"What this adds up to, then," Banks said, "is a promising pupil who seems to have lost his way."

"Yes," Mr. Buxton agreed sadly. "It happens so often these days. There seem to be so many distractions for the boys. Of course, in most cases it's a phase they have to go through. Rebellion. Have to get it out of their systems, you know."

Banks knew, but the transformation from star pupil with a great career ahead into truant and slacker was certainly open to other interpretations.

"Who are his friends?" Banks asked. "Who does he hang around with?"

"I'm afraid I wouldn't know, Inspector. It's so hard to keep track____________________His form master, Mr. Price, might be able to tell you." He picked up his phone, handling it as if it were a severed limb. "I'll ask Sonia to bring him in."

When Mr. Price arrived, he looked both annoyed at having been disturbed on his dinner break and apprehensive about the purpose of the call. The head soon put him at ease, and curiosity then gained the better edge, turning him into a garrulous pedant. After trying to impress both Banks and the head for several minutes with his modern approach to language teaching and his theories on classroom management, he finally had to be brought around to the point of his visit.

"I've come to inquire about one of your students, Mr. Price-Trevor Sharp."

"Ah, Sharp, yes. Odd fellow, really. Doesn't have much of anything to do with the other lads. Rather sullen and hostile. One simply tends to stay away from him."

"Is that what the other boys do?"

"Seems so. Nobody's actively against him or anything like that, but he goes his way and they go theirs."

"So he has no close friends here?"

"None."

"Is he a bully?"

"Not at all, though he could be if he wanted. Tough kid. Very good at games. He always dresses conservatively, while the others are trying to get away with whatever they can-purple hair, mohawk cuts, spiky bracelets, studded leather jackets, you name it. Not Sharp, though."

"The others don't make fun of him?"

"No. He's the biggest in the class. Nobody bothers him."

"I understand from his school reports that he's been absent a lot lately. Have you talked to him about this?"

"Yes, certainly. In fact, last parents' day I had a long chat with his father, who seemed very concerned. Doesn't seem to have done much good, though; Sharp still comes and goes as he pleases. Personally, I think he's just bored. He's bright and he's bored."

There was nothing more to say, especially as Banks had no concrete grounds on which to investigate Trevor. He thanked both the headmaster and Mr. Price, repeated his request for discretion, and left.

IV

As Banks was shuffling through the reports in the headmaster's office, Trevor himself was about a mile away. He had gone out of bounds to meet Mick at a pub where the question of drinking age was rarely broached, especially if the coins kept passing over the counter. They sat over the last quarters of their pints, smoking and listening to the songs that Mick had chosen on the jukebox.

Trevor kept sucking and probing at his front teeth, pulling a face.

"What's the matter with you," Mick asked. "It's driving me bleeding crazy, all that fucking around with your gob."

"Don't know," Trevor answered. "Hurts a bit, feels rough. I think I've lost a filling."

"Let's take a look."

Trevor bared his teeth in an evil grin, like a horse with the bit in its mouth, while Mick looked and pronounced his verdict. "Yeah, one of em's getting a bit black around the edges-that little one next to the big yellow one. I'd see a fucking dentist if I was you."

"I don't like dentists."

"Fucking coward!" Mick jeered.

Trevor shrugged. "Maybe so, but I don't like them. Anyway, you said we'd got two jobs on?" he asked when the music had finished.

"That's right. One tonight, one next Monday."

"Why tonight? It seems pretty short notice to me."

"Coming back from 'oliday tomorrow, aren't they? And Lenny says the pickings'U be good."

"What about next Monday?"

"Bird always goes to her country club Mondays. Lenny's heard she always keeps quite a bit of jewelry around the place. Rich divorcee, like."

"Has Lenny given you any idea about how we get in?"

"Better." Mick grinned pimplishly. "He's given me this." And he opened his parka to show Trevor the tip of what looked like a crowbar. "Easy," he went on. "Just stick it between the door and the post and you're home free."

"What if someone sees us?"

"Nobody will. These are big 'ouses, detached like. And we'll go in the back way. All quiet, nobody around. Better wear the balas to be on the safe side, though."

Trevor nodded. The thought of breaking into a big, empty, dark house was frightening and exciting. "We'll need flashlights," he said. "Little ones, those pen-lights."

"Got 'em," Mick said proudly. "Lenny gave us a couple before he split for The Smoke."

"Fine, then," Trevor smiled. "We're on."

"We're on," Mick echoed. And they drank to it.

Chapter SEVEN

I

Jenny laughed at Banks's theory about the peeper spying on female pub habituees: "Only been working for me three days and already coming up with ideas of your own, eh?"

"But is it any good?"

"Might be, yes. It could be part of his pattern, like his fixation on blonds. On the other hand it was perhaps just the most convenient time. A time when nobody would miss him or see him. Or a time when he could depend on his victims going to bed after a few drinks. He wouldn't have to hang around too long to get what he came for."

"Now you're doing my job."

Jenny smiled. They sat in deep, comfortable chairs by the crackling fire and looked as if they should have been drinking brandy and smoking cigars. But both preferred Theakston's bitter, and only Banks puffed sparingly at his Benson and Hedges Special Milds.

"How many pubs are there in Eastvale?" Jenny asked.

"Fifty-seven. I checked."

Jenny whistled through her teeth. "Alcoholic's paradise. But still, you must know which areas he operates in?"

"Random so far. He's spread himself around except for picking two from the same pub, so that doesn't help us much, but we do have some evidence that indicates a possible link between our peeper and the Alice Matlock killing. Could it be the same person?"

"Do you expect a yes-or-no answer?"

"All I want is your opinion. Is it likely that the peeper, after watching Carol Ellis get undressed, ran down the street, knocked on Alice Matlock's door and, for some reason, killed her either intentionally or accidentally?"

"You want an answer based purely on psychological considerations?"

"Yes."

"I'd say no, then. It's very unlikely. In the first place, he would have no reason to run to Alice Matlock's house. If he'd been spotted, his impulse would be to get as far away as possible, as quickly as possible."

"You're still doing my job."

"Well, dammit," Jenny said, "they're so close. What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. Something about a peeper not being the murdering kind."

Jenny laughed. "Primary-school psychology? You won't get that from me. I've told you it's unlikely and I've given you one good reason. If he got the release he needed from watching Carol Ellis, I doubt that he'd be emotionally capable of murder immediately afterwards."

"That's what I said to the superintendent."

"Well, why the bloody hell…" Jenny started, and then began to laugh. "We really are doing each other's jobs, aren't we? But seriously, Alan, I say it's unlikely but it's not impossible."

"Would he go to her to confess, perhaps?"