A Necessary End (6 page)

He put the paper aside and walked over to the window. The market square looked dreary and desolate in the grey March light, and Banks fancied he could detect a shell-shocked atmosphere hovering around the place. Shoppers shuffled along with their heads hung low and glanced covertly at the site of the demonstration as they passed, as if they expected to see armed guards wearing gas masks, and tear-gas drifting in the air. North Market Street was still roped off. The four officers sent from York had arrived at about four in the morning to help the local men search the area, but they had found no murder weapon. Now, they were trying again in what daylight there was.

Banks looked at the calendar on his wall. It was March 17, St Patrick's Day. The illustration showed the ruins of St Mary's Abbey in York. Judging by the sunshine and the happy tourists, it had probably been taken in July. On the real March 17, his small space-heater coughed and hiccupped as it struggled to take the chill out of the air.

He turned back to the newspapers. The accounts varied a great deal. According to the left-wing press, the police had brutally attacked a peaceful crowd without provocation; the right-wing papers, however, maintained that a mob of unruly demonstrators had provoked the police into retaliation by throwing bottles and stones. In the more moderate newspapers, nobody seemed to know exactly
what had happened, but the whole affair was said to be extremely unfortunate and regrettable.

At eight-thirty, Superintendent Gristhorpe, who had been up most of the night interviewing demonstrators and supervising the search, called Banks in. Banks stubbed out his cigarette—the super didn't approve of smoking—and wandered into the book-lined office. The shaded table-lamp on Gristhorpe's huge teak desk cast its warm glow on a foot-thick pile of statements.

“I've been talking to the Assistant Chief Constable,” Gristhorpe said. “He's been on the phone to London and they're sending a man up this morning. I'm to cover the preliminary inquiry into the demo for the Police Complaints Authority.” He rubbed his eyes. “Of course, someone'll no doubt accuse me of being biased and scrap the whole thing, but they want to be seen to be acting quickly.”

“This man they're sending,” Banks asked, “what's he going to do?”

“Handle the murder investigation. You'll be working with him, along with Hatchley and Richmond.”

“Do you know who he is?”

Gristhorpe searched for the scrap of paper on his desk. “Yes . . . let me see. . . . It's a Superintendent Burgess. He's attached to a squad dealing with politically sensitive crimes. Not exactly Special Branch, but not quite your regular CID, either. I'm not even sure we're allowed to know
what
he is. Some sort of political trouble-shooter, I suppose.”

“Is that Superintendent Richard Burgess?” Banks asked.

“Yes. Why? Know him?”

“Bloody hell.”

“Alan, you've gone pale. What's up?”

“Yes, I know him,” Banks said. “Not well, but I worked with him a couple of times in London. He's about my age, but he's always been a step ahead.”

“Ambitious?”

“Very. But it's not his ambition I mind so much,” Banks went on. “He's slightly to the right of . . . Well, you name him and Burgess is to the right.”

“Is he good, though?”

“He gets results.”

“Isn't that what we need?”

“I suppose so. But he's a real bastard to work with.”

“How?”

“Oh, he plays his cards close to his chest. Doesn't let the right hand know what the left hand's doing. He takes short cuts. People get hurt.”

“You make him sound like he doesn't even have a left hand,” Gristhorpe said.

Banks smiled. “We used to call him Dirty Dick Burgess.”

“Why?”

“You'll find out. It's nothing to do with his sexual activities, I can tell you that. Though he did have a reputation as a fairly active stud-about-town.”

“Anyway,” Gristhorpe said, “he should be here around midday. He's taking the early Intercity to York. There's too long a wait between connections, so I'm sending Craig to meet him at the station there.”

“Lucky Craig.”

Gristhorpe frowned. Banks noticed the bags under his eyes. “Yes, well, make the best of it, Alan. If Superintendent Burgess steps out of line, I won't be far away. It's still our patch. By the way, Honoria Winstanley called before she left—at least one of her escorts did. Said all's well, apologized for his brusqueness last night and thanked you for handling things so smoothly.”

“Wonders never cease.”

“I've booked Burgess into the Castle Hotel on York Road. It's not quite as fancy or expensive as the Riverview, but then Burgess isn't an MP, is he?”

Banks nodded. “What about office space?”

“We're putting him in an interview room for the time being. At least there's a desk and a chair.”

“He'll probably complain. People like Burgess get finicky about offices and titles.”

“Let him,” Gristhorpe said, gesturing around the room. “He's not getting this place.”

“Any news from the hospital?”

“Nothing serious. Most of the injured have been sent home. Susan Gay's on sick-leave for the rest of the week.”

“When you were going through the statements,” Banks asked, “did you come across anything on a chap called Dennis Osmond?”

“The name rings a bell. Let me have a look.” Gristhorpe leafed through the pile. “Yes, I thought so. Interviewed him myself. One of the last. Why?”

Banks explained about Jenny's visit.

“I took his statement and sent him home.” Gristhorpe read through the sheet. “That's him. Belligerent young devil. Threatened to bring charges against the police, start an enquiry of his own. Hadn't seen anything, though. Or at least he didn't admit to it. According to records he's a CND member, active in the local anti-nuclear group. Amnesty International, too—and you know what Mrs Thatcher thinks of
them
these days. He's got connections with various other groups as well, including the International Socialists. I should imagine Superintendent Burgess will certainly want to talk to him.”

“Hmmm.” Banks wondered how Jenny would take that. Knowing both her and Burgess as he did, he could guarantee sparks would fly. “Did anything turn up in the statements?”

“Nobody witnessed the stabbing. Three people said they thought they glimpsed a knife on the road during the scuffles. It must have got kicked about quite a bit. Nothing I've heard so far brings order out of chaos. The poor lighting didn't help, either. You know how badly that street is lit. Dorothy Wycombe's been pestering us about it for weeks. I keep putting her onto the council, but to no avail. She says it's an invitation to rape, especially with all those unlit side alleys, but the council says the gaslamps are good for the tourist business. Anyway, PC Gill was found just at the bottom of the Community Centre steps, for what that's worth. Maybe if we can find out the names of the people on the front line we'll get somewhere.”

Banks went on to tell Gristhorpe what he'd discovered from Jenny about the other organizers.

“The Church for Peace group was involved, too,” Gristhorpe added. “Did I hear you mention Maggie's Farm, that place near Relton?”

Banks nodded.

“Didn't we have some trouble with them a year or so ago?”

“Yes,” Banks said. “But it was a storm in a teacup. They seemed a harmless enough bunch to me.”

“What was it? A drug raid?”

“That's right. Nothing turned up, though. They must have had the foresight to hide it, if they had anything. We were acting on a tip from some hospital social workers. I think they were over-reacting.”

“Anyway,” Gristhorpe said, “that's about it. The rest of the people we picked up were just private citizens who were there because they feel strongly about nuclear power, or about government policy in general.”

“So what do we do now?”

“You'd better look over these statements,” Gristhorpe said, shoving the tower of paper towards Banks, “and wait for the great man. Sergeant Hatchley's still questioning those people in the flats overlooking the Street. Not that there's much chance of anything there. They can't have seen more than a sea of heads. If only the bloody TV cameras had been there we'd have had it on video. Those buggers in the media are never around when you need them.”

“Like policemen,” Banks said with a grin.

The phone rang. Gristhorpe picked it up, listened to the message and turned back to Banks. “Sergeant Rowe says Dr Glendenning's on his way up. He's finished his preliminary examination. I think you'd better stay for this.”

Banks smiled. “It's a rare honour indeed, the good doctor setting foot in here. I didn't know he paid house-calls.”

“I heard that,” said a gruff voice with a distinct Edinburgh accent behind him. “I hope it wasn't meant to be sarcastic.”

The tall, white-haired doctor looked down sternly at Banks, blue eyes twinkling. His moustache was stained yellow with nicotine, and a cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. He was wheezing after climbing the stairs.

“There's no smoking in here,” Gristhorpe said. “You ought to know better; you're a doctor.”

Glendenning grunted. “Then I'll go elsewhere.”

“Come to my office,” Banks said. “I could do with a fag myself.”

“Fine, laddie. Lead the way.”

“Bloody traitor.” Gristhorpe sighed and followed them.

After they'd got coffee and an extra chair, the doctor began. “To put it in layman's terms,” he said, “PC Gill was stabbed. The knife
entered under the rib-cage and did enough damage to cause death from internal bleeding. The blade was at least five inches long, and it looks like it went in to the hilt. It was a single-edged blade with a very sharp point. Judging by the wound, I'd say it was some kind of flick-knife.”

“Flick-knife?” echoed Banks.

“Aye, laddie. You know what a flick-knife is, don't you? They come in all shapes and sizes. Illegal here, of course, but easy enough to pick up on the continent. The cutting edge was extremely sharp, as was the point.”

“What about blood?” Gristhorpe asked. “Nobody conveniently covered in Gill's type, I suppose?”

Dr Glendenning lit another Senior Service and shook his head. “No. I've checked the tests. And I'd have been very surprised if there had been,” he said. “What most people don't realize is that unless you open a major vein or artery—the carotid or the jugular, for example—there's often very little external bleeding with knife wounds. I'd say in this case that there was hardly any, and what there was would've been mostly absorbed by the man's clothing. The slit closes behind the blade, you see—especially a thin one—and most of the bleeding is internal.”

“Can you tell if it was a professional job?” Gristhorpe asked.

“I wouldn't care to speculate. It could have been, but it could just as easily have been a lucky strike. It was a right-handed up-thrust wound. With a blow like that on a dark night, I doubt that anybody would have noticed, unless they saw the blade flash, and there's not enough light for that on North Market Street. It would have looked more like a punch to the solar plexus than anything else, and from what I hear, there was plenty of that going on. Now if he'd raised his hand above his head and thrust downwards . . .”

“People aren't usually so obliging,” Banks said.

“If we take into account the kind of knife used,” Gristhorpe speculated, “it could easily have been a spontaneous act. Pros don't usually use flick-knives—they're street weapons.”

“Aye, well,” said Glendenning, standing to leave, “that's for you fellows to work out. I'll let you know if I find anything more at the post-mortem.”

“Who identified the body?” Banks asked him.

“Sister. Pretty upset about it, too. A couple of your lads did the paperwork. Luckily, Gill didn't have a wife and kids.” A quarter inch of ash fell onto the linoleum. Glendenning shook his head slowly. “Nasty business all round. Be seeing you.”

When the doctor had left, Gristhorpe stood up and flapped his hand theatrically in front of his face. “Filthy bloody habit. I'm off back to my office where the air's clean. Does this Burgess fellow smoke, too?”

Banks smiled. “Cigars, if I remember right.”

Gristhorpe swore.

II

Over the valley from Maggie's Farm, mist clung to the hillsides and limestone scars, draining them of all colour. Soon after breakfast, Seth disappeared into his workshop to finish restoring Jack Lippett's Welsh dresser; Rick did some shopping in Helmthorpe, then went to his studio in the converted barn to daub away at his latest painting; Zoe busied herself in her flat with Elsie Goodbody's natal chart and Paul went for a long walk on the moors.

In the living-room, Mara kept an eye on Luna and Julian while she mended the tears in Seth's jacket. The children were playing with Lego bricks and she often glanced over, awed by the look of pure concentration on their faces as they built. Occasionally, an argument would break out, and Julian would complain that the slightly younger Luna wasn't doing things right. Then Luna would accuse him of being bossy. Mara would step in and give them her advice, healing the rift temporarily.

There was nothing to worry about really, Mara told herself as she sewed, but after what Seth and Rick had said about the dead policeman, she knew they could expect to come under close scrutiny. After all, they were different. While not political in the sense of belonging to any party, they certainly believed in protection of the environment. They had even allowed their house to be used as a base for planning the demo. It would only be a matter of time before the
knock at the door. There was something else bothering Mara, too, hovering at the back of her mind, but she couldn't quite figure out what it was.