Gallows View (24 page)

“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “That was uncalled for.”

Banks shrugged. “It must have been a terrifying experience,” he said, feeling completely inadequate. “Would you recognize them again?”

“Yes, I think so. In the same circumstances. But that wouldn’t help you because I can’t identify their faces.”

“That might not be necessary.”

“I’d recognize the squat one’s voice and eyes any time. As for the other . . . I do remember that he had a bit of decay between one of his front teeth and the one next to it, as if a filling had come out. But I couldn’t give you a positive identification. I couldn’t swear to anything in court.”

She was remarkably calm as she relived it, Banks thought, trying to imagine the inner strength and courage it took to deal with such horror.

Finally, she described the jewellery that had been stolen, along with a valuable camera, then Banks let her leave, promising to get in touch as soon as anything happened. He also suggested, though it was much too late, that she see a doctor and have him look for and record any signs of assault for the purposes of evidence.

As soon as PC Gay had escorted Thelma Pitt from his office, Banks phoned Dr Glendenning. He was with a patient, so his receptionist said, but would call back in about ten minutes.

“What is it?” the old doctor asked brusquely about twenty minutes later.

“VD,” Banks said. “Gonorrhoea, to be specific. What do you know about it?”

“Ah, gonorrhoea,” Glendenning said, warming to the subject like a general admiring a brave opponent. “More commonly known as the clap, Cupid’s revenge.”

“What are the symptoms?”

“Discharge, a burning sensation while urinating. Inspector Banks, I hope you’re not trying to tell me that you—”

“It’s not me,” Banks snapped, adding “you silly old sod” under his breath. “How soon do the symptoms appear?”

“It varies,” Glendenning went on, unruffled. “Three to ten days is about usual.”

“Treatment?”

“Penicillin. There have to be tests first, of course, just to make sure it isn’t something else—particularly syphilis. The early symptoms can be similar.”

“Where would a person find treatment?”

“Well, in the old days, of course, he’d go to his GP or perhaps to the infirmary. But nowadays, what with all the sexual promiscuity and what not, there are specialized VD clinics all over the place. Confidential treatment, naturally.”

Banks had, indeed, heard of such places. “There’s one here in Eastvale, right?” he asked. “Attached to the hospital?”

“Yes. And one in York.”

“None nearer?”

“Not unless you count Darlington or Leeds.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Banks said hurriedly. “Thank you very much.”

As soon as he’d hung up, he called in Hatchley and Richmond, and after explaining the situation, had them phone all the clinics within a fifty-mile radius and ask about a lean, tall teenager with decay between his front teeth, who would probably be very vague about where he had contracted the disease.

Fifteen minutes later, he was informed that nobody fitting the description had been into any of the clinics, which meant either that
the suspect had not experienced the symptoms yet or that he was still worrying about what to do. Hatchley and Richmond had also requested that the staff of each clinic be on the lookout, and that they call their nearest police station if they became suspicious about anyone looking for treatment. After that, Hatchley phoned the local police in each area and asked them to detain the boy if he appeared at the clinic and to call Banks immediately.

Later, Banks talked to Jenny Fuller at her York University office and told her about Thelma Pitt. It wasn’t part of the peeper case, but it was a sexual crime and he needed a woman’s advice.

“Have you sent her for any help?” Jenny asked.

“I suggested she see a doctor. Mostly for our own official purposes, I have to admit.”

“That won’t do her a lot of good, Alan. There’s a Rape Crisis Centre in York, a place where people can talk about their problems. I’m surprised you don’t know about it. A lot of women find it hard to get on with their lives after an experience like that. Some never recover. Anyway, these people can help. They’re not just doctors—a lot of them have been rape victims themselves. Just a minute and I’ll get you the number.”

Banks wrote down the telephone number and assured Jenny that he would pass it on to Thelma Pitt.

“Are we going to meet again soon?” she asked.

“Of course. I’ve got a lot on with this Thelma Pitt business at the moment, though, and there are no real developments on our case. I’ll give you a call.”

“The brush-off!” Jenny cried melodramatically.

“Don’t be stupid,” he laughed. “See you soon. And you never know,” he added, “you might even get invited to dinner.” Then he hung up before Jenny could respond.

The next job was to get Mr Lewis Micklethwaite in. Banks pulled the local directory out of his rattling desk drawer and reached for the phone again.

Micklethwaite was reluctant to drop in at Eastvale police station after work. He was also unwilling to have Banks call on him at home. In fact, Micklethwaite wanted to avoid all contact with the local constabulary, and when he finally did come to the office under threat of arrest, Banks immediately knew why.

“If it isn’t my old pal Larry Moxton,” Banks said, offering the man a cigarette.

“I don’t know what you mean. My name’s Micklethwaite.”

But there was no mistaking him—the receding hairline, dark beady eyes, black beard, swarthy skin, fleshy lips—it was Moxton all right.

“Come on, Larry,” Banks urged him. “You remember me, surely?”

“I’ve told you,” Micklethwaite repeated, squirming in his chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Banks sighed. “Larry Moxton, ex-accountant. I put you away about ten years ago in London, remember, when you swindled that divorcée out of her savings? What was it—prime Florida real estate? Or was it gilt-edged securities?”

“It was a bloody frame-up, that’s what it was,” Moxton burst out. “It wasn’t my fault my bloody partner took off with the funds.”

Banks stroked his chin. “Bit of bad luck, that, Larry, I agree. We never did find him, did we? Probably sunning himself in Spain now. Still, that’s the way it goes.”

Moxton glared at him. “What do you want this time? I’m straight. Have been ever since I came out and moved up north. And the new name’s legit, so don’t waste your time on that.”

It was hard to believe that such a surly, sneaky man had enough charm to cheat intelligent women out of their money, but that had been Moxton’s specialty. For some reason, inexplicable to Banks, women found him hard to resist.

“Thelma Pitt, Larry. I want to know about Thelma Pitt.”

“What about her?”

“You do know her, don’t you?”

“So what if I do?”

“What are you after, Larry? A rich widow this time?”

“You’ve no right to make accusations like that. I’ve served my time—for a crime I didn’t commit—and it’s no bloody business of yours who I spend my time with.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Hey, what is this?” Moxton demanded, grasping the flimsy desk and half rising. “Nothing’s happened to her, has it?”

“Never mind that. And sit down. When did you last see her?”

“I want to know. I’ve got a right to know.”

“Sit down! You’ve got a right to know nothing, Larry. Now answer my questions. You wouldn’t want me to lose my temper like last time, would you? When did you see her last?”

Moxton, like many others, had learned from experience that it was no use arguing with Banks, that he had the patience and persistence of a cat after a bird. He might not actually hit you, but you’d go away thinking it would have been easier if he had.

“Monday night,” he answered sullenly. “I saw her on Monday night.”

“Where?”

“Eastvale Golf Club.”

“You a member, Larry?”

“’Course I am. I told you, I’m a respectable businessman. I
am
a CA, you know.”

“You’re an effing C, too, as far as I’m concerned, Larry. But that’s beside the point, isn’t it? How long have you been a member?”

“Two years.”

“Two years.” And to think that Ottershaw had told him it was an exclusive place—no riff-raff. “I don’t know what the world’s coming to, Larry, I really don’t,” Banks said.

Moxton glowered at him. “Get to the point, Inspector,” he snapped, looking at his watch. “I’ve got things to do.”

“I’ll bet you have. All right, so you know Thelma Pitt. What’s your relationship with her?”

“None of your business.”

“Good friends, business partners, lovers?”

“So we go out together, have a bit of fun. What’s it to you? What’s happened to her?”

He did seem genuinely concerned about the woman’s welfare, but Banks considered it unethical to tell him that Thelma Pitt had been robbed and raped. If she wanted him to know, she would tell him herself.

“What time did you leave her on Monday?” Banks pressed on.

“I didn’t. She left me. It was earlier than usual—about a quarter to ten. I don’t know why. She was upset. I suppose you could say we argued.”

“Could I? What about?”

“None of your . . . Oh,” he sighed and turned up his hands, “why not? She wanted to be alone, that’s all. I wanted her to come with me as usual.”

“Where did the two of you usually go?”

“To my place.”

“Did you spend the night there?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“Why didn’t you go there last Monday?”

“I told you. She wouldn’t. Said she had a headache. You know women.”

“But you pressed her to stay at the club?”

“Of course I did. I was enjoying her company.”

“Even though she didn’t feel very well?”

“It didn’t look like anything to me. I think it was just an excuse. She seemed fine physically, just a bit upset about something.”

“Any idea what?”

“No. She wasn’t very communicative. She just stormed off.”

“After you’d tried very hard to persuade her to stay and to accompany you to your house? Is that right?”

“What are you getting at?”

“Nothing. I’m just trying to establish the facts, that’s all.”

“Well, yes. Naturally, I wanted her to stay with me. I’m a man, like any other. I enjoy the company of attractive women.”

“So Thelma Pitt isn’t the only one?”

“We’re not engaged to be married or anything, if that’s what you’re getting at. Come on, I’ve had enough of this pussyfooting around. What’s it all about?”

“Know anyone else at the Golf Club?”

“One or two. It is a social place for professional men, you know.”

“Maurice Ottershaw?”

A look of fear flashed in Moxton’s eyes. It didn’t last long, but Banks saw it.

“Maurice Ottershaw?” he repeated. “I know him. I mean, we’ve had a few drinks together. I wouldn’t really say I know him. What is it you’re getting at?”

“I’ll tell you, Larry,” Banks said, leaning forward on the desk and holding Moxton’s eyes with his. “I think you’ve been fingering jobs for someone, that’s what I think. You know when your rich friends at the club are likely to be away, and you tip someone the wink. But it went wrong with Thelma Pitt, didn’t it? You couldn’t keep her away from home long enough.”

Moxton looked really frightened now. “What’s happened to her? You’ve got to tell me. She isn’t hurt, is she?”

“Why would she be?”

“After what you said . . . I thought . . .”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You can’t prove anything, you know.”

“I know,” Banks admitted. “But I also know you did it.”

“Look, I wouldn’t shit on my own doorstep, would I?”

“A creep like you would shit anywhere, Moxton. We’re going to be watching you, keeping an eye on you. You won’t be able to crap anywhere without being watched, understand?”

“That’s intimidation, harassment!” Moxton yelled, jumping to his feet in exasperation.

“Oh, piss off,” Banks said, and pointed to the door.

When Trevor awoke on Monday morning, he knew something was wrong.

“Trevor!” his father shouted as usual. “Breakfast’s on the table! If you don’t hurry up you’ll be late for school.”

At least he knew there would be no row over the table this morning. All day Sunday he had stayed in like a dutiful son; he’d helped his dad with the stock and had even done some homework. Such gestures as that could earn him a few days’ peace, if not more.

Pity about the homework, he thought. It was a waste really because he wouldn’t be there to hand it in. He was taking the afternoon off to go and discuss future plans with Mick. Just because Lenny had told them to lay off the break-ins for a while didn’t mean they couldn’t find some other ways of amusing themselves—perhaps out of town.

But something was wrong. He didn’t feel right. He lay there with the sheets pulled up and looked at the glossy posters of pop stars on his walls, wondering if the stickiness he felt meant that he’d had a wet dream. Cautiously, he pushed the bedclothes aside and sat up on the edge of the bed. The front of his pyjamas was stained, and when he looked more closely he noticed a kind of yellowish discharge.

Alarmed, Trevor rushed to the bathroom and washed himself. When he stood to urinate, the fear really took hold of him. It hurt like hell. It felt as if he was pissing red-hot needles. He leaned against the wall in a cold sweat, pressing his forehead against the tiles. When he’d finished, the pain faded and all that remained was a lingering throb, the echo of an ache.

Trevor washed his face and stared at himself in the mirror. The dark patch between his teeth was spreading quickly, and he had two spots: one, still embryonic, wedged between the edge of his nostril and his upper lip; the other, yellow and juicy, exactly at the point where his chin curved under to become his throat. But they were the least of the worries. He was pale and his eyes were dull. He knew what he’d got; he’d got the clap. That flicking cunt had given him the clap.