A Necessary End (38 page)

“What was his reaction to your suggestion?”

“He said he'd think about it.”

“And he thought about it for two years?”

“It would appear so, yes. If you don't mind my asking, Chief Inspector, why all this interest in his reason for making a will? People do, you know.”

“It's the timing, that's all. I was just wondering why then rather than any other time.”

“Hmmm. I imagine that's the kind of thing you people have to think about. Are you interested in the contents at all?”

“Of course.”

Courtney unfolded the paper fully, peered at it, then put it aside again and hooked his thumbs in his braces. “Not much to it, really,” he said. “He left the house and what little money he had—somewhere in the region of two thousand pounds, I believe, though you'll have to check with the bank—to one Mara Delacey.”

“Mara? And that's it?”

“Not quite. Oddly enough he added a codicil just a few months ago. Shortly before Christmas, in fact. It doesn't affect the original bequest, but merely specifies that all materials, monies and goodwill relating to his carpentry business be left to Paul Boyd, in the hope that he uses them wisely.”

“Bloody hell!”

“Is something wrong?”

“It's nothing. Sorry. Mind if I smoke?”

“If you must.” Courtney took a clean ashtray from his drawer and pushed it disapprovingly towards Banks. Undeterred, Banks lit up.

“The way I see things, then,” Banks said, “is that he left the house and the money to Mara after he'd only known her for a year or so, and the carpentry business to Paul after the kid had only been at the farm for a couple of months.”

“If you say so, Chief Inspector. It would indicate that Mr Cotton was quick to trust people.”

“It would indeed. Or that there was nobody else he could even consider. I doubt that he'd have wanted his goods and chattels to go to the state. But who knows where Boyd might have got to by the time Cotton died of natural causes? Or Mara. Could he have had some idea that he was in danger?”

“I'm afraid I can't answer that,” Courtney said. “Our business ends with the legal formalities, and Mr Cotton certainly made no mention of an imminent demise. If there's anything else I can help you with, of course, I'd be more than willing.”

“Thank you,” said Banks. “I think that's all. Will you be informing Mara Delacey?”

“We will take steps to get in touch with beneficiaries in due course, yes.”

“Is it all right if I tell her this afternoon?”

“I can't see any objection. And you might ask her—both of them, if possible—to drop by the office. I'll be happy to explain the procedure to them. If you have any trouble with the bank, Chief Inspector, please refer them to me. It's the National Westminster—or NatWest, as I believe they call themselves these days—the branch in the market square. The manager is a most valued client.”

“I know the place.” Know it, Banks thought, I practically stare at it for hours on end every day.

“Then goodbye, Chief Inspector. It's been a pleasure.”

Banks walked out into the street more confused than ever. Before he got back to the station, however, he'd managed to put some check on his wild imaginings. The will probably didn't come into the case at all. Seth Cotton had simply had more foresight than many would have credited him with. What was wrong with that? And it was perfectly natural that, with his parents both dead and no close family, he would leave the house to Mara. And Paul Boyd was, after all, his apprentice. It was a gesture of faith and confidence on Seth's part.

Even if Mara and Paul had known what they had coming to them, neither, Banks was positive, would have murdered Seth to get it. Life for Mara was clearly better with Seth than without him, and whatever ugliness might be lurking in Boyd's character, he was neither stupid nor petty enough to kill for a set of carpenter's tools. So forget the will, Banks told himself. Nice gesture though it was, it is irrelevant. Except, perhaps, for the date. Why wait till two years after Courtney had suggested it before actually getting the business done? Procrastination?

It also raised a more serious question: had Seth felt that his life was in danger a year ago? If so, why had it taken so long for the danger to
manifest itself? And had that fear somehow also renewed itself around Christmas time?

Before returning to his office, he nipped into the National Westminster and had no problem in getting details of Seth's financial affairs, such as they were: he had a savings account at £2343.64, and a current account, which stood at £421.33.

It was after three-thirty when he got back to the station, and there was a message from Vic Manson to the effect that, yes, fibres matching those from the duster had been found on the typewriter keys. But, Manson had added with typical forensic caution, there was no way of proving whether the machine had been wiped before or after the message had been typed. The pressure of fingers on the keys often blurs prints.

Banks's brief chat with Burgess over lunch had revealed nothing new, either. Dirty Dick had seen Osmond and got nowhere with him. Early in the afternoon he was off to see Tim and Abha, and he was quite happy to leave Mara Delacey to Banks. As far as Burgess was concerned, it was all over bar the shouting, but he wanted more evidence to implicate Boyd or Cotton with extremist politics. Most of the time he'd had his eye on Glenys, and he'd kept reminding Banks that it was her night off that night. Cyril, fortunately, had been nowhere in sight.

Banks left a message for Burgess at the front desk summarizing what Lawrence Courtney had said about Seth's will. Then he called Sergeant Hatchley, as Richmond was busy on another matter, to accompany him and to bring along the fingerprinting kit. He slipped the Muddy Waters cassette from his Walkman and hurried out to the car with it, a huffing and puffing Hatchley in tow. It was time to see if Mara Delacey was ready to talk.

“What do you think of Superintendent Burgess?” Banks asked Hatchley on the way. They hadn't really had a chance to talk much over the past few days.

“Off the record?”

“Yes.”

“Well . . .” Hatchley rubbed his face with a hamlike hand. “He seemed all right at first. Bit of zip about him. You know, get up and go. But I'd have thought a whiz-kid like him would have got a bit further by now.”

“None of us have got any further,” Banks said. “What do you mean? The man's only flesh and blood after all.”

“I suppose that's it. He dazzles you a bit at first, then . . .”

“Don't underestimate him,” Banks said. “He's out of his element up here. He's getting frustrated because we don't have raving anarchists crawling out of every nook and cranny in the town.”

“Aye,” said Hatchley. “And you thought I was right wing.”

“You are.”

Hatchley grunted.

“When we get to the farm, I want you to have a look in Seth's filing cabinet in the workshop,” Banks went on, pulling onto the Roman road, “and see if you can find more samples of his typing. And I'd like you to fingerprint everyone. Ask for their consent, and tell them we can get a magistrate's order if they refuse. Also make sure you tell them that the prints will be destroyed if no charges are brought.” Banks paused and scratched the edge of his scar. “I'd like to have them all type a few lines on Seth's typewriter, too, but we'll have to wait till it comes back from forensic. All clear?”

“Fine,” Hatchley said.

Zoe answered the door, looking tired and drawn.

“Mara's not here,” she said in response to Banks's question, opening the door only an inch or two.

“I thought she was under sedation.”

“That was last night. She had a good long sleep. She said she felt like going to the shop to work on some pots, and the doctor agreed it might be good therapy. Elspeth's there in case . . . just in case.”

“I'll go down to the village, then,” Banks said to Hatchley. “You'll have to manage up here. Will you let the sergeant in, Zoe?”

Zoe sighed and opened the door.

“Are you coming back up?” Hatchley asked.

Banks looked at his watch. “Why not meet in the Black Sheep?” Hatchley smiled at the prospect of a pint of Black Sheep bitter, then his face fell. “How do I get there?”

“Walk.”

“Walk?”

“Yes. It's just a mile down the track. Do you good. Give you a thirst.”

Hatchley wasn't convinced—he had never had any problems working up a thirst without exercise before—but Banks left him to his fate and drove down to Relton.

Mara was in the back bent over her wheel, gently turning the lip of a vase. Elspeth led him through, muttered, “A policeman to see you,” with barely controlled distaste, then went back into the shop itself.

Mara glanced up. “Let me finish,” she said. “If I stop now, I'll ruin it.” Banks leaned against the doorway and kept quiet. The room smelled of wet clay. It was also hot. The kiln in the back generated a lot of heat. Mara's long brown hair was tied back, accentuating the sharpness of her nose and chin as she concentrated. Her white smock was stained with splashed clay.

Finally, she drenched the wheel-head with water, sliced off the vase with a length of cheese-wire, then slid it carefully onto her hand before transferring it to a board.

“What now?” Banks asked.

“It has to dry.” She put it away in a large cupboard at the back of the room. “Then it goes in the kiln.”

“I thought the kiln dried it.”

“No. That bakes it. First it has to be dried to the consistency of old cheddar.”

“These are good,” Banks said, pointing to some finished mugs glazed in shades of orange and brown.

“Thanks.” Mara's eyes were puffy and slightly unfocused, her movements slow and zombie-like. Even her voice, Banks noticed, was flatter than usual, drained of emotion and vitality.

“I have to ask you some questions,” he said.

“I suppose you do.”

“Do you mind?”

Mara shook her head. “Let's get it over with.”

She perched at the edge of her stool and Banks sat on a packing crate just inside the doorway. He could hear Elspeth humming as she busied herself checking on stock in the shop.

“Did you notice anyone gone for an unusually long time during the meeting yesterday afternoon?” Banks asked.

“Was it only yesterday? Lord, it seems like months. No, I didn't
notice. People came and went, but I don't think anyone was gone for long. I'm not sure I would have noticed, though.”

“Did Seth ever say anything to you before about suicide? Did he ever mention the subject?”

Mara's lips tightened and the blood seemed to drain from them. “No. Never.”

“He'd tried once before, you know.”

Mara raised her thin eyebrows. “It seems you knew him better than I did.”

“Nobody knew him, as far as I can tell. There was a will, Mara.”

“I know.”

“Do you remember when he made it?”

“Yes. He joked about it. Said it made him feel like an old man.”

“Is that all?”

“That's all I remember.”

“Did he say why he was making it at that time?”

“No. He just told me that the solicitor who handled the house, Courtney, said he should, and he'd been thinking about it for a long time.”

“Do you know what was in the will?”

“Yes. He said he was leaving me the house. Does that make me a suspect?”

“Did you know about the codicil?”

“Codicil? No.”

“He left his tools and things to Paul.”

“Well, he would, wouldn't he. Paul was keen, and I've got no use for them.”

“Did Paul know?”

“I've no idea.”

“This would be around last Christmas.”

“Maybe it was his idea of a present.”

“But what made him think he was going to die? Seth was what age—forty? By all rights he could expect to live to seventy or so. Was he worried about anything?”

“Seth always seemed . . . well, not worried, but preoccupied. He'd got even more morbid of late. It was just his way.”

“But there was nothing in particular?”

Mara shook her head. “I don't believe he killed himself, Mr Banks. He had lots to live for. He wouldn't just leave us like that. Everyone depended on Seth. We looked up to him. And he cared about me, about us. I think somebody must have killed him.”

“Who?”

“I don't know.”

Banks shifted position on the packing crate. Its surface was hard and he felt a nail dig into the back of his right thigh. “Do you remember Elizabeth Dale?”

“Liz. Yes, of course. Funny, I was just thinking about her last night.”

“What about her?”

“Oh, nothing really. How jealous I was, I suppose, when she came to the farm that time. I'd only known Seth six months then. We were happy but, I don't know, I guess I was insecure. Am.”

“Why did you feel jealous?”

“Maybe that's not the right word. I just felt cut out, that's all. Seth and Liz had known each other for a long time, and I didn't share their memories. They used to sit up late talking after I went to bed.”

“Did you hear what they were talking about?”

“No. It was muffled. Do smoke if you want.”

“Thanks.” She must have noticed him fidgeting and looking around for an ashtray. He took out his pack and offered one to Mara. “I think I will,” she said. “I can't be bothered to roll my own today.”

“What did you think about Liz Dale?”

Mara lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. “I didn't like her, really.

I don't know why, just a feeling. She was messed up, of course, but even so, she seemed like someone who used people, leaned on them too much, maybe a manipulator.” She shrugged wearily and blew smoke out through her nose. “She was Seth's friend, though. I wasn't going to say anything.”