'Did you hope to watch them having sex? Is that what you wanted to see?'
Markham snorted. 'It's hardly what I wanted to see, but I expected it, yes.'
'How were you going to watch them?'
'What do you mean?'
'The logistics. How were you going to spy on them? Use binoculars, climb a drainpipe, what? Were you going to take photographs, too?'
'I said before, I hadn't thought that far ahead. I was just going to follow them and see where they went. After that…' He shrugged. 'Anyway, just what the hell are you getting at?'
'After that you were going to watch them and see what they did. Right?'
'Perhaps. Wouldn't you want to know, if it was your wife?'
'Have you done this kind of thing before?'
'What kind of thing?'
'Followed people and spied on them.'
'Why would I?'
'I'm asking you.'
'No, I haven't. And I don't see the point of all these questions. By now they're probably at it in some pokey bungalow.'
'Bungalow? You know where he lives, then?'
'No. I don't even know who he is.'
'But you said 'bungalow.' You know he lives in a bungalow?'
'No.'
'Why did you say it, then?'
'For God's sake, what's it matter?' Markham cried, burying his long face in his hands. 'It's over now, anyway.'
'What's over?'
'My marriage. The cow!'
'Have you ever watched anybody getting undressed in a bungalow?' Banks persisted, though he was quickly becoming certain that it was all in vain now, that they had the wrong man.
'No,' Markham answered, 'of course I haven't.' Then he laughed. 'Bloody hell, you think I'm that Peeping Tom, don't you? You think I'm the bloody peeper!'
'Why did you run away when you saw my men approaching you?'
'I didn't know they were police, did I? They weren't wearing uniforms.'
'But why run? They might simply have been walking to the bus stop, mightn't they?'
'It was just a feeling. The way they were walking. They looked like heavies to me, and I wasn't hanging around to get mugged.'
'You thought they were going to mug you? Was that the reason?'
'Partly. It did cross my mind that they might be pals of the bloke my wife was meeting-that I'd been seen, like, and they wanted to warn me off. I don't know. All I can say is they didn't look like they were coming to wait for a bus.'
It was almost midnight. Markham said that he was expected home late, at about one o'clock. He had arranged it that way so that he could give his wife enough time, enough rope to hang herself with. Banks suggested that to clear things up once and for all, they should return to Markham's house and wait for her.
The house, on Coleman Avenue about a mile northwest of the market square, was so spacious and well furnished that Banks found himself wondering if it was true true that plumbers earned a fortune. The predominant colors were dark browns and greens, which, Banks thought, made the place seem a little too somber for his taste.
At a quarter to one, the key turned in the door. Markham's wife had told him that she was visiting a friend and that if he did get home before her he shouldn't be surprised if she was a bit late. Curious about the light in the living room, she peered around the door and walked in slowly when she saw her husband with a stranger.
Mrs. Markham was a rather plain brunette in her late twenties, and Banks found it hard to imagine her as the type to have an affair. Still, it took all sorts, he reminded himself, and it never did to pigeon-hole people before you knew them.
After identifying himself, Banks asked Mrs. Markham where she had spent the evening.
She sat down stiffly and started strangling one of her black leather gloves. 'With a friend,' she answered cautiously. 'What's all this about?'
'Name?'
'Sheila Croft.'
'Is she on the phone?'
'Yes.'
'Would you call her, please?'
'Now? Why?'
'This is very important, Mrs. Markham,' Banks explained patiently. 'Your husband might be in serious trouble, and I have to verify your story.'
Mrs. Markham bit her thin lower lip and glanced over at her husband. There was fear in her eyes.
'The number?' Banks repeated.
'It's late, she'll be in bed now. Besides, we weren't at her house,' Mrs. Markham dithered.
'Where were you?'
'We went to a pub. The Oak.'
'You weren't with no Sheila Croft, either, you bloody lying cow,' Markham cut in. 'I saw you go in there by yourself, all tarted up. And look at yourself now. Couldn't even be bothered to put a bit of make-up on again after.'
Mrs. Markham paled. 'Call Sheila, then,' she shouted. 'Just you ask her. She was already there. I was late.'
'Sheila would lie her pants off to protect you, and you bloody well know it. Who is he, you bitch?'
He got to his feet as if to strike her, and Banks stepped forward to push him back down.
'It's all right,' Markham said bitterly. 'I wouldn't hit her. She knows that. Who is he, you slut?'
At this point, Mrs. Markham started weeping and complaining about being neglected. Banks, depressed by the entire scene and angry that it had not been the peeper they had caught, made his exit quietly.
III
A chill wind blew through Glue-Sniffers' Ginnel, where Mick and Trevor stood, jackets buttoned up tight, smoking and chatting.
'Did you like it, then, last night?' Mick asked.
'Not much,' Trevor answered. 'I suppose it was all right, but…'
'What? Too tight?'
'Yeah. Hurt a bit. Dry as a bone at first.'
'Just wait till you get one that's willing. Slides in easy, then, it does. Plenty of 'em like it the hard way, though. You know, they like you to show 'em who's boss.'
Trevor shrugged. 'Where's the loot?'
'Got it hidden at my place. It's safe. Looks like we've struck the jackpot there, too, mate. Never seen any that sparkled so much.'
'That depends on Lenny, doesn't it?'
'I told you, he's got the contacts. He'll get us the best he can. Probably a few G, there.'
'Sure. And how much of that will we see?'
'Oh, don't go on about it, Trev,' Mick grumbled, shifting from one foot to the other as if he had ants in his pants. 'We'll get what's coming. And you did get a little bonus, didn't you?' he leered.
