alley, then cut through the snicket, cross the street, do the same again, and I'm right in Eloise's back garden.
'Coming back on Wednesday, it was quite dark and wet, a nasty night, and when I cut into our back alley I almost bumped into this man. It was funny, I thought, because he looked like he was just standing there. I don't know why, but I think if we'd both been moving we'd have really bumped into each other. Well, it made me jump, I can tell you that. There's no light out there except what shines from the houses, and it's a lonely sort of place. Anyway, I just hurried on through the back gate and into the house, and I never really thought much more of it. But if you ask me, I'd say he was just standing there, loitering.'
'Do you remember what he looked like?'
'I'm sorry, dear, I really didn't get a good look. As I said, it was dark, and what with the shock and all I just hurried on. I think he was wearing a black raincoat with a belt, and he had his collar turned up. He was wearing a hat, too, because of the rain, I suppose, so I couldn't have seen his face even if I'd wanted to. It was one of those… what do you call them? Trilbies, that's it. I think he was quite young, though, not the dirty-old-man type.'
'What made you think that?'
'I don't know, really,' Selena answered slowly, as if she was finding it difficult to put her instincts and intuitions into words. 'Just the way he moved. And the trilby looked too old for him.'
'Thank you,' Sandra said, anxious to get home and make notes while it was all still fresh in her mind.
'Do you think it was him?'
'I don't know, but the police will be thankful for any information about suspicious strangers at the moment.'
Selena fingered the plunging neckline of her dress, which revealed exactly the right amount of creamy skin to complement her peroxide curls, moon-shaped face and excessive make-up. 'If it was him, then he's been watching us. It could be any of us he's after. Me. You. Josephine. Annabel. This is terrible.'
'I shouldn't worry about it that much, Selena,' Sandra said, taking malicious pleasure in comforting the woman for worries that she, herself, had raised. 'It was probably just someone taking a short cut.'
'But it was such a nasty night. What normal person would want to stand out there on a night like that? He must have been up to something. Watching.'
'I'll tell Alan, and I'm sure the police will look into it. You never know, Selena, your information might lead to an arrest.'
'It might?'
'Well, yes. If it is him.'
'But I wouldn't be able to identify him. Not in a court of law, or one of those line-ups they have. I didn't really get a good look.'
'That's not what I mean. Don't worry, nobody's going to make you do that. I just meant that if he's been seen in the area, the police will know where to look.'
Selena nodded, mouth open, unconvinced, then poured more tea. Sandra refused.
Suddenly, at the door, Selena's face brightened again. 'I keep forgetting,' she said, putting her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. 'It's so silly of me. I've got nothing to worry about. I live right next door to a policeman!'
III
Sunday afternoon at Gristhorpe's farmhouse was a great success, though it did little for Banks's emotional confusion. On the way, he was not allowed to play opera in the car and instead had to put up with some dull, mechanical pop music on Radio One-mostly drum-machine and synthesizer-to keep Brian and Tracy happy. It was a beautiful day; the autumn sky was sharp blue again, and the season's hues glowed on the trees by the riverbank. In daylight, the steep dale sides showed a varied range of color, from the greens of common grazing slopes to the pink, yellow and purple of heather and gorse and the occasional bright edge of a limestone outcrop.
Gristhorpe greeted them, and almost immediately the children went off for a pre-dinner walk while the three adults drank tea in the cluttered living room. The conversation was general and easy until Gristhorpe asked Banks how he was getting on with the 'lovely' Jenny Fuller.
Sandra raised her dark eyebrows, always a bad sign as far as Banks was concerned. 'Would that be the Dr. Fuller you've been spending so much time with lately, Alan?' she asked mildly. 'I knew she was a woman, but I'd no idea she was young and lovely.'
'Didn't he tell you?' Gristhorpe said mischievously. 'Quite a stunner, our Jenny. Isn't she, Alan?'
'Yes,' Banks admitted. 'She's very pretty.'
'Oh, come on, Alan, you can do better than that,' Sandra teased. 'Pretty? What's that supposed to mean?'
'All right, beautiful then,' Banks growled. 'Sexy, sultry, a knockout. Is that what you want?'
'Maybe he's smitten with her,' Gristhorpe suggested.
'I'm not smitten,' Banks countered, but realized as he did so that he was probably protesting too forcefully. 'She's being very helpful,' he went on quickly. 'And,' he said to Sandra, 'just so that I don't get accused of being chauvinistic about this, let me put it on record that Dr. Fuller is a very competent and intelligent psychologist.'
'Brains and beauty?' Sandra mocked. 'How on earth can you resist, Alan?'
As they both laughed at him, Banks slumped back into the armchair, craving a cigarette. Soon the talk changed direction and he was off the hook.
The dinner, presented by a proud Mrs. Hawkins, was superb: roast beef still pink in the middle, and Yorkshire puddings, cooked in the dripping, with exactly the right balance of crispness outside and moistness within, smothered in rich gravy.
After a brief post-prandial rest, Brian and Tracy were off playing Cathy and Heathcliffe again on the moorland above Gristhorpe's few acres of land, and Sandra took a stroll with her camera.
'Do you know,' Gristhorpe mused as they stood in the back garden watching Sandra and the children walk up the grassy slope, 'millions of years ago, this whole area was under a tropical sea? All that limestone you see was formed from dead shellfish.' He swept out his arm in an all-embracing gesture.
Banks shook his head; geology was definitely not his forte.
'After that, between the ice ages, it was as warm as equatorial Africa. We had lions, hyenas, elephants and hippopotami walking the Dales.' Gristhorpe spoke as if he had been there, as if he was somehow implicated in all he said. 'Come on.' He took Banks by the arm. 'You'll think I'm turning into a dotty old man. I've got something to show you.'
Banks looked apprehensively at the embryonic dry-stone wall and the pile of stones to which Gristhorpe led him.
'They amaze me, those things,' he said. 'I can't imagine how they stand up to the wind and rain, or how anyone finds the patience to build them.'
Gristhorpe laughed-a great booming sound from deep inside. 'I'll not say it's easy. Wall building's a dying art, Alan, and you're right about the patience. Sometimes the bugger runs me to the end of my tether.' Gristhorpe's voice was gruff and the accent was clearly North Yorkshire, but it also had a cultured edge, the mark of a man who has read and traveled widely.
'Here,' he said, moving aside. 'Why don't you have a go?'
'Me? I couldn't,' Banks stammered. 'I mean, I wouldn't know where to start. I don't know the first thing about it.'
Gristhorpe grinned in challenge. 'No matter. It's just like building a case. Test your mettle. Come on, have a go.'
Banks edged toward the heap of stones, none of which looked to him as if it could be fitted into the awesome design. He picked some up, weighed them in his hand, squinted at the wall, turned them over, squinted again, then picked a smooth, wedge-shaped piece and fitted it well enough into place.
Gristhorpe looked at the stone expressionlessly, then at Banks. He reached out, picked it up, turned it around
