Mrs. Allott poured the tea and laughed. "He always did have plenty of imagination, my Robin, didn't you?"

Robin ignored her. "How did it happen, anyway? How was she killed?"

"We're still not sure," Banks said. "It looks like she might have fallen over in a struggle with some kids come to rob her, but we're trying to cover any other possibilities. Have you any ideas?"

"I shouldn't think it was kids, surely?"

"Why not?"

"Weil, they wouldn't kill a frail old woman, would they?"

"You'd be surprised at what kids do these days, Mr. Allott. As I said, they might not have killed her intentionally.".,.

Robin smiled. "I'm a teacher at the College of Further Education, Inspector, so I'm no great believer in the innocence and purity of youth. But couldn't it have happened some other way?"

"We don't know. That's what I'm trying to determine. What do you have in mind?"

"Nothing, I'm afraid. It was just an idea."

"You can't think of anyone who might have held a grudge or wanted her out of the way for some other reason?"

"I'm sorry, no. I wish I could help, but…"

"That's all right," Banks said, standing to leave. "I wasn't expecting you to give us the answer. Is there anything else you can think of?"

"No. I can dig out that portrait for you, though, if you're interested."

Out of politeness' sake, Banks accompanied Robin upstairs and waited as he flipped through one of his many boxes of photographs. The picture of Alice, when he found it, was mounted on a mat and still seemed in very good shape. It showed a close-up of the old woman's head in semi-profile, and high-contrast processing had brought out the network of lines and wrinkles, the vivid topography of Alice Matlock's face. Her expression was proud, her eyes clear and lively.

"It's very good," Banks said. "How long have you been interested in photography?"

"Ever since I was at school."

"Ever thought of taking it up professionally?"

"As a police photographer?"

Banks laughed. "I didn't have anything as specific as that in mind," he said.

"I've thought of trying it as a freelance, yes," Robin said. "But it's too unpredictable. Better to stick to teaching."

"There is one more thing, while I'm here," Banks said, handing the photograph back to Robin. "It's just something I'm curious about. Do you ever get the impression that anyone at the Camera Club might be… not too serious… might be more interested in the models you get occasionally than in the artistic side?"

It was Robin's turn to laugh. "What an odd question," he said. "But, yes, there's always one or two seem to turn up only when we've got a model in. What did Sandra say?"

"To tell the truth," Banks said, "I didn't like to ask her. She's a bit sensitive about it and I've probably teased her too much as it is."

"I see."

"Who are these people?"

"Their names?"

"Yes."

"Well, I don't know…" Robin said hesitantly.

"Don't worry," Banks assured him, "you won't be getting them into trouble. They won't even know we've heard their names if they've done nothing wrong."

"All right." Robin took a deep breath. "Geoff Welling and Barry Scott are the ones who spring to mind. They seem decent enough sorts, but they hardly ever turn up and I've never seen any examples of their work."

"Thank you," Banks said, writing down the names. "What do they look like?"

"They're both in their late twenties, about my age. Five-ten to six feet. Barry's got a bit of a beer belly but Geoff seems fit enough. What's all this about? That Peeping Tom business?"

"Robin!" Mrs. Allott shouted from the bottom of the stairs. "Can you come and take your dad up his tea and biscuits?"

"Coming," Robin yelled back, and followed Banks down the stairs.

"Another cup of tea, Inspector?" Mrs. Allott asked.

"No, I won't if you don't mind," Banks said. "Have to get home."

As he walked the short distance back home, Banks tried to pinpoint exactly what it was that Robin had said to increase his uneasy feeling about the Alice Matlock killing.

Apart from the immediate shock, which had made her scream, Sandra felt very calm about her experience. One minute she had been undressing for bed, as she had done thousands of times before, absorbed in her own private rituals, and the next moment that world was in tatters, would probably never really be the same again. She realized that the idea of such permanent ruin was melodramatic, so she kept it to herself, but she could think of no other way to express the complex sense of violation she had experienced.

She wasn't scared; she wasn't even angry after the shock had worn off and the adrenaline dispersed. Surprisingly, her main feeling was pity-Harriet's compassion-because Sandra did feel sorry for the man in a way she found impossible to explain, even to herself.

It was something to do with the unnaturalness of his act. Sandra had always been fortunate in having a healthy attitude toward sex. She had neither needed nor wanted the help of manuals, marital aids, awkward positions or suburban wife-swapping clubs to keep her sex life interesting, and it was partly because of this, her own sexual healthiness, that she felt sorry for the pathetic man who could only enjoy sex in such a vicarious, secretive way. Her pity was not a soft and loving feeling, though; it was more akin to contempt.

That Sunday morning as she rang Selena Harcourt's doorbell, which played a fragment of "Lara's Theme" from Doctor Zhivago, she thanked her lucky stars for the hundredth time that she had managed to persuade Alan not to report the incident. It had gone against all his instincts, and the task had required all of Sandra's rhetorical expertise, but she had done it, and here she was, about to fulfill her part of the bargain.

"Oh, hello, Sandra, do come in," Selena said in her cooing voice. "Excuse the mess."

There was, of course, no mess. Selena's living room was spick and span, as always. It smelled of pine air-freshener and lemon-scented disinfectant, and all the souvenir ashtrays and costume-dolls from the Algarve, the Costa del Sol and various other European resorts simply glowed with health and shone with cleanliness.

The only new addition to the household was a gloomy poodle, called Pepe, who turned around slowly from his spot by the fireplace and looked at Sandra as if to apologize for his ridiculous appearance: the clippings and bows that Selena had inflicted on him in the hope that he might win a prize in the upcoming dog show. Sandra duly lavished hypocritical praise upon the poor creature, who gave her a very sympathetic and conspiratorial look, then she sat uneasily on the sofa. She always sat uneasily in Selena's house because everything looked as if it were on show, not quite real or functional.

"I was just saying to Kenneth, we haven't seen very much of you lately. You've not been to one of our coffee mornings for simply ages."

"It's the job," Sandra explained. "I work three mornings a week for Dr. Maxwell now, remember?"

"Of course," Selena said. "The dentist." Somehow or other, she managed to give the word just the right shade of emphasis to imply that although dentists might be necessary, they were certainly not desirable in respectable society.

"That's right."

"So what else have you been up to since we last had a little chat?"

Sandra couldn't remember when that was, so she gave a potted history of the last month, to which Selena listened politely before offering tea.

"Have you heard about this Peeping Tom business?" she called through from the kitchen.

"Yes," Sandra shouted back.

"Of course, I keep forgetting your hubby's on the force. You must know all about it, then?" Selena said as she brought in the tray bearing tea and a selection of very fattening confectionery.