A Necessary End (37 page)

It was after eleven o'clock, according to the church clock, and Burgess would be out questioning Osmond and the students. In his office, Banks called the forensic lab and asked for Vic Manson. He had to wait a few minutes, but finally Vic came on the line.

“The prints?” Banks asked.

“Yes. Four sets. At least four identifiable sets. One belongs to the deceased, of course, another to that Boyd character—the same as the ones we found on the knife—and two more.”

“They'll probably be Mara's and one of the others'.” Banks said. “Look, thanks a lot, Vic. I'll try and arrange to get the others fingerprinted for comparison. Is Geoff Tingley around?”

“Yep. Just a sec, I'll get him for you.”

Banks could hear distant voices at the end of the line, then someone picked up the receiver and-spoke. “Tingley here. Is it about those letters?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I'm almost positive they weren't typed by the same person.

You can make a few allowances for changes in pressure, but these were so wildly different I'd say that's almost conclusive. I could do with a few more samples of at least one of the writers, though. It'll give me more variables and a broader scope for comparison.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Banks said. There were probably other examples of Seth's typing in the filing cabinet. “Would it do any good if we got a suspect to type us a sample?” he asked.

“Hmmm. It might do. Problem is if he knew what we were after it wouldn't be too difficult to fake it. I'd say this chap's a plodder,
though. You can tell it's been pecked out by the overall high pressure, each letter very deliberately sought and pounced on, so to speak. Hunt-and-peck, as I believe they call the technique. The other chap was a better typist, still two fingers, I'd say, but fairly quick and accurate. Probably had a lot more practice. And there's another thing, too. Did you notice the writing styles of the letters were—”

“Yes,” Banks said. “We spotted that. Good of you to point it out, though.”

Tingley sounded disappointed. “Oh, it's nothing.”

“Thanks very much. I'll be in touch about the samples and testing.

Could you put Vic on again? I've just remembered something.”

“Will do.”

“Are you still there?” Manson asked a few seconds later.

“Yes. Look, Vic, there's a couple more points. The typewriter for a start.”

“Nothing clear on that, just a lot of blurs.”

“Was it wiped?”

“Could have been.”

“There was a cloth on that table, wasn't there? One of those yellow dusters.”

“Yes, there was,” said Manson. “Do you want me to check for fibres?”

“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.

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. 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 lunch-time.

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 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 over-reacted.” 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 break-in 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 nerv ous 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.

“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 over-complicating 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 break-in. 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 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.”