Peter Robinson: A Necessary End

"It's possible, I suppose."

"But unlikely?"

"In Eastvale, yes. I told you, most of the people involved were fairly harmless; even the groups they belonged to have never been violent before."

"But you don't have everyone's name."

"No."

"Then that's something to work on. Sweat the ones you've got and get a full list."

"DC Richmond's working on it," Banks said, though he could hardly see Philip Richmond sweating anyone.

"Good." Burgess gestured to the barmaid. "Another two pints, Gladys, love," he called out.

"It's Glenys," she said, then she blushed and lowered her head to keep an eye on the pint she was pulling.

"Sorry, love, I'm still train-lagged. Have one for yourself, too, Glenys."

"Thank you very much." Glenys smiled shyly at him and took the money for a gin and tonic. "I'll have it later when we're not so busy, if you don't mind."

"As you will." Burgess treated her to a broad smile and winked. "Where were we?" he asked, returning to Banks.

"Names."

"Yes. You must have a list of local reds and what not? You know the kind I mean — anarchists, skinheads, bum-punchers, women's libbers, uppity niggers."

"Of course. We keep it on the back of a postage stamp."

"You mentioned three organizations earlier. What's WEEF?"

"Women of Eastvale for Emancipation and Freedom."

"Oh, very impressive. Touch of the Greenham Common women, eh?"

"Not really. They mostly stick to local issues like poor streetlighting and sexual discrimination in jobs."

"Still," Burgess said, "it's a start. Get your man — Richmond, is it? — to liaise with Special Branch on this. They've got extensive files on Bolshies everywhere. He can do it through the computer, if you've got one up here."

"We've got one."

"Good. Tell him to see me about access." Their food arrived, and Burgess poured salt and vinegar on his fish and chips. "We can set them against each other, for openers," he said. "Simple divide-and-conquer tactics. We tell those WEEF people that the Students Union has fingered them for the murder, and vice versa. That way if anyone does know anything they'll likely tell us out of anger at being dropped right in it. We need results, and we need them quick. This business can give us a chance to look good for once. We're always looking like the bad guys these days-especially since that bloody miners' strike. We need some good press for a change, and here's our chance. A copper's been killed — that gets us plenty of public sympathy for a start. If we can come up with some pinko terrorist we've got it made."

"I don't think setting the groups against each other will get us anywhere," Banks said. "They're just not that aggressive."

"Don't be so bloody negative, man. Remember, somebody knows who did it, even if it's only the killer. Ill get myself acclimatized this afternoon, and tomorrow" — Burgess clapped his hands and showered his plate with ash — "well swoop into action." He had a nasty habit of sitting or standing motionless for ages, then making a sudden jerky movement. Banks remembered how disconcerting it was from their previous meetings.

"Action?"

"Raids, visits, call them what you will. We're looking for documents, letters, anything that might give us a clue to what happened. Any trouble getting warrants up here?"

Banks shook his head.

Burgess speared a chip. "Nothing like a Sunday morning for a nice little raid, I always say. People have funny ideas about Sundays, you know. Especially churchy types. They're all comfortable and complacent after a nice little natter with the Almighty, and then they get pissed off as hell if something interrupts their routine. Best day for raids and interrogations, believe me. Just wait till they get their feet up with the Sunday papers. You mentioned some drop-outs at a farm earlier, didn't you?"

"They're not drop-outs," Banks said. "They just try to be self-sufficient, keep to themselves. They call the place Maggie's Farm," he added. "It's the title of an old Bob Dylan song. I suppose it's a joke about Thatcher, too."

Burgess grinned. "At least they've got a sense of humour. They'll bloody need it before we're through. We'll pay them a visit, keep them on their toes. Bound to be drugs around, if nothing else. How about dividing up the raids? Any suggestions?"

Banks had no desire to tangle with Dorothy Wycombe again, and sending Sergeant Hatchley to WEEF headquarters would be like sending a bull into a china shop, as would sending Burgess up to Maggie's Farm. On the other hand, he thought, meeting Ms Wycombe might do Dirty Dick some good.

"I'll take the farm," he said. "Let Hatchley do the church group, Richmond the students, and you can handle WEEF. We can take a couple of uniformed men to do the searches while we ask the questions."

Burgess's eyes narrowed suspiciously, then he smiled and said, "Right, we're on."

He knows I'm setting him up, Banks thought, but he's willing to go along anyway. Cocky bastard.

Burgess washed down the last of his plaice and chips. "I'd like to stay for another," he said, "and feast my eyes more on the lovely Glenys, but duty calls. Let's hope we'll have plenty of reason to celebrate tomorrow lunch-time. Why don't you catch up on a bit of paperwork this afternoon? There's not a lot we can do yet. And maybe this evening you can show me some of these quaint village pubs I've read about in the tourist brochures?"

The prospect of a pub crawl with Dirty Dick Burgess, following hot on the heels of an evening with the Hon Honoria Winstanley, appealed to Banks about as much as a slap in the face with a wet fish, but he agreed politely. It was a job, after all, and Burgess was his senior officer. They'd be working together for a few days, probably, and it would do no harm to get on as good terms as possible. Make the best of it, Gristhorpe had said. And Banks did have a vague recollection that Burgess wasn't such bad company after a few jars.

Burgess slid off his chair and strode towards the door. "Bye, Glenys, love," he called out over his shoulder as he left. Banks noticed Cyril scowl and tighten his grip on the pump he was pulling. Banks pushed his empty plate aside and lit a Silk Cut. He felt exhausted. Just listening to Burgess reminded him of everything he had hated about his days on the Met. But Burgess was right, of course: they were looking into a political murder, and the first logical step was to check out local activist groups.

It was the obvious relish with which the superintendent contemplated the task that irked Banks and reminded him so much of his London days. And he remembered Burgess's interrogation technique, probably learned from the Spanish Inquisition. There were hard times ahead for a few innocent people who simply happened to believe in nuclear disarmament and the future of the human race. Burgess was like a pit-bull terrier; he wouldn't let go until he got what he wanted.

Oh, for a nice English village murder, Banks wished, just like the ones in books: a closed group of five or six suspects, a dodgy will, and no hurry to solve the puzzle. No such luck. He drained his pint, stubbed out the cigarette and went back across the street to read more statements.

Mara sipped at her half of mild without really tasting it. She couldn't seem to relax and enjoy the company as usual. Seth sat at the bar chatting with Larry Grafton about some old furniture the landlord had inherited from his great-grandmother, and Rick and Zoe were arguing about astrology. By the window, the children sat colouring quietly. What did it mean? Mara wondered. When she had tackled Paul about the blood on his hand the previous evening, he had gone into the kitchen and put on a plaster without showing her the cut. Now, it turned out, there was no cut. So whose blood had it been?