'Where would a person find treatment?'
'Well, in the old days, of course, he'd go to his GP or perhaps to the infirmary. But nowadays, what with all the sexual promiscuity and what not, there are specialized VD clinics all over the place. Confidential treatment, naturally.' Banks had, indeed, heard of such places. 'There's one here in Eastvale, right?' he asked. 'Attached to the hospital?'
'Yes. And one in York.'
'None nearer?'
'Not unless you count Darlington or Leeds.'
'Thank you, doctor,' Banks said hurriedly. 'Thank you very much.'
As soon as he'd hung up, he called in Hatchley and Richmond, and after explaining the situation, had them phone all the clinics within a fifty-mile radius and ask about a lean, tall teenager with decay between his front teeth, who would probably be very vague about where he had contracted the disease.
Fifteen minutes later, he was informed that nobody fitting that description had been into any of the clinics, which meant either that the suspect had not experienced the symptoms yet or that he was still worrying about what to do. Hatchley and Richmond had also requested that the staff of each clinic be on the lookout, and that they call their nearest police station if they became suspicious about anyone looking for treatment. After that, Hatchley phoned the local police in each area and asked them to detain the boy if he appeared at the clinic and to call Banks immediately.
Later, Banks talked to Jenny Fuller at her York University office and told her about Thelma Pitt. It wasn't part of the peeper case, but it was a sexual crime and he needed a woman's advice.
'Have you sent her for any help?' Jenny asked.
'I suggested she see a doctor. Mostly for our own official purposes, I have to admit.'
'That won't do her a lot of good, Alan. There's a Rape Crisis Center in York, a place where people can talk about their problems. I'm surprised you don't know about it. A lot of women find it hard to get on with their lives after an experience like that. Some never recover. Anyway, these people can help. They're not just doctors-a lot of them have been rape victims themselves. Just a minute and I'll get you the number.' Banks wrote down the telephone number and assured Jenny that he would pass it on to Thelma Pitt.
'Are we going to meet again soon?' she asked.
'Of course. I've got a lot on with this Thelma Pitt business at the moment, though, and there are no real developments on our case. I'll give you a call.'
'The brush-off!' Jenny cried melodramatically.
'Don't be stupid,' he laughed. 'See you soon. And you never know,' he added, 'you might even get invited to dinner.' Then he hung up before Jenny could respond.
The next job was to get Mr. Lewis Micklethwaite in. Banks pulled the local directory out of his rattling desk drawer and reached for the phone again.
III
Micklethwaite was reluctant to drop in at Eastvale police station after work. He was also unwilling to have Banks call on him at home. In fact, Micklethwaite wanted to avoid all contact with the local constabulary, and when he finally did come to the office under threat of arrest, Banks immediately knew why.
'If it isn't my old pal Larry Moxton,' Banks said, offering the man a cigarette.
'I don't know what you mean. My name's Micklethwaite.'
But there was no mistaking him-the receding hairline, dark beady eyes, black beard, swarthy skin, fleshy lips-it was Moxton all right.
'Come on, Larry,' Banks urged him. 'You remember me, surely?'
'I've told you,' Micklethwaite repeated, squirming in his chair. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'
Banks sighed. 'Larry Moxton, ex-accountant. I put you away about ten years ago in London, remember, when you swindled that divorcee out of her savings? What was it-prime Florida real estate? Or was it gilt-edged securities?'
'It was a bloody frame-up, that's what it was,' Moxton burst out. 'It wasn't my fault my bloody partner took off with the funds.'
Banks stroked his chin. 'Bit of bad luck, that, Larry, I agree. We never did find him, did we? Probably sunning himself in Spain now. Still, that's the way it goes.'
Moxton glared at him. 'What do you want this time? I'm straight. Have been ever since I came out and moved up north. And the new name's legit, so don't waste your time on that.'
It was hard to believe that such a surly, sneaky man had enough charm to cheat intelligent women out of their money, but that had been Moxton's speciality. For some reason, inexplicable to Banks, women found him hard to resist.
'Thelma Pitt, Larry. I want to know about Thelma Pitt.'
'What about her?'
'You do know her, don't you?'
'So what if I do?'
'What are you after, Larry? A rich widow this time?'
'You've no right to make accusations like that. I've served my time-for a crime I didn't commit-and it's no bloody business of yours who I spend my time with.'
'When was the last time you saw her?'
'Hey, what is this?' Moxton demanded, grasping the flimsy desk and half rising. 'Nothing's happened to her, has it?'
'Never mind that. And sit down. When did you last see her?'
'I want to know. I've got a right to know.'
'Sit down! You've got a right to know nothing, Larry. Now answer my questions. You wouldn't want me to lose my temper like last time, would you? When did you see her last?'
Moxton, like many others, had learned from experience that it was no use arguing with Banks, that he had the patience and persistence of a cat after a bird. He might not actually hit you, but you'd go away thinking it would have been easier if he had.
'Monday night,' he answered sullenly. 'I saw her on Monday night.'
'Where?'
'Eastvale Golf Club.'
'You a member, Larry?'
' 'Course I am. I told you, I'm a respectable businessman. I am a CA, you know.'
'You're an effing C, too, as far as I'm concerned, Larry. But that's beside the point, isn't it? How long have you been a member?'
'Two years.'
'Two years.' And to think that Ottershaw had told him it was an exclusive place-no riff-raff. 'I don't know what the world's coming to, Larry, I really don't,' Banks said.
Moxton glowered at him. 'Get to the point, Inspector,' he snapped, looking at his watch. 'I've got things to do.'
'I'll bet you have. All right, so you know Thelma Pitt. What's your relationship with her?'
'None of your business.'
'Good friends, business partners, lovers?'
'So we go out together, have a bit of fun. What's it to you? What's happened to her?'
He did seem genuinely concerned about the woman's welfare, but Banks considered it unethical to tell him that Thelma Pitt had been robbed and raped. If she wanted him to know, she would tell him herself.
'What time did you leave her on Monday?' Banks pressed on.
'I didn't. She left me. It was earlier than usual-about a quarter to ten. I don't know why. She was upset. I suppose you could say we argued.'
