Free Gallows View by Peter Robinson Page A

didn’t know her well,” he said. “She came in here to do someof her shopping. It was convenient for her, I suppose. But she kept herself to herself. What happened to her?”
    “Did you hear anything around eleven o’clock last night?” Richmond asked.
    “No, nothing,” Sharp answered. “I was watching telly in the room upstairs. We’ve converted one of the old bedrooms into a kind of sitting-room. It’s right at the western end, as far as you can get in Eastvale without being in a field, so I wouldn’t be able to hear anything from Cardigan Drive way.”
    “Noticed anything odd lately? Any strangers, kids hanging about?”
    “No.”
    “No newcomers in the shop? Nobody asking questions?”
    “Only you.” Sharp smiled tightly, clearly relieved to see Richmond pocketing his notebook.
    “Could I speak to your son for a moment, sir?” Richmond asked before leaving.
    “My son?” Sharp echoed, sounding nervous again. “What for? He’s just a young lad, only fifteen.”
    “He might be able to help.”
    “Very well.” Sharp called Trevor from upstairs and the boy slouched down moodily.
    “Where were you at about eleven o’clock last night?” Richmond asked.
    “He was here with me,” Sharp butted in. “Didn’t I already tell you? We were upstairs watching telly.”
    Richmond flipped back through his notebook—mostly for effect, because his memory was good. “You told me that
you
were upstairs watching television, sir. You didn’t say anything about your son.”
    “Well, that’s what I meant. I just took it for granted. I mean, where else would he be at that time?” He put his arm around Trevor’s shoulder. The boy winced visibly.
    “Well?” Richmond addressed Trevor.
    “It’s like he says, we were watching telly. Not much else to do around here, is there?”
    Richmond thanked them both and left, again jotting down his reservations in his book, and also noting that he thought he recognized Trevor Sharp from somewhere. All in all, it wasn’t turning outto be a bad evening’s haul. Already he was enjoying the responsibility of interrogation and feeling less vitriolic towards Sergeant Hatchley.
    Nobody was at home in the first two houses on Cardigan Drive. Residents of two of the others had been out late at a club fundraiser the previous evening, and the remaining two had heard somebody running past at about eleven, but neither had looked out of their windows nor heard anyone knocking on Alice Matlock’s door.
    Richmond, who had thought to show some keenness by doing more than the first six houses, was beginning to tire a little by then, and as he’d done his duty, he decided to report back to Hatchley.
    He found the sergeant sitting in Alice Matlock’s armchair, his feet up on the stool, snoring loudly. The body was gone and all that remained were the chalk outline on the worn flags and the pools of dried blood. The place was still dusty with Manson’s aluminium powder. The level in the brandy bottle had dropped considerably.
    Richmond coughed and Hatchley opened a bloodshot eye. “Ah, back already, lad? Just thinking about the case, taking in the atmosphere. Done all the houses?”
    Richmond nodded.
    “Good lad. I think we’d better be off now. You’ll need your beauty sleep for all the report writing you’ve got to do in the morning.”
    “Inspector Banks said to leave someone on duty here, sir.”
    “Did he? Yes, of course. One of the uniformed blokes. Look, you hang on here and I’ll call the station on my way. Someone should be down in about fifteen minutes. All right, lad?”
    Weary, cold and wet, Richmond mumbled, “Yes, sir,” and settled down to comfort himself with thoughts of the beautiful Andrea Rigby not more than about seven or eight feet away from him through the wall. Taking out his notebook, he thought he might as well draft the outline of his report, and he began to look over his small, neat handwriting to see how it all added