Gallows View (11 page)

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

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

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

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

“Pleased to meet you,” Banks said apprehensively.

No reply.

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

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

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

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

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

“I did.”

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

“Pardon?”

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

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

“What issue?”

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

“Who made the charges?” Banks repeated.

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

“On whose authority?”

“I represent the local women.”

“Who says so?”

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

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

Dorothy Wycombe moved further away from Banks and puffed herself up to her full size. “
I
am the chairperson of WEEF.”

“Weef?”

“W.E.E.F., Inspector Banks. The Women of Eastvale for Emancipation and Freedom. WEEF.”

Banks had often thought it was amusing how groups twisted the language so that acronyms of organizations would sound like snappy words. It had started with NATO, SEATO, UNO and other important groups, progressed through such local manifestations as SPIT, SHOT and SPEAR, and now there was WEEF. It didn’t seem to matter at all that “Women of Eastvale” sounded vaguely mediaeval or that “Freedom” and “Emancipation” meant more or less the same thing. They simply existed to give birth to WEEF, which sounded to Banks like an impoverished “woof,” or the kind of squeak a frightened mouse might utter.

“Very well,” Banks conceded, making a note. “And who brought the complaint to your attention?”

“I’m not under any obligation to divulge my source,” Dorothy Wycombe snapped back, quick as a reporter in the dock.

“Yesterday,” Banks sighed, “Sergeant Hatchley spoke to Carol Ellis, Mandy Selkirk, Josie Campbell and Ellen Parry about their experiences. He also spoke to Molly Torbeck, who had been with Carol Ellis in The Oak on the night of the incident. Would you like me to interview each in turn and find out for myself? I can do that, you know.”

“Do what you want. I’m not going to tell you.”

“Right,” Banks said, standing up to leave. “Then I’ve no intention of taking your complaint seriously. You must realize that we get a lot of unfounded allegations made against us, usually by overzealous members of the public. So many that we’ve got quite an elaborate system of screening them. I’m sure that, as a defender of freedom and emancipation, you wouldn’t want anyone’s career to suffer from injustice brought about by smear campaigns, would you?”

Banks thought Dorothy Wycombe was about to explode, so red did her face become. Her chins trembled and her knuckles whitened as she grasped the edge of Gristhorpe’s desk.

“This is outrageous!” she shouted. “I’ll not have my movement dictated to by a fascist police force.”

“I’m sorry,” Banks said, heading for the door. “We just can’t deal with unidentified complainants.”

“Carol Ellis!” The name burst from Dorothy Wycombe’s tight mouth like a huge build-up of steam from a stuck valve. “
Now
will you sit down and listen to me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Banks said, taking out his notebook again.

“It’s
Ms
Wycombe,” she told him, “and I expect you to treat this matter seriously.”

“It’s a serious charge,” Banks agreed, “as I said earlier. That’s why I want it fully documented. What exactly did Carol Ellis say?”

“She said that Sergeant Hatchley seemed to treat the whole Peeping Tom business as a
bit of a lark
, that he seemed either
bored
or
amused
whilst interviewing her, and that he made certain
suggestions
about her body.”

“Bored or amused, Ms Wycombe? Which? They’re very different, you know.”

“Both, at different times.”

“Certain suggestions about her body? What kind of suggestions? Lewd, offensive?”

“What other kind are there, Inspector? He hinted that the Peeping Tom must have had
quite a treat
.”

“Is that all?” “Isn’t it enough?

What kind of—”

“I mean are there any other allegations?”

“No. That’s all I wanted to say. I hope I can trust you, Inspector, to see that
something
is done about this.”

“Don’t worry, Ms Wycombe, I’ll get to the bottom of it. If there’s any truth in the charges, Sergeant Hatchley will be disciplined, you can be sure of that.”

Dorothy Wycombe smiled grimly and suspiciously, then swished out of the office.

Gristhorpe took a deep breath. “Alan,” he said, “when I made that
joke about throwing your sergeant to the wolves the other day, I didn’t mean it bloody literally. Whatever we might think about Ms Wycombe and her manner, we’ve got to concede that she’s got a point. Don’t you agree?”

“If what she says is true, yes.”

“You think it might not be?”

“We both know how the truth gets twisted in emotional situations, sir. Let me get Hatchley’s version before we go any further.”

“Very well. But let me know, Alan. Are you getting any further?”

“No, but I’m seeing Jenny Fuller again today. Perhaps she’ll have a bit more light to shed on things. If we can narrow the field down a bit, we might at least be able to start checking around.”

“What about Alice Matlock?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Get a move on, Alan. Too many things are piling up for my liking.”

Back in his office, Banks found a note from Inspector Barnshaw accompanying a police artist’s drawing of the man that the Leeds junk dealer, Crutchley, had described. He had recognized none of the file photographs, but the sketch was a good realization of the description Banks had taken.

He lit a cigarette, tidied the files on his desk, and sent for Sergeant Hatchley, who arrived about five minutes later.

“Sit down,” Banks said, his abrupt tone foreshadowing the bol-locking the sergeant was in for.

Banks decided not to beat about the bush. Instead, he told Hatchley exactly what Dorothy Wycombe had said and asked him for his version of what had happened during the Carol Ellis interview.

Hatchley blushed and scratched his chin, avoiding Banks’s glance.

“Is it true?” Banks pressed. “That’s all I want to know.”

“Well, yes and no,” Hatchley admitted.

“Meaning?”

“Look, sir, I know Carol Ellis. I’m a bachelor and she’s not married
either, and I’m not denying I’ve had my eye on her for some time—long before this business ever started.”

“Go on.”

“When I talked to her yesterday, she’d got over what happened. After all, it was just a bit of a shock. Nobody got hurt. And she was even joking about it a bit, wishing she’d worn her best underwear, given a better show, that kind of thing. ’Appen she was saying it to cover up her nerves, or maybe she was embarrassed. I don’t know. But, like I told you, I know her and I quite fancy her myself, so I might have joked along, you know, made things a bit more personal.”

“‘Might have’?”

“All right, I did.”

“Were you bored?”

“With Carol Ellis around? You must be joking, sir. A bit casual, maybe. It’s not like interrogating someone you don’t know, or a villain.”

“Did you suggest that the peeper must have had quite a treat?”

“I don’t rightly recollect. I might have joked along with her, like. When she said about wearing her best undies, I probably said she’d look fine to me in any underwear. You know, just like a compliment. A bit cheeky, but . . .”

Banks sighed. It was clear to him what had happened, but it was equally clear that it shouldn’t have. The worst he could accuse Hatchley of was tactlessness and allowing personal affairs to come before police work. Whatever Carol Ellis had said to Dorothy Wycombe had probably been said in a spirit of fun, and was no doubt grossly distorted.

“I don’t need to tell you that it was a bloody stupid thing to do, do I?” he said to Hatchley, who didn’t reply. “Because of your actions, we’re in for a lot more bad publicity, and we’ve got to spend time placating Dorothy bloody Wycombe. I do wish you’d learn to keep your urges to yourself. It’s one thing to chat the woman up in a pub, but quite another to do it while you’re interviewing her about a crime. Am I making myself clear?”

Hatchley pressed his lips together and nodded.

“Are you sure that Carol Ellis took your remarks in the spirit they were intended?”

Here, Hatchley beamed. “She’s going out with me on Saturday night, sir, if that’s of any account.”

Banks couldn’t help but smile. “Something must have got twisted in the communication network, then,” he muttered. “I’ll talk to her myself and straighten it out. But be bloody careful in future. I don’t need the aggro, and the superintendent certainly doesn’t. You’d better stay out of the peeper case in future. And you’d better stay out of the old man’s way for a day or two, as well.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Concentrate on the break-ins and the Alice Matlock killing.” He passed Hatchley the drawing. “Get copies done of this and spread them around. Help Richmond find out if Alice Matlock had any younger friends, any lame ducks, lonely hearts, that kind of thing. Did you see Wooller, by the way?”

“Yes, last night.”

“Anything?”

Hatchley shook his head. “Nah. He’s an odd one all right, but I’m pretty damn sure he didn’t see or hear anything.”

“Did you get the impression he was holding something back?”

“Lots of things. He’s a dark horse, sure enough. But nothing about the Matlock case, no. I still reckon he’s worth keeping an eye on for the other business, though. You definitely get a kind of dirty feeling, talking to him.”

“Okay,” Banks said. “But you’re off that. And if the press get hold of Dorothy Wycombe’s story, which I’m sure they will, I want no comments from you. None at all. That understood?”

“Yes, sir. Bit of an Amazon, eh, that Dorothy Wycombe?”

“Off you go, Sergeant.”

Hatchley left and Banks relaxed, glad it was over. He didn’t mind yelling at the sergeant in the course of duty, but he hated the formality of the official reprimand. It was easy to see why Gristhorpe had passed the buck to him in the first place; the superintendent was diplomatic enough, all right, but he was also too soft-hearted when it came to his men. He looked at his watch. It was just after eleven. He decided to take his coffee and toasted teacake alone this morning, and leave Hatchley to lick his wounded pride for a while.

Eastvale Comprehensive used to be called Eastvale Grammar School. In the old days it was a respectable institution attended by promising children from miles around, many of whom gained scholarships to Oxford or Cambridge, or went on to the northern red-brick universities closer to home.

The building itself was Victorian, attractive in a Gothic way from the outside, with turrets, a clock and a bell tower, and full of high gloomy corridors within. A number of “temporary” classrooms, trailers propped up on bricks, for the most part, had been added to the original building in the early seventies, and they looked as if they were definitely there to stay.