A Necessary End

by Peter Robinson

  “No! We’ve got to stand by him. If we approach him, he might think we believe he’s guilty and want him out of the way.”

  “But we’d have to approach him to ask if he’d like to go away for a while, until things settle down.”

  “So we do nothing. If he wants to stay, he stays, and we stand by him, whatever. If he goes, then it’s his decision. We don’t force him out. He’s not stupid, Seth, I’m sure he knows he’s in for a lot of police harassment. The last thing he needs is to feel that we’re against him, too.”

  “Okay.” Seth nodded and stood up. “We’ll leave it at that. I’ve got to go and do some work on that old sideboard now. I’m already late. You all right?”

  Mara looked up at him and smiled. “I’ll manage.”

  “Good.” He bent and kissed her, then went out back to his work-shop.

  But Mara wasn’t all right. Left to herself, she began to imagine all kinds of terrible things. The world of Maggie’s Farm had seemed at first to offer the stability, love and freedom she had always been searching for, but now it had broken adrift. The feeling was like that she remembered having during a mild earthquake in California, when she’d travelled around the States, with Matthew, eons ago. Suddenly, the floor of the room, the house’s foundations, the solid earth on which they were built, had seemed no more stable than water. A ripple had passed fleetingly under her, and what she had always thought durable turned out to be flimsy, untrustworthy and transient. The quake had only lasted for ten seconds and hadn’t registered above five on the Richter scale, but the impression had remained with her ever since. Now it was coming back stronger than ever.

  On the mantelpiece, among the clutter of sea shells, pebbles, fossils and feathers, she could see the faint outline of dust around where the knife had been. As she wiped the surface clean, she thanked her lucky stars that the police had been looking for material things, not absences.

  V

  Banks drove along Foreshore Road and Sandside by the Old Harbour. The amusement arcades and gift shops were all closed. In season, crowds of holiday-makers always gathered around the racks of cheeky postcards, teenagers queued for the Ghost Train and children dragged their parents to the booths that sold candy-floss and Scarborough rock. But now the prom was deserted. Even on the seaward side, there were no stalls selling cockles, winkles and boiled shrimp. A thick, high cloud-cover had set in, and the sea sloshed at the barnacle-crusted harbour walls like molten metal. Fishing boats rocked at their moorings, and stacks of lobster-pots teetered on the quayside. Towering over the scene, high on its promontory, the ruined castle looked like something out of a black-and-white horror film.

  Banks dropped Richmond off at a pub near the West Pier and carried on along Marine Drive, parking just beyond the closed fun-fair. He buttoned up his raincoat tight and walked along the road that curved around the headland between the high cliff and the sea. Signs on the hillside warned of falling rocks. Waves hit the sea-wall and threw up spray onto the road.

  Tony Grant was already there, leaning on the railing and staring out to the point where sea and sky merged in a uniform grey. He wore a navy duffle coat with the hood down, and his baby-fine hair fluttered in the wind. A solitary oil tanker was moving slowly across the horizon.

  “I like it best like this,” he said as Banks joined him. “If you don’t mind getting a bit wet.”

  They both looked out over the ruffled water. Salt spray filled the air and Banks felt the ozone freshen his lungs as he breathed deep. He shivered and asked, “What is it you want to tell me?”

  Grant hesitated. “Look, sir,” he said after staring at the oil tanker for half a minute, “I don’t want you to get me wrong. I’m not a grass or anything. I’ve not been long on the force, and mostly I like it. I didn’t think I would, not at first, but I do now. I want to make a career out of it.” He looked at Banks intensely. “I’d like to join the CID. I’m not stupid; I’ve got brains. I’ve been to university, and I could maybe have got into teaching—that’s what I thought I wanted to do—but, well, you know the job situation. Seems all that’s going these days is the police force. So I joined. Anyway, as I said, I like it. It’s challenging.”

  Banks took out a cigarette and cupped his hand around his blue Bic lighter. It took him four attempts to get a flame going long enough. He wished Grant would get to the point, but he knew he had to be patient and listen. The kid was about to go against his peers and squeal on a colleague. Listening to the justification, as he had listened to so many before, was the price Banks had to pay.

  “It’s just that,” Grant went on, “well . . . it’s not as clean as I expected.”

  Naïve bugger, Banks thought. “It’s like anything else,” he said, encouraging the lad. “There’s a lot of bastards out there, whatever you do. Maybe our line of work attracts more than the usual quota of bullies, lazy sods, sadists and the like. But that doesn’t mean we’re all like that.” Banks sucked on his cigarette. It tasted different, mixed with the sea air. A wave broke below them and the spray wet their feet.

  “I know what you’re saying,” Grant said, “and I think you’re right. I just wanted you to know what side I’m on. I don’t believe that the end justifies the means. With me they’re innocent until proven guilty, as the saying goes. I treat people with respect, no matter what colour they are or how they dress or wear their hair. I’m not saying I approve of some of the types we get, but I’m not a thug.”

  “And Gill was?”

  “Yes.” A big wave started to peak as it approached the wall, and they both stepped back quickly to avoid the spray. Even so, they couldn’t dodge a mild soaking, and Banks’s cigarette got soggy. He threw it away.

  “Was this common knowledge?”

  “Oh, aye. He made no bones about it. See, with Gill it wasn’t just the overtime, the money. He liked it well enough, but he liked the job more, if you see what I mean.”

  “I think I do. Go on.”

  “He was handy with his truncheon, Gill was. And he enjoyed it. Every time we got requests for manpower at demos, pickets, and the like, he’d be first to sign up. Got a real taste for it during the miners’ strike, when they bussed police in from all over the place. He was the kind of bloke who’d wave a roll of flyers at the striking miners to taunt them before he clobbered them. He trained with the Tactical Aid Group.”

  The TAG, Banks knew, was a kind of force within a force. Its members trained together in a military fashion and learned how to use guns, rubber bullets and tear-gas. When their training was over, they went back to normal duties and remained on call for special situations—like demos and picket lines. The official term for them had been changed to PSU—Police Support Unit—as the TAGs got a lot of bad publicity and sounded too obviously martial. But it was about as effective as changing the name of Windscale to Sellafield; a nuclear-power station by another name. . . .

  “Is that how he behaved in Eastvale?” Banks asked.

  “I wouldn’t swear to it, but I’m pretty sure it was Gill who led the charge. See, things were getting a bit hairy. We were all hemmed in so tight. Gill was at the top of the steps with a few others, just looking down at people pushing and shoving—not that you could see much, it was so bloody dark with those old-fashioned street-lamps. Anyway, one of the demonstrators chucked a bottle, and someone up there, behind me, yelled, ‘Let’s clobber the bastards.’ I think I recognized Gill’s voice. Then they charged down and . . . well, you know what happened. It needn’t have—that’s what I’m saying. Sure, there was a bit of aggro going on, but we could have sat on it if someone had given the order to loosen up a bit, give people room to breathe. Instead, Gill led a fucking truncheon charge. I know we coppers are all supposed to stick together, but . . .” Grant looked out to sea and shivered.

  “There’s a time to stick together,” Banks said, “and this isn’t it. Gill got himself killed, remember that.”

  “But I couldn’t swear to anything. I mean, officially. . . .”

&nb
sp; “Don’t worry. This is off the record.” At least it is for now, he told himself. If anything came of their discussion, young Grant might find himself with a few serious decisions to make. “How did the others feel about Gill?” he asked.

  “Oh, most of them thought it was all a bit of a joke, a lark. I mean, there’d be Gill going on about clobbering queers and commies. I don’t think they really took him seriously.”

  “But it wasn’t just talk? You say he liked smashing skulls.”

  “Yes. He was a right bastard.”

  “Surely they knew it?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Did they approve?”

  “Well, no, I wouldn’t say that. Some, maybe . . .but I didn’t, for one.”

  “But nobody warned him, told him to knock it off?”

  Grant pulled up his collar. “No.”

  “Were they scared of him?”

  “Some of the lads were, yes. He was a bit of a hard case.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me? Well, I wouldn’t have taken him up on anything, that’s for sure. I’m scarcely above regulation height, myself, and Gill was a big bugger.”

  A seagull screeched by them, a flash of white against the grey, and began circling over the water for fish. The tanker had moved far over to the right of the horizon. Banks felt the chill getting to him. He put his hands deep in his pockets and tensed up against the cold, wet wind.

  “Did any of the others actually like him?” he asked. “Did he have any real mates at the station?”

  “I wouldn’t say so, no. He wasn’t a very likeable bloke. Too big-headed, too full of himself. I mean, you couldn’t have a conversation with him; you just had to listen. He had views on everything, but he was thick. I mean, he never really thought anything out. It was all down to Pakis and Rastas and students and skinheads and unemployed yobbos with him.”

  “So he wasn’t popular around the station?”

  “Not really, no. But you know what it’s like. A few of the lads get together in the squad room—especially if they’ve had TAG training—and you get all that macho, tough-guy talk, just like American cop shows. He was good at that, Gill was, telling stories about fights and taking risks.”

  “Are there any more like him in your station?”

  “Not as bad, no. There’s a few that don’t mind a good punch-up now and then, and some blokes like to pull kids in on a sus just to liven up a boring night. But nobody went as far as Gill.”

  “Did he have any friends outside the station?”

  “I don’t know who he went about with off duty.”

  “Did he have a girl-friend?”

  “I don’t know. He never mentioned anyone.”

  “So he didn’t brag about having women like he did about thumping people?”

  “No. I never heard him. Whenever he did talk about women it was always like they were whores and bitches. He was a foul-mouthed bastard. He’d hit them, too, at demos. It was all the same to him.”

  “Do you think he could have been the type to mess around with someone else’s girl-friend or wife?”

  Grant shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

  The seagull flew up towards the cliffs behind them, a fish flapping in its beak. The sea had settled to a rhythmic slapping against the stone wall, hardly sending up any spray at all. Banks risked another cigarette.

  “Did Gill have any enemies that you know of?”

  “He must have made plenty over the years, given his attitude towards the public,” Grant said. “But I couldn’t name any.”

  “Anyone on the force?”

  “Eh?”

  “You said nobody at the station really liked him. Had anyone got a good reason to dislike him? Did he owe money, cheat people, gamble? Any financial problems?”

  “I don’t think so. He just got people’s backs up, that’s all. He talked about betting on the horses, yes, but I don’t think he did it that much. It was just the macho sort of thing that went with his image. He never tried to borrow any money off me, if that’s what you mean. And I don’t think he was on the take. At least he was honest on that score.”

  Banks turned his back to the choppy water and looked up towards the sombre bulk of the ruined castle. He couldn’t see much from that angle; the steep cliff, where sea-birds made their nests, was mottled with grass, moss and bare stone. “Is there anything else you can tell me?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. I just wanted you to know that all that crap at the funeral was exactly that. Crap. Gill was a vicious bastard. I’m not saying he deserved what happened to him, nobody deserves that, but those who live by the sword. . . .”

  “Did you have any particular reason to dislike Gill?”

  Grant seemed startled by the question. “Me? What do you mean?”

  “What I say. Did he ever do you any harm personally?”

  “No. Look, if you’re questioning my motives, sir, believe me, it’s exactly like I told you. I heard you were asking questions about Gill, and I thought someone should tell you the truth, that’s all. I’m not the kind to go around speaking ill of the dead just because they’re not here to defend themselves.”

  Banks smiled. “Don’t mind me, I’m just an old cynic. It’s a long time since I’ve come across a young idealist like you on the force.” Banks thought of Superintendent Gristhorpe, who had managed to hang on to a certain amount of idealism over the years. But he was one of the old guard; it was a rare quality in youth these days, Banks had found—especially in those who joined the police. Even Richmond could hardly be called an idealist. Keen, yes, but as practical as the day was long.

  Grant managed a thin smile. “It’s nice of you to say that, but it’s not exactly true. After all,” he said, “I laid into them with the rest last Friday, didn’t I? And do you know what?” His voice caught in his throat and he couldn’t look Banks in the eye. “After a while, I even started to enjoy myself.”

  So, Banks thought, maybe Grant had told all because he felt ashamed of himself for acting like Gill and enjoying the battle. Getting caught up in the thrill of action was hardly unusual; the release of adrenalin often produced a sense of exhilaration in men who would normally run a mile from a violent confrontation. But it obviously bothered Grant. Perhaps this was his way of exorcising what he saw as Gill’s demon inside him. Whatever his reasons, he’d given Banks plenty to think about.

  “It happens,” Banks said, by way of comfort. “Don’t let it worry you. Look, would you do me a favour?” They turned and started walking back to their cars.

  Grant shrugged. “Depends.”

  “I’d like to know a bit more about Gill’s overtime activities—like where he’s been and when. There should be a record. It’d also be useful if I could find out about any official complaints against him, and anything at all about his private life.”

  Grant frowned and pushed at his left cheek with his tongue as if he had a canker. “I don’t know,” he said finally, fiddling in his duffle-coat pocket for his car keys. “I wouldn’t want to get caught. They’d make my life a bloody misery here if they knew I’d even talked to you like this. Can’t you just request his record?”

  Banks shook his head. “My boss doesn’t want us to be seen investigating Gill. He says it’ll look bad. But if we’re not seen. . . . Send it to my home address, just to be on the safe side.” Banks scribbled his address on a card and handed it over.

  Grant got into his car and opened the window. “I can’t promise anything,” he said slowly, “but I’ll have a go.” He licked his lips. “If anything important comes out of all this . . .” He paused.

  Banks bent down, his hand resting on the wet car roof.

  “Well,” Grant went on, “I don’t want you to think I’m after anything, but you will remember I said I wanted to join the CID, won’t you?” And he smiled a big, broad, innocent, open smile.

  Bloody hell, there were no flies on this kid. Banks couldn’t make him out. At first he’d taken such a m
oral line that Banks suspected chapel had figured strongly somewhere in his background. But despite all his idealism and respect for the law, he might well be another Dirty Dick in the making. On the other hand, that damn smiling moon-face looked so bloody cherubic. . . .

  “Yes,” Banks said, smiling back. “Don’t worry, I won’t forget you.”

  SIX

  I

  In the cross-streets between York Road and Market Street, near where Banks lived, developers had converted terraces of tall Victorian family houses into student flats. In one of these, in a two-room attic unit, Tim Fenton and Abha Sutton lived.

  If Tim and Abha made an unlikely-looking couple, they made an even more unlikely pair of revolutionaries. Tim had all the blond good looks of an American “preppie,” with dress sense to match. Abha, half-Indian, had golden skin, beetle-black hair, and a pearl stud through her left nostril. She was studying graphic design; Tim was in the social sciences. They embraced Marxism as the solution to the world’s inequalities, but were always quick to point out that they regarded Soviet Communism as an extreme perversion of the prophet’s truth. Both were generally well-mannered, and not at all the type to call police pigs.

  They sat on a beat-up sofa under a Che Guevara poster while Banks made himself comfortable on a second-hand office swivel chair at the desk. The cursor blinked on the screen of an Amstrad PC, and stacks of paper and books overflowed from the table to the floor and onto any spare chairs.

  After getting back from Scarborough, Banks had just had time to drop in at the station and see what Special Branch had turned up. As usual, their files were as thin as Kojak’s hair, and gathered on premises as flimsy as a stripper’s G-string. Tim Fenton was listed because he had attended a seminar in Slough sponsored by Marxism Today, and some of the speakers there were suspected of working for the Soviets. Dennis Osmond had attracted the Branch’s attention by writing a series of violently anti-government articles for various socialist journals during the miners’ strike, and by organizing a number of political demonstrations—especially against American military presence in Europe. As Banks had suspected, their crimes against the realm hardly provided grounds for exile or execution.