A Necessary End

by Peter Robinson

  “Can I get you anything?” Grafton called out.

  “No. No, thanks,” Mara said. “I was looking for Seth. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

  Two old men looked up from their game of dominoes, and a trio of young farm labourers paused in their argument over subsidies and glanced at Mara with faintly curious expressions on their faces.

  “No, lass,” Grafton said. “They’ve not been in since lunch-time. Said they were off to that there demonstration in Eastvale.”

  Mara nodded. “That’s right. There’s been some trouble and they haven’t come back yet. I was just wondering—”

  “Is it right, then?” one of the farm labourers asked. “Tommy Exton dropped in half an hour sin’ and said there’d been some fighting in Market Street.”

  Mara told him what little she knew, and he shook his head. “It don’t pay to get involved in things like that. Best left well alone,” he said, and returned to his pint.

  Mara left the Black Sheep and headed for the public telephone-box on Mortsett Lane. Why they didn’t have a phone installed at the farm she didn’t know. Seth had once said he wouldn’t have one of the things in the house, but he never explained why. Every time he needed to make a few calls he went down to the village, and he never once complained. At least in the country you could usually be sure the telephones hadn’t been vandalized.

  The receptionist at Eastvale General Infirmary answered and asked her what she wanted. Mara explained that she was interested in news of a friend of hers who hadn’t come home from the demonstration. The receptionist said, “Just a minute,” and the phone hiccupped and burped a few times. Finally a man’s voice came on.

  “Can I help you, miss?”

  “Yes. I’d like to know if you have a patient called Seth Cotton and one called Rick Trelawney.”

  “Who is this calling?”

  “I . . . I’d rather not say,” Mara answered, suddenly afraid that if she gave her name she would be inviting trouble.

  “Are you a relation?”

  “I’m a friend. A very close friend.”

  “I see. Well, unless you identify yourself, miss, I’m afraid I can’t give out any information.”

  “Look,” Mara said, getting angry, “this is ridiculous. It’s not as if I’m asking you to break the Official Secrets Act or anything. I just want to know if my friends are there and, if so, how badly they’re injured. Who are you, anyway?”

  “Constable Parker, miss. If you’ve any complaints you’d better take them up with Chief Inspector Banks at Eastvale CID Headquarters.”

  “Chief Inspector Banks? CID?” Mara repeated slowly. She remembered the name. He was the one who had visited the farm before, when Liz was there. “Why? I don’t understand. What’s going on? I only want to know if my friends are hurt.”

  “Sorry, miss. Orders. Tell me your name and I’ll see what I can do.” Mara hung up. Something was very wrong. She’d done enough damage already by mentioning Seth and Rick. The police would surely take special note of their names and push them even harder than the rest. There was nothing to do but wait and worry. Frowning, she opened the door and walked back into the rain.

  IV

  “Feel like a broke-down engine, ain’t got no drivin’ wheel,” sang Blind Willie McTell.

  “I know exactly what you mean, mate,” Banks mumbled to himself as he poured a shot of Laphroaig single-malt, an indulgence he could scarcely afford. It was almost two in the morning and the interrogations had produced no results so far. Tired, Banks had left the others to it and come home for a few hours’ sleep. He felt he deserved it. They hadn’t had to spend the morning in court, the afternoon on a wild-goose chase after a stolen tractor, and the evening listening to the Hon Honoria, who would no doubt by now be sleeping the sleep of the truly virtuous before heading back, with great relief, down south in the morning.

  Banks put his feet up, lit a cigarette and warmed the glass in his palm. Suddenly the doorbell rang. He jumped to his feet and cursed as he spilled a little valuable Scotch on his shirt front. Rubbing it with the heel of his hand, he walked into the hall and opened the door a few inches on the chain.

  It was Jenny Fuller, the psychologist he had met and worked with on his first case in Eastvale. More than that, he had to admit; there had been a mutual attraction between them. Nothing had come of it, of course, and Jenny had even become good friends with Sandra. The three of them had often been out together. But the attraction remained, unresolved. Things like that didn’t seem to go away as easily as they arrived.

  “Jenny?” He slipped off the chain and opened the door wider.

  “I know. It’s two o’clock in the morning and you’re wondering what I’m doing at your door.”

  “Something like that. I assume it’s not just my irresistible charm?”

  Jenny smiled. The laugh lines around her green eyes crinkled. But the smile was forced and short-lived.

  “What is it?” Banks asked.

  “Dennis Osmond.”

  “Who?”

  “A friend. He’s in trouble.”

  “Boy-friend?”

  “Yes, boy-friend.” Jenny blushed. “Or would you prefer beau?

  Lover? Significant other? Look, can I come in? It’s cold and raining out here.”

  Banks moved aside. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Have a drink?”

  “I will, if you don’t mind.” Jenny walked into the front room, took off her green silk scarf and shook her red hair. The muted trumpet wailed and Sara Martin sang “Death Sting Me Blues.”

  “What happened to opera?” Jenny asked.

  Banks poured her a shot of Laphroaig. “There’s a lot of music in the world,” he said. “I want to listen to as much as I can before I shuffle off this mortal coil.”

  “Does that include heavy metal and middle-of-the-road?”

  Banks scowled. “Dennis Osmond. What about him?”

  “Ooh, touchy, aren’t we?” Jenny raised her eyes to the ceiling and lowered her voice. “By the way, I hope I haven’t disturbed Sandra or the children?”

  Banks explained their absence. “It was all a bit sudden,” he added, to fill the silence that followed, which seemed somehow more weighty than it should. Jenny expressed her sympathy and shifted in her seat. She took a deep breath. “Dennis was arrested during that demonstration tonight. He managed to get in a phone call to me from the police station. He’s not come back yet. I’ve just been there and the man on the desk told me you’d left. They wouldn’t tell me anything about the prisoners at all. What’s going on?”

  “Where hasn’t he come back to?”

  “My place.”

  “Do you live together?”

  Jenny’s eyes hardened and drilled into him like emerald laser beams. “That’s none of your damn business.” She drank some more Scotch. “As a matter of fact, no, we don’t. He was going to come round and tell me about the demonstration. It should have been all over hours ago.”

  “You weren’t there yourself?”

  “Are you interrogating me?”

  “No. Just asking.”

  “I believe in the cause—I mean, I’m against nuclear power and American missile bases—but I don’t see any point standing in the rain in front of Eastvale Community Centre.”

  “I see.” Banks smiled. “It was a nasty night, wasn’t it?”

  “And there’s no need to be such a cynic. I had work to do.”

  “It was a pretty bad night inside, too.”

  Jenny raised her eyebrows. “The Hon Hon?”

  “Indeed.”

  “You were there?”

  “I had that dubious honour, yes. Duty.”

  “You poor man. It might have been worth a black eye to get out of that.”

  “I take it you haven’t heard the news, then?”

  “What news?”

  “A policeman was killed at that peaceful little demonstration tonight. Not a local chap, but one of us, nonetheless.”

  “Is that why De
nnis is still at the station?”

  “We’re still questioning people, yes. It’s serious, Jenny. I haven’t seen Dennis Osmond, never even heard of him. But they won’t let him go till they’ve got his statement, and we’re not giving out any information to members of the public yet. It doesn’t mean he’s under suspicion or anything, just that he hasn’t been questioned yet.”

  “And then?”

  “They’ll let him go. If all’s well you’ll still have some of the night left together.”

  Jenny lowered her head for a moment, then glared at him again. “You’re being a bastard, you know,” she said. “I don’t like being teased that way.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Banks asked. “Why did you come?”

  “I . . . I just wanted to find out what happened.”

  “Are you sure you’re not trying to get him special treatment?” Jenny sighed. “Alan, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

  Banks nodded.

  “Well,” she went on, “I know you can’t help being a policeman, but if you don’t know where your job ends and your friendships begin . . . Need I go on?”

  Banks rubbed his bristly chin. “No. I’m sorry. It’s been a rough night. But you still haven’t answered my question.”

  “I’d just hoped to get some idea of what might have happened to him, that’s all. I got the impression that if I’d lingered a moment longer down at the station they’d have had me in for questioning, too. I didn’t know about the death. I suppose that changes things?”

  “Of course it does. It means we’ve got a cop killer on the loose. I’m sure it’s nothing to do with your Dennis, but he’ll have to answer the same questions as the rest. I can’t say exactly how long he’ll be. At least you know he’s not in hospital. Plenty of people are.”

  “I can’t believe it, Alan. I can understand tempers getting frayed, fists flying, but not a killing. What happened?”

  “He was stabbed. It was deliberate; there’s no getting around that.” Jenny shook her head.

  “Sorry I can’t be any more help,” Banks said. “What was Dennis’s involvement with the demo?”

  “He was one of the organizers, along with the Students Union and those people from Maggie’s Farm.”

  “That place up near Relton?”

  “That’s it. The local women’s group was involved, too.”

  “WEEF? Dorothy Wycombe?”

  Jenny nodded. Banks had come up against the Women of Eastvale for Emancipation and Freedom before—Dorothy Wycombe in particular—and it gave him a sinking feeling to realize that he might have to deal with them again.

  “I still can’t believe it,” Jenny went on. “Dennis told me time and time again that the last thing they wanted was a violent confrontation.”

  “I don’t suppose anybody wanted it, but these things have a way of getting out of hand. Look, why don’t you go home? I’m sure he’ll be back soon. He won’t be mistreated. We don’t suddenly turn into vicious goons when things like this happen.”

  “You might not,” said Jenny. “But I’ve heard how you close ranks.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  Jenny finished her drink. “All right. I can see you’re trying to get rid of me.”

  “Not at all. Have another Scotch if you want.”

  Jenny hesitated. “No,” she said finally. “I was only teasing. You’re right. It’s late. I’d better get back home.” She picked up her scarf. “It was good, though. The scotch. So rich you could chew it.”

  Banks walked her to the door. “If there are any problems,” he said, “let me know. And I could do with your help, too. You seem to know a bit about what went on behind the scenes.”

  Jenny nodded and fastened her scarf.

  “Maybe you could come to dinner?” Banks suggested on impulse.

  “Try my gourmet cooking?”

  Jenny smiled and shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not? It’s not that bad. At least—”

  “It’s just . . . it wouldn’t seem right with Sandra away, that’s all. The neighbours . . .”

  “Okay. We’ll go out. How does the Royal Oak in Lyndgarth suit you?”

  “It’ll do fine,” Jenny said. “Give me a call.”

  “I will.”

  She pecked him on the cheek and he watched her walk down the path and get into her Metro. They waved to each other as she set off, then he closed his door on the wet, chilly night. He picked up the Scotch bottle and pulled the cork, thought for a moment, pushed it back and went upstairs to bed.

  THREE

  I

  COP KILLED IN DALES DEATH-DEMO, screamed the tabloid headlines the next morning. As he glanced at them over coffee and a cigarette in his office, Banks wondered why the reporter hadn’t gone the whole hog and spelled cop with a “k.”

  He put the paper aside and walked over to the window. The market square looked dreary and desolate in the grey March light, and Banks fancied he could detect a shell-shocked atmosphere hovering around the place. Shoppers shuffled along with their heads hung low and glanced covertly at the site of the demonstration as they passed, as if they expected to see armed guards wearing gas masks, and tear-gas drifting in the air. North Market Street was still roped off. The four officers sent from York had arrived at about four in the morning to help the local men search the area, but they had found no murder weapon. Now, they were trying again in what daylight there was.

  Banks looked at the calendar on his wall. It was March 17, St Patrick’s Day. The illustration showed the ruins of St Mary’s Abbey in York. Judging by the sunshine and the happy tourists, it had probably been taken in July. On the real March 17, his small space-heater coughed and hiccupped as it struggled to take the chill out of the air.

  He turned back to the newspapers. The accounts varied a great deal. According to the left-wing press, the police had brutally attacked a peaceful crowd without provocation; the right-wing papers, however, maintained that a mob of unruly demonstrators had provoked the police into retaliation by throwing bottles and stones. In the more moderate newspapers, nobody seemed to know exactly what had happened, but the whole affair was said to be extremely unfortunate and regrettable.

  At eight-thirty, Superintendent Gristhorpe, who had been up most of the night interviewing demonstrators and supervising the search, called Banks in. Banks stubbed out his cigarette—the super didn’t approve of smoking—and wandered into the book-lined office. The shaded table-lamp on Gristhorpe’s huge teak desk cast its warm glow on a foot-thick pile of statements.

  “I’ve been talking to the Assistant Chief Constable,” Gristhorpe said. “He’s been on the phone to London and they’re sending a man up this morning. I’m to cover the preliminary inquiry into the demo for the Police Complaints Authority.” He rubbed his eyes. “Of course, someone’ll no doubt accuse me of being biased and scrap the whole thing, but they want to be seen to be acting quickly.”

  “This man they’re sending,” Banks asked, “what’s he going to do?”

  “Handle the murder investigation. You’ll be working with him, along with Hatchley and Richmond.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  Gristhorpe searched for the scrap of paper on his desk. “Yes . . . let me see. . . . It’s a Superintendent Burgess. He’s attached to a squad dealing with politically sensitive crimes. Not exactly Special Branch, but not quite your regular CID, either. I’m not even sure we’re allowed to know what he is. Some sort of political trouble-shooter, I suppose.”

  “Is that Superintendent Richard Burgess?” Banks asked.

  “Yes. Why? Know him?”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “Alan, you’ve gone pale. What’s up?”

  “Yes, I know him,” Banks said. “Not well, but I worked with him a couple of times in London. He’s about my age, but he’s always been a step ahead.”

  “Ambitious?”

  “Very. But it’s not his ambition I mind so much,” Banks went on. “He’s sl
ightly to the right of . . . Well, you name him and Burgess is to the right.”

  “Is he good, though?”

  “He gets results.”

  “Isn’t that what we need?”

  “I suppose so. But he’s a real bastard to work with.”

  “How?”

  “Oh, he plays his cards close to his chest. Doesn’t let the right hand know what the left hand’s doing. He takes short cuts. People get hurt.”

  “You make him sound like he doesn’t even have a left hand,” Gristhorpe said.

  Banks smiled. “We used to call him Dirty Dick Burgess.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll find out. It’s nothing to do with his sexual activities, I can tell you that. Though he did have a reputation as a fairly active stud-about-town.”

  “Anyway,” Gristhorpe said, “he should be here around midday. He’s taking the early Intercity to York. There’s too long a wait between connections, so I’m sending Craig to meet him at the station there.”

  “Lucky Craig.”

  Gristhorpe frowned. Banks noticed the bags under his eyes. “Yes, well, make the best of it, Alan. If Superintendent Burgess steps out of line, I won’t be far away. It’s still our patch. By the way, Honoria Winstanley called before she left—at least one of her escorts did. Said all’s well, apologized for his brusqueness last night and thanked you for handling things so smoothly.”

  “Wonders never cease.”

  “I’ve booked Burgess into the Castle Hotel on York Road. It’s not quite as fancy or expensive as the Riverview, but then Burgess isn’t an MP, is he?”

  Banks nodded. “What about office space?”

  “We’re putting him in an interview room for the time being. At least there’s a desk and a chair.”

  “He’ll probably complain. People like Burgess get finicky about offices and titles.”

  “Let him,” Gristhorpe said, gesturing around the room. “He’s not getting this place.”

  “Any news from the hospital?”

  “Nothing serious. Most of the injured have been sent home. Susan Gay’s on sick-leave for the rest of the week.”