Gallows View (4 page)

Crutchley darted Banks a sharp, mean glance and continued to probe his ailing memory.

“He was quite young,” he said after a few moments. “I remember that for sure.”

“How young, would you say?” Banks asked, taking out his notebook. “Twenty, thirty?”

“Early twenties, I’d guess. Had a little moustache.” He gestured to his upper lip, which was covered with about four days’ stubble. “A thin one, just down to the edge of the mouth at each side. Like this,” he added, tracing the outline with a grubby finger.

“Good,” Banks said, encouraging him. “What about his hair? Black, red, brown, fair? Long, short?”

“Sort of medium. I mean, you wouldn’t really call it brown, but it wasn’t what I’d call fair, either. Know what I mean?”

Banks shook his head.

“P’raps you’d call it light brown.

Very light brown.”

“Was the moustache the same?”

He nodded. “Yes, very faint.”

“And how long was his hair?”

“That I remember. It was short, and combed-back, like.” He made a brushing gesture with his hand over his own sparse crop.

“Any scars, moles?”

Crutchley shook his head.

“Nothing unusual about his complexion?”

“A bit pasty-faced and spotty, that’s all. But they all are, these days, Inspector. It’s the food. No goodness in it, all—”

“How tall would you say he was?” Banks cut in.

“Bigger than me. Oh, about . . .” He put his hand about four inches above the top of his head. “Of course, I’m not so big myself.”

“That would make him about five-foot-ten, then?”

“About that. Medium, yes.”

“Fat or thin?”

“Skinny. Well, they all are these days, aren’t they? Not properly fed, that’s the problem.”

“Clothes?”

“Ordinary.”

“Can you be a bit more specific?”

“Eh?”

“Was he wearing a suit, jeans, leather jacket, T-shirt, pyjamas—what?”

“Oh. No, it wasn’t leather. It was that other stuff, bit like it only not as smooth. Brown. Roughish. ’Orrible to touch—fair makes your fingers shiver.”

“Suede?”

“That’s it. Suede. A brown suede jacket and jeans. Just ordinary blue jeans.”

“And his shirt?”

“Don’t remember. I think he kept his jacket zipped up.”

“Do you remember anything about his voice, any mannerisms?”

“Come again?”

“Where would you place his accent?”

“Local, like. Or maybe Lancashire. I can’t tell the difference, though there are some as says they can.”

“Nothing odd about it? High-pitched, deep, husky?” “Sounded like he smoked too much, I can remember that. And he did smoke, too. Coughed every time he lit one up. Really stank up the shop.”

Banks passed on that one. “So he had a smoker’s cough and a rough voice with a local accent, that right?”

“That’s right, sir.” Crutchley was shifting from foot to foot, clearly looking forward to the moment when Banks would thank him and leave.

“Was his voice deep or high?”

“Kind of medium, if you know what I mean.”

“Like mine?”

“Yes, like yours, sir. But not the accent. You speak proper, you do. He didn’t.”

“What do you mean he didn’t speak properly? Did he have some kind of speech impediment?” Banks could see Crutchley mentally kicking himself for being so unwisely unctuous as to prolong the interview.

“No, nothing like that. I just meant like ordinary folks, sir, not like you. Like someone who hadn’t been properly educated.”

“He didn’t stutter or lisp, did he?”

“No, sir.”

“Fine. One last question: had you ever seen him before?”

“No, sir.”

“Inspector Barnshaw will want you to look at some photos later today, and he’s going to ask you to repeat your description to a police artist. So do your best, keep him in focus. And if you see him again or think of anything else, I’d appreciate your getting in touch with me.” Banks wrote down his name and number on a card.

“I’ll call you, sir, I’ll do that, if I ever clap eyes on him again,” Crutchley gushed, and Banks got the distinct impression that his own methods appealed more than Barnshaw’s.

Banks heard the sigh of relief when he closed his notebook and thanked Crutchley, avoiding a handshake by moving off rather sharply. It wasn’t a great description, and it didn’t ring any bells, but it would do; it would take him closer to the two balaclava-wearing thugs who had robbed three old ladies in one month, scared them all half to death, vandalized their homes and broken the arm of one seventy-five-year-old woman.

The white Cortina skidded to a halt outside Eastvale Community Centre, splashing up a sheet of spray from the kerbside puddles. Sandra Banks jumped out, ten minutes late, pushed open the creaking door as gently as she could, and tiptoed in, aware of the talk already in progress. One or two of the regulars looked around and smiled as they saw her slip as unobtrusively as possible into the empty chair next to Harriet Slade.

“Sorry,” she whispered, putting her hand to the side of her mouth. “Weather. Damn car wouldn’t start.”

Harriet nodded. “You’ve not missed much.”

“However beautiful, majestic or overwhelming the landscape appears to your eyes,” the speaker said, “remember, you have no guarantee that it will turn out well on film. In fact, most landscape photography—as I’m sure those of you who have tried it know—turns out to be extremely disappointing. The camera’s eye differs from the human eye; it lacks all the other senses that feed into our experience. Remember that holiday in Majorca or Torremolinos? Remember how wonderful the hills and sea made you feel, with their magical qualities of light and colour? And remember when you got the holiday snaps developed—if they came out at all!—how bad they were, how they failed to capture the beauty you’d seen?”

“Who’s this?” Sandra whispered to Harriet while the speaker paused to sip from the glass of water on the table in front of him.

“A man called Terry Whigham. He does a lot of pictures for the local tourist board—calendars, that kind of thing. What do you think?”

It wasn’t anything new to Sandra, but she had more or less dragged poor Harriet into the Camera Club in the first place, and she felt that she owed it to her not to sound too smug.

“Interesting,” she answered, covering her mouth like a schoolgirl talking in class. “He puts it very well.”

“I think so, too,” Harriet agreed. “I mean, it all seems so obvious, but you don’t think about it till an expert points it out, do you?”

“So the next time you’re faced with Pen-y-Ghent, Skiddaw or Helvellyn,” Terry Whigham continued, “consider a few simple strategies. One obvious trick is to get something in the foreground to give a sense of scale. It’s hard to achieve the feeling of immensity you get when you look at a mountain in a four-by-five colour print, but a human figure, an old barn or a particularly interesting tree in the foreground will add the perspective you need.

“You can also be a bit more adventurous and let textures draw the viewer in. A rising slope of scree or a field full of buttercups will lead the eye to the craggy fells beyond. And don’t be slaves to the sun, either. Mist-shrouded peaks or cloud shadows on hillsides can produce some very interesting effects if you get your exposure right, and a few fluffy white clouds pep up a bright blue sky no end.”

After this, the lights went down and Terry Whigham showed some of his favourite slides to illustrate the points he had made. They were good, Sandra recognized that, but they also lacked the spark, the personal signature, that she liked to get into her own photographs, even at the expense of well-proven rules.

Harriet was a newcomer to the art, but so far she had shown a sharp eye for a photograph, even if her technique still had a long way to go. Sandra had met her at a dreadful coffee morning organized by a neighbour, Selena Harcourt, and the two had hit it off instantly. In London, Sandra had never been short of lively company, but in the North the people had seemed cold and distant until Harriet came along, with her pixyish features, her slight frame and her deep sense of compassion. Sandra wasn’t going to let her go.

When the slide show was over and Terry Whigham left the dais to a smattering of applause, the club secretary made announcements about the next meeting and the forthcoming excursion to Swaledale, then coffee and biscuits were served. As usual, Sandra, Harriet, Robin
Allott and Norman Chester, all preferring stronger refreshments, adjourned to The Mile Post across the road.

Sandra found herself sitting between Harriet and Robin, a young college teacher just getting over his divorce. Opposite sat Norman Chester, who always seemed more interested in the scientific process than the photographs themselves. Normally, such an oddly assorted group would never have come together, but they were united in the need for a real drink—especially after a longish lecture—and in their dislike for Fred Barton, the stiff, halitoxic club secretary, a strict Methodist who would no more set foot in a pub than he would brush the dandruff off the shoulders of his dark blue suit.

“What’s it to be, then?” Norman asked, clapping his hands and beaming at everyone.

They ordered, and a few minutes later he returned with the drinks on a tray. After the usual round of commentary on the evening’s offering—most of it, this time, favourable to Terry Whigham, who would no doubt by now be suffering through Barton’s fawning proximity or Jack Tatum’s condescending sycophancy—Robin and Norman began to argue about the use of colour balance filters, while Sandra and Harriet discussed local crime.

“I suppose you’ve heard from Alan about the latest incident?” Harriet said.

“Incident? What incident?”

“You know, the fellow who goes around climbing drainpipes and watching women get undressed.”

Sandra laughed. “Yes, it’s difficult to know what to call him, isn’t it. ‘Voyeur’ sounds so romantic and ‘Peeping Tom’ sounds so
Daily Mirror
ish. Let’s just call him the peeper, the one who peeps.”

“So you have heard?”

“Yes, last night. But how do you know about it?”

“It was on the radio this afternoon. Local radio. They did an interview with Dorothy Wycombe—you know, the one who made all the fuss about hiring policies in local government.”

“I know of her. What did she have to say?”

“Oh, just the usual. What you’d expect. Said it was tantamount to an act of rape and the police couldn’t be bothered to make much of an effort because it only affected women.”

“Christ,” Sandra said, fumbling for a cigarette. “That woman makes me mad. She’s not that stupid, surely? I’ve respected the way she’s dealt with a lot of things so far, but this time . . .”

“Don’t you think you’re only getting upset because Alan’s involved?” Harriet suggested. “I mean, that makes it personal, doesn’t it?”

“In a way,” Sandra admitted. “But it also puts me on the inside, and I know that he cares and that he’s doing the best he can, just as much as he would for any other case.”

“What about Jim Hatchley?”

Sandra snorted. “As far as I know they’re keeping Hatchley as far away from the business as possible. Oh, Alan gets along with him well enough now they’ve both broken each other in, so to speak. But the man’s a boor. They surely didn’t let him talk to the press?”

“Oh no. At least not as far as I know. No names were mentioned. She just made it sound as if all the police were sexual deviants.”

“Well that’s a typical attitude, isn’t it? Did she call them the ‘pigs,’ too?”

Harriet laughed. “Not exactly.”

“What do you think of this business, anyway?”

“I don’t really know. I’ve thought about what . . . what I would feel like if he watched me. It gives me the shivers. It’s like someone going through your most private memories. You’d feel soiled, used.”

“It gives me the creeps, too,” said Sandra, suddenly aware that the others had finished their own conversations and were listening in with interest.

“But, you know,” Harriet went on slowly, embarrassed by the larger audience, “I do feel sorry for him in a way. I mean, he’d have to be very unhappy to go around doing that, very frustrated. I do think it’s a bit sad, don’t you?”

Sandra laughed and put her hand on Harriet’s arm. “Harriet Slade,” she said, “I’m sure you feel sorry for Margaret Thatcher every time another thousand people lose their jobs.”

“Have you never thought that we’re most likely to find the culprit among ourselves?” Norman suggested. “That he’s probably a member of the club? Everyone’s a voyeur, you know,” he announced, pushing back a lock of limp, dark hair from his pale forehead. “Especially us. Photographers.”

“True enough,” Sandra agreed, “but we don’t spy on people, do we?”

“What about candids?” Norman replied. “I’ve done it often enough myself—shoot from the hip when you think they’re not looking.”

“Women undressing?”

“Good Lord, no! Tramps asleep on park benches, old men chatting on a bridge, courting couples sunbathing.”

“It really is a kind of spying, though, isn’t it?” Robin cut in.

“But it’s not the same,” Norman argued. “You’re not invading someone’s privacy when they’re in a public place like a park or a beach, are you? It’s not as if they think they’re alone in their own bedrooms. And anyway, you’re doing it for an artistic purpose, not just for a sexual thrill.”

“I’m not always sure there’s much of a difference,” Robin said. “Besides, it was you who suggested it.”

“Suggested what?”

“That it might be a member of the club—that we’re all voyeurs.”

Norman coloured and reached for his drink. “I did, didn’t I? Perhaps it wasn’t a very funny remark.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sandra said. “I could certainly see Jack Tatum staring through bedroom windows.”

Harriet shivered. “Yes. Every time he looks at you, you feel like he can see right through your clothes.”

“I’m sure the peeper’s someone much more ordinary, though,” Sandra said. “It always seems the case that people who do the most outlandish things live quite normal lives most of the time.”

“I suppose a policeman’s wife would know about things like that,” Robin said.