Gallows View (19 page)

“I shouldn’t worry about it that much, Selena,” Sandra said, taking malicious pleasure in comforting the woman for worries that she, herself, had raised. “It was probably just someone taking a short cut.”

“But it was such a nasty night. What normal person would want to stand out there on a night like that? He must have been up to something. Watching.”

“I’ll tell Alan, and I’m sure the police will look into it. You never know, Selena, your information might lead to an arrest.”

“It might?”

“Well, yes. If it is him.”

“But I wouldn’t be able to identify him. Not in a court of law, or one of those line-ups they have. I didn’t really get a good look.”

“That’s not what I mean. Don’t worry, nobody’s going to make you do that. I just meant that if he’s been seen in the area, the police will know where to look.”

Selena nodded, mouth open, unconvinced, then poured more tea. Sandra refused.

Suddenly, at the door, Selena’s face brightened again. “I keep forgetting,” she said, putting her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. “It’s so silly of me. I’ve got nothing to worry about. I live right next door to a policeman!”

Sunday afternoon at Gristhorpe’s farmhouse was a great success, though it did little for Banks’s emotional confusion. On the way, he was not allowed to play opera in the car and instead had to put up with some dull, mechanical pop music on Radio One—mostly drum-machine and synthesizer—to keep Brian and Tracy happy. It was a beautiful day; the autumn sky was sharp blue again, and the season’s hues glowed on the trees by the riverbank. In daylight, the steep dale sides showed a varied range of colour, from the greens of common grazing slopes to the pink, yellow and purple of heather and gorse and the occasional bright edge of a limestone outcrop.

Gristhorpe greeted them, and almost immediately the children went off for a pre-dinner walk while the three adults drank tea in the cluttered living-room. The conversation was general and easy until Gristhorpe asked Banks how he was getting on with the “lovely” Jenny Fuller.

Sandra raised her dark eyebrows, always a bad sign as far as Banks was concerned. “Would that be the Dr Fuller you’ve been spending so much time with lately, Alan?” she asked mildly. “I knew she was a woman, but I’d no idea she was young and lovely.”

“Didn’t he tell you?” Gristhorpe said mischievously. “Quite a stunner, our Jenny. Isn’t she, Alan?”

“Yes,” Banks admitted. “She’s very pretty.”

“Oh, come on, Alan, you can do better than that,” Sandra teased. “Pretty? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“All right, beautiful then,” Banks growled. “Sexy, sultry, a knockout. Is that what you want?”

“Maybe he’s smitten with her,” Gristhorpe suggested.

“I’m not smitten,” Banks countered, but realized as he did so that he was probably protesting too forcefully. “She’s being very helpful,” he went on quickly. “And,” he said to Sandra, “just so that I don’t get
accused of being chauvinistic about this, let me put it on record that Dr Fuller is a very competent and intelligent psychologist.”

“Brains and beauty?” Sandra mocked. “How on earth can you resist, Alan?”

As they both laughed at him, Banks slumped back into the armchair, craving a cigarette. Soon the talk changed direction and he was off the hook.

The dinner, presented by a proud Mrs Hawkins, was superb: roast beef still pink in the middle, and Yorkshire puddings, cooked in the dripping, with exactly the right balance of crispness outside and moistness within, smothered in rich gravy.

After a brief post-prandial rest, Brian and Tracy were off playing Cathy and Heathcliffe again on the moorland above Gristhorpe’s few acres of land, and Sandra took a stroll with her camera.

“Do you know,” Gristhorpe mused as they stood in the back garden watching Sandra and the children walk up the grassy slope, “millions of years ago, this whole area was under a tropical sea? All that limestone you see was formed from dead shellfish.” He swept out his arm in an all-embracing gesture.

Banks shook his head; geology was definitely not his forte.

“After that, between the ice ages, it was as warm as equatorial Africa. We had lions, hyenas, elephants and hippopotami walking the Dales.” Gristhorpe spoke as if he had been there, as if he was somehow implicated in all he said. “Come on.” He took Banks by the arm. “You’ll think I’m turning into a dotty old man. I’ve got something to show you.”

Banks looked apprehensively at the embryonic dry-stone wall and the pile of stones to which Gristhorpe led him.

“They amaze me, those things,” he said. “I can’t imagine how they stand up to the wind and rain, or how anyone finds the patience to build them.”

Gristhorpe laughed—a great booming sound from deep inside. “I’ll not say it’s easy. Wall-building’s a dying art, Alan, and you’re right about the patience. Sometimes the bugger runs me to the end of my tether.” Gristhorpe’s voice was gruff and the accent was clearly North Yorkshire, but it also had a cultured edge, the mark of a man who has read and travelled widely.

“Here,” he said, moving aside. “Why don’t you have a go?”

“Me? I couldn’t,” Banks stammered. “I mean, I wouldn’t know where to start. I don’t know the first thing about it.”

Gristhorpe grinned in challenge. “No matter. It’s just like building a case. Test your mettle. Come on, have a go.”

Banks edged towards the heap of stones, none of which looked to him as if it could be fitted into the awesome design. He picked some up, weighed them in his hand, squinted at the wall, turned them over, squinted again, then picked a smooth, wedge-shaped piece and fitted it well enough into place.

Gristhorpe looked at the stone expressionlessly, then at Banks. He reached out, picked it up, turned it around and fixed it back into place.

“There,” he said. “Perfect. A damn good choice.”

Banks couldn’t help but laugh. “What was wrong with the way I put it in?” he asked.

“Wrong way around, that’s all,” Gristhorpe explained. “This is a simple wall. You should have seen the ones my grandfather built—like bloody cathedrals, they were. Still standing, too, some of them. Anyway, you start by digging a trench along your line and you put in two parallel rows of footing stones. Big ones, square as you can get them. Between those rows you put in the hearting, lots of small stones, like pebbles. These bind together under pressure, see. After that, you can start to build, narrowing all the time, two rows rising up from the footing stones. You keep that gap filled tight with hearting and make sure you bind it all together with plenty of through-stones.

“Now, that stone you put in fit all right, but it sloped inwards. They have to slope outwards, see, else the rain’ll get in and soak the hearting. If that happens, when the first frost comes it’ll expand, you see.” He held his hands close together and moved them slowly apart. “And that can bring the whole bloody thing tumbling down.”

“I see.” Banks nodded, ashamed at how such basic common sense could have been beyond him. Country wisdom, he guessed.

“A good dry-stone wall,” the superintendent went on, “can stand any weather. It can even stand bloody sheep scrambling over it. Some of these you see around here have been up since the eighteenth century. Of course, they need a bit of maintenance now and then, but
who doesn’t?” He laughed. “You and that lass, Jenny,” he asked suddenly. “Owt in it?”

Surprised at the question coming out of the blue like that, Banks blushed a little as he shook his head. “I like her. I like her a lot. But no.”

Gristhorpe nodded, satisfied, placed a through-stone and rubbed his hands together gleefully.

That evening, back at home, Alan and Sandra shared a nightcap after they had sent Tracy and Brian off to bed. The opera ban was lifted, but it had to be quiet. Banks played a tape of Kiri te Kanawa singing famous arias from Verdi and Puccini. They snuggled close on the sofa, and as Sandra put her empty glass down, she turned to Banks and asked, “Have you ever been unfaithful?”

Without hesitation, he replied, “No.” It was true, but it didn’t feel true. He was beginning to understand what Jimmy Carter’s predicament had been when he said that he had committed adultery in his mind.

By midday on Monday, DC Richmond had not only discovered from the Eastvale census records and electoral lists that there were almost eight hundred men aged between twenty and thirty-five living either alone or with a single parent, but he also had a list of their names.

“Marvellous what computers can do these days, sir,” he said to Banks as he handed over the report.

“Keen on them, are you?” Banks asked, looking up and smiling.

“Yes, sir. I’ve applied for that course next summer. I hope you’ll be able to spare me.”

“Lord knows what’ll be going on next summer,” Banks said. “I thought I was all set for the quiet life when I came up here, and look what’s happened so far. I’ll bear it in mind, anyway. I know the super’s keen on new technology—at least as far as the workplace is concerned.”

“Thank you, sir. Was there anything else?”

“Sit down a minute,” Banks said as he started reading quickly through the list. The only names he recognized at first glance were those he had heard from Robin Allott the previous day: Geoff Welling and Barry Scott.

“Right,” he said, shoving the papers towards Richmond. “There’s a bit more legwork to be done. First of all, I want you to check into the two names I’ve ticked here. But for God’s sake do it discreetly. I don’t want anyone to know we’re checking up on private citizens on so little evidence.” He grinned at Richmond. “Use your imagination, eh? First thing to find out is if they have alibis for the peeping incidents. Clear so far?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The next job might take a bit more doing.” Banks explained about Mr Patel’s observations, hoping that he might also relieve any anxieties Richmond had about his being in The Oak with Jenny on Saturday evening. “Someone else might have seen him in the area, so talk to the residents and local shopkeepers. Also, see if you can find out who the bus drivers were on the routes past The Oak that night. Talk to them, find out if they noticed our man. All right?”

“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 enquiry, 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 Horner, 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 centre 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 faeces that had defaced Ottershaw’s paintings, music centre, television and VCR.