Peter Robinson - A Necessary End

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Paul's not been here long," Mara said quickly.

"What's your last name?"

Paul said nothing.

"He doesn't have to say," Mara argued. "He's done nothing."

Seth shook his head. "Might as well tell him," he said to Paul. "He'll find out anyway."

"He's right, you know," Banks said.

"It's Boyd, Paul Boyd."

"Ever been in trouble, Paul?"

Paul smiled. It was either that or a scowl, Banks couldn't decide. "So what if I have? I'm not on probation or parole. I don't have to register at the local nick everywhere I go, do I?" He fished for a cigarette in a grubby ten-pack of Players. Banks noticed that his stubby fingers were trembling slightly.

"Just like to know who we've got living among us," Banks said pleasantly. He didn't need to pursue the matter. If Boyd had a record, the Police National Computer would provide all the information he wanted.

"So what's all this in aid of?" Rick said, leaning against the mantelpiece. "As if I need ask."

"You know what happened on Friday night. You were arrested for obstructing a police officer." Rick laughed. Banks ignored him and went on. "You also know that a policeman was killed at that demonstration."

"Are you saying you think one of us did it?"

Banks shook his head. "Come on," he said, "you know the rules as well as I do. A situation like this comes up, we check out all political groups."

"We're not political," Mara said.

Banks looked around the room. "Don't be so naive. Everything you have here, everything you say and do, makes a political statement. It doesn't matter whether or not any of you belong to an official party. You know that as well as I do. Besides, we've got to act on tips we get."

"What tip?" Rick asked. "Who's been talking?"

"Never mind that. We just heard you were involved, that's all." Burgess's trick seemed at least worth a try.

"So we were there," Rick said, "Seth and me. You already know that. We gave statements. We told you all we knew. Why come back pestering us now? What are you looking for?"

"Anything we can find."

"Look," Rick went on, "I still don't see why you're persecuting us. I can't imagine who's been telling you things or what they've been saying, but you're misinformed. Just because we employed our right to demonstrate for a cause we happen to believe in, it doesn't give you the right to come around with these Gestapo tactics and harass us."

"The Gestapo didn't need a search warrant."

Rick sneered and scratched his straggly beard. "With a JP like the one you've got in your pocket, I'd hardly consider that a valid argument."

"Besides," Banks went on, "we're not persecuting you or harassing you. Believe me, if we were, you'd know it. Do any of you remember anything else about Friday night?"

Seth and Rick shook their heads. Banks looked around at the others. "Come on, I'm assuming you were all there. Don't worry, I can't prove it. I'm not going to arrest you if you admit it. It's just that one of you might have seen something important. This is a murder investigation."

Still silence. Banks sighed. "Fine. Don't blame me if things do get rough. We've got a man up from London. A specialist. Dirty Dick, his friends call him. He's a hell of a lot nastier than I am."

"Is that some kind of threat?" Mara asked.

Banks shook his head. "I'm just letting you know your options, that's all."

"How can we tell you we saw something if we didn't?" Paul said angrily. "You say you know we were there. Okay. Maybe we were. I'm not saying we were, but maybe. That doesn't mean we saw anything or did anything wrong. It's like Rick says, we had a right to be there. It's not a fucking police state yet." He turned away sullenly and drew on his cigarette.

"Nobody's denying your right to be there," Banks said. "I just want to know if you saw anything that could help us solve this murder."

Silence.

"Does anyone here own a flick-knife?"

Rick said no and the others shook their heads.

"Ever seen one around? Know anyone who does have one?"

Again nothing. Banks thought he saw an expression of surprise flit across Mara's face, but it could have been a trick of the light.

In the following silence, Craig and McDonald came downstairs, shook their heads and went to search the outbuildings. Two small children walked in from the kitchen and hurried over to Mara, each taking a hand. Banks smiled at them, but they just stared at him, sucking their thumbs.

He tried to imagine Brian and Tracy, his own children, growing up under such conditions, isolated from other children. For one thing, there didn't seem to be a television in the place. Banks disapproved of TV in general, and he always tried to make sure that Brian and Tracy didn't watch too much, but if children saw none at all, they would have nothing to talk to their pals about. There had to be a compromise somewhere; you couldn't just ignore the blasted idiot-box in this day and age, much as you might wish you could.

On the other hand, these children certainly showed no signs of neglect, and there was no reason to assume that Rick and the rest weren't good parents. Seth Cotton, Banks knew, had a reputation as a fine carpenter, and Mara's pottery sold well locally. Sandra even had a piece, a shapely vase glazed in a mixture of shades: green, ultramarine and the like. He didn't know much about Rick Trelawney's paintings, but if the local landscape propped up by the fireplace was his, then he was good, too. No, he had no call to impose his own limited perspective on them. If the children grew up into creative, free-thinking adults, their minds unpolluted by TV and mass culture, what could be so wrong about that?

Apart from the sounds of the wind chimes, they sat in silence until Rick finally spoke. "Do you know," he said to Banks, "how many children come down with leukaemia and rare forms of cancer in areas around Sellafield and other nuclear-power stations? Do you have any idea?"

"Look," said Banks. "I'm not here to attack your views. You're entitled to them. I might even agree. The thing is, what happened on Friday night goes beyond all that. I'm not here to argue politics or philosophy; I'm investigating a murder. Why can't you get that into your heads?"

"Maybe they can't be as neatly separated as you think," Rick argued. "Politics, philosophy, murder — they're all connected. Look at Latin America, Israel, Nicaragua, South Africa. Besides, the police started it. They kept us penned in like animals, then they charged with their truncheons out, just like some Chilean goon squad. If some of them got hurt, too, they bloody well deserved it."

"One of them got killed. Is that all right?"

Rick turned away in disgust. "I never said I was a pacifist," he muttered, looking at Seth. "There'll be a local police inquiry," he went on, "and the whole thing'll be rigged. You can't expect us to believe there's going to be any objectivity about all this. When it comes to the crunch you bastards always stick together."

"Believe what you like," Banks said.

Craig and McDonald came back in through the kitchen. They'd found nothing. It was eleven o'clock. At twelve Banks was to meet Burgess, Hatchley and Richmond in the Queen's Arms to compare notes. There was nothing to be gained by staying to discuss nuclear ethics with Rick, so he stood up and walked over to the door.

As he held his jacket closed and pushed against the wind to the car, he felt someone staring at his back through the window. He knew he had sensed fear in the house. Not just fear of a police raid they'd been expecting, but something different. All was not as harmonious as it should have been. He filed away his uneasiness to be mulled over later along with the thousand other things — concrete or nebulous — that lodged themselves in his mind during an investigation.