Peter Robinson: A Necessary End

But now it had, and the moaning casualties, police and demonstrators alike, were witness to that hard truth.

The street was blocked off at the market square to the south and near the Town Hall, at the junction with Elmet Street, to the north. The gaslamps and illuminated window displays in the twee tourist shops full of Yorkshire woollen wear, walking gear and local produce shone on the chaotic scene. A boy, no more than fifteen or sixteen, cried out as two policemen dragged him by his hair along the glistening cobbles; a torn placard that had once defiantly read NO NUKES flapped in the March wind as the thin rain tapped a faint tattoo against it; one policeman, helmet gone and hair in disarray, bent to help up another, whose moustache was matted with blood and whose nose lay at an odd angle to his face.

In the revolving blue lights, the aftermath of the battle took on a slow-motion, surrealistic quality to Banks. Elongated shadows played across walls. In the street, odd objects caught the light for a second, then seemed to vanish: an upturned helmet, an empty beer bottle, a key-ring, a half-eaten apple browning at the edges, a long white scarf twisted like a snake.

Several policemen had come out of the station to help, and Banks recognized Sergeant Rowe standing behind a squad car by the corner.

"What happened?" he asked.

Rowe shook his head. "Demo turned nasty, sir. We don't know how or why yet."

"How many were there?"

"About a hundred." He waved his hand at the scene. "But we didn't expect anything like this."

"Got a cigarette, Sergeant?"

Rowe gave him a Senior Service. It tasted strong after Silk Cut, but he drew the smoke deep into his lungs nonetheless.

"How many hurt?"

"Don't know yet, sir."

"Any of ours?"

"Aye, a few, I reckon. We had about thirty or so on crowd-control duty, but most of them were drafted in from York and Scarborough on overtime. Craig was there, and young Tolliver. I haven't seen either of them yet. It'll be busy in the station tonight. Looks like we've nicked about half of them."

Two ambulance attendants trotted by with a stretcher between them. On it lay a middle-aged woman, her left eye clouded with blood. She turned her head painfully and spat at Sergeant Rowe as they passed.

"Bloody hell!" Rowe said. "That was Mrs Campbell. She takes Sunday School at Cardigan Drive Congregationalism"

"War makes animals of us all, Sergeant," Banks said, wishing he could remember where he'd heard that, and turned away. "I'd better get to the station. Does the super know?"

"It's his day off, sir." Rowe still seemed stunned.

"I'd better call him. Hatchley and Richmond, too."

"DC Richmond's over there, sir." Rowe pointed to a tall, slim man standing near the Black Maria.

Banks walked over and touched Richmond's arm.

The young detective constable flinched. "Oh, it's you, sir. Sorry, this has got me all tense."

"How long have you been here, Phil?"

"I came out when Sergeant Rowe told us what was happening."

"You didn't see it start, then?"

"No, sir. It was all over in fifteen minutes."

"Come on. We'd better get inside and help with the processing."

Chaos reigned inside the station. Every square inch of available space was taken up by arrested demonstrators, some of them bleeding from minor cuts, and most of them complaining loudly about police brutality. As Banks and Richmond shouldered their way towards the stairs, a familiar voice called out after them.

"Craig!" Banks said, when the young constable caught up with them. "What happened?"

"Not much, sir," PC Craig shouted over the noise. His right eye was dark and puffed up, and blood oozed from a split lip. "I got off lucky."

"You should be at the hospital."

"It's nothing, sir, really. They took Susan Gay off in an ambulance."

"What was she doing out there?"

"They needed help, sir. The men on crowd control. We just went out. We never knew it would be like this…."

"Is she hurt badly?"

"They think it's just concussion, sir. She got knocked down, and some bastard kicked her in the head. The hospital just phoned. A Dr Partridge wants to talk to you."

A scuffle broke out behind them and someone went flying into the small of Richmond's back. He fell forward and knocked Banks and Craig against the wall. Banks got up and regained his balance. "Can't anyone keep these bloody people quiet!" he shouted to the station in general. Then he turned to Craig again.

"I'll talk to the doctor. But give the super a call, if you're up to it. Tell him what's happened and ask him to come in. Sergeant Hatchley, too. Then get to the hospital. You might as well have someone look at your eye while you pay a sick call on Susan."

"Yes, sir." Craig elbowed his way back through the crowd, and Banks and Richmond made their way upstairs to the CID offices.

First Banks reached into his desk drawer, where he kept a spare packet of cigarettes, then he dialled Eastvale General Infirmary.

Reception paged the doctor, who picked up the phone about a minute later.

"Are there any serious injuries?" Banks asked.

"Most of them are just cuts and bruises. A few minor head wounds. On the whole, I'd say it looks worse than it is. But that's not—"

"What about PC Gay?"

"Who?"

"Susan Gay. The policewoman."

"Oh, yes. She's all right. She's got concussion. We'll keep her in overnight for observation, then after a few days' rest she'll be right as rain. Look, I understand your concern, Chief Inspector, but that's not what I wanted to talk to you about."

"What is it, then?" For a moment, Banks felt an icy prickle of irrational fear. Sandra? The children? The results of his last chest X-ray?

"There's been a death."

"At the demonstration?"

"Yes."

"Go on."

"Well, it's more of a murder, I suppose."

"Suppose?"

"I mean that's what it looks like. I'm not a pathologist. I'm not qualified—"

"Who's the victim?"

"It's a policeman. PC Edwin Gill."

Banks frowned. "I've not heard the name. Where's he from?"

"One of the others said he was drafted in from Scarborough."

"How did he die?"

"Well, that's the thing. You'd expect a fractured skull or some wound consistent with what went on."

"But?"

"He was stabbed. He was still alive when he was brought in. I'm afraid we didn't… There was no obvious wound at first. We thought he'd just been knocked out like the others. He died before we could do anything. Internal bleeding."

Banks put his hand over the receiver and turned his eyes up to the ceiling.

"Shit!"

"Hello, Chief Inspector? Are you still there?"

"Yes. Sorry, doc. Thanks for calling so quickly. I'll send down some more police guards. Nobody's to leave, no matter how minor their injuries. Is there anyone from Eastvale station there? Anyone conscious, that is."

"Just a minute."

Dr Partridge came back with PC Tolliver, who had accompanied Susan Gay in the ambulance.

"Listen carefully, lad," Banks said. "We've got a bloody crisis on our hands back here, so you'll have to handle the hospital end yourself."

"Yes, sir."

"There'll be more men down there as soon as I can round some up, but until then do the best you can. I don't want anyone from tonight's fracas to leave there, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"And that includes our men, too. I realize some of them might be anxious to get home after they've had their cuts dressed, but I need statements, and I need them while things are fresh in their minds. Okay?"

"Yes, sir. There's two or three more blokes here without serious injuries. We'll see to it."

"Good. You know about PC Gill?"

"Yes, sir. The doctor told me. I didn't know him."

"You'd better get someone to identify the body formally. Did he have a family?"