A Necessary End (5 page)

She shoved her hands through the slits in her cape, deep into the pockets of her cords, and marched the way she imagined an ancient Roman would have done. Beyond the clouds, she could make out the pearly sheen of a half moon.

The great silence all around magnified the little sounds—the clatter of small stones, the rhythmic crunch of gravel, the swishing of her cords against the cape—and Mara felt the strain on her weak left knee that she always got going downhill. She raised her head and let the thin, cool rain fall on her closed eyelids and breathed in the wet-dog smell of the air. When she opened her eyes, she saw the black bulk of distant fells against a dark grey sky.

At the end of the track, Mara walked into Relton. The change from gravel to the smooth tarmac of Mortsett Lane felt strange at first. The village shops were all closed. Television sets flickered behind drawn curtains.

Just to be sure, Mara first popped her head inside the Black Sheep, but neither Seth nor Rick was there. A log fire crackled in the corner of the cosy public bar, but the place was half-empty. The landlord, Larry Grafton, smiled and said hello. Like many of the locals, he had come to accept the incomers from Maggie's Farm. At least, he had once told Mara, they weren't like those London yuppies who seemed to be buying up all the vacant property in the Dales these days.

“Can I get you anything?” Grafton called out.

“No. No, thanks,” Mara said. “I was looking for Seth. You haven't seen him, have you?”

Two old men looked up from their game of dominoes, and a trio of young farm labourers paused in their argument over subsidies and glanced at Mara with faintly curious expressions on their faces.

“No, lass,” Grafton said. “They've not been in since lunch-time. Said they were off to that there demonstration in Eastvale.”

Mara nodded. “That's right. There's been some trouble and they haven't come back yet. I was just wondering—”

“Is it right, then?” one of the farm labourers asked. “Tommy Exton dropped in half an hour sin' and said there'd been some fighting in Market Street.”

Mara told him what little she knew, and he shook his head. “It don't pay to get involved in things like that. Best left well alone,” he said, and returned to his pint.

Mara left the Black Sheep and headed for the public telephone-box on Mortsett Lane. Why they didn't have a phone installed at the farm she didn't know. Seth had once said he wouldn't have one of the things in the house, but he never explained why. Every time he needed to make a few calls he went down to the village, and he never once complained. At least in the country you could usually be sure the telephones hadn't been vandalized.

The receptionist at Eastvale General Infirmary answered and asked her what she wanted. Mara explained that she was interested in news of a friend of hers who hadn't come home from the demonstration. The receptionist said, “Just a minute,” and the phone hiccupped and burped a few times. Finally a man's voice came on.

“Can I help you, miss?”

“Yes. I'd like to know if you have a patient called Seth Cotton and one called Rick Trelawney.”

“Who is this calling?”

“I . . . I'd rather not say,” Mara answered, suddenly afraid that if she gave her name she would be inviting trouble.

“Are you a relation?”

“I'm a friend. A very close friend.”

“I see. Well, unless you identify yourself, miss, I'm afraid I can't give out any information.”

“Look,” Mara said, getting angry, “this is ridiculous. It's not as if I'm asking you to break the Official Secrets Act or anything. I just want to know if my friends are there and, if so, how badly they're injured. Who are you, anyway?”

“Constable Parker, miss. If you've any complaints you'd better take them up with Chief Inspector Banks at Eastvale CID Headquarters.”

“Chief Inspector Banks? CID?” Mara repeated slowly. She remembered
the name. He was the one who had visited the farm before, when Liz was there. “Why? I don't understand. What's going on? I only want to know if my friends are hurt.”

“Sorry, miss. Orders. Tell me your name and I'll see what I can do.” Mara hung up. Something was very wrong. She'd done enough damage already by mentioning Seth and Rick. The police would surely take special note of their names and push them even harder than the rest. There was nothing to do but wait and worry. Frowning, she opened the door and walked back into the rain.

IV

“Feel like a broke-down engine, ain't got no drivin' wheel,” sang Blind Willie McTell.

“I know exactly what you mean, mate,” Banks mumbled to himself as he poured a shot of Laphroaig single-malt, an indulgence he could scarcely afford. It was almost two in the morning and the interrogations had produced no results so far. Tired, Banks had left the others to it and come home for a few hours' sleep. He felt he deserved it.
They
hadn't had to spend the morning in court, the afternoon on a wild-goose chase after a stolen tractor, and the evening listening to the Hon Honoria, who would no doubt by now be sleeping the sleep of the truly virtuous before heading back, with great relief, down south in the morning.

Banks put his feet up, lit a cigarette and warmed the glass in his palm. Suddenly the doorbell rang. He jumped to his feet and cursed as he spilled a little valuable Scotch on his shirt front. Rubbing it with the heel of his hand, he walked into the hall and opened the door a few inches on the chain.

It was Jenny Fuller, the psychologist he had met and worked with on his first case in Eastvale. More than that, he had to admit; there had been a mutual attraction between them. Nothing had come of it, of course, and Jenny had even become good friends with Sandra. The three of them had often been out together. But the attraction remained, unresolved. Things like that didn't seem to go away as easily as they arrived.

“Jenny?” He slipped off the chain and opened the door wider.

“I know. It's two o'clock in the morning and you're wondering what I'm doing at your door.”

“Something like that. I assume it's not just my irresistible charm?”

Jenny smiled. The laugh lines around her green eyes crinkled. But the smile was forced and short-lived.

“What is it?” Banks asked.

“Dennis Osmond.”

“Who?”

“A friend. He's in trouble.”

“Boy-friend?”

“Yes, boy-friend.” Jenny blushed. “Or would you prefer beau?

Lover? Significant other? Look, can I come in? It's cold and raining out here.”

Banks moved aside. “Yes, of course. I'm sorry. Have a drink?”

“I will, if you don't mind.” Jenny walked into the front room, took off her green silk scarf and shook her red hair. The muted trumpet wailed and Sara Martin sang “Death Sting Me Blues.”

“What happened to opera?” Jenny asked.

Banks poured her a shot of Laphroaig. “There's a lot of music in the world,” he said. “I want to listen to as much as I can before I shuffle off this mortal coil.”

“Does that include heavy metal and middle-of-the-road?”

Banks scowled. “Dennis Osmond. What about him?”

“Ooh, touchy, aren't we?” Jenny raised her eyes to the ceiling and lowered her voice. “By the way, I hope I haven't disturbed Sandra or the children?”

Banks explained their absence. “It was all a bit sudden,” he added, to fill the silence that followed, which seemed somehow more weighty than it should. Jenny expressed her sympathy and shifted in her seat. She took a deep breath. “Dennis was arrested during that demonstration tonight. He managed to get in a phone call to me from the police station. He's not come back yet. I've just been there and the man on the desk told me you'd left. They wouldn't tell me anything about the prisoners at all. What's going on?”

“Where hasn't he come back to?”

“My place.”

“Do you live together?”

Jenny's eyes hardened and drilled into him like emerald laser beams. “That's none of your damn business.” She drank some more Scotch. “As a matter of fact, no, we don't. He was going to come round and tell me about the demonstration. It should have been all over hours ago.”

“You weren't there yourself?”

“Are you interrogating me?”

“No. Just asking.”

“I believe in the cause—I mean, I'm against nuclear power and American missile bases—but I don't see any point standing in the rain in front of Eastvale Community Centre.”

“I see.” Banks smiled. “It
was
a nasty night, wasn't it?”

“And there's no need to be such a cynic. I had work to do.”

“It was a pretty bad night inside, too.”

Jenny raised her eyebrows. “The Hon Hon?”

“Indeed.”

“You were there?”

“I had that dubious honour, yes. Duty.”

“You poor man. It might have been worth a black eye to get out of that.”

“I take it you haven't heard the news, then?”

“What news?”

“A policeman was killed at that peaceful little demonstration tonight. Not a local chap, but one of us, nonetheless.”

“Is that why Dennis is still at the station?”

“We're still questioning people, yes. It's serious, Jenny. I haven't seen Dennis Osmond, never even heard of him. But they won't let him go till they've got his statement, and we're not giving out any information to members of the public yet. It doesn't mean he's under suspicion or anything, just that he hasn't been questioned yet.”

“And then?”

“They'll let him go. If all's well you'll still have some of the night left together.”

Jenny lowered her head for a moment, then glared at him again. “You're being a bastard, you know,” she said. “I don't like being teased that way.”

“What do you want me to do?” Banks asked. “Why did you come?”

“I . . . I just wanted to find out what happened.”

“Are you sure you're not trying to get him special treatment?” Jenny sighed. “Alan, we're friends, aren't we?”

Banks nodded.

“Well,” she went on, “I know you can't help being a policeman, but if you don't know where your job ends and your friendships begin . . . Need I go on?”

Banks rubbed his bristly chin. “No. I'm sorry. It's been a rough night. But you still haven't answered my question.”

“I'd just hoped to get some idea of what might have happened to him, that's all. I got the impression that if I'd lingered a moment longer down at the station they'd have had me in for questioning, too. I didn't know about the death. I suppose that changes things?”

“Of course it does. It means we've got a cop killer on the loose. I'm sure it's nothing to do with your Dennis, but he'll have to answer the same questions as the rest. I can't say exactly how long he'll be. At least you know he's not in hospital. Plenty of people are.”

“I can't believe it, Alan. I can understand tempers getting frayed, fists flying, but not a killing. What happened?”

“He was stabbed. It was deliberate; there's no getting around that.” Jenny shook her head.

“Sorry I can't be any more help,” Banks said. “What was Dennis's involvement with the demo?”

“He was one of the organizers, along with the Students Union and those people from Maggie's Farm.”

“That place up near Relton?”

“That's it. The local women's group was involved, too.”

“WEEF? Dorothy Wycombe?”

Jenny nodded. Banks had come up against the Women of Eastvale for Emancipation and Freedom before—Dorothy Wycombe in particular—and it gave him a sinking feeling to realize that he might have to deal with them again.

“I still can't believe it,” Jenny went on. “Dennis told me time and time again that the last thing they wanted was a violent confrontation.”

“I don't suppose anybody wanted it, but these things have a way of getting out of hand. Look, why don't you go home? I'm sure he'll be
back soon. He won't be mistreated. We don't suddenly turn into vicious goons when things like this happen.”

“
You
might not,” said Jenny. “But I've heard how you close ranks.”

“Don't worry.”

Jenny finished her drink. “All right. I can see you're trying to get rid of me.”

“Not at all. Have another Scotch if you want.”

Jenny hesitated. “No,” she said finally. “I was only teasing. You're right. It's late. I'd better get back home.” She picked up her scarf. “It was good, though. The scotch. So rich you could chew it.”

Banks walked her to the door. “If there are any problems,” he said, “let me know. And I could do with your help, too. You seem to know a bit about what went on behind the scenes.”

Jenny nodded and fastened her scarf.

“Maybe you could come to dinner?” Banks suggested on impulse.

“Try my gourmet cooking?”

Jenny smiled and shook her head. “I don't think so.”

“Why not? It's not that bad. At least—”

“It's just . . . it wouldn't seem right with Sandra away, that's all. The neighbours . . .”

“Okay. We'll go out. How does the Royal Oak in Lyndgarth suit you?”

“It'll do fine,” Jenny said. “Give me a call.”

“I will.”

She pecked him on the cheek and he watched her walk down the path and get into her Metro. They waved to each other as she set off, then he closed his door on the wet, chilly night. He picked up the Scotch bottle and pulled the cork, thought for a moment, pushed it back and went upstairs to bed.

THREE

I

COP KILLED IN DALES DEATH-DEMO, screamed the tabloid headlines the next morning. As he glanced at them over coffee and a cigarette in his office, Banks wondered why the reporter hadn't gone the whole hog and spelled cop with a “k.”