"I know that. It just irritates me, being criticized publicly when I'm doing the best I can."

"Well, now's your chance to put that right. What about this fence in Leeds? Think it'll lead anywhere with the break-ins?"

Banks shrugged. "Might do. Depends on Mr. Crutchley's power of recall. These things vary."

"According to the level of threat you convey? Yes, I know. I should imagine Joe Barnshaw's done some groundwork for you. He's a good man. Why bother yourself? Why not let him handle it?"

"It's our case. I'd rather talk to Crutchley myself- that way I can't blame anyone else if mistakes are made. What he says might ring a bell, too. I'll ask Inspector Barnshaw to show him the pictures later, get an artist in if the description's good enough."

Gristhorpe nodded. "Makes sense. Taking Sergeant Hatchley?"

"No, I'll handle this by myself. I'll put Hatchley on the peeper business till I get back."

"Do you think that's wise?"

"He can't do much damage in an afternoon, can he? Besides, if he does, it'll give the feminists a target worthy of their wrath."

Gristhorpe laughed. "Away with you, Alan. Throwing your sergeant to the wolves like that."

It was raining hard. Hatchley covered his head with a copy of The Sun as he ran with Banks across Market Street to the Golden Grill. It was a narrow street, but by the time they got there the page-three beauty was sodden. The two sat down at a window table and looked out at distorted shop-fronts through the runnels of rain, silent until their standing order of coffee and toasted teacakes was duly delivered by the perky, petite young waitress in her red checked dress.

The relationship between the inspector and his sergeant had changed slowly over the six months Banks had been in Eastvale. At first, Hatchley had resented an "incomer," especially one from the big city, being brought in to do the job he had expected to get. But as they worked together, the Dalesman had come to respect, albeit somewhat grudgingly (for a Yorkshire-man's respect is often tempered with a sarcasm intended to deflate airs and graces), his inspector's sharp mind and the effort Banks had made to adapt to his new environment.

Hatchley had got plenty of laughs observing this latter process. At first, Banks had been hyperactive, running on adrenaline, chain-smoking Capstan Full Strength, exactly as he had in his London job. But all this had changed over the months as he got used to the slower pace in Yorkshire. Outwardly, he was now calm and relaxed-deceptively so, as Hatchley knew, for inside he was a dynamo, his energy contained and channeled, flashing in his bright dark eyes. He still had his tempers, and he retained a tendency to brood when frustrated. But these were good signs; they produced results. He had also switched to mild cigarettes, which he smoked sparingly.

Hatchley felt more comfortable with him now, even though they remained two distinctly different breeds, and he appreciated his boss's grasp of northern informality. A working-class Southerner didn't seem so different from a Northerner, after all. Now, when Hatchley called Banks "sir," it was plain by his tone that he was puzzled or annoyed, and Banks had learned to recognize the dry, Yorkshire irony that could sometimes be heard in his sergeant's voice.

For his part, Banks had learned to accept, but not to condone, the prejudices of his sergeant and to appreciate his doggedness and the sense of threat that he could, when called for, convey to a reticent suspect. Banks's menace was cerebral, but some people responded better to Hatchley's sheer size and gruff voice. Though he never actually used violence, Hatchley made criminals believe that perhaps the days of the rubber hose weren't quite over. The two also worked well together in interrogation. Suspects would become particularly confused when the big, rough-and-tumble Dalesman turned avuncular and Banks, who didn't even look tall enough to be a policeman, raised his voice.

"Hell's bloody bells, I can't see why I have to spend so much time chasing a bloke who just likes to look at a nice pair of knockers," said Hatchley, as the two of them lit cigarettes and sipped coffee.

Banks sighed. Why was it, he wondered, that talking to Hatchley always made him, a moderate socialist, feel like a bleeding-heart liberal?

"Because the women don't want to be looked at," he answered tersely.

Hatchley grunted. "If you saw the way that Carol Ellis dressed on a Sat'day night at The Oak you wouldn't think that."

"Her choice, Sergeant. I assume she wears at least some clothes at The Oak? Otherwise you'd be derelict in your duty for not pulling her in on indecent exposure charges."

"Whatever it is, it ain't indecent." Hatchley winked.

"Everybody deserves privacy, and this peeper's violating it," Banks argued. "He's breaking the law, and we're paid to uphold it. Simple as that." He knew that it was far from simple, but had neither the patience nor the inclination to enter into an argument about the police in society with Sergeant Hatchley.

"But it's not as if he's dangerous."

"He is to his victims. Physical violence isn't the only dangerous crime. You mentioned The Oak just now. Does the woman often drink there?"

"I've seen her there a few times. It's my local."

"Do you think our man might have seen her there, too, and followed her home? If she dresses like you say, he might have got excited looking at her."

"Do myself," Hatchley admitted cheerfully. "But peeping's not my line. Yes, it's possible. Remember, it was a Monday, though."

"So?"

"Well, in my experience, sir, the women don't dress up quite so much on a Monday as a Sat'day. See, they have to go to work the next day so they can't spend all night-"

"All right," Banks said, holding up his hand. "Point taken. What about the others?"

"What about them?"

"Carol Ellis is the fourth. There were three others before her. Did any of them drink at The Oak?"

"Can't remember. I do recollect seeing Josie Campbell there a few times. She was one of them, wasn't she?"

"Yes, the second. Look, go over the statements and see if you can find out if any of the others were regulars at The Oak. Go talk to them. Jog their memories. Look for some kind of a pattern. They needn't have been there just prior to the incidents. If not, find out where they do drink, look up where they were before they were…"

"Peeped on?" Hatchley suggested.

Banks laughed uneasily. "Yes. There isn't really a proper word for it, is there?"

"Talking about peeping, I saw a smashing bit of stuff coming out of Gristhorpe's office. Is he turning into a dirty old man?"

"That was Dr. Jenny Fuller," Banks told him. "She's a psychologist, and I'm going to be working with her on a profile of our peeper."

"Lucky you. Hope the missus doesn't find out."

"You've got a dirty mind, Sergeant. Get over to The Oak this lunchtime. Talk to the bar staff. Find out if anyone paid too much attention to Carol Ellis or if anyone seemed to be watching her. Anything odd. You know the routine. If the lunchtime staffs different, get back there tonight and talk to the ones who were in last night. And talk to Carol Ellis again, too, while it's fresh in her mind."

"This is work, sir?"

"Yes."

"At The Oak?"

"That's what I said."

Hatchley broke into a big grin, like a kid who'd lost a penny and found a pound. "I'll see what I can do, then," he said, and with that he was off like a shot. After all, Banks thought as he finished his coffee and watched a woman struggle in the doorway with a transparent umbrella, it was eleven o'clock. Opening time.