Graham's hands shook as he picked up the breakfast dishes and carried them to the sink. Soon it would be opening time. At least since he'd stopped doing morning papers he got a bit of a lie-in. In the old days, when Maureen was around, he'd had to get up at six o'clock, and he'd kept it going as long as he could. Now he couldn't afford to employ a flock of paper-carriers, nor could he manage to pay the assistant he would need to deal with other business. As things were, he could just about handle it all himself-orders, accounts, stock checks, shelf arrangements-and usually still manage to come up with a smile and a hello for the customers.

His real worry was Trevor, and he didn't know if he was going about things the right way or not. He knew he had a bit of a temper and went on at the lad too much. Maybe it was better to leave him alone, wait till he passed through the phase himself. But perhaps then it would be too late.

Graham stacked the dishes in the drainer, checked his watch, and walked through to the shop. Five minutes late. He turned the sign to read OPEN and unlocked the door. Grouchy old Ted Croft was already counting out his pennies, shuffling his feet as he waited for his week's supply of baccy. Not a good start to the day.

Banks reluctantly snapped off his Walkman in the middle of Dido's lament and walked into the station, a Tudor-fronted building in the town center, where Market Street ran into the cobbled square. He said "Good morning" to Sergeant Rowe at the desk and climbed upstairs to his office.

The whitewashed walls and black-painted beams of the building's exterior belied its modern, functional innards. Banks's office, for example, featured a Venetian blind that was almost impossible to work and a gray metal desk with drawers that rattled. The only human touch was the calendar on the wall, with its series of local scenes. The illustration for October showed a stretch of the River Wharfe, near Grassington, with trees lining the waterside in full autumn color. It was quite a contrast to the real October: nothing but gray skies, rain and cold winds so far.

On his desk was a message from Superintendent Gristhorpe: "Alan, Come see me in my office soon as you get in. G."

Remembering first to unhook the Walkman and put it in his desk drawer, Banks walked along the corridor and knocked on the superintendent's door.

"Come in," Gristhorpe called, and Banks entered.

Inside was luxury-teak desk, bookcases, shaded table lamps-most of which had been supplied by Gristhorpe himself over the years.

"Ah, good morning Alan," the superintendent greeted him, "I'd like you to meet Dr. Fuller." He gestured toward the woman sitting opposite him, and she stood up to shake Banks's hand. She had a shock of curly red hair, bright green eyes with crinkly laugh-lines around the edges, and a luscious mouth. The turquoise top she was wearing looked like a cross between a straitjacket and a dentist's smock. Below that she wore rust-colored cords that tapered to a halt just above her shapely ankles. All in all, Banks thought, the doctor was a knock-out.

"Please, Inspector Banks," Dr. Fuller said as she gently let go of his hand, "call me Jenny."

"Jenny it is, then," Banks smiled and dug for a cigarette. "I suppose that makes me Alan."

"Not if you don't want to be." Her sparkling eyes seemed to challenge him.

"Not at all, it's a pleasure," he said, meeting her gaze. Then he remembered Gristhorpe's recent ban against smoking in his office, and put the pack away.

"Dr. Fuller is a professor at York University," Gristhorpe explained, "but she lives here in Eastvale. Psychology's her field, and I brought her in to help with the Peeping Tom case. Actually," he turned a charming smile in Jenny's direction, "Dr. Fuller-Jenny-was recommended by an old and valued friend of mine in the department. We were hoping she might be able to work with us on a profile."

Banks nodded. "It would certainly give us more than we've got already. How can I help?"

"I'd just like to talk to you about the details of the incidents," Jenny said, looking up from a notepad that rested on her lap. "There's been three so far, is that right?"

"Four now, counting last night's. All blonds."

Jenny nodded and made the change in her notes.

"Perhaps the two of you can arrange to meet sometime," Gristhorpe suggested.

"Is now no good?" Banks asked.

"Afraid not," Jenny said. "This might take a bit of time, and I've got a class in just over an hour. Look, what about tonight, if it's not too much of an imposition on your time?"

Banks thought quickly. It was Tuesday; Sandra would be at the Camera Club, and the kids, now trusted in the house without a sitter, would be overjoyed to spend an opera-free evening. "All right," he agreed. "Make it seven in the Queen's Arms across the street, if that's okay with you."

When Jenny smiled, the lines around her eyes crinkled with pleasure and humor. "Why not? It's an informal kind of procedure anyway. I just want to build up a picture of the psychological type."

"I'll look forward to it, then," Banks said.

Jenny picked up her briefcase and he held the door open for her. Gristhorpe caught his eye and beckoned him to stay behind. When Jenny had gone, Banks settled back into his chair, and the superintendent rang for coffee.

"Good woman," Gristhorpe said, rubbing a hairy hand over his red, pockmarked face. "I asked Ted Simpson to recommend a bright lass for the job, and I think he did his homework all right, don't you?"

"It remains to be seen," replied Banks. "But I'll agree she bodes well. You said a woman. Why? Has Mrs. Hawkins stopped cooking and cleaning for you?"

Gristhorpe laughed. "No, no. Still brings me fresh scones and keeps the place neat and tidy. No, I'm not after another wife. I just thought it would be politic, that's all."

Banks had a good idea what Gristhorpe meant, but he chose to carry on playing dumb. "Politic?"

"Aye, politic. Diplomatic. Tactful. You know what it means. It's the biggest part of my job. The biggest pain in the arse, too. We've got the local feminists on our backs, haven't we? Aren't they saying we're not doing our job because it's women who are involved? Well, if we can be seen to be working with an obviously capable, successful woman, then there's not a lot they can say, is there?"

Banks smiled to himself. "I see what you mean. But how are we going to be seen to be working with Jenny Fuller? It's hardly headline material."

Gristhorpe put a finger to the side of his hooked nose. "Jenny Fuller's attached to the local feminists. She'll report back everything that's going on."

"Is that right?" Banks grinned. "And I'm going to be working with her? I'd better be on my toes, then, hadn't I?"

"It shouldn't be any problem, should it?" Gristhorpe asked, his guileless blue eyes as disconcerting as a newborn baby's. "We've got nothing to hide, have we? We know we're doing our best on this one. I just want others to know, that's all. Besides, those profiles can be damn useful in a case like this. Help us predict patterns, know where to look. And she won't be hard on the eyes, will she? A right bobby-dazzler, don't you think?"

"She certainly is."

"Well, then." Gristhorpe smiled and slapped both his hands on the desk. "No problem, is there? Now, how's that break-in business going?"

"It's very odd, but we've had three of those in a month, too, all involving old women alone in their homes-one even got a broken arm-and we've got about as far with that as we have with the Tom business. The thing is, though, there are no pensioners' groups giving us a lot of stick, telling us we're not doing anything because only old people are getting hurt."

"It's the way of the times, Alan," Gristhorpe said. "And you have to admit that the feminists do have a point, even if it doesn't apply in this particular case."