A Necessary End (11 page)

Jenny was flushed and speechless with rage; Banks himself felt pale and impotent. He should have known that nothing would slip by Burgess.

“I can't tell you anything,” Osmond repeated wearily. “Why can't you believe me? I don't know who killed that policeman. I didn't see it, I didn't do it, and I don't know who did.”

A long silence followed. At least it seemed long to Banks, who was aware only of the pounding of his heart. Finally Burgess stood up and walked over to the window, where he stubbed out his cigar on the white sill. Then he turned and smiled. Osmond gripped the tubular arms of his chair tightly.

“Okay,” Burgess said, turning to Banks. “We'll be off, then, for the moment. Sorry to spoil your afternoon in bed. You can get back to it now, if you like.” He looked at Jenny and licked his lips. “That's a fetching shirt you've got on, love,” he said to her. “But you didn't need to leave it half-unbuttoned just for me. I've got plenty of imagination.”

Back in the car, Banks was fuming. “You were way out of line in there,” he said. “There was no reason to insult Jenny, and there was
especially no need to bring me into it the way you did. What the hell were you trying to achieve?”

“Just trying to stir them up a bit, that's all.”

“So how does making me out to be a bloody lecher stir them up?”

“You're not thinking clearly, Banks. We make Osmond jealous, maybe he lets his guard down.” Burgess grinned. “Anyway, there's nothing in it, is there, you and her?”

“Of course there isn't.”

“Methinks this fellow doth protest too much.”

“Fuck off.”

“Oh, come on,” Burgess said calmly. “Don't take it so seriously. You use what you need to get results. Christ, I don't blame you. I wouldn't mind tumbling her, myself. Lovely pair of tits under that shirt. Did you see?”

Banks took a deep breath and reached for a cigarette. There was no point, he realized, in going on. Burgess was an unstoppable force. However angry and disoriented Banks felt, it would do no good to let more of it show. Instead, he put his emotions in check, something he knew he should have done right from the start. But the feelings still rankled as they knotted up below the surface. He was mad at Burgess, he was mad at Osmond, he was mad at Jenny and he was mad, most of all, at himself.

Starting the car with a lurch, he shoved the cassette back in and turned up the volume. Billie Holiday sang “God Bless the Child,” and Burgess whistled blithely along as they sped through the bright, blustery March day back to the market square.

III

They were all a bit drunk, and that was unusual at Maggie's Farm. Mara certainly hadn't been so tipsy for a long time. Rick was sketching them as they sat around the living-room. Paul drank lager from the can, and even Zoe had turned giggly on white wine. But Seth was the worst. His speech was slurred, his eyes were watery, and his coordination was askew. He was also getting maudlin about the sixties, something he never did when he was sober. Mara had seen him drunk
only once before, the time he had let slip about the death of his wife. Mostly, he was well-guarded and got on with life without moaning.

Things had begun well enough. After the police visit, they had all walked down to the Black Sheep for a drink. Perhaps the feeling of relief, of celebration, had encouraged them to drink more than usual, and they had splurged on a few cans of Carlsberg Special Brew, some white wine and a bottle of Scotch to take home. Most of the afternoon Seth and Mara had lounged about over the papers or dozed by the fire, while Paul messed about in the shed, Rick painted in his studio, and Zoe amused the children. Early in the evening they all got together, and the whisky and wine started making the rounds.

Seth stumbled over to the stereo and sought out a scratchy old Grateful Dead record from his collection. “Those were the days,” he said. “All gone now. All people care about today is money. Bloody yuppies.”

Rick looked up from his sketch-pad and laughed. “When was it ever any different?”

“Isle of Wight, Knebworth . . .” Seth went on, listing the rock festivals he'd been to. “People really shared back then. . . .”

Mara listened to him ramble. They had been under a lot of stress since the demo, she thought, and this was clearly Seth's way of getting it out of his system. It was easy to fall under the spell of nostalgia. She remembered the sixties, too—or more accurately the late sixties, when the hippie era had really got going in England. Things
had
seemed better back then. Simpler. More clear-cut. There was us and them, and you knew
them
by the shortness of their hair.

“. . . . Santana, Janis, Hendrix, the Doors. Jesus, even the Hare Krishnas were fun back then. Now they all wear bloody business suits and wigs. I remember one time—”

“It's all crap!” Paul shouted, banging his empty can on the floor. “It was never like that. It's just a load of cobblers you're talking, Seth.”

“How would you know?” Seth sat up and balanced unsteadily on his elbow. “You weren't there, were you? You were nought but a twinkle in your old man's eye.”

“My mum and dad were hippies,” Paul said scornfully. “Fucking flower children. She OD'd, and he was too bloody stoned to take care of me, so he gave me away.”

Mara was stunned. Paul had never spoken about his true parents before, only about the way he had been badly treated in his foster home. If it was true, she thought, did he really see Seth and her in the same light? They were about the right age. Did he hate them, too?

But she couldn't believe that. There was another side to the coin. Maybe Paul was looking for what he had lost, and he had found at least some of it at Maggie's Farm. They didn't take drugs and, while she and Seth might have grown up in the sixties and tried to cling onto some of its ideals, they neither looked nor acted like hippies any longer.

“We're not like that,” she protested, looking over at Zoe for support. “You know it, Paul. We care about you. We'd never desert you. It was fun back then for a lot of people. Seth's only reminiscing about his youth.”

“I know,” Paul said grudgingly. “I can't say I had one worth reminiscing about, myself. Anyway, I'm only saying, Mara, that's all. It wasn't all peace and love like Seth tells it. He's full of shit.”

“You're right about that, mate,” Rick agreed, putting down his sketch-pad and pouring another shot of Scotch. “I never did have much time for hippies myself. Nothing but a moaning, whining bunch of little kids, if you ask me. Seth's just pissed, that's all. Look at him now, anyway—he's a bloody landowner, a landlord even. Pretty soon it'll be baggy tweeds and out shooting pheasant every afternoon. Sir Seth Cotton, Squire of Maggie's Farm.”

But Seth had slumped back against a beanbag and seemed to have lost all interest in the conversation. His eyes were closed, and Mara guessed that he was either asleep or absorbed in the soaring Jerry Garcia guitar solo.

“Where's your father now?” Mara asked Paul.

“I don't fucking know. Don't fucking care, either.” Paul ripped open another can of lager.

“But didn't he ever get in touch?”

“Why should he? I told you, he was too zonked out to notice me even when I was there.”

“It's still no reason to say everyone was like that,” Mara said. “All Seth was saying was that the spirit of love was strong back then. All that talk about the Age of Aquarius meant something.”

“Yeah, and what's happened to it now? Two thousand years of this
crap I can do without, thanks very much. Let's just forget the fucking past and get on with life.” With that, Paul got up and left the room.

Jerry Garcia played on. Seth stirred, opened one bloodshot eye, then closed it again.

Mara poured herself and Zoe some more white wine, then her mind wandered back to Paul. As if she weren't confused enough already, the hostility he'd shown tonight and the new information about his feelings for his parents muddied the waters even more. She was scared of approaching him about the blood on his hand, and she was beginning to feel frightened to go on living in the same house as someone she suspected of murder. But she hated herself for feeling that way about him, for not being able to trust him completely and believe in him.

What she needed was somebody to talk to, somebody she could trust from outside the house. She felt like a woman with a breast lump who was afraid to go to the doctor and find out if it really was cancer.

And what made it worse was that she'd noticed the knife was missing: the flick-knife Seth said he had bought in France years ago. Everybody else must have noticed, too, but no one had mentioned it. The knife had been lying on the mantelpiece for anyone to use ever since she'd been at Maggie's Farm, and now it was gone.

IV

Banks ate the fish and chips he had bought on the way home, then went into the living-room. Screw gourmet cooking, he thought. If that irritating neighbour, Selena Harcourt, didn't turn up with some sticky dessert to feed him up “while the little woman's away,” he'd have the evening to relax instead of mixing up sauces that never turned out anyway.

He had calmed down soon after leaving Burgess at the station. The bastard had been right. What had happened at Osmond's, he realized, had not been particularly serious, but his shock at finding Jenny there had made him exaggerate things. His reaction had been extreme, and for a few moments, he'd lost his detachment. That was
all. It had happened before and it would happen again. Not the end of the world.

He poured a drink, put his feet up and turned on the television. There was a special about the Peak District on Yorkshire TV. Half-watching, he flipped through Tracy's latest copy of
History Today
and read an interesting article on Sir Titus Salt, who had built a Utopian community called Saltaire, near Bradford, for the workers in his textile mills. It would be a good place to visit with Sandra and the kids, he thought. Sandra could take photographs; Tracy would be fascinated; and surely even Brian would find something of interest. The problem was that Sir Titus had been a firm teetotaller. There were no pubs in Saltaire. Obviously one man's Utopia is another man's Hell.

The article made him think of Maggie's Farm. He liked the place and respected Seth and Mara. They had shown antagonism towards him, but that was only to be expected. In his job, he was used to much worse. He didn't take it personally. Being a policeman was like being a vicar in some ways; people could never be really comfortable with you, even when you dropped into the local for a pint.

The TV programme finished, and he decided there was no point putting off the inevitable. Picking up the phone, he dialled Jenny's number. He was in luck; she answered on the third ring.

“Jenny? It's Alan.”

There was a pause at the other end. “I'm not sure I want to talk to you,” she said finally.

“Could you be persuaded to?”

“Try.”

“I just wanted to apologize for this afternoon. I hadn't expected to see you there.”

Only the slight crackle of the line filled the silence. “It surprised me, too,” Jenny said. “You keep some pretty bad company.”

I could say the same for you, too, Banks thought. “Yes,” he said, “I know.”

“I do think you should keep him on a leash in future. You could maybe try a muzzle on him as well.” She was obviously warming to him again, he could tell.

“Love to. But he's the boss. How did Osmond take it?” The name almost stuck in his throat.

“He was pissed off, all right. But it didn't last. Dennis is resilient. He's used to police harassment.”

There was silence again, more awkward this time.

“Well,” Banks said, “I just wanted to say I was sorry.”

“Yes. You've said that already. It wasn't your fault. I'm not used to seeing you in a supporting role. You're not at your best like that, you know.”

“What did you expect me to do? Jump up and hit him?”

“No, I didn't mean anything like that. But when he said what he did about us I could see you were ready to.”

“Was it so obvious?”

“It was to me.”

“I blew up at him in the car.”

“I thought you would. What did he say?”

“Just laughed it off.”

“Charming. I could have killed him when he said that about my shirt being undone.”

“It was, though.”

“I dressed in a hurry. I wanted to know what was going on.”

“I know. I'm not trying to make out you did it on purpose or anything. It's just that, well, with a bloke like him around you've got to be extra careful.”

“Now I know. Though I hope I won't have the pleasure again.”

“He doesn't give up easily,” Banks said gloomily.

“Nor do I. Where are you? What are you doing?”

“At home. Relaxing.”

“Me, too. Is Sandra back?”

“No.” The silence crackled again. Banks cleared his throat. “Look,” he said, “when I mentioned dinner the other day, before all this, I meant it. How about tomorrow?”

“Can't tomorrow. I've got an evening class to teach.”

“Tuesday?”

Jenny paused. “I suppose I can break my date,” she said. “It had better be worth it, though.”

“The Royal Oak is always worth it. My treat. I need to talk to you.”

“Business?”

“I'm hoping you can help me get a handle on some of those
Maggie's Farm people. Seth and Mara are about my age. It's funny how we all grew up in the sixties and turned out so different.”

“Not really. Everybody's different.”

“I liked the music. I just never felt I fit in with the longhaired crowd. Mind you, I did try pot once or twice.”

“Alan! You didn't?”

“I did.”

“And here's me thinking you're so strait-laced. What happened?”