Peter Robinson - A Necessary End

Banks finished his tea and looked at his watch. "Talking of Dirty Dick, I'd better be off. He's called a conference in the Queen's Arms for one o'clock."

"Seems like he's taken up residence there."

"You're not far wrong." Banks explained about Glenys and put on his car-coat. "Besides that," he added, "he drinks like a bloody fish."

"So it's not only Glenys and her charms?"

"No."

"Ever seen him pissed?"

"Not yet."

"Well, watch him. Drinking's an occupational hazard with us, but it can get beyond a joke. The last thing you need is a piss-artist to rely on in a tight spot."

"I don't think there's anything to worry about," Banks said, walking to the car.

"He's always been a boozer. And he's usually sharp as a whippet. Anyway, what can I do if I think he is overdoing it? I can just see his face if I suggest a visit to AA."

Gristhorpe stood by the car. Banks rolled the window down, slipped Lightning Hopkins back in the slot, and lit a cigarette.

The superintendent shook his head. "It's about time you stopped that filthy habit, too," he said. "And as for that racket you call music…"

Banks smiled and turned the key in the ignition. "Do you know something?" he said. "I do believe you're becoming an insufferable old fogey. I know you're tone-deaf and wouldn't know Mozart from the Beatles, but don't forget, it wasn't that long ago you gave up smoking yourself. Have you no bad habits left?"

Gristhorpe laughed. "I gave them all up years ago. Are you suggesting I should take some up again?"

"Wouldn't be a bad idea."

"Where do you suggest I start?"

Banks rolled up the window before he said, "Try sheep-shagging." But judging by the raised eyebrows and the startled smile, Gristhorpe could obviously read lips. Grinning, Banks set off down the track, the still, deserted river-meadows spread out below him, and headed for the Eastvale road.

Jenny was already five minutes late. Mara nursed her half of mild and rolled a cigarette. It was Wednesday lunchtime, and the Black Sheep was almost empty. Apart from the landlord reading his Sun, and two old men playing dominoes, she was the only other customer in the cosy lounge.

Now that the time was close, she was beginning to feel nervous and foolish.

After all, she didn't know Jenny that well, and her story did sound a bit thin. She couldn't put the real problem into words. How could she say that she suspected Paul had killed the policeman and that she was even beginning to be afraid living in the same house, but despite it all she wouldn't give him away and still wanted to keep him there? It sounded insane without the feelings that went with it. And to tell Jenny that she just wanted information for a story she was writing hardly ranked as the important reason for the meeting she had claimed on the telephone. Perhaps Jenny wasn't going to come. Maybe Mara hadn't responded to the answering machine properly and she hadn't even got the message.

All she could hear was the sound of asthmatic breathing from one of the old men, the occasional rustling of the newspaper, and the click of dominoes as they were laid on the hard surface. She swirled the beer in the bottom of her half-pint glass and peered at her watch again. Quarter past one.

"Another drink, love?" Larry Grafton called out.

Mara flashed a smile and shook her head. Why was it that she didn't mind so much being called "love" by the locals, but when Burgess had said it, her every nerve had bristled with resentment? It must be something in the tone, she decided. The old Yorkshiremen who used the word were probably as chauvinistic as the rest — in fact, sex roles in Dales family life were as traditional as anywhere in England — but when the men called women "love," it carried at least overtones of affection. With Burgess, though, the word was a weapon, a way of demeaning the woman, of dominating her.

Jenny arrived and interrupted her train of thought.

"Sorry I'm late," she said breathlessly. "Class went on longer than I expected."

"It's all right," Mara said. "I haven't been here long. Drink?"

"Let me get them."

Jenny went to the bar, and Mara watched her, a little intimidated, as usual, by her poise. Jenny always seemed to wear the right, expensive-looking clothes.

Today it was a waist-length fur jacket (fake, of course — Jenny wouldn't be caught dead wearing real animal fur), a green silk blouse, close-fitting rust cords, and well-polished knee-length boots. Not that Mara would want to dress like that — it wouldn't suit her personality — but she did feel shabby in her moth-eaten sweater and muddy Wellingtons. Her jeans hadn't been artificially aged like the ones teenagers wore, either; they had earned each stain and every faded patch.

"Quiet, isn't it?" Jenny said, setting the drinks down. "You looked thoughtful when I came in. What was it?"

Mara told her her feelings about being called "love."

"I know what you mean. I could have throttled Burgess when he did it to me." She laughed. "Dorothy Wycombe once chucked her drink at a stable-lad for calling her 'love.'"

"Dorothy doesn't have much to do with us," Mara said. "I think we're too traditional for her tastes."

Jenny laughed. "You should count yourself lucky, then." She took off her fur jacket and made herself comfortable. "I heard she made mincemeat of Burgess. She gave Alan a hard time once, too. He gives her a wide berth now."

"Alan? Is that the policeman you know? Chief Inspector Banks?"

Jenny nodded. "He's all right. Why? Is that what you wanted to talk about?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't be so cagey. I know you've come in for a lot of police attention since the demo. I just wondered if that was what was on your mind. Your message wasn't exactly specific, you know."

Mara smiled. "I'm not used to answering machines, that's all. Sorry."

"No need. You just came across as frightfully worried and serious. Are you?"

A domino clicked loudly on the board, obviously a winning move. "Not as much as I probably sounded, no," Mara said. "But it is about the demo. Partly, anyway."

She had decided that, as Jenny had mentioned Banks, she might as well begin by seeing if she could find anything out about the investigation, what the police were thinking.

"Go ahead, then."

Mara took a deep breath and told Jenny about recent events at the farm, especially Burgess's visit.

"You ought to complain," Jenny advised her.

Mara sniffed. "Complain? Who to? He told us what would happen if we did. Apparently his boss is a bigger bastard than he is."

"Try complaining locally. Superintendent Gristhorpe isn't bad."

Mara shook her head. "You don't understand. The police would never listen to a complaint from people like us."

"Don't be too sure about that, Mara. Alan wants to understand. It's only the truth he's after."

"Yes, but… I can't really explain. What do they really think about us, Jenny? Do they believe that one of us killed that policeman?"

"I don't know. Really I don't. They're interested in you, yes. I'd be a liar if I denied that. But as far as actually suspecting anyone… I don't think so. Not yet."

"Then why do they keep pestering us? When's it going to stop?"

"When they find out who the killer is. It's not just you, it's everyone involved. They've been at Dennis, too, and Dorothy Wycombe and the students. You'll just have to put up with it for the time being."

"I suppose so." The old men shuffled dominoes for another game, and a lump of coal shifted in the fire, sending out a shower of sparks and a puff of smoke. Flames rose up again, licking at the black chimney-back. "Look," Mara went on, "do you mind if I ask you a professional question, something about psychology? It's for a story I'm working on."