Peter Robinson - A Necessary End

"Did you see anything?" Banks asked first.

"No, we couldn't," Tim answered. "We were right in the thick of the crowd. One of the cops shouted something and that was that. When things went haywire we were too busy trying to protect ourselves to see what was happening to anyone else."

"You were involved in organizing the demo, right?"

"Yes. But that doesn't mean—"

Banks held up his hand. "I know," he said. "And that's not what I'm implying. Did you get the impression that anyone involved — anyone at all — might have had more on his mind than just protesting Honoria Winstanley's visit?"

They both shook their heads. "When we got together up at the farm," Abha

explained, "everyone was just so excited that we could organize a demo in a place as conservative as Eastvale. I know there weren't many people there, but it seemed like a lot to us."

"The farm?"

"Yes. Maggie's Farm. Do you know it?"

Banks nodded.

"They invited us up to make posters and stuff," Tim said. "Friday afternoon. They're really great up there; they've really got it together. I mean, Seth and Mara, they're like the old independent craftsmen, doing their own thing, making it outside the system. And Rick's a pretty sharp Marxist."

"I thought he was an artist."

"He is," Tim said, looking offended. "But he tries not to paint anything commercial. He's against art as a saleable commodity."

So that pretty water-colour Banks had noticed propped by the fireplace at Maggie's Farm couldn't have been one of Rick's.

"What about Paul Boyd?"

"We don't know him well," Abha said. "And he didn't say much. One of the oppressed, I suppose."

"You could say that. And Zoe?"

"Oh, she's all right," Tim said. "She goes in for all that bourgeois spiritual crap-bit of a navel-gazer — but she's okay underneath it all."

"Do you know anything about their backgrounds, where they come from?"

They shook their heads. "No," Tim said finally. "I mean, we just talk about the way things are now, how to change them, that kind of thing. And a bit of political theory. Rick's pissed off about his divorce and all that, but that's about as far as the personal stuff goes."

"And you know nothing else about them?"

"No."

"Who else was there?"

"Just us and Dennis."

"Osmond?"

"That's right."

"Does either of you recall seeing a flick-knife that day, or hearing anyone mention one?"

"No. That's what the other bloke went on about," Tim said, getting edgy. "Bloody Burgess. He went on and on about a flick-knife."

"He almost came right out and accused us of killing that policeman, too," Abha said.

"That's just his style. I wouldn't worry about it. Did anyone at the meeting mention PC Gill by name?"

"Not that I heard," Tim said.

"Nor me," said Abha.

"Have you ever heard anyone talk about him? Dennis Osmond, for example? Or Rick?"

"No. The only thing we knew about him," Abha said, "was that he'd trained with the TAG groups and he liked to work on crowd control. You know-demos, pickets and such."

The chair creaked as Banks swivelled sharply. "How did you know that?"

"Word gets around," Abha said. "We keep—"

Tim nudged her in the ribs and she shut up.

"What she means," he said, "is that if you're politically involved up here, you soon get to know the ones to watch out for. You lot keep tabs on us, don't you? I'm pretty sure Special Branch has a file on me, anyway."

"Fair enough," Banks said, smiling to himself at the absurdity of it all. Games. Just little boys' games. "Was this fairly common knowledge? Could anyone have known to expect Gill at the demo that night?"

"Anyone involved in organizing it, sure," Tim said. "And anyone who'd been to demos in Yorkshire before. There aren't many like him, thank God. He did have a bit of a reputation."

"Did you know he was going to be on duty?"

"Not for certain, no. I mean, he could have had flu or broke his leg."

"But short of that?"

"Short of that he was rarely known to miss. Look, I don't know what all this is in aid of," Tim said, "but I think you should know we're still going to do our own investigation."

"Into the murder?"

Tim gave him a puzzled glance. "No. Into the police brutality. We're all getting together again up at the farm in a few days to compare notes."

"Well, if you find anything out about PC Gill's death, let me know."

Banks looked at his watch and stood up. It was time he went and got ready for his evening out with Jenny. After he'd said goodbye and walked back down the gloomy staircase to the street, he reflected how odd it was that wherever he went, all roads seemed to lead to Maggie's Farm. More than that, almost anyone involved could have known that Gill was likely to be there that night. If Gill cracked heads in Yorkshire for a hobby, then the odds were that one or two people might hold a strong grudge against him. He wished Tony Grant would hurry up and send the information from Scarborough.

Mara put on her army-surplus greatcoat and set off down the track for Relton. It was dark now and the stars were glittering flecks of ice in the clear sky. Distant hills and scars showed only as muted silhouettes, black against black. The crescent moon was up, hanging lopsided like a backdrop to a music-hall number. Mara almost expected a man with a top hat, cape and cane to start dancing across it way up in the sky. The gravel crackled under her feet, and the wind whistled through gaps in the lichen-covered dry-stone wall. In the distance, the lights of cottages and villages down in the dale twinkled like stars.

She would talk to Jenny, she decided, thrusting her hands deeper into her pockets and hunching up against the chill. Jenny knew Chief Inspector Banks, too. Though she distrusted all policemen, even Mara had to admit that he was a hell of a lot better than Burgess. Perhaps she might also be able to find out what the police really thought, and if they were going to leave Paul alone from now on.

Mara's mind strayed back to the I Ching, which she had consulted before setting off. What the hell was it all about? It was supposed to be an oracle, to offer words of wisdom when you really needed them, but Mara wasn't convinced. One problem was that it always answered questions obliquely. You couldn't ask, "Did Paul kill that policeman?" and get a simple yes or no. This time, the oracle had read: "The woman holds the basket, but there are no fruits in it. The man stabs the sheep, but no blood flows. Nothing that acts to further." Did that mean Paul hadn't killed anyone, that the blood on his hand had come from somewhere else? And what about the empty basket? Did that have something to do with Mara's barren womb? If there was any practical advice at all, it was to do nothing, yet here she was, walking down the track on her way to call Jenny. All the book had done was put her fears into words and images.

At the end of the track, Mara walked along Mortsett Lane, past the closed shops and the cottages with their television screens flickering behind curtains. In the dimly lit phone booth, she rang Jenny's number. She heard a click followed by a strange, disembodied voice that she finally recognized as Jenny's. The voice explained that its owner was out, but that a message could be left after the tone. Mara, who had never dealt with an answering machine before, waited nervously, worried that she might miss her cue. But it soon came, the unmistakable high-pitched bleep. Mara spoke quickly and loudly, as people do to foreigners, feeling self-conscious about her voice: "This is Mara, Jenny. I hope I've got this thing right. Please, will you meet me tomorrow lunch-time in the Black Sheep in Relton? It's important. I'll be there at one. I hope you can come." She paused for a moment and listened to the silence, feeling that she should add something, but she could think of nothing more to say.