Peter Robinson - A Necessary End

"Who is it?" A woman's voice came from behind them. Banks turned and saw Jenny Fuller poking her head around a door. From what he could tell, she was wearing a loose dressing-gown, and her hair was in disarray. His eyes caught hers and he felt his stomach tense up and his chest tighten. Meeting her in a situation like this was something he hadn't expected. He was surprised how hard it hit.

"Police," Osmond said. But Jenny had already turned back and shut the door behind her. Burgess, who had watched all this, made no comment. "Can we sit down?" he asked.

"Go ahead." Osmond gestured to the armchairs and pulled a black T-shirt over his head while they made themselves as comfortable as possible. The decal on the front showed the CND symbol — a circle with a wide — spread, inverted Y inside it, each branch touching the circumference — with NO NUKES written in a crescent under it.

Banks fumbled for a cigarette and looked around for an ashtray.

"I'd rather you didn't," Osmond said. "Secondhand smoke can kill, you know." He paused and looked Banks over. "So you're Chief Inspector Banks, are you? I've heard a lot about you."

"Hope it was good," Banks said, with more equilibrium than he felt. What had Jenny been telling him? "It'll save us time getting acquainted, won't it?"

"And you're the whiz-kid they sent up from London," Osmond said to Burgess.

"My, my. How word travels." Dirty Dick smiled. He had the kind of smile that made most people feel nervous, but it seemed to have no effect on Osmond. As Banks settled into the chair, he could picture Jenny dressing in the other room.

It was probably the bedroom, he thought gloomily, and the double bed would be rumpled and stained, the Sunday Times review section spread out over the creased sheets. He took out his notebook and settled down as best he could for the interrogation.

"What do you want?" Osmond asked, perching at the edge of the sofa and leaning forward.

"I hear you were one of the organizers of Friday's demonstration," Burgess opened.

"So what if I was?"

"And you're a member of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament and the International Socialists, if I'm not mistaken."

"I'm in Amnesty International, as well, in case you don't have that in your file. And as far as I'm aware it's not a crime yet."

"Don't be so touchy."

"Look, can you get to the point? I haven't got all day."

"Oh yes, you have," Burgess said. "And you've got all night, too, if I want it like that."

"You've no right—"

"I've every right. One of your lot — maybe even you — killed a good, honest copper on Friday night, and we don't like that; we don't like it at all. I'm sorry if we're keeping you from your fancy woman, but that's the way it is. Whose idea was it?"

Osmond frowned. "Whose idea was what? And I don't like you calling Jenny names like that."

"You don't?" Burgess narrowed his eyes. "There'll be a lot worse names than that flying around, sonny, if you don't start to co-operate. Whose idea was the demonstration?"

"I don't know. It just sort of came together."

Burgess sighed. "'It just sort of came together,'" he repeated mockingly, looking at Banks. "Now what's that supposed to mean? Men and women come together, if they're lucky, but not political demonstrations — they're planned. What are you trying to tell me?"

"Exactly what I said. There are plenty of people around here opposed to nuclear arms, you know."

"Are you telling me that you all just happened to meet outside the Community Centre that night? Is that what you're trying to say? 'Hello, Fred, fancy meeting you here. Let's have a demo.' Is that what you're saying?"

Osmond shrugged.

"Well, balls is what I say, Osmond. Balls to that. This was an organized demonstration, and that means somebody organized it. That somebody might have also arranged for a little killing to spice things up a bit. Now, so far the only somebody we know about for sure is you. Maybe you did it all by yourself, but I'm betting you had some help. Whose tune do you dance to, Mr Osmond? Moscow's? Peking's? Or is it Belfast?"

Osmond laughed. "You've got your politics a bit mixed up, haven't you? A socialist is hardly the same as a Maoist. Besides, the Chairman's out of favour these days. And as for the IRA, you can't seriously believe—"

"I seriously believe a lot of things that might surprise you," Burgess cut in.

"And you can spare me the fucking lecture. Who gave you your orders?"

"You're wrong," Osmond said. "It wasn't like that at all. And even if there was somebody else involved, do you think I'm going to tell you who it was?"

"Yes, I do," Burgess said. "There's nothing more certain. The only question is when you're going to tell me, and where."

"Look," Banks said, "we'll find out anyway. There's no need to take it on yourself to carry the burden and get done for withholding information in a murder investigation. If you didn't do it and you don't think your mates did, either, then you've nothing to worry about, have you?" Banks found it easy to play the nice guy to Burgess's heavy, even though he felt a strong, instinctive dislike for Osmond. When he questioned suspects with Sergeant Hatchley, the two of them switched roles. But Burgess only had one method of approach: head on.

"Listen to him," Burgess said. "He's right."

"Why don't you find out from someone else, then?" Osmond said to Banks. "I'm damned if I'm telling you anything."

"Do you own a flick-knife?" Burgess asked.

"No."

"Have you ever owned one?"

"No."

"Know anybody who does?"

Osmond shook his head.

"Did you know PC Gill?" Banks asked. "Had you any contact with him before last Friday?"

Osmond looked puzzled by the question, and when he finally answered no, it didn't ring true. Or maybe he was just thrown off balance. Burgess didn't seem to notice anything, but Banks made a mental note to check into the possibility that Osmond and Gill had somehow come into contact.

The bedroom door opened and Jenny walked out. She'd brushed her hair and put on a pair of jeans and an oversized plaid shirt. Banks bet it belonged to Osmond and tried not to think about what had been going on earlier in the bedroom.

"Hello, love," Burgess said, patting an empty chair beside him. "Come to join us? What's your name?"

"In the first place," Jenny said stiffly, "I'm not 'love,' and in the second, I don't see as my name's any of your damn business. I wasn't even there on Friday."

"As you like," Burgess said. "Just trying to be friendly."

Jenny glanced at Banks as if to ask, "Who is this bastard?" and Burgess caught the exchange.

"Do you two know each other?" he asked.

Banks cursed inwardly and felt himself turning red. There was no way out. "This is Dr Fuller," he said. "She helped us on a case here a year or so back."

Burgess beamed at Jenny. "I see. Well, maybe you can help us again, Dr Fuller. Your boy-friend here doesn't want to talk to us, but if you've helped the police before—"

"Leave her alone," Osmond said. "She had nothing to do with it." Banks had felt the same thing — he didn't want Burgess getting his claws into Jenny — and he resented Osmond for being able to defend her.

"Very prickly today, aren't we?" Burgess said. "All right, sonny, we'll get back to you, if that's the way you want it." But he kept looking at Jenny, and Banks knew he was filing her away for future use. Banks now found it hard to look her in the eye himself. He was only a chief inspector and Burgess was a superintendent. When things were going his way, Burgess wouldn't pull rank, but if Banks let any of his special feeling for Jenny show, or tried in any way to protect her, then Burgess would certainly want to humiliate him. Besides, she had her knight in shining armour in the form of Osmond. Let him take the flack.