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 around 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 neighbors 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 toward 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 flashlight 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 mustache, 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 drafty 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.
II
'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, gray-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 meager 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 neighbors, 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 toward 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 toward the standard lamp, crystalware and bone china.
'No, it's still all there and in one piece, thank the Lord.'
'Anything else?'
'Some jewelry. 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 Remy.' 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?'
'Neighbors, a couple of friends at work and the club.'
'What club would that be, sir?'
