Peter Robinson - A Necessary End

"Nothing," Burgess growled, grinding out his cigar viciously in the ashtray at the centre of the copper-topped table. "Absolutely bugger all. And that woman's crazy. I'll swear I thought she was going to bite me."

For the first time ever, Banks felt a sudden rush of affection for Dorothy Wycombe.

All in all, though, the morning had been disappointing for everyone. Not surprisingly, the searches had produced no murder weapon or documents attesting to the terrorist plot that Burgess suspected; none of the witnesses had changed their statements; and the reaction to Burgess's divide-and-conquer tactic had been negligible.

Sergeant Hatchley reported that the Church for Peace group seemed stunned by the murder and had even offered prayers for PC Gill in their service that morning.

The Students Union, according to DC Richmond, who had visited the leaders — Tim Fenton and Abha Sutton — at their flat, thought it typical of the others to blame them for what happened, but insisted that assassination was not part of their programme for a peaceful revolution. While Burgess thought Dorothy Wycombe quite capable of murder — especially of a member of the male species — she had stuck to her guns and ridiculed any such suggestion.

"So it's back to square one," Hatchley said. "A hundred suspects and not one scrap of evidence."

"I did find out from one of the lads on duty," said Richmond, "that Dorothy Wycombe, Dennis Osmond and some of the people from Maggie's Farm were close to the front at one time. But he said everything went haywire when the fighting started. He also said he noticed a punkish looking kid with them."

"That'd be Paul Boyd," Banks said. "He seems to live up at the farm, too. Run him through the computer, will you, Phil, and see what comes up. I wouldn't be surprised if he's done time. While you're at it, find out what you can about the lot of them up there. I've got a funny feeling that something's not quite right about that place."

He glanced at Burgess, who seemed to be staring abstractedly over at Glenys. Her husband was nowhere in sight.

"Maybe we should have a look into Gill's background," Banks suggested.

Burgess turned. "Why?"

"Someone might have had a reason for wanting him dead. We'll get nowhere on means and opportunity unless the knife turns up, but if we could find a motive—"

Burgess shook his head. "Not in a crime like this. Whether it was planned or spur-of-the-moment, the victim was random. It could have happened to any of the coppers on duty that night. It was just poor Gill's bad luck, that's all."

"But still," Banks insisted, "it's something we can do. Maybe the demo was just used as a cover."

"No. It'll look bad, for a start. What if the papers find out we're investigating one of our own? We've got enough trouble already with an enquiry into the whole bloody mess. That'd give the press enough ammo to take a few cheap shots at us without us making things easier for them. Jesus, there's enough weirdos and commies to investigate already without bringing a good copper into it. What about this Osmond character? Anyone talked to him yet?"

"No," said Banks. "Not since Friday night."

"Right, this is what we'll do. Get another round in, Constable, would you?" Burgess handed Richmond a fiver.

Richmond nodded and went to the bar. Burgess had switched from Double Diamond to double Scotch, claiming it was easier on his stomach, but Banks thought he was just trying to impress Glenys with his largesse. And now he was showing her he was too important to leave the conference and that he had the power to order others to do things for him. Good tactics, but would they work on her?

"You and I, Banks," he said, "will pay this Osmond fellow a visit this afternoon. DC Richmond can check up on those drop-outs you went to see and feed a few more names into the PNC. Sergeant Hatchley here can start making files on the leaders of the various groups involved. We want every statement cross-checked with the others for inaccuracies, and all further statements checked against the originals. Someone's going to slip up at some point, and we're going to catch the bugger at it. Bottoms up." He drank his Scotch and turned to wink at Glenys. "By the way," he said to Banks, "that bloody office you gave me isn't big enough to swing a dead cat in. Any chance of another?"

Banks shook his head. "Sorry, we're pushed for space. It's either that or the cells."

"What about yours?"

"Too small for two."

"I was meaning for one. Me."

"Forget it. I've got all my files and records in there. Besides, it's cold and the blind doesn't work."

"Hmmm. Still…"

"You could do most of the paperwork in your hotel room," Banks suggested. "It's close enough, big enough, and there's a phone." And you'll be out of my way, too, he thought.

Burgess nodded slowly. "All right. It'll do for now. Come on!" He jumped into action and clapped Banks on the back. "Let's see if anything's turned up at the station first, then we'll set off and have a chat with Mr Dennis Osmond, CND."

Nothing had turned up, and as soon as Richmond had located Paul Boyd's record and Banks had had a quick look at it, the pair set off for Osmond's flat in Banks's white Cortina.

"Tell me about this Boyd character," Burgess asked as Banks drove.

"Nasty piece of work." Banks slipped a Billie Holiday cassette in the stereo and turned the volume down low. "He started as a juvenile-gang fights, assault, that kind of thing — skipping school and hanging around the streets with the rest of the dead-beats. He's been nicked four times, and he drew eighteen months on the last one. First it was drunk and disorderly, underage, then assaulting a police officer trying to disperse a bunch of punks frightening shoppers in Liverpool city centre. After that it was a drugs charge, possession of a small amount of amphetamines. Then he got nicked breaking into a chemist's to steal pills. He's been clean for just over a year now."

Burgess rubbed his chin. "Everything short of soccer hooliganism, eh? Maybe he's not the sporting type. Assaulting a police officer, you say?"

"Yes. Him and a couple of others. They didn't do any real damage, so they got off lightly."

"That's the bloody trouble," Burgess said. "Most of them do. Any political connections?"

"None that we know of so far. Richmond hasn't been onto the Branch yet, so we haven't been able to check on his friends and acquaintances."

"Anything else?"

"Not really. Most of his probation officers and social workers seemed to give up on him."

"My heart bleeds for the poor bastard. It looks like we've got a likely candidate. This Osmond is a social worker, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"Maybe he'll know something about the kid. Let's remember to ask him. Where's Boyd from?"

"Liverpool."

"Any IRA connections?"

"Not as far as we know."

"Still.. "

Dennis Osmond lived in a one-bedroom flat in northeast Eastvale. It had originally been council-owned, but the tenants had seized their chance and bought their units cheaply when the government started selling them off.

A shirtless Osmond answered the door and led Banks and Burgess inside. He was tall and slim with a hairy chest and a small tattoo of a butterfly on his upper right arm. He wore a gold crucifix on a chain around his neck. With his shaggy dark hair and Mediterranean good looks, he looked the kind of man who would be attractive to women. He moved slowly and calmly, and didn't seem at all surprised by their arrival.

The flat had a spacious living-room with a large plate-glass window that overlooked the fertile plain to the east of Swainsdale: a checkerboard of ploughed fields, bordered by hedgerows, rich brown, ready for spring. The furniture was modern — tubes and cushions — and a large framed painting hung on the wall over the fake fireplace. Banks had to look very closely to make sure the canvas wasn't blank; it was scored with faint red and black lines.