Peter Robinson - Gallows View

"No! Can't you see? I have to go further, always further, or it's no good, there's no point. When I watched you, Sandra, watched you undressing in your bedroom, it was the best, it was just like… I didn't think I could go any further than that. I didn't think I could ever go any further. Do you know what I mean? The ultimate."

Sandra nodded. The model's face remained still and detached, fixed on that far-off memory. Sandra felt as if she were tied to the screen by the projection. She wanted to tell Robin to turn it off but she didn't dare. The way he was talking, he was beyond reason. There was nothing she could do but keep asking him calmly to put the knife down and stop. But she knew he wouldn't. He'd gone too far now, and he could only go further. He'd made his greatest step and the rest would have to follow.

He was coming closer, the projected model bending around the knife blade, throwing its shadow onto Sandra's chest. She was backed up as far against the screen as she could get. Robin stopped, still at an angle so as not to block the image projected on her. "Take your clothes off," he ordered, twitching the knife.

"No," Sandra replied. "You can't mean it. Put the knife away, Robin. It's not too late."

"Take your clothes off," he repeated. "I do mean it. Do as I say."

It was futile to protest any more. Sandra clenched her teeth, holding back the tears, and brought her trembling hands to the buttons on her shirt.

"Don't hurry," Robin said. "Take your time. Do it slow."

Each button seemed to take an eternity, but finally the shirt was undone. She dropped it on the floor and waited.

"Go on," he said. "The jeans."

Sandra was wearing tight Levis. She undid the top button and pulled down the zipper. It wasn't easy, but she managed to fold them over her hips and get out of each leg while still standing up.

She stood before Robin in her white bra and panties, shaking all over. The image was still wrapped around her and now it seemed welcome, offering her a little covering, some protection. Robin pulled the slide out of its slot, and the bright, piercing light of the lens pinned Sandra to the screen. She put up a hand to shield her eyes.

Robin said nothing for a long time. He seemed to be just gazing at her, a slender figure with long, blond hair and shapely long legs. He was awestruck. She could feel his eyes as they slid over her body, probing every curve, every shadow. She noticed that the hand that held the knife was trembling.

"Now the rest," he ordered in a voice that seemed caught deep in his throat. Sandra started to obey.

"Slower," Robin commanded her.

Finally, she stood naked in the harsh glare of the slide projector. Now she made no pretense of not crying; her shoulders shook and the tears flowed down her cheeks, fell onto her chest and trickled across her breasts.

Suddenly, Robin gave a strangled cry, dropped the knife and hurled himself down on his knees in front of her. The abruptness of his action shocked Sandra out of her fear. He put his arms around her hips and buried his face in her loins. She could hear him sobbing and she could feel his warm tears. Quickly, she stretched out her left hand to grab the camera that Robin had left on the table beside the screen. Then, with both hands, she lifted it high in the air and brought it down hard on the top of his head.

It was quiet in Banks's office. He sat smoking a cigarette, feeling very pleased with himself, waiting to hear from Hatchley and Richmond. Opposite, Trevor sat sullen and withdrawn, while his father seemed nervous, tapping on the edge of the desk and whistling between his teeth.

There was a soft knock at the door and Sergeant Rowe's gray-haired head popped around, indicating that he had something to say.

"Phone call," he said in the corridor, looking worried. "Your wife, sir. Said it was urgent. She sounded very upset." Banks had asked that all calls be intercepted while he was interrogating Trevor; he hadn't wanted to be interrupted.

Puzzled, and worried that something might have happened to Brian or Tracy, he told Rowe to keep an eye on the suspect for a few moments and ducked into the nearest empty room to take the call.

"Alan? Thank God," Sandra breathed. Rowe was right. Banks had never heard her sound like that before.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"It was Robin, Alan. The peeper. He came here. He had a knife."

"What happened? Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes, I'm all right. A bit scared and shaky, but he didn't hurt me. Alan, I think I've killed him. I hit him with the camera. Too hard. I wasn't thinking. I was so frightened and angry."

"Stay there, Sandra," Banks told her. "Don't move. I'll be over in a few minutes. Understand?"

"Yes. Hurry, Alan. Please."

"I will."

Banks got Rowe out of his office again and told the sergeant that an emergency had arisen and he had to rush home.

"What about those two?" Rowe asked.

"I'll be back," Banks said, thinking quickly. "Have Sergeant Hatchley call me at home when they get back with Webster. And don't, under any circumstances, let the two kids see each other."

"Right, sir, got it," Rowe said. Banks could tell that he wanted to ask what was wrong or offer some sort of sympathy, but discretion got the better of him and he went back into Banks's office, shutting the door softly behind him. Banks got as far as the front door before PC Craig, on temporary desk duty, shouted after him.

"Sir! Inspector Banks, sir!" Banks turned. "What is it?" he snapped, still edging toward the door.

"A call, sir. Sergeant Hatchley. Says it's an emergency."

Banks was of two minds whether to take it or not, but his professional instinct made him reach for the phone. At least Sandra wasn't in immediate danger any longer. A minute or two more wouldn't hurt.

"What is it, Sergeant?"

"The kid, sir. Webster. He gave us the slip."

"Well, go after him."

"It's not as simple as that. We know where he is."

"Get to the bloody point, Sergeant," Banks growled. "I've got one bloody emergency on my hands already."

"He ran across The Green and broke into a woman's house, sir. He's got her held hostage there. He's got a gun."

Banks felt his stomach tighten. "Which house?"

"It's that doctor woman, sir. The one I saw coming out of the super's office."

"Christ," Banks gasped, rubbing his free hand over his eyes.

"But there's more, sir. He says he wants you there. He asked for you and said if you didn't get here in twenty minutes he'd kill the woman."

Banks had to think more quickly than he had ever done in his life. It was probably no more than a split second before he gave Hatchley his instructions, but in that period Banks felt as if he had been to hell and back. The two women flashed before his eyes. If he deserted Sandra when she needed him, he thought, things might never be right again; she would never fully trust him. If he didn't go to help Jenny, on the other hand, she would surely die. Banks reasoned that Sandra would, somehow, understand this if she knew, that his duty was to try to save a life rather than console his wife after she had already succeeded in freeing herself from a dangerous, terrifying situation. Though he was thinking specifically that it was Jenny in danger, that he couldn't let Jenny die, he knew he would also have to go even if it was a stranger Mick Webster had taken hostage. It was personal, yes, and this intensified his concern, but his job demanded that he do the same for anyone. Somebody, however, would have to go to Sandra. There was always the chance that the man would return to consciousness again. And if someone else dealt with it, then it would be official business. It was official anyway, he realized. It had gone too far to be covered up as easily as the peeper episode. No matter who went to Sandra now, all the details would have to come out.