On Sunday morning, Banks paid his visit to Robin Allott, who lived in his parents' modest semi about ten minutes walk away.
A tiny, bird-like woman answered his knock and fluttered around him all the way into the living room.
"Do sit down, Inspector," she said, pulling out a chair. "I'll call Robin. He's in his room reading the Sunday papers."
Banks looked quickly around the room. The furniture was a little threadbare and there was no VCR or music center, only an ancient-looking television. Quite a contrast from the Ottershaws' opulence, he thought.
"He's coming down," Mrs. Allott said. "Can I make you a cup of tea?"
"Yes, please," Banks said, partly to get her out of the way for a while. She made him nervous with her constant hovering. "I hope I'm not disturbing you and Mr. Allott," he said.
"Oh no, not at all." She lowered her voice. "My husband's an invalid, Inspector. He had a serious stroke about two years ago and he can't get around much. He stays in bed most of the time and I look after him as best I can."
That explained the badly worn furnishings, Banks thought. Whatever help the social services gave, the loss of the breadwinner was a serious financial setback for most families.
"It's been a great help having Robin home since his divorce," she added, then shrugged. "But he can't stay forever, can he?"
Banks heard footsteps on the stairs, and as Robin entered the room, Mrs. Allott went to make the tea.
"Hello," Robin said, shaking Banks's hand. He looked an almost unnaturally healthy and handsome young man, despite the unmistakable signs of his chestnut-brown hair receding at the temples. "Sandra said you might call."
"It's about Alice Matlock," Banks said. "I'd just like to find out as much as I can about her."
"I don't really see how I can help you, Inspector," Robin said. "I told Sandra the same, but she seemed quite insistent. Surely you'll have found out all you want to know from her close friends?"
"She only had one, it seems: a lady called Ethel Carstairs. And even they haven't been friends for long. Most of Alice 's contemporaries appear to have died."
"I suppose that's what happens when you reach her age. Anyway, as I said, I don't know how I can help, but fire away."
"Had you seen her recently?"
"Not for a while, no. If I remember correctly, the last time was about three years ago. I was interested in portrait photography and I thought she'd make a splendid subject. I have the picture somewhere-I'll dig it out for you later."
"And before that?"
"I hadn't seen her since my gran died."
"She and your grandmother were close friends?"
"Yes. My father's mother. They grew up together and both worked most of their lives in the hospital. Eastvale's not such a big place, or it wasn't then, so it was quite natural they'd be close. They went through the wars together, too. That creates quite a bond between people. When I was a child, my gran would often take me over to Alice 's."
Mrs. Allott appeared with the tea and perched at the opposite end of the table.
"Can you tell me anything about her past?" Banks asked Robin.
"Nothing you couldn't find out from anyone else, I don't think. I did realize later, though, when I was old enough to understand, what a fascinating life she'd led, all the changes she'd witnessed. Can you imagine it? When she was a girl cars were few and far between and people didn't move around much. And it wasn't only technology. Look at how our attitudes have changed, how the whole structure of society is different."
"How did Alice relate to all this?"
"Believe it or not, Inspector, she was quite a radical. She was an early struggler for women's rights, and she even went so far as to serve with the International Brigade as a nurse in the Spanish Civil War."
"Was she a communist?"
"Not in the strict sense, as far as I know. A lot of people who fought against Franco weren't."
"What were your impressions of her?"
"Impressions? I suppose, when I was a child, I was just fascinated with the cottage she lived in. It was so full of odds and ends. All those alcoves just overflowing with knick-knacks she'd collected over the years: tarnished cigarette lighters, Victorian pennies and those old silver three-penny bits-all kinds of wonderful junk. I don't imagine I paid much attention to Alice herself. I remember I was always fascinated by that ship in the bottle, the Miranda. I stared at it for hours on end. It was alive for me, a real ship. I even imagined the crew manning the sails, doing battle with pirates."
Mrs. Allott poured the tea and laughed. "He always did have plenty of imagination, my Robin, didn't you?"
Robin ignored her. "How did it happen, anyway? How was she killed?"
"We're still not sure," Banks said. "It looks like she might have fallen over in a struggle with some kids come to rob her, but we're trying to cover any other possibilities. Have you any ideas?"
"I shouldn't think it was kids, surely?"
"Why not?"
"Weil, they wouldn't kill a frail old woman, would they?"
"You'd be surprised at what kids do these days, Mr. Allott. As I said, they might not have killed her intentionally.".,.
Robin smiled. "I'm a teacher at the College of Further Education, Inspector, so I'm no great believer in the innocence and purity of youth. But couldn't it have happened some other way?"
"We don't know. That's what I'm trying to determine. What do you have in mind?"
"Nothing, I'm afraid. It was just an idea."
"You can't think of anyone who might have held a grudge or wanted her out of the way for some other reason?"
"I'm sorry, no. I wish I could help, but…"
"That's all right," Banks said, standing to leave. "I wasn't expecting you to give us the answer. Is there anything else you can think of?"
"No. I can dig out that portrait for you, though, if you're interested."
Out of politeness' sake, Banks accompanied Robin upstairs and waited as he flipped through one of his many boxes of photographs. The picture of Alice, when he found it, was mounted on a mat and still seemed in very good shape. It showed a close-up of the old woman's head in semi-profile, and high-contrast processing had brought out the network of lines and wrinkles, the vivid topography of Alice Matlock's face. Her expression was proud, her eyes clear and lively.
"It's very good," Banks said. "How long have you been interested in photography?"
"Ever since I was at school."
"Ever thought of taking it up professionally?"
"As a police photographer?"
Banks laughed. "I didn't have anything as specific as that in mind," he said.
"I've thought of trying it as a freelance, yes," Robin said. "But it's too unpredictable. Better to stick to teaching."
"There is one more thing, while I'm here," Banks said, handing the photograph back to Robin. "It's just something I'm curious about. Do you ever get the impression that anyone at the Camera Club might be… not too serious… might be more interested in the models you get occasionally than in the artistic side?"
It was Robin's turn to laugh. "What an odd question," he said. "But, yes, there's always one or two seem to turn up only when we've got a model in. What did Sandra say?"
"To tell the truth," Banks said, "I didn't like to ask her. She's a bit sensitive about it and I've probably teased her too much as it is."
"I see."
"Who are these people?"
"Their names?"
"Yes."
"Well, I don't know…" Robin said hesitantly.
"Don't worry," Banks assured him, "you won't be getting them into trouble. They won't even know we've heard their names if they've done nothing wrong."
"All right." Robin took a deep breath. "Geoff Welling and Barry Scott are the ones who spring to mind. They seem decent enough sorts, but they hardly ever turn up and I've never seen any examples of their work."
"Thank you," Banks said, writing down the names. "What do they look like?"
"They're both in their late twenties, about my age. Five-ten to six feet. Barry's got a bit of a beer belly but Geoff seems fit enough. What's all this about? That Peeping Tom business?"
"Robin!" Mrs. Allott shouted from the bottom of the stairs. "Can you come and take your dad up his tea and biscuits?"
"Coming," Robin yelled back, and followed Banks down the stairs.
"Another cup of tea, Inspector?" Mrs. Allott asked.
"No, I won't if you don't mind," Banks said. "Have to get home."
As he walked the short distance back home, Banks tried to pinpoint exactly what it was that Robin had said to increase his uneasy feeling about the Alice Matlock killing.
Apart from the immediate shock, which had made her scream, Sandra felt very calm about her experience. One minute she had been undressing for bed, as she had done thousands of times before, absorbed in her own private rituals, and the next moment that world was in tatters, would probably never really be the same again. She realized that the idea of such permanent ruin was melodramatic, so she kept it to herself, but she could think of no other way to express the complex sense of violation she had experienced.
She wasn't scared; she wasn't even angry after the shock had worn off and the adrenaline dispersed. Surprisingly, her main feeling was pity-Harriet's compassion-because Sandra did feel sorry for the man in a way she found impossible to explain, even to herself.
It was something to do with the unnaturalness of his act. Sandra had always been fortunate in having a healthy attitude toward sex. She had neither needed nor wanted the help of manuals, marital aids, awkward positions or suburban wife-swapping clubs to keep her sex life interesting, and it was partly because of this, her own sexual healthiness, that she felt sorry for the pathetic man who could only enjoy sex in such a vicarious, secretive way. Her pity was not a soft and loving feeling, though; it was more akin to contempt.
That Sunday morning as she rang Selena Harcourt's doorbell, which played a fragment of "Lara's Theme" from Doctor Zhivago, she thanked her lucky stars for the hundredth time that she had managed to persuade Alan not to report the incident. It had gone against all his instincts, and the task had required all of Sandra's rhetorical expertise, but she had done it, and here she was, about to fulfill her part of the bargain.
"Oh, hello, Sandra, do come in," Selena said in her cooing voice. "Excuse the mess."
There was, of course, no mess. Selena's living room was spick and span, as always. It smelled of pine air-freshener and lemon-scented disinfectant, and all the souvenir ashtrays and costume-dolls from the Algarve, the Costa del Sol and various other European resorts simply glowed with health and shone with cleanliness.
The only new addition to the household was a gloomy poodle, called Pepe, who turned around slowly from his spot by the fireplace and looked at Sandra as if to apologize for his ridiculous appearance: the clippings and bows that Selena had inflicted on him in the hope that he might win a prize in the upcoming dog show. Sandra duly lavished hypocritical praise upon the poor creature, who gave her a very sympathetic and conspiratorial look, then she sat uneasily on the sofa. She always sat uneasily in Selena's house because everything looked as if it were on show, not quite real or functional.
"I was just saying to Kenneth, we haven't seen very much of you lately. You've not been to one of our coffee mornings for simply ages."
"It's the job," Sandra explained. "I work three mornings a week for Dr. Maxwell now, remember?"
"Of course," Selena said. "The dentist." Somehow or other, she managed to give the word just the right shade of emphasis to imply that although dentists might be necessary, they were certainly not desirable in respectable society.
"That's right."
"So what else have you been up to since we last had a little chat?"
Sandra couldn't remember when that was, so she gave a potted history of the last month, to which Selena listened politely before offering tea.
"Have you heard about this Peeping Tom business?" she called through from the kitchen.
"Yes," Sandra shouted back.
"Of course, I keep forgetting your hubby's on the force. You must know all about it, then?" Selena said as she brought in the tray bearing tea and a selection of very fattening confectionery.
"On the force, indeed!" Sandra thought. Selena knew damn well that Alan was a policeman-in fact, that was the only reason she had ever talked to Sandra in the first place-and her way of digging for gossip was about as subtle as a Margaret Thatcher pep talk.
"Not much," Sandra lied. "There's not much to know, really."
"That Dorothy Wycombe's been having a right go at Alan, hasn't she?" Selena noted, with so much glee that the lah-de-dah inflection she usually imposed on her Northern accent slipped drastically around "having a right go."
"You could say that," Sandra admitted, gritting her teeth.
"Is it true?"
"Is what true?"
"That the police aren't doing much. Now, you know I'm no women's-libber, Sandra, but we do get treated just a teeny bit unfairly sometimes. It is a man's world, you know."
"Yes. As a matter of fact, though, they're doing quite a lot. They've brought in a psychologist from the university."
"Oh?" Selena raised her eyebrows. "What's he supposed to do?"
"She helps tell the police what kind of person this peeper is."
"But surely they know that already? He likes to watch women undress."
"Yes," Sandra said. "But there's more to it than that. Why does he like to watch? What does he do while he's watching? Why doesn't he have a normal sex life? That's the kind of thing the psychologists are working on."
"Well, that's not much use, is it?" Selena observed. "Not until they've caught him, anyway."
"That's what I came to see you about," Sandra said, forging ahead. "They're worried that he might not stop at looking-that might be just the beginning-so they're really stepping up the investigation. They've already got enough information to know that he checks out his areas before he strikes, so he knows something about the layout of the house. He probably finds out when people go to bed, whether the woman goes up alone first, that kind of thing. So I suggested that it would be a good idea if we all kept our eyes open for strangers, or anyone acting strangely around here. That way we could catch him before he did any real harm."
"Good lord!" Selena exclaimed. "You don't really think he'd come around here, do you?"
Sandra shrugged. "There's no telling where he'll go. They've not found any rhyme or reason to his movements yet."
Selena's hand shook slightly as she poured more tea, and she bit her bottom lip between her teeth. "There was something," she started. "It was last week- Wednesday, I think-it startled me at the time but I never really gave it much thought later."
"What was it?"
"Well, I was walking back from Eloise Harrison's. She lives on Culpepper Avenue, you know, two streets down, and it's such a long way around if you go right to the main road and along, so I cut through the back here. There's a little snicket between the houses in the next street, you know, so I just go out of our back gate into the alley, then cut through the snicket, cross the street, do the same again, and I'm right in Eloise's back garden.
"Coming back on Wednesday, it was quite dark and wet, a nasty night, and when I cut into our back alley I almost bumped into this man. It was funny, I thought, because he looked like he was just standing there. I don't know why, but I think if we'd both been moving we'd have really bumped into each other. Well, it made me jump, I can tell you that. There's no light out there except what shines from the houses, and it's a lonely sort of place. Anyway, I just hurried on through the back gate and into the house, and I never really thought much more of it. But if you ask me, I'd say he was just standing there, loitering."
"Do you remember what he looked like?"
"I'm sorry, dear, I really didn't get a good look. As I said, it was dark, and what with the shock and all I just hurried on. I think he was wearing a black raincoat with a belt, and he had his collar turned up. He was wearing a hat, too, because of the rain, I suppose, so I couldn't have seen his face even if I'd wanted to. It was one of those… what do you call them? Trilbies, that's it. I think he was quite young, though, not the dirty-old-man type."
"What made you think that?"
"I don't know, really," Selena answered slowly, as if she was finding it difficult to put her instincts and intuitions into words. "Just the way he moved. And the trilby looked too old for him."
"Thank you," Sandra said, anxious to get home and make notes while it was all still fresh in her mind.
"Do you think it was him?"
"I don't know, but the police will be thankful for any information about suspicious strangers at the moment."
Selena fingered the plunging neckline of her dress, which revealed exactly the right amount of creamy skin to complement her peroxide curls, moon-shaped face and excessive make-up. "If it was him, then he's been watching us. It could be any of us he's after. Me. You. Josephine. Annabel. This is terrible."
"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 color, 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 traveled 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 toward 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 inward. They have to slope outward, 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.