kept his fingers crossed and trusted that Richmond and Hatchley would turn up something. 'Why would he lie, Trevor? It's all up for him and he knows it.'
'He's trying to put the blame on someone else, that's all.'
'But there were two of you. We know that. A gangly one and a squat one. The gangly one had decay between his front teeth and caught the clap from Thelma Pitt. The squat one had piggy eyes and a raspy voice. You've got to admit that fits Mick to a tee. And your father told us about Mick, remember? He said Mick Webster was to blame if you'd done anything wrong. Now Mick says you're both to blame. What am I supposed to believe?'
'Believe what you want. I don't care.'
'But you should, Trevor. Your father does. He cares enough to lie for you.'
'Now just a minute-'
'Be quiet, Mr. Sharp. You lied for your son and you know damn well you did. Well, Trevor?'
'Well what?'
'Why don't you admit it? That way we can say you helped us and it'll go easier for you in court. If we have to prove a case, we can, but it'll be more trouble for all of us.'
'Admit what?'
'The truth.'
'I've told you.'
'Not the truth. Not like Mick did. He was on drugs, you know. Remember what he gets like? You can't trust him at all when he's on drugs.'
'And you can't believe him, either.'
'I do. A jury will. How about it, Trevor?'
'What?'
'Tell me what you did?'
'I didn't do nothing.'
'Alice Matlock?'
'He never killed anyone,' Graham Sharp protested.
'How do you know? He's lied to you about everything else.' Sharp looked at his son, who turned to face the wall. 'He didn't. I just know. He couldn't. He's not capable of it.'
'It didn't take much strength, you know,' Banks said. 'Probably an accident.'
'You'll never prove it,' Graham said.
Banks shrugged. 'What do you think, Trevor?'
'Did Mick tell you that?'
'Tell me what?'
'That we killed the old bag down the street.'
'What if he did?'
'Then you're lying,' Trevor said, gripping the table edge and rising from his chair. 'You're bloody lying. We didn't kill nobody. We didn't have nothing to do with Alice Matlock. If you say he told you that then you're a fucking liar.'
'I'm right about the rest, though, aren't I?'
'You made it all up. You don't even have Mick. I'm not saying another word.'
In the silence that followed, PC Craig answered the gentle tapping on the door and whispered to Banks, who left the room. In the corridor stood Hatchley and Richmond, both looking pleased as Punch.
'Don't just stand there like the cats that got the cream,' Banks said. 'What did you find?'
'We got back the Ottershaw and Pitt jewelry and one or two other trinkets.'
'Prints?'
'Vic Manson says so. On the camera and a large brooch.' Banks breathed a sigh of relief.
'And,' Hatchley added, 'we've got a damn good idea who the fence is.'
'Go on.'
'There was a snapshot in one of the drawers, not a good one, a bit blurred, but as far as I could tell, it matched the sketch we got from Leeds,' Hatchley explained. 'And there was a letter from London, from a chap called Lenny. Apparently he's Webster's brother.'
'Does he have a record?'
Hatchley shook his head. 'Not up here. Not as far as we know. Spends most of his time down in The Smoke. I'll check with records.'
'Do that. Have you got an address?'
'Yes.'
'Excellent. Perhaps you'd better take your findings to Superintendent Gristhorpe. He'll get in touch with London CID and have Lenny Webster picked up. Then we'll see what we shall see.' Banks yawned. 'Sorry, lads. Afraid I'm tired. Go on up, the super's still in his office.'
'Yes, sir,' Richmond said, heading for the stairs. Hatchley hung back for a moment, shifting awkwardly.
'Something else, Sergeant?' Banks asked, his hand on the door handle.
'It's just what you did tonight, sir. I just wanted to say I admired you for it. It was a brave thing to do. I don't reckon I'm no softie myself, but I've never been stuck up with a gun. The very thought of it gives me the bloody collywobbles.'
'Let's hope you never will be,' Banks said. 'It happens a lot less often up here than down south.'
'I know,' Hatchley agreed. 'I never thought I'd see the day when I was glad we had a Southerner on the Eastvale force.'
That final disclosure seemed too much for Hatchley's tight-lipped nature, and he rushed off, Banks thought, before he went too far and his boss could accuse him of sentimentality.
Smiling, Banks returned to the interview room. Graham Sharp was pale and Trevor wore his customary scowl. Though the father might never admit it, Banks knew that he now thought Trevor was guilty. The boy's reactions had convinced him just as they had confirmed beyond any doubt two things Banks already believed: that they had definitely not killed Alice Matlock, and that they had done everything else.
When Banks sat down and lit a cigarette, Trevor began to look apprehensive. Sipping tepid coffee, Banks let the silence stretch until both father and son were clearly as tense and anxious as he wanted them to be, then he turned to PC Craig and pointed at Trevor.
'Hold him, Constable. Suspicion of burglary, assault and rape will do for a start. I've had quite enough of his company for the time being. Get him fingerprinted immediately.'
Graham Sharp tried to block his way as he left the room, but Banks pushed him gently aside: 'The constable here will explain your son's rights,' he said. It was late, well after midnight, and the town outside was dark and quiet. Only the bell of the church clock broke the silence every fifteen minutes. Back in his office, Banks looked out through the slats of his Venetian blinds. There wasn't a soul in sight; all the lights were out except for the old-style gas lamps around the market square and a shop window to the right, across Market Street, in which elegant mannequins modelled the kind of long, expensive dresses that Grace Kelly wore in Rear Window.
Banks lit another cigarette and drank some more hot coffee, then turned to the first buff folder on his desk. It was Sandra's statement. Not much of her personality came through in Richmond's precise, analytical prose, nor did any of her feelings. Banks could only imagine them, and he found himself doing so only too well. As he read of her being forced back toward the screen at knife-point and made to strip ('To what point?' an obviously embarrassed Richmond had asked) to her skin, tears burned his eyes and anger seethed in his veins. He closed the folder and slammed it with his fist.
At least from what Sandra had remembered of Robin Allott's words-and she had done well to remember so much-it sounded as if he was their man. It also sounded as if he had broken down at the end, that he couldn't go through with it. Banks recalled Jenny once saying that the man might have to keep going further and further to satisfy himself, but that he might also reach breaking point before doing any serious damage.
Whether he had done any serious damage or not was a moot point.
It had been a long day. Banks yawned and felt his eyelids suddenly become heavy and scratchy. It was time to go home.
He pulled up his coat collar and stepped out into Market Street. The chill October air was invigorating, but
