Peter Robinson - A Necessary End

"No, thank you, Mr Lee. You've been very helpful. I'm sorry I had to put you through it all again."

"There's hardly a day goes by when I don't think on it," Lee said.

"You shouldn't keep torturing yourself that way," Banks told him. "Whichever way you look at it, no blame can possibly attach itself to you."

"Aye, no blame," Lee repeated. And his piercing inward gaze put Banks in mind of the actor Trevor Howard at his conscience-stricken best. There was nothing more to say. Feeling depressed, Banks walked back out to the street in the chilly spring sunshine. The children paused and stared as he passed by.

It was after five o'clock and the people down in the town were hurrying home from work. All Banks had to look forward to was a tin of ravioli on toast — which he would no doubt burn — and another evening alone.

Looking up the hillside to the west, he thought of Heptonstall, a village at the summit. He'd heard that the pub there served Timothy Taylor's beer, something he'd never tried. It had been a wasted and depressing afternoon as far as information was concerned, so he might as well salvage it somehow.

Alison Cotton's death had obviously been a tragic accident, and that was all there was to it. She had either rubbed against the kerb and lost her balance, or she had fainted, perhaps due to the effects of her pregnancy. Banks could hardly blame Seth for not wanting to talk about it.

He got in his car and drove up the steep hill to Heptonstall. It was a quiet village at that time of day: narrow winding terraces of small dark cottages, many with the tell-tale rows of upper windows where weavers had once worked.

He lingered over his food and beer in the window seat of the Cross Inn, planning what to do next. The Timothy Taylor's bitter was good, smooth as liquid gold.

Shadows lengthened and the fronts of the gritstone houses over the narrow street turned even darker.

It was late when he got home — almost ten — and he'd hardly had time to put his slippers on and sit down before the phone rang.

"Alan, thank God you're back. I've been trying to call you all evening." It was Jenny.

"Why? What's wrong?"

"It's Dennis. His flat has been broken into."

"Has he reported it?"

"No. He wants to see you."

"He should report it."

"I know, but he won't. Will you go and see him? Please?"

"Was he hurt?"

"No, he was out when it happened. It must have been sometime earlier this evening."

"Was anything taken?"

"He's not clear about that. Nothing important, I don't think. Will you see him? Please?"

Banks could hardly refuse. In the first place, Jenny was clearly distraught on Osmond's behalf, and in the second, it might have a bearing on the case. If Osmond refused to come to him, then he would have to go to Osmond. Sighing, he said, "Tell him I'll be right over."

"You don't like me very much, do you, Chief Inspector?" said Osmond as soon as

Banks had made himself comfortable."I'm not bowled over, no."

Osmond leaned back in his armchair and smiled. "You're not jealous, are you? Jenny told me how close you two got during that Peeping Tom business."

She did, did she? Banks thought angrily. Just how much had she told him? "Could you just get on with it, please?" he said. "I'm here, at Jenny's request, to investigate a breakin you haven't reported officially. The least you can do is stop trying to be so fucking clever."

The smile disappeared. "Yes, all right. For what good it'll do me."

"First off, why didn't you report it?"

"I don't trust the police, certainly not the way I've been treated since the demonstration. Burgess was around here again this afternoon tossing insults and accusations about. And I don't want my apartment done over by a bunch of coppers, either."

"Why not? What have you got to hide?"

"Nothing to hide, not in the way you mean it. But I value my privacy."

"So why am I here?"

Osmond crossed his legs and paused before answering. "Jenny persuaded me."

"But you don't really want to talk about it?"

"What's the point? What can you do?"

"We could do our job if you'd let us. Check for fingerprints, interview neighbours, try to get a description. Was anything stolen?"

"A book."

"What?"

"A book. Most of my books were pulled off the shelves, scattered on the floor, and I noticed when I put them back that one was missing."

"Just one?"

"That's right. Marcuse's One Dimensional Man. Do you know it?"

"No."

Osmond smiled smugly. "I didn't think you would. It doesn't matter. Anyway, that's all."

"That's all that was taken?"

"Yes."

"How did they get in? The lock doesn't seem broken."

"It's easy enough to open. They probably used a credit card or something. I've had to do that myself more than once."

"And it works?"

"Yes. Unless the catch is on from the inside. Obviously, as I was out at the time, it wasn't."

"Then I'd suggest the first thing you do is get a new lock. Preferably a deadlock."

"I've already called the locksmith. He's coming on Monday."

"Did you get the impression that they were looking for something? Or was it just vandalism?" Banks had his cigarette packet in his hand without thinking before he realized Osmond was a rabid nonsmoker.

"Oh, go on, Chief Inspector." Osmond allowed himself another superior smile. "Pollute the atmosphere if you must. You're doing me a favour; it's the least I can do in return."

"Thanks, I will." Banks lit up. "What might they have been looking for? Money?"

"I don't think so. There was a little cash in the dresser drawer, but they left it. There was also some quite valuable jewellery — it used to be my mother's — and they left that, too. The only things disturbed were the books and some papers — nothing important — but there was no damage. I don't think it was vandalism."

"But it was clear they'd seen the money and jewellery?"

"Oh, yes. The drawer was open and the contents of the jewellery box were spilled on the bed."

"What do you think they were looking for?"

Osmond scratched his cheek and frowned. Noticing Banks's half inch of ash, he fetched an ashtray from the kitchen. "In case of emergencies," he said. "Stolen property, I'm afraid. Courtesy of the Bridge, Helmthorpe."

Banks smiled. Having got over his initial nervousness that, as with so many people, manifested itself in the form of rudeness, Osmond was making an attempt at least to smooth the waters. He still wasn't comfortable around the police, but he was trying.

"Would you like a drink?"

"Scotch, if you've got it." Osmond was prevaricating, making time to think. That meant his answer would be at best a blend of truth and falsehood, and it would be damn difficult for Banks to sort out which was which. But there was no point pushing him. Osmond liked being in control, and any challenge at this point would just make him clam up. Best wait for a gap in his defences and leap right through. Let him take his own sweet time.

Finally, drink in hand, Banks repeated his question.

"I don't want to appear unduly paranoid, Chief Inspector," Osmond began slowly, "but I've been involved with the CND and a number of other organizations for some years now, so I think I can speak from experience. I take it you know, of course, that I once made a complaint against the policeman who was killed?"

Banks nodded. "You'd have saved us a lot of trouble if you hadn't lied in the first place."

"That's easy for you to say. Anyway, your charming superintendent knew. He wouldn't let it drop. So I assume you know about it, too. Anyway, we come to expect that kind of thing. The CND doesn't take sides, Chief Inspector. Believe it or not, all we want is a nuclear-free world. But some members bring along strong political beliefs, too, I won't deny it. I'm a socialist, yes, but that doesn't have anything to do with the CND or its aims."