Gallows View (22 page)

“The odds against you must have been high, too.”

“Alan thinks it’s because of who I am. He says the man’s getting bolder, more cocky, throwing down the gauntlet.”

“A Peeping Tom with a sense of humour?”

“Why not? Plenty of psychos have one.”

“You don’t think he’s looking for someone, do you?”

“Looking for someone? Who? What do you mean?”

“Someone in particular. Yo u know, like Jack the Ripper always said that woman’s name.”

“Mary Kelly? That’s just a rumour, though. Why would he be looking for someone in particular?”

“I don’t know. It was just a thought. Somebody who reminds him of his first time, his first love or someone like that.”

“You’re quite the amateur psychologist, aren’t you?” Sandra said, looking at Harriet through narrowed eyes.

“It’s just something I thought of, that’s all.” Harriet shrugged.

“They’ve brought a professional psychologist in,” Sandra said. “Woman called Fuller. Dr Jenny Fuller. According to Gristhorpe she’s quite a looker, and Alan’s been working late several evenings.”

“Oh, Sandra,” Harriet exclaimed. “You surely can’t think Alan . . .?”

“Relax,” Sandra said, laughing and touching Harriet’s arm. “No, I don’t think anything like that. I do think he fancies her, though.”

“How do you know?”

“A woman can tell. Surely you could tell if David had his eyes on another woman?”

“Well, I suppose so. He is rather transparent.”

“Exactly. I wouldn’t use that word to describe Alan, but it’s in what he doesn’t say and how he reacts when the subject’s brought up. He’s been very cagey. He didn’t even tell me it was an attractive woman he was working with.”

“Does it worry you?”

“No. I trust him. And if he does yield to temptation, he wouldn’t be the first.”

“But what would you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Would he tell you?”

“Yes. Eventually. Men like Alan usually do, you know. They think it’s because they’re being honest with you, but it’s really because the guilt is too much of a burden; they can’t bear it alone. I’d probably rather not know, but he wouldn’t consider that.”

“Oh, Sandra,” Harriet snorted, “you’re being a proper cynic. Don’t you think you’re being a bit hard on him?”

Sandra laughed. “I wouldn’t be able to say it if I didn’t love him, warts and all. And don’t get upset. I don’t think anything will come of it. If she’s as beautiful as Gristhorpe says, Alan would hardly be normal if he didn’t feel some attraction. He’s a big boy. He can deal with it.”

“You haven’t met her, then?”

“No, he’s not offered to introduce me.”

“Maybe,” Harriet suggested, leaning forward and lowering her voice, “you should get him to invite her for dinner? Or just suggest a drink together. See what he says.”

Sandra beamed. “What a good idea! I’m sure it’d be a lot of fun. Yes, I think I’ll get working on it. It’ll be interesting to see how he reacts.”

Police Constable Craig was one of the uniformed officers temporarily in plain clothes on the peeper case. It was his job to walk between as many pubs as possible within his designated area and to keep an eye open for any loiterers. The job was tiring and frustrating, as he was not allowed to enter any of the pubs; he simply had to walk the
streets and pass each place more than once to see if anyone was hanging around for too long.

As he approached The Oak, near the end of his beat, for the second time that evening, he noticed the same man standing in the shadows of the bus shelter. From the few details that Craig could make out, the man was slim, of medium height and wearing a dark, belted raincoat and a flat cap. It wasn’t a trilby, but there was no law against a man’s owning more than one hat. Craig also knew that at least two buses must have stopped there since he had last walked by The Oak.

Following instructions, he went inside the noisy pub and sought out DC Richmond, who was by now sick to death of spending every evening—duty or no—in that loud, garish gin-palace. Richmond, hearing Craig’s story, suggested that they call the station first, then check once more in about fifteen minutes. If the man was still there, they would approach him for questioning. Gratefully, Craig accepted a half of Guinness and the chance to sit down and take the weight off his feet.

Meanwhile, Mr Patel, who had become quite the sleuth since Banks’s visit, glanced frequently out of his shop window, and wrote down, in a notebook bought especially for the purpose, that a man resembling the suspect he had already described to the police had been standing in the shelter for forty-eight minutes. He timed his entry “Tuesday, 9:56 P.M.,” then picked up the phone and asked for Detective Chief Inspector Banks.

Banks was not, at first, happy to take the message. He was enjoying a pleasant evening with the children—no opera, no television—helping Brian construct a complicated extension of track for his electric train. Tracy was stretched out on her stomach, too, deciding where to place bridges, signal boxes and papier-mâché mountains. Everyone pulled a face when the phone rang, but Banks became excited when Sergeant Rowe passed on Mr Patel’s information.

Back at The Oak, the fifteen minutes was up. Richmond had reported in, as arranged, and now it was time to approach the suspect and ask a few questions. As he and Craig headed for the pub’s heavy smoked-glass and oak doors, Banks was just arriving at Mr Patel’s shop, walking in as casually as any customer.

“Is that him?” he asked.

“I can’t say for certain,” Mr Patel answered, scratching his head. “But ’ee looks the same. ’Ee weren’t wearing an ’at last time, though.”

“How long did you say he’s been there?”

Mr Patel looked first at his watch, then down at his notebook. “Sixty-three minutes,” he answered, after a brief calculation.

“And how many buses have gone by?”

“Three. One to Ripon and two to York.”

The bus shelter stood at the apex of a triangle, the base of which was formed by a line between Mr Patel’s shop and The Oak itself. Banks was already at the door, keeping his eyes on the suspect across the road to his right, when Craig and Richmond, walking much too purposefully towards their man, were spotted, and the dark figure took off down the street.

But what could have been a complete disaster was suddenly transformed into a triumphant success. As the man sprinted by Mr Patel’s shop with a good lead on his pursuers, Banks rushed out and performed the best rugby tackle he could remember making since he’d played scrum-half in a school game over twenty years ago.

The quartet returned to Eastvale station at ten-thirty, and the suspect, protesting loudly, was led into the interview room: a stark place with three stiff-backed chairs, pale green walls and a metal desk.

Richmond and Craig thought they were in for a telling-off, but Banks surprised them by thanking them for their help. They both knew that if the man had got away things would have been very different.

The suspect was Ronald Markham, age twenty-eight, a plumber in Eastvale, and apart from the headgear, his clothing matched all earlier descriptions of the peeper’s. At first he was outraged at being attacked in such a violent manner, then he became sullen and sarcastic.

“What were you doing in the shelter?” Banks asked, with Richmond standing behind him instead of Hatchley, whom nobody had thought to disturb.

“Waiting for a bus,” Markham snapped.

“Did you get that, Constable Richmond?”

“Yes sir. Suspect replied that he was ‘waiting for a bus,’” Richmond quoted.

“Which bus?” Banks asked.

“Any bus.”

“Where were you going?”

“Anywhere.”

Banks walked over to Richmond and whispered in his ear. Then he turned to Markham, said “Won’t be a minute, sir,” and the two of them disappeared, leaving a uniformed constable to guard the room.

About forty-five minutes later, when they returned after a hastily grabbed pint and sandwich at the Queen’s Arms, Markham was livid again.

“You can’t treat me like this!” he protested. “I know my rights.”

“What were you doing in the shelter?” Banks asked him calmly.

Markham didn’t answer. He ran his thick fingers through his hair, turned his eyes up to the ceiling, then glared at Banks, who repeated his question: “What were you doing in the shelter?”

“Keeping an eye on my wife,” Markham finally blurted out.

“Why do you think you need to do that?”

“Isn’t it bloody obvious?” Markham replied scornfully. “Because I think she’s having it off with someone else, that’s why. She thinks I’m out of town on a job, but I followed her to The Oak.”

“Did she enter alone or with a man?”

“Alone. But she was meeting him there, I know she was. I was waiting for them to come out.”

“What were you going to do then?”

“Do?” Markham ran his hand through his thin, sandy hair again. “I don’t know. Hadn’t thought of it.”

“Were you going to confront them?”

“I told you I don’t know.”

“Or were you just going to keep watching them, spying on them?”

“Maybe.”

“Why would you do that?”

“To make sure, like, that they were having it off.”

“So you’re not sure?”

“I told you I’m not sure, no. That’s what I was doing, trying to make sure.”

“What would it take to convince you?” Banks asked.

“What do you mean?”

“What kind of evidence were you hoping to get?”

“I don’t know. I wanted to see where they went, what they did.”

“Did you hope to watch them having sex? Is that what you wanted to see?”

Markham snorted. “It’s hardly what I
wanted
to see, but I expected it, yes.”

“How were you going to watch them?”

“What do you mean?”

“The logistics. How were you going to spy on them? Use binoculars, climb a drainpipe, what? Were you going to take photographs, too?”

“I said before, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I was just going to follow them and see where they went. After that . . .” He shrugged. “Anyway, just what the hell are you getting at?”

“After that you were going to watch them and see what they did. Right?”

“Perhaps. Wouldn’t you want to know, if it was your wife?”

“Have you done this kind of thing before?”

“What kind of thing?”

“Followed people and spied on them.”

“Why would I?”

“I’m asking you.”

“No, I haven’t. And I don’t see the point of all these questions. By now they’re probably at it in some pokey bungalow.”

“Bungalow? You know where he lives, then?”

“No. I don’t even know who he is.”

“But you said ‘bungalow.’ Yo u know he lives in a bungalow?”

“No.”

“Why did you say it, then?”

“For God’s sake, what’s it matter?” Markham cried, burying his long face in his hands. “It’s over now, anyway.”

“What’s over?”

“My marriage. The cow!”

“Have you ever watched anybody getting undressed in a bungalow?” Banks persisted, though he was quickly becoming certain that it was all in vain now, that they had the wrong man.

“No,” Markham answered, “of course I haven’t.” Then he laughed. “Bloody hell, you think I’m that Peeping Tom, don’t you? You think I’m the bloody peeper!”

“Why did you run away when you saw my men approaching you?”

“I didn’t know they were police, did I? They weren’t wearing uniforms.”

“But why run? They might simply have been walking to the bus stop, mightn’t they?”

“It was just a feeling. The way they were walking. They looked like heavies to me, and I wasn’t hanging around to get mugged.”

“You thought they were going to mug you? Was that the reason?”

“Partly. It did cross my mind that they might be pals of the bloke my wife was meeting—that I’d been seen, like, and they wanted to warn me off. I don’t know. All I can say is they didn’t look like they were coming to wait for a bus.”

It was almost midnight. Markham said that he was expected home late, at about one o’clock. He had arranged it that way so that he could give his wife enough time, enough rope to hang herself with. Banks suggested that to clear things up once and for all, they should return to Markham’s house and wait for her.

The house, on Coleman Avenue about a mile northwest of the market square, was so spacious and well furnished that Banks found himself wondering if it was true that plumbers earned a fortune. The predominant colours were dark browns and greens, which, Banks thought, made the place seem a little too sombre for his taste.

At a quarter to one, the key turned in the door. Markham’s wife had told him that she was visiting a friend and that if he did get home before her he shouldn’t be surprised if she was a bit late. Curious about the light in the living-room, she peered around the door and walked in slowly when she saw her husband with a stranger.

Mrs Markham was a rather plain brunette in her late twenties, and Banks found it hard to imagine her as the type to have an affair. Still, it took all sorts, he reminded himself, and it never did to pigeon-hole people before you knew them.

After identifying himself, Banks asked Mrs Markham where she had spent the evening.

She sat down stiffly and started strangling one of her black leather
gloves. “With a friend,” she answered cautiously. “What’s all this about?”

“Name?”

“Sheila Croft.”

“Is she on the phone?”

“Yes.”

“Would you call her, please?”

“Now? Why?”

“This is very important, Mrs Markham,” Banks explained patiently. “Your husband might be in serious trouble, and I have to verify your story.”

Mrs Markham bit her thin lower lip and glanced over at her husband.

There was fear in her eyes.

“The number?” Banks repeated.

“It’s late, she’ll be in bed now. Besides, we weren’t at her house,” Mrs Markham dithered.

“Where were you?”

“We went to a pub. The Oak.”

“You weren’t with no Sheila Croft, either, you bloody lying cow,” Markham cut in. “I saw you go in there by yourself, all tarted up. And look at yourself now. Couldn’t even be bothered to put a bit of makeup on again after.”