A Necessary End ib-3

by Peter Robinson

  Banks moved aside. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Have a drink?”

  “I will, if you don’t mind.” Jenny walked into the front room, took off her green silk scarf and shook her red hair. The muted trumpet wailed and Sara Martin sang “Death Sting Me Blues.”

  “What happened to opera?” Jenny asked.

  Banks poured her a shot of Laphroaig. “There’s a lot of music in the world,” he said. “I want to listen to as much as I can before I shuffle off this mortal coil.”

  “Does that include heavy metal and middle-of-the-road?”

  Banks scowled. “Dennis Osmond. What about him?”

  “Ooh, touchy, aren’t we?” Jenny raised her eyes to the ceiling and lowered her voice. “By the way, I hope I haven’t disturbed Sandra or the children?”

  Banks explained their absence. “It was all a bit sudden,” he added, to fill the silence that followed, which seemed somehow more weighty than it should. Jenny expressed her sympathy and shifted in her seat. She took a deep breath. “Dennis was arrested during that demonstration tonight. He managed to get in a phone call to me from the police station. He’s not come back yet. I’ve just been there and the man on

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  the desk told me you’d left. They wouldn’t tell me anything about the prisoners at all. What’s going on?”

  “Where hasn’t he come back to?”

  “My place.”

  “Do you live together?”

  Jenny’s eyes hardened and drilled into him like emerald laser beams. “That’s none of your damn business.” She drank some more Scotch. “As a matter of fact, no, we don’t. He was going to come round and tell me about the demonstration. It should have been all over hours ago.”

  “You weren’t there yourself?”

  “Are you interrogating me?”

  “No. Just asking.”

  “I believe in the cause-I mean, I’m against nuclear power and American missile bases-but I don’t see any point standing in the rain in front of Eastvale Community Centre.”

  “I see.” Banks smiled. “It was a nasty night, wasn’t it?”

  “And there’s no need to be such a cynic. I had work to do.”

  “It was a pretty bad night inside, too.”

  Jenny raised her eyebrows. “The Hon Hon?”

  “Indeed.”

  “You were there?”

  “I had that dubious honour, yes. Duty.”

  “You poor man. It might have been worth a black eye to get out of that.”

  “I take it you haven’t heard the news, then?”

  “What news?”

  “A policeman was killed at that peaceful little demonstration tonight. Not a local chap, but one of us, nonetheless.”

  “Is that why Dennis is still at the station?”

  “We’re still questioning people, yes. It’s serious, Jenny. I haven’t seen Dennis Osmond, never even heard of him. But they won’t let him go till they’ve got his statement, and we’re not giving out any information to members of the public yet. It doesn’t mean he’s under suspicion or anything, just that he hasn’t been questioned yet.”

  “And then?”

  “They’ll let him go. If all’s well you’ll still have some of the night left together.”

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  Jenny lowered her head for a moment, then glared at him again. “You’re being a bastard, you know,” she said. “I don’t like being teased that way.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Banks asked. “Why did you come?”

  “I … I just wanted to find out what happened.”

  “Are you sure you’re not trying to get him special treatment?”

  Jenny sighed. “Alan, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

  Banks nodded.

  “Well,” she went on, “I know you can’t help being a policeman, but if you don’t know where your job ends and your friendships begin… Need I go on?”

  Banks rubbed his bristly chin. “No. I’m sorry. It’s been a rough night. But you still haven’t answered my question.”

  “I’d just hoped to get some idea of what might have happened to him, that’s all.

  I got the impression that if I’d lingered a moment longer down at the station they’d have had me in for questioning, too. I didn’t know about the death. I suppose that changes things?”

  “Of course it does. It means we’ve got a cop killer on the loose. I’m sure it’s nothing to do with your Dennis, but he’ll have to answer the same questions as the rest. I can’t say exactly how long he’ll be. At least you know he’s not in hospital. Plenty of people are.”

  “I can’t believe it, Alan. I can understand tempers getting frayed, fists flying, but not a killing. What happened?”

  “He was stabbed. It was deliberate; there’s no getting around that.”

  Jenny shook her head.

  “Sorry I can’t be any more help,” Banks said. “What was Dennis’s involvement with the demo?”

  “He was one of the organizers, along with the Students Union and those people from Maggie’s Farm.”

  “That place up near Relton?”

  “That’s it. The local women’s group was involved, too.”

  “WEEF? Dorothy Wycombe?”

  Jenny nodded. Banks had come up against the Women of Eastvale for Emancipation and Freedom before-Dorothy

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  Wycombe in particular-and it gave him a sinking feeling to realize that he might have to deal with them again.

  “I still can’t believe it,” Jenny went on. “Dennis told me time and time again that the last thing they wanted was a violent confrontation.”

  “I don’t suppose anybody wanted it, but these things have a way of getting out of hand. Look, why don’t you go home? I’m sure he’ll be back soon. He won’t be mistreated. We don’t suddenly turn into vicious goons when things like this happen.”

  “You might not,” said Jenny. “But I’ve heard how you close ranks.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  Jenny finished her drink. “All right. I can see you’re trying to get rid of me.”

  “Not at all. Have another Scotch if you want.”

  Jenny hesitated. “No,” she said finally. “I was only teasing. You’re right. It’s late. I’d better get back home.” She picked up her scarf. “It was good, though.

  The Scotch. So rich you could chew it.”

  Banks walked her to the door. “If there are any problems,” he said, “let me know. And I could do with your help, too. You seem to know a bit about what went on behind the

  scenes.”

  Jenny nodded and fastened her scarf.

  “Maybe you could come to dinner?” Banks suggested on impulse. “Try my gourmet cooking?”

  Jenny smiled and shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not? It’s not that bad. At least-“

  “It’s just … it wouldn’t seem right with Sandra away, that’s all. The neighbours…”

  “Okay. We’ll go out. How does the Royal Oak in Lyndgarth suit you?”

  “It’ll do fine,” Jenny said. “Give me a call.”

  “I will.”

  She pecked him on the cheek and he watched her walk down the path and get into her Metro. They waved to each

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  other as she set off, then he closed his door on the wet, chilly night. He picked up the Scotch bottle and pulled the cork, thought for a moment, pushed it back and went upstairs to bed.

  34

  I

  COP KILLED IN DALES DEATH-DEMO, screamed the tabloid headlines the next morning.

  As he glanced at them over coffee and a cigarette in his office, Banks wondered why the reporter hadn’t gone the whole hog and spelled cop with a “k.”

  He put the paper aside and walked over to the window. The market square looked dreary and desolate in the grey March light, and Banks fancied he could detect a shellshocked atmosphere hovering around the place. Shoppers shuffled along with their heads hung low and glanced c
overtly at the site of the demonstration as they passed, as if they expected to see armed guards wearing gas masks, and tear-gas drifting in the air. North Market Street was still roped off. The four officers sent from York had arrived at about four in the morning to help the local men search the area, but they had found no murder weapon. Now, they were trying again in what daylight there was.

  Banks looked at the calendar on his wall. It was March 17, St Patrick’s Day. The illustration showed the ruins of St Mary’s Abbey in York. Judging by the sunshine and the happy tourists, it had probably been taken in July. On the real March 17, his small space-heater coughed and hiccupped as it struggled to take the chill out of the air.

  He turned back to the newspapers. The accounts varied a 35

  great deal. According to the left-wing press, the police had brutally attacked a peaceful crowd without provocation; the right-wing papers, however, maintained that a mob of unruly demonstrators had provoked the police into retaliation by throwing bottles and stones. In the more moderate newspapers, nobody seemed to know exactly what had happened, but the whole affair was said to be extremely unfortunate and regrettable.

  At eight-thirty, Superintendent Gristhorpe, who had been up most of the night interviewing demonstrators and supervising the search, called Banks in. Banks stubbed out his cigarette-the super didn’t approve of smoking-and wandered into the book-lined office. The shaded table-lamp on Gristhorpe’s huge teak desk cast its warm glow on a foot-thick pile of statements.

  “I’ve been talking to the Assistant Chief Constable,” Gristhorpe said. “He’s been on the phone to London and they’re sending a man up this morning. I’m to cover the preliminary inquiry into the demo for the Police Complaints Authority.” He rubbed his eyes. “Of course, someone’ll no doubt accuse me of being biased and scrap the whole thing, but they want to be seen to be acting quickly.”

  “This man they’re sending,” Banks asked, “what’s he going to do?”

  “Handle the murder investigation. You’ll be working with him, along with Hatchley and Richmond.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  Gristhorpe searched for the scrap of paper on his desk. “Yes … let me see….

  It’s a Superintendent Burgess. He’s attached to a squad dealing with politically sensitive crimes. Not exactly Special Branch, but not quite your regular CID, either. I’m not even sure we’re allowed to know what he is. Some sort of political trouble-shooter, I suppose.”

  “Is that Superintendent Richard Burgess?” Banks asked.

  “Yes. Why? Know him?”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “Alan, you’ve gone pale. What’s up?”

  “Yes, I know him,” Banks said. “Not well, but I worked 36

  with him a couple of times in London. He’s about my age, but he’s always been a step ahead.”

  “Ambitious?”

  “Very. But it’s not his ambition I mind so much,” Banks went on. “He’s slightly to the right of… Well, you name him and Burgess is to the right.”

  “Is he good, though?”

  “He gets results.”

  “Isn’t that what we need?”

  “I suppose so. But he’s a real bastard to work with.”

  “How?”

  “Oh, he plays his cards close to his chest. Doesn’t let the right hand know what the left hand’s doing. He takes short cuts. People get hurt.”

  “You make him sound like he doesn’t even have a left hand,” Gristhorpe said.

  Banks smiled. “We used to call him Dirty Dick Burgess.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll find out. It’s nothing to do with his sexual activities, I can tell you that. Though he did have a reputation as a fairly active stud-about-town.”

  “Anyway,” Gristhorpe said, “he should be here around midday. He’s taking the early Intercity to York. There’s too long a wait between connections, so I’m sending Craig to meet him at the station there.”

  “Lucky Craig.”

  Gristhorpe frowned. Banks noticed the bags under his eyes. “Yes, well, make the best of it, Alan. If Superintendent Burgess steps out of line, I won’t be far away. It’s still our patch. By the way, Honoria Winstanley called before she left -at least one of her escorts did. Said all’s well, apologized for his brusqueness last night and thanked you for handling things so smoothly.”

  “Wonders never cease.”

  “I’ve booked Burgess into the Castle Hotel on York Road. It’s not quite as fancy or expensive as the Riverview, but then Burgess isn’t an MP, is he?”

  Banks nodded. “What about office space?”

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  “We’re putting him in an interview room for the time being. At least there’s a desk and a chair.”

  “He’ll probably complain. People like Burgess get finicky about offices and titles.”

  “Let him,” Gristhorpe said, gesturing around the room. “He’s not getting this place.”

  “Any news from the hospital?”

  “Nothing serious. Most of the injured have been sent home. Susan Gay’s on sick-leave for the rest of the week.”

  “When you were going through the statements,” Banks asked, “did you come across anything on a chap called Dennis Osmond?”

  “The name rings a bell. Let me have a look.” Gristhorpe leafed through the pile.

  “Yes, I thought so. Interviewed him myself. One of the last. Why?”

  Banks explained about Jenny’s visit.

  “I took his statement and sent him home.” Gristhorpe read through the sheet.

  “That’s him. Belligerent young devil. Threatened to bring charges against the police, start an enquiry of his own. Hadn’t seen anything, though. Or at least he didn’t admit to it. According to records he’s a CND member, active in the local antinuclear group. Amnesty International, too-and you know what Mrs Thatcher thinks of them these days. He’s got connections with various other groups as well, including the International Socialists. I should imagine Superintendent Burgess will certainly want to talk to him.”

  “Hmmm.” Banks wondered how Jenny would take that. Knowing both her and Burgess as he did, he could guarantee sparks would fly. “Did anything turn up in the statements?”

  “Nobody witnessed the stabbing. Three people said they thought they glimpsed a knife on the road during the scuffles. It must have got kicked about quite a bit. Nothing I’ve heard so far brings order out of chaos. The poor lighting didn’t help, either. You know how badly that street is lit. Dorothy Wycombe’s been pestering us about it for weeks. I keep putting her onto the council, but to no avail. She says it’s an invitation to rape, especially with all those unlit side

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  alleys, but the council says the gaslamps are good for the tourist business.

  Anyway, PC Gill was found just at the bottom of the Community Centre steps, for what that’s worth. Maybe if we can find out the names of the people on the front line we’ll get somewhere.”

  Banks went on to tell Gristhorpe what he’d discovered from Jenny about the other organizers.

  “The Church for Peace group was involved, too,” Gristhorpe added. “Did I hear you mention Maggie’s Farm, that place near Relton?”

  Banks nodded.

  “Didn’t we have some trouble with them a year or so ago?”

  “Yes,” Banks said. “But it was a storm in a teacup. They seemed a harmless enough bunch to me.”

  “What was it? A drug raid?”

  “That’s right. Nothing turned up, though. They must have had the foresight to hide it, if they had anything. We were acting on a tip from some hospital social workers. I think they were overreacting.”

  “Anyway,” Gristhorpe said, “that’s about it. The rest of the people we picked up were just private citizens who were there because they feel strongly about nuclear power, or about government policy in general.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “You’d better look over these statements,” Gristhorpe sa
id, shoving the tower of paper towards Banks, “and wait for the great man. Sergeant Hatchley’s still questioning those people in the flats overlooking the street. Not that there’s much chance of anything there. They can’t have seen more than a sea of heads. If only the bloody TV cameras had been there we’d have had it on video. Those buggers in the media are never around when you need them.”

  “Like policemen,” Banks said with a grin.

  The phone rang. Gristhorpe picked it up, listened to the message and turned back to Banks. “Sergeant Rowe says Dr Glendenning’s on his way up. He’s finished his preliminary examination. I think you’d better stay for this.”

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  Banks smiled. “It’s a rare honour indeed, the good doctor setting foot in here.

  I didn’t know he paid house-calls.”

  “I heard that,” said a gruff voice with a distinct Edinburgh accent behind him.

  “I hope it wasn’t meant to be sarcastic.”

  The tall, white-haired doctor looked down sternly at Banks, blue eyes twinkling.

  His moustache was stained yellow with nicotine, and a cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. He was wheezing after climbing the stairs.

  “There’s no smoking in here,” Gristhorpe said. “You ought to know better; you’re a doctor.”

  Glendenning grunted. “Then I’ll go elsewhere.”

  “Come to my office,” Banks said. “I could do with a fag myself.”

  “Fine, laddie. Lead the way.”

  “Bloody traitor.” Gristhorpe sighed and followed them.

  After they’d got coffee and an extra chair, the doctor began. “To put it in layman’s terms,” he said, “PC Gill was stabbed. The knife entered under the rib-cage and did enough damage to cause death from internal bleeding. The blade was at least five inches long, and it looks like it went in to the hilt. It was a single-edged blade with a very sharp point. Judging by the wound, I’d say it was some kind of flick-knife.”

  “Flick-knife?” echoed Banks.

  “Aye, laddie. You know what a flick-knife is, don’t you? They come in all shapes and sizes. Illegal here, of course, but easy enough to pick up on the continent.

  The cutting edge was extremely sharp, as was the point.”

  “What about blood?” Gristhorpe asked. “Nobody conveniently covered in Gill’s type, I suppose?”