A Necessary End (28 page)

“Come on.” Banks took Mara's arm gently. She shook his hand off but walked beside him back upstairs. “You've seen that he's all right. No bruises.”

“None that show, no.”

“How did you get here?” Banks asked as they walked out of the station into the glorious day.

“I walked over the moors.”

“I'll give you a lift back.”

“No. I'm happy walking, thanks.”

“No strings. I'm going up there anyway.”

“Why?”

“Just a few questions for Seth.”

“Questions, bloody questions.”

“Come on.”

Mara got into the Cortina beside him. She sat in silence with her hands on her lap as Banks pulled out of the car-park and set off up North Market Street for the Swainsdale road. They passed the Community Centre steps, where Gill had been stabbed. The spot looked as innocent as everywhere else that day; no signs of violence and bloodshed lingered in the grey stone. Banks pushed the tape in and the Deller Consort sang “It Was a Lover and His Lass.” Mara managed a weak smile at the hey-noni-nos, peering curiously at Banks as if she found it hard to connect him with the music he played.

A couple of fishermen sat under the trees in the river-meadows, and there were more walkers on the road than Banks had seen since the previous October. Even the wind chimes up at Maggie's Farm seemed to be playing a happier tune, despite the misfortune that had befallen the place. But nature is rarely in harmony with human affairs,
Banks thought. It follows its predetermined natural cycles, while we fall victim to random, irrational forces, thoughts and deeds. It's natural to identify with the rain and clouds when we feel depressed, but if the sun shines brightly and we still feel depressed, we don't bother bringing the weather into it at all.

Banks found Seth in his workshop. Wearing his overalls, he was bent over the bench, planing a long piece of wood. Shavings curled and fell to the floor, releasing the clean scent of pine. Noticing his guest, he paused and put down his plane. Banks leaned against the wall near the dusty bookcase.

“What is it now?” Seth asked. “I thought you'd got your man.”

“It does look like it. But I'm the kind who likes to tie up loose ends.”

“Unlike your friend.”

“Superintendent Burgess doesn't concern himself overmuch with little details,” Banks said. “But he doesn't have to live up here.”

“How is Paul?”

Banks told him.

“So, what are your loose ends?”

“It's that number in your book.” Banks frowned and scratched the scar by his right eye. “I've found out what it means.”

“Oh?”

“It was PC Gill's number. PC 1139.”

Seth picked up his plane and began to work slowly at the pine again.

“Why was it written in your notebook?”

“It's quite a coincidence, I'll admit that,” Seth said without looking up. “But I told you, I haven't got the faintest idea what it meant.”

“Did you write it down?”

“I don't remember doing so. But pick any page of the book and the odds are I'd hardly have it ingrained deeply in my memory.”

“Did you know PC Gill?”

“I never had the pleasure.”

“Could anyone else have scribbled it down?”

“Of course. I don't lock the place up. But why should they?”

Banks had no idea. “Why did you tear the page out?”

“I don't know that I did. I don't recall doing so. Look, Chief
Inspector—” Seth put his plane aside again and leaned against the bench, facing Banks—“you're chasing phantoms. Anybody could have jotted that number down, and it could mean anything.”

“Like what?”

“A phone number. They still have four digits around here, you know. Or it could be part of a measurement, a sum of money, almost anything.”

“It's not a phone number,” Banks said. “Do you think I haven't checked? It is PC Gill's number, though.”

“Coincidence.”

“Possibly. But I'm not convinced.”

“That's your problem.” Seth picked up the plane again and began working more vigorously.

“It could be your problem, too, Seth.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No. I leave those to Superintendent Burgess. What I mean is, it would be very convenient if someone else had killed Gill—you, say—and Paul Boyd took the blame. He really doesn't have a leg to stand on, you know.”

“What do you mean?” Seth paused again.

“I mean the odds are that he'll go down for it.”

“Are you saying he's confessed?”

“I'm not free to talk about things like that. I'm just saying it looks bad, and if you know of anything that might help him you'd better tell me pretty damn quick. Unless it's to your advantage that Boyd gets charged with murder.”

“I don't know anything.” Seth bent over the length of pine and caressed the surface. His voice was tight, and he kept his face averted.

“I can understand it if you're protecting someone,” Banks went on. “Like Mara tried to protect Paul. But think about what you're doing. By covering for someone else, you almost certainly condemn Paul. Does he mean so little to you?”

Seth slammed down the plane. He turned to face Banks, his face red and eyes bright. The vein by his temple throbbed. “How can you talk like that?” he said in a shaky voice. “Of course Paul means a lot to us. He's not been tried yet, you know. It's only you bastards who've convicted him so far. If he didn't do it, then he'll get off, won't he?”

Banks lit a Silk Cut. “I'm surprised you've got such faith in justice, Seth. I'm afraid I haven't. The way things are these days, he may well be made an example of.”

Seth snorted. “What would you do? Fix the jury?”

“We wouldn't need to. The jury's made up of ordinary men and women—law-abiding, middle-class citizens for the most part. They'll take one look at Boyd and want to lock him up and throw away the key.”

“He'll manage. And we'll stick by him. We won't let him down.”

“Admirable sentiments. But it might not be enough. Where did you live before you bought this place?”

Surprised, Seth had to think for a moment. “Hebden Bridge. Why?”

“Where did you get the money from, for the farm?”

“If it's any of your business, I saved some and inherited a little from a dotty aunt. We . . .I also had a small business there, which I sold—a second-hand bookshop.”

“What kind of work did you do?”

“This kind.” Seth gestured around the workshop. “I was a jack-of-all-trades, showed the true Thatcherite entrepreneurial spirit. I made good money for good work. I still do.”

“Who ran the bookshop, then?”

“My wife.” Seth spoke between his teeth and turned back to his wood.

“There was some kind of accident, wasn't there?” Banks said. “Your wife?” He knew some of the details but wanted to see how Seth reacted.

Seth took a deep breath. “Yes, there was. But it's still none of your business.”

“What happened?”

“Like you said. I had a wife. There was an accident.”

“What kind?”

“She was hit by a car.”

“I'm sorry.”

Seth turned on him. “Why? Why the bloody hell should you be sorry? You didn't even know Alison. Just get the fuck out and let me get on with my work. I've nothing more to say to you.”

Banks lingered at the doorway. “One more thing: Elizabeth Dale. Is that name familiar to you?”

“I know someone called Liz Dale, yes.”

“She's the woman who ran off from the mental hospital and ended up here, isn't she?”

“Why ask if you know already?”

“I wasn't sure, but I thought so. Do you know anything about a complaint she made against PC Gill?”

“No. Why should I?”

“She used his number: 1139.”

“So?”

“Bit of a coincidence, that's all: her complaint, his number in your notebook. Could she have written it?”

“I suppose so. But so could anyone else. I really don't know anything about it.” Seth sounded tired.

“Have you seen her recently? Has she been up here in the past few weeks?”

“No.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“We've lost touch. It happens.”

Seth bent over the pine again and Banks left, avoiding the house by using the side gate. In the car, he contemplated going to the barn to talk to Rick and Zoe. But they could wait. He'd had enough of Maggie's Farm for one day.

II

Burgess winked at Glenys, who smiled and blushed. Banks was the only one to notice Cyril's expression darken. They carried their drinks and ploughman's lunches back to the table.

“How's Boyd?” Burgess asked.

“He's all right. I didn't know you cared.”

Burgess spat the remains of a pickled onion into his napkin:

“Bloody awful stuff. Gives me heartburn.”

“I wouldn't be surprised if you're developing an ulcer,” Banks said, “the way you go at life.”
Burgess grinned. “You only live once.”

“Are you going to stick around and see what happens?”

“I'll stay a few more days, yes.” He eyed Glenys again. “I'm not quite finished up here yet.”

“Don't tell me you're getting to like the north?”

“At least the bloody weather's improved, even if the people haven't.”

“Friendliest lot in the country, when you get to know them.”

“Tell me about it.” Burgess shoved in a chunk of Wensleydale and washed it down with Double Diamond.

Banks grimaced. “No wonder you get heartburn.”

Burgess pushed his plate aside and lit a cigar. “Tell me honestly,

Banks. What do you make of Boyd? Guilty or not?”

“He's obviously involved. Deeply involved. But if you're asking do I think he killed Gill, the answer's no, I don't.”

“You could be right. He certainly stuck to his guns under pressure, and I don't think he's that tough.” Burgess prodded the air with his cigar. “Personally, I don't give a damn what happens to Boyd. I'd rather see him go down for it than no one at all. But give me some credit. I'm not a bloody idiot, and if I'm not satisfied everything's wrapped up I like to know why. I get nagging feelings like every copper.”

“And you have one about Boyd?”

“A little one.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Consider the alternatives. You heard what he said last night, about the others going up to the farm on Friday afternoon. That covers just about everyone we've had our eye on since this business started. Who do you reckon?”

Banks sipped some beer to wash down his lunch. “It depends,” he said. “Any of the people Boyd mentioned could have got access to the knife, and so could anyone else who went up there a few days before the demo. Nobody had noticed whether it was missing or not—at least, nobody admits to noticing. If you're convinced it was a terrorist act, then obviously you're best starting with the most politically active of them: Osmond. Trelawney and the students. On the other hand, if you accept that there could have been some other motive,
then you have to rethink the whole thing in more human terms: revenge, hatred, that kind of thing. Or maybe someone was trying to put the blame on the farm people, someone who had a reason to hate them or want them off their land.”

Burgess sighed. “You make it sound so bloody complicated. Do you really think that's where the answer lies?”

“It's possible, yes.” Banks took a deep breath. “Gill was a bastard,” he said. “He liked thumping people, bashing heads. He's volunteered for more crowd control duties than I've had hot dinners. And another thing: Osmond made an official complaint about him for using undue force in another demo a couple of years back. So did a woman called Elizabeth Dale, in a separate incident. And she's got some connection with the farm crowd.”

Burgess drank some more beer and sucked his lips. “How do you know?” he asked quietly.

Banks had been expecting this. He remembered Burgess's order not to look into Gill's record. “Anonymous tip,” he said.

Burgess narrowed his eyes and stared as Banks took out a cigarette and lit it.

“I don't know if I believe you,” he said finally.

“It doesn't bloody matter, does it? It's what I'm telling you that counts. Do you want to get to the bottom of this or don't you?”

“Go on.”

“I'm saying we've got two options: terrorism or personal motive.

Maybe they're both mixed up as well, I don't know.”

“And where does Boyd come in?”

“Either he did exactly as he told us, or he was an accomplice. So we dig deeper into his political background. Richmond's doing all he can at the computer, checking people Boyd knew in jail and any others he hung about with when the local police were keeping an eye on him. He spent some time in Ireland, which is where he was heading when we caught him, and some of the people he knew had connections with the IRA. We can't prove it, but we're pretty damn sure. We also have to consider the personal motive. Gill was the kind of person to make enemies, and it looks like Osmond was one of them.”

“In the meantime,” Burgess said, “we hang onto Boyd.” Banks shook his head. “I don't think so.”

“Let him go?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“He scarpered last time. What's to stop him doing it again?”

“I think he found out that he'd nowhere to go. If you let him out, he'll go back to the farm and stay there.”

“But why let him out at all?”

“Because it might stir something up. If he's not guilty, there's still a chance he might know who is. He might slip up, set something moving.”

Burgess swirled the beer in his glass. “So we charge him with tampering with evidence, wasting police time, and let him out. Is that what you're suggesting?”