A Necessary End

by Peter Robinson

  Tim and Abha were, predictably, hostile and frightened after Burgess’s visit. Banks had previously been on good terms with the two after successfully investigating a series of burglaries in student residences the previous November. Even Marxists, it appeared, valued their stereos and television sets. But now they were cautious and guarded. It took a lot of small talk to get them to relax and open up. When Banks finally got around to the subject of the demo, they seemed to have stopped confusing him with Burgess.

  “Did you see anything?” Banks asked first.

  “No, we couldn’t,” Tim answered. “We were right in the thick of the crowd. One of the cops shouted something and that was that. When things went haywire we were too busy trying to protect ourselves to see what was happening to anyone else.”

  “You were involved in organizing the demo, right?”

  “Yes. But that doesn’t mean—”

  Banks held up his hand. “I know,” he said. “And that’s not what I’m implying. Did you get the impression that anyone involved—anyone at all—might have had more on his mind than just protesting Honoria Winstanley’s visit?”

  They both shook their heads. “When we got together up at the farm,” Abha explained, “everyone was just so excited that we could organize a demo in a place as conservative as Eastvale. I know there weren’t many people there, but it seemed like a lot to us.”

  “The farm?”

  “Yes. Maggie’s Farm. Do you know it?”

  Banks nodded.

  “They invited us up to make posters and stuff,” Tim said. “Friday afternoon. They’re really great up there; they’ve really got it together. I mean, Seth and Mara, they’re like the old independent craftsmen, doing their own thing, making it outside the system. And Rick’s a pretty sharp Marxist.”

  “I thought he was an artist.”

  “He is,” Tim said, looking offended. “But he tries not to paint anything commercial. He’s against art as a saleable commodity.”

  So that pretty water-colour Banks had noticed propped by the fireplace at Maggie’s Farm couldn’t have been one of Rick’s.

  “What about Paul Boyd?”

  “We don’t know him well,” Abha said. “And he didn’t say much. One of the oppressed, I suppose.”

  “You could say that. And Zoe?”

  “Oh, she’s all right,” Tim said. “She goes in for all that bourgeois spiritual crap—bit of a navel-gazer—but she’s okay underneath it all.”

  “Do you know anything about their backgrounds, where they come from?”

  They shook their heads. “No,” Tim said finally. “I mean, we just talk about the way things are now, how to change them, that kind of thing. And a bit of political theory. Rick’s pissed off about his divorce and all that, but that’s about as far as the personal stuff goes.”

  “And you know nothing else about them?”

  “No.”

  “Who else was there?”

  “Just us and Dennis.”

  “Osmond?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Does either of you recall seeing a flick-knife that day, or hearing anyone mention one?”

  “No. That’s what the other bloke went on about,” Tim said, getting edgy. “Bloody Burgess. He went on and on about a flick-knife.”

  “He almost came right out and accused us of killing that policeman, too,” Abha said.

  “That’s just his style. I wouldn’t worry about it. Did anyone at the meeting mention PC Gill by name?”

  “Not that I heard,” Tim said.

  “Nor me,” said Abha.

  “Have you ever heard anyone talk about him? Dennis Osmond, for example? Or Rick?”

  “No. The only thing we knew about him,” Abha said, “was that he’d trained with the TAG groups and he liked to work on crowd control. You know—demos, pickets and such.”

  The chair creaked as Banks swivelled sharply. “How did you know that?”

  “Word gets around,” Abha said. “We keep—”

  Tim nudged her in the ribs and she shut up.

  “What she means,” he said, “is that if you’re politically involved up here, you soon get to know the ones to watch out for. You lot keep tabs on us, don’t you? I’m pretty sure Special Branch has a file on me, anyway.”

  “Fair enough,” Banks said, smiling to himself at the absurdity of it all. Games. Just little boys’ games. “Was this fairly common knowledge? Could anyone have known to expect Gill at the demo that night?”

  “Anyone involved in organizing it, sure,” Tim said. “And anyone who’d been to demos in Yorkshire before. There aren’t many like him, thank God. He did have a bit of a reputation.”

  “Did you know he was going to be on duty?”

  “Not for certain, no. I mean, he could have had flu or broke his leg.”

  “But short of that?”

  “Short of that he was rarely known to miss. Look, I don’t know what all this is in aid of,” Tim said, “but I think you should know we’re still going to do our own investigation.”

  “Into the murder?”

  Tim gave him a puzzled glance. “No. Into the police brutality. We’re all getting together again up at the farm in a few days to compare notes.”

  “Well, if you find anything out about PC Gill’s death, let me know.”

  Banks looked at his watch and stood up. It was time he went and got ready for his evening out with Jenny. After he’d said goodbye and walked back down the gloomy staircase to the street, he reflected how odd it was that wherever he went, all roads seemed to lead to Maggie’s Farm. More than that, almost anyone involved could have known that Gill was likely to be there that night. If Gill cracked heads in Yorkshire for a hobby, then the odds were that one or two people might hold a strong grudge against him. He wished Tony Grant would hurry up and send the information from Scarborough.

  II

  Mara put on her army-surplus greatcoat and set off down the track for Relton. It was dark now and the stars were glittering flecks of ice in the clear sky. Distant hills and scars showed only as muted silhouettes, black against black. The crescent moon was up, hanging lopsided like a backdrop to a music-hall number. Mara almost expected a man with a top hat, cape and cane to start dancing across it way up in the sky. The gravel crackled under her feet, and the wind whistled through gaps in the lichen-covered dry-stone wall. In the distance, the lights of cottages and villages down in the dale twinkled like stars.

  She would talk to Jenny, she decided, thrusting her hands deeper into her pockets and hunching up against the chill. Jenny knew Chief Inspector Banks, too. Though she distrusted all policemen, even Mara had to admit that he was a hell of a lot better than Burgess. Perhaps she might also be able to find out what the police really thought, and if they were going to leave Paul alone from now on.

  Mara’s mind strayed back to the I Ching, which she had consulted before setting off. What the hell was it all about? It was supposed to be an oracle, to offer words of wisdom when you really needed them, but Mara wasn’t convinced. One problem was that it always answered questions obliquely. You couldn’t ask, “Did Paul kill that policeman?” and get a simple yes or no. This time, the oracle had read: “The woman holds the basket, but there are no fruits in it. The man stabs the sheep, but no blood flows. Nothing that acts to further.” Did that mean Paul hadn’t killed anyone, that the blood on his hand had come from somewhere else? And what about the empty basket? Did that have something to do with Mara’s barren womb? If there was any practical advice at all, it was to do nothing, yet here she was, walking down the track on her way to call Jenny. All the book had done was put her fears into words and images.

  At the end of the track, Mara walked along Mortsett Lane, past the closed shops and the cottages with their television screens flickering behind curtains. In the dimly lit phone booth, she rang Jenny’s number. She heard a click followed by a strange, disembodied voice that she finally recognized as Jenny’s. The voice explained that its owner was o
ut, but that a message could be left after the tone. Mara, who had never dealt with an answering machine before, waited nervously, worried that she might miss her cue. But it soon came, the unmistakable high-pitched bleep. Mara spoke quickly and loudly, as people do to foreigners, feeling self-conscious about her voice: “This is Mara, Jenny. I hope I’ve got this thing right. Please, will you meet me tomorrow lunch-time in the Black Sheep in Relton? It’s important. I’ll be there at one. I hope you can come.” She paused for a moment and listened to the silence, feeling that she should add something, but she could think of nothing more to say.

  Mara put the phone back gently. It had been rather like sending a telegram, something she had done once before. The feeling that every word cost money was very inhibiting, and so, in a different way, was the sense of a tape winding around the capstan past the recording head as she talked.

  Anyway, it was done. Leaving the booth, she hurried towards the Black Sheep, feeling lighter in spirit now that she had at least taken a practical step to deal with her fears.

  III

  Banks and Jenny sat in the bar over aperitifs while they studied the menu. The Royal Oak was a cosy place with muted lights, mullioned windows and gleaming copper-ware in little nooks and crannies. Fastened horizontally between the dark beams on the ceiling was a collection of walking-sticks of all lengths and materials: knobbly ash-plants, coshers, sword-sticks and smooth canes, many with ornate brass handles. On a long shelf above the bar stood a row of toby jugs with such faces as Charles II, Shakespeare and Beethoven; some, however, depicted contemporaries, like Margaret Thatcher and Paul McCartney.

  Jenny sipped a vodka-and-tonic, Banks a dry sherry, as they tried to decide what to order. Finally, after much self-recrimination about the damage it would do to her figure, Jenny settled for steak au poivre with a wine-and-cream sauce. Banks chose roast leg of lamb. Much as he liked to watch the little blighters frolic around the dale every spring, he enjoyed eating them almost as much. They’d only grow up into sheep anyway, he reasoned.

  They followed the waitress into the dining-room, pleased to find only one other table occupied, and that by a subdued couple already on dessert. Mozart’s Clarinet Quintet played quietly in the background. Banks watched Jenny walk ahead of him. She was wearing a loose top, cut square across the collarbone, which looked as if it had been tie-dyed in various shades of blue and red. Her pleated skirt was plain rust-red, the colour of her tumbling, wavy hair, and came to midway down her calves. The tights she wore had some kind of pattern on them, which looked to Banks like a row of bruises up the sides of her legs. Being a gentleman, though, he had complimented her on her appearance.

  The waitress lit the candle, took their orders and moved off soundlessly, leaving them with the wine list to study. Banks lit a cigarette and smiled at Jenny.

  Despite the claims of Playboy, the Miss Universe contest and other promoters of the feminine image to men, Banks had often found that it was the most insignificant detail that made a woman physically attractive to him: a well-placed mole, a certain curve of the lips or turn of the ankle; or a mannerism, such as the way she picked up a glass, tilted her head before smiling, or fiddled with a necklace while speaking.

  In the case of Sandra, his wife, it was the dark eyebrows and the contrast they made with her naturally ash-blonde hair. With Jenny, it was her eyes, or rather the delta of lines that crinkled their outer edges, especially when she smiled. They were like a map whose contours revealed a sense of humour and a curious mixture of toughness and vulnerability that Banks, himself, felt able to identify with. Her beautiful red hair and green eyes, her shapeliness, her long legs and full lips were all very well, but they were just icing on the cake. It was the lines around the eyes that did it.

  “What are you thinking?” Jenny asked, looking up from the list.

  Banks gave her the gist of it.

  “Well,” she said, after a fit of laughter, “I’ll take that as a compliment, though there are many women who wouldn’t. What shall we have?”

  “They’ve got a nice Seguret 1980 here, if I remember rightly. And not too expensive, either. That’s if you like Rhône.”

  “Fine by me.”

  When the waitress returned with their smoked salmon and melon appetizers, Banks ordered the wine.

  “So what’s all this decadence in aid of?” asked Jenny, her eyes twinkling in the candle flame. “Are you planning to seduce me, or are you just softening me up for questioning?”

  “What if I said I was planning to seduce you?”

  “I’d say you were going about it the right way.” She smiled and looked around the room. “Candlelight, romantic music, nice atmosphere, good food.”

  The wine arrived, shortly followed by their main courses, and soon they were enjoying the meal to the accompaniment of the Flute Quartets.

  Over dinner, Jenny complained about her day. There had been too many classes to teach, and she was tired of the undergraduates’ simplistic assumptions about psychology. Sometimes, she confessed, she was even sick of psychology itself and wished she’d studied English literature or history instead.

  Banks told her about the funeral, careful to leave out his meeting with Tony Grant. It would be useful to have something in reserve later, if he could steer her around to talking about Osmond. He also mentioned his visit to Tim and Abha and how Burgess’s approach had soured the pitch.

  “Your Dirty Dick is a real jerk,” Jenny said, employing an Americanism the man himself would have been proud of. “Dare I ask about dessert?” she asked, pushing her empty plate aside.

  “It’s your figure.”

  “In that case, I think I’ll have chocolate mousse. Absolutely no calories at all. And coffee and cognac.”

  When the waitress came by, Banks ordered Jenny’s dessert and liqueur along with a wedge of Stilton and a glass of Sauternes for himself. “You didn’t really answer my question, you know,” he said.

  “What question’s that?”

  “The one about seducing you.”

  “Oh, yes. But I did. I said you were going about it the right way.”

  “But you didn’t say whether I’d get anywhere or not.”

  Jenny’s eyes crinkled. “Alan! Are you feeling the itch because Sandra’s away?”

  Banks felt foolish for bringing the subject up in the first place. Flirting with Jenny might be fun, but it also had a serious edge that neither really wanted to get too close to. If it hadn’t been for that damned incident at Osmond’s flat, he thought, he’d never have been so silly as to start playing games like this. But when he had seen Jenny look around Osmond’s bedroom door like that—the robe slipping off her shoulder, the tousled hair, the relaxed, unfocused look that follows love-making—it hadn’t only made him jealous, it had also inflamed old desires. He had felt that nobody else should enjoy what he couldn’t enjoy himself. And he couldn’t; of that there was no doubt. So he played his games and ended up embarrassing both of them.

  He lit a cigarette to hide behind and poured the last of the Seguret. “Change the subject?”

  Jenny nodded. “A good idea.”

  The dessert arrived at the same time as a noisy party of business-men. Fortunately, the waitress seated them at the far end of the room.

  “This is delicious,” Jenny said, spooning up the chocolate mousse. “I suppose you’re going to question me now? I’ve got a feeling that seduction would probably have been a lot more fun.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” Banks said. “But you’re right. I would like your help on a couple of things.”

  “Here we go. Can I just finish my sweet first?”

  “Sure.”

  When the dishes were empty, Jenny sipped some cognac. “All right,” she said, saluting and sitting up to attention. “I’m all ears.”

  “Were you there?” Banks asked.

  “Where?”

  “At the demo. You came to see me at two in the morning. You said you’d been waiting at your house for your boy-friend—”


  “Dennis!”

  “Yes, all right. Dennis.” Banks wondered why he hated the sound of the name so much. “But you could have been at the demo, too.”

  “You mean I could have been lying?”

  “That’s not what I’m getting at. You might have just failed to mention it.”

  “Surely you don’t think I’m a suspect now? Being seduced by Quasimodo would be more fun than this.”

  Banks laughed. “That’s not my point. Think about it. If you were there with Osmond right up until the time he got arrested, then you’d be a witness that he didn’t stab PC Gill.”

  “I see. So Dennis is a prime suspect as far as you’re concerned?”

  “He is as far as Burgess is concerned. And that’s what counts.”

  Banks wondered if he, too, wanted Osmond to be guilty. Part of him, he had to admit, did. He was also wondering whether or not to tell Jenny about the assault charges. It would be a mean thing to do right now, he decided, because he couldn’t trust his motives. Would he be telling her for her own good, or out of the jealousy he felt, out of a desire to hurt her relationship with Osmond?

  “I see what you mean,” Jenny said finally. “No, I wasn’t at the demo. I don’t know what happened. Dennis has talked to me about it, of course—and, by the way, he’s going ahead with his own inquiry into the thing, you know, along with Tim and Abha. And Burgess is going to come off pretty badly. Apparently he was around again today with Hatchley.”

  Banks knew that. He also knew that the dirty duo had got no more out of anyone than they had the first time around. They’d probably be drowning their sorrows in the Queens Arms by now, and with a bit of luck Dirty Dick would push it too far with Glenys and her Cyril would thump him.

  “Back to the demo,” Banks said. “What exactly has Dennis said?”

  “He doesn’t know what happened to that policeman. Do you think I’d be sitting here talking to you, answering your questions, if I wasn’t trying to convince you that he had nothing to do with it?”