A Necessary End ib-3

by Peter Robinson

  “If you would. And the paper?”

  “Same, nothing readable.”

  “What about that pen, or whatever it was we found on the floor. Have you had time to get around to that yet?”

  “Yes. It’s just an ordinary ball-point, a Bic. No prints of course, just a sweaty blur.”

  “Hmmm.”

  The pen had been found in the puddle of blood, just below Seth’s dangling right arm. If he was right-handed, as Banks thought he was, he could have used the pen to write a note before he died. It could have just fallen there earlier, of course, but Seth had been very tidy, especially in his final moments. Perhaps he had written his own note, and whoever killed him took it and replaced it with the second version. Why? Because Seth hadn’t murdered Gill and had said so clearly in his note? That meant he had committed suicide for some other reason entirely. Had he even named the killer, or was it an identity he had died trying to protect?

  Too many questions, again. Maybe Burgess and Glendenning were right and he was a fool not to accept the easy solutions. After all, he had a choice: either Seth Cotton was guilty as the note indicated and had really killed himself, or Paul Boyd, fearing discovery, had killed him and faked the note. Banks leaned closer towards the second of these, but for some reason he still couldn’t convince himself that Boyd had done it-and not only because he took the responsibility for letting the kid out of jail. Boyd certainly had a record, and he had taken off when the knife was discovered. He could be a lot tougher and more clever than anyone realized. If he was faking his claustrophobia, for example, so that even Burgess was more inclined to believe him because of his fear of incarceration, then anything was possible. But so far they had nothing but circumstantial evidence, and Banks still felt that the picture was incomplete.

  He lit a cigarette and walked over to look down on the market square. It brought no inspiration today.

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  Finally, he decided it was time to tidy his desk before lunch. Almost every available square inch was littered with little yellow Post-it notes, most of which he had acted on ages ago. He screwed them all up and dropped them in the waste basket. Next came the files, statements and records he’d read to refresh his memory of the people involved. Most information was stored in the records department, but Banks had developed the habit of keeping brief files on all the cases he had a hand in. At the top was his file on Elizabeth Dale. Picking it up again, he remembered that he had just pulled it out of the cabinet, after some difficulty in locating it, when Sergeant Rowe had called with the news of Seth Cotton’s death.

  He opened the folder and brought back to mind the facts of the case-not even a case, really, just a minor incident that had occurred some eighteen months ago.

  Elizabeth Dale had checked herself into a psychiatric hospital on the outskirts of Huddersfield, complaining of depression, apathy and general inability to cope with the outside world. After a couple of days’ observation and treatment, she had decided she didn’t like the service and ran off to Maggie’s Farm, where she knew that Seth Cotton, an old friend from Hebden Bridge, was living. The hospital authorities informed Eastvale that she had spoken about her friend with the house near Relton, and they asked the local social services to please check up and see if she was there.

  She was. Dennis Osmond had been sent to the farm to try to convince her to return to the hospital for her own good, but Ms Dale remained adamant: she was staying at the farm. Osmond also had the nerve to agree that the place would probably do her good. In anger and desperation, the hospital sent out two men of its own, who persuaded Elizabeth to return with them. They had browbeaten her and threatened her with committal, or so Seth Cotton and Osmond had complained at the time.

  Because Elizabeth Dale also had a history of drug addiction, the police were called out when the hospital employees said they suspected the people at the farm were using drugs.

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  Banks had gone out there with Sergeant Hatchley and a uniformed constable, but they had found nothing. Ms Dale went back to the hospital, and as far as Banks knew, everything returned to normal.

  In the light of recent events, though, it became a more intriguing tale. For one thing, both Elizabeth Dale and Dennis Osmond were connected with PC Gill via the complaints they had made independently. And now it appeared there was yet another link between Osmond and Dale.

  Where was Elizabeth Dale now? He would have to go to Huddersfield and find her himself. He’d learned from experience that it was absolutely no use at all dealing with doctors over the phone. But that would have to wait until tomorrow.

  First, he wanted to talk to Mara again, if she was well enough. Before setting off, he considered phoning Jenny to try to make up the row they’d had on Sunday lunchtime.

  Just as he was about to call her, the phone rang.

  “Chief Inspector Banks?”

  “Speaking.”

  “My name is Lawrence Courtney, of Courtney, Courtney and Courtney, Solicitors.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of the firm. What can I do for you?”

  “It’s what I might be able to do for you,” Courtney said. “I read in this morning’s newspaper that a certain Seth Cotton has died. Is that correct?”

  “That’s right, yes.”

  “Well, it might interest you to know, Chief Inspector, that we are the holders of Mr Cotton’s will.”

  “Will?”

  “Yes, will.” He sounded faintly irritated. “Are you interested?”

  “Indeed I am.”

  “Would it be convenient for you to call by our office after lunch?”

  “Yes, certainly. But look, can’t you tell me-“

  “Good. I’ll see you then. About two-thirty, shall we say? Goodbye, Chief Inspector.”

  Banks slammed the phone down. Bloody pompous solicitor. He cursed and reached for a cigarette. But a will? That

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  was unexpected. Banks wouldn’t have thought such a nonconformist as Seth would have bothered making a will. Still, he did own property, and a business. But how could he have had any idea that he was going to die in the near future?

  Banks jotted down the solicitor’s name and the time of the meeting and stuck the note to his desk. Then he took a deep breath, phoned Jenny at her university office in York, and plunged right in. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I know what it must have sounded like, but I couldn’t think of a better way of telling you.”

  “I overreacted.” Jenny said. “I feel like an idiot. I suppose you were only doing your job.”

  “I wasn’t going to tell you, not until I realized that being around Osmond really might be dangerous.”

  “And I shouldn’t have mistaken your warning for interference. It’s just that I get so bloody frustrated. Damn men! Why do I never seem able to choose the right one?”

  “Does it matter to you, what he did?”

  “Of course it matters.”

  “Are you going to go on seeing him?”

  “I don’t know.” She affected a bored tone. “I was getting rather tired of him, anyway. Have there been any developments?”

  “What in? The breakin or the Gill murder?”

  “Well, both, seeing as you ask. What’s wrong? You sound a bit tense.”

  “Oh, nothing. It’s been a busy morning, that’s all. And I was nervous about calling you. Have you read about Seth Cotton?”

  “No. I didn’t have time to look at the paper this morning. Why, what’s happened?”

  Banks told her.

  “Oh God. Poor Mara. Do you think there’s anything I can do?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve no idea what state she’s in. I’m calling on her later this afternoon. I’ll mention your name if you like.”

  “Please do. Tell her how sorry I am. And if she needs to talk … What do you think happened, or can’t you say?”

  “I wish I could.” Banks summed up his thoughts for her.

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  “And I suppose you’re feeling responsible? Is that
why you don’t really want to consider that Boyd did it?”

  “You’re right about the guilt. Burgess would never have let him go if I hadn’t pressed him.”

  “Burgess hardly seems like the kind of man to bow to pressure. I can’t see him consenting to do anything he didn’t want to.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. Still… it’s not just that. At least, I don’t think so.

  There’s something much more complex behind all this. And don’t accuse me of overcomplicating matters-I’ve had enough of that already.”

  “Oh, we are touchy today, aren’t we? I had no such thing in mind.”

  “Sorry. I suppose it’s getting to me. About the breakin. I’ve got something in the works and we’ll probably know by tonight, tomorrow morning at the latest.”

  “What’s it all about?”

  “I’d rather not say yet. But don’t worry, I don’t think Osmond’s in any kind of danger.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “If you’re right?”

  “Am I ever wrong? Look, before you choke, I’ve got to go now. I’ll be in touch later.”

  Though where he had to go he wasn’t quite certain. There was the solicitor, but that wasn’t until two-thirty. Feeling vaguely depressed, he lit another cigarette and went over to the window. The Queen’s Arms, that was it. A pie and a pint would soon cheer him up. And Burgess had made a tentative arrangement to meet there around one-thirty and compare notes.

  II

  Banks found the offices of Courtney, Courtney and Courtney on Market Street, quite close to the police station. Too close, in fact, to make it worthwhile turning on the Walkman for the journey.

  The firm of solicitors was situated in what had once been a 275

  tea-shop, and the new name curved in a semicircle of gold lettering on the plate-glass window. Banks asked the young receptionist for Mr Lawrence Courtney, and after a brief exchange on the intercom, was shown through to a large office stacked with legal papers.

  Lawrence Courtney himself, wedged behind a large executive desk, was not the prim figure Banks had expected from their phone conversation-three-piece suit, gold watch chain, pince-nez, nose raised as if perpetually exposed to a bad smell-instead he was a relaxed, plump man of about fifty with over-long fair hair, a broad, ruddy face and a fairly pleasant expression. His jacket hung behind the door. He wore a white shirt, a red and green striped tie and plain black braces. Banks noticed that the top button of the shirt was undone and the tie had been loosened, just like his own.

  “Seth Cotton’s will,” Banks said, sitting down after a brisk damp handshake.

  “Yes. I thought you’d be interested,” said Courtney. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his pink, rubbery lips.

  “When did he make it?”

  “Let me see…. About a year ago, I think.” Courtney found the document and read off the date.

  “Why did he come to you? I’m not sure how well you knew him, but he didn’t seem to me the kind of person to deal with a solicitor.”

  “We handled the house purchase,” Courtney said, “and when the conveyance was completed we suggested a will. We often do. It’s not so much a matter of touting for business as making things easier. So many people die intestate, and you’ve no idea what complications that leads to if there is no immediate family. The house itself, for example. As far as I know, Mr Cotton wasn’t married, even under common law.”

  “What was his reaction to your suggestion?”

  “He said he’d think about it.”

  “And he thought about it for two years?”

  “It would appear so, yes. If you don’t mind my asking, Chief Inspector, why all this interest in his reason for making a will? People do, you know.”

  “It’s the timing, that’s all. I was just wondering why then rather than any other time.”

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  “Hmmm. I imagine that’s the kind of thing you people have to think about. Are you interested in the contents at all?”

  “Of course.”

  Courtney unfolded the paper fully, peered at it, then put it aside again and hooked his thumbs in his braces. “Not much to it, really,” he said. “He left the house and what little money he had-somewhere in the region of two thousand pounds, I believe, though you’ll have to check with the bank-to one Mara Delacey.”

  “Mara? And that’s it?”

  “Not quite. Oddly enough he added a codicil just a few months ago. Shortly before Christmas, in fact. It doesn’t affect the original bequest, but merely specifies that all materials, monies and goodwill relating to his carpentry business be left to Paul Boyd, in the hope that he uses them wisely.”

  “Bloody hell!”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s nothing. Sorry. Mind if I smoke?”

  “If you must.” Courtney took a clean ashtray from his drawer and pushed it disapprovingly towards Banks. Undeterred, Banks lit up.

  “The way I see things, then,” Banks said, “is that he left the house and the money to Mara after he’d only known her for a year or so, and the carpentry business to Paul after the kid had only been at the farm for a couple of months.”

  “If you say so, Chief Inspector. It would indicate that Mr Cotton was quick to trust people.”

  “It would indeed. Or that there was nobody else he could even consider. I doubt that he’d have wanted his goods and chattels to go to the state. But who knows where Boyd might have got to by the time Cotton died of natural causes? Or Mara.

  Could he have had some idea that he was in danger?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t answer that,” Courtney said. “Our business ends with the legal formalities, and Mr Cotton certainly made no mention of an imminent demise. If there’s anything else I can help you with, of course, I’d be more than willing.”

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  “Thank you,” said Banks. “I think that’s all. Will you be informing Mara Delacey?”

  “We will take steps to get in touch with beneficiaries in due course, yes.”

  “Is it all right if I tell her this afternoon?”

  “I can’t see any objection. And you might ask her-both of them, if possible-to drop by the office. I’ll be happy to explain the procedure to them. If you have any trouble with the bank, Chief Inspector, please refer them to me. It’s the National Westminster-or NatWest, as I believe they call themselves these days-the branch in the market square. The manager is a most valued client.”

  “I know the place.” Know it, Banks thought, I practically stare at it for hours on end every day.

  “Then goodbye, Chief Inspector. It’s been a pleasure.”

  Banks walked out into the street more confused than ever. Before he got back to the station, however, he’d managed to put some check on his wild imaginings. The will probably didn’t come into the case at all. Seth Cotton had simply had more foresight than many would have credited him with. What was wrong with that? And it was perfectly natural that, with his parents both dead and no close family, he would leave the house to Mara. And Paul Boyd was, after all, his apprentice.

  It was a gesture of faith and confidence on Seth’s part.

  Even if Mara and Paul had known what they had coming to them, neither, Banks was positive, would have murdered Seth to get it. Life for Mara was clearly better with Seth than without him, and whatever ugliness might be lurking in Boyd’s character, he was neither stupid nor petty enough to kill for a set of carpenter’s tools. So forget the will, Banks told himself. Nice gesture though it was, it is irrelevant. Except, perhaps, for the date. Why wait till two years after Courtney had suggested it before actually getting the business done?

  Procrastination?

  It also raised a more serious question: had Seth felt that his life was in danger a year ago? If so, why had it taken so long for the danger to manifest itself? And had that fear somehow also renewed itself around Christmas time?

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  Before returning to his office
, he nipped into the National Westminster and had no problem in getting details of Seth’s financial affairs, such as they were: he had a savings account at Ł2343.64, and a current account, which stood at Ł421.33.

  It was after three-thirty when he got back to the station, and there was a message from Vic Manson to the effect that, yes, fibres matching those from the duster had been found on the typewriter keys. But, Manson had added with typical forensic caution, there was no way of proving whether the machine had been wiped before or after the message had been typed. The pressure of fingers on the keys often blurs prints.

  Banks’s brief chat with Burgess over lunch had revealed nothing new, either.

  Dirty Dick had seen Osmond and got nowhere with him. Early in the afternoon he was off to see Tim and Abha, and he was quite happy to leave Mara Delacey to Banks. As far as Burgess was concerned, it was all over bar the shouting, but he wanted more evidence to implicate Boyd or Cotton with extremist politics. Most of the time he’d had his eye on Glenys, and he’d kept reminding Banks that it was her night off that night. Cyril, fortunately, had been nowhere in sight.

  Banks left a message for Burgess at the front desk summarizing what Lawrence Courtney had said about Seth’s will. Then he called Sergeant Hatchley, as Richmond was busy on another matter, to accompany him and to bring along the fingerprinting kit. He slipped the Muddy Waters cassette from his Walkman and hurried out to the car with it, a huffing and puffing Hatchley in tow. It was time to see if Mara Delacey was ready to talk.

  “What do you think of Superintendent Burgess?” Banks asked Hatchley on the way.

  They hadn’t really had a chance to talk much over the past few days.

  “Off the record?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well…” Hatchley rubbed his face with a hamlike hand. “He seemed all right at first. Bit of zip about him. You know, get up and go. But I’d have thought a whiz-kid like him would have got a bit further by now.”

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  “None of us have got any further,” Banks said. “What do you mean? The man’s only flesh and blood after all.”

  “I suppose that’s it. He dazzles you a bit at first, then …”