, Banks had come to realize that it was unwise to expect stereotypes; to do so only led to misunderstandings. On the other hand, he had also been forced to admit the existence of stereotypes, having met more than once, among others, the lisping, mincing homosexual, the tweedy retired colonel with handlebar moustache and shooting-stick, and the whore with the heart of gold. So when Dorothy Wycombe stood before him looking like everyman’s parody of a women’s libber, he could hardly claim surprise. Disappointment, perhaps, but not surprise.

  “Seems there’s been a complaint, Alan,” Gristhorpe began slowly. “It’s abo
ut Sergeant Hatchley, but I thought you ought to hear it first.” Banks nodded and looked at Dorothy Wycombe, whose chins jutted out in challenge.

  That she was unattractive was obvious; what was not clear was how much of this was due to nature itself and how much to her own efforts. She had fizzed all the life out of her colourless hair, and the bulky sack that passed for a dress bulged in the most unlikely places. Above her double-chin was a tight, mean mouth, lined around the edges from constant clenching, and a dull, suet complexion. Behind the National Health glasses shone eyes whose intelligence, which Banks had no doubt she possessed, was glazed over with revolutionary zeal. Her speech was jagged with italics.

  “I have been informed,” she began, consulting a small black notebook for dramatic effect, “that while questioning the victims of your Peeping Tom, your sergeant’s attitude was flippant, and, furthermore, that he expressed the desire to commit a similar act of violence against one interviewee in particular.”

  “Those are serious charges,” Banks said, wishing he could smoke a cigarette. “Who made them?”

  “I did.”

  “I don’t remember you ever being a victim of the scopophiliac.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I said I don’t recall that you ever reported any invasion of your privacy.”

  “That’s not the point. You’re simply trying to obscure the issue.”

  “What issue?”

  “Your sergeant’s lewd and lascivious suggestions—an attitude, might I add, that reflects on the entire investigation of this whole scandalous affair.”

  “Who made the charges?” Banks repeated.

  “I told you, I’m bringing them to your attention.”

  “On whose authority?”

  “I represent the local women.”

  “Who says so?”

  “Inspector Banks, this is infuriating! Will you or will you not listen to the charges?”

  “I’ll listen to them when I know who made them and what gives you the authority to pass them on.”