Gallows View (16 page)

To Tracy, Eastvale Castle represented a living slice of history, an Elizabethan palace where, it was rumoured, Mary Queen of Scots had been imprisoned for a while and a Richard or a Henry had briefly held court. Ladies-in-waiting whispered royal secrets to one another in echoing galleries, while barons and earls danced galliards and pavanes with their elegant wives at banquets.

To Brian, the place evoked a more barbarous era of history; it was a stronghold from which ancient Britons poured down boiling oil on Roman invaders, a citadel riddled with dank dungeons where thumbscrews, rack and Iron Maiden awaited unfortunate prisoners.

Neither was entirely correct. The castle was, in fact, built by the Normans at about the same time as Richmond, and, like its more famous contemporary, it was built of stone and had an unusually massive keep.

While the children explored the ruins, Banks looked over the roofs below, chequer-board patterns of red pantile, stone and Welsh slate, and let his eyes follow the contours of the hills where they rose to peaks and fells in the west and flattened into a gently undulating plain to the east. In all directions the trees were tinged with autumn’s rust, just like the picture on his calendar.

Banks could make out the town’s limits: beyond the river, the East Side Estate, with its two ugly tower blocks, sprawled until it petered out into fields, and in the west, Gallows View pointed its dark, shrivelled finger towards Swainsdale. To the north, the town seemed to spread out between the fork of two diverging roads—one leading to the northern Dales and the Lakes, the other to Tyneside and the east coast. Beyond these older residential areas, there were only a few scattered farmhouses and outlying hamlets.

Though he saw the view, Banks could hardly take it in, still troubled as he was by the events of the previous evening. He hadn’t reported the incident, and that nagged at his sense of integrity. On the other hand, as he and Sandra had decided, it would probably have been a lot more embarrassing and galling all round to have reported it. It was easy to imagine the headlines, the sniggers. And even as he worried about his own decision, Banks also wondered how many others had not seen fit to tell the police of similar incidents. If women were still reluctant to report rape, for example, would many of them not also balk at reporting a Peeping Tom?

For Banks, though, the problem was even more involved. He was a policeman; therefore, he was expected to set an example, to follow the letter of the law himself. In the past, he may have occasionally driven at a little over the speed limit or, worse, had perhaps one drink too many before driving home from a Christmas party, but he had never been faced with such a conflict between professional and family duty before. Sandra and he had decided, though, over a long talk in bed, and that decision was final. They had also told the children, who had heard Sandra’s scream, that she had thought someone was trying to break in but had been mistaken.

What bothered Banks was that if there was no investigation, then valuable clues or information might be sacrificed. To put that right as far as possible, Sandra had offered to talk to the neighbours discreetly, to ask if anyone had noticed any strangers hanging around. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

So that was that. Banks shrugged and watched a red bus try to extricate itself from an awkward parking spot off the square. The gold hands against the blue face of the church clock said eleven-thirty. He had promised that they would be home for lunch by twelve.

Rounding up Brian and Tracy, who had fallen to arguing about the history of the castle, Banks ushered them towards the exit.

“Of course it’s an ancient castle,” Brian argued. “They’ve got dungeons with chains on the walls, and it’s all falling to pieces.”

Tracy, despite her anachronistic image of the period, knew quite well that the castle was built in the early part of the twelfth century, and she said so in no uncertain terms.

“Don’t be silly,” Brian shot back. “Look at what a state it’s in. It must have taken thousands of years to get so bad.”

“For one thing,” Tracy countered with a long-suffering sigh, “it’s built of stone. They didn’t build things out of stone as long ago as that. Besides, it’s in the history book. Ask the teacher, dummy, you’ll see if I’m not right.”

Brian retreated defensively into fantasy: he was a brave knight and Tracy was a damsel in distress, letting down her hair from a high, narrow window. He gave it a long, hard pull and swaggered off to fight a dragon.

They wound their way down to the market square, which, though it had seemed to move as slowly and silently as in a dream from high up, buzzed with noisy activity at close quarters.

The vendors sold everything from toys, cassette tapes and torch batteries to lace curtains, paintbrushes and used paperbacks, but mostly they sold clothes—jeans, jackets, shirts, lingerie, socks, shoes. A regular, whom Banks had christened Flash Harry because of his pencil-thin moustache, flat cap and spiv-like air, juggled with china plates and cups as he extolled the virtues of his wares. Tourists and locals clustered around the draughty stalls handling goods and haggling
with the red-faced holders, who sipped hot Oxo and wore fingerless woollen gloves to keep their hands warm without inhibiting the counting of money.

After a quick look at some children’s shoes—as cheap in quality as they were in price—Banks led Brian and Tracy south along Market Street under the overhanging second-floor bay windows. About a quarter of a mile further on, beyond where the narrow street widened, was the cul-de-sac where they lived. It was five to twelve.

“Superintendent Gristhorpe called,” Sandra said as soon as they got in. “About fifteen minutes ago. You’re to get over to number 17 Clarence Gardens as soon as you can. He didn’t say what it was about.”

“Bloody hell,” Banks grumbled, buttoning up his donkey-jacket again. “Can you keep lunch warm?”

Sandra nodded.

“Can’t say how long I’ll be.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, and smiled as he kissed her. “It’s only a casserole. Oh, I almost forgot, he invited us to Sunday dinner tomorrow as well.”

“That’s some consolation, I suppose,” Banks said as he walked out to the garage.

“It’s a bloody disgrace, that’s what it is,” Maurice Ottershaw announced, hands on hips. Banks wasn’t sure whether he meant the burglary itself or the fact that the police hadn’t managed to prevent it. Ottershaw was a difficult character. A tall, grey-haired man, deeply tanned from his recent holiday, he seemed to think that all the public services were there simply for his benefit, and he consequently treated their representatives like personal valets, stopping just short of telling Banks to go and make some tea.

“It’s not unusual,” Banks offered, by way of meagre compensation for the mess on the walls, carpet and appliances. “A lot of burglars desecrate the places they rob.”

“I don’t bloody care about that,” Ottershaw went on, the redness of his anger imposing itself even on his tan. “I want these bloody vandals caught.”

“We’re doing our best,” Banks told him patiently. “Unfortunately, we don’t have a lot to go on.”

Richmond and Hatchley had already talked to the neighbours, who had either been out or had heard nothing. Manson had been unable to find any fingerprints except for those of the owners and their cleaning lady, who had been in just the other day to give the place a thorough going-over. There was no way of telling exactly on what day the robbery had taken place, although it must have happened between Tuesday, the day of the cleaner’s visit, and the Ottershaws’ return early that Saturday morning.

“Can you give me a list of what’s missing?”

“One hundred and fifty-two pounds seventy-five pence in cash, for a start,” Ottershaw said.

“Why did you leave so much cash lying around the place?”

“It wasn’t lying around, it was in a box in a drawer. It was just petty cash for paying tradesmen and such. I don’t often have cash on me, use the card most of the time.”

“I see you’re an art lover,” Banks said, looking towards the large framed prints of Bosch’s
Garden of Earthly Delights
and Botticelli’s
The Birth of Venus
hanging on the walls. Banks wasn’t sure whether he could live with either of them.

Ottershaw nodded. “Just prints, of course. Good ones, mind you. I have invested in one or two original works.” He pointed to a rough white canvas with yellow and black lines scratched across it like railway tracks converging and diverging. “London artist. Doing very well for herself, these days. Not when I bought it, though. Got it for a song. Poor girl must have been starving.”

“Any pictures missing?”

Ottershaw shook his head.

“Antiques?” Banks gestured towards the standard lamp, crystalware and bone china.

“No, it’s still all there and in one piece, thank the Lord.”

“Anything else?”

“Some jewellery. Imitation, but still worth about five hundred
pounds. My wife can give you descriptions of individual pieces. And there’s all this of course. My wife won’t watch this TV again, nor will she touch the hi-fi. It’ll all have to be replaced. They’ve even spilled the Rémy.”

This last remark seemed a bit melodramatic to Banks, but he let it slip by. “Where is your wife, sir?” he asked.

“Lying down. She’s a very highly strung woman, and this, on top of being stuck at the bloody airport for a whole night . . . it was just too much for her.”

“You were supposed to be home yesterday?”

“Yes. I told you, didn’t I? Bloody airport wallahs went on strike.”

“Did anyone know you were away?”

“Neighbours, a couple of friends at work and the club.”

“What club would that be, sir?”

“Eastvale Golf Club,” Ottershaw announced, puffing out his chest. “As you probably know, it’s an exclusive kind of place, so it’s very unlikely that any criminal elements would gain access.”

“We have to keep all possibilities open,” Banks said, managing to avoid Ottershaw’s scornful glare by scribbling nonsense in his notebook. There was no point in getting involved in a staring match with a victim, he thought.

“Anyone else?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Would your wife be likely to have told anyone?”

“I’ve covered everyone we know.”

“Where do you work, sir?”

“Ottershaw, Kilney and Glenbaum.”

Banks had seen the sign often enough. The solicitors’ offices were on Market Street, just a little further south than the police station.

“Who’s going to clear all this up?” Ottershaw demanded roughly, gesturing around the disaster area of his living-room.

The faeces lay curled on the rug, staining the white fibres around and underneath it. The TV, video and stereo looked as if they’d been sprayed with a hose, but it was quite obvious what had actually happened. Amateurs, Banks thought to himself. Kids, probably, out on a lark. Maybe the same kids who’d done the old ladies’ houses, graduating to the big time. But somebody had told them where to come,
that the Ottershaws were away, and if he could find out who, then the rest would follow.

“I really don’t know,” Banks said. Maybe forensic would take it away with them. Perhaps, with a bit of luck, they’d be able to reconstruct the whole person from the faeces: height, weight, colouring, eating habits, health, complexion. Some hope.

“That’s fine, that is,” Ottershaw complained. “We go away for a ten-day holiday, and if it’s not enough that the bloody wallahs choose to go on strike the day we leave, we come home to find the house covered in shit!” He said the last word very loudly, so much so that the lab men going over the room smiled at each other as Banks grimaced.

“We’re not a cleaning service, you know, sir,” he chided Ottershaw mildly, as if talking to a child. “If we were, then we’d never have time to find out who did this, would we?”

“Shock could kill the wife, you know,” Ottershaw said, ignoring him. “Doctor said so. Weak heart. No sudden shocks to the system. She’s a very squeamish woman—and that’s her favourite rug, that sheepskin. She’ll never be able to manage it.”

“Then perhaps, sir, you’d better handle it yourself,” Banks suggested, glancing towards the offending ordure before walking out and leaving the house to the experts.

The Oak turned out to be one of those huge Victorian monstrosities—usually called The Jubilee or The Victoria—curving around the corner where Cardigan Drive met Elmet Street about half a mile north of Gallows View. It was all glossy tiles and stained glass, and it reminded Banks very much of the Prince William in Peterborough, outside which he used to play marbles with the other local kids while they all waited for their parents.

Inside, generations of spilt beer and stale cigarette smoke gave the place a brownish glow and a sticky carpet, but the atmosphere in the spacious lounge was cheery and warm. The gaudy ceiling was high and the bar had clearly been moved from its original central
position to make room for a small dance floor. It now stretched the whole length of one of the walls, and a staff—or what looked more like a squadron—of buxom barmaids flexed their muscles on the pumps and tried to keep smiling as they rushed around to keep up with the demand. The mirrors along the back, reflecting chandeliers, rows of exotic spirits bottles and the impatient customers, heightened the sense of good-natured chaos. Saturday night at The Oak was knees-up night, and a local comedian alternated with a pop group whose roots, both musical and sartorial, were firmly planted in the early sixties.

“What on earth made you bring me to a place like this?” Jenny Fuller asked, a puzzled smile on her face.

“Atmosphere,” Banks answered, smiling at her. “It’ll be an education.”

“I’ll bet. You said there’s been a new development, something you wanted to tell me.”

Banks took a deep breath and regretted it immediately; the air in The Oak wasn’t of the highest quality, even by modern pollution standards. Fortunately, both the comedian and the pop group were between sets and the only noise was the laughter and chatter of the drinkers.