Peter Robinson - Gallows View

Trevor shook his head. "It's not right, Mick. That's sixty percent he's taking. And how do we know he only got fifty quid for it? Looked like it was worth nearer a hundred to me."

"We believe him 'cos he's my fucking brother, that's why," Mick said, getting nettled. "And without him we wouldn't be able to get rid of any of the stuff. We wouldn't get nothing, man. So forty percent of what he does is better than a hundred percent of fuck all, right?"

"We could fence it ourselves. It can't be that difficult."

"How many times do I have to tell you? You need the contacts. Lenny's got contacts. You can't just walk into one of those wanky antique shops on Market Street and ask the geezer if he wants to buy a pile of stolen jewelry or a fancy camera, can you?"

"I just don't think it can be all that difficult, that's all."

"Look, we've got a nice little racket going here, let's leave it the way it is. I'll try and get us up to fifty percent, all right?"

Trevor shrugged. "Okay."

"Did I tell you Lenny's got a shooter?" Mick went on excitedly.

"No. Where'd he get it from?"

"Down The Smoke. This bloke what owns a club in Soho. Big fucker it is too, just like on telly."

"Does it work?"

"Of course it works. What good's a shooter that don't work?"

"Have you tried it? Do you know it works?"

"Of course I haven't fucking tried it. What do you expect me to do, walk downtown on market day and start fucking target practice?"

"So you don't know for sure if it works?" Mick sighed and explained as if to a small child. "These blokes down The Smoke, they don't give you dud shooters, do they? Wouldn't be in their interest."

"What kind is it?"

"I don't fucking know. A big one, like the ones on telly. Like that one Clint Eastwood carries in those Dirty Harry flicks."

"A Magnum?"

"That's right. One of those."

"Powerful shooter," Trevor said. " 'Seeing as this is a forty-four Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and can blow your head clean off, you gotta ask yourself, punk, do I feel lucky today? Well, do ya, punk?'"

The Dirty Harry impersonation went down very well, and the two traded shooting noises until the 10:25 to Ripon clattered overhead and drowned them out.

"Look, before we start," Jenny Fuller said, "I'd like to tell you that I know why I was chosen to help on this case."

"Oh," said Banks. "What do you mean?"

"You know damn well what I mean. Don't think I didn't notice that eye contact between you and Gristhorpe this morning. There are at least two male professors in the area better qualified to deal with this kind of thing-both experts on deviant psychology. You wanted a woman because it looks good in the public eye, and you wanted me because I've had connections with Dorothy Wycombe."

They were lounging comfortably in armchairs by the crackling fire, Banks cradling a pint of bitter, Jenny a half.

"It's not that I mind," she went on. "I just want you to know. I don't like being taken for a fool."

"Point taken."

"And another thing. You needn't imagine I'm going to go reporting to Dorothy Wycombe on everything that goes on. I'm a professional, not a snooper. I've been asked to help, and I intend to do my best."

"Good. So now we know where we stand. I'm glad you said that, because I didn't feel too happy about working with a spy, whatever the circumstances."

Jenny smiled and her whole face lit up. She really was an extraordinarily beautiful woman, Banks thought, feeling rather distressing tugs of desire as he watched her shift her body in the chair. She was wearing tight jeans and a simple white T-shirt under a loose lemon jacket. Her dark red hair spilled over her shoulders.

Banks himself had paid more attention than usual to his appearance that evening: at least, as much more attention as he could without giving Sandra cause for suspicion. Over a hasty supper, he had told her he would be spending the evening with Dr. Fuller discussing the psychological angle of the peeper case. Getting ready, he had resisted the temptation to apply some of the unopened cologne a distant relative had bought him several Christmases ago, and settled instead for a close shave and a liberal application of Right Guard. He had also taken care to smooth down his short, black hair, even though it was always cut so close to the skull that it never got a chance to stand on end.

He had arrived at the Queen's Arms at least ten minutes before Jenny was due-not simply because he didn't believe in keeping a woman waiting, but because he didn't like the idea of her waiting alone in a pub, even a place as congenial as the Queen's Arms. When she walked in five minutes late, all the heads at the bar turned in her direction.

"So where do we start?" he asked, lighting a cigarette and opening his notebook.

"Oh, put that thing away," Jenny protested. "Let's keep this informal while we build up some kind of a picture. I'll give you a full report when I've got things worked out."

Thus admonished, Banks put away his notebook.

"What are your own ideas?" she asked. "I know I'm supposed to be the expert, but I'd like to know what you think." There was a slightly taunting tone in her voice, and he wondered if she was trying to draw him out, make a fool of him. It was probably just her seminar manner, he decided. Like doctors have bedside manners, teachers have classroom manners.

"I'm afraid I wouldn't know where to begin."

"Let me help. Do you think the women ask for it, by the way they dress?"

It was a loaded question, exactly the one he had expected.

"They might well be inviting someone to try and pick them up in a normal, civilized way," he answered, "but of course they're not inviting voyeurs or rapists, no."

He could tell that she approved by the way she looked at him. "On the other hand," he went on, just to provoke her, "if they walk in dark alleys after ten o'clock at night dressed in high heels, miniskirts and low-cut blouses, then I'd say they were at least being foolish, if not asking for something."

"So you do think they ask for it?" she accused him, green eyes flashing.

"Not at all. I just think that people, especially women, ought to be more careful these days. We all know what the cities are like, and there's no longer any reason to think a place like Eastvale is immune from sex offenders."

"But why shouldn't we be able to go where we want, when we want and dressed how we want?"

"You should. In a perfect world. This isn't a perfect world."

"Well, thank you for pointing that out to me. Bit of a philosopher, aren't you?"

"I do my best. Look, is this what you want, some kind of sparring match over women's issues? I thought you were playing straight with me. All right, so I'm a man, guilty, and I can never in a million years fully understand what it's like to be a woman. But I'm not a narrow-minded hypocrite, at least I don't think I am, so don't treat me like one."

"Okay. I'm sorry. I'm not really a shrill virago, either. I'm just interested in men's attitudes, that's all. It's my field-male and female, masculine and feminine psychology, similarities, differences. That's why they thought I was the next best thing to a brilliant, ideally qualified man for this job."

She laughed at herself and Banks laughed with her. Then she held out her hands as if holding up a clapperboard, snapped them together and said, "Banks and Fuller: Co-operation,Take Two. More drinks first, though. No, I'll get them this time."

Enjoying the slow, feline grace of her movements, Banks watched her walk to the bar and lean on it as the barman drew the beer. When she got back, she smiled and put the drinks on the table.

"Right," she said. "Down to business. What do you want to know?"

"A great deal."