When Norman came back with the drinks, the conversation had shifted subtly to the evening's session. Sandra complimented him on his photos and he grudgingly admitted that hers, though they were in color and had obviously been cropped, were fine compositions. He told her that she had done particularly interesting and unusual things with skin tone.

"Where are yours?" Norman asked Robin. "I don't think any of us had a look at them."

"They're not back yet. I took slides and I didn't finish the film. I only sent it off a couple of days ago."

"Slides!" exclaimed Norman. "What an odd thing to do."

"I used an Ektachrome 50," Robin argued. "It's very good for that kind of thing."

"But all the same," Norman repeated, "slides in a studio nude session? I'll bet you never even had film in your camera, eh, Robin? I'll bet that's why you've got nothing to show us."

Robin ignored him and looked over to Sandra. "I talked to your husband," he said, "but I can't see how I was any help."

Sandra shrugged. "You never know. He's got to gather all the information he can. I should imagine it's like counting the grains of sand on a beach."

"I think I'd find that too frustrating."

Sandra laughed. "Oh, I'm sure Alan does, too. Especially when there's so many cases going at once and they keep him out till all hours. Still, that's not all there is to it."

" 'A policeman's lot,' " quoted Norman, " 'is not a happy one.'"

"I wouldn't agree with that," Sandra said, smiling. "Alan's usually perfectly happy unless he's dealing with particularly unpleasant crimes, like the killing of a defenseless old woman."

"And a Peeping Tom," Norman added. "Let's not forget our Peeping Tom."

"No, let's not," Sandra said. "Anyway, Robin, you might have been helpful. Alan says it's often hard to know exactly where the solution comes from. Everything gets mixed in together."

"When are we going to see these slides, then?" Norman asked Robin impatiently.

"They should be back soon."

"I'll bet you don't even have a slide projector."

"So what? I could always borrow one."

"Not from me, you couldn't. I haven't got one either. I haven't even been able to show anyone last year's holiday pictures yet."

"Surely Robin must have one if he's been taking slides?" Harriet said.

"No, I don't," Robin mumbled apologetically. "I'm afraid I've never done transparencies before. I do have a small viewer, of course, but that's not much use."

"Well, I do have a projector and a screen," Sandra told them. "And if any of you want to borrow it, you're quite welcome. Just drop around sometime. You know where I live."

"Is that an invitation, Sandra?" Norman leered.

"Oh, shut up," she said, and pushed him playfully away.

"Don't you think there's something unnatural about taking pictures of nudes at the Camera Club?" Harriet asked suddenly. "I mean, we're all talking about it as if it's the most normal thing in the world."

"Why?" demanded Norman. "It's the only chance some of us get."

"What?" Sandra joked. "A gay, young blade like yourself, Norman. Surely they're just flocking to your studio, dying to take their clothes off for you?"

"Less of the 'gay,' if you please, love. And I don't have a studio. What about you, Robin?"

"What about me?"

"Do you agree with Harriet, that it's unnatural to photograph nudes in a studio?"

"I wouldn't say it's unnatural, no. I don't think my mother would approve, though," he added in an attempt at humor. "I sometimes have a devil of a job keeping things to myself."

At about ten o'clock, there was a general movement homewards, but Sandra managed to catch Harriet's eye and signal discreetly for her to stay. After the others had gone, Harriet moved her chair closer. "Another drink?" she asked.

"Please," Sandra said. She needed it. She also needed somebody to talk to, and the only person she could think of was Harriet. Even then, it would take another drink to make her open up.

The empty seats at the table were soon taken by a noisy but polite group of stable-lads. When she had adjusted to the new volume level, Harriet, who drove a mobile library around some of the more remote Dales villages, began to talk about work.

"Yesterday I got a puncture near the Butter Tubs Pass above Wensleydale," she said. "A car full of tourists came speeding around the corner, and I had to pull over quick. Some of those stones by the side of the road are very sharp, I can tell you. I was stuck there for ages till a kind young vet stopped to help me. When I got to Angram, old Mrs. Wytherbottom played heck about having to wait so long for her new Agatha Christie." She paused. "Sandra, what's wrong? You haven't listened to a word I've said."

"What? Oh, sorry." Sandra gulped down the last of her vodka and slimline and took the plunge. "It happened to me, Harriet," she said quietly. "What we were talking about last week. It happened to me on Friday."

"Good Lord," Harriet whispered, putting her hand on Sandra's wrist. "What… how?"

"Just like everyone else. I was getting ready for bed and he was watching through the bottom of the curtains."

"Did you see him?"

"I saw him before I'd got too far, fortunately. But he was off like a shot. I didn't get a good look at him. The thing is, Harriet, this has got to be in strict confidence. Alan didn't report it because of the embarrassment it would cause us both. He feels bad enough about that, but if he thought anyone else knew…"

"I understand. Don't worry, Sandra, I won't tell a soul. Not even David."

"Thank you."

"How do you feel?"

"Now? Fine. It seems very distant already. It was a shock at first, and I certainly felt violated, but I wanted to tell you that I also felt some sort of pity for the man. It's odd, but when I could first think about it rationally, it just seemed so childish. That's the word that came to mind: childish. He needs help, not punishment. Maybe both, I don't know. It depends which gets the better of me, anger or pity. Every time I think about it they seem to be fighting in me."

"It was silly of me to say what I did last week," Harriet apologized. "About feeling sorry for him. I'd no idea… I mean, I've still no idea what it actually feels like. But they're closer than you think, aren't they, anger and pity?"

"Yes. Anyway, it's not as bad as you'd imagine," Sandra said, smiling. "You soon get over it. I doubt that it leaves any lasting scars on anyone, unlike most sex crimes." Even as she spoke the words, they sounded too glib to be true.

"I don't know. Has Alan got any leads yet?"

"Not much, no. A vague description. One of our neighbors saw a man hanging around the back alley a few days ago. He was dressed pretty much the same as the man I saw, but neither of us could give a clear description. Anyway, keep an eye on your neighbourhood, Harriet. It seems that he does a bit of research before he comes in to get his jollies."

"Yes, I read about that in the paper. Superintendent Gristhorpe gave a press release."

"Anyway," Sandra said, "there's a lot of women in Eastvale, so I would think the odds against you are pretty high."

Harriet smiled. "But why you?"

"What do you mean?"

"The odds against you must have been high, too."

"Alan thinks it's because of who I am. He says the man's getting bolder, more cocky, throwing down the gauntlet."

"A Peeping Tom with a sense of humor?"

"Why not? Plenty of psychos have one."

"You don't think he's looking for someone, do you?"

"Looking for someone? Who? What do you mean?"

"Someone in particular. You know, like Jack the Ripper always said that woman's name."

"Mary Kelly? That's just a rumor, though. Why would he be looking for someone in particular?"

"I don't know. It was just a thought. Somebody who reminds him of his first time, his first love or someone like that."