“Not to me, no.”
“But . . . I mean . . . I thought you were sure, that you had evidence?”
“The knife?”
“Yes.”
“You recognized it, didn’t you, when Jack Crocker brought it in here yesterday lunch-time?”
Mara said nothing. Before Banks could speak again, the food arrived and they both tucked in.
“Look,” said Banks, after polishing off the best part of a chunk of Wensleydale and a pickled onion, “let’s assume that Boyd’s innocent, just for the sake of argument.” Mara looked at him, but her expression was hard to fathom. Suspicion? Hope? Either reaction would be perfectly natural. “If he is,” Banks went on, “then it raises more questions than it answers. It’s easier for everyone if Boyd turns out to be guilty—everyone but him, that is—but the easiest way isn’t necessarily the true one. Do you know what I mean?”
Mara nodded and her lips curved just a little at the edges. “Sounds like the Eightfold Path,” she said.
“The what?”
“The Eightfold Path. It’s the Buddhist way to enlightenment.”
Banks speared another pickled onion. “Well, I don’t know much about enlightenment,” he said, “but we could do with a bit more light on the case.” He went on to tell her about the blood and prints on the knife. “That much we know,” he said. “That’s the evidence, the facts, if you like. Boyd was there, and we can prove that he handled the murder weapon. Superintendent Burgess thinks it’s enough to convict him, but I’m not so sure myself. Given the political aspect, though, he might just be right. Finding Boyd guilty will make us look good and it’ll discredit everyone who seems a bit different.”
“Isn’t that what you want?”
“I wish you’d stop making assumptions like that. You sound like a stoned hippie at a rock festival. Maybe you’d like to call me a pig, too, and get it over with? Either that or grow up.”
Mara said nothing, but Banks saw the faint flush suffuse her face.
“I want the truth,” Banks went on. “I’m not out to get any group or person, just a killer. If we assume that Boyd didn’t do it, then why are his prints on the knife, and why was it found on the moors about halfway between Eastvale and Maggie’s Farm?”
Mara pushed her half-eaten lasagne aside and rolled a cigarette. “I’m no detective,” she said, “but maybe he picked it up and threw it away on his way home, when he realized what it was.”
“But why? Would you have done something as stupid as that? Bent down at a demonstration to pick up a blood-stained knife? Think about it. Boyd had no guarantee of getting away. What if he’d been caught on the spot with the knife on him?”
“He’d probably have had time to drop it if he saw the cops closing in on him.”
“Yes, but it would still have his prints on it. I doubt if he’d have been calm enough to wipe it before they grabbed him. Even if he had, there would probably have been some of Gill’s blood on him.”
“This is all very well,” Mara said, “but I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“I’ll tell you in a moment.” Banks went to the bar and bought two more drinks. The place had filled up a bit since they’d come in, and there were even two well-wrapped hikers resting their feet by the fire.
Banks sat down and drank some beer. The hair of the dog was working nicely. “It all comes back to the knife,” he said. “You recognized it; Paul Boyd must have done, too. It comes from the farm, doesn’t it?”
Mara turned aside and studied the butterflies.
“You’re not helping anyone by holding back, you know. I only want you to confirm what we already know.”
Mara stubbed out her cigarette: “All right, so it comes from the house. What of it? If you know already, why bother to ask?”
“Because Paul might have been protecting someone, mightn’t he? If he found the knife and took it away, he must have thought it was evidence pointing to someone he knew, someone at the farm. Unless you think he’s just plain stupid.”
“You mean one of us?”
“Yes. Who would he be most likely to protect?”
“I don’t know. There were a few people up at the farm that afternoon.”
“Yes, I know who was there. Could anyone have taken the knife?” Mara shrugged. “It was on the mantelpiece, in plain view of everyone.”
“Whose knife is it?”
“I don’t know. It’s always been there.”
“Never mind, then. Let’s just call it a communal flick-knife. Do you think Paul would have picked it up to protect Dennis Osmond? Or Tim and Abha?”
Mara twirled a loose strand of hair. “I don’t know,” she said. “He didn’t know them very well.”
“What part did he play that afternoon? Was he around?”
“Most of the time, yes, but he didn’t say much. Paul has an inferiority complex when it comes to students and political talk. He doesn’t know about Karl Marx and the rest, and he doesn’t have enough confidence in his own ideas to feel he can contribute.”
“So he was there but he wasn’t very involved?”
“That’s right. He agreed with everything in principle. I mean, he wasn’t at the demo just to . . . just to . . .”
“Cause trouble?”
“No. He was there to demonstrate. He’s never had a job, you know. He’s got nothing to thank Thatcher’s government for.”
“You say the knife was usually kept on the mantelpiece. Did you see anyone pick it up that afternoon, just to fidget with, perhaps?”
“No.”
“When did you notice it was missing?”
“What?”
“You must have noticed it was gone. Was it before you saw Jack Crocker walk in here with it yesterday?”
“I . . . I . . .”
Banks waved his hand. “Forget it. I think I get the gist. You had noticed it was missing, and for some reason you thought Paul might have taken it with him last Friday.”
“No!”
“Then why did you run off and warn him?”
“Because I thought you’d pick on him if the knife had been found here. Jack Crocker works these moors. I knew when I saw him he couldn’t have found it far away.”
“Plausible,” Banks said. “But I’m not convinced. You weren’t at the demo, were you?”
“No. It’s not that I don’t believe in the cause, but somebody had to stay home and look after the children.”
“You didn’t put them to bed early and sneak out?”
“Are you accusing me?”
“I’m asking you.”
“Well, I don’t know how you’d expect me to do that. The others had taken the van and it’s a good four miles’ walk across the moor to Eastvale.”
“So that leaves Paul, Zoe, Seth and Rick. Seth and Rick were arrested, but if Paul had picked up the knife at the demo, either one of them could have stabbed Gill, too.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Did Osmond or any of the others dislike you enough to want to put the blame on one of you?”
“I don’t think so. Nobody had reason to hate us that much.”
“If you really hadn’t noticed the knife for some time, someone else could have taken it earlier, couldn’t they? Did you have any visitors during the week?”
“I . . . I don’t remember.”
“Do you keep the place securely locked up?”
“You must be joking. We’ve nothing worth stealing.”
“Think about it. You see my problem, don’t you? How it becomes more complicated if we leave Boyd out of it. And if someone did take the knife, there’s premeditation involved. Do you know of anyone with a reason to murder PC Gill?”
“No.”
“Was he mentioned that afternoon up at the farm?”
“Not that I heard. But I was in and out. You know, making tea, clearing up.”
Banks drank some more Black Sheep bitter. “Does the number 1139 mean anything to you?”
Mara
frowned. The lines curved down from each side of her forehead and converged at the bridge of her nose. “No,” she said. “At least I don’t think so. Why? Where did you find it?”
“It’s not part of an address or a telephone number, for example?”
“I’ve told you, no. Not that I know of. It sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it.”
“Have you ever heard of the Rossghyll Guest House?”
“Yes, it’s up the dale. Why?”
Banks watched her expression closely and saw no sign that the place meant anything to her. “Never mind. Let me know if anything comes to you. It might be important.”
Mara finished her drink and shifted in her chair. “Is there anything else?”
“Just one thing. It looks bad for Paul, running off like this. I know I can’t ask you to turn him in, even if you do know where he is. But it really would be best for him if he gave himself up. Is there any chance of that?”
“It’s unlikely. He’s scared of the police, especially that bastard of a superintendent you’ve got.” She shook her head. “I don’t think he’ll turn himself in.”
“If you hear from him, tell him what I said. Tell him I promise he’ll get a fair deal.”
Mara nodded slowly. “I don’t think it’ll do much good, though,” she said. “He won’t believe me. He doesn’t trust us now any more than he trusts you.”
“Why not?”
“He knows I suspected him, just for a while. Paul’s had so little love in his life he finds it hard enough to trust people in the first place. If they let him down, even in the slightest, then that’s it.”
“Still,” Banks said, “if you get the chance, put in a word.”
“I’ll tell him. But I don’t think any of us are likely to hear from Paul again. Can I go now?”
“Wait a moment and I’ll give you a lift.” Banks still had half a pint left and made to finish it off.
Mara stood up. “No, I’ll walk. The shop’s not far, and I could do with some fresh air.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
After she’d gone, Banks relaxed and savoured the rest of his beer. The meeting had gone better than he’d expected, and he had actually learned something about the knife. Mara had been evasive, mostly to avoid incriminating herself, but that was only to be expected. He didn’t blame her for it.
Banks decided to keep his knowledge from Burgess for a while. He didn’t want Dirty Dick to go charging in like a bloody elephant and frighten everyone into their corners as usual. Banks had managed to overcome some of Mara’s general resentment for the police—whether through Jenny’s influence, his taste in music, or sheer charm, he wasn’t sure—but if Burgess turned up again, Mara’s hatred for him would surely rub off on Banks as well.
By the time he set off back to Eastvale, his head had stopped aching and he felt able to tolerate some music. But he couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was missing something obvious. He had the strange sensation that two insignificant things either he or Mara had said should be joined into one truth. If they made contact, a little bulb would light up and he would be that much closer to solving the case. Billie Holiday sang on regardless:
Sad am I, glad am I
For today I’m dreaming of
Yesterdays.
II
Mara walked along the street, head down, thinking about her talk with Banks. Like all policemen, he asked nothing but bloody awkward questions. And Mara was sick of awkward questions. Why couldn’t things just get back to normal so she could get on with her life?
“Hello, love,” Elspeth greeted her as she walked into the shop.
“Hello. How’s Dottie?”
“She won’t eat. How she can expect to get better when she refuses to eat, I just don’t know.”
They both knew that Dottie wasn’t going to get better, but nobody said so.
“What’s wrong with you?” Elspeth asked. “You’ve got a face as long as next week.”
Mara told her about Paul.
“I don’t want to say I told you so,” Elspeth said, smoothing her dark tweed skirt, “but I thought that lad was trouble from the start. You’re best rid of him, all of you.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Mara didn’t agree, but there was no point arguing Paul’s case against Elspeth. She hadn’t expected any sympathy.
“Go in the back and get the wheel spinning, love,” Elspeth said. “It’ll do you a power of good.”
The front part of the shop was cluttered with goods for tourists. There were locally knit sweaters on shelves on the walls, tables of pottery—some of which Mara had made—and trays of trinkets, such as key-rings bearing the Dales National Park emblem—the black face of a Swaledale sheep. As if that weren’t enough, the rest of the space was taken up by fancy notepaper, glass paperweights, fluffy animals and fridge-door magnets shaped like strawberries or Humpty Dumpty.
In the back, though, the set-up was very different. First, there was a small pottery workshop, complete with wheel and dishes of brown and black metallic oxide glaze, and beyond that a drying room and a small electric kiln. The workshop was dusty and messy, crusted with bits of old clay, and it suited a part of Mara’s personality. Mostly she preferred cleanliness and tidiness, but there was something special, she found, about creating beautiful objects in a chaotic environment.
She put on her apron, took a lump of clay from the bin and weighed off enough for a small vase. The clay was too wet, so she wedged it on a flat concrete tray, which absorbed the excess moisture. As she wedged—pushing hard with the heels of her hands, then pulling the clay forward with her fingers to get all the air out—she couldn’t seem to lose herself in the task as usual, but kept on thinking about her conversation with Banks.
Frowning, she cut the lump in half with a cheese-wire to check for air bubbles, then slammed the pieces together much harder than usual. A fleck of clay spun off and hit her forehead, just above her right eye. She put the clay down and took a few deep breaths, trying to bring her mind to bear only on what she was doing.
No good. It was Banks’s fault, of course. He had introduced her to speculations that caused nothing but distress. True, she didn’t want Paul to be guilty, but if, as Banks had said, that meant someone else she knew had killed the policeman, that only made things worse.
Sighing, she started the wheel with the foot pedal and slammed the clay as close to the centre as she could. Then she drenched both it and her hands with water from a bowl by her side. As the wheel spun, clayey water flew off and splashed her apron.
She couldn’t believe that any of her friends had stabbed Gill. Much better if Osmond or one of the students had done it for political reasons. Tim and Abha seemed nice enough, if a bit naïve and gushing, but Mara had never trusted Osmond; he had always seemed somehow too oily and opinionated for her taste.
But what about Rick? He had strong political views, more so than Seth or Zoe. He’d often said someone should assassinate Margaret Thatcher, and Seth had argued that someone just as bad would take her place. But it was only a policeman who’d been killed, not a politician. Despite what Rick said about the police being mere instruments of the state, paid enforcers, she couldn’t believe that would make him actually kill one of them.
She leaned forward, elbows in, and pushed hard to centre the clay. At last, she managed it, and, allowing herself a smile of satisfaction, stuck her thumb in the top and pushed down about an inch. She then filled the hole with water and began to drive deeper to where she wanted the bottom of the vase to be.
Holding the inside with one finger, she slowed the wheel and began to make a ridge from the outside bottom, raising the clay to the height she wanted. It took several times to get there, pulling just a little further each time, watching the groove flow up the outside of the clay and disappear.
She was determined not to let Banks get to her. There was no way she was going to start suspecting Rick the way she had Paul. She had good reason for worry
ing about him, she told herself: his violent past; the blood he had lied about. And the knife had his fingerprints on it. She had no reason at all for suspecting anyone else. If only Paul could get far away and never be seen again. That would be best—if the police continued to believe he had done it but were never able to find him.
She could hear Elspeth out front trying to sell a sweater to a customer. “Traditional Dales pattern . . .local wool, of course . . .hand-knit, naturally. . . .”
Almost there. But her hands weren’t steady, and when she’d lost her concentration she had increased the pressure with her right foot, speeding up the wheel. Suddenly the clay began to spin wildly off centre—insane shapes, like Salvador Dali paintings or plastic melting in a fire—and then it collapsed in on itself on the wheel-head. And that was that. Mara took the cheese-wire and sliced off the mess. There was enough left for an egg-cup maybe, but she couldn’t face starting again. That damn Banks had ruined her day.
In disgust, she tore off her wet apron and cleaned the rest of the clay from the wheel. Putting on her anorak again, she walked through to the front.
“Sorry, Elspeth,” she said, “I just can’t seem to concentrate today. Maybe I’ll go for a walk.”
Elspeth frowned. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Give my love to Dottie.”
“Will do.”
As she left the shop, the bell clanged loudly behind her.
Instead of heading back home, she climbed the stile at the end of Mortsett Lane and struck out for the moors. As she walked, she ran over the events of last Friday afternoon up at the farm.
Most of the time she’d been in the kitchen preparing a stew for dinner—something to fortify them all against the cold and rain—and making pots of tea. The children had been a nuisance, too, she remembered. Over-excited because there were so many adults around, they’d kept coming in and tugging at her apron strings, pestering her. She hadn’t been paying much attention to what the others were saying or doing in the front room even when she was there, and she hadn’t noticed anybody pick up anything from the mantelpiece.
The only thing that struck a chord was that number Banks had mentioned: 1139, was it? She thought that she had heard it mentioned recently. Half heard it, really, because she had been thinking about something else at the time. The ashram, that was it. She had been remembering how, after the evening meal of brown rice and vegetables (every day!), they had all sat cross-legged in the meditation room, with its shrine to the guru and the smell of sandalwood incense heavy in the air. They had talked about how their lives had been empty until they had found the True Path. How they had been searching in all the wrong places for all the wrong things. And they had sung songs together, holding hands. “Amazing Grace” had been a particular favourite. Somehow, the gathering at the farm that afternoon had made her think of those days, though it was different in almost every way.
A Necessary End Page 18