'Eastvale Golf Club,' Ottershaw announced, puffing out his chest. 'As you probably know, it's an exclusive kind of place, so it's very unlikely that any criminal elements would gain access.'
'We have to keep all possibilities open,' Banks said, managing to avoid Ottershaw's scornful glare by scribbling nonsense in his notebook. There was no point in getting involved in a staring match with a victim, he thought.
'Anyone else?'
'Not that I know of.'
'Would your wife be likely to have told anyone?'
'I've covered everyone we know.'
'Where do you work, sir?'
'Ottershaw, Kilney and Glenbaum.'
Banks had seen the sign often enough. The solicitors' offices were on Market Street, just a little further south than the police station.
'Who's going to clear all this up?' Ottershaw demanded roughly, gesturing around the disaster area of his living room.
The feces lay curled on the rug, staining the white fibers around and underneath it. The TV, video and stereo looked as if they'd been sprayed with a hose, but it was quite obvious what had actually happened. Amateurs, Banks thought to himself. Kids, probably, out on a lark. Maybe the same kids who'd done the old ladies' houses, graduating to the big time. But somebody had told them where to come, that the Ottershaws were away, and if he could find out who, then the rest would follow.
'I really don't know,' Banks said. Maybe forensic would take it away with them. Perhaps, with a bit of luck, they'd be able to reconstruct the whole person from the feces: height, weight, coloring, eating habits, health, complexion. Some hope.
'That's fine, that is,' Ottershaw complained. 'We go away for a ten-day holiday, and if it's not enough that the bloody wallahs choose to go on strike the day we leave, we come home to find the house covered in shit!' He said the last word very loudly, so much so that the lab men going over the room smiled at each other as Banks grimaced.
'We're not a cleaning service, you know, sir,' he chided Ottershaw mildly, as if talking to a child. 'If we were, then we'd never have time to find out who did this, would we?'
'Shock could kill the wife, you know,' Ottershaw said, ignoring him. 'Doctor said so. Weak heart. No sudden shocks to the system. She's a very squeamish woman-and that's her favorite rug, that sheepskin. She'll never be able to manage it.'
'Then perhaps, sir, you'd better handle it yourself,' Banks suggested, glancing toward the offending ordure before walking out and leaving the house to the experts.
III
The Oak turned out to be one of those huge Victorian monstrosities-usually called The Jubilee or The Victoria-curving around the corner where Cardigan Drive met Elmet Street about half a mile north of Gallows View. It was all glossy tiles and stained glass, and it reminded Banks very much of the Prince William in Peterborough, outside which he used to play marbles with the other local kids while they all waited for their parents.
Inside, generations of spilt beer and stale cigarette smoke gave the place a brownish glow and a sticky carpet, but the atmosphere in the spacious lounge was cheery and warm. The gaudy ceiling was high and the bar had clearly been moved from its original central position to make room for a small dance floor. It now stretched the whole length of one of the walls, and a staff-or what looked more like a squadron-of buxom barmaids flexed their muscles on the pumps and tried to keep smiling as they rushed around to keep up with the demand. The mirrors along the back, reflecting chandeliers, rows of exotic spirits bottles and the impatient customers, heightened the sense of good-natured chaos. Saturday night at The Oak was knees-up night, and a local comedian alternated with a pop group whose roots, both musical and sartorial, were firmly planted in the early sixties.
'What on earth made you bring me to a place like this?' Jenny Fuller asked, a puzzled smile on her face.
'Atmosphere,' Banks answered, smiling at her. 'It'll be an education.'
'I'll bet. You said there's been a new development, something you wanted to tell me.'
Banks took a deep breath and regretted it immediately; the air in The Oak wasn't of the highest quality, even by modern pollution standards. Fortunately, both the comedian and the pop group were between sets and the only noise was the laughter and chatter of the drinkers.
When Banks had phoned Jenny after he'd left the Ottershaws' house, he hadn't been sure why he wanted her to meet him at The Oak, or what he wanted to say to her. He had brougnt the Tosca cassettes that he had promised to lend her, but that wasn't excuse enough in itself She had been obliging, but said she had to be off by nine as there was a small party honoring a visiting lecturer at the university. Banks also wanted to be home early, for Sandra's sake, so the arrangement suited him.
'Last night we had a visit from the peeper,' he said finally. 'At least Sandra did.'
'My God!' Jenny gasped, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. 'What happened?'
'Not much. She spotted him quite early on and he ran off down the back alley. I went out there but he'd already disappeared into the night.'
'How is she?'
'She's fine, taking it all very philosophically. But she's a deep one, Sandra. She doesn't always let people know what her real feelings are-especially me. I should imagine she feels like the others-hurt, violated, dirty, angry.' Jenny nodded. 'Most likely. Isn't it a bit awkward for you as far as your job's concerned?'
'That's something else I wanted to tell you. I haven't reported it.' Jenny stared at Banks far too long for his comfort. It was an intense, curious kind of look, and he finally gave in by going to the bar for two more drinks.
The crowd was about five deep with what looked like at least two local rugby teams, and Banks was smaller and slighter than most of the men who waved their glasses in the air and yelled over the heads of others- 'Three pints of black and tan, Elsie, love, please!'… 'Vodka and slimline, two pints of Stella, Cherry B, and a brandy and creme de menthe,'… 'Five pints of Guinness… Kahlua and Coke, and a gin-and-it for the wife, love!' Everybody seemed to be placing such large orders.
Fortunately, Banks spotted Richmond, tall and distinctive, closer to the bar. He caught the constable's attention-the man was on duty, after all-and asked for one-and-a-half pints of bitter. Surprised but immediately compliant, Richmond added it to his own order. Rather than demand waiter service of his young constable, Banks waited till Richmond had got the drinks, paid him and made off.
'What are you thinking?' he asked, sitting next to Jenny again.
Jenny laughed. 'It wasn't anything serious. Remember the other night?'
So the ice was broken; the subject wasn't taboo, after all. 'Yes,' he answered, waiting.
'I said I knew how you'd behave, even though I hoped it would be different?'
'Something like that.'
'Well, I was just trying to work out where I'd have placed my bet. Reporting or not reporting. I think I'd have been wrong. It's not that I think you're a slave to duty or anything like that, but you like to do things right… you're honest. I'd guess that if you don't do things the way you know they should be done, you suffer for it. Conscience. Too much of it, probably.'
'I never asked for it,' Banks replied, lighting his second cigarette of the evening.
'You weren't born with it, either.'
'No?'
'No. Conditioning.'
'I didn't ask for that either.'
'No, you didn't. None of us do. You've surprised me this time, though. I'd have guessed that you would report the incident no matter how much embarrassment it might cause.'
