A Necessary End (12 page)

“Nothing, the first time.”

“And the second?”

“I fell asleep.”

Jenny laughed.

“Still,” Banks mused, “Burgess is about my age, too.”

“He was probably sitting around in jackboots and a leather over-coat pulling the wings off flies.”

“Probably. Anyway, dinner. Eight o'clock all right?”

“Fine.”

“I'll pick you up.”

Jenny said good night and hung up. Still friends. Banks breathed a sigh of relief.

He went back to his armchair and his drink, but he suddenly felt the need to call Sandra.

“How's your father?” he asked.

Sandra laughed. “Cantankerous as ever. But mother's coping better than I'd hoped.” The line was poor and her voice sounded far-away.

“How much longer will you be down there?”

“A few more days should do it. Why? Are you missing us?”

“More than you know.”

“Hang on a minute. We had a day in London yesterday and Tracy wants to tell you about it.”

Banks talked to his daughter for a while about St Paul's and the Tower of London, then Brian cut in and told him how great the record shops were down there. There was exactly the guitar he'd been looking for. . . . Finally, Sandra came back on again.

“Anything happening up there?”

“You could say that.” Banks told her about the demo and the killing.

Sandra whistled. “I'm glad I'm out of it. I can imagine how frantic things are.”

“Thanks for the support.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Remember Dick Burgess? Used to be a chief inspector at the Yard?”

“Was he the one who pawed the hostess and threw up in the geraniums at Lottie's party?”

“That's the one. He's up here, in charge.”

“God help you. Now I'm really glad I'm down here. He had his eyes on me, too, you know, if not his hands.”

“I'd like to say it was good taste, but don't flatter yourself, love. He's like that with everyone in a skirt.”

Sandra laughed. “Better go now. Brian and Tracy are at it again.”

“Give them my love. Take care. See you soon.”

After he'd hung up, Banks felt so depressed that he almost regretted phoning in the first place. Why, he wondered, does a phone call to a distant loved one only intensify the emptiness and loneliness you were feeling before you called?

At a loose end, he turned off the television in the middle of a pop-music special that Brian would have loved and put on the blues tape an old colleague had sent him from London. The Reverend Robert Wilkins sang “Prodigal Son” in his eerie voice, unusually thin and high-pitched for a bluesman. Banks slouched in the armchair by the gas fire and sipped his drink. He often did his best thinking while drinking Scotch and listening to music, and it was time to put some of his thoughts about Gill's murder in order.

A number of things bothered him. There were demonstrations all the time, much bigger than the one in Eastvale, and while opposing sides sometimes came to blows, policemen didn't usually get stabbed. Call it statistics, probability or just a hunch, but he didn't believe in Burgess's view of the affair.

And that was a problem, because it didn't leave much else to choose from. He still had uneasy feelings about some of the Maggie's Farm crowd. Paul Boyd was a dangerous character if ever he'd met one, and Mara had seemed extremely keen to come to his defence. Seth and Zoe had been especially quiet, but Rick Trelawney had
expressed more violent views than Banks had expected. He didn't know what it added up to, but he felt that somebody knew something, or thought they did, and didn't want to communicate their suspicions to the police. It was a stupid way to behave, but people did it all the time. Banks just hoped that none of them got hurt.

As for Dennis Osmond, putting personal antipathy aside, Banks had caught him on two lies. Osmond had said he didn't know Paul Boyd, when he clearly did, and Banks had also suspected him of lying when he denied knowing PC Gill. It was easy enough to see why he might have lied: nobody wants to admit a connection with a murdered man or a convicted criminal if he doesn't have to. But Banks had to determine if there was anything more sinister to it than that. How could Osmond have known PC Gill? Maybe they'd been to school together. Or perhaps Gill had had occasion to arrest Osmond at some previous anti-nuclear protest. If so, it should be on the files. Richmond would have the gen from Special Branch in the morning.

Nothing so far seemed much like a motive for murder, though. If he was really cautious, he might be able to get something out of Jenny on Tuesday. She didn't usually resent his trying to question her, but she was bound to be especially sensitive where Osmond was concerned.

Perhaps he had reacted unprofessionally on finding Jenny in Osmond's bedroom and to Burgess's approach to interrogation. But, he reminded himself, Dirty Dick had made him look a proper wally, and what was more, he had insulted Jenny. Sometimes Banks thought that Burgess's technique was to badger everyone involved in a case until someone was driven to try to throttle him. At least then he could lay a charge of attempted murder.

Halfway through his third Laphroaig and the second side of the tape, Banks decided that there was only one way to get back at the bastard, and that was to solve the case himself, in his own way. Burgess wasn't the only one who could play his cards close to his chest. Let him concentrate on the reds under the bed. Banks would do a bit of discreet digging and see if he could come up with anyone who had a motive for wanting PC Edwin Gill, and not just any copper, dead.

But if Gill the person rather than Gill the policeman was the victim,
it raised a number of problems. For a start, how could the killer know that Gill was going to be at the demo? Also, how could he be sure that things would turn violent enough to mask a kill? Most puzzling of all was how could he have been certain of an escape? But at least these were concrete questions, a starting point. The more Banks thought about it, the more the thick of a political demonstration seemed the ideal cover for murder.

FIVE

I

The funeral procession wound its way from Gordon Street, where Edwin Gill had lived, along Manor Road to the cemetery. Somehow, Banks thought, the funeral of a fellow officer was always more solemn and grim than any other. Every policeman there knew that it could just as easily have been him in the coffin; every copper's wife lived with the fear that her husband, too, might end up stabbed, beaten or, these days, shot; and the public at large felt the tremor and momentary weakness in the order of things.

For the second time in less than a week, Banks found himself uncomfortable in a suit and tie. He listened to the vicar's eulogy, the obligatory verses from the
Book of Common Prayer
, and stared at the bristly necks in front of him. At the front, Gill's immediate family—mother, two sisters, uncles and aunts, nephews and nieces—snuffled and slipped each other wads of Kleenex.

When it was over, everyone filed out and waited for the cars to take them to the funeral lunch. The oaks and beeches lining the cemetery drive shook in the brisk wind. One moment the sun popped out from behind the clouds, and the next, a five-minute shower took everyone by surprise. It was that kind of day: chameleon, unpredictable.

Banks stood with DC Richmond by the unmarked black police Rover—his own white Cortina was hardly the thing for a funeral—and waited for someone to lead the way. He wore a light grey raincoat over his navy-blue suit, but his head was bare. With his close-cropped black hair, scar beside the right eye, and lean, angular
features, he thought he must look a suspicious figure as he held his raincoat collar tight around his throat to keep out the cold wind. Richmond, rangy and athletic, wearing a camel-hair overcoat and trilby, stood beside him.

It was early Tuesday afternoon. Banks had spent the morning reading over the records Richmond had managed to gather on Osmond and the Maggie's Farm crowd. There wasn't much. Seth Cotton had once been arrested for carrying an offensive weapon (a bicycle chain) at a mods-and-rockers debacle in Brighton in the early sixties. After that, he had one marijuana bust to his credit—only a quid deal, nothing serious—for which he had been fined.

Rick Trelawney had been in trouble only once, in St Ives, Cornwall. A tourist had taken exception to his drunken pronouncements on the perfidy of collecting art, and a rowdy argument turned into a punch-up. It had taken three men to drag Rick off, and the tourist had ended up with a broken jaw and one permanently deaf ear.

The only other skeleton in Rick's cupboard was the wife from whom he had recently separated. She was an alcoholic, which made it easy enough for Rick to get custody of Julian. But she was now staying with her sister in London while undergoing treatment, and there was a legal battle brewing. Things had got so bad at one point that Rick had applied for a court order to prevent her from coming near their son.

There was nothing on Zoe, but Richmond had checked the birth registry and discovered that the father of her child, Luna, was one Lyle Greenberg, an American student who had since returned to his home in Eau Claire, Wisconsin.

On Mara there was even less. Immigration identified her as Moira Delacey, originally from Dublin. With her parents, she had come to England at the age of six, and they had settled in Manchester. No known Republican connections.

Most interesting and disturbing of all was Dennis Osmond's criminal record. In addition to arrests for his part in anti-government demonstrations—with charges ranging from breach of the peace to theft of a police officer's helmet—he had also been accused of assault by a live-in girl-friend called Ellen Ventner four years ago. At the woman's insistence, the charges had later been dropped, but Ventner's
injuries—two broken ribs, a broken nose, three teeth knocked out and concussion—had been clearly documented by the hospital, and Osmond came out of the affair looking far from clean. Banks wasn't sure whether to bring up the subject when he met Jenny for dinner that evening. He wondered if she already knew. If she didn't she might not take kindly to his interference. Somehow, he doubted that Osmond had told her.

They were still waiting for the information from Special Branch, who had files on Osmond, Tim Fenton, the student leader, and five others known to have been at the demo. Apparently, the Branch needed Burgess's personal access code, password, voice-print and genetic fingerprint, or some equally ludicrous sequence of identification. Banks didn't expect much from them, anyway. In his own experience, Special Branch kept files on everyone who had ever bought a copy of
Socialist Weekly
.

Today, while Banks and Richmond were attending Gill's funeral, Burgess was taking Sergeant Hatchley to do the rounds again. They intended to revisit Osmond, Dorothy Wycombe, Tim Fenton and Maggie's Farm. Banks wanted to talk to the students himself, so he decided to call on them when he got back that evening—if Burgess hadn't alienated them beyond all communication by then.

Burgess had been practically salivating at the prospect of more interrogations, and even Hatchley had seemed more excited about work than usual. Perhaps it was the chance to work with a superstar that thrilled him, Banks thought. The sergeant had always found “The Sweeney” much more interesting than the real thing. Or maybe he was going to suck up to Dirty Dick in the hope of being chosen for some special Scotland Yard squad. And the devil of it was, perhaps he would be, too.

Banks had mixed feelings about that possibility. He had got used to Sergeant Hatchley sooner than he'd expected to, and they had worked quite well together. But Banks had no real feeling for him. He couldn't even bring himself to call Hatchley by his first name, Jim.

In Banks's mind, Hatchley was a sergeant and always would be. He didn't have that extra keen edge needed to make inspector. Phil Richmond did, but unfortunately there wasn't anywhere for him to move up to locally unless Hatchley was promoted, too.
Superintendent Gristhorpe wouldn't have that, and Banks didn't blame him. If Burgess liked Hatchley enough to suggest a job in London, that would solve all their problems. Richmond had already passed his sergeant's exams—the first stage on the long road to promotion—and perhaps PC Susan Gay, who had shown remarkable aptitude for detective work, could be transferred in from the uniformed branch as a new detective constable. PC Craig would be opposed, of course. He still called policewomen “wopsies,” even though the gender-specific designation, WPC, had been dropped in favour of the neutral PC as far back as 1975. But that was Craig's problem; Hatchley was everyone's cross to bear.

Finally, the glossy black cars set off. Banks and Richmond followed them through the dull, deserted streets of Scarborough to the reception. There was nowhere quite as gloomy as a coastal resort in the off-season. If it hadn't been for the vague whiff of sea and fish in the air, nobody would have guessed they were at the seaside.

“Fancy a walk on the prom after lunch?” Banks asked.

Richmond sniffed. “Hardly the weather for that, is it?”

“Bracing, I'd say.”

“Maybe I'll wait for you in a nice cosy pub, if you don't mind, sir.”

Banks smiled. “And put your notes in order?” He knew how fussy Richmond was about notes and reports.

“I'll have to, won't I? It'll not stick in my memory that long.”

On the way to Scarborough, Banks had put forward his theory about Gill's murder not being quite what it seemed. While Richmond had expressed reservations, he had agreed that it was at least worth pursuing. They had decided to chat up Gill's colleagues at the reception and see what they could pick up about the man. Burgess, of course, was to know nothing about this.

Richmond had argued that even if there was something odd about Gill, none of his mates would say so at his funeral. Banks disagreed. He thought funerals worked wonders on the conscience. The phoney platitudes often stuck in people's craws and made them want to tell someone the truth. After all, it wasn't as if they were trying to prove corruption or anything like that against Gill; they just wanted to know what kind of man he was and whether he might have made enemies.