Peter Robinson - A Necessary End

It was early Tuesday afternoon. Banks had spent the morning reading over the records Richmond had managed to gather on Osmond and the Maggie's Farm crowd. There wasn't much. Seth Cotton had once been arrested for carrying an offensive weapon (a bicycle chain) at a modsandrockers debacle in Brighton in the early sixties. After that, he had one marijuana bust to his credit — only a quid deal, nothing serious — for which he had been fined. Rick Trelawney had been in trouble only once, in St Ives, Cornwall. A tourist had taken exception to his drunken pronouncements on the perfidy of collecting art, and a rowdy argument turned into a punch-up. It had taken three men to drag Rick off, and the tourist had ended up with a broken jaw and one permanently deaf ear.

The only other skeleton in Rick's cupboard was the wife from whom he had recently separated. She was an alcoholic, which made it easy enough for Rick to get custody of Julian. But she was now staying with her sister in London while undergoing treatment, and there was a legal battle brewing. Things had got so bad at one point that Rick had applied for a court order to prevent her from coming near their son.

There was nothing on Zoe, but Richmond had checked the birth registry and discovered that the father of her child, Luna, was one Lyle Greenberg, an American student who had since returned to his home in Eau Claire, Wisconsin.

On Mara there was even less. Immigration identified her as Moira Delacey, originally from Dublin. With her parents, she had come to England at the age of six, and they had settled in Manchester. No known Republican connections.

Most interesting and disturbing of all was Dennis Osmond's criminal record. In addition to arrests for his part in anti-government demonstrations — with charges ranging from breach of the peace to theft of a police officer's helmet — he had also been accused of assault by a live — in girlfriend called Ellen Ventner four years ago. At the woman's insistence, the charges had later been dropped, but Ventner's injuries — two broken ribs, a broken nose, three teeth knocked out and concussion — had been clearly documented by the hospital, and Osmond came out of the affair looking far from clean. Banks wasn't sure whether to bring up the subject when he met Jenny for dinner that evening. He wondered if she already knew. If she didn't she might not take kindly to his interference. Somehow, he doubted that Osmond had told her.

They were still waiting for the information from Special Branch, who had files on Osmond, Tim Fenton, the student leader, and five others known to have been at the demo. Apparently, the Branch needed Burgess's personal access code, password, voice-print and genetic fingerprint, or some equally ludicrous sequence of identification. Banks didn't expect much from them, anyway. In his own experience, Special Branch kept files on everyone who had ever bought a copy of Socialist Weekly.

Today, while Banks and Richmond were attending Gill's funeral, Burgess was taking Sergeant Hatchley to do the rounds again. They intended to revisit Osmond, Dorothy Wycombe, Tim Fenton and Maggie's Farm. Banks wanted to talk to the students himself, so he decided to call on them when he got back that evening — if Burgess hadn't alienated them beyond all communication by then. Burgess had been practically salivating at the prospect of more interrogations, and even Hatchley had seemed more excited about work than usual. Perhaps it was the chance to work with a superstar that thrilled him, Banks thought. The sergeant had always found "The Sweeney" much more interesting than the real thing. Or maybe he was going to suck up to Dirty Dick in the hope of being chosen for some special Scotland Yard squad. And the devil of it was, perhaps he would be, too.

Banks had mixed feelings about that possibility. He had got used to Sergeant Hatchley sooner than he'd expected to, and they had worked quite well together.

But Banks had no real feeling for him. He couldn't even bring himself to call Hatchley by his first name, Jim.

In Banks's mind, Hatchley was a sergeant and always would be. He didn't have that extra keen edge needed to make inspector. Phil Richmond did, but unfortunately there wasn't anywhere for him to move up to locally unless Hatchley was promoted, too. Superintendent Gristhorpe wouldn't have that, and Banks didn't blame him. If Burgess liked Hatchley enough to suggest a job in London, that would solve all their problems. Richmond had already passed his sergeant's exams — the first stage on the long road to promotion — and perhaps PC Susan Gay, who had shown remarkable aptitude for detective work, could be transferred in from the uniformed branch as a new detective constable. PC Craig would be opposed, of course. He still called policewomen "wopsies," even though the gender-specific designation, WPC, had been dropped in favour of the neutral PC as far back as 1975. But that was Craig's problem; Hatchley was everyone's cross to bear.

Finally, the glossy black cars set off. Banks and Richmond followed them through the dull, deserted streets of Scarborough to the reception. There was nowhere quite as gloomy as a coastal resort in the off-season. If it hadn't been for the vague whiff of sea and fish in the air, nobody would have guessed they were at the seaside.

"Fancy a walk on the prom after lunch?" Banks asked.

Richmond sniffed. "Hardly the weather for that, is it?"

"Bracing, I'd say."

"Maybe I'll wait for you in a nice cosy pub, if you don't mind, sir."

Banks smiled. "And put your notes in order?" He knew how fussy Richmond was about notes and reports.

"I'll have to, won't I? It'll not stick in my memory that long."

On the way to Scarborough, Banks had put forward his theory about Gill's murder not being quite what it seemed. While Richmond had expressed reservations, he had agreed that it was at least worth pursuing. They had decided to chat up Gill's colleagues at the reception and see what they could pick up about the man. Burgess, of course, was to know nothing about this. Richmond had argued that even if there was something odd about Gill, none of his mates would say so at his funeral. Banks disagreed. He thought funerals worked wonders on the conscience. The phony platitudes often stuck in people's craws and made them want to tell someone the truth. After all, it wasn't as if they were trying to prove corruption or anything like that against Gill; they just wanted to know what kind of man he was and whether he might have made enemies.

The procession pulled into the car park of the Crown and Anchor, where a buffet had been arranged in the banquet room, and the guests hurried through a heavy shower to the front doors.

"Bloody hell! What stone did you crawl out from under?" Burgess said when Paul Boyd walked into the front room to see what was going on. Paul scowled. "Piss off."

Burgess strode forward and clipped him around the ear. Paul flinched and stumbled back. "Less of your cheek, sonny," Burgess said. "Show a bit of respect for your elders and betters."

"Why should I? You didn't show any fucking respect for me, did you?"

"Respect? For you?" Burgess narrowed his eyes. "What makes you think you deserve any respect? You're an ugly little pillock with a record as long as my arm. And that includes assaulting a police officer. And while we're at it, mind your tongue. There's ladies present. At least, I think there are."

Mara felt cold as Burgess ran his eyes up and down her body. Burgess turned back to Paul, who stood in the doorway holding his hand to his ear. "Come on, who put you up to it?"

"Up to what?"

"Killing a police officer."

"I never. I wasn't even there."

"It's true, he wasn't," Mara burst out. "He was here with me all evening. Somebody had to stay home and look after the children."