A Necessary End

by Peter Robinson

  “Walk.”

  “Walk?”

  “Yes. It’s just a mile down the track. Do you good. Give you a thirst.”

  Hatchley wasn’t convinced—he had never had any problems working up a thirst without exercise before—but Banks left him to his fate and drove down to Relton.

  Mara was in the back bent over her wheel, gently turning the lip of a vase. Elspeth led him through, muttered, “A policeman to see you,” with barely controlled distaste, then went back into the shop itself.

  Mara glanced up. “Let me finish,” she said. “If I stop now, I’ll ruin it.” Banks leaned against the doorway and kept quiet. The room smelled of wet clay. It was also hot. The kiln in the back generated a lot of heat. Mara’s long brown hair was tied back, accentuating the sharpness of her nose and chin as she concentrated. Her white smock was stained with splashed clay.

  Finally, she drenched the wheel-head with water, sliced off the vase with a length of cheese-wire, then slid it carefully onto her hand before transferring it to a board.

  “What now?” Banks asked.

  “It has to dry.” She put it away in a large cupboard at the back of the room. “Then it goes in the kiln.”

  “I thought the kiln dried it.”

  “No. That bakes it. First it has to be dried to the consistency of old cheddar.”

  “These are good,” Banks said, pointing to some finished mugs glazed in shades of orange and brown.

  “Thanks.” Mara’s eyes were puffy and slightly unfocused, her movements slow and zombie-like. Even her voice, Banks noticed, was flatter than usual, drained of emotion and vitality.

  “I have to ask you some questions,” he said.

  “I suppose you do.”

  “Do you mind?”

  Mara shook her head. “Let’s get it over with.”

  She perched at the edge of her stool and Banks sat on a packing crate just inside the doorway. He could hear Elspeth humming as she busied herself checking on stock in the shop.

  “Did you notice anyone gone for an unusually long time during the meeting yesterday afternoon?” Banks asked.

  “Was it only yesterday? Lord, it seems like months. No, I didn’t notice. People came and went, but I don’t think anyone was gone for long. I’m not sure I would have noticed, though.”

  “Did Seth ever say anything to you before about suicide? Did he ever mention the subject?”

  Mara’s lips tightened and the blood seemed to drain from them. “No. Never.”

  “He’d tried once before, you know.”

  Mara raised her thin eyebrows. “It seems you knew him better than I did.”

  “Nobody knew him, as far as I can tell. There was a will, Mara.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you remember when he made it?”

  “Yes. He joked about it. Said it made him feel like an old man.”

  “Is that all?”

  “That’s all I remember.”

  “Did he say why he was making it at that time?”

  “No. He just told me that the solicitor who handled the house, Courtney, said he should, and he’d been thinking about it for a long time.”

  “Do you know what was in the will?”

  “Yes. He said he was leaving me the house. Does that make me a suspect?”

  “Did you know about the codicil?”

  “Codicil? No.”

  “He left his tools and things to Paul.”

  “Well, he would, wouldn’t he. Paul was keen, and I’ve got no use for them.”

  “Did Paul know?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “This would be around last Christmas.”

  “Maybe it was his idea of a present.”

  “But what made him think he was going to die? Seth was what age—forty? By all rights he could expect to live to seventy or so. Was he worried about anything?”

  “Seth always seemed . . . well, not worried, but preoccupied. He’d got even more morbid of late. It was just his way.”

  “But there was nothing in particular?”

  Mara shook her head. “I don’t believe he killed himself, Mr Banks. He had lots to live for. He wouldn’t just leave us like that. Everyone depended on Seth. We looked up to him. And he cared about me, about us. I think somebody must have killed him.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Banks shifted position on the packing crate. Its surface was hard and he felt a nail dig into the back of his right thigh. “Do you remember Elizabeth Dale?”

  “Liz. Yes, of course. Funny, I was just thinking about her last night.”

  “What about her?”

  “Oh, nothing really. How jealous I was, I suppose, when she came to the farm that time. I’d only known Seth six months then. We were happy but, I don’t know, I guess I was insecure. Am.”

  “Why did you feel jealous?”

  “Maybe that’s not the right word. I just felt cut out, that’s all. Seth and Liz had known each other for a long time, and I didn’t share their memories. They used to sit up late talking after I went to bed.”

  “Did you hear what they were talking about?”

  “No. It was muffled. Do smoke if you want.”

  “Thanks.” She must have noticed him fidgeting and looking around for an ashtray. He took out his pack and offered one to Mara. “I think I will,” she said. “I can’t be bothered to roll my own today.”

  “What did you think about Liz Dale?”

  Mara lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. “I didn’t like her, really.

  I don’t know why, just a feeling. She was messed up, of course, but even so, she seemed like someone who used people, leaned on them too much, maybe a manipulator.” She shrugged wearily and blew smoke out through her nose. “She was Seth’s friend, though. I wasn’t going to say anything.”

  “So you put up with her?”

  “It was easy enough. She was only with us three days before those SS men from the hospital took her back.”

  “Dennis Osmond came up first, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. But he was too soft, they said. He didn’t see why she shouldn’t stay where she was, especially as she hadn’t been committed or anything, just checked herself in. He argued with the hospital people, but it was no good.”

  “How did Osmond and Liz get along?”

  “I don’t know really. I mean, he stuck up for her, that’s all.”

  “There wasn’t anything between them?”

  “What do you mean? Sexual?”

  “Anything.”

  “I doubt it. They only met twice, and I wouldn’t say she was his type.”

  “And that was the first time Seth met Osmond?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Did you get the impression that Osmond had known Liz before?”

  “No. I didn’t. But impressions can be wrong. What are you getting at?”

  “I’m not sure myself. Just following my nose.”

  “Mr Banks,” Mara whispered suddenly. “do you think Dennis Osmond killed Seth? Is that it? I know Seth couldn’t have done it himself, and I . . . I can’t seem to think straight. . . .”

  “Steady on.” Banks caught her in his arms as she slid forward from the stool. Her hair smelled of apples. He sat her on a stiff-backed chair in the corner, and her eyes filled with tears. “All right?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. That sedative takes most of the feeling out of me, but . . .”

  “It’s still there?”

  “Yes. Just below the surface.”

  “We can continue this later if you like. I’ll drive you home.” He thought how pleased Hatchley would be to see the Cortina turning up again.

  Mara shook her head. “No, it’s all right. I can handle it. I’m just confused. Maybe some water.”

  Banks brought her a glass from the tap at the stained porcelain sink in the corner.

  “So are we,” he said. “Confused. It looked like a suicide in some ways, but there were contradiction
s.”

  “He wouldn’t kill himself, I’m sure of it. Paul was back again. Seth was happy. He had the farm, friends, the children. . . .” Banks didn’t know what to say to make her feel better.

  “When he tried before,” she said, “was it because of Alison?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can understand that. It makes sense. But not now. Someone must have killed him.” Mara sipped at her water. “Anyone could have come in through the side gate and sneaked up on him.”

  “It didn’t happen like that, Mara. Take my word for it, he had to know the person. It was someone he felt comfortable with. Have you seen or heard anything from Liz Dale since she left?”

  “I haven’t, no. Seth went to visit her in the hospital a couple of times, but then he lost touch.”

  “Any letters?”

  “Not that he told me about.”

  “Christmas card?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know where she is now?”

  “No. Is it important?”

  “It could be. Do you know anything about her background?” Mara frowned and rubbed her temple. “As far as I know she’s from down south somewhere. She used to be a nurse until . . . Well, she fell in with a bad crowd, got involved with drugs and lost her job. Since then she just sort of drifted.”

  “And ended up in Hebden Bridge?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see her do any drugs at the farm?”

  “No. And I’m not just saying that. She was off heroin. That was part of the problem, why she was unable to cope.”

  “Was Seth ever an addict?”

  “I don’t think so. I think he’d have told me about that. We talked about drugs, how we felt about them and how they weren’t really important, so I think he’d have told me.”

  “And you’ve no idea where Liz is now?”

  “None at all.”

  “What about Alison?”

  “What about her? She’s dead.”

  A hint of bitterness had crept into her tone, and Banks wondered why. Jealousy? It could happen. Plenty of people were jealous of previous lovers, even dead ones. Or was she angry at Seth for not making her fully a part of his life, for not sharing all his feelings? She unfastened her hair and shook her head, allowing the chestnut tresses to cascade over her shoulders.

  “Can I have another cigarette?”

  “Of course.” Banks gave her one. “Surely Seth must have told you something,” he said. “You don’t live with someone for two years and find out nothing about their past.”

  “Don’t you? And how would you know?”

  Banks didn’t know. When he had met Sandra, they had been young and had little past to talk about, none of it very interesting. “It just doesn’t make sense,” he said.

  The shop bell clanged and broke the silence. They heard Elspeth welcoming a customer, an American by the sound of his drawl.

  “What are you going to do now?” Banks asked.

  Mara rubbed her eyes. “I don’t know. I’m too tired to throw another pot. I think I’ll just go home and go to bed early.”

  “Do you want a ride?”

  “No. Really. A bit of fresh air and exercise will do me good.” Banks smiled. “I wish my sergeant felt the same way.”

  “What?”

  Banks explained and Mara managed a weak smile.

  They walked out together, Banks collecting a sour look from Elspeth on the way. Outside the Black Sheep, Mara turned away.

  “I am sorry, you know, about your loss,” Banks said awkwardly to her back.

  Mara turned around and stared at him for a long time. He couldn’t make out what she was thinking or feeling.

  “I do believe you are,” she said finally.

  “And Jenny sends her condolences. She says to give her a call if you ever need anything . . . a friend.”

  Mara said nothing.

  “She didn’t betray your confidence, you know. She was worried about you. And you went to her because you were worried about Paul, didn’t you?”

  Mara nodded slowly.

  “Well, give her a call. All right?”

  “All right.” And tall though she was, Mara seemed a slight figure walking up the lane in the dark toward the Roman road. Banks stood and watched till she was out of sight.

  Hatchley was already in the Black Sheep halfway through his second pint, judging by the empty glass next to the half-full one in front of him. Banks went to the bar first, bought two more and sat down. As far as he was concerned, Hatchley could drink as much as he wanted. He was a lousy driver even when sober, and Banks had no intention of letting him anywhere near the Cortina’s driving seat.

  “Anything?” the sergeant asked.

  “No, not really. You?”

  “That big bloke with the shaggy beard put up a bit of an argument at first, but the little lass with the red hair told him it was best to co-operate.”

  “Damn,” Banks said. “I knew there was something I’d forgotten. Mara’s prints. Never mind, I’ll get them later.”

  “Anyway,” Hatchley went on, “most of the letters in the cabinet were carbons, but I managed to rescue a couple of drafts from the waste bin.”

  “Good.”

  “You don’t sound so pleased,” Hatchley complained.

  “What? Oh, sorry. Thinking of something else. Let’s drink up and get your findings sent over to the lab.”

  Hatchley drained his third pint with astonishing speed and looked at his watch. “It’s going on for six-thirty,” he said. “No point rushing now; they’ll all have buggered off home for the night.” He glanced over at the bar. “Might as well have another.”

  Banks smiled. “Unassailable logic, Sergeant. All right. Better make it a quick one, though. And it’s your round.”

  III

  At home, Banks managed to warm up a frozen dinner—peas, mashed potatoes and veal cutlet—without ruining it. After washing the dishes—or, rather, rinsing his knife and fork and coffee cup and throwing the metal tray into the rubbish bin, he called Sandra.

  “So when do I get my wife back?” he asked.

  “Wednesday morning. Early train,” Sandra said. “We should be home around lunch-time. Dad’s a lot better now and Mum’s coping better than I’d imagined.”

  “Good. I’ll try and be in,” Banks said. “It depends.”

  “How are things going?”

  “They’re getting more complicated.”

  “You sound grouchy, too. It’s a good sign. The more complicated things seem and the more bad-tempered you get, the closer the end is.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Of course it is. I haven’t lived with you this long without learning to recognize the signs.”

  “Sometimes I wonder what people do learn about one another.”

  “What’s this? Philosophy?”

  “No. Just frustration. Brian and Tracy well?”

  “Fine. Just restless. Brian especially. You know Tracy, she’s happy enough with her head buried in a history book. But with him it’s all sports and pop music now. American football is the latest craze, apparently.”

  “Good God.”

  Brian had changed a lot over the past year. He even seemed to have lost interest in the electric train that Banks had set up in the spare room. Banks played with it himself more than Brian did, but then, he had to admit, he always had done.

  To keep the emptiness after the conversation at bay, he poured out a glass of Bell’s and listened to Leroy Carr and Scrapper Blackwell while he tried to let the information that filled his mind drift and form itself into new patterns. Bizarre as it all seemed, a number of things began to come together. The problem was that one theory seemed to cancel out the other.

  The doorbell woke him from a light nap just before ten o’clock. The tape had long since ended and the ice had melted in his second Scotch.

  “Sorry I’m so late, sir,” Richmond said, “but I’ve just finished.”

  “Come in.” Banks rubbe
d his eyes. “Sit down. A drink?”

  “If you don’t mind, sir. Though I suppose I am still on duty.

  Technically.”

  “Scotch do? Or there’s beer in the fridge.”

  “Scotch will do fine, sir. No ice, if you don’t mind.”

  Banks grinned. “I’m getting as bad as the Americans, aren’t I, putting ice in good Scotch. Soon I’ll be complaining my beer is too warm.”

  Richmond fitted his long athletic body into an armchair and stroked his moustache.

  “By the way you’re playing with that bit of face fungus there,” Banks said, “I gather you’ve succeeded.”

  “What? Oh, yes, sir. Didn’t know I was so obvious.”

  “Most of us are, it seems. You’d not make a good poker player—and you’d better watch it in interrogations. Come on then, what did you find?”

  “Well,” Richmond began, consulting his notebook, “I did exactly as you said, sir. Hung around discreetly near Tim and Abha’s place. They stayed in all afternoon.”

  “Then what?”

  “They went out about eight, to the pub I’d guess. And about half an hour later that blue Escort pulled up and two men got out and disappeared into the building. They looked like the ones you described. They must have been waiting and watching somewhere nearby, because they seemed to know when to come, allowing a bit of a safety margin in case Tim and Abha had just gone to the shop or something.”

  “You didn’t try to stop them from getting in, did you?” Richmond seemed shocked. “I did exactly as you instructed me, sir, though it felt a bit odd to sit there and watch a crime taking place. The front door is usually left on the latch, so they just walked in. The individual flats are kept locked, though, so they must have broken in. Anyway, they came out about fifteen minutes later carrying what looked like a number of buff folders.”

  “And then what?”

  “I followed them at a good distance, and they pulled into the car-park of the Castle Hotel and went inside. I didn’t follow, sir—they might have noticed me. And they didn’t come out. After they’d been gone about ten minutes, I went in and asked the desk clerk about them and got him to show me the register. They’d booked in as James Smith and Thomas Brown.”

  “How imaginative. Sorry, carry on.”