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these days, aren’t they? Not properly fed, that’s the problem.”
    “Clothes?”
    “Ordinary.”
    “Can you be a bit more specific?”
    “Eh?”
    “Was he wearing a suit, jeans, leather jacket, T-shirt, pyjamas—what?”
    “Oh. No, it wasn’t leather. It was that other stuff, bit like it only not as smooth. Brown. Roughish. ’Orrible to touch—fair makes your fingers shiver.”
    “Suede?”
    “That’s it. Suede. A brown suede jacket and jeans. Just ordinary blue jeans.”
    “And his shirt?”
    “Don’t remember. I think he kept his jacket zipped up.”
    “Do you remember anything about his voice, any mannerisms?”
    “Come again?”
    “Where would you place his accent?”
    “Local, like. Or maybe Lancashire. I can’t tell the difference, though there are some as says they can.”
    “Nothing odd about it? High-pitched, deep, husky?” “Sounded like he smoked too much, I can remember that. And he did smoke, too. Coughed every time he lit one up. Really stank up the shop.”
    Banks passed on that one. “So he had a smoker’s cough and a rough voice with a local accent, that right?”
    “That’s right, sir.” Crutchley was shifting from foot to foot, clearly looking forward to the moment when Banks would thank him and leave.
    “Was his voice deep or high?”
    “Kind of medium, if you know what I mean.”
    “Like mine?”
    “Yes, like yours, sir. But not the accent. You speak proper, you do. He didn’t.”
    “What do you mean he didn’t speak properly? Did he have some kind of speech impediment?” Banks could see Crutchley mentally kicking himself for being so unwisely unctuous as to prolong the interview.
    “No, nothing like that. I just meant like ordinary folks, sir, not like you. Like someone who hadn’t been properly educated.”
    “He didn’t stutter or lisp, did he?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Fine. One last question: had you ever seen him before?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Inspector Barnshaw will want you to look at some photos later today, and he’s going to ask you to repeat your description to a police artist. So do your best, keep him in focus. And if you see him again or think of anything else, I’d appreciate your getting in touch with me.” Banks wrote down his name and number on a card.
    “I’ll call you, sir, I’ll do that, if I ever clap eyes on him again,” Crutchley gushed, and Banks got the distinct impression that his own methods appealed more than Barnshaw’s.
    Banks heard the sigh of relief when he closed his notebook and thanked Crutchley, avoiding a handshake by moving off rather sharply. It wasn’t a great description, and it didn’t ring any bells, but it would do; it would take him closer to the two balaclava-wearing thugs who had robbed three old ladies in one month, scared them all half to death, vandalized their homes and broken the arm of one seventy-five-year-old woman.

 
     
     
THREE
     
I
     
    The white Cortina skidded to a halt outside Eastvale Community Centre, splashing up a sheet of spray from the kerbside puddles. Sandra Banks jumped out, ten minutes late, pushed open the creaking door as gently as she could, and tiptoed in, aware of the talk already in progress. One or two of the regulars looked around and smiled as they saw her slip as unobtrusively as possible into the empty chair next to Harriet Slade.
    “Sorry,” she whispered, putting her hand to the side of her mouth. “Weather. Damn car wouldn’t start.”
    Harriet nodded. “You’ve not missed much.”
    “However beautiful, majestic or overwhelming the landscape appears to your eyes,” the speaker said, “remember, you have no guarantee that it will turn out well on film. In fact, most landscape photography—as I’m sure those of you who have tried it know—turns out to be extremely disappointing. The camera’s eye differs from the human eye; it lacks all the other senses that feed into our experience. Remember that holiday in Majorca or Torremolinos? Remember how