A Necessary End ib-3

by Peter Robinson

  She had decided that, as Jenny had mentioned Banks, she might as well begin by seeing if she could find anything out about the investigation, what the police were thinking.

  “Go ahead, then.”

  Mara took a deep breath and told Jenny about recent events at the farm, especially Burgess’s visit.

  “You ought to complain,” Jenny advised her.

  Mara sniffed. “Complain? Who to? He told us what would happen if we did.

  Apparently his boss is a bigger bastard than he is.”

  “Try complaining locally. Superintendent Gristhorpe isn’t bad.”

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  Mara shook her head. “You don’t understand. The police would never listen to a complaint from people like us.”

  “Don’t be too sure about that, Mara. Alan wants to understand. It’s only the truth he’s after.”

  “Yes, but … I can’t really explain. What do they really think about us, Jenny?

  Do they believe that one of us killed that policeman?”

  “I don’t know. Really I don’t. They’re interested in you, yes. I’d be a liar if I denied that. But as far as actually suspecting anyone … I don’t think so.

  Not yet.”

  “Then why do they keep pestering us? When’s it going to stop?”

  “When they find out who the killer is. It’s not just you, it’s everyone involved. They’ve been at Dennis, too, and Dorothy Wycombe and the students.

  You’ll just have to put up with it for the time being.”

  “I suppose so.” The old men shuffled dominoes for another game, and a lump of coal shifted in the fire, sending out a shower of sparks and a puff of smoke.

  Flames rose up again, licking at the black chimney-back. “Look,” Mara went on, “do you mind if I ask you a professional question, something about psychology?

  It’s for a story I’m working on.”

  “I didn’t know you wrote.”

  “Oh, it’s just for my own pleasure really. I mean, I haven’t tried to get anything published yet.” Even as she spoke, Mara knew that her excuse didn’t ring true.

  “Okay,” Jenny said. “Let me get another round in first.”

  “Oh no, it’s my turn.” Mara went to the bar and bought another half for herself and a vodka-and-tonic for Jenny. If only she could get away with some of her fears about Paul allayed-without giving them away, of course-then she knew she would feel a lot better.

  “What is it?” Jenny asked when they’d settled down with their drinks again.

  “It’s just something I’d like to know, a term I’ve heard that puzzles me. What’s a sociopath?”

  “A sociopath? Good Lord, this is like an exam question.

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  Let me think for a bit. I’ll have to give you a watered-down answer, I’m afraid.

  I don’t have the textbook with me.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “Well… I suppose basically it’s someone who’s constantly at war with society.

  A rebel without a cause, if you like.”

  “Why, though? I mean, what makes people like that?”

  “It’s far from cut and dried,” Jenny said, “but the thinking is that it has a lot to do with family background. Usually people we call sociopaths suffered abuse, cruelty and rejection from their parents, or at least from one parent, from an early age. They respond by rejecting society and becoming cruel themselves.”

  “What are the signs?”

  “Antisocial acts: stealing, doing reckless things, cruelty to animals. It’s hard to say.”

  “What kind of people are they?”

  “They don’t feel anything about what they do. They can always justify acts of cruelty-even murder-to themselves. They don’t really see that they’ve done anything wrong.”

  “Can anyone help them?”

  “Sometimes. The trouble is, they’re detached, cut off from the rest of us through what’s happened to them. They rarely have any friends and they don’t feel any sense of loyalty.”

  “Isn’t it possible to help them, then?”

  “They find it very hard to give love and to trust people, or to respond to such feelings in others. If you don’t give your love, then you save yourself from feeling bad if it’s rejected. That’s the real problem: they need someone to trust them and have some feeling for them, but those are the things they find it hardest to accept.”

  “So it’s hopeless.”

  “Often it’s too late,” Jenny said. “If they’re treated early, they can be helped, but sometimes by the time they reach their teens the pattern is so deeply ingrained it’s almost irreversible. But it’s never hopeless.” She leaned forward and put her hand on Mara’s. “It’s Paul you’re asking about, isn’t it?”

  Mara withdrew sharply. “What makes you say that?”

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  “Your expression, the tone of your voice. This isn’t just for some story you’re writing. It’s for real, isn’t it?”

  “What if it is?”

  “I can’t tell you if Paul’s a sociopath or not, Mara. I don’t know enough about him. He seems to be responding to life at the farm.”

  “Oh, he is,” Mara said. “Responding, I mean. He’s got a lot more outgoing and cheerful since he’s been with us. Until these past few days.”

  “Well, it’s bound to get to him, all the police attention. But it doesn’t mean anything. You don’t think he might have killed the policeman, do you?”

  “You mustn’t tell anyone we’ve been talking like this,” Mara said quickly.

  “Especially not Inspector Banks. All they need is an excuse to bring Paul in, then I’m sure that Burgess could force him to confess.”

  “They won’t do that,” Jenny said. “You don’t have any concrete reason for thinking Paul might be guilty, do you?”

  “No.” Mara wasn’t sure she sounded convincing. Things had gone too far for her, but it seemed impossible to steer back to neutral ground. “I’m just worried about him, that’s all,” she went on. “He’s had a hard life. His parents rejected him and his foster parents were cold towards him.”

  “Well that doesn’t mean a lot,” Jenny said. “If that’s all you’re worried about, I shouldn’t bother yourself. Plenty of people come from broken homes and survive. It takes very special circumstances to create a sociopath. Not every ache and pain means you’ve got cancer, you know.”

  Mara nodded. “I’m sorry I tried to con you,” she said. “It wasn’t fair of me.

  But I feel better now. Let’s just forget all about it, shall we?”

  “Okay, if you want. But be careful, Mara. I’m not saying Paul isn’t dangerous, just that I don’t know. If you do have any real suspicions…”

  But Mara didn’t hear any more. The door opened and a strange-looking man walked in. It wasn’t his odd appearance that bothered her, though; it was the knife that he carried carefully in his hand. Pale and trembling, she got to her feet.

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  “I’ve got to go now,” she said. “Something’s come up…. I’m sorry.” And she was off like a shot, leaving Jenny to sit and gape behind her.

  Ill

  “Bollocks!” said Burgess. “They’re shit-disturbers. You ought to know that by now. Why do you think they’re interested in a nuclear-free Britain? Because they love peace? Dream on, Constable.”

  “I don’t know,” Richmond said, stroking his moustache. “They’re just students, they don’t know-“

  “Just students, my arse! Who is it tries to bring down governments in places like Korea and South Africa? Bloody students, that’s who. Just students! Grow up. Look at the chaos students created in America over the Vietnam war-they almost won it for the commies single-handed.”

  “What I was saying, sir,” Richmond went on, “is that none of them are known to be militant. They just sit around and talk politics, that’s all.”

  “But Special Branch has a file on Tim Fenton.”

  “I know, sir. But he’s not
actually done anything.”

  “Not until now, perhaps.”

  “But what could he gain from killing PC Gill, sir?”

  “Anarchy, that’s what.”

  “With all due respect,” Banks cut in, “that’s hardly consistent. The students support disarmament, yes, but Marxists aren’t anarchists. They believe in the class-“

  “I know what bloody Marxists believe in,” Burgess said. “They’ll believe in anything if it furthers their cause.”

  Banks gave up. “Better have another try, Phil,” he said. “See if you can tie any of them into more extreme groups, or to any previous acts of political violence.

  I doubt you’ll come up with anything Special Branch doesn’t know about already, but give it a try.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I need another drink,” Burgess said.

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  Sergeant Hatchley volunteered to go for a round. The Queen’s Arms was busy.

  Wednesday was farmers’ market day in Eastvale, and the whole town bustled with buyers and sellers. Glenys was too busy to exchange glances with Burgess even if she wanted to.

  Burgess turned to Banks. “And I’m still not happy about Osmond. He’s on file, too, and I got the distinct impression he’s been lying every time I’ve talked to him.”

  Banks agreed.

  “We’ll have another go at him,” said Burgess. “You can come with me again. Who knows, that bird of his might be there. If I put a bit of pressure on her, he might appeal to you for help and let something slip.”

  Banks reached for a cigarette to mask his anger. The last thing he felt like was facing Osmond and Jenny together again. But in a way Burgess was right. They were looking for a cop killer, and they needed results. As each day went by, the media outcry became more strident.

  When PC Craig came in and walked over to their table, he seemed unsure whom to address. After looking first to Banks and then to Burgess, like a spectator following the ball at Wimbledon, he settled on Banks.

  “We’ve just had a call, sir, from Relton. There’s a bloke in the pub there says he’s found a knife. I just thought… you know … it might be the one we’re looking for.”

  “What are we waiting for?” Burgess jumped to his feet so quickly he knocked the table and spilt the rest of his beer. He pointed at Hatchley and Richmond. “You two get back to the station and wait till you hear from us.”

  They picked up Banks’s white Cortina from the lot behind the police station.

  Market Street and the square were so busy that Banks took the back streets to the main Swainsdale road.

  Automatically, he reached forward and slipped a cassette into the player. “Do you mind?” he asked Burgess, turning the volume down. “Hello Central” came on.

  “No. That’s Lightning Hopkins, isn’t it? I quite like blues 131

  myself. I enjoyed that Billie Holiday the other day, too.” He leaned back in the seat and lit a cigar from the dashboard lighter. “My father bunked with a squadron of Yanks in the last war. Got quite interested in jazz and blues. Of course, you couldn’t get much of the real stuff over here at that time, but after the war he kept in touch and the Yanks used to send him seventy-eights. I grew up on that kind .of music and it just seemed to stick.”I Banks drove fast but kept an eye open for walkers on the verges. Even in March, the backpack brigade often took to the hills. As they approached Fortford, Burgess looked out at the river-meadows. “Very nice,” he said. “Wouldn’t be a bad place to retire to if it wasn’t for the bloody weather.”

  They turned sharp left in Fortford, followed the unfenced minor road up the daleside to Relton and parked outside the pub. Banks had been to the Black Sheep before; it was famous in the dale because the landlord brewed his own beer on the premises, and you couldn’t get it anywhere else. Black Sheep bitter had won prizes in national competitions.

  If beer wasn’t the first thing on Banks’s mind when they entered, he certainly couldn’t refuse the landlord’s offer of a pint. Burgess declined the local brew and asked for a pint of Watney’s.

  Banks knew there were shepherds in the area, but they were an elusive breed, and he’d never seen one before. Farmers who tended their own sheep were common enough, but on the south Swainsdale commons, they banded together to hire three shepherds. Most of the sheep were heughed; they grew up on the farms and never strayed far. But not all of them; winter was a hard time, and many animals got buried under drifts. The shepherds know the moors, every gully and sink-hole, better than anyone else, and to them, sheep are as different from one another as people.

  Jack Crocker’s face had as many lines as a tough teacher gives out in a week, and its texture looked as hard as tanned leather. He had a misshapen blob of a nose, and his eyes were so deeply hooded they looked as if they had been perpetually

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  screwed up against the wind. His cloth cap and old, flapping greatcoat set the final touches. His crook, a long hazel shaft with a metal hook, leaned against the wall.

  “Christ,” Banks heard Burgess mutter behind him. “A bloody shepherd!”

  “I don’t mind if I do,” Crocker said, accepting a drink. “I were just fetching some ewes in for lambing, like, and I kicked that there knife.” He placed the knife on the table. It was a flick-knife with a five-inch blade and a worn bone handle. “I didn’t touch it, tha knows,” he went on, putting a surprisingly smooth and slender forefinger to the side of his nose. “I’ve seen telly.”

  “How did you pick it up?” Burgess asked. Banks noticed that his tone was respectful, not hectoring as usual. Maybe he had a soft spot for shepherds.

  “Like this.” Crocker held the ends of the handle between thumb and second finger. He really did have beautiful hands, Banks noticed, the kind you’d picture on a concert pianist.

  Burgess nodded and took a sip of his Watney’s. “Good. You did the right thing, Mr Crocker.” Banks took an envelope from his pocket, dropped the knife in, and sealed it.

  “Is it fright one, then? T’one as killed that bobby?”

  “We can’t say yet,” Banks told him. “We’ll have to get some tests done. But if it is, you’ve done us a great service.”

  “T’weren’t owt. It’s not as if I were looking fer it.” Crocker looked away, embarrassed, and raised his pint to his lips. Banks offered him a cigarette.

  “Nay, lad,” he said. “In my job you need all t’breath you can muster.”

  “Where did you find the knife?” Burgess asked.

  “Up on t’moor, Eastvale way.”

  “Can you show us?”

  “Aye.” Crocker’s face creased into a sly smile. “It’s a bit on a hike, though.

  And tha can’t take thy car.”

  Burgess looked at Banks. “Well,” he said, “it’s your part of the country. You’re the nature-boy. Why don’t you go up the moor with Mr Crocker here, and I’ll phone the station to send a car for me?”

  Yes, Banks thought, and you’ll have another pint of Watney’s while you’re warming your hands in front of the fire.

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  Banks nodded. “I’d get that knife straight to the lab if I were you,” he said.

  “If you send it through normal channels they’ll take days to get the tests done.

  Ask for Vic Manson. If he’s got a spare moment he’ll dust it for prints and persuade one of the lads to try for blood-typing. It’s been exposed to the elements a bit, but we might still get something from it.”

  “Sounds good,” Burgess said. “Where is this lab?”

  “Just outside Wetherby. You can ask the driver to take you straight there.”

  Burgess went over to the phone while Banks and Crocker drank off their pints of Black Sheep bitter and set off.

  They climbed a stile at the eastern end of Mortsett Lane and set off over open moorland. The tussocks of moor grass, interspersed with patches of heather and sphagnum, made walking difficult for Banks. Crocker, always ahead, seemed to float over the top of it like a hoverc
raft. The higher they climbed, the harsher and stronger the wind became.

  Banks wasn’t dressed for the moors, either, and his shoes were soon mud-caked and worse. At least he was wearing his warm sheepskin-lined coat. Though the slope wasn’t steep, it was unrelenting, and he soon got out of breath. Despite the cold wind against his face, he was sweating.

  At last, the ground flattened out into high moorland. Crocker stopped and waited with a smile for Banks to catch up.

  “By heck, lad, what’d tha do if tha ‘ad to chase after a villain?”

  “Luckily, it doesn’t happen often,” Banks wheezed.

  “Aye. Well, this is where I found it. Just down there in t’grass.” He pointed with his crook. Banks bent and poked around among the sods. There was nothing to indicate the knife had been there.

  “It looks like someone just threw it there,” he said.

  Crocker nodded. “It would’ve been easy enough to hide,” he said. “Plenty of rocks to stuff it under. He could’ve even buried it if he’d wanted.”

  “But he didn’t. So whoever it was must have panicked, perhaps, and just tossed it away.”

  “Tha should know.”

  Banks looked around. The spot was about two miles from Eastvale; the jagged castle battlements were just visible in the 134

  distance, down in the hollow where the town lay. In the opposite direction, also about two miles away, he could see the house and outbuildings of Maggie’s Farm.

  It looked like the knife had been thrown away on the wild moorland about halfway or more on a direct line between Eastvale and the farm. If someone from the farm had escaped arrest or injury at the demo, it would have been a natural direction in which to run home. That meant Paul or Zoe, as Rick and Seth had been arrested and searched. It could even have been the woman, Mara, who might have been lying about staying home all evening.

  On the other hand, anyone could have come up there in the past few days and thrown the knife away. That seemed much less likely, though, as it was a poor method of disposal, more spontaneous than planned. Certainly it seemed to make mincemeat of one of Banks’s theories-that a fellow policeman might have committed the murder. Again, the finger seemed to be pointing at Maggie’s Farm.

  Banks pulled the sheepskin collar tight around his neck and screwed up his eyes to keep the tears from forming. No wonder Crocker’s eyes were hooded almost shut. There was nothing more to be done up here, he decided, but he would have to mark the spot in some way.