Peter Robinson: A Necessary End

"Sorry," she said. "I forgot you don't like the sweet stuff. There's some beer in the fridge."

"Great." Paul hauled himself up and went through to the kitchen. When he came back he was carrying a can of Carlsberg lager and he'd stuck an Elastoplast on his hand.

"What happened to the others?" Mara asked.

"I don't know. A lot of people got arrested. The police just charged into the crowd and dragged them off left, right and centre. There'll be plenty in hospital, too."

"Weren't you all together?"

"We were at first, right up at the front, but we got separated when the fighting broke out. I managed to sneak by some cops and slip down the alley, then I ran all the way through the back streets and over the moor. I'm bloody knackered."

His Liverpudlian accent grew thicker as he became more excited.

"So people did get away?"

"Some, yes. But I don't know how many. I didn't hang around to wait for the others. It was every man for himself, Mara. The last I saw of Rick he was trying to make his way to the market square. I couldn't see Zoe. You know how small she is. It was a bleeding massacre. They'd everything short of water cannons and rubber bullets. I've seen some bother in my time, but I never expected anything like this, not in Eastvale."

"What about Seth?"

"Sorry, Mara. I've no idea what became of him. Don't worry, though, they'll be all right."

"Yes." Mara turned and looked out of the window. She could see her own reflection against the dark glass streaked with rain. It looked like a candle flame was burning from her right shoulder.

"Maybe they got away," Paul added. "They might be on their way back right now."

Mara nodded. "Maybe."

But she knew there'd be trouble. The police would soon be round, bullying and searching, just like when Seth's old friend Liz Dale ran away from the nut-house and hid out with them for a few days. They'd been looking for heroin then — Liz had a history of drug abuse — but as far as Mara remembered they'd just made a bloody mess of everything in the place. She resented that kind of intrusion into her world and didn't look forward to another one.

She reached for the wine bottle, but before she started pouring, the front door burst open again.

When Banks went downstairs, things were considerably quieter than they had been earlier. Richmond had helped the uniformed men to usher all the prisoners down to the cellar until they could be questioned, charged and released. Eastvale station didn't have many cells, but there was plenty of unused storage space down there.

Sergeant Hatchley had also arrived. Straw-haired, head and shoulders above the others, he looked like a rugby prop-forward gone to seed. He leaned on the reception desk looking bewildered and put out as Richmond explained what had happened.

Banks walked up to them. "Super here yet?"

"On his way, sir," Richmond answered.

"Can you get everyone together while we're waiting?" Banks asked. "There's a few things I want to tell them right now."

Richmond went into the open-plan office area, the domain of the uniformed police at Eastvale, and rounded up everyone he could. The men and women sat on desks or leaned against partitions and waited for instructions. Some of them still showed signs of the recent battle: a bruised cheekbone, torn uniform, black eye, cauliflower ear.

"Does anyone know exactly how many we've got in custody?" Banks asked first.

"Thirty-six, sir." It was a constable with a split lip and the top button torn off his jacket who answered. "And I've heard there's ten more at the hospital."

"Any serious injuries?"

"No, sir. Except, well, Constable Gill."

"Yes. So if there were about a hundred at the demo, there's almost a fifty-fifty chance we've already caught our killer. First, I want everyone searched, fingerprinted and examined for Gill's bloodstains. Constable Reynolds, will you act as liaison with the hospital?"

"Yes, sir."

"The same procedure applies there. Ask the doctor to check the ten patients for blood. Next we've got to find the murder weapon. All we know so far is that PC Gill was stabbed. We don't know what kind of knife was used, so anything with a blade is suspicious, from a kitchen knife to a stiletto. There's some extra men on the way from York, but I want a couple of you to start searching the street thoroughly right away, and that includes having a good look down the grates, too. Clear so far?"

Some muttered, "Yes, sir." Others nodded.

"Right. Now we get to the hard work. We'll need a list of names: everyone we've got and anyone else we can get them to name. Remember, about sixty people got away, and we have to know who they were. If any of you recall seeing a familiar face we don't have here or at the hospital, make a note of it. I don't suppose the people we question will want to give their friends away, but lean on them a bit, do what you can. Be on the look-out for any slips. Use whatever cunning you have. We also want to know who the organizers were and what action groups were represented.

"I want statements from everyone, even if they've nothing to say. We're going to have to divide up the interrogations, so just do the best you can. Stick to the murder; ask about anyone with a knife. Find out if we've got any recorded troublemakers in the cells; look up their files and see what you come up with. If you think someone's lying or being evasive, push them as far as you can, then make a note of your reservations on the statement. I realize we're going to be swamped with paperwork, but there's no avoiding it. Any questions?"

Nobody said a word.

"Fine. One last thing: we want statements from all witnesses, too, not just the demonstrators. There must have been some people watching from those flats overlooking the street. Do the rounds. Find out if anyone saw anything. And rack your own brains. You know there'll be some kind of official enquiry into why all this happened in the first place, so all of you who were there might as well make a statement now, while the events are fresh in your minds. I want all statements typed and on Superintendent Gristhorpe's desk first thing in the morning."

Banks looked at his watch. "It's nine-thirty now. We'd better get cracking. Anything I've overlooked?"

Several officers shook their heads; others stood silent. Finally a policewoman put her hand up. "What are we to do with the prisoners, sir, after we've got all the statements?"

"Follow normal procedure," Banks said. "Just charge them and let them go unless you've got any reason to think they're involved in PC Gill's death. They'll appear before the magistrate as soon as possible. Is that all?" He paused, but nobody said anything. "Right. Off you go then. I want to know about any leads as soon as they come up. With a bit of luck we could get this wrapped up by morning. And would someone take some of the prisoners upstairs? There'll be three of us interviewing up there when the super arrives." He turned to Richmond. "We'll want you on the computer, Phil. There'll be a lot of records to check."

"The super's here now, sir." PC Telford pointed to the door, which was out of Banks's line of vision.

Superintendent Gristhorpe, a bulky man in his late fifties with bushy grey hair and eyebrows, a red pock-marked face and a bristly moustache, walked over to where the three CID men were standing by the stairs. His eyes, usually as guileless as a baby's, were clouded with concern, but his presence still brought an aura of calm and unhurried common sense.

"You've heard?" Banks asked.

"Aye," said Gristhorpe. "Not all the details, but enough. Let's go upstairs and you can tell me about it over a cup of coffee." He put his hand on Banks's arm gently.

Banks turned to Sergeant Hatchley. "You might as well get started on the interviews," he said. "We'll help you out in a minute when I've filled the super in."