A Necessary End (26 page)

“No, you bloody can't,” Burgess growled. “Not until you've told us what happened.”

“I didn't do anything, honestly. I've never killed anyone.”

“So why did you run?”

“I was frightened.”

“What of?”

“Frightened you'd fit me up for it anyway. You know I've done time.”

“Is that how you think we operate, Paul?” Banks asked gently. “Is that really what you think? You're wrong, you know. If you just tell us the truth you've nothing to fear.”

Burgess ignored him. “How did your prints get on the knife?”

“I must have handled it, I suppose.”

“That's better. Now when did you handle it, and why?”

Paul shrugged. “Could've been anytime.”

“Anytime?” Burgess shook his head with exaggerated slowness. “No it couldn't, sonny. No it couldn't. Want to know why? Your prints were right on top, numero uno, clear as day. You were the last person to handle that knife before we found it. How do you explain that?”

“All right, so I handled it after it'd been used. That still doesn't mean I killed anyone.”

“It does unless you've got a better explanation. And I haven't heard one yet.”

“How did you know we'd found the knife?” Banks asked.

“I saw that shepherd find it on the moor, so I took off.”

He was lying, Banks thought. Mara had told him. But he let it go for the moment.

Paul fell silent. The floor creaked as Burgess paced the office. Banks lit a Silk Cut, his last, and leaned back in his chair. “Look, Paul,” he said, “consider the facts. One: we found PC Gill's blood on the knife, and the doc tells us the blade fits the wound. Two: we found your prints on the handle. Three: we know you were at the demo—you were seen. Four: as soon as things start adding up, you bugger off to Scotland. Now you tell me what to make of it all. What would you think if you were me?”

Paul still said nothing.

“I'm getting fed up of this,” Burgess snarled. “Let's just lock the bastard up now. He's in on a warrant. We've got enough evidence. We don't need a confession. Hell, we don't even need a motive.”

“No!” Paul yelled.

“No what? You don't want us to lock you up? Dark down there, isn't it? Even a normal person feels the walls closing in on him down there, in the dark.”

Paul was pale and sweating now, and his mouth was clamped so tight that the muscles in his jaw quivered.

“Come on,” Banks said. “Why don't you just tell us. Save us all a lot of trouble. You say you've done nothing. If that's so, you've nothing to be worried about. Why hold back?”

“Stop mollycoddling him,” Burgess said. “He's not going to talk, you know that as well as I do. He's guilty as sin, and he knows it.” He turned to Hatchley. “Sergeant, send for a couple of men to take dick-head here down to the cells.”

“No!” Paul leaned forward and gripped the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white.

Burgess gestured to Hatchley to sit down again. The command was a bit premature, as the sergeant moved slowly and hadn't even got as far as putting his notebook away.

“Let me make it easy for you, Paul,” Banks said. “I'll tell you what I think happened and you tell me if it's true. All right?”

Paul took a deep breath and nodded.

“You took the knife from the farm. It was usually just lying around the place. It didn't belong to anyone in particular. Mara used it occasionally to cut twine and wool; maybe Seth used it sometimes to whittle a piece of wood. But that day, you picked it up, carried it to the demo with you, and killed PC Gill. Then you folded the blade over again, made your way to the edge of the crowd, and escaped down an alley. You ran to the edge of town, then across the moors back to the farm—almost four miles. About halfway there, you realized what you'd done, panicked, and chucked the knife away. Am I right. Paul?”

“I didn't kill anyone,” Paul repeated.

“But am I right about the rest?”

Silence.

“It's beginning to look like the thumbscrews for you, sonny.” Burgess leaned forward, his face only inches from Paul's. “I'm getting bored. I'm sick of the bloody north and this miserable bloody weather. I want to get back home to London, the civilized world. Understand? And you're standing in my way. I don't like people who stand in my way, and if they do it for long enough, they get knocked down. Savvy?”

Paul turned to Banks. “You're right about everything else,” he said. “But I didn't take the knife. I didn't kill the copper.”

“Police officer to you, dick-head,” Burgess snapped.

“How did you end up with it?” Banks asked.

“I got knocked down,” Paul said. “At the demo. And I curled up, like, with my hands behind my neck and my knees up in my chest, in the . . . the . . . what do you call it?”

“Foetal position?”

“Yes, the foetal position. There were people all around me, it was bloody awful. I kept getting booted. Then this knife got kicked towards me. I picked it up, like you said, and made off. But I didn't know it had killed anyone. I just thought it was a good knife, too good to waste, so I took it with me. Then on the moors, I saw there was blood on it, so I flung it away. That's how it happened.”

“You're a bloody liar,” Burgess said. “Do you think I'm an idiot? Is that what you take me for? I might be a city boy, but even I know there aren't any lights on the fucking moors. And even you're not stupid enough to lie there in the street, boots flying all around you, police everywhere, and think, ‘Oh, what a pretty blood-stained knife. I must take it home with me!' You've been talking cobblers.” He turned to Banks. “That's what you get for being soft with them, see. Spin you a yarn a bloody mile long.”

Swiftly, he grasped the back of Paul's neck and squeezed hard. Paul hung on to the edge of the desk and struggled, almost upsetting his flimsy chair. Then, just as abruptly, Burgess let go and leaned casually against the wall.

“Try again,” he said.

Paul massaged his neck and looked pleadingly at Banks, who remained impassive.

“It's true, I tell you,” Paul said. “I, swear it. I never killed him. I just picked up the knife.”

“Let's assume we believe you,” Banks said. “That still leaves us with a problem, doesn't it? And that problem is: why? Why did you pick up the murder weapon and sneak it away from the scene of the crime? See what I mean? It doesn't add up.”

Paul shifted in his seat, casting nervous glances at Burgess, who stood just within his peripheral vision. “I didn't even know there was a crime,” he said.

“Who are you protecting, Paul?” Banks asked.

“Nobody.” But Paul had answered so quickly and loudly that even the most gullible person in the world would have known he was lying. Recognizing his slip, he turned red and stared down at his knees.

“The people at Maggie's Farm took you in and cared for you, didn't they?” Banks said. “They were probably the first people who ever did. You were lost, just out of jail, no job, nowhere to go, at the end of your tether, and then you met them. It's not surprising you'd want to protect them, Paul, but can't you see how transparent you're being? Who do you suspect?”

“I don't know. Nobody.”

“Osmond, Tim Fenton, Abha Sutton? Would you go out of your way to protect them?” Paul said nothing.

Burgess slapped the metal table. “Tell him!”

Paul jumped, startled by the sound. “I might,” he said, glaring at Burgess. “I might protect anyone who killed a pig.”

Burgess backhanded him across the face. Paul went with the blow and almost fell out of his chair.

“Try again, dick-head.”

Banks grabbed Burgess by the elbow and led him over to the window. “Don't you think,” he said between gritted teeth, “that you'd do better using your brains instead of your bloody fists?”

“What's wrong with you, Banks? Gone soft? Is that why they sent you up here?”

Banks jerked his head towards Paul. “He's used to hard knocks. They don't mean anything to him, and you bloody well ought to know that. You're satisfying your sadistic urges, that's all.”

Burgess sniffed and turned back to Paul, who sat wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, sneering at both of them. He had overheard, Banks realized, and he probably thought the whole scene was staged just to throw him off balance. “You admit that when you found the knife on the ground you recognized it, right?” Banks asked.

“Yes.”

“And you didn't want any of your friends at the farm to get into trouble.”

“That's right.”

“So you took it and threw it away.”

“Yes. I went back on the moors to look for it a few times. I knew it was stupid just to throw it away without wiping it or anything, but I panicked. I should've taken it back to the farm and cleaned it up again, just like new. I know that now. I walked miles and miles looking for the bloody thing. Couldn't find it anywhere. And then that shepherd bloke turned up with it.”

“So who did you think you were protecting?”

“I don't know.” Paul took out a crumpled Kleenex and dabbed at the thin trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. “I've already told you, I didn't see who took the knife and I didn't see who used it.”

“We'll leave it for now, then.” Banks turned to Burgess. “What do you think?”

“I still think he's lying. Maybe he's not as thick as he looks. He's trying to put the blame on his mates, subtle like.”

“I'm not too sure,” Banks said. “He could be telling the truth. Problem is he's got no proof, has he? I mean, he could tell us anything.”

“And expect us to believe it. Let's lock him up for a while, anyway. Let him cool his heels. We'll question him again later and see if everything tallies.”

Paul, who had been glancing from one to the other with his mouth open, let out a cry. “No! I've told you, it's the truth. What more do you want me to do?”

Burgess shrugged and leaned back against the wall. Banks reached for a cigarette; his pack was empty. “Well, I'm inclined to believe him,” he said. “At least for the time being. Are you sure you didn't see who took the knife, Paul?”

“No. It could've been anyone.”

“That gives us seven suspects, am I right?” Banks counted them off on his fingers. “Seth, Rick, Zoe, Mara, Osmond, Tim and Abha. Was anyone else up there during the week before the demo? Anyone we don't know about?”

“No. And Mara wasn't there.”

“But the others all were? Zoe was?”

He nodded.

“Did any of them have a reason for killing PC Gill?” Banks asked. “Anyone know him? Had a run-in with him before?”

Paul shook his head. “Maybe the students. I don't know.”

“But I don't think you'd go out of your way to protect them, Paul, I really don't. Was Gill mentioned that afternoon?”

“Not that I heard.”

“You see, it still doesn't ring true,” Banks said. “Someone picking the knife up on purpose like that and taking it along, as if whoever did it knew he was going to do it. Premeditated, that is.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Oh, I think you do.” Banks smiled and stood up. “I'm just off for some cigarettes,” he said to Burgess. “I doubt that we'll get much more out of him.”

“Maybe not,” Burgess agreed. “Pick me up a tin of Thumbs, will you?”

“Sure.”

“And give my love to Glenys.”

Banks was grateful for the cool fresh air outside the station. He stood for a moment, breathing in and out deeply, then crossed Market Street to the Queen's Arms.

“Twenty Silk Cut and a tin of Tom Thumbs, please, Cyril,” he said.

“These for that mate of yours?” Cyril asked, slapping the cigars on the counter.

“I wish you'd stop calling him my mate. You'll be getting me a bad name.”

“Well, my Glenys has been acting a bit funny lately. She's an impressionable lass, if you know what I mean, and headstrong. Gets it from that bloody mother of hers. It's just little things, things only a husband notices, but if I find that your mate's behind it, I'll . . . Well, I needn't spell it out for you, need I, Mr Banks?”

“Not to me, Cyril, no. Better not. I'll inform him of your concern.”

“If you would.”

Back outside, Banks noticed that the light had gone out in his office window. No doubt they'd sent Boyd down to the cells and gone for coffee. As he crossed the street, he heard a scream. It came from above, he was certain of that, but he couldn't pin-point it exactly. Apprehensive, he hurried back upstairs and opened the door. The office was dark, but it wasn't empty.

When he flicked on the fluorescent light, Banks saw that Sergeant Hatchley had been sent away and only Boyd and Burgess remained. The slats on the venetian blind had been completely closed, shutting out all the light from the street, a feat Banks himself had never been able to manage in all the time he'd been in Eastvale.

Boyd was whimpering in the chair, sweating and gasping for breath. He looked up in terror when Banks came back. “He turned the lights off,” he said, struggling to get the words out, “and closed the blinds, the bastard.”

Banks glared at Burgess, who simply flashed him a “who, me?” look and said, “I think he was telling the truth. At least, if he wasn't, he's just given the most convincing performance of his life.”

“Under duress.” Banks tossed him the cigars. Burgess caught the tin deftly, unwrapped it and offered Banks one. “Celebrate with me?”

“I prefer these.” Banks lit a Silk Cut.

“You can have a smoke now if you want, kid,” Burgess said to Paul. “Though with a breathing problem like yours, I'd watch it.”

Paul lit up and coughed till he was red in the face. Burgess laughed.