'I thought I heard someone knocking at a door after the running, but I can't be sure. It sounded muffled, distant. I'm sorry, I really wasn't paying attention.'
'How long after the running?'
'Right after. The one stopped, then I heard the other.'
'Did the running fade into the distance or stop abruptly?'
Andrea thought for a moment. 'More abruptly, really. As soon as people or cars or anything pass the corner of our street you can't hear them anymore, so it doesn't mean much.'
'Did you hear any sounds at all from Miss Matlock's, next door?'
'No, nothing. But then I never do, not even when her friend comes to see her. I can hear knocking at the door, but nothing from inside. The way these old places were built the walls are very thick and we both have our staircases back to back, so there's quite a gap, really, between her living room and mine. I sometimes hear the stairs creak when she's going up to bed, but that's all.'
Richmond nodded, closing his notebook. 'You haven't noticed anyone hanging around here lately, have you? Kids, a stranger?'
Andrea shook her head. Richmond couldn't think of anymore questions, and it was getting late-he still had others to talk to. He thanked Andrea Rigby for her excellent coffee, then went to knock at number six.
The door opened a crack and a man wearing thick glasses peered out. Once Richmond had gained entry, he recognized Henry Wooller, the branch librarian, a bit of an oddball, loner, dry stick. Wooller's house was a tip. Scraps of newspaper, dirty plates, worn socks and half-full cups of tea with clumps of mold floating in them were strewn all over the room; and the place stank: an acrid, animal smell. Richmond noticed the corner of a pornographic magazine sticking out from under the Sunday Times Review section, where it had probably been hastily hidden. It was one he recognized, imported from Denmark, and the UNCY of its name, BIG'N'BOUNCY, was clearly visible. Wooller made a pretense of tidying things up a bit and was careful to hide the magazine completely.
Richmond asked the same questions he'd put to Andrea Rigby, but Wooller insisted that he had heard nothing at all. It was true that he was one cottage further from Cardigan Drive, which ran at right angles to the easternmost end of Gallows View, along the western edge of Leaview Estate, but Richmond didn't think the distance was a factor. He felt not only that Wooller didn't want to get involved, a common enough reaction to police inquiries, but also that he was hiding something. The expression behind the distorting glasses, however, remained fixed and deadpan; Wooller was giving nothing away. Richmond thanked him cursorily and left, making a note of his dissatisfaction.
The entrance to the living quarters of the shop was what used to be the door to number eight. Hearing voices raised, Richmond paused outside, hoping to learn something of value. He could only catch the odd word-the door must have been thick, or perhaps they were in the back-but it didn't take long to work out that a young lad was being told off for staying out too late and for not spending enough time on his school-work. Richmond smiled, feeling an immediate sympathy for the boy. How many times had he heard the same sermon himself? When he knocked, the voices stopped immediately and the door was opened abruptly. Graham Sharp looked worried when he found out that a policeman wanted to see him. Everybody did, Richmond reflected, and it usually meant nothing more than an outstanding parking ticket.
'No, I didn't know her well,' he said. 'She came in here to do some of her shopping. It was convenient for her, I suppose. But she kept herself to herself. What happened to her?'
'Did you hear anything around eleven o'clock last night?' Richmond asked.
'No, nothing,' Sharp answered. 'I was watching telly in the room upstairs. We've converted one of the old bedrooms into a kind of sitting room. It's right at the western end, as far as you can get in Eastvale without being in a field, so I wouldn't be able to hear anything from Cardigan Drive way.'
'Noticed anything odd lately? Any strangers, kids hanging about?'
'No.'
'No newcomers in the shop? Nobody asking questions?'
'Only you.' Sharp smiled tightly, clearly relieved to see Richmond pocketing his notebook.
'Could I speak to your son for a moment, sir?' Richmond asked before leaving.
'My son?' Sharp echoed, sounding nervous again. 'What for? He's just a young lad, only fifteen.'
'He might be able to help.'
'Very well.' Sharp called Trevor from upstairs and the boy slouched down moodily.
'Where were you at about eleven o'clock last night?' Richmond asked.
'He was here with me,' Sharp butted in. 'Didn't I already tell you? We were upstairs watching telly.'
Richmond flipped back through his notebook- mostly for effect, because his memory was good. 'You told me that you were upstairs watching television, sir. You didn't say anything about your son.'
'Well, that's what I meant. I just took it for granted. I mean, where else would he be at that time?' He put his arm around Trevor's shoulder. The boy winced visibly.
'Well?' Richmond addressed Trevor.
'It's like he says, we were watching telly. Not much else to do around here, is there?'
Richmond thanked them both and left, again jotting down his reservations in his book, and also noting that he thought he recognized Trevor Sharp from somewhere. All in all, it wasn't turning out to be a bad evening's haul. Already he was enjoying the responsibility of interrogation and feeling less vitriolic toward Sergeant Hatchley.
Nobody was at home in the first two houses on Cardigan Drive. Residents of two of the others had been out late at a club fundraiser the previous evening, and the remaining two had heard somebody running past at about eleven, but neither had looked out of their windows nor heard anyone knocking on Alice Matlock's door. Richmond, who had thought to show some keenness by doing more than the first six houses, was beginning to tire a little by then, and as he'd done his duty, he decided to report back to Hatchley.
He found the sergeant sitting in Alice Matlock's armchair, his feet up on the stool, snoring loudly. The body was gone and all that remained were the chalk outline on the worn flags and the pools of dried blood. The place was still dusty with Manson's aluminium powder. The level in the brandy bottle had dropped considerably.
Richmond coughed and Hatchley opened a bloodshot eye. 'Ah, back already, lad? Just thinking about the case, taking in the atmosphere. Done all the houses?' Richmond nodded.
'Good lad. I think we'd better be off now. You'll need your beauty sleep for all the report writing you've got to do in the morning.'
'Inspector Banks said to leave someone on duty here, sir.'
'Did he? Yes, of course. One of the uniformed blokes. Look, you hang on here and I'll call the station on my way. Someone should be down in about fifteen minutes. All right, lad?'
Weary, cold and wet, Richmond mumbled, 'Yes, sir,' and settled down to comfort himself with thoughts of the beautiful Andrea Rigby not more than about seven or eight feet away from him through the wall. Taking out his notebook, he thought he might as well draft the outline of his report, and he began to look over his small, neat handwriting to see how it all added up.
Chapter FIVE
I
Wednesday was a difficult morning for Banks. His desk was littered with reports, and he couldn't get Jenny Fuller out of his mind. There was nothing wrong with his marriage-Sandra was all, if not more than, he had ever expected in a partner-so there was no reason, Banks told himself, why he should find himself interested in another woman.
It was Paul Newman, he remembered, who had said, 'Why go out for hamburger if you can get steak at home?' But Banks couldn't remember the name of the subversive wit who had countered, 'What if you want pizza?'
At thirty-six, he surely couldn't have hit middle-age crisis point, but there was no doubt that he was strongly
