anything to do with this, you’re barking up the wrong tree. He’s straight as a die, always has been. Ask anyone.”
“I’m not insinuating anything, Mr Sharp. I’d just like to know why the constable should mention this.”
“It was a way of speaking, I suppose,” Sharp said. “You don’t always think you’re going to have to account for the person who was with you, do you? I mean if someone asked you what you did last night and you stayed home watching telly, you probably wouldn’t say ‘My wife and I . . . blah-blah-blah . . .’ would you?”
“You’ve got a point there, Mr Sharp. I probably wouldn’t. So let me get this straight. You and Trevor spent the whole evening, from about eight till midnight, watching television, and you neither heard nor saw anything unusual. Am I right?”
“That’s right. Only Trevor went to bed about eleven. Needs his sleep for school.”
“Of course. What did you watch, Trevor?” Banks asked casually, turning to the boy.
“We watched—”
“I’m asking Trevor, Mr Sharp. What did you watch, son?”
“Don’t really remember,” Trevor said. “There was one of them American cop shows. You know, all car chases and shoot-outs.” He shrugged. “Half the time I was reading my book and not paying attention.”
“What book was that?”
“Now, look here,” Graham burst out, the vein on his temple pulsating with anger. “You can’t just come in here and interrogate my son like this, accuse us of lying to you. I told you, Trevor was with me all evening until he went to bed at about eleven o’clock.”
“What was he reading?”
“Eh?”
“The book. What was he reading?”
“It was
The Shining
,” Trevor answered, “Stephen King. Do you know it?”
“No,” Banks said, smiling at Trevor. “Any good?”
“Yeah. Better than the film.”
Banks nodded and packed away his notebook. “Well, I think I’ve got all I need. I’ll let you finish your meal in peace. No, don’t bother,” he said, putting out his arm to stop Graham from standing up. “I can see myself out.”
And with that he was gone. The Sharps ate the rest of their dinner slowly, in silence.
SIX
I
Thursday morning hit like a cold shower in the dumpy form of Ms Dorothy Wycombe. She was in Gristhorpe’s office when Banks arrived at the station, and the superintendent called him in the moment he snapped off his Walkman. Gristhorpe clearly had no idea how to deal with her. For all his learning and compassion, he was a country gentleman and was not used to dealing with crusaders like Ms Wycombe. He looked lost.
Some people are susceptible to environment, but Dorothy Wycombe was not. Gristhorpe’s office was a cosy, lived-in room with a studious air about it, but she might just as well have been standing on a platform at Leeds City Station waiting with her arms crossed for the 5:45 to King’s Cross, glaring at everything within her field of vision. The dominant expression on her face during the meeting that followed was one of distaste, as if she had just eaten a particularly sour gooseberry.
“Er . . . Miss . . . er . . . Ms Wycombe, meet Detective Chief Inspector Banks,” Gristhorpe muttered by way of introduction.
“Pleased to meet you,” Banks said apprehensively.
No reply.
Through his job, Banks had come to realize that it was unwise to expect stereotypes; to do so only led to misunderstandings. On the other hand, he had also been forced to admit the existence of stereotypes, having met more than once, among others, the lisping, mincing homosexual, the tweedy retired colonel with handlebar moustache and shooting-stick, and the whore with the heart of gold.So when Dorothy Wycombe stood before him looking like everyman’s parody of a women’s libber, he could hardly claim surprise. Disappointment, perhaps, but not surprise.
“Seems there’s been a complaint, Alan,” Gristhorpe began slowly. “It’s about Sergeant Hatchley, but I thought you ought
“I’m not insinuating anything, Mr Sharp. I’d just like to know why the constable should mention this.”
“It was a way of speaking, I suppose,” Sharp said. “You don’t always think you’re going to have to account for the person who was with you, do you? I mean if someone asked you what you did last night and you stayed home watching telly, you probably wouldn’t say ‘My wife and I . . . blah-blah-blah . . .’ would you?”
“You’ve got a point there, Mr Sharp. I probably wouldn’t. So let me get this straight. You and Trevor spent the whole evening, from about eight till midnight, watching television, and you neither heard nor saw anything unusual. Am I right?”
“That’s right. Only Trevor went to bed about eleven. Needs his sleep for school.”
“Of course. What did you watch, Trevor?” Banks asked casually, turning to the boy.
“We watched—”
“I’m asking Trevor, Mr Sharp. What did you watch, son?”
“Don’t really remember,” Trevor said. “There was one of them American cop shows. You know, all car chases and shoot-outs.” He shrugged. “Half the time I was reading my book and not paying attention.”
“What book was that?”
“Now, look here,” Graham burst out, the vein on his temple pulsating with anger. “You can’t just come in here and interrogate my son like this, accuse us of lying to you. I told you, Trevor was with me all evening until he went to bed at about eleven o’clock.”
“What was he reading?”
“Eh?”
“The book. What was he reading?”
“It was
The Shining
,” Trevor answered, “Stephen King. Do you know it?”
“No,” Banks said, smiling at Trevor. “Any good?”
“Yeah. Better than the film.”
Banks nodded and packed away his notebook. “Well, I think I’ve got all I need. I’ll let you finish your meal in peace. No, don’t bother,” he said, putting out his arm to stop Graham from standing up. “I can see myself out.”
And with that he was gone. The Sharps ate the rest of their dinner slowly, in silence.
SIX
I
Thursday morning hit like a cold shower in the dumpy form of Ms Dorothy Wycombe. She was in Gristhorpe’s office when Banks arrived at the station, and the superintendent called him in the moment he snapped off his Walkman. Gristhorpe clearly had no idea how to deal with her. For all his learning and compassion, he was a country gentleman and was not used to dealing with crusaders like Ms Wycombe. He looked lost.
Some people are susceptible to environment, but Dorothy Wycombe was not. Gristhorpe’s office was a cosy, lived-in room with a studious air about it, but she might just as well have been standing on a platform at Leeds City Station waiting with her arms crossed for the 5:45 to King’s Cross, glaring at everything within her field of vision. The dominant expression on her face during the meeting that followed was one of distaste, as if she had just eaten a particularly sour gooseberry.
“Er . . . Miss . . . er . . . Ms Wycombe, meet Detective Chief Inspector Banks,” Gristhorpe muttered by way of introduction.
“Pleased to meet you,” Banks said apprehensively.
No reply.
Through his job, Banks had come to realize that it was unwise to expect stereotypes; to do so only led to misunderstandings. On the other hand, he had also been forced to admit the existence of stereotypes, having met more than once, among others, the lisping, mincing homosexual, the tweedy retired colonel with handlebar moustache and shooting-stick, and the whore with the heart of gold.So when Dorothy Wycombe stood before him looking like everyman’s parody of a women’s libber, he could hardly claim surprise. Disappointment, perhaps, but not surprise.
“Seems there’s been a complaint, Alan,” Gristhorpe began slowly. “It’s about Sergeant Hatchley, but I thought you ought
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