But she couldn’t seem to concentrate. The hissing outside stopped. It was replaced by the steady dripping of rain from the eaves-troughs, the porch and the trees that protected Maggie’s Farm from the harsh west winds. The chimes began to sound like warning bells. There was something in the air. If Zoe were home, she’d no doubt have plenty to say about psychic forces—probably the moon.
Shrugging off her feeling of unease, Mara returned to her reading: “And this is Dorlcote Mill. I must stand a minute or two here on the bridge and look at it, though the clouds are threatening, and it is far on in the afternoon . . . .” It was no good; she couldn’t get into it. George Eliot’s spell just wasn’t working tonight. Mara put down the book and concentrated on the music.
As the ethereal choir entered towards the end of “Neptune,” the front door rattled open and Paul rushed in. His combat jacket was dark with rain and his tight jeans stuck to his stick-insect legs.
Mara frowned. “You’re back early,” she said. “Where are the others?”
“I don’t know.” Paul was out of breath and his voice sounded shaky. He took off his jacket and hung it on the hook at the back of the door. “I ran back by myself over the moors.”
“But that’s more than four miles. What’s wrong, Paul? Why didn’t you wait for Seth and the others? You could have come back in the van.”
“There was some trouble,” Paul said. “Things got nasty.” He took a cigarette from his pack of Player’s and lit it, cupping it in his hands the way soldiers do in old war films. His hands were trembling. Mara noticed again how short and stubby his fingers were, nails bitten to the quick. She rolled another cigarette. Paul started to pace the room.
“What’s that?” Mara asked, pointing in alarm to the fleshy spot at the base of his left thumb. “It looks like blood. You’ve hurt yourself.”
“It’s nothing.”
Mara reached out, but he pulled his hand away.
“At least let me put something on it.”
“I told you, it’s nothing. I’ll see to it later. Don’t you want to hear what happened?”
Mara knew better than to persist. “Sit down, then,” she said. “You’re driving me crazy pacing around like that.”
Paul flopped onto the cushions by the wall, taking care to keep his bloodied hand out of sight.
“Well?” Mara said.
“The police set on us, that’s what. Fucking bastards.”
“Why?”
“They just laid into us, that’s all. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know how cops think. Can I have some wine?”
Mara poured him a glass of Barsac. He took a sip and pulled a face.
“Sorry,” she said. “I forgot you don’t like the sweet stuff. There’s some beer in the fridge.”
“Great.” Paul hauled himself up and went through to the kitchen. When he came back he was carrying a can of Carlsberg lager and he’d stuck an Elastoplast on his hand.
“What happened to the others?” Mara asked.
“I don’t know. A lot of people got arrested. The police just charged into the crowd and dragged them off left, right and centre. There’ll be plenty in hospital, too.”
“Weren’t you all together?”
“We were at first, right up at the front, but we got separated when the fighting broke out. I managed to sneak by some cops and slip down the alley, then I ran all the way through the back streets and over the moor. I’m bloody knackered.” His Liverpudlian accent grew thicker as he became more excited.
“So people did get away?”
“Some, yes. But I don’t know how many. I didn’t hang around to wait for the others. It was every man for himself, Mara. The last I saw of Rick he was trying to make his way to the market square. I couldn’t see Zoe. You know how small she is. It was a bleeding massacre. They’d everything short of water cannons and rubber bullets. I’ve seen some bother in my time, but I never expected anything like this, not in Eastvale.”
“What about Seth?”
“Sorry, Mara. I’ve no idea what became of him. Don’t worry, though, they’ll be all right.”
“Yes.” Mara turned and looked out of the window. She could see her own reflection against the dark glass streaked with rain. It looked like a candle flame was burning from her right shoulder.
“Maybe they got away,” Paul added. “They might be on their way back right now.”
Mara nodded. “Maybe.”
But she knew there’d be trouble. The police would soon be round, bullying and searching, just like when Seth’s old friend Liz Dale ran away from the nut-house and hid out with them for a few days. They’d been looking for heroin then—Liz had a history of drug abuse—but as far as Mara remembered they’d just made a bloody mess of everything in the place. She resented that kind of intrusion into her world and didn’t look forward to another one.
She reached for the wine bottle, but before she started pouring, the front door burst open again.
II
When Banks went downstairs, things were considerably quieter than they had been earlier. Richmond had helped the uniformed men to usher all the prisoners down to the cellar until they could be questioned, charged and released. Eastvale station didn’t have many cells, but there was plenty of unused storage space down there.
Sergeant Hatchley had also arrived. Straw-haired, head and shoulders above the others, he looked like a rugby prop-forward gone to seed. He leaned on the reception desk looking bewildered and put out as Richmond explained what had happened.
Banks walked up to them. “Super here yet?”
“On his way, sir,” Richmond answered.
“Can you get everyone together while we’re waiting?” Banks asked. “There’s a few things I want to tell them right now.”
Richmond went into the open-plan office area, the domain of the uniformed police at Eastvale, and rounded up everyone he could. The men and women sat on desks or leaned against partitions and waited for instructions. Some of them still showed signs of the recent battle: a bruised cheekbone, torn uniform, black eye, cauliflower ear.
“Does anyone know exactly how many we’ve got in custody?” Banks asked first.
“Thirty-six, sir.” It was a constable with a split lip and the top button torn off his jacket who answered. “And I’ve heard there’s ten more at the hospital.”
“Any serious injuries?”
“No, sir. Except, well, Constable Gill.”
“Yes. So if there were about a hundred at the demo, there’s almost a fifty-fifty chance we’ve already caught our killer. First, I want everyone searched, fingerprinted and examined for Gill’s bloodstains. Constable Reynolds, will you act as liaison with the hospital?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The same procedure applies there. Ask the doctor to check the ten patients for blood. Next we’ve got to find the murder weapon. All we know so far is that PC Gill was stabbed. We don’t know what kind of knife was used, so anything with a blade is suspicious, from a kitchen knife to a stiletto. There’s some extra men on the way from York, but I want a couple of you to start searching the street thoroughly right away, and that includes having a good look down the grates, too. Clear so far?”
Some muttered, “Yes, sir.” Others nodded.
“Right. Now we get to the hard work. We’ll need a list of names: everyone we’ve got and anyone else we can get them to name. Remember, about sixty people got away, and we have to know who they were. If any of you recall seeing a familiar face we don’t have here or at the hospital, make a note of it. I don’t suppose the people we question will want to give their friends away, but lean on them a bit, do what you can. Be on the look-out for any slips. Use whatever cunning you have. We also want to know who the organizers were and what action groups were represented.
“I want statements from everyone, even if they’ve nothing to say. We’re going to have to divide up the interrogations, so just do the best you can. Stick to the murder; ask about anyone with a knife. Find out if we�
�ve got any recorded troublemakers in the cells; look up their files and see what you come up with. If you think someone’s lying or being evasive, push them as far as you can, then make a note of your reservations on the statement. I realize we’re going to be swamped with paperwork, but there’s no avoiding it. Any questions?”
Nobody said a word.
“Fine. One last thing: we want statements from all witnesses, too, not just the demonstrators. There must have been some people watching from those flats overlooking the street. Do the rounds. Find out if anyone saw anything. And rack your own brains. You know there’ll be some kind of official enquiry into why all this happened in the first place, so all of you who were there might as well make a statement now, while the events are fresh in your minds. I want all statements typed and on Superintendent Gristhorpe’s desk first thing in the morning.”
Banks looked at his watch. “It’s nine-thirty now. We’d better get cracking. Anything I’ve overlooked?”
Several officers shook their heads; others stood silent. Finally a policewoman put her hand up. “What are we to do with the prisoners, sir, after we’ve got all the statements?”
“Follow normal procedure,” Banks said. “Just charge them and let them go unless you’ve got any reason to think they’re involved in PC Gill’s death. They’ll appear before the magistrate as soon as possible. Is that all?” He paused, but nobody said anything. “Right. Off you go then. I want to know about any leads as soon as they come up. With a bit of luck we could get this wrapped up by morning. And would someone take some of the prisoners upstairs? There’ll be three of us interviewing up there when the super arrives.” He turned to Richmond. “We’ll want you on the computer, Phil. There’ll be a lot of records to check.”
“The super’s here now, sir.” PC Telford pointed to the door, which was out of Banks’s line of vision.
Superintendent Gristhorpe, a bulky man in his late fifties with bushy grey hair and eyebrows, a red pock-marked face and a bristly moustache, walked over to where the three CID men were standing by the stairs. His eyes, usually as guileless as a baby’s, were clouded with concern, but his presence still brought an aura of calm and unhurried common sense.
“You’ve heard?” Banks asked.
“Aye,” said Gristhorpe. “Not all the details, but enough. Let’s go upstairs and you can tell me about it over a cup of coffee.” He put his hand on Banks’s arm gently.
Banks turned to Sergeant Hatchley. “You might as well get started on the interviews,” he said. “We’ll help you out in a minute when I’ve filled the super in.” Then the four CID men trudged upstairs and PC Telford ushered a brace of wet, frightened demonstrators up after them.
III
“Zoe! Thank God you’re all right!”
Paul and Mara stared at the slight figure in the glistening red anorak. Her ginger hair was stuck to her skull, and the dark roots showed. Rain dripped onto the straw mat just inside the doorway. She slipped off her jacket, hung it next to Paul’s and walked over to hug them both.
“You’ve told her what happened?” she asked Paul.
“Yes.”
Zoe looked at Mara. “How was Luna?”
“No trouble. She fell asleep when Squirrel Nutkin started tickling Mr Brown with a nettle.”
Zoe’s face twitched in a brief smile. She went over to the bookcase. “I threw an I Ching this morning,” she said, “and it came up ‘Conflict.’ I should have known what would happen.” She opened the book and read from the text: “‘Conflict. You are being sincere and are being obstructed. A cautious halt halfway brings good fortune. Going through to the end brings misfortune. It furthers one to see the great man. It does not further one to cross the great water.’”
“You can’t take it so literally,” Mara said. “That’s the problem. It didn’t tell you what would happen, or how.” Though she was certainly interested in the I Ching and tarot cards, herself, Mara often thought that Zoe went too far.
“It’s clear enough to me. I should have known something like this would happen: ‘Going through to the end brings misfortune.’ You can’t get any more specific than that.”
“What if you had known?” Paul said. “You couldn’t call it off, could you? You’d still have gone. Things would still have worked out the same.”
“Yes,” Zoe muttered, “but I should have been prepared.”
“How?” asked Mara. “Do you mean you should have gone armed or something?”
Zoe sighed. “I don’t know. I just should have been prepared.”
“It’s easy to say that now,” Paul said. “The truth is nobody had the slightest idea the demo would turn nasty, and there wasn’t a damn thing they could do about it when it did. There were a lot of people involved, Zoe, and if they’d’ve all done the I Ching this morning they’d’ve all got different answers. It’s a load of cobblers, if you ask me.”
“Sit down,” said Mara. “Have a glass of wine. Did you see what happened to the others?”
“I’m not sure.” Zoe sat cross-legged on the carpet and accepted Paul’s glass. “I think Rick got arrested. I saw him struggling with some police at the edge of the crowd.”
“And Seth?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t see.” Zoe smiled sadly. “Most people were bigger than me. All I could see was shoulders and necks. That’s how I managed to get away, because I’m so little. That and the rain. One cop grabbed my anorak, but his hand slipped off because it was wet. I’m a Pisces, a slippery fish.” She paused to sip her Barsac. “What’ll happen to them, Mara, the ones who got caught?”
Mara shrugged. “I should imagine they’ll be charged and let go. That’s what usually happens. Then the magistrate decides what to fine them or whether to send them to jail. Mostly they just get fined or let off with a caution.”
Mara wished she felt as confident as she sounded. Her uneasiness had nothing to do with the message Zoe had got from the I Ching, but the words of the oracle somehow emphasized it and gave her dis-quietude a deeper dimension of credibility: “Going through to the end brings misfortune. It furthers one to see the great man.” Who was the great man?
“Shouldn’t we do something?” Paul asked.
“Like what?”
“Go down there, down to the police station and find out what’s happened. Try and get them out.”
Mara shook her head. “If we do that, it’s more likely they’ll take us in for obstructing justice or something.”
“I just feel so bloody powerless, so useless, not being able to do a damn thing.” Paul’s fists clenched, and Mara could read the words jaggedly tattooed just below his knuckles. Instead of the more common combination, LOVE on one hand and HATE on the other, his read HATE on both hands. Seeing the capitalized word so ineptly tattooed there reminded Mara how hard and violent Paul’s past had been and how far he had come since they’d found him sleeping in the open, early the past winter on their way to a craft fair in Wensleydale.
“If we had a phone we could at least call the hospital,” Zoe said. “Maybe one of us should walk down to Relton and do it anyway.”
“I’ll go,” Mara said. “You two have had enough for one night. Besides, the exercise will do me good.”
She got to her feet before either of the others could offer to go instead. It was only a mile down to Relton, a village high on the southern slope of Swainsdale, and the walk should be a pleasant one. Mara looked out of the window. It was drizzling lightly again. She took her yellow cyclist’s cape and matching rainhat out of the cupboard and opened the door. As she left, Paul was on his way to the fridge for another beer, and Zoe was reaching for her tarot cards.
Zoe worried Mara sometimes. Not that she wasn’t a good mother, but she did seem too offhand. True, she had asked about Luna, but she hadn’t wanted to go and look in on her. Instead she had turned immediately to her occult aids. Mara doted on both children: Luna, aged four, and Julian, five. Even Paul, just out of his teens, seemed more like a son than anything e
lse at times. She knew she felt especially close to them because she had no children of her own. Many of her old schoolfriends would probably have kids Paul’s age. What an irony, she thought, heading for the track—a barren earth mother!
The rain was hardly worth covering up for, but it gave an edge to the chill already present in the March air, and Mara was glad for the sweater she wore under her cape. The straight narrow track she followed was part of an old Roman road that ran diagonally across the moors above the dale right down to Fortford. Just wide enough for the van, it was dry-walled on both sides and covered with gravel and small chips of stone that crunched and crackled underfoot. Mara could see the lights of Relton at the bottom of the slope. Behind her the candle glowed in the window, and Maggie’s Farm looked like an ark adrift on a dark sea.
She shoved her hands through the slits in her cape, deep into the pockets of her cords, and marched the way she imagined an ancient Roman would have done. Beyond the clouds, she could make out the pearly sheen of a half moon.
The great silence all around magnified the little sounds—the clatter of small stones, the rhythmic crunch of gravel, the swishing of her cords against the cape—and Mara felt the strain on her weak left knee that she always got going downhill. She raised her head and let the thin, cool rain fall on her closed eyelids and breathed in the wet-dog smell of the air. When she opened her eyes, she saw the black bulk of distant fells against a dark grey sky.
At the end of the track, Mara walked into Relton. The change from gravel to the smooth tarmac of Mortsett Lane felt strange at first. The village shops were all closed. Television sets flickered behind drawn curtains.
Just to be sure, Mara first popped her head inside the Black Sheep, but neither Seth nor Rick was there. A log fire crackled in the corner of the cosy public bar, but the place was half-empty. The landlord, Larry Grafton, smiled and said hello. Like many of the locals, he had come to accept the incomers from Maggie’s Farm. At least, he had once told Mara, they weren’t like those London yuppies who seemed to be buying up all the vacant property in the Dales these days.
A Necessary End Page 3