and fixed it back into place.
'There,' he said. 'Perfect. A damn good choice.' Banks couldn't help but laugh. 'What was wrong with the way I put it in?' he asked.
'Wrong way around, that's all,' Gristhorpe explained. 'This is a simple wall. You should have seen the ones my grandfather built-like bloody cathedrals, they were. Still standing, too, some of them. Anyway, you start by digging a trench along your line and you put in two parallel rows of footing stones. Big ones, square as you can get them. Between those rows you put in the hearting, lots of small stones, like pebbles. These bind together under pressure, see. After that, you can start to build, narrowing all the time, two rows rising up from the footing stones. You keep that gap filled tight with hearting and make sure you bind it all together with plenty of through- stones.
'Now, that stone you put in fit all right, but it sloped inward. They have to slope outward, see, else the rain'll get in and soak the hearting. If that happens, when the first frost comes it'll expand, you see.' He held his hands close together and moved them slowly apart. 'And that can bring the whole bloody thing tumbling down.'
'I see.' Banks nodded, ashamed at how such basic common sense could have been beyond him. Country wisdom, he guessed.
'A good dry-stone wall,' the superintendent went on, 'can stand any weather. It can even stand bloody sheep scrambling over it. Some of these you see around here have been up since the eighteenth century. Of course, they need a bit of maintenance now and then, but who doesn't?' He laughed. 'You and that lass, Jenny,' he asked suddenly. 'Owt in it?'
Surprised at the question coming out of the blue like that, Banks blushed a little as he shook his head. 'I like her. I like her a lot. But no.' Gristhorpe nodded, satisfied, placed a through-stone and rubbed his hands together gleefully.
That evening, back at home, Alan and Sandra shared a nightcap after they had sent Tracy and Brian off to bed. The opera ban was lifted, but it had to be quiet. Banks played a tape of Kiri te Kanawa singing famous arias from Verdi and Puccini. They snuggled close on the sofa, and as Sandra put her empty glass down, she turned to Banks and asked, 'Have you ever been unfaithful?'
Without hesitation, he replied, 'No.' It was true, but it didn't feel true. He was beginning to understand what Jimmy Carter's predicament had been when he said that he had committed adultery in his mind.
Chapter ELEVEN
I
By midday on Monday, DC Richmond had not only discovered from the Eastvale census records and electoral lists that there were almost eight hundred men aged between twenty and thirty-five living either alone or with a single parent, but he also had a list of their names.
'Marvelous what computers can do these days, sir,' he said to Banks as he handed over the report.
'Keen on them, are you?' Banks asked, looking up and smiling.
'Yes, sir. I've applied for that course next summer. I hope you'll be able to spare me.'
'Lord knows what'll be going on next summer,' Banks said. 'I thought I was all set for the quiet life when I came up here, and look what's happened so far. I'll bear it in mind, anyway. I know the super's keen on new technology-at least as far as the workplace is concerned.'
'Thank you, sir. Was there anything else?'
'Sit down a minute,' Banks said as he started reading quickly through the list. The only names he recognized at first glance were those he had heard from Robin Allott the previous day: Geoff Welling and Barry Scott.
'Right,' he said, shoving the papers toward Richmond. 'There's a bit more legwork to be done. First of all, I want you to check into the two names I've ticked here. But for God's sake do it discreetly. I don't want anyone to know we're checking up on private citizens on so little evidence.' He grinned at Richmond. 'Use your imagination, eh? First thing to find out is if they have alibis for the peeping incidents. Clear so far?'
'Yes, sir.'
'The next job might take a bit more doing.' Banks explained about Mr. Patel's observations, hoping that he might also relieve any anxieties Richmond had about his being in The Oak with Jenny on Saturday evening. 'Someone else might have seen him in the area, so talk to the residents and local shopkeepers. Also, see if you can find out who the bus drivers were on the routes past The Oak that night. Talk to them, find out if they noticed our man. All right?'
'Yes, sir,' Richmond said, a bit more hesitantly.
'What is it, lad?'
'I'm not complaining, sir, but it's going to take a long time without help.'
'Get Sergeant Hatchley to help you if he's not too busy.' When Richmond hardly appeared to jump with joy, Banks suppressed a smile. 'And ask Sergeant Rowe if he can spare you a couple of uniformed boys.'
'Yes, sir,' Richmond said more cheerfully.
'Right. Off you go.'
Banks had no great hopes for the inquiry, but it had to be carried out. It was the same with every case; thousands of man-hours seemed to amount to nothing until that one fragment of information turned up in the most unexpected place and led them to the solution.
He remembered his mental note to visit Alice Matlock's cottage again and see if he could nose out what it was that had bothered him since his talk with Robin.
As it was a pleasant, if chilly, day, he put on his light overcoat and set off. Turning left into the market square, then left again, he walked through the network of old cobbled streets to King Street, then wound his way down through Leaview Estate to Gallows View.
Alice Matlock's house was exactly as the police had left it almost a week ago, and Banks wondered who was going to inherit the mess. Ethel Carstairs? If there was anything of value, would it have been worth killing for? No will had been discovered so far, but that didn't mean Alice hadn't made one. She had no next of kin, so the odds were that at some point she had considered what to do about bequeathing her worldly goods. It was worth looking into.
As he stood in the small, cluttered living room, Banks tried to work out exactly what it was that bothered him. Again, he made the rounds of the alcoves, with their hand-painted figurines of nursery-rhyme and fairy-tale figures like Miss Muffet and Little Jack Homer, their old gilt-framed sepia photographs, and teaspoons from almost every coastal resort in Britain.
He picked up a glass-encased Dales scene and watched the snow fall on the shepherd and his sheep as he shook it. Moving on, he found an exquisitely engraved silver snuff-box, dented on one edge. Opening it up, he noticed the initials A. G. M. on the inside of the lid. Alice? Surely not. Still, Robin Allott had said she was a radical, a fighter for women's rights, and Banks had seen photographs of pioneer feminists smoking cigars or pipes, so why not take snuff, too? On the other hand, he was certain she had no middle name, but there had been a boyfriend who had died in the Great War. Perhaps the snuff-box had been his. The dent might even have been caused by the bullet that killed him, Banks found himself thinking. There was something about Alice's house that made him feel fanciful, as if he were in a tiny, personal museum.
Next he peered closely at the ship in the bottle. Banks could easily imagine a young boy populating the ship with sailors and inventing adventures for them. Its name, Miranda, was clear on its side, and all the details of deck, mast, ropes and sails were reproduced in miniature. There was even a tiny figurehead of a naked woman with streaming hair-Miranda herself, perhaps.
As he moved back to the center of the room and looked around again at Alice's carefully preserved possessions, he realized exactly what it was that had been nagging away at the back of his mind.
When Robin had mentioned the ship, Banks had visualized it clearly, just as he had been able to remember many of the other articles in the room. True, the place had been a mess-cupboards and sideboards had been emptied and their contents scattered over the floor-but there had been no gratuitous damage.
