III

Banks took his second cup of black coffee into the small interview room.

Graham Sharp jumped to his feet. "You can't keep us here like this," he said. "We've been cooped up here for hours. It's not a police state yet, you know."

Banks sat down and spoke to Sergeant Rowe. "You can go now, Sergeant. Could you send someone in to take notes? Constable Craig will do."

He didn't speak until Craig arrived, then he lit a cigarette and took a long pull on his coffee.

"Right," he said, looking at Trevor. "We've got your mate Webster and he's told us all about your little capers."

"You're lying," Trevor said. "You must think I'm stupid to fall for that one."

"What one?"

"The one where the cops tell a suspect his accomplice has confessed and expect him to break down. I've seen it on telly."

" 'Accomplice?' Accomplice in what?"

"It's just a word."

"Yes, I kn6w. But words mean things. What's more, they imply things too. 'Accomplice' implies that you worked together in committing a crime."

"I told you, it's just a word."

"Stop beating around the bush," Graham Sharp said. "If we have to stay until you've finished, at least get on with it."

"It's true," Banks said to Trevor, and noticed that the boy had started to chew his bottom lip. "He told us all about the break-ins-first the old ladies, then the Ottershaws and Thelma Pitt. He told us how he tried to stop you from raping her but you were like a mad dog. Those were his words, 'mad dog.' "

"He's a liar," Trevor said.

"What do you mean, Trevor? That you weren't like a mad dog?"

"I didn't rape anybody."

"Why would he lie? We found Thelma Pitt's jewelry in his house, and some bits and pieces from the other robberies." Banks knew he was treading on very shaky ground by lying in the hope of getting a confession, but he kept his fingers crossed and trusted that Richmond and Hatchley would turn up something. "Why would he lie, Trevor? It's all up for him and he knows it."

"He's trying to put the blame on someone else, that's all."

"But there were two of you. We know that. A gangly one and a squat one. The gangly one had decay between his front teeth and caught the clap from Thelma Pitt. The squat one had piggy eyes and a raspy voice. You've got to admit that fits Mick to a tee. And your father told us about Mick, remember? He said Mick Webster was to blame if you'd done anything wrong. Now Mick says you're both to blame. What am I supposed to believe?"

"Believe what you want. I don't care."

"But you should, Trevor. Your father does. He cares enough to lie for you."

"Now just a minute-"

"Be quiet, Mr. Sharp. You lied for your son and you know damn well you did. Well, Trevor?"

"Well what?"

"Why don't you admit it? That way we can say you helped us and it'll go easier for you in court. If we have to prove a case, we can, but it'll be more trouble for all of us."

"Admit what?"

"The truth."

"I've told you."

"Not the truth. Not like Mick did. He was on drugs, you know. Remember what he gets like? You can't trust him at all when he's on drugs."

"And you can't believe him, either."

"I do. A jury will. How about it, Trevor?"

"What?"

"Tell me what you did?"

"I didn't do nothing."

"Alice Matlock?"

"He never killed anyone," Graham Sharp protested.

"How do you know? He's lied to you about everything else."

Sharp looked at his son, who turned to face the wall. "He didn't. I just know. He couldn't. He's not capable of it."

"It didn't take much strength, you know," Banks said. "Probably an accident."

"You'll never prove it," Graham said.

Banks shrugged. "What do you think, Trevor?"

"Did Mick tell you that?"

"Tell me what?"

"That we killed the old bag down the street."

"What if he did?"

"Then you're lying," Trevor said, gripping the table edge and rising from his chair. "You're bloody lying. We didn't kill nobody. We didn't have nothing to do with Alice Matlock. If you say he told you that then you're a fucking liar."

"I'm right about the rest, though, aren't I?"

"You made it all up. You don't even have Mick. I'm not saying another word."

In the silence that followed, PC Craig answered the gentle tapping on the door and whispered to Banks, who left the room. In the corridor stood Hatchley and Richmond, both looking pleased as Punch.

"Don't just stand there like the cats that got the cream," Banks said. "What did you find?"

"We got back the Ottershaw and Pitt jewelry and one or two other trinkets."

"Prints?"

"Vic Manson says so. On the camera and a large brooch."

Banks breathed a sigh of relief.

"And," Hatchley added, "we've got a damn good idea who the fence is."

"Go on."

"There was a snapshot in one of the drawers, not a good one, a bit blurred, but as far as I could tell, it matched the sketch we got from Leeds," Hatchley explained. "And there was a letter from London, from a chap called Lenny. Apparently he's Webster's brother."

"Does he have a record?"

Hatchley shook his head. "Not up here. Not as far as we know. Spends most of his time down in The Smoke. I'll check with records."

"Do that. Have you got an address?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. Perhaps you'd better take your findings to Superintendent Gristhorpe. He'll get in touch with London CID and have Lenny Webster picked up. Then we'll see what we shall see." Banks yawned. "Sorry, lads. Afraid I'm tired. Go on up, the super's still in his office."

"Yes, sir," Richmond said, heading for the stairs. Hatchley hung back for a moment, shifting awkwardly.

"Something else, Sergeant?" Banks asked, his hand on the door handle.

"It's just what you did tonight, sir. I just wanted to say I admired you for it. It was a brave thing to do. I don't reckon I'm no softie myself, but I've never been stuck up with a gun. The very thought of it gives me the bloody collywobbles."

"Let's hope you never will be," Banks said. "It happens a lot less often up here than down south."

"I know," Hatchley agreed. "I never thought I'd see the day when I was glad we had a Southerner on the Eastvale force."

That final disclosure seemed too much for Hatchley's tight-lipped nature, and he rushed off, Banks thought, before he went too far and his boss could accuse him of sentimentality.

Smiling, Banks returned to the interview room. Graham Sharp was pale and Trevor wore his customary scowl. Though the father might never admit it, Banks knew that he now thought Trevor was guilty. The boy's reactions had convinced him just as they had confirmed beyond any doubt two things Banks already believed: that they had definitely not killed Alice Matlock, and that they had done everything else.

When Banks sat down and lit a cigarette, Trevor began to look apprehensive. Sipping tepid coffee, Banks let the silence stretch until both father and son were clearly as tense and anxious as he wanted them to be, then he turned to PC Craig and pointed at Trevor.

"Hold him, Constable. Suspicion of burglary, assault and rape will do for a start. I've had quite enough of his company for the time being. Get him fingerprinted immediately."

Graham Sharp tried to block his way as he left the room, but Banks pushed him gently aside: "The constable here will explain your son's rights," he said.

It was late, well after midnight, and the town outside was dark and quiet. Only the bell of the church clock broke the silence every fifteen minutes. Back in his office, Banks looked out through the slats of his Venetian blinds. There wasn't a soul in sight; all the lights were out except for the old-style gas lamps around the market square and a shop window to the right, across Market Street, in which elegant mannequins modelled the kind of long, expensive dresses that Grace Kelly wore in Rear Window.