A Necessary End (24 page)

In the back, though, the set-up was very different. First, there was a small pottery workshop, complete with wheel and dishes of brown and black metallic oxide glaze, and beyond that a drying room and a small electric kiln. The workshop was dusty and messy, crusted with bits of old clay, and it suited a part of Mara's personality.
Mostly she preferred cleanliness and tidiness, but there was something special, she found, about creating beautiful objects in a chaotic environment.

She put on her apron, took a lump of clay from the bin and weighed off enough for a small vase. The clay was too wet, so she wedged it on a flat concrete tray, which absorbed the excess moisture. As she wedged—pushing hard with the heels of her hands, then pulling the clay forward with her fingers to get all the air out—she couldn't seem to lose herself in the task as usual, but kept on thinking about her conversation with Banks.

Frowning, she cut the lump in half with a cheese-wire to check for air bubbles, then slammed the pieces together much harder than usual. A fleck of clay spun off and hit her forehead, just above her right eye. She put the clay down and took a few deep breaths, trying to bring her mind to bear only on what she was doing.

No good. It was Banks's fault, of course. He had introduced her to speculations that caused nothing but distress. True, she didn't want Paul to be guilty, but if, as Banks had said, that meant someone else she knew had killed the policeman, that only made things worse.

Sighing, she started the wheel with the foot pedal and slammed the clay as close to the centre as she could. Then she drenched both it and her hands with water from a bowl by her side. As the wheel spun, clayey water flew off and splashed her apron.

She couldn't believe that any of her friends had stabbed Gill. Much better if Osmond or one of the students had done it for political reasons. Tim and Abha seemed nice enough, if a bit naïve and gushing, but Mara had never trusted Osmond; he had always seemed somehow too oily and opinionated for her taste.

But what about Rick? He had strong political views, more so than Seth or Zoe. He'd often said someone should assassinate Margaret Thatcher, and Seth had argued that someone just as bad would take her place. But it was only a policeman who'd been killed, not a politician. Despite what Rick said about the police being mere instruments of the state, paid enforcers, she couldn't believe that would make him actually kill one of them.

She leaned forward, elbows in, and pushed hard to centre the clay. At last, she managed it, and, allowing herself a smile of satisfaction,
stuck her thumb in the top and pushed down about an inch. She then filled the hole with water and began to drive deeper to where she wanted the bottom of the vase to be.

Holding the inside with one finger, she slowed the wheel and began to make a ridge from the outside bottom, raising the clay to the height she wanted. It took several times to get there, pulling just a little further each time, watching the groove flow up the outside of the clay and disappear.

She was determined not to let Banks get to her. There was no way she was going to start suspecting Rick the way she had Paul. She had good reason for worrying about him, she told herself: his violent past; the blood he had lied about. And the knife had his fingerprints on it. She had no reason at all for suspecting anyone else. If only Paul could get far away and never be seen again. That would be best—if the police continued to believe he had done it but were never able to find him.

She could hear Elspeth out front trying to sell a sweater to a customer. “Traditional Dales pattern . . .local wool, of course . . .hand-knit, naturally. . . .”

Almost there. But her hands weren't steady, and when she'd lost her concentration she had increased the pressure with her right foot, speeding up the wheel. Suddenly the clay began to spin wildly off centre—insane shapes, like Salvador Dali paintings or plastic melting in a fire—and then it collapsed in on itself on the wheel-head. And that was that. Mara took the cheese-wire and sliced off the mess. There was enough left for an egg-cup maybe, but she couldn't face starting again. That damn Banks had ruined her day.

In disgust, she tore off her wet apron and cleaned the rest of the clay from the wheel. Putting on her anorak again, she walked through to the front.

“Sorry, Elspeth,” she said, “I just can't seem to concentrate today. Maybe I'll go for a walk.”

Elspeth frowned. “Are you sure you're all right?”

“Yes. Don't worry, I'll be fine. Give my love to Dottie.”

“Will do.”

As she left the shop, the bell clanged loudly behind her.

Instead of heading back home, she climbed the stile at the end of
Mortsett Lane and struck out for the moors. As she walked, she ran over the events of last Friday afternoon up at the farm.

Most of the time she'd been in the kitchen preparing a stew for dinner—something to fortify them all against the cold and rain—and making pots of tea. The children had been a nuisance, too, she remembered. Over-excited because there were so many adults around, they'd kept coming in and tugging at her apron strings, pestering her. She hadn't been paying much attention to what the others were saying or doing in the front room even when she was there, and she hadn't noticed anybody pick up anything from the mantelpiece.

The only thing that struck a chord was that number Banks had mentioned: 1139, was it? She thought that she had heard it mentioned recently. Half heard it, really, because she had been thinking about something else at the time. The ashram, that was it. She had been remembering how, after the evening meal of brown rice and vegetables (every day!), they had all sat cross-legged in the meditation room, with its shrine to the guru and the smell of sandalwood incense heavy in the air. They had talked about how their lives had been empty until they had found the True Path. How they had been searching in all the wrong places for all the wrong things. And they had sung songs together, holding hands. “Amazing Grace” had been a particular favourite. Somehow, the gathering at the farm that afternoon had made her think of those days, though it was different in almost every way.

That was what she had been thinking about when the number had been mentioned. And she had been in the kitchen, too, because she clearly recalled the earthy feel of the potatoes she'd been peeling. Wasn't it odd how the mind worked? All the components of the experience were there, clear as day, but she couldn't remember who had mentioned the number, or in what context. And people had been in and out of the kitchen all afternoon.

Worrying about Paul again, wondering where he was, she lowered her head against the wind and marched on through the rough grass and heather.

III

There was little else to do but wait for Boyd to turn up. Whatever his suspicions, Banks had nothing concrete to go on, and he wasn't likely to have until he'd questioned Boyd. Dirty Dick was still sleeping last night's beer and Scotch off in his hotel room and Richmond was running around putting together as much information as he could get on the suspects. Criminal records weren't enough; they tended to leave out the all-too-important human factor, the snippet that gives a clue to motivation and makes the pattern clear.

Mostly Banks smoked too much and stared gloomily out of his window onto the grey market square. At four o'clock, he heard a knock on his door and called, “Come in.”

PC Craig stood there looking as pleased as Punch. “We've got a line on Boyd, sir,” he said, ushering in a stout middle-aged woman with curlers in her hair.

Banks pulled out a chair for her.

“This is Mrs Evans,” Craig said. “I went knocking on doors on Cardigan Road to find out if anyone had seen Boyd, and Mrs Evans here said she had. She kindly offered to come in with me and talk to you, sir.”

“Good work,” Banks said. Craig smiled and left.

Banks asked Mrs Evans what she'd seen.

“It was about three o'clock yesterday afternoon,” she began. “I know the time because I'd just got back from Tesco's with the shopping and I were struggling to get off t'bus.”

“Which bus was that?”

“A forty-four. Two forty-six from t'bus station.”

Banks knew the route. The bus took the long way around Cardigan Road for the benefit of local passengers, then carried on to York.

“And you saw Paul Boyd?”

“I saw a lad what looked like that photo.” PC Craig had taken a prison photograph of Boyd to show from door to door. “His hair's different now, but I know it was him. I've seen him before.”

“Where?”

“Around town. More often than not coming out of t'dole office. I always hold my handbag tighter when I see him. I know it's not fair to judge a book by its cover, but he looks like a bad sort to me.”

“Where did you see him this time?”

“He was running up Gallows View from t'fields.”

“From Relton way?”

“Aye, as t'crow flies.”

“And where did he go?”

“Go? He didn't go anywhere. He were running for t'bus. Just caught it an' all. Nearly knocked me over, and me carrying two heavy shopping bags.”

“What was he wearing? Do you remember?”

“Aye, that I do. A red anorak. I noticed because it looked too small for him. A bit short in t'sleeves and tight around t'armpits.”

Why, Banks asked himself, wasn't he surprised that Mara had lied about Boyd's clothes?

“Was he carrying anything?”

“One of those airline bags—British Airways, I think.”

“Do you remember anything else?”

“Just that he seemed in such a hurry and looked worried. I mean, as a rule, like I said, it'd be me who'd be frightened of him, but this time he looked like he were scared out of his wits.”

Banks went over to the door and called Craig back. “Thanks, Mrs Evans,” he said. “We appreciate your coming in like this. PC Craig here will drive you home.” Mrs Evans nodded gravely and Craig escorted her out.

As soon as he was alone, Banks checked the bus timetable and found that the two forty-six from Eastvale was indeed the milk run to York; it didn't get there until 4:09. Next he phoned the York railway station and, after speaking to a succession of surly clerks, finally got put through to a pleasant woman in charge of information. From her, he discovered that Boyd could have taken a train almost anywhere between four-fifteen and five o'clock: Leeds, London, Newcastle, Liverpool, Edinburgh, plus points in between and anywhere else that connections might take him. It didn't seem much of a help, but he called Sergeant Hatchley in and put him on tracking down the train-catering crews and ticket collectors. It would mean a trip to York, and
it might take a long time, but at least it was action. Of course, Hatchley pulled a long face—it seemed he had plans for the evening—but Banks ignored him. It wasn't as if Hatchley had any other work to do. Why wag your own tail when you've got a dog?

At home that evening, Banks ate a tin of Irish stew and pottered restlessly about the house waiting to hear from Hatchley. At nine o'clock, unable to concentrate on reading and almost wishing he'd gone to York himself, he turned on the TV and watched a beautiful blonde policewoman and her loud-mouthed American partner dash around spraying London with lead. It was background noise, something to fill the emptiness of the house. Finally, he could stand his own company no longer and phoned Sandra.

This time he felt even more lonely after he hung up, but the feeling didn't last as long. Twenty minutes later Hatchley phoned from York. He had managed to get the addresses of most of the ticket collectors and catering staff on the trains out of York, but none of them lived locally. All in all, the first lead seemed to be petering out. That happened sometimes. Banks told Hatchley to go over to York CID headquarters and phone as many of the crew members as he could get through to, and to call back if he came up with anything. He didn't. At eleven-thirty Banks went to bed. Maybe tomorrow morning, after Boyd's photograph appeared in all the national dailies, they would get the break they needed.

TEN

I

The big break came early Friday morning. The Rossghyll Guest House proved to be a dead end, and all the train crews out of York had been too busy to remember anyone, but an Edinburgh barber phoned to say he recognized Paul Boyd's photograph in the morning paper. Though Banks found the man's accent difficult to understand, he managed to learn what Paul's new haircut looked like. Even more important, he discovered that Paul had ditched his red anorak for a new grey duffle coat.

As soon as he hung up, Banks checked the map. Paul had headed north rather than to London or Liverpool. That had been a clever move; it had gained him time. But now that his photograph was on the front page of all the tabloid dailies, his time was running out. In addition to getting the photo in the papers as soon as possible, Banks and his men had also circulated Boyd's description to police in all major cities, ports and airports. It was routine, the best they could do with limited knowledge, but now there was somewhere concrete to start.

Assuming that Paul would ultimately want to leave the country, Banks took out his AA road map and ran his finger up the outline of the Scottish coast looking for ways out. He could find only two ferry routes north of Edinburgh on the east coast. The first, from Aberdeen to Lerwick, on the Shetlands, could take Boyd eventually to Bergen and Torshavn, in Norway, or to Seydhisfjordhur, in Iceland. But looking at the fine print, Banks saw that those ferries ran only in summer—and as the grey sky and drizzle outside testified, it certainly wasn't summer.

Another ferry ran from Scrabster, further north, to Stromness, on mainland Orkney, but that hardly seemed like a place to run and hide. Boyd would stand out there like an Eskimo in the tropics.

Turning to the west coast, Banks saw dozens of broken red lines leading to such places as Brodick, on the Isle of Arran; Port Ellen, on Islay; and Stornaway, on Lewis, in the Outer Hebrides. The whole map was a maze of small islands and ferry routes. But, Banks reasoned, none of those isolated places would suit Boyd. He would be trapped, as well as conspicuous, on any of Scotland's islands, especially at this time of year.