"You're quite the amateur psychologist, aren't you?" Sandra said, looking at Harriet through narrowed eyes.

"It's just something I thought of, that's all." Harriet shrugged.

"They've brought a professional psychologist in," Sandra said. "Woman called Fuller. Dr. Jenny Fuller. According to Gristhorpe she's quite a looker, and Alan's been working late several evenings."

"Oh, Sandra," Harriet exclaimed. "You surely can't think Alan…?"

"Relax," Sandra said, laughing and touching Harriet's arm. "No, I don't think anything like that. I do think he fancies her, though."

"How do you know?"

"A woman can tell. Surely you could tell if David had his eyes on another woman?"

"Well, I suppose so. He is rather transparent."

"Exactly. I wouldn't use that word to describe Alan, but it's in what he doesn't say and how he reacts when the subject's brought up. He's been very cagey. He didn't even tell me it was an attractive woman he was working with."

"Does it worry you?"

"No. I trust him. And if he does yield to temptation, he wouldn't be the first."

"But what would you do?"

"Nothing."

"Would he tell you?"

"Yes. Eventually. Men like Alan usually do, you know. They think it's because they're being honest with you, but it's really because the guilt is too much of a burden; they can't bear it alone. I'd probably rather not know, but he wouldn't consider that."

"Oh, Sandra," Harriet snorted, "you're being a proper cynic. Don't you think you're being a bit hard on him?"

Sandra laughed. "I wouldn't be able to say it if I didn't love him, warts and all. And don't get upset. I don't think anything will come of it. If she's as beautiful as Gristhorpe says, Alan would hardly be normal if he didn't feel some attraction. He's a big boy. He can deal with it."

"You haven't met her, then?"

"No, he's not offered to introduce me."

"Maybe," Harriet suggested, leaning forward and lowering her voice, "you should get him to invite her for dinner? Or just suggest a drink together. See what he says."

Sandra beamed. "What a good idea! I'm sure it'd be a lot of fun. Yes, I think I'll get working on it. It'll be interesting to see how he reacts."

II

Police Constable Craig was one of the uniformed officers temporarily in plain clothes on the peeper case. It was his job to walk between as many pubs as possible within his designated area and to keep an eye open for any loiterers. The job was tiring and frustrating, as he was not allowed to enter any of the pubs; he simply had to walk the streets and pass each place more than once to see if anyone was hanging around for too long.

As he approached The Oak, near the end of his beat, for the second time that evening, he noticed the same man standing in the shadows of the bus shelter. From the few details that Craig could make out, the man was slim, of medium height and wearing a dark, belted raincoat and a flat cap. It wasn't a trilby, but there was no law against a man's owning more than one hat. Craig also knew that at least two buses must have stopped there since he had last walked by The Oak.

Following instructions, he went inside the noisy pub and sought out DC Richmond, who was by now sick to death of spending every evening-duty or no-in that loud, garish gin-palace. Richmond, hearing Craig's story, suggested that they call the station first, then check once more in about fifteen minutes. If the man was still there, they would approach him for questioning. Gratefully, Craig accepted a half of Guinness and the chance to sit down and take the weight off his feet.

Meanwhile, Mr. Patel, who had become quite the sleuth since Banks's visit, glanced frequently out of his shop window, and wrote down, in a notebook bought especially for the purpose, that a man resembling the suspect he had already described to the police had been standing in the shelter for forty-eight minutes. He timed his entry "Tuesday, 9:56 pm.," then picked up the phone and asked for Detective Chief Inspector Banks.

Banks was not, at first, happy to take the message. He was enjoying a pleasant evening with the children-no opera, no television-helping Brian construct a complicated extension of track for his electric train. Tracy was stretched out on her stomach, too, deciding where to place bridges, signal boxes and papier-mâché mountains. Everyone pulled a face when the phone rang, but Banks became excited when Sergeant Rowe passed on Mr. Pate’s information.

Back at The Oak, the fifteen minutes was up. Richmond had reported in, as arranged, and now it was time to approach the suspect and ask a few questions. As he and Craig headed for the pub's heavy smoked-glass and oak doors, Banks was just arriving at Mr. Patel's shop, walking in as casually as any customer. "Is that him?" he asked.

"I can't say for certain," Mr. Patel answered, scratching his head. "But 'ee looks the same. 'Ee weren't wearing an 'at last time, though."

"How long did you say he's been there?" Mr. Patel looked first at his watch, then down at his notebook. "Sixty-three minutes," he answered, after a brief calculation.

"And how many buses have gone by?"

"Three. One to Ripon and two to York." The bus shelter stood at the apex of a triangle, the base of which was formed by a line between Mr. Patel's shop and The Oak itself. Banks was already at the door, keeping his eyes on the suspect across the road to his right, when Craig and Richmond, walking much too purposefully toward their man, were spotted, and the dark figure took off down the street.

But what could have been a complete disaster was suddenly transformed into a triumphant success. As the man sprinted by Mr. Patel's shop with a good lead on his pursuers, Banks rushed out and performed the best rugby tackle he could remember making since he'd played scrum-half in a school game over twenty years ago.

The quartet returned to Eastvale station at ten-thirty, and the suspect, protesting loudly, was led into the interview room: a stark place with three stiff-backed chairs, pale green walls and a metal desk.

Richmond and Craig thought they were in for a telling-off, but Banks surprised them by thanking them for their help. They both knew that if the man had got away things would have been very different.

The suspect was Ronald Markham, age twenty-eight, a plumber in Eastvale, and apart from the headgear, his clothing matched all earlier descriptions of the peeper's. At first he was outraged at being attacked in such a violent manner, then he became sullen and sarcastic.

"What were you doing in the shelter?" Banks asked, with Richmond standing behind him instead of Hatchley, whom nobody had thought to disturb.

"Waiting for a bus," Markham snapped.

"Did you get that, Constable Richmond?"

"Yes sir. Suspect replied that he was 'waiting for a bus,'" Richmond quoted.

"Which bus?" Banks asked.

"Any bus."

"Where were you going?"

"Anywhere."

Banks walked over to Richmond and whispered in his ear. Then he turned to Markham, said, "Won't be a minute, sir," and the two of them disappeared, leaving a uniformed constable to guard the room.

About forty-five minutes later, when they returned after a hastily grabbed pint and sandwich at the Queen's Arms, Markham was livid again.

"You can't treat me like this!" he protested. "I know my rights."

"What were you doing in the shelter?" Banks asked him calmly.

Markham didn't answer. He ran his thick fingers through his hair, turned his eyes up to the ceiling, then glared at Banks, who repeated his question: "What were you doing in the shelter?"

"Keeping an eye on my wife," Markham finally blurted out.

"Why do you think you need to do that?"

"Isn't it bloody obvious?" Markham replied scornfully. "Because I think she's having it off with someone else, that's why. She thinks I'm out of town on a job, but I followed her to The Oak."