Free Gallows View by Peter Robinson

news had finished and I’d been watching an old film for about half an hour. Then I turned it off because it was boring.”
    “Someone running? That’s all?”
    “Yes.”
    “You didn’t go to the window and look out?”
    “No. Why should I? It was probably just kids.”
    Richmond jotted in his notebook. “Anything else? Did you hear any sounds from next door?”
    “I thought I heard someone knocking at a door after the running, but I can’t be sure. It sounded muffled, distant. I’m sorry, I really wasn’t paying attention.”
    “How long after the running?”
    “Right after. The one stopped, then I heard the other.”
    “Did the running fade into the distance or stop abruptly?”
    Andrea thought for a moment. “More abruptly, really. As soon as people or cars or anything pass the corner of our street you can’t hear them anymore, so it doesn’t mean much.”
    “Did you hear any sounds at all from Miss Matlock’s, next door?”
    “No, nothing. But then I never do, not even when her friend comes to see her. I can hear knocking at the door, but nothing from inside. The way these old places were built the walls are very thick and we both have our staircases back to back, so there’s quite a gap, really, between her living-room and mine. I sometimes hear the stairs creak when she’s going up to bed, but that’s all.”
    Richmond nodded, closing his notebook. “You haven’t noticed anyone hanging around here lately, have you? Kids, a stranger?”
    Andrea shook her head. Richmond couldn’t think of any more questions, and it was getting late—he still had others to talk to. He thanked Andrea Rigby for her excellent coffee, then went to knock at number six.
    The door opened a crack and a man wearing thick glasses peeredout. Once Richmond had gained entry, he recognized Henry Wooller, the branch librarian, a bit of an oddball, loner, dry stick. Wooller’s house was a tip. Scraps of newspaper, dirty plates, worn socks and half-full cups of tea with clumps of mould floating in them were strewn all over the room; and the place stank: an acrid, animal smell. Richmond noticed the corner of a pornographic magazine sticking out from under the
Sunday Times
Review section, where it had probably been hastily hidden. It was one he recognized, imported from Denmark, and the
UNCY
of its name,
BIG’N’BOUNCY
, was clearly visible. Wooller made a pretence of tidying things up a bit and was careful to hide the magazine completely.
    Richmond asked the same questions he’d put to Andrea Rigby, but Wooller insisted that he had heard nothing at all. It was true that he was one cottage further from Cardigan Drive, which ran at right angles to the easternmost end of Gallows View, along the western edge of Leaview Estate, but Richmond didn’t think the distance was a factor. He felt not only that Wooller didn’t want to get involved, a common enough reaction to police enquiries, but also that he was hiding something. The expression behind the distorting glasses, however, remained fixed and deadpan; Wooller was giving nothing away. Richmond thanked him cursorily and left, making a note of his dissatisfaction.
    The entrance to the living quarters of the shop was what used to be the door to number eight. Hearing voices raised, Richmond paused outside, hoping to learn something of value. He could only catch the odd word—the door must have been thick, or perhaps they were in the back—but it didn’t take long to work out that a young lad was being told off for staying out too late and for not spending enough time on his schoolwork. Richmond smiled, feeling an immediate sympathy for the boy. How many times had he heard the same sermon himself?
    When he knocked, the voices stopped immediately and the door was opened abruptly. Graham Sharp looked worried when he found out that a policeman wanted to see him. Everybody did, Richmond reflected, and it usually meant nothing more than an outstanding parking ticket.
    “No, I