to hear it first.” Banks nodded and looked at Dorothy Wycombe, whose chins jutted out in challenge.
That she was unattractive was obvious; what was not clear was how much of this was due to nature itself and how much to her own efforts. She had fizzed all the life out of her colourless hair, and the bulky sack that passed for a dress bulged in the most unlikely places. Above her double-chin was a tight, mean mouth, lined around the edges from constant clenching, and a dull, suet complexion. Behind the National Health glasses shone eyes whose intelligence, which Banks had no doubt she possessed, was glazed over with revolutionary zeal. Her speech was jagged with italics.
“I have been informed,” she began, consulting a small black notebook for dramatic effect, “that while questioning the victims of your
Peeping Tom
, your sergeant’s attitude was flippant, and, furthermore, that he expressed the desire to commit a similar act of violence against one interviewee in particular.”
“Those are serious charges,” Banks said, wishing he could smoke a cigarette. “Who made them?”
“I did.”
“I don’t remember you ever being a victim of the scopophiliac.”
“Pardon?”
“I said I don’t recall that you ever reported any invasion of your privacy.”
“That’s not the point. You’re simply trying to obscure the issue.”
“What issue?”
“Your sergeant’s
lewd
and
lascivious
suggestions—an attitude, might I add, that reflects on the entire investigation of this whole scandalous affair.”
“Who made the charges?” Banks repeated.
“I told you,
I’m
bringing them to your attention.”
“On whose authority?”
“I represent the local women.”
“Who says so?”
“Inspector Banks, this is infuriating! Will you or will you not listen to the charges?”
“I’ll listen to them when I know who made them and what gives you the authority to pass them on.”
Dorothy Wycombe moved further away from Banks and puffed herself up to her full size. “
I
am the chairperson of WEEF.”
“Weef?”
“W.E.E.F., Inspector Banks. The Women of Eastvale for Emancipation and Freedom. WEEF.”
Banks had often thought it was amusing how groups twisted the language so that acronyms of organizations would sound like snappy words. It had started with NATO, SEATO, UNO and other important groups, progressed through such local manifestations as SPIT, SHOT and SPEAR, and now there was WEEF. It didn’t seem to matter at all that “Women of Eastvale” sounded vaguely mediaeval or that “Freedom” and “Emancipation” meant more or less the same thing. They simply existed to give birth to WEEF, which sounded to Banks like an impoverished “woof,” or the kind of squeak a frightened mouse might utter.
“Very well,” Banks conceded, making a note. “And who brought the complaint to your attention?”
“I’m not under any obligation to divulge my source,” Dorothy Wycombe snapped back, quick as a reporter in the dock.
“Yesterday,” Banks sighed, “Sergeant Hatchley spoke to Carol Ellis, Mandy Selkirk, Josie Campbell and Ellen Parry about their experiences. He also spoke to Molly Torbeck, who had been with Carol Ellis in The Oak on the night of the incident. Would you like me to interview each in turn and find out for myself? I can do that, you know.”
“Do what you want. I’m not going to tell you.”
“Right,” Banks said, standing up to leave. “Then I’ve no intention of taking your complaint seriously. You must realize that we get a lot of unfounded allegations made against us, usually by overzealous members of the public. So many that we’ve got quite an elaborate system of screening them. I’m sure that, as a defender of freedom and emancipation, you wouldn’t want anyone’s career to suffer from injustice brought about by smear campaigns, would you?”
Banks thought Dorothy Wycombe was about to explode, so red did her face become. Her chins trembled and her knuckles
That she was unattractive was obvious; what was not clear was how much of this was due to nature itself and how much to her own efforts. She had fizzed all the life out of her colourless hair, and the bulky sack that passed for a dress bulged in the most unlikely places. Above her double-chin was a tight, mean mouth, lined around the edges from constant clenching, and a dull, suet complexion. Behind the National Health glasses shone eyes whose intelligence, which Banks had no doubt she possessed, was glazed over with revolutionary zeal. Her speech was jagged with italics.
“I have been informed,” she began, consulting a small black notebook for dramatic effect, “that while questioning the victims of your
Peeping Tom
, your sergeant’s attitude was flippant, and, furthermore, that he expressed the desire to commit a similar act of violence against one interviewee in particular.”
“Those are serious charges,” Banks said, wishing he could smoke a cigarette. “Who made them?”
“I did.”
“I don’t remember you ever being a victim of the scopophiliac.”
“Pardon?”
“I said I don’t recall that you ever reported any invasion of your privacy.”
“That’s not the point. You’re simply trying to obscure the issue.”
“What issue?”
“Your sergeant’s
lewd
and
lascivious
suggestions—an attitude, might I add, that reflects on the entire investigation of this whole scandalous affair.”
“Who made the charges?” Banks repeated.
“I told you,
I’m
bringing them to your attention.”
“On whose authority?”
“I represent the local women.”
“Who says so?”
“Inspector Banks, this is infuriating! Will you or will you not listen to the charges?”
“I’ll listen to them when I know who made them and what gives you the authority to pass them on.”
Dorothy Wycombe moved further away from Banks and puffed herself up to her full size. “
I
am the chairperson of WEEF.”
“Weef?”
“W.E.E.F., Inspector Banks. The Women of Eastvale for Emancipation and Freedom. WEEF.”
Banks had often thought it was amusing how groups twisted the language so that acronyms of organizations would sound like snappy words. It had started with NATO, SEATO, UNO and other important groups, progressed through such local manifestations as SPIT, SHOT and SPEAR, and now there was WEEF. It didn’t seem to matter at all that “Women of Eastvale” sounded vaguely mediaeval or that “Freedom” and “Emancipation” meant more or less the same thing. They simply existed to give birth to WEEF, which sounded to Banks like an impoverished “woof,” or the kind of squeak a frightened mouse might utter.
“Very well,” Banks conceded, making a note. “And who brought the complaint to your attention?”
“I’m not under any obligation to divulge my source,” Dorothy Wycombe snapped back, quick as a reporter in the dock.
“Yesterday,” Banks sighed, “Sergeant Hatchley spoke to Carol Ellis, Mandy Selkirk, Josie Campbell and Ellen Parry about their experiences. He also spoke to Molly Torbeck, who had been with Carol Ellis in The Oak on the night of the incident. Would you like me to interview each in turn and find out for myself? I can do that, you know.”
“Do what you want. I’m not going to tell you.”
“Right,” Banks said, standing up to leave. “Then I’ve no intention of taking your complaint seriously. You must realize that we get a lot of unfounded allegations made against us, usually by overzealous members of the public. So many that we’ve got quite an elaborate system of screening them. I’m sure that, as a defender of freedom and emancipation, you wouldn’t want anyone’s career to suffer from injustice brought about by smear campaigns, would you?”
Banks thought Dorothy Wycombe was about to explode, so red did her face become. Her chins trembled and her knuckles
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