A Necessary End (8 page)

“It's possible, I suppose.”

“But unlikely?”

“In Eastvale, yes. I told you, most of the people involved were fairly harmless; even the groups they belonged to have never been violent before.”

“But you don't have everyone's name.”

“No.”

“Then that's something to work on. Sweat the ones you've got and get a full list.”

“DC Richmond's working on it,” Banks said, though he could hardly see Philip Richmond sweating anyone.

“Good.” Burgess gestured to the barmaid. “Another two pints, Gladys, love,” he called out.

“It's Glenys,” she said, then she blushed and lowered her head to keep an eye on the pint she was pulling.

“Sorry, love, I'm still train-lagged. Have one for yourself, too, Glenys.”

“Thank you very much.” Glenys smiled shyly at him and took the money for a gin and tonic. “I'll have it later when we're not so busy, if you don't mind.”

“As you will.” Burgess treated her to a broad smile and winked. “Where were we?” he asked, returning to Banks.

“Names.”

“Yes. You must have a list of local reds and what not? You know the kind I mean—anarchists, skinheads, bum-punchers, women's libbers, uppity niggers.”

“Of course. We keep it on the back of a postage stamp.”

“You mentioned three organizations earlier. What's WEEF?”

“Women of Eastvale for Emancipation and Freedom.”

“Oh, very impressive. Touch of the Greenham Common women, eh?”

“Not really. They mostly stick to local issues like poor streetlighting and sexual discrimination in jobs.”

“Still,” Burgess said, “it's a start. Get your man—Richmond, is it?—to liaise with Special Branch on this. They've got extensive files on Bolshies everywhere. He can do it through the computer, if you've got one up here.”

“We've got one.”

“Good. Tell him to see me about access.” Their food arrived, and Burgess poured salt and vinegar on his fish and chips. “We can set them against each other, for openers,” he said. “Simple divide-and-conquer tactics. We tell those WEEF people that the Students Union has fingered them for the murder, and vice versa. That way if anyone does know anything they'll likely tell us out of anger at being dropped right in it. We need results, and we need them quick. This business can give us a chance to look good for once. We're always looking like the bad guys these days—especially since that bloody miners' strike. We need some good press for a change, and here's our chance. A copper's been killed—that gets us plenty of public sympathy for a start. If we can come up with some pinko terrorist we've got it made.”

“I don't think setting the groups against each other will get us anywhere,” Banks said. “They're just not that aggressive.”

“Don't be so bloody negative, man. Remember,
somebody
knows who did it, even if it's only the killer. I'll get myself acclimatized this afternoon, and tomorrow—” Burgess clapped his hands and showered his plate with ash “—we'll swoop into action.” He had a nasty habit of sitting or standing motionless for ages, then making a sudden jerky
movement. Banks remembered how disconcerting it was from their previous meetings.

“Action?”

“Raids, visits, call them what you will. We're looking for documents, letters, anything that might give us a clue to what happened. Any trouble getting warrants up here?”

Banks shook his head.

Burgess speared a chip. “Nothing like a Sunday morning for a nice little raid, I always say. People have funny ideas about Sundays, you know. Especially churchy types. They're all comfortable and complacent after a nice little natter with the Almighty, and then they get pissed off as hell if something interrupts their routine. Best day for raids and interrogations, believe me. Just wait till they get their feet up with the Sunday papers. You mentioned some drop-outs at a farm earlier, didn't you?”

“They're not drop-outs,” Banks said. “They just try to be self-sufficient, keep to themselves. They call the place Maggie's Farm,” he added. “It's the title of an old Bob Dylan song. I suppose it's a joke about Thatcher, too.”

Burgess grinned. “At least they've got a sense of humour. They'll bloody need it before we're through. We'll pay them a visit, keep them on their toes. Bound to be drugs around, if nothing else. How about dividing up the raids? Any suggestions?”

Banks had no desire to tangle with Dorothy Wycombe again, and sending Sergeant Hatchley to WEEF headquarters would be like sending a bull into a china shop, as would sending Burgess up to Maggie's Farm. On the other hand, he thought, meeting Ms Wycombe might do Dirty Dick some good.

“I'll take the farm,” he said. “Let Hatchley do the church group, Richmond the students, and you can handle WEEF. We can take a couple of uniformed men to do the searches while we ask the questions.”

Burgess's eyes narrowed suspiciously, then he smiled and said, “Right, we're on.”

He knows I'm setting him up, Banks thought, but he's willing to go along anyway. Cocky bastard.

Burgess washed down the last of his plaice and chips. “I'd like to stay for another,” he said, “and feast my eyes more on the lovely
Glenys, but duty calls. Let's hope we'll have plenty of reason to celebrate tomorrow lunch-time. Why don't you catch up on a bit of paperwork this afternoon? There's not a lot we can do yet. And maybe this evening you can show me some of these quaint village pubs I've read about in the tourist brochures?”

The prospect of a pub crawl with Dirty Dick Burgess, following hot on the heels of an evening with the Hon Honoria Winstanley, appealed to Banks about as much as a slap in the face with a wet fish, but he agreed politely. It was a job, after all, and Burgess was his senior officer. They'd be working together for a few days, probably, and it would do no harm to get on as good terms as possible. Make the best of it, Gristhorpe had said. And Banks did have a vague recollection that Burgess wasn't such bad company after a few jars.

Burgess slid off his chair and strode towards the door. “Bye, Glenys, love,” he called out over his shoulder as he left. Banks noticed Cyril scowl and tighten his grip on the pump he was pulling.

Banks pushed his empty plate aside and lit a Silk Cut. He felt exhausted. Just listening to Burgess reminded him of everything he had hated about his days on the Met. But Burgess was right, of course: they were looking into a political murder, and the first logical step was to check out local activist groups.

It was the obvious relish with which the superintendent contemplated the task that irked Banks and reminded him so much of his London days. And he remembered Burgess's interrogation technique, probably learned from the Spanish Inquisition. There were hard times ahead for a few innocent people who simply happened to believe in nuclear disarmament and the future of the human race. Burgess was like a pit-bull terrier; he wouldn't let go until he got what he wanted.

Oh, for a nice English village murder, Banks wished, just like the ones in books: a closed group of five or six suspects, a dodgy will, and no hurry to solve the puzzle. No such luck. He drained his pint, stubbed out the cigarette and went back across the street to read more statements.

IV

Mara sipped at her half of mild without really tasting it. She couldn't seem to relax and enjoy the company as usual. Seth sat at the bar chatting with Larry Grafton about some old furniture the landlord had inherited from his great-grandmother, and Rick and Zoe were arguing about astrology. By the window, the children sat colouring quietly.

What did it mean? Mara wondered. When she had tackled Paul about the blood on his hand the previous evening, he had gone into the kitchen and put on a plaster without showing her the cut. Now, it turned out, there was no cut. So whose blood had it been?

Of course, she told herself, anything could have happened. He could have accidentally brushed against somebody who had been hurt in the demo, or even tried to help someone. But he had clearly run all the way home; when he had arrived he had been upset and out of breath. And if the explanation was an innocent one, why had he lied? Because that's what it came down to in the end. Instead of telling the simple truth, he had let her go on believing he was hurt, albeit not badly, and she couldn't come up with a convincing reason why he had done that.

“You're quiet today,” Seth said, walking over with more drinks.

It's easy for you, she felt like saying. You can cover up your feelings and talk about hammers and planes and chisels and bevels and chamfering as if nothing has happened, but I don't have any small talk. Instead, she said, “It's nothing. I'm just a bit tired after last night, I suppose.”

Seth took her hand. “Didn't you sleep well?”

No, Mara almost said, No I didn't bloody sleep well. I was waiting for you to share your feelings with me, but you never did. You never do. You can talk about work to any Tom, Dick and Harry, but not about anything else, not about anything important. But she didn't say any of that. She squeezed his hand, kissed him lightly and said she was all right. She knew she was just irritable, worried about Paul, and the mood would soon pass. No point starting a row.

Rick, his conversation with Zoe finished, turned to the others.
Mara noticed streaks of orange and white paint in his beard. “They were all talking about the Eastvale demo,” he said. “Plenty of tongues started clucking in the grocer's when I walked in.”

“What did they think about it?” Mara asked.

Rick snorted. “They don't think. They're just like the sheep they raise. They're too frightened to come out with an opinion about anything for fear it'll be the wrong one. Oh, they worry about nuclear fall-out. Who doesn't? But that's about all they do, worry and whine. When push comes to shove they'll just put up with it like everything else and bury their heads in the ground. The wives are even worse. All they can do if anything upsets the nice, neat, comfortable little lives they've made for themselves is say tut-tut-tut, isn't it a shame.”

The door creaked open and Paul walked in.

Mara watched the emaciated figure, fists bunched in his pockets, walk over to them. With his hollow, bony face, tattooed fingers, and the scars, needle-tracks and self-inflicted cigarette burns that Mara knew stretched all the way up his arms, Paul seemed a frightening figure. The only thing that softened his appearance was his hair-style. His blond hair was short at the back and sides but long on top, and the fringe kept slipping down over his eyes. He'd brush it back impatiently and scowl but never mention having it cut.

Mara couldn't help thinking about his background. Right from childhood, Paul's life had been rough and hard. He never said much about his real parents, but he'd told Mara about the emotionally cold foster home where he had been expected to show undying gratitude for every little thing they did for him. Finally, he had run away and lived a punk life on the streets, done whatever he'd had to to survive. It had been a life of hard drugs and violence and, eventually, jail. When they had met him, he had been lost and looking for some kind of anchor in life. She wondered just how much he really had changed since he'd been with them.

Remembering the blood on his hand, the way he had lied, and the murdered policeman, she began to feel frightened. What would he do if she were to question him? Was she living with a killer? And if she was, what should she do about it?

As the conversation went on around her, Mara began to feel herself drifting off on a chaotic spate of her own thoughts. She could
hear the sounds the others were making, but not the words, the meaning. She thought of confiding in Seth, but what if he took some kind of action? He might be hard on Paul, even drive him away. He could be very stern and inflexible at times. She didn't want her new family to split apart, imperfect as she knew it was. It was all she had in the world.

No, she decided, she wouldn't tell anyone. Not yet. She wouldn't make Paul feel as if they were ganging up on him. The whole thing was probably ridiculous anyway. She was imagining things, filling her head with stupid fears. Paul would never hurt her, she told herself, never in a million years.

FOUR

I

Sunday morning dawned clear and cold. A brisk March wind blew, restoring the sun and the delicate colours of early spring to the lower hillsides. Women hung on to their hats and men clutched the lapels of their best suits as they struggled to church along Mortsett Lane in Relton. The police car, a white Fiesta Popular, with the official red and blue stripes on its sides, turned and made its way up the bumpy Roman road to Maggie's Farm. PC McDonald drove, with Craig silent beside him and Banks cramped in the back.

The view across the dale was superb. Banks could see Fortford on the valley bottom and Devraulx Abbey below Lyndgarth on the opposite slope. Behind them all, the northern daleside rose, baring along its snowy heights scars of exposed limestone that looked like rows of teeth gleaming in the light.

Banks felt refreshed after an evening at home reading
Madame Bovary
, followed by a good night's sleep. Luckily, Dirty Dick had phoned to cancel their pub crawl, claiming tiredness. Banks suspected he had decided to drop in at the Queen's Arms—just around the corner from his hotel—to work on Glenys, but Burgess looked relatively unscathed the next morning. He seemed tired, though, and his grey eyes were dull, like champagne that had lost its fizz. Banks wondered how he was getting on with Dorothy Wycombe.

As the car pulled onto the gravel outside the farmhouse, someone glanced through the window. When Banks got out, he could hear the wind chimes jingling like a piece of experimental music, harmonizing
strangely with the wind that whistled around his ears. He had forgot ten how high on the moorland Maggie's Farm was.