“Who is it?” A woman’s voice came from behind them. Banks turned and saw Jenny Fuller poking her head around a door. From what he could tell, she was wearing a loose dressing-gown, and her hair was in disarray. His eyes caught hers and he felt his stomach tense up and his chest tighten. Meeting her in a situation like this was something he hadn’t expected. He was surprised how hard it hit.
“Police,” Osmond said. But Jenny had already turned back and shut the door behind her.
Burgess, who had watched all this, made no comment. “Can we sit down?” he asked.
“Go ahead.” Osmond gestured to the armchairs and pulled a black T-shirt over his head while they made themselves as comfortable as possible. The decal on the front showed the CND symbol—a circle with a wide-spread, inverted Y inside it, each branch touching the circumference—with NO NUKES written in a crescent under it.
Banks fumbled for a cigarette and looked around for an ashtray. “I’d rather you didn’t,” Osmond said. “Second-hand smoke can kill, you know.” He paused and looked Banks over. “So you’re Chief Inspector Banks, are you? I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Hope it was good,” Banks said, with more equilibrium than he felt. What had Jenny been telling him? “It’ll save us time getting acquainted, won’t it?”
“And you’re the whiz-kid they sent up from London,” Osmond said to Burgess.
“My, my. How word travels.” Dirty Dick smiled. He had the kind of smile that made most people feel nervous, but it seemed to have no effect on Osmond. As Banks settled into the chair, he could picture Jenny dressing in the other room. It was probably the bedroom, he thought gloomily, and the double bed would be rumpled and stained, the Sunday Times review section spread out over the creased sheets. He took out his notebook and settled down as best he could for the interrogation.
“What do you want?” Osmond asked, perching at the edge of the sofa and leaning forward.
“I hear you were one of the organizers of Friday’s demonstration,” Burgess opened.
“So what if I was?”
“And you’re a member of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament and the International Socialists, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I’m in Amnesty International, as well, in case you don’t have that in your file. And as far as I’m aware it’s not a crime yet.”
“Don’t be so touchy.”
“Look, can you get to the point? I haven’t got all day.”
“Oh yes, you have,” Burgess said. “And you’ve got all night, too, if I want it like that.”
“You’ve no right—”
“I’ve every right. One of your lot—maybe even you—killed a good, honest copper on Friday night, and we don’t like that; we don’t like it at all. I’m sorry if we’re keeping you from your fancy woman, but that’s the way it is. Whose idea was it?”
Osmond frowned. “Whose idea was what? And I don’t like you calling Jenny names like that.”
“You don’t?” Burgess narrowed his eyes. “There’ll be a lot worse names than that flying around, sonny, if you don’t start to co-operate. Whose idea was the demonstration?”
“I don’t know. It just sort of came together.”
Burgess sighed. “‘It just sort of came together,’” he repeated mockingly, looking at Banks. “Now what’s that supposed to mean? Men and women come together, if they’re lucky, but not political demonstrations—they’re planned. What are you trying to tell me?”
“Exactly what I said. There are plenty of people around here opposed to nuclear arms, you know.”
“Are you telling me that you all just happened to meet outside the Community Centre that night? Is that what you’re trying to say? ‘Hello, Fred, fancy meeting you here. Let’s have a demo.’ Is that what you’re saying?”
Osmond shrugged.
“Well, balls is what I say, Osmond. Balls to that. This was an organized demonstration, and that means somebody organized it. That somebody might have also arranged for a little killing to spice things up a bit. Now, so far the only somebody we know about for sure is you. Maybe you did it all by yourself, but I’m betting you had some help. Whose tune do you dance to, Mr Osmond? Moscow’s? Peking’s? Or is it Belfast?”
Osmond laughed. “You’ve got your politics a bit mixed up, haven’t you? A socialist is hardly the same as a Maoist. Besides, the Chairman’s out of favour these days. And as for the IRA, you can’t seriously believe—”
“I seriously believe a lot of things that might surprise you,” Burgess cut in. “And you can spare me the fucking lecture. Who gave you your orders?”
“You’re wrong,” Osmond said. “It wasn’t like that at all. And even if there was somebody else involved, do you think I’m going to tell you who it was?”
“Yes, I do,” Burgess said. “There’s nothing more certain. The only question is when you’re going to tell me, and where.”
“Look,” Banks said, “we’ll find out anyway. There’s no need to take it on yourself to carry the burden and get done for withholding information in a murder investigation. If you didn’t do it and you don’t think your mates did, either, then you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?” Banks found it easy to play the nice guy to Burgess’s heavy, even though he felt a strong, instinctive dislike for Osmond. When he questioned suspects with Sergeant Hatchley, the two of them switched roles. But Burgess only had one method of approach: head on.
“Listen to him,” Burgess said. “He’s right.”
“Why don’t you find out from someone else, then?” Osmond said to Banks. “I’m damned if I’m telling you anything.”
“Do you own a flick-knife?” Burgess asked.
“No.”
“Have you ever owned one?”
“No.”
“Know anybody who does?”
Osmond shook his head.
“Did you know PC Gill?” Banks asked. “Had you any contact with him before last Friday?”
Osmond looked puzzled by the question, and when he finally answered no, it didn’t ring true. Or maybe he was just thrown off balance. Burgess didn’t seem to notice anything, but Banks made a mental note to check into the possibility that Osmond and Gill had somehow come into contact.
The bedroom door opened and Jenny walked out. She’d brushed her hair and put on a pair of jeans and an oversized plaid shirt. Banks bet it belonged to Osmond and tried not to think about what had been going on earlier in the bedroom.
“Hello, love,” Burgess said, patting an empty chair beside him. “Come to join us? What’s your name?”
“In the first place,” Jenny said stiffly, “I’m not ‘love,’ and in the second, I don’t see as my name’s any of your damn business. I wasn’t even there on Friday.”
“As you like,” Burgess said. “Just trying to be friendly.”
Jenny glanced at Banks as if to ask, “Who is this bastard?” and Burgess caught the exchange.
“Do you two know each other?” he asked.
Banks cursed inwardly and felt himself turning red. There was no way out. “This is Dr Fuller,” he said. “She helped us on a case here a year or so back.”
Burgess beamed at Jenny. “I see. Well, maybe you can help us again, Dr Fuller. Your boy-friend here doesn’t want to talk to us, but if you’ve helped the police before—”
“Leave her alone,” Osmond said. “She had nothing to do with it.” Banks had felt the same thing—he didn’t want Burgess getting his claws into Jenny—and he resented Osmond for being able to defend her.
“Very prickly today, aren’t we?” Burgess said. “All right, sonny, we’ll get back to you, if that’s the way you want it.” But he kept looking at Jenny, and Banks knew he was filing her away for future use. Banks now found it hard to look her in the eye himself. He was only a chief inspector and Burgess was a superintendent. When things were going his way, Burgess wouldn’t pull rank, but if Banks let any of his special feeling for Jenny show, or tried in any way to protect her, then Burgess would
certainly want to humiliate him. Besides, she had her knight in shining armour in the form of Osmond. Let him take the flack.
“What were you charged with on Friday?” Burgess asked.
“You know damn well what I was charged with. It was a trumped-up charge.”
“But what was it? Tell me. Say it. Just to humour me.” Burgess reached into his pocket and took out his tin of Tom Thumbs. Holding Osmond’s eyes with his own all the time, he slowly took out a cigar and lit it.
“I said I don’t want you smoking in here,” Osmond protested on cue. “It’s my home and—”
“Shut up,” Burgess said, just loudly enough to stop him in his tracks. “What was the charge?”
“Breach of the peace,” Osmond mumbled. “But I told you, it was trumped up. If anyone broke the peace, it was the police.”
“Ever heard of a lad by the name of Paul Boyd?” Banks asked.
“No.” It was a foolish lie. Osmond had answered before he’d had time to register the question. Banks would have known he was lying even if he hadn’t already learned, via Jenny, that Osmond was acquainted with the people at Maggie’s Farm.
“Look,” Osmond went on, “I’m starting an inquiry of my own into what happened on Friday. I’ll be taking statements, and believe me, I’ll make sure your behaviour here today goes into the final report.”
“Bully for you,” said Burgess. Then he shook his head slowly. “You don’t get it, do you, sonny? You might be able to pull those outraged-citizen tactics with the locals, but they won’t wash with me. Do you know why not?”
Osmond scowled and kept silent.
“I said, do you know why not?”
“All right, no, I don’t bloody well know why not!”
“Because I don’t give a flying fuck for you or for others like you,”
Burgess said, stabbing the air with his cigar. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re shit, and we’d all be a hell of a lot better off without you. And the people I work with, they feel the same way. It doesn’t matter if Chief Inspector Banks here has the hots for your Dr Fuller and wants to go easy on her. It doesn’t matter that he’s got a social conscience and respects people’s rights, either. I don’t, and my bosses don’t. We don’t piss around, we get things done, and you’d do well to remember that, both of you.”
Jenny was flushed and speechless with rage; Banks himself felt pale and impotent. He should have known that nothing would slip by Burgess.
“I can’t tell you anything,” Osmond repeated wearily. “Why can’t you believe me? I don’t know who killed that policeman. I didn’t see it, I didn’t do it, and I don’t know who did.”
A long silence followed. At least it seemed long to Banks, who was aware only of the pounding of his heart. Finally Burgess stood up and walked over to the window, where he stubbed out his cigar on the white sill. Then he turned and smiled. Osmond gripped the tubular arms of his chair tightly.
“Okay,” Burgess said, turning to Banks. “We’ll be off, then, for the moment. Sorry to spoil your afternoon in bed. You can get back to it now, if you like.” He looked at Jenny and licked his lips. “That’s a fetching shirt you’ve got on, love,” he said to her. “But you didn’t need to leave it half-unbuttoned just for me. I’ve got plenty of imagination.”
Back in the car, Banks was fuming. “You were way out of line in there,” he said. “There was no reason to insult Jenny, and there was especially no need to bring me into it the way you did. What the hell were you trying to achieve?”
“Just trying to stir them up a bit, that’s all.”
“So how does making me out to be a bloody lecher stir them up?”
“You’re not thinking clearly, Banks. We make Osmond jealous, maybe he lets his guard down.” Burgess grinned. “Anyway, there’s nothing in it, is there, you and her?”
“Of course there isn’t.”
“Methinks this fellow doth protest too much.”
“Fuck off.”
“Oh, come on,” Burgess said calmly. “Don’t take it so seriously. You use what you need to get results. Christ, I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t mind tumbling her, myself. Lovely pair of tits under that shirt. Did you see?”
Banks took a deep breath and reached for a cigarette. There was no point, he realized, in going on. Burgess was an unstoppable force. However angry and disoriented Banks felt, it would do no good to let more of it show. Instead, he put his emotions in check, something he knew he should have done right from the start. But the feelings still rankled as they knotted up below the surface. He was mad at Burgess, he was mad at Osmond, he was mad at Jenny and he was mad, most of all, at himself.
Starting the car with a lurch, he shoved the cassette back in and turned up the volume. Billie Holiday sang “God Bless the Child,” and Burgess whistled blithely along as they sped through the bright, blustery March day back to the market square.
III
They were all a bit drunk, and that was unusual at Maggie’s Farm. Mara certainly hadn’t been so tipsy for a long time. Rick was sketching them as they sat around the living-room. Paul drank lager from the can, and even Zoe had turned giggly on white wine. But Seth was the worst. His speech was slurred, his eyes were watery, and his coordination was askew. He was also getting maudlin about the sixties, something he never did when he was sober. Mara had seen him drunk only once before, the time he had let slip about the death of his wife. Mostly, he was well-guarded and got on with life without moaning.
Things had begun well enough. After the police visit, they had all walked down to the Black Sheep for a drink. Perhaps the feeling of relief, of celebration, had encouraged them to drink more than usual, and they had splurged on a few cans of Carlsberg Special Brew, some white wine and a bottle of Scotch to take home. Most of the afternoon Seth and Mara had lounged about over the papers or dozed by the fire, while Paul messed about in the shed, Rick painted in his studio, and Zoe amused the children. Early in the evening they all got together, and the whisky and wine started making the rounds.
Seth stumbled over to the stereo and sought out a scratchy old Grateful Dead record from his collection. “Those were the days,” he said. “All gone now. All people care about today is money. Bloody yuppies.”
Rick looked up from his sketch-pad and laughed. “When was it ever any different?”
“Isle of Wight, Knebworth . . .” Seth went on, listing the rock festivals he’d been to. “People really shared back then. . . .”
Mara listened to him ramble. They had been under a lot of stress since the demo, she thought, and this was clearly Seth’s way of getting it out of his system. It was easy to fall under the spell of nostalgia. She remembered the sixties, too—or more accurately the late sixties, when the hippie era had really got going in England. Things had seemed better back then. Simpler. More clear-cut. There was us and them, and you knew them by the shortness of their hair.
“. . . . Santana, Janis, Hendrix, the Doors. Jesus, even the Hare Krishnas were fun back then. Now they all wear bloody business suits and wigs. I remember one time—”
“It’s all crap!” Paul shouted, banging his empty can on the floor. “It was never like that. It’s just a load of cobblers you’re talking, Seth.”
“How would you know?” Seth sat up and balanced unsteadily on his elbow. “You weren’t there, were you? You were nought but a twinkle in your old man’s eye.”
“My mum and dad were hippies,” Paul said scornfully. “Fucking flower children. She OD’d, and he was too bloody stoned to take care of me, so he gave me away.”
Mara was stunned. Paul had never spoken about his true parents before, only about the way he had been badly treated in his foster home. If it was true, she thought, did he really see Seth and her in the same light? They were about the right age. Did he hate them, too?
But she couldn’t believe that. There was another side to the coin. Maybe Paul was looking for what he had lost, and he had found at least some of it at Maggie’s Farm. They didn’t take dr
ugs and, while she and Seth might have grown up in the sixties and tried to cling onto some of its ideals, they neither looked nor acted like hippies any longer.
“We’re not like that,” she protested, looking over at Zoe for support. “You know it, Paul. We care about you. We’d never desert you. It was fun back then for a lot of people. Seth’s only reminiscing about his youth.”
“I know,” Paul said grudgingly. “I can’t say I had one worth reminiscing about, myself. Anyway, I’m only saying, Mara, that’s all. It wasn’t all peace and love like Seth tells it. He’s full of shit.”
“You’re right about that, mate,” Rick agreed, putting down his sketch-pad and pouring another shot of Scotch. “I never did have much time for hippies myself. Nothing but a moaning, whining bunch of little kids, if you ask me. Seth’s just pissed, that’s all. Look at him now, anyway—he’s a bloody landowner, a landlord even. Pretty soon it’ll be baggy tweeds and out shooting pheasant every afternoon. Sir Seth Cotton, Squire of Maggie’s Farm.”
But Seth had slumped back against a beanbag and seemed to have lost all interest in the conversation. His eyes were closed, and Mara guessed that he was either asleep or absorbed in the soaring Jerry Garcia guitar solo.
“Where’s your father now?” Mara asked Paul.
“I don’t fucking know. Don’t fucking care, either.” Paul ripped open another can of lager.
“But didn’t he ever get in touch?”
“Why should he? I told you, he was too zonked out to notice me even when I was there.”
“It’s still no reason to say everyone was like that,” Mara said. “All Seth was saying was that the spirit of love was strong back then. All that talk about the Age of Aquarius meant something.”
“Yeah, and what’s happened to it now? Two thousand years of this crap I can do without, thanks very much. Let’s just forget the fucking past and get on with life.” With that, Paul got up and left the room.
A Necessary End Page 8