A Necessary End (22 page)

“Please?”

“Give me a chance. We've hardly even got—”

Burgess stopped abruptly when Jenny calmly and slowly picked up her glass and poured the rest of her chilled lager on his lap.

“I told you I only wanted a half,” she said, then picked up her coat and left.

Burgess rushed for the gents. Luckily, Jenny had acted so naturally, and everyone around them had been so engrossed in conversation, that the event had gone largely unnoticed. Cyril had seen it, though, and his face was red with laughter.

Banks caught up with Jenny outside. She was leaning against the ancient, pitted market cross in the centre of the square with her hand over her mouth. “My God,” she said, letting the laughter out and patting her chest, “I haven't had as much fun in years. That man's a positive throwback. I'm surprised you seem to be enjoying his company so much.”

“He's not so bad,” Banks said. “Especially after a few jars.”

“Yes, you'd need to be at least half-pissed. And you'd need to be a man, too. You're all locker-room adolescents when it comes down to it.”

“He's got quite a reputation as a womanizer.”

“They must be desperate down south, then.”

Banks's faith in women was partially restored.

It was cold outside in the deserted square. The cobbles, still wet with rain, glistened in the dim gaslight. The church bells rang half-past nine. Banks turned up his jacket collar and held the lapels close together. “What was it you wanted to ask me?”

“It's nothing. It doesn't matter now.”

“Come on, Jenny, you're hiding something. You're not good at it. Is it to do with Paul Boyd?”

“Indirectly. But I told you, it doesn't matter.”

“Do you know why he ran away?”

“Of course not.”

“Look, I know you're a friend of Mara's. Is this to do with her? It could be important.”

“All right,” Jenny said, holding up her hand. “Give it a rest. I'll tell you everything you want to know. You're getting almost as bad as your mate in there. Mara just wondered how the investigation was going, that's all. They're all a bit tense up at the farm, and they wanted to know if they could expect any more visits from God's gift to women. Will you believe me now that it doesn't matter?”

“When did you talk to her?”

“This lunch-time in the Black Sheep.”

“She must have seen the knife,” Banks said, almost to himself.

“What?”

“The shepherd, Jack Crocker. He found the knife. She must have seen it, recognized it as Boyd's, and dashed off to warn him. That's why he took off just in time.”

“Oh, Alan, surely not?”

“I thought she was lying when I talked to her earlier. Didn't you notice any of this?”

“She did take off in rather a hurry, but I'd no idea why. I left just after. You're not going to arrest her, are you?”

Banks shook his head. “It makes her an accessory,” he said, “but I doubt we'd be able to prove it. And when Burgess gets Boyd, I don't think he'll spare another thought for Mara and the rest. It was just a bloody stupid thing to do.”

“Was it? Would you split on a friend, just like that? What would you do if someone accused Richmond of murder, or me?”

“That's not the point. Of course I'd do what I could to clear you. But she should have let us know. Boyd could be dangerous.”

“She cares about Paul. She's hardly likely to hand him over to you just like that.”

“I wonder if she's told him where to run and hide as well.”

Jenny shivered. “It's cold standing about here,” she said. “I should go before Dirty Dick comes out and beats me up. That's just about his level. And you'd better get back or he'll think you've deserted him. Give him my love.” She kissed Banks quickly on the cheek and hurried to her car. He stood in the cold for a moment thinking about Mara and what Jenny had said, then rushed back into the Queen's Arms to see what had become of the soused superintendent.

“She's certainly got spirit, I'll say that,” Burgess said, not at all upset by the incident. “Another pint?”

“I shouldn't really.”

“Oh, come on Banks. Don't be a party pooper.” Without waiting for a reply, Burgess went to the bar.

Banks felt that he'd had enough already, and soon he would be past the point of no return. Still, he thought, after a couple more pints he wouldn't give a damn anyway. He sensed that Burgess was lonely and in need of company in his moment of triumph, and he didn't feel he could simply desert the bastard. Besides, he had only an empty
house to go home to. He could leave the Cortina in the police car-park and walk home later, no matter how much he'd drunk. It was only a mile and a bit.

And so they drank on, and on. Burgess was easy enough to talk to, Banks found, once you got used to his cocky manner and stayed off politics and police work. He had a broad repertoire of jokes, an extensive knowledge of jazz and a store of tales about cock-ups on the job. On the Met, as Banks remembered, there were so many different departments and squads running their own operations that it wasn't unusual for the Sweeney to charge in and spoil a fraud-squad stake-out.

An hour and two pints later, as Burgess reached the end of a tale about a hapless drug-squad DC shooting himself in the foot, Banks suggested it was time to go.

“I suppose so,” Burgess said regretfully, finishing his drink and getting to his feet.

He certainly didn't seem drunk. His speech was normal and his eyes looked clear. But when they got outside, he had difficulty walking on the pavement. To keep himself steady, he put his arm around Banks's shoulder and the two of them weaved across the market square. Thank God the hotel's just around the corner, Banks thought.

“That's my only trouble, you know,” Burgess said. “Mind clear as a bell, memory intact, but every time I go over the limit my motor control goes haywire. Know what my mates call me down at the Yard?”

“No.”

“Bambi.” He laughed. “Bloody Bambi. You know, that little what-sit in the cartoon—the way the damn thing walks. It's not my sweet and gentle nature they're referring to.” He put his hand to his groin. “Bloody hell, I still feel like I've pissed myself. That damn woman!” And he laughed.

Banks declined an invitation to go up to Burgess's room and split a bottle of Scotch. No matter how sorry he felt for the lonely bugger, he wasn't that much of a masochist. Grudgingly, Burgess let him go. “I'll drink it myself, then,” were his final words, delivered at full volume in front of an embarrassed desk clerk in the hotel lobby.

As he set off home, Banks wished he'd brought his Walkman. He could be listening to Blind Willie McTell or Bukka White as he
walked. He was steady on his feet, though, and arrived at the front door of the empty house in about twenty minutes. He was tired and he certainly didn't want another drink, so he decided to go straight to bed. As usual, though, when things were bothering him he couldn't get to sleep immediately. And there were plenty of things about the Gill case that still puzzled him.

Motive was a problem, unless Burgess was right and Boyd had simply lashed out indiscriminately. In this case, it seemed that knowing
who
didn't explain
why
. Boyd wasn't political as far as anyone knew, and even street punks like him weren't in the habit of stabbing policemen at anti-nuclear demos. If someone had a private reason for wanting to do away with Gill, then there was plenty to consider in the personal lives of the other suspects: Osmond's assault charges, Trelawney's custody battle, Seth's wife's accident, Mara's religious organization, and even Zoe's seaside fortune-telling. It was hard to imagine a connection at this point, but stranger things had happened. Tony Grant's report might prove useful, if it ever arrived.

Banks was also curious about the prints on the knife. Usually when a knife is thrust into a body, the fingers holding the handle slip and any impression is blurred. Boyd's prints had been perfectly clear, just as if he had carefully applied each one. It could have happened if he'd folded up the knife and carried it in his hand before throwing it away, or if he'd just picked it up after someone else had used it. There were other prints under his, but they were too blurred to read. They could be his, too, of course, but there was no way of knowing.

Boyd had certainly carried the knife in his pocket. The stains inside the parka matched PC Gill's blood type. But if he had used it, why had he been foolish enough to pick it up after dropping it? He must have let it fall at some point, because several people had seen it being kicked around by the crowd. And if he had just left it there, it was very unlikely that it could have been traced to the farm.

But if Boyd hadn't done it, why had he picked up a knife that wasn't his? To protect someone? And who would he be more likely to protect than the people at Maggie's Farm? Or had there been someone else he knew and cared about who had access to the knife? There were a lot more questions to be asked yet, Banks thought, and Burgess was being very premature in celebrating his victory tonight.

Then there was the matter of the number torn out of Seth Cotton's notebook. Banks didn't know what it meant, but there was something familiar about it, something damn familiar. Boyd was close to Seth and spent plenty of time helping him in the workshop. Could the number be something to do with him? Could it help tell them where he'd gone?

It could be a phone number, of course. There were still plenty of four-digit numbers in the Swainsdale area. On impulse, Banks got out of bed and went downstairs. It was after eleven, but he decided to try anyway. He dialled 1139 and heard a phone ring at the other end. It went on for a long time. He was just about to give up when a woman answered, “Hello. Rossghyll Guest House, bed and breakfast.” The voice was polite but strained.

Banks introduced himself and some of the woman's politeness faded when it became clear that he wasn't a potential customer. “Do you know what time it is?” she said. “Couldn't this have waited till morning? Do you know what time I have to get up?”

“It's important.” Banks gave a description of Paul Boyd and asked if she'd seen him.

“I wouldn't have that kind of person staying here,” the woman answered angrily. “What kind of place do you think this is? This is a decent house.” And with that she hung up on him.

Banks trudged back up to bed. He'd have to send a man over, of course, just to be sure, but it didn't seem a likely bet. And if it was a phone number outside the local area, it could be almost anywhere. With the dialling code missing, there was no way of telling.

Banks lay awake a while longer, then he finally drifted off to sleep and dreamed of Burgess humble in defeat.

NINE

I

The overcast sky seemed to press on Banks's nagging headache when he set off for Maggie's Farm at eleven-thirty the next morning. Burgess had called in earlier to say he was going over some paperwork in his hotel room and didn't want to be disturbed unless Paul Boyd turned up. That suited Banks fine; he wanted a word with Mara Delacey, and the less Dirty Dick knew about it, the better.

He pulled up outside the farmhouse and knocked. He wasn't surprised when Mara opened the door and moaned, “Not again!”

Reluctantly she let him in. There was no one else in the place. The others were probably working.

Banks wanted to get Mara away from the house, on neutral ground. Perhaps then, he thought, he could get her to open up a bit more.

“I'd just like to talk to you, that's all,” he said. “It's not an interrogation, nothing official.”

She looked puzzled. “Go on.”

Banks tapped his watch. “It's nearly lunch-time and I haven't eaten yet,” he said casually. “Do you fancy a trip down to the Black Sheep?”

“What for? Is this some subtle way of getting me to accompany you to the station?”

“No tricks. Honest. What I've got to say might even be of advantage to you.”

She still regarded him, suspiciously, but the bait was too good to refuse. “All right.” She reached for an anorak to put over her sweater and jeans. “I'm going into the shop this afternoon anyway.” She pulled back her thick chestnut hair and tied it in a pony-tail.

In the car, Mara leaned forward to examine the tapes Banks kept in the storage rack Brian had bought him for his birthday the previous May—his thirty-eighth. There, mixed in with Zemlinsky's
Birthday of the Infanta
, Mozart's
Magic Flute
, Dowland's
Lachrimae
and Purcell's airs, were Lightning Hopkins, Billie Holiday, Muddy Waters, Robert Wilkins and a number of blues-anthology tapes.

Picking up the Billie Holiday, Mara managed a thin smile. “A policeman who likes blues can't be all bad,” she said.

Banks laughed. “I like most music,” he said, “except for country-and-western and middle-of-the-road crooning—you know, Frank Sinatra, Engelbert Humperdinck and that lot.”

“Even rock?”

“Even rock. Some, anyway. I must admit I'm still stuck in the sixties as far as that's concerned. I lost interest after the Beatles split up. I even know where the name of your house comes from.”

Banks was pleased to be chatting so easily with Mara. It was the first time his interest in music had helped create the kind of rapport he wanted with a witness. So often people regarded it as an eccentricity, but now it was actually helping with an important investigation. A common interest in jazz and blues had also helped him to relax with Burgess a little. Still, he thought, Mara probably wouldn't stay so convivial when she followed the drift of the questions he had to ask her.

They found a quiet corner in the pub by the tiled fireplace. In a glass case on the wall beside them was a collection of butterflies pinned to a board. Banks bought Mara a half of mild and got a pint of Black Sheep bitter for himself. Maybe the hair of the dog would do the trick and get rid of his headache. He ordered a ploughman's lunch; Mara asked for lasagne.