A Necessary End (14 page)

She had decided to get in touch with that friend of Dennis Osmond's, Jenny. Mara liked her, though she wasn't too sure about Osmond himself. And Jenny was a professional psychologist. Mara could put her a theoretical case, using Paul's background, and ask if such a person was likely to be dangerous. She could say it was a part of some research she was doing for a story or something. Jenny would believe her.

“Maybe he should go away,” Seth said after a while.

“Paul? But why?”

“It might be best for him. For all of us. Till it's over. You can see how all this is getting to him.”

“It's getting to all of us,” Mara said. “You, too.”

“Yes, but—”

“Where would he go? You know he hasn't got anybody else to turn to.” Despite her fears, Mara couldn't help but want to protect Paul. She didn't understand her feelings, but as much as she suspected him, she couldn't just give up and send him away.

Seth stared at the floor.

“It could look bad, too,” Mara argued. “The police would think he was running away because he was guilty.”

“Let him stay, then. Just make up your mind.”

“Don't you care about him?”

“Of course I care about him. That's why I suggested he get away. Come on, Mara, which way do you want it? If I suggest he goes, I'm being cruel, and if he stays he might have to put up with a hell of a lot more from that fascist bastard we had around this afternoon. What do you want? Do you think he can take it? Look how he reacted to today's little chat. That was a picnic compared to what'll happen if they decide to take him in for questioning. And we can't protect him. Well? How much do you think he can take?”

“I don't know.” Things had suddenly got even more complicated for Mara. “I want what's best for Paul.”

“Let's ask him, then. We can't make his decisions for him.”

“No! We've got to stand by him. If we approach him, he might think we believe he's guilty and want him out of the way.”

“But we'd have to approach him to ask if he'd like to go away for a while, until things settle down.”

“So we do nothing. If he wants to stay, he stays, and we stand by him, whatever. If he goes, then it's his decision. We don't force him out. He's not stupid, Seth, I'm sure he knows he's in for a lot of police harassment. The last thing he needs is to feel that we're against him, too.”

“Okay.” Seth nodded and stood up. “We'll leave it at that. I've got to go and do some work on that old sideboard now. I'm already late. You all right?”

Mara looked up at him and smiled. “I'll manage.”

“Good.” He bent and kissed her, then went out back to his work-shop.

But Mara wasn't all right. Left to herself, she began to imagine all kinds of terrible things. The world of Maggie's Farm had seemed at first to offer the stability, love and freedom she had always been searching for, but now it had broken adrift. The feeling was like that she remembered having during a mild earthquake in California, when she'd travelled around the States, with Matthew, eons ago. Suddenly, the floor of the room, the house's foundations, the solid earth on which they were built, had seemed no more stable than water. A ripple had passed fleetingly under her, and what she had always thought durable turned out to be flimsy, untrustworthy and transient. The quake had only lasted for ten seconds and hadn't registered above five on the Richter scale, but the impression had remained with her ever since. Now it was coming back stronger than ever.

On the mantelpiece, among the clutter of sea shells, pebbles, fossils and feathers, she could see the faint outline of dust around where the knife had been. As she wiped the surface clean, she thanked her lucky stars that the police had been looking for material things, not absences.

V

Banks drove along Foreshore Road and Sandside by the Old Harbour. The amusement arcades and gift shops were all closed. In season, crowds of holiday-makers always gathered around the racks of cheeky postcards, teenagers queued for the Ghost Train and children dragged their parents to the booths that sold candy-floss and Scarborough rock. But now the prom was deserted. Even on the seaward side, there were no stalls selling cockles, winkles and boiled shrimp. A thick, high cloud-cover had set in, and the sea sloshed at the barnacle-crusted harbour walls like molten metal. Fishing boats rocked at their moorings, and stacks of lobster-pots teetered on the quayside. Towering over the scene, high on its promontory, the ruined castle looked like something out of a black-and-white horror film.

Banks dropped Richmond off at a pub near the West Pier and carried on along Marine Drive, parking just beyond the closed fun-fair.
He buttoned up his raincoat tight and walked along the road that curved around the headland between the high cliff and the sea. Signs on the hillside warned of falling rocks. Waves hit the sea-wall and threw up spray onto the road.

Tony Grant was already there, leaning on the railing and staring out to the point where sea and sky merged in a uniform grey. He wore a navy duffle coat with the hood down, and his baby-fine hair fluttered in the wind. A solitary oil tanker was moving slowly across the horizon.

“I like it best like this,” he said as Banks joined him. “If you don't mind getting a bit wet.”

They both looked out over the ruffled water. Salt spray filled the air and Banks felt the ozone freshen his lungs as he breathed deep. He shivered and asked, “What is it you want to tell me?”

Grant hesitated. “Look, sir,” he said after staring at the oil tanker for half a minute, “I don't want you to get me wrong. I'm not a grass or anything. I've not been long on the force, and mostly I like it. I didn't think I would, not at first, but I do now. I want to make a career out of it.” He looked at Banks intensely. “I'd like to join the CID. I'm not stupid; I've got brains. I've been to university, and I could maybe have got into teaching—that's what I thought I wanted to do—but, well, you know the job situation. Seems all that's going these days is the police force. So I joined. Anyway, as I said, I like it. It's challenging.”

Banks took out a cigarette and cupped his hand around his blue Bic lighter. It took him four attempts to get a flame going long enough. He wished Grant would get to the point, but he knew he had to be patient and listen. The kid was about to go against his peers and squeal on a colleague. Listening to the justification, as he had listened to so many before, was the price Banks had to pay.

“It's just that,” Grant went on, “well . . . it's not as clean as I expected.”

Naïve bugger, Banks thought. “It's like anything else,” he said, encouraging the lad. “There's a lot of bastards out there, whatever you do. Maybe our line of work attracts more than the usual quota of bullies, lazy sods, sadists and the like. But that doesn't mean we're all like that.” Banks sucked on his cigarette. It tasted different, mixed with the sea air. A wave broke below them and the spray wet their feet.

“I know what you're saying,” Grant said, “and I think you're right. I just wanted you to know what side I'm on. I don't believe that the end justifies the means. With me they're innocent until proven guilty, as the saying goes. I treat people with respect, no matter what colour they are or how they dress or wear their hair. I'm not saying I approve of some of the types we get, but I'm not a thug.”

“And Gill was?”

“Yes.” A big wave started to peak as it approached the wall, and they both stepped back quickly to avoid the spray. Even so, they couldn't dodge a mild soaking, and Banks's cigarette got soggy. He threw it away.

“Was this common knowledge?”

“Oh, aye. He made no bones about it. See, with Gill it wasn't just the overtime, the money. He liked it well enough, but he liked the job more, if you see what I mean.”

“I think I do. Go on.”

“He was handy with his truncheon, Gill was. And he enjoyed it. Every time we got requests for manpower at demos, pickets, and the like, he'd be first to sign up. Got a real taste for it during the miners' strike, when they bussed police in from all over the place. He was the kind of bloke who'd wave a roll of flyers at the striking miners to taunt them before he clobbered them. He trained with the Tactical Aid Group.”

The TAG, Banks knew, was a kind of force within a force. Its members trained together in a military fashion and learned how to use guns, rubber bullets and tear-gas. When their training was over, they went back to normal duties and remained on call for special situations—like demos and picket lines. The official term for them had been changed to PSU—Police Support Unit—as the TAGs got a lot of bad publicity and sounded too obviously martial. But it was about as effective as changing the name of Windscale to Sellafield; a nuclear-power station by another name. . . .

“Is that how he behaved in Eastvale?” Banks asked.

“I wouldn't swear to it, but I'm pretty sure it was Gill who led the charge. See, things were getting a bit hairy. We were all hemmed in so tight. Gill was at the top of the steps with a few others, just looking down at people pushing and shoving—not that you could
see much, it was so bloody dark with those old-fashioned street-lamps. Anyway, one of the demonstrators chucked a bottle, and someone up there, behind me, yelled, ‘Let's clobber the bastards.' I think I recognized Gill's voice. Then they charged down and . . . well, you know what happened. It needn't have—that's what I'm saying. Sure, there was a bit of aggro going on, but we could have sat on it if someone had given the order to loosen up a bit, give people room to breathe. Instead, Gill led a fucking truncheon charge. I know we coppers are all supposed to stick together, but . . .” Grant looked out to sea and shivered.

“There's a time to stick together,” Banks said, “and this isn't it. Gill got himself killed, remember that.”

“But I couldn't swear to anything. I mean, officially. . . .”

“Don't worry. This is off the record.” At least it is for now, he told himself. If anything came of their discussion, young Grant might find himself with a few serious decisions to make. “How did the others feel about Gill?” he asked.

“Oh, most of them thought it was all a bit of a joke, a lark. I mean, there'd be Gill going on about clobbering queers and commies. I don't think they really took him seriously.”

“But it wasn't just talk? You say he liked smashing skulls.”

“Yes. He was a right bastard.”

“Surely they knew it?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Did they approve?”

“Well, no, I wouldn't say that. Some, maybe . . .but I didn't, for one.”

“But nobody warned him, told him to knock it off?”

Grant pulled up his collar. “No.”

“Were they scared of him?”

“Some of the lads were, yes. He was a bit of a hard case.”

“What about you?”

“Me? Well, I wouldn't have taken him up on anything, that's for sure. I'm scarcely above regulation height, myself, and Gill was a big bugger.”

A seagull screeched by them, a flash of white against the grey, and began circling over the water for fish. The tanker had moved far over
to the right of the horizon. Banks felt the chill getting to him. He put his hands deep in his pockets and tensed up against the cold, wet wind.

“Did any of the others actually like him?” he asked. “Did he have any real mates at the station?”

“I wouldn't say so, no. He wasn't a very likeable bloke. Too big-headed, too full of himself. I mean, you couldn't have a conversation with him; you just had to listen. He had views on everything, but he was thick. I mean, he never really thought anything out. It was all down to Pakis and Rastas and students and skinheads and unemployed yobbos with him.”

“So he wasn't popular around the station?”

“Not really, no. But you know what it's like. A few of the lads get together in the squad room—especially if they've had TAG training—and you get all that macho, tough-guy talk, just like American cop shows. He was good at that, Gill was, telling stories about fights and taking risks.”

“Are there any more like him in your station?”

“Not as bad, no. There's a few that don't mind a good punch-up now and then, and some blokes like to pull kids in on a sus just to liven up a boring night. But nobody went as far as Gill.”

“Did he have any friends outside the station?”

“I don't know who he went about with off duty.”

“Did he have a girl-friend?”

“I don't know. He never mentioned anyone.”

“So he didn't brag about having women like he did about thumping people?”

“No. I never heard him. Whenever he did talk about women it was always like they were whores and bitches. He was a foul-mouthed bastard. He'd hit them, too, at demos. It was all the same to him.”

“Do you think he could have been the type to mess around with someone else's girl-friend or wife?”

Grant shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

The seagull flew up towards the cliffs behind them, a fish flapping in its beak. The sea had settled to a rhythmic slapping against the stone wall, hardly sending up any spray at all. Banks risked another cigarette.

“Did Gill have any enemies that you know of?”

“He must have made plenty over the years, given his attitude towards the public,” Grant said. “But I couldn't name any.”

“Anyone on the force?”

“Eh?”

“You said nobody at the station really liked him. Had anyone got a good reason to dislike him? Did he owe money, cheat people, gamble? Any financial problems?”

“I don't think so. He just got people's backs up, that's all. He talked about betting on the horses, yes, but I don't think he did it that much. It was just the macho sort of thing that went with his image. He never tried to borrow any money off me, if that's what you mean. And I don't think he was on the take. At least he was honest on that score.”