"You've got quite a romantic imagination for a psychologist."

"And you've got none! Come on, where did you get it?"

"I told you, an accident."

"What kind of accident?"

"I fell off my tricycle."

"Liar. You're only doing this because you think it makes you mysterious, aren't you?"

"And you're only teasing me because you've had too much to drink."

"Ooh, I haven't."

Banks laughed. "Perhaps not. But if you drink any more you will have, and then I'll have to book you for drunken driving."

"I haven't got my car. I walked up to town before we met and spent an hour or so in the library."

"I've got mine today-and I haven't had too much to drink. Come on, I'll give you a lift."

It was raining fast again, and Banks drove carefully around the base of Castle Hill, down the narrow, winding streets, crossed the river, and pulled up outside Jenny's house by The Green about five minutes later.

"Coming in for a coffee?" she asked.

"Just a quick one."

IV

Trevor and Mick sat in the front room sharing out the money. Trevor had already palmed about fifty pounds, and he then managed to persuade Mick to tell Lenny that they'd only found fifty. He knew that Lenny would make up his profit by selling the jewelry, anyway.

Mick was restless. He'd taken some uppers before going out and some downers when they got back, just to take the edge off. Now the drugs were clashing and fighting it out in his body. He couldn't settle and listen to music or watch telly, and Trevor, bored with him, was getting ready to go. They looked out of the window at the rain. Across The Green, they saw a car pull up outside one of the old houses.

"It's that bird," Mick said. "The redhead with the long legs. Ooh, I'd like to feel them wrapped around my waist. Who's she with? Some fucking wanker for sure."

"I think it's that copper," Trevor said, recognizing Banks. "Funny, that, I saw him with her the other night at the old bag's house."

"Maybe she's a cop, then. Waste of a good screw, if you ask me. Nice pair of tits she's got, though."

"Maybe he's just knocking her off," Trevor said. "He's going in, anyway."

"Lucky bastard."

"It's funny, though, seeing them twice like that."

"What's so funny? I see her all the time. She only lives across The Green, you know."

"I mean seeing them together like that."

"He's probably poking her. Fucking hell, wouldn't I just like those long legs wrapped around my waist."

But Mick was fast slipping into the arms of Morpheus. The amphetamine, already mostly burned up, was losing to the barbiturate, and he felt as if his brain was slowly turning to cotton-wool and his senses were closing like valves. The light around the edges of his eyes dimmed, and he could hear a gentle whooshing, like the ocean, in his ears; his tongue felt too tired and too heavy to speak.

Trevor recognized the signs, put on his coat and left. It had been a good night, one of the best in years, and he felt, as he walked home through the quiet town reliving the excitement, that he could hardly wait for next Monday.

Chapter EIGHT

I

The sudden creaking of rusty hinges broke the silence in the cool church. Sandra and Harriet looked around and saw Robin Allott coming in, followed closely by Norman Chester.

"So this is where you're hiding," Norman said, as he shut the heavy door behind them. "We were wondering where the lovely ladies had got to." His voice echoed from the stone walls.

"What are you doing?" Robin asked.

"Waiting for the sun," Sandra replied. "I want to get a good shot of the stained-glass window here."

"It shouldn't be long," Robin said, walking down the aisle toward them. "The clouds seem to be breaking up and the wind's pushing them along nicely. It is quite beautiful, isn't it?"

Sandra nodded, glancing up again at the east window. They stood in the Parish Church of St. Mary, Muker, one of the places the Camera Club was visiting on its trip to Swaledale. Most club members were out walking along Ivelet Side putting Terry Whigham's ideas on landscape photography into practice with shots of the spectacular view of Oxnop, Muker Side and the dark mass of Great Shunner Fell. Harriet and Sandra, however, had stuck to the village itself, photographing the craft center, village store and old Literary Institute, before approaching St. Mary's.

"It's supposed to depict the landscape outside," Robin went on, pointing to the window. "You can see Christ the Good Shepherd there, leading his flock and carrying a lamb-real horned Swaledale sheep. The hill is Kisdon, that big one out there, and you can see the River Swale to the right and Muker Beck to the left."

"You seem to know a bit about it," Sandra said. "Have you been here before?"

"Once or twice."

Norman 's footsteps echoed as he wandered around examining the font and chalice.

"It is a wonderful church, though," Robin said. "And the cemetery's interesting, too. It's the kind of place I wouldn't mind being buried in."

"How morbid."

"Not at all. They used to have to carry people in wicker coffins ten or fifteen miles away to Grinton church before this place was built. They took the old Corpse Way along Ivelet Side. People wanted to be buried on consecrated ground. I'd hope for a long and healthy life first, though, like poor Alice Matlock."

"Alice Matlock?"

"Yes. The old lady they found dead in her cottage the other day. Surely your husband must have mentioned her?"

"Yes, of course," Sandra said. "I was just surprised to hear you talk about her, that's all."

Robin looked up at the dim stained glass. "I knew her, that's all. I was a bit shaken to hear that someone who'd lived through so much should have died so violently. Does your husband have any clues?"

"None that he's told me about. How did you come to know her?"

"I suppose I'm exaggerating a bit. I haven't seen her for a few years. You know how it is; we lose touch with the old so easily. She was a friend of my grandmother's, my father's mother. They were about the same age and both of them worked as nurses at Eastvale Infirmary for years. My gran used to take me over to visit Alice when I was a kid."

"Haven't you thought that you might be able to help?" Sandra asked.

"Me?" said Robin, startled. "How? I said I hadn't seen her for years."

"Alan says it's frustrating not to know much about her background. Most of her friends are dead. Anything you could tell him might be a help."

"I don't see how."

"When you've lived with a policeman for as long as I have," Sandra said, "you don't ask how. Would you be willing to see him?"

"I don't know… I… I can't see how it could help."

"Come on. Alan won't eat you. You said you were upset about her death. Surely it's not too much to ask?"

"No, no, I don't suppose it is. If you think it'll help, of course…"

"It might."

"Very well."

"Good. I'll tell him, then. If I see him. He's not home much these days. Still, we are supposed to be going out tonight, if he hasn't forgotten. When's a good time? I'm sure he won't want to inconvenience you."

"I don't know. This weekend sometime? I should be home."

"Fine." Sandra took Robin's address and turned her attention back to the stained-glass window. "Come on, come on," she urged the sun.

They stood there a full minute or more until, slowly, the glass brightened and the red of Christ's robe, the blue of the rivers at his feet and the purple, orange and green of the hills behind began to glow. Sandra selected a wide aperture and let the built-in exposure-meter set the shutter speed.

"It's strange," Robin said, watching, "but it sometimes seems to me as if we're looking outside through a clear window at some idealized image."