Peter Robinson - A Necessary End

Over the next four doors, Banks found himself told to piss off by a writer whose concentration he had disturbed and asked in for a cup of tea by a lonely military — type who wanted to show off his medals. As yet, there had been no temptress in a neglige.

It wasn't until the ninth door that he found anyone else who knew anything. Beth Cameron wore tight, checked slacks, which hardly flattered her plump hips and thighs, and a maroon cardigan over a shiny white blouse. Her curly brown hair showed traces of a recent perm, and she had the most animated face that Banks had ever seen. Every comment, every word, was accompanied by a curled lip, a raised eyebrow, a wrinkled nose, a deep frown or a mock pout. She was like one of those sponge hand — puppets he remembered from his childhood. When you put your hand inside it, you could wrench the face into the most remarkable contortions.

"Did you see anyone coming in or out of Mr Osmond's flat this evening?" Banks asked.

"No, no, I can't say I did. Wait a minute, though, I did notice something odd. Not up here but down in the garage. It struck me as a bit strange at the time, you know, but I just brushed it off. You do, don't you?"

"What did you see?"

"A blue Escort. And it was parked in Mr Handley's spot. He's often out during the evening — he's the entertainment reporter for the Eastvale Gazette — but still, I thought, that's no reason to steal the man's parking spot, is it? See, there's places for visitors outside. We don't encourage nonresidents to park underground. It could lead to all sorts of trouble, couldn't it?"

"What time was this?" Banks asked.

"Oh, about eight o'clock. I was just bringing Lesley — that's my daughter — back from her piano lesson."

"Did you see if there was anyone in the car?"

"Two men, I think. Sitting in the front."

"Did you get a good look at them?"

"No, I'm sorry. They looked big, but I mean, you just don't look at people, do you? Especially not in places like that. It doesn't do to make eye contact with strangers in an underground garage, does it?"

"No," Banks said, "I don't suppose it does. You didn't recognize either of the men, then?"

"No. Whatever happened, anyway?" Mrs Cameron suddenly frowned. "There wasn't nobody assaulted, was there? I've been saying all along that place is too dark. Just asking for trouble it is."

"Nobody was hurt," Banks assured her. "I'm just interested in that Escort. Have you ever noticed it before?"

"No, never. I did think of calling the police, you know. It did cross my mind they might be up to no good. But you don't want to cause a fuss, do you? It might all be perfectly innocent and there you'd be with egg on your face looking a proper fool. But I'd never forgive myself if someone got hurt."

"Don't worry, it's nothing like that. You didn't get the number, by any chance?"

"No." She laughed, then put her hand to her mouth. Her fingernails were painted pale green. "I'm sorry, Mr Banks, but I always think it's so funny when the police go asking people that on telly. I mean, you don't go around collecting car numbers, do you? I don't think I even know my own."

"Is there anything else you can think of?" Banks asked, without much hope.

Beth Cameron chewed her lower lip and frowned for a moment, then shook her head. "No. Not a sausage. I didn't pay it much mind, really. They weren't doing nothing. Just sitting there like they were waiting to leave Wait a minute!" Her eyebrows shot up almost to her hairline. "I think one of them was bald. There was a light on the pillar by the car, you see. Dim as can be, but I could swear I saw a bald head reflecting the light." Then her lips curved down at the edges. "I don't suppose that's much help, though, is it?"

"Everything helps." Banks closed his notebook and put it back into his inside pocket. At least he was certain now that the two men in the blue Escort were the same two who had been seen in the corridor near Osmond's flat. "If you see the car again," he said, handing her a card, "would you please let me know?"

"Yes, of course I will, Mr Banks," she said. "Glad to be of use. Good night."

At the last door Banks turned up nothing new. It had been a long time since he'd made door-to-door enquiries himself, and he had enjoyed it, but now it was going on for half — past eleven and he was tired. Outside, the crisp, cold air woke him up a bit. He stood by his car for a few moments and smoked a cigarette, thinking over what had happened that evening.

However much he had ridiculed the man's pretensions, he had to admit that Osmond was the type who made waves politically. Banks had a lot of sympathy for the CND and its goals, but he knew that, like so many peace — loving, well-meaning groups, it sometimes acted as a magnet for dangerous opportunists. Where there was organization there was politics, and where there was politics there was the aphrodisiac of power. Maybe Osmond had been involved in a plot to do with the demonstration. Perhaps his masters didn't trust him to keep his trap shut, and what had happened this evening had been intended as a kind of warning.

Banks found it hard to swallow all the cloak-and-dagger stuff, but the mere possibility of it was enough to send a shiver of apprehension up his spine. If there really was anything in the conspiracy theory, then it looked like these people — Russian spies, agents provocateurs, or whoever they were — meant business.

If that was true, Osmond might get hurt. That didn't concern Banks very much, but it did cause him to worry about Jenny. It was bad enough her being involved with a man who had beat up a previous girl-friend, but much worse now there was a strong possibility that some very dangerous and cold — blooded people were after him too. None of it concerned Jenny directly, of course; she was merely an innocent bystander. But since when did governments or terrorists ever give a damn about innocent bystanders?

Maybe it was the spring weather, but the toasted teacakes in the Golden Grill tasted exceptionally good to Banks on Sunday morning. Burgess chose a doughnut filled with raspberry puree and dusted with icing sugar, which he dipped into his coffee. "A taste I developed in America," he explained, as Banks watched, horrified. "They've got a place there called Dunkin' Donuts. Great."

"What's happening with Boyd?" Banks asked.

"I had another chat with him. Got nowhere. Like you said, I let him go this morning, so we'll see what turns up now."

"What did you do? Torture him again?"

"Well, there's not many can keep on lying when faced with their greatest fear. The way things stand now, I think we could get a conviction on Boyd, no problem, but we'd probably get chucked out of court if we tried to fit one of the others up — Osmond, for example. I say if we turn up nothing more in a couple of days, let's just charge Boyd with murder and I'll bugger off back to the Smoke a happy man."

"What about the truth?"

Burgess treated Banks to a slit-eyed glance. "We don't know Boyd didn't do it, do we? The Burgess Test notwithstanding. It's not infallible, you know. Anyway, I'm getting a bit sick of your moralizing about the truth all the bloody time. The truth's relative. It depends on your perspective. Remember, we're not judge and jury. It's up to them to decide who's guilty and who's not. We just present the evidence."

"Fair enough, but it's up to us to make a charge that sticks, if only to stop us looking like prize berks in court."

"I think we're solid on Boyd if we need to be. Like I say, give it a couple of days. Find anything interesting on the funny — farm lot?"

"No."

"Those students puzzled me. They're only bloody kids — cheeky bastards, mind you — but their little minds are crammed full of Marx, Trotsky, Marcuse and the rest. They even have a poster of Che Guevara on the wall. I ask you — Che fucking Guevara, a vicious, murdering, mercenary thug got up to look like Jesus Christ. I can't understand what they're on about half the time, honest I can't. And I don't think they've got a clue, either. Pretty gutless pair, though. I can't see either of them having the bottle to stick a knife between Gill's ribs. Still, the girl's not bad. Bit chubby around the waist, but a lovely set of knockers."