A Necessary End (30 page)

She did, did she? Banks thought angrily. Just how much had she told him? “Could you just get on with it, please?” he said. “I'm here, at Jenny's request, to investigate a break-in you haven't reported officially. The least you can do is stop trying to be so fucking clever.”
The smile disappeared. “Yes, all right. For what good it'll do me.”

“First off, why didn't you report it?”

“I don't trust the police, certainly not the way I've been treated since the demonstration. Burgess was around here again this afternoon tossing insults and accusations about. And I don't want my apartment done over by a bunch of coppers, either.”

“Why not? What have you got to hide?”

“Nothing to hide, not in the way you mean it. But I value my privacy.”

“So why am I here?”

Osmond crossed his legs and paused before answering. “Jenny persuaded me.”

“But you don't really want to talk about it?”

“What's the point? What can you do?”

“We could do our job if you'd let us. Check for fingerprints, interview neighbours, try to get a description. Was anything stolen?”

“A book.”

“What?”

“A book. Most of my books were pulled off the shelves, scattered on the floor, and I noticed when I put them back that one was missing.”

“Just one?”

“That's right. Marcuse's
One Dimensional Man
. Do you know it?”

“No.”

Osmond smiled smugly. “I didn't think you would. It doesn't mat ter. Anyway, that's all.”

“That's all that was taken?”

“Yes.”

“How did they get in? The lock doesn't seem broken.”

“It's easy enough to open. They probably used a credit card or something. I've had to do that myself more than once.”

“And it works?”

“Yes. Unless the catch is on from the inside. Obviously, as I was out at the time, it wasn't.”

“Then I'd suggest the first thing you do is get a new lock. Preferably a deadlock.”

“I've already called the locksmith. He's coming on Monday.”

“Did you get the impression that they were looking for something? Or was it just vandalism?” Banks had his cigarette packet in his hand without thinking before he realized Osmond was a rabid non-smoker.

“Oh, go on, Chief Inspector.” Osmond allowed himself another superior smile. “Pollute the atmosphere if you must. You're doing me a favour; it's the least I can do in return.”

“Thanks, I will.” Banks lit up. “What might they have been looking for? Money?”

“I don't think so. There was a little cash in the dresser drawer, but they left it. There was also some quite valuable jewellery—it used to be my mother's—and they left that, too. The only things disturbed were the books and some papers—nothing important—but there was no damage. I don't think it was vandalism.”

“But it was clear they'd seen the money and jewellery?”

“Oh, yes. The drawer was open and the contents of the jewellery box were spilled on the bed.”

“What do you think they were looking for?”

Osmond scratched his cheek and frowned. Noticing Banks's half inch of ash, he fetched an ashtray from the kitchen. “In case of emergencies,” he said. “Stolen property, I'm afraid. Courtesy of the Bridge, Helmthorpe.”

Banks smiled. Having got over his initial nervousness that, as with so many people, manifested itself in the form of rudeness, Osmond was making an attempt at least to smooth the waters. He still wasn't comfortable around the police, but he was trying.

“Would you like a drink?”

“Scotch, if you've got it.” Osmond was prevaricating, making time to think. That meant his answer would be at best a blend of truth and falsehood, and it would be damn difficult for Banks to sort out which was which. But there was no point pushing him. Osmond liked being in control, and any challenge at this point would just make him clam up. Best wait for a gap in his defences and leap right through. Let him take his own sweet time.

Finally, drink in hand, Banks repeated his question.

“I don't want to appear unduly paranoid, Chief Inspector,”

Osmond began slowly, “but I've been involved with the CND and a
number of other organizations for some years now, so I think I can speak from experience. I take it you know, of course, that I once made a complaint against the policeman who was killed?”

Banks nodded. “You'd have saved us a lot of trouble if you hadn't lied in the first place.”

“That's easy for you to say. Anyway, your charming superintendent knew. He wouldn't let it drop. So I assume you know about it, too. Anyway, we come to expect that kind of thing. The CND doesn't take sides, Chief Inspector. Believe it or not, all we want is a nuclear-free world. But some members bring along strong political beliefs, too, I won't deny it. I'm a socialist, yes, but that doesn't have anything to do with the CND or its aims.”

He paused and fingered his small gold crucifix. As Banks looked at him slouching on the sofa with his long legs crossed and his arms spread out along the back, the word languid came to mind.

“Have you noticed how things seem to come in packages?” Osmond went on. “If you're anti-nuclear, people also expect you to be pro-choice, pro-union, pro-gays, anti-American, anti-apartheid and generally left wing. Most people don't realize that it's perfectly possible to be, say, anti-nuclear and anti-apartheid without being pro-gay and pro-choice—especially if you're a Catholic. Oh, the permutations might differ a bit—some packages are more extreme and dangerous than others, for example—but you can pretty well predict the kind of things our members value. The point is that what we stand for is politically hot, and that draws attention to us from all sides. The government thinks we're in league with the Russians, so they raid our offices periodically and go over our files. The communists think we're allies in overthrowing a decadent capitalist government, so they woo us and infiltrate us with their own. It's a bloody mess, but we manage, through it all, to stick to our aims.”

“Are you saying you think the break-in was politically motivated?”

“That's about it.” Osmond lifted the Scotch bottle and raised his eyebrows. Banks held out his glass. “And the theft of the book was a sort of calling card, or warning. So do you see what I mean about not expecting much help from the police? If Special Branch or MI5 or whoever are involved, you'd get your wrists slapped, and if it's the other side, you'd never catch them anyway.”

“But what were they looking for?”

“I don't know. Anyway, I don't keep my files here. Most of the important ones are at the CND office, and some of the stuff is at work.”

“The Social Services Centre?”

“Yes. I've got an office there. It's convenient.”

“So they didn't find what they were looking for because they didn't look in the right place.”

“I suppose so. The only current thing is the inquiry I'm making into the demo. I've already told you about that—and Superintendent Burgess, too. I've talked to quite a lot of people involved, trying to establish exactly what happened and how it could have been avoided. Tim and Abha are helping, too. They've got most of the info at their place. We're having a meeting up at the farm tomorrow to decide what to do about it all. Ever since your boss was taken off the job, we've been carrying on for him, and our results will be a hell of a lot less biased.”

“You're wrong,” Banks said, lighting another cigarette. “The trouble with people like you, despite all your talk about packages, is that you tar everyone with the same brush. To you, all police are pigs. Superintendent Gristhorpe would have done a good job. He wouldn't have swept it all under the carpet.”

“Maybe that's why he was taken off,” Osmond said. “I read in the paper that they were going to appoint an impartial investigating commission—which, I suppose, means a bunch of high-ranking policemen from somewhere other than Eastvale—but most of us think they're just going to forget about the whole embarrassing affair. Once the killer is convicted—and it looks like you're well on your way to doing that—the anti-nuke lefties will be shown up for exactly what you all think we are—a gang of murderous anarchists—and the police will gain a lot of very useful public sympathy.”

Banks put his empty glass down and walked over to the window. “Tell me about Ellen Ventner.”

Osmond paled. “You certainly do your homework, don't you?”

“Ellen Ventner.”

“If you think I'm going to admit to those ludicrous charges against me, you must be crazy.”

“Much as it saddens me to say so, I'm not here to investigate those old charges. So you like to beat up women. That's your privilege.”

“You bastard. Are you going to tell Jenny?”

“I honestly don't know. Ellen Ventner didn't pursue the charges.

God knows why, but a lot of women don't. Maybe she thought you were still a really sweet fellow underneath it all. But that doesn't alter what happened. You might think you're a very important man in the political scheme of things, but personally I doubt it. On the other hand, a woman you once assaulted might bear a grudge.”

“After four years?”

“It's possible.”

“Forget it. She wouldn't. Besides, she emigrated not long after we split up.”

“I can understand why she might have wanted to get as far away from you as possible. Just checking all the angles.”

Osmond glared, then looked into his glass and started to fiddle with his crucifix again. “Look, it was only the once. . . . She . . . I was drunk. I didn't mean to . . . ”

Banks sat down opposite him again and leaned forward. “When you made your complaint about PC Gill,” he asked, “how did you do it?”

Osmond floundered. It was so easy, Banks thought. Stir up a man's emotions then change the subject and you're in control again. He'd had enough of Osmond's lectures and his arrogance.

“What do you mean, how did I do it? I wrote a letter.”

“How did you refer to him?”

“By his number. How else?”

“1139?”

“Yes, that's it.”

“You still remember it?”

“Obviously.”

“So how did you know his name?”

“Look, I don't—”

“When I first asked you if you knew Gill, you said no. I didn't use his number, I used his name, and you recognized it when you lied to me.”

“He told me,” Osmond said. “When I tried to stop him from hitting a woman at a demo once, he pulled me aside and told me to
keep out of it. I told him I'd report him, and he said go ahead. When I looked at his number, he told me his name, as well. Spelled it out, in fact. The bastard was proud of what he was doing.”

So Osmond defended women in public and only hit them in private. Nice guy, Banks thought, but he kept his questions factual and direct. “When you were up at Maggie's Farm on the afternoon of the demonstration, did you mention that number to anyone?”

“I don't know. I can't remember.”

“Think. Did you write it in a notebook, or see it written in a notebook?”

“No, I'd remember something like that. But I might have mentioned it. Really, I can't say.”

“How might you have mentioned it? Just give me a sense of context.”

“I might have said, ‘I wonder if that bastard PC 1139 will be out tonight.' I suppose I'd have warned people about him. Christ, you can't be involved in demos around this part of the world and not know about PC bloody 1139.”

“So I gather.” Banks remembered what Tim and Abha had told him. There was nothing more to ask. Banks said good night and Osmond slammed the door behind him. In the corridor, he decided to try the flats on that floor to see if anyone had noticed the house-breaker. There were only ten—five on each side.

At the third door, a man who had been nipping out to the off-licence at about a quarter to eight said he'd seen two men walking along the corridor on his way back. They had seen him, too, but had made no move to run off or turn away. The description was average—most people are about as observant as a brick wall, Banks had discovered over the years—but it helped.

They were both tall and burly, and they both wore dark-blue pants, a bit shiny, probably the bottom part of a suit; one had on a black overcoat, fake leather, while the other wore a light trench coat; one had black hair, the other none at all; and neither wore a hat or glasses. About facial features, the man remembered nothing except that both men had two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and two ears. They had walked confidently and purposefully, as if they knew where they were going and what they were about, not furtively, as he imagined crimi-
nals would have done. So, no, he hadn't seen any need to call the police. He was sorry now, of course. His speech was slurred, as if he'd already drunk most of what he'd bought at the off-licence. Banks thanked him and left.

Over the next four doors, Banks found himself told to piss off by a writer whose concentration he had disturbed and asked in for a cup of tea by a lonely military-type who wanted to show off his medals. As yet, there had been no temptress in a négligé.

It wasn't until the ninth door that he found anyone else who knew anything. Beth Cameron wore tight, checked slacks, which hardly flattered her plump hips and thighs, and a maroon cardigan over a shiny white blouse. Her curly brown hair showed traces of a recent perm, and she had the most animated face that Banks had ever seen. Every comment, every word, was accompanied by a curled lip, a raised eyebrow, a wrinkled nose, a deep frown or a mock pout. She was like one of those sponge hand-puppets he remembered from his childhood. When you put your hand inside it, you could wrench the face into the most remarkable contortions.

“Did you see anyone coming in or out of Mr Osmond's flat this evening?” Banks asked.