"You've got a point there, Mr. Sharp. I probably wouldn't. So let me get this straight. You and Trevor spent the whole evening, from about eight till midnight, watching television, and you neither heard nor saw anything unusual. Am I right?"

"That's right. Only Trevor went to bed about eleven. Needs his sleep for school."

"Of course. What did you watch, Trevor?" Banks asked casually, turning to the boy.

"We watched-"

"I'm asking Trevor, Mr. Sharp. What did you watch, son?"

"Don't really remember," Trevor said. "There was one of them American cop shows. You know, all car chases and shoot-outs." He shrugged. "Half the time I was reading my book and not paying attention."

"What book was that?"

"Now, look here," Graham burst out, the vein on his temple pulsating with anger. "You can't just come in here and interrogate my son like this, accuse us of lying to you. I told you, Trevor was with me all evening until he went to bed at about eleven o'clock."

"What was he reading?"

"Eh?"

"The book. What was he reading?"

"It was The Shining," Trevor answered, "Stephen King. Do you know it?"

"No," Banks said, smiling at Trevor. "Any good?"

"Yeah. Better than the film."

Banks nodded and packed away his notebook. "Well, I think I've got all I need. I'll let you finish your meal in peace. No, don't bother," he said, putting out his arm to stop Graham from standing up. "I can see myself out."

And with that he was gone. The Sharps ate the rest of their dinner slowly, in silence.

Thursday morning hit like a cold shower in the dumpy form of Ms. Dorothy Wycombe. She was in Gristhorpe's office when Banks arrived at the station, and the superintendent called him in the moment he snapped off his Walkman. Gristhorpe clearly had no idea how to deal with her. For all his learning and compassion, he was a country gentleman and was not used to dealing with crusaders like Ms. Wycombe. He looked lost.

Some people are susceptible to environment, but Dorothy Wycombe was not. Gristhorpe's office was a cozy, lived-in room with a studious air about it, but she might just as well have been standing on a platform at Leeds City Station waiting with her arms crossed for the 5:45 to King's Cross, glaring at everything within her field of vision. The dominant expression on her face during the meeting that followed was one of distaste, as if she had just eaten a particularly sour gooseberry.

"Er… Miss… er… Ms. Wycombe, meet Detective Chief Inspector Banks," Gristhorpe muttered by way of introduction.

"Pleased to meet you," Banks said apprehensively.

No reply.

Through his job, Banks had come to realize that it was unwise to expect stereotypes; to do so only led to misunderstandings. On the other hand, he had also been forced to admit the existence of stereotypes, having met more than once, among others, the lisping, mincing homosexual, the tweedy retired colonel with handlebar mustache and shooting-stick, and the whore with the heart of gold. So when Dorothy Wycombe stood before him looking like everyman's parody of a women's libber, he could hardly claim surprise. Disappointment, perhaps, but not surprise.

"Seems there's been a complaint, Alan," Gristhorpe began slowly. "It's about Sergeant Hatchley, but I thought you ought to hear it first."

Banks nodded and looked at Dorothy Wycombe, whose chins jutted out in challenge.

That she was unattractive was obvious; what was not clear was how much of this was due to nature itself and how much to her own efforts. She had frizzed all the life out of her colorless hair, and the bulky sack that passed for a dress bulged in the most unlikely places. Above her double-chin was a tight, mean mouth, lined around the edges from constant clenching, and a dull, suet complexion. Behind the National Health glasses shone eyes whose intelligence, which Banks had no doubt she possessed, was glazed over with revolutionary zeal. Her speech was jagged with italics.

"I have been informed," she began, consulting a small black notebook for dramatic effect, "that while questioning the victims of your Peeping Tom, your sergeant's attitude was flippant, and, furthermore, that he expressed the desire to commit a similar act of violence against one interviewee in particular."

"Those are serious charges," Banks said, wishing he could smoke a cigarette. "Who made them?"

"I did."

"I don't remember you ever being a victim of the scopophiliac."

"Pardon?"

"I said I don't recall that you ever reported any invasion of your privacy."

"That's not the point. You're simply trying to obscure the issue."

"What issue?"

"Your sergeant's lewd and lascivious suggestions-an attitude, might I add, that reflects on the entire investigation of this whole scandalous affair."

"Who made the charges?" Banks repeated.

"I told you, I'm bringing them to your attention."

"On whose authority?"

"I represent the local women."

"Who says so?"

"Inspector Banks, this is infuriating! Will you or will you not listen to the charges?"

"I'll listen to them when I know who made them and what gives you the authority to pass them on."

Dorothy Wycombe moved further away from Banks and puffed herself up to her full size. 'I’ am the chairperson of WEEF."

"Weef?"

"W.E.E.F., Inspector Banks. The Women of Eastvale for Emancipation and Freedom. WEEF."

Banks had often thought it was amusing how groups twisted the language so that acronyms of organizations would sound like snappy words. It had started with NATO, SEATO, UNO and other important groups, progressed through such local manifestations as SPIT, SHOT and SPEAR, and now there was WEEK It didn't seem to matter at all that "Women of Eastvale" sounded vaguely medieval or that "Freedom" and "Emancipation" meant more or less the same thing. They simply existed to give birth to WEEF, which sounded to Banks like an impoverished "woof," or the kind of squeak a frightened mouse might utter.

"Very well," Banks conceded, making a note. "And who brought the complaint to your attention?"

"I'm not under any obligation to divulge my source," Dorothy Wycombe snapped back, quick as a reporter in the dock.

"Yesterday," Banks sighed, "Sergeant Hatchley spoke to Carol Ellis, Mandy Selkirk, Josie Campbell and Ellen Parry about their experiences. He also spoke to Molly Torbeck, who had been with Carol Ellis in The Oak on the night of the incident. Would you like me to interview each in turn and find out for myself? I can do that, you know."

"Do what you want. I'm not going to tell you."

"Right," Banks said, standing up to leave. "Then I've no intention of taking your complaint seriously. You must realize that we get a lot of unfounded allegations made against us, usually by overzealous members of the public. So many that we've got quite an elaborate system of screening them. I'm sure that, as a defender of freedom and emancipation, you wouldn't want anyone's career to suffer from injustice brought about by smear campaigns, would you?"

Banks thought Dorothy Wycombe was about to explode, so red did her face become. Her chins trembled and her knuckles whitened as she grasped the edge of Gristhorpe's desk.

"This is outrageous!" she shouted. "I'll not have my movement dictated to by a fascist police force."

"I'm sorry," Banks said, heading for the door. "We just can't deal with unidentified complainants."

"Carol Ellis!" The name burst from Dorothy Wycombe's tight mouth like a huge build-up of steam from a stuck valve. "Now will you sit down and listen to me?"

"Yes, ma'am," Banks said, taking out his notebook again.