matter. It was Dr. Himmler, as he called the school dentist, and his assistant Griselda who had put Trevor off dentists in the first place. The man was grubby and his National Health glasses were stuck together across the bridge with Elastoplast. Griselda stood by, white-faced and red-lipped, like some medieval witch passing him the instruments of torture. He never gave anaesthetics for fillings; you simply had to grip the chair. For extractions he administered nitrous oxide, and Trevor would never forget that feeling of suffocation as the mask was finally pressed over his nose and mouth, like a polythene bag clinging to the pores, keeping all the air out. And afterwards, he would stand up groggily and stagger to the next room, where the previous patients were still standing around water fountains spitting or swilling the blood from their mouths.
Trevor set off in the right direction for school. He walked up through Leaview Estate, which was already busy with the postman, the milkman and wives seeing husbands off to work, then turned onto King Street with its cobbles and trendy tourist shops. The places all had looking-glass windows and black-leaded railings leading down to basements stuffed with mildewed books, spinning wheels, bobbins and other relics of the woollen industry, which were now sold as antiques.
The school was at the bottom of a narrow street to his left, and Trevor could see the white tips of the rugby posts and the dirty red-brick Victorian clocktower. Instead of turning down School Drive, though, he took the narrow, winding streets to the market square. On the eastern side of the square, between the National Westminster Bank and Jopling's Newsagent's, a short flight of worn stone steps led down to the El Toro Coffee Bar, a dim room with bullfight posters, castanets and maracas on the walls. Trevor slumped into the darkest corner, ordered an espresso coffee, and settled down to think.
He knew he had VD because he'd heard other kids talking and joking about it at school. Nobody ever thought it would happen to them, though. And because Trevor's intelligence was imaginative rather than scientific, his ideas about the consequences of the disease were farfetched, to say the least. He pictured his penis turning black and rotten, the flesh coming away in great gobbets in his hands the next time he had to go to the toilet. He was convinced that it would drop off altogether within hours. There was treatment, he knew, though he had no idea what it was. But anything was better than dying that way; even the school dentist would be better than that.
He could not go to his GP, Dr. Fanner, because his father would find out. He could bear the embarrassment, but not disclosure. Too many awkward questions would be asked. There were special clinics, or so he'd heard people say, and he figured that one of those was his best bet. There had been nothing in the papers about the woman he had raped, so Trevor assumed that Mick's boot had done the trick and she was keeping quiet for fear of worse reprisals. Still, the police didn't publicize everything they knew, so it would be best to avoid Eastvale, just in case. Trevor asked the owner for the phone directory and looked up hospitals and clinics. As he had guessed, there was a place in York. He scribbled down the address on a page torn out of a school exercise book and left the El Toro.
At the bus station, he put his satchel and school blazer in a locker, wearing only his duffle-coat over his shirt and pullover. That way he didn't look at all like a schoolboy. The next bus for York was due to leave in fifteen minutes. He bought a copy of Melody Maker at the newsstand and sat on the cracked green bench to wait.
II
All day Monday Banks seethed with impatience. He had made great efforts to put the Thelma Pitt business out of his mind over the weekend, mostly for the sake of his family. On Saturday, they had driven into York to do some shopping and on Sunday they had all gone on a vigorous walk from Bainbridge to Semerwater, in Wensleydale. It was a brisk day, sunny and cool, but they were all warm enough in their walking gear.
On Monday morning, though, Banks took off his Walkman, hardly having noticed which opera he'd been listening to, slammed it shut in the drawer and shouted for Hatchley. 'Sir?' the sergeant said, red-faced with the effort of running upstairs.
Banks looked at him sternly. 'You'd better do something about the shape you're in, Sergeant,' he said first. 'You'd not be much use in a chase, would you?'
'No, sir,' Hatchley replied, gasping for breath.
'Anyway, that's not what I want to see you about. Anything from the clinics?'
'No, sir.'
'Damn!' Banks thumped the desk.
'You did ask us to let you know, sir,' Hatchley reminded him. 'I'm sure you'd have heard if there'd been any news over the weekend.'
Banks glared at him. 'Of course,' he said, scratching his head and sitting down.
'It can take'up to ten days, sir.'
'When would that take us to?'
'Wednesday or Thursday, sir.'
'Thursday,' Banks repeated, tapping a ruler against his thigh. 'Anything could happen before then. What about Moxton?'
'Moxton, sir?'
'Micklethwaite, as he calls himself now.'
'Oh, him. Nothing there either, I'm afraid.'
Banks had ordered surveillance on Moxton, assuming that he might try to warn his partner, whoever that was.
'He didn't do much at all,' Hatchley added, 'though he did go and visit the woman.'
'Thelma Pitt?'
'Yes, sir.'
'And?'
'And nothing, sir. Stayed about fifteen minutes, then drove home. Seemed a bit pissed off, if you ask me. Slammed the car door. He stayed in all Saturday night, went for a walk on Sunday morning, washed his car, dropped in for a quick drink at that posh place, the Hope and Anchor, about nine o'clock, then went home and stayed there.'
'Did he talk to anyone at the Hope and Anchor?'
'Only the landlord, sir.'
'Anyone we know?'
'No, sir. Straight as a die. Never even sold short measure, far as we can tell.' Banks took a deep breath. 'All right, Sergeant. Thank you,' he said, softening his tone a little to mollify Hatchley. 'Have some coffee sent up, will you?'
'Sir?'
Banks grinned. 'I know it's awful muck, but I need it all the same.'
'Will do,' Hatchley said, lingering. 'Er… Sir?…'
'What is it?'
'Have you got any idea who it was, sir? The rapist?'
'I'm not sure, Sergeant. It could be that Sharp kid and his mate or a pair very much like them. It's the same ones who robbed the old ladies and pissed on the Ottershaws' VCR-that I am sure about.'
'And the Matlock killing?'
Banks shook his head. 'I don't think so. That's something different. Another problem altogether.'
'Why not bring the Sharp kid in for questioning?'
'Because I can't prove anything. Do you think I wouldn't have had him in before if I had something on him? Besides, I'm not certain yet that he is the one, I just got the feeling there was something wrong when I talked to him and his father.'
'That bit about the bad tooth, sir. If he-'
Banks waved his hand as if to brush aside a fly. 'By itself it's nothing. You know that as well as I do. On the other hand, if he's got the clap…'
'We could always bring him in, just to shake him up a bit.'
'No good. His father would insist on being present. He'd probably send for a bloody lawyer, too, then they'd
