Gallows View

I

Wednesday was a difficult morning for Banks. His desk was littered with reports, and he couldn't get Jenny Fuller out of his mind. There was nothing wrong with his marriage-Sandra was all, if not more than, he had ever expected in a partner-so there was no reason, Banks told himself, why he should find himself interested in another woman.

It was Paul Newman, he remembered, who had said, "Why go out for hamburger if you can get steak at home?" But Banks couldn't remember the name of the subversive wit who had countered, "What if you want pizza?"

At thirty-six, he surely couldn't have hit middle-age crisis point, but there was no doubt that he was strongly attracted to the bright, redheaded Doctor of Philosophy. The sensation had been immediate, like a mild electric shock, and he was certain that she had felt it, too. Their two meetings had been charged with a strong undercurrent, and Banks didn't know what to do about it. The sensible thing would be to walk away and avoid seeing her anymore, but his job made that impractical.

He slugged back some hot, bitter station coffee and told himself not to take the matter so seriously. There was nothing to feel guilty about in fancying an attractive woman. He was, after all, a normal, heterosexual male. Another mouthful of black coffee tightened him back into the job at hand: reports.

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 al 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 postmortem 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 around 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 center 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 neighbors 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."

"Goon."

"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 thick gray 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 neighbors 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 whiz 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 blonds."

"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 behavior 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."

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:hey 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 flashlight 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 movies 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?" he 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 and 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 toward 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.