Gallows View

I

When Trevor awoke on Monday morning, he knew something was wrong.

"Trevor!" his father shouted as usual. "Breakfast's on the table! If you don't hurry up you'll be late for school."

At least he knew there would be no row over the table this morning. All day Sunday he had stayed in like a dutiful son; he'd helped his dad with the stock and had even done some homework. Such gestures as that could earn him a few days' peace, if not more.

Pity about the homework, he thought. It was a waste really because he wouldn't be there to hand it in. He was taking the afternoon off to go and discuss future plans with Mick. Just because Lenny had told them to lay off the break-ins for a while didn't mean they couldn't find some other ways of amusing themselves- perhaps out of town.

But something was wrong. He didn't feel right. He lay there with the sheets pulled up and looked at the glossy posters of pop stars on his walls, wondering if the stickiness he felt meant that he'd had a wet dream. Cautiously, he pushed the bedclothes aside and sat up on the edge of the bed. The front of his pajamas was stained, and when he looked more closely he noticed a kind of yellowish discharge.

Alarmed, Trevor rushed to the bathroom and washed himself. When he stood to urinate, the fear really took hold of him. It hurt like hell. It felt as if he was pissing red-hot needles. He leaned against the wall in a cold sweat, pressing his forehead against the tiles. When he'd finished, the pain faded and all that remained was a lingering throb, the echo of an ache.

Trevor washed his face and stared at himself in the mirror. The dark patch between his teeth was spreading quickly, and he had two spots: one, still embryonic, wedged between the edge of his nostril and his upper lip; the other, yellow and juicy, exactly at the point where his chin curved under to become his throat. But they were the least of his worries. He was pale and his eyes were dull. He knew what he'd got; he'd got the clap. That fucking cunt had given him the clap.

With a great effort, Trevor pulled himself together. He finished washing, then returned to his bedroom to get dressed.

"Hurry up,' our Trev!" his father called. "Your bacon and eggs are going cold!"

"Coming, dad," he yelled back. "Won't be a minute."

He pulled his white shirt and gray slacks on, picked out a sleeveless, V-neck pullover with a muted pattern of gray and mauve, and he was ready. They ate breakfast together quickly, Graham beaming at his son.

"It was a good day we had yesterday, wasn't it?" he asked.

"Yes," Trevor lied.

"Got a lot of work done."

"We did, didn't we?"

"And all your homework, too."

"That's right."

"Believe me, Trevor, it's worth it. You might not think so now, but you'll be grateful in the future, mark my words."

"I suppose so," Trevor mumbled. "Look at the time! I'll be late."

"Off you go, then," Graham said, ruffling Trevor's hair and smiling at him. "And don't forget to hand that homework in."

"Don't worry, I won't," Trevor said, forcing a grin and picking up his satchel.

"And you'd better get that tooth seen to, too, lad," Graham added, "or it'll only get worse. See if you can get an appointment with the school dentist."

"All right, dad," Trevor replied, and rushed off.

He had no intention of making any appointment with the school dentist, or with any other dentist, for that matter. It was Dr. Himmler, as he called the school dentist, and his assistant Griselda who had put Trevor off dentists in the first place. The man was grubby and his National Health glasses were stuck together across the bridge with Elastoplast. Griselda stood by, white-faced and red-lipped, like some medieval witch passing him the instruments of torture. He never gave anaesthetics for fillings; you simply had to grip the chair. For extractions he administered nitrous oxide, and Trevor would never forget that feeling of suffocation as the mask was finally pressed over his nose and mouth, like a polythene bag clinging to the pores, keeping all the air out. And afterwards, he would stand up groggily and stagger to the next room, where the previous patients were still standing around water fountains spitting or swilling the blood from their mouths.

Trevor set off in the right direction for school. He walked up through Leaview Estate, which was already busy with the postman, the milkman and wives seeing husbands off to work, then turned onto King Street with its cobbles and trendy tourist shops. The places all had looking-glass windows and black-leaded railings leading down to basements stuffed with mildewed books, spinning wheels, bobbins and other relics of the woollen industry, which were now sold as antiques.

The school was at the bottom of a narrow street to his left, and Trevor could see the white tips of the rugby posts and the dirty red-brick Victorian clocktower. Instead of turning down School Drive, though, he took the narrow, winding streets to the market square. On the eastern side of the square, between the National Westminster Bank and Jopling's Newsagent's, a short flight of worn stone steps led down to the El Toro Coffee Bar, a dim room with bullfight posters, castanets and maracas on the walls. Trevor slumped into the darkest corner, ordered an espresso coffee, and settled down to think.

He knew he had VD because he'd heard other kids talking and joking about it at school. Nobody ever thought it would happen to them, though. And because Trevor's intelligence was imaginative rather than scientific, his ideas about the consequences of the disease were farfetched, to say the least. He pictured his penis turning black and rotten, the flesh coming away in great gobbets in his hands the next time he had to go to the toilet. He was convinced that it would drop off altogether within hours. There was treatment, he knew, though he had no idea what it was. But anything was better than dying that way; even the school dentist would be better than that.

He could not go to his GP, Dr. Fanner, because his father would find out. He could bear the embarrassment, but not disclosure. Too many awkward questions would be asked. There were special clinics, or so he'd heard people say, and he figured that one of those was his best bet. There had been nothing in the papers about the woman he had raped, so Trevor assumed that Mick's boot had done the trick and she was keeping quiet for fear of worse reprisals. Still, the police didn't publicize everything they knew, so it would be best to avoid Eastvale, just in case. Trevor asked the owner for the phone directory and looked up hospitals and clinics. As he had guessed, there was a place in York. He scribbled down the address on a page torn out of a school exercise book and left the El Toro.

At the bus station, he put his satchel and school blazer in a locker, wearing only his duffle-coat over his shirt and pullover. That way he didn't look at all like a schoolboy. The next bus for York was due to leave in fifteen minutes. He bought a copy of Melody Maker at the newsstand and sat on the cracked green bench to wait.

II

All day Monday Banks seethed with impatience. He had made great efforts to put the Thelma Pitt business out of his mind over the weekend, mostly for the sake of his family. On Saturday, they had driven into York to do some shopping and on Sunday they had all gone on a vigorous walk from Bainbridge to Semerwater, in Wensleydale. It was a brisk day, sunny and cool, but they were all warm enough in their walking gear.

On Monday morning, though, Banks took off his Walkman, hardly having noticed which opera he'd been listening to, slammed it shut in the drawer and shouted for Hatchley.

"Sir?" the sergeant said, red-faced with the effort of running upstairs.

Banks looked at him sternly.

"You'd better do something about the shape you're in, Sergeant," he said first. "You'd not be much use in a chase, would you?"

"No, sir," Hatchley replied, gasping for breath.

"Anyway, that's not what I want to see you about. Anything from the clinics?"

"No, sir."

"Damn!" Banks thumped the desk.

"You did ask us to let you know, sir," Hatchley reminded him. "I'm sure you'd have heard if there'd been any news over the weekend."

Banks glared at him. "Of course," he said, scratching his head and sitting down.

"It can take'up to ten days, sir."

"When would that take us to?"

"Wednesday or Thursday, sir."

"Thursday," Banks repeated, tapping a ruler against his thigh. "Anything could happen before then. What about Moxton?"

"Moxton, sir?"

"Micklethwaite, as he calls himself now."

"Oh, him. Nothing there either, I'm afraid."

Banks had ordered surveillance on Moxton, assuming that he might try to warn his partner, whoever that was.

"He didn't do much at all," Hatchley added, "though he did go and visit the woman."

"Thelma Pitt?"

"Yes, sir."

"And?"

"And nothing, sir. Stayed about fifteen minutes, then drove home. Seemed a bit pissed off, if you ask me. Slammed the car door. He stayed in all Saturday night, went for a walk on Sunday morning, washed his car, dropped in for a quick drink at that posh place, the Hope and Anchor, about nine o'clock, then went home and stayed there."

"Did he talk to anyone at the Hope and Anchor?"

"Only the landlord, sir."

"Anyone we know?"

"No, sir. Straight as a die. Never even sold short measure, far as we can tell."

Banks took a deep breath. "All right, Sergeant. Thank you," he said, softening his tone a little to mollify Hatchley. "Have some coffee sent up, will you?"

"Sir?"

Banks grinned. "I know it's awful muck, but I need it all the same."

"Will do," Hatchley said, lingering. "Er… Sir?…"

"What is it?"

"Have you got any idea who it was, sir? The rapist?"

"I'm not sure, Sergeant. It could be that Sharp kid and his mate or a pair very much like them. It's the same ones who robbed the old ladies and pissed on the Ottershaws' VCR-that I am sure about."

"And the Matlock killing?"

Banks shook his head. "I don't think so. That's something different. Another problem altogether."

"Why not bring the Sharp kid in for questioning?"

"Because I can't prove anything. Do you think I wouldn't have had him in before if I had something on him? Besides, I'm not certain yet that he is the one, I just got the feeling there was something wrong when I talked to him and his father."

"That bit about the bad tooth, sir. If he-"

Banks waved his hand as if to brush aside a fly. "By itself it's nothing. You know that as well as I do. On the other hand, if he's got the clap…"

"We could always bring him in, just to shake him up a bit."

"No good. His father would insist on being present. He'd probably send for a bloody lawyer, too, then they'd just clam up on us. If Sharp's our lad, we need evidence before we tackle him again or we'll lose him for good."

Hatchley scratched the seat of his pants. "What about the woman?" he asked.

"Thelma Pitt?"

"Yes."

"She said she couldn't positively identify them. We don't want to take any risks on this. When we get him, I want him to stay, not walk off on some technicality. Besides, I'd rather not put her through it until we've got a bit more to go on. If it's Sharp, we know he's got the clap. Sooner or later, he'll turn up at one of the clinics. Then we'll haul him in."

Hatchley nodded and went back downstairs.

When the coffee came, Banks realized all over again why he usually took his breaks in the Golden Grill. He sat with his chair turned to face the window, smoked and stared blankly over the market square, watching the first activities of the morning. Delivery vans double parked outside the shops; the minister, glancing at his watch, hurried into the church; a housewife in a paisley headscarf rattled the door of Bradwell's Grocery, which didn't appear to be open yet.

But all this was mere activity without meaning to Banks. He was close to solving the robberies and the rape of Thelma Pitt-he knew that, he could feel it in his bones-but there was nothing he could do to hurry things along. As so often in his job, he had to be patient; this time he literally had to let nature take its course.

Slowly, while he smoked yet another cigarette, the market square came to life. As the first tourists stepped into the Norman church, Bradwell's Grocery finally opened its doors and took delivery of boxes of fruit from an orange van with a sombrero painted on its side. The woman in the paisley headscarf was nowhere to be seen.

By mid-morning, Banks was sick of being cooped up in his office. He told Sergeant Rowe he was going out for half an hour or so, then went for a walk to burn off some of his impatience.

He hurried across the market square, fastening his overcoat as he went, then cut down the narrow back-streets and through the flower gardens to the riverside.

The slowly increasing cloud cover had not yet quite blotted out the sun, but it had drawn a thin veil over it that weakened the light and gave the whole landscape the look of a watercolor in pale greens, yellows, orange, brown and red. The scent of rain came on a chilling wind, which seemed to be blowing from the northwest, along the channel of Swainsdale itself. The breeze hurried the river over the terraced falls and set up a constant skittering sound in the trees that lined the banks. Leaves were already falling and scraping along the ground. Most of them ended up in the water.

Across the Swain was another pathway, and behind that more trees and flowerbeds. The houses that Banks could just see through the waving branches were the ones fronting The Green, which separated them from the East Side Estate. Banks knew that Jenny's house was among them, but he couldn't tell which one it was from that distance and angle.

He pushed his hands deep into his overcoat pockets, hunched his shoulders and hurried on. The exercise was doing the trick, driving chaotic thoughts from his mind and helping him work up an appetite for lunch.

He doubled back around the castle to the market square. Hatchley and Richmond were lunching in the Queen's Arms when he got there, and Hatchley stopped in mid-sentence when he saw his boss enter. Banks remembered that he had been rude to the sergeant that morning and guessed that they were complaining about him. Taking a deep breath, he joined them at their table and set things right again by buying both his men a pint.

III

The York bus arrived at the station by the Roman wall at ten-thirty. Trevor walked along the wall, passed the railway station, then crossed the Ouse over Lendal Bridge by the ruins of St. Mary's Abbey and the Yorkshire Museum. After that, he wandered in a daze around the busy city until he felt hungry. Just after opening time, he found a pub on Stonegate-with his height and out-of-school dress he certainly looked over eighteen-where he ate a steak-and-mushroom pie along with his pint of keg beer.

He lingered there for almost two hours, nursing his pint and reading every word (including the "Musicians Wanted" column) in his Melody Maker, before venturing out into the streets again. Everywhere he walked he seemed to stumble across pairs of American tourists, most of them complaining because they were inadequately dressed for the cool weather.

"Goddamn sun's out," he heard one fat man in thin cotton slacks and a blazer grumble. "You'd think there'd be some goddamn heat, for Christ's sake."

"Oh, Elmer," his wife said. "We've been in Yoorp for a month now. You oughtta know it never gets hot north of Athens."

Trevor sneered. Silly sods, he thought. Why even bother to come here and litter up the streets if they were too soft to take a bit of autumn chill. He imagined America as a vast continent baking in the sun-pavements you could fry eggs on; people stripped to the waist all the time having barbecues; enormous, uninhabitable stretches of desert and jungle.

About an hour later, he knew he was lost. He seemed to have wandered outside the city walls. This was no tourist area he was in; it was too working-class. The long straight rows of tiny back-to-backs built of dusty pink bricks seemed endless. Washing flapped on lines hung across the narrow streets. Trevor turned back, and at the end of the street saw the Minster's bright towers in the distance. He started walking in their direction.

He'd put it off for long enough, he decided. If he didn't want his penis to shrivel up and drop off, he'd better go for treatment, however frightening the prospect seemed.

In a newsagent's, he found time to look up the location of the clinic in a street guide before the suspicious owner told him to clear off if he wasn't going to buy anything.

"Bleeding Paki," Trevor muttered under his breath as he found himself being ushered out. But he'd got what he'd come for.

The clinic, not very far from the hub of the city, was a squat, modern building of windowless concrete with a fiat, asphalt roof. Trevor presented himself at reception, where he was told to take a seat and wait until a doctor became available. There were two other people before him, a middle-aged man and a scruffy female student, and both of them looked embarrassed. As they waited, nobody spoke and they all avoided even accidental eye contact.

About an hour later, it was Trevor's turn. A bald, long-faced doctor led him into a small room and bid him sit in front of the desk. Trevor shifted anxiously, wishing to God the whole thing was over and done with. The place smelled of Dettol and carbolic; it reminded him of the dentist's.

"Right," the doctor said brightly, after scribbling a few notes on a form. "What can we do for you, young man?"

What a stupid question, Trevor thought. What the hell does he think I'm here for, to have my bunions seen to?

"I've got a problem," he mumbled, and gave the doctor the details.

"What's your name?" the doctor asked, after umming and ahing over Trevor's description of his symptoms.

"Peter Upshaw," Trevor answered smartly. It was something he'd had the foresight to work out in advance, a name he had picked out from the columns of Melody Maker.

"Address?"

" Forty-two Arrowsmith Drive."

The doctor glanced at him sharply: "Is that here, in York?"

"Yes."

"Whereabouts?" He scratched his shiny pate with his ballpoint pen. "I don't believe I know it."

"It's by the Minster," Trevor blurted out, reddening. He hadn't anticipated that the quack would be so inquisitive.

"The Minster? Ah, yes…"The doctor made an entry on the form. "All right, Peter," he said, putting down his pen. "We'll have some tests to do, of course, but first I have to ask you where you caught this disease, who you caught it from."

Trevor certainly hadn't bargained for this. He couldn't tell the truth, he couldn't name anyone he knew, and he certainly couldn't answer, "Nobody."

"A prostitute," he replied quickly. It was the first thing that came into his mind.

The doctor raised his thin eyebrows. "A prostitute? Where was this, Peter?"

"Here."

"In York?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"About a week ago."

"What was her name?"

"Jane."

"Where does she live?"

It was all going too fast for Trevor. He began to stumble over his answers. "I… I… don't know. I was with some other boys. We'd had a bit too much to drink, then we walked around and she just came up to us."

"In the street?"

"Yes."

"But you must have gone somewhere."

"No. I mean yes."

The doctor stared at him.

"In an alley," Trevor went on. "We went in an alley. There was nobody around. We stood up, leaning against a wall."

"What about your friends? Did they… er?"

"No," Trevor assured him hastily. He realized that he would be asked to name anybody else he implicated.

The doctor frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. It was only me. It was my birthday."

"Ah," the doctor said, smiling benignly. "I understand. But you don't know where this woman lived?"

"No."

"Have you been with anyone else since it happened?"

"No."

"Very well, Peter. If you'll just walk down the corridor to the room at the end, you'll find a nurse there. She'll take a blood sample-just to make sure. After that, come back here and we'll get on with it."

The room was like the school chemistry laboratory, with glass-fronted cupboards full of labelled jars and long tables covered with retorts, bunsen burners, pipettes and racks of test tubes. It made Trevor nervous.

The nurse was quite pretty. "Relax," she said, rolling up his sleeve. "It won't hurt."

And it didn't. He couldn't feel the needle going in at all, but he turned his head away so he wouldn't see the blood running into the syringe. He felt a slight prick as it came out.

"There," the nurse said, smiling and wiping the spot with cotton-wool soaked in alcohol. "All done. You can go back to Doctor Willis now."

Trevor went back to the small examination room, where Doctor Willis greeted him.

"I want you to sit back on that chair over there and relax, Peter," he said in a soft hypnotic voice. "This won't take very long. Just another little test."

Willis turned his back to Trevor and picked up something shiny from a white kidney-shaped tray.

"Just remove your trousers, Peter. Underpants, too. That's right," the doctor said, and came toward him. Willis held in his hand what looked like a sewing-needle. He seemed to be holding it by the point, though, and the angled eye was larger than normal.

Trevor tensed as Willis came closer. For a moment the doctor seemed to be wearing a dirty smock, and his National Health glasses were held together at the bridge by Elastoplast.

"Now, relax, Peter," he said, bending forward. "I'm just going to insert this gently inside…"

IV

The phone call came through at 4:17.

"Chief Inspector Banks?" It was an unfamiliar voice.

"Yes."

"This is Inspector MacLean here. York CID."

Banks tightened his grip on the receiver, his palms sweating, slippery against the black bakelite: "Yes, go on."

"It's about your request. The local clap-shop called us a few minutes ago. Seems they've got a kid down there. Looks about eighteen but could be younger and doesn't appear to know York very well. He was very vague about how he picked up the disease. Some clap-trap- excuse the pun-about having a prossie in a back alley. Doctor got the distinct impression that he was making it up as he went along. Sound like your laddie?"

"It certainly does," Banks said, drumming on his desk with excitement. "Tell me more."

"Not a lot more to tell," MacLean went on in his deadpan voice. "Some decay between the front teeth, all right, but most kids have rotten teeth these days. I was over in the States two years ago on an exchange, and they think it's criminal there the way the British treat their teeth-or don't treat them, if you catch my drift. They say you can always spot a Brit by his teeth. You know-"

"Inspector…" Banks cut in.

"Sorry," MacLean said. "You must be eager to get your mitts on him."

"I am, rather. Where is he?"

"Still at the clap-shop. We're holding him there. Got a couple of uniforms on the job. We let him have his treatment, of course. You realize he'll need a few more shots yet? Do you want him delivered?"

"No, thanks, I'll pick him up myself."

"I'm glad you said that. We're a bit short of staff down here."

"What name did he give?"

"Upshaw. Peter Upshaw. Ring a bell?"

"No, but it'd be false, wouldn't it?" Banks took down the address of the clinic. "Be there in about an hour- and thank you, Inspector MacLean."

"You're welcome," MacLean said, and hung up.

"Sergeant Hatchley!" Banks bellowed, jumping up and flinging open his door.

For the second time that day, Hatchley arrived red faced and breathless. But Banks made no comment on his physical condition. His dark eyes glittering with success, he clapped his hand gleefully on the sergeant's broad, well-padded shoulder and said, "Fancy a ride to York?"

Trevor, meanwhile, sat glumly in the examination room under the bored eyes of a fresh-faced constable no more than three or four years his senior. The other officer, of similar age and appearance (so much so that locals on their beat called them the Bobbie Twins), stood in the reception area waiting for the CID bigwig.

After the slight discomfort and great humiliation of his examination, Trevor had been told to await the test results. He felt edgy and afraid, but not of the police; there was room only for one worry at a time in his youthful mind. It was with great surprise, then, that he noted the arrival of Constable Parker, who preceded Dr. Willis through the door.

"Sorry about this," Willis said embarrassedly, taking off his glasses and cleaning them on his smock. "A little misunderstanding, I'm sure. Soon have it straightened out, eh?" And under the policeman's eyes, he administered the first injection in Trevor's course of treatment. After that, there was nothing to do but wait, and one worry very quickly replaced another in Trevor's mind.

It was closer to six o'clock when Banks and Hatchley arrived at the clinic. They hadn't reckoned on the rush-hour snarl-up in York 's maze of one-way streets. Constable Spinks led them to the examination room, and Trevor sneered when he saw Banks walk in.

"Well, Trevor," Banks greeted him. "I see you've lost a filling since we last talked."

Trevor said nothing, but got sullenly to his feet and followed the two men out to their car. The drive back to Eastvale in the dark passed in silence.

The law stated that a juvenile could not be charged unless his parents were present, and as a charge was likely, Banks had to call Graham Sharp in as soon as the trio arrived back at the Eastvale station.

Nobody said a word to Trevor until his father arrived.

When Graham Sharp was shown into the already crowded office by PC Gay, Banks was just finishing his call to Sandra, letting her know that he would be late home again that evening.

Finally, with both Trevor and his father sitting opposite him at the desk and Sergeant Hatchley standing by the window with his notebook, gazing down on the quiet, darkening market square, Banks was ready to begin. He tidied the files on his desk, arranged the pencils in front of him, and caught Trevor's eye.

"What were you doing at that clinic?" he opened.

"What do you think?" Trevor mumbled scornfully.

"Well, you weren't having your filling replaced, that's for certain."

"What's all this?" Graham Sharp butted in. "What clinic? What are you talking about?"

"Mr. Sharp," Banks said patiently, "according to the law, you have to be present if charges are likely to be laid, but I'm the one who's asking the questions, all right?"

"I've got a right to protect my son."

"Yes, you have. You're perfectly at liberty to advise him not to answer if you wish. But please bear in mind that he hasn't been charged with anything yet"

Graham Sharp settled back in his chair, looking angry and confused.

"Why didn't you go to the Eastvale Clinic?" Banks asked Trevor.

"Didn't know there was one."

"How did you find out about York?"

"A schoolmate told me."

"Who did you get the clap from?"

"Now, wait a minute!" Sharp interrupted again. "This is going too far. What clap? Who's got VD?"

"Your son has gonorrhea, Mr. Sharp. Haven't you, lad?"

Trevor said nothing.

"There's no point denying it," Banks pressed. "The doctor did the tests. We can easily call him and have him talk to your dad."

Trevor turned away from his father and nodded. Graham Sharp put his head in his hands.

"Let's get back to my original question," Banks continued. "Where did you get this disease? You don't catch it from toilet seats, you know."

"It was like I told the doctor," Trevor answered.

"Ah yes," Banks said, speaking up so that Graham Sharp could hear him clearly. "You had a prostitute against a wall down a back alley in York. Is that right?"

Trevor nodded, pale.

"When was this?"

"About a week ago. Last Monday."

"You were in York last Monday?"

"Yes."

"What time did he get home, Mr. Sharp?"

Sharp snapped to attention at the sound of his name. "What?"

"What time did your son get home last Monday night?" Banks repeated.

"About eleven. He always has to be in by eleven. It's his bedtime, see."

"Did you know where he was?"

"He said he was going to York, yes," Sharp said.

"Who did he go with?"

"I don't know. A friend. He didn't say."

"A friend?"

"I suppose so."

"Not friends?"

"For God's sake, I don't know."

"You see, the thing is, Mr. Sharp, he told the doctor he went with a group of friends to celebrate his birthday, and that his friends got together and bought him, so to speak, a prostitute as a present. Was it your son's birthday last Monday, Mr. Sharp?"

"Yes. Yes, it was, as a matter of fact."

"You realize," Banks said, "that we can always check the records?"

"Well, it wasn't officially his birthday, no. But it was his mother's birthday. He always used to celebrate his mother's birthday. He was very attached to her."

"Is that really what happened, Trevor?" Banks asked. "To celebrate your mother's birthday you had a prostitute up against a wall in a back alley in York? She said her name was Jane and you've no idea where she lives?"

Trevor nodded.

"Do you know, Trevor, that we can question every prostitute in York if we have to? It's not as big as Leeds or Bradford, and there aren't very many of them. The police know them all. They're on good terms-you know, you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours, that kind of thing? It wouldn't take us long to find out whether your story's true or not."

"All right," Trevor said defiantly. "Ask them. Bloody well ask them for all I care."

"Mind your language, Trevor," his father said.

Sergeant Hatchley, who had remained as impassive as a Buddha throughout the interrogation, suddenly moved away from the window and began pacing around the small office, making the floor creak. Trevor shot nervous glances at him and seemed to tense up when Hatchley walked behind him.

"Care to tell us the names of your friends, Trevor? Just so we can corroborate your story," Banks asked.

"No." Trevor glanced sideways at Hatchley, who leaned against the wall for a moment and cracked his knuckles before turning another page in his notebook.

"Where were you a week last Thursday evening?"

"He was at home with me," Graham Sharp answered quickly.

"I asked Trevor."

"Like he says." Trevor looked at his father.

"Doing what?"

"Watched a bit of telly, read a bit, did some homework."

"What about Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday?"

"Same thing."

"Don't have much of a social life, do you Trevor? When I was a lad I was all over the place. My mother and father couldn't keep track of me."

Trevor shrugged.

"Look," Graham Sharp cut in, eyeing Hatchley, who moved casually away from the wall and back over to the window, "this has gone far enough. What's it all about? What's my Trevor supposed to have done?"

"When?"

"What do you mean, 'when'?"

"I mean that we think Trevor's done a lot of things. I was asking you which night you meant."

"Don't be ridiculous. Trevor's a good kid. He's doing well at school and he'll be going on to university. He's going to make something out of his life."

Banks shook his head. "He's not doing so well at school, you know. I've checked."

Sharp's mouth dropped open, then he pulled himself together. "All right, so he's having one or two problems at the moment. We all go through difficult phases, Inspector, you must know that?"

"Yes, I know that," Banks replied evenly. "But I'm afraid that in your Trevor's case it's something more serious."

"What is it?" Sharp pleaded. "What on earth is he supposed to have done?"

Hatchley turned from the window and startled everybody with his gruff voice. He spoke, however, with a quiet intensity that enthralled his audience completely.

"Last Monday," he said, "two lads broke into a woman's house. They thought she was out and wouldn't be back till late. As it happened, she had a fight with her fancy man and came home early. She caught them at it, burgling her house. They tied her up, then one of them raped her and the other kicked her in the head. We think the crime was committed by the same two youths who also burgled a Mr. Maurice Ottershaw's house, assaulted and robbed four old ladies and, possibly," he glanced at Banks, who nodded, "killed your neighbor, Alice Matlock."

"And you're saying my Trevor had something to do with this?" Sharp cried, getting to his feet. The veins on his temples stood out, throbbing wildly. "You must be insane!" He banged on the flimsy desk. "I want my lawyer here! I want him here now, before you say another word."

"You're perfectly at liberty to request that, of course, sir," Banks said mildly, giving Hatchley the signal to fade into the woodwork again. "But, I must repeat, your son hasn't been charged with anything yet. He's simply helping us with our inquiries."

The cliché seemed to calm Sharp down a little. He eased himself slowly back into his chair and brushed back the hair from his forehead. "I thought your man here just accused my son of rape, burglary, and murder," he snarled, glaring at Hatchley's back.

"Nothing of the sort," Banks assured him. "He simply gave details of the crimes we think your son might be able to help us with."

Though he no longer linked the robberies with the death of Alice Matlock, Banks knew how to exploit an unsolved killing in his favor. If Trevor thought he was going to get Alice 's murder pinned on him, too, there was a slim chance he might confess to the other offenses.

"What makes you think my Trevor knows anything about it?" Sharp asked.

"Because the woman who was raped had just discovered that she had contracted gonorrhea," Banks said, directing his words at Trevor, who stared down at his knees. "And your son has just returned from a VD clinic in York, where he was diagnosed as having gonorrhea. The symptoms show up, so I'm told, anywhere between three and ten days. I'd say that seven days fits into that time scale quite well, wouldn't you?"

"But surely," Sharp objected, "there are other people visiting these clinics? If Trevor really did go with a prostitute and catch VD from her as he says-and I believe him-then that's no crime. It's just youthful high spirits. I was a bit of a lad myself at his age."

"Are robbery, rape, assault and murder just youthful high spirits, too?" Banks asked sarcastically.

"Now, look here, you said you weren't accusing my son of anything."

"I'm not accusing him, I'm trying to get to the truth. I never said he wasn't a suspect, though. Are you sure he went to York last Monday?"

"That's where he said he was going."

"When did you lose that filling, Trevor?" Banks asked.

"Wednesday," Trevor replied. But not before his father had said, "Thursday."

"You see," Banks went on, "the woman who was raped said she remembered the kid's front teeth, that there was some decay between them, as if he had a missing filling. She said she'd recognize it again. She said she'd know his voice, too. And," here he directed his words at Trevor, "she'd know his technique. She said she could tell he was just an inexperienced kid because he shot his load almost as soon as he stuck it in."

Trevor flushed with anger and grasped the edge of the desk. Graham put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"We'll bring her in, Trevor. She's not afraid to give evidence, you know, despite what your friend did to her. And we'll question all the prostitutes in York. We'll talk to the bus drivers and see if any of them remember you, and if you tell us you went by train we'll talk to the ticket collectors and train crews. We'll find out who else went to York that night and we'll ask if any of them saw you and your friends. Seeing as there were a few of you, I should imagine you were quite noisy-youthful high spirits and all that-and someone in whatever pub you were in is bound to remember. So why don't you make it easier for us, Trevor? Make it easier for everyone. It's up to you. We'll nail you in the end anyway."

"Come on, Trev," Hatchley piped up, putting a fatherly hand on the boy's shoulder. "Before it goes too far. It'll go easier on you this way."

Trevor shook his hand off.

"I refuse to believe this," said Sharp. "My son isn't capable of such actions. He can't be. I raised him myself after his mother left. Gave him everything he wanted. If he's done anything wrong-and I don't think he has- then he was led on. He was led on by that bloody Mick Webster. It's him you want, not my Trevor."

"Shut up, dad!" Trevor snapped. "For God's sake, shut up!" And he lapsed back into sullen silence.

Banks got to his feet and smiled down at Trevor, who caught his eye before turning away. Both of them knew, in that split second of eye contact, that Banks had won. He had nowhere near enough evidence yet to make a conviction, but if Mick Webster thought that Trevor had snitched on him…

"Where does he live, this Webster?" Banks asked Graham.

"On the East Side Estate. That first street, the one that faces The Green."

"I know it. Number?"

"I don't know, but it's the fifth house down after the tobacconist's. I've seen him coming and going a few times when I've been picking up stock."

"Got that?" Banks asked Hatchley, who nodded. "Take Richmond, and hurry up. Bring in Mick Webster."